#Quinn tries but fails

[anakinmoser]

[nixotinix]

had a... day at work and am hoping that i don't have another tomorrow, but i bestow upon my loyal flock;

the nixverse relationship chart! (the nixverse is what i call my DCAU- it's the world that Dementophobia takes place in)

this was made with my finger on my phone because idk if yall know this. making relationship charts on paper is!! hard!! so enjoy the little phone doodles

if you want to provide me enrichment, or see more of these fellows, or just be plain nice to lil' ol me, feel free to drop questions or comments about them and/or their relationships in my inbox!! mayhaps i'll even respond with a little doodle :3

[madaqueue]

HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS TO YOU BEAUTIFUL QUINN, THE LOVE OF MY LIFE 🩷🩷🩷🩷

where do i even start — gotta express my love for you somehow, but idk if words will be enough 🫣

this is just a silly little website where we’ve all come to indulge in the craziest fantasies about fictional characters. and in that pursuit, i have been fortunate enough to cross paths with you🩷 getting to know you had been one of the biggest privileges about creating this blog and im very thankful for you. to think we sit on the opposite sides of the world and obsess over the same men????? crazy

SO, my sweet, kind, talented friend, MANY HUGS AND KISSES SENT FROM OVER HERE!!!! i hope the people around you treat you exactly how you deserve on your day, you deserve nothing less!! eat some cake and something lovely for dinner 😍😍 oh and DID YOU GET ANY PRESENTS??? ANYTHING YOU WISHED FOR?????

from me, you get one of my bouquets MWAH LOVE YOUUUUU

OH HEA MY DEAREST HEA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i feel like my words are failing me too but WAAAAHH I MUST TRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i’m so happy to have the privilege of knowing you - your kindness, the love you show for others, the gentleness and attentiveness with which you approach the world is so beautiful and i see it in everything you do :’) you hold so much warmth and every time i talk to you i’m just left smiling and feeling like i was in the sun!!!!!! you are the spring breeze and the first birds chirping and everything that is lovely and alive :’) i am genuinely so lucky to have met you, getting to be your friend is one of the highlights of my time on this site and i love you so, so, SO much <333 AND THANK YOU FOR THE BIRTHDAY WISHES WAAAAAHH :’) I DID I DID I DIIIIIIIID my boyfriend got me a necklace i’ll be wearing tonight and my friends are coming over tn and they made me a little cake :’) and my mom sent me the cutest little pillow (it’s a mushroom :3) so overall a WONDERFUL day!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AND MADE EVEN BETTER BY YOUR MESSAGE AND THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BOUQUET!!!!!!!!! the colors are very quinhea-coded to me teehee i see you in the oranges and me in the pinks :’) like the space between a sunrise and sunset!!!!!!!!! THANK YOU AGAIN MY DEAREST HEA I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!!!!!!!!

[demonicsuffrage]

Bruce dropped out of medical school and as much as he tries to hide it, his kids all find out. Ofcourse they never let him live it down after that

Emo 21-year-old Bruce: You're not my father, Alfred!

Alfred: Quite right. I have a medical degree, and you don't.

Bruce:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dick: Hey I'm dropping out of Gotham University

Bruce: What? You're quitting college halfway?! Unacceptable, you cannot just give up on your engineering degree-

Dick: I did not just hear the failed doctor say that

Bruce:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce, fuming: You left my side tonight to go and gallivant around with harley quinn? A villain?

Steph: So what if she's a villain, Bruce? Atleast the villain has a doctorate.

Bruce:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce, bandaging Duke's wound because Alfred was busy: There, all done

Duke: Woah, didn't expect that from a college dropout

Bruce:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce: Stop ignoring my orders in the field! You need to listen, I have more experience-

Jason, as red hood, with his PhD in English: Which one of us actually has a Dr in front of their name?

Bruce:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tim: So I'm dropping out of high school

Bruce: You too?! First Dick and now you?!

Tim: No, first it was you, then Dick, and now me

Bruce:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce: Damian, your recent report card indicates you're falling behind in Biology

Damian: Tt. Must run in the family, then.

Bruce:

[flwrkid14]

Bruce shares custody of Tim with Harley Quinn

Yeah, you read that right. Gotham’s broodiest billionaire vigilante and the queen of chaotic energy are co-parenting Tim Drake. And, somehow, that’s not even the weirdest thing that's happened to the bats this year.

Why? Two words: Joker Junior.

The details are locked down tighter than the Batcave, but here’s what everyone knows (or guesses): Joker broke Tim in ways none of them can fathom. He didn’t just try to kill him—he tried to make Tim like him. And while Tim clawed his way back from the brink, he didn’t do it alone. Harley was there.

She was part of the nightmare. And then, unexpectedly, she was part of the healing. She stepped in, helped Tim survive when Joker was doing his worst. When it was all over, when Joker was (temporarily) gone, she didn’t vanish into Gotham’s chaos. She stayed.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, Tim started calling her “Mom.”

And Bruce didn’t stop him.

Cue the Batfamily losing their collective minds.

Dick is pacing the Batcave, gesturing wildly. “Bruce, this is Harley Quinn we’re talking about! You don’t just co-parent with a rogue! There are laws against this! Or, like, there should be!”

Jason is sitting on the Batmobile, arms crossed, voice dripping with disbelief. “She’s literally a former rogue. She tried to kill you! Like, more than once. This is insane, even for you.”

Steph is perched on the edge of a desk, trying (and failing) not to laugh. “Okay, but, like, can you blame Tim? Harley does make amazing pancakes. Better than Alfred’s, honestly—”

A scandalized gasp echoes from the other side of the room.

Cass just watches quietly, her head tilted, but there’s a small, knowing smile on her face. She gets it. She’s seen the way Tim softens around Harley, how he relaxes in a way he doesn’t around anyone else.

Damian glares at Bruce like he’s lost his last shred of common sense. “Father, you have truly surpassed yourself. Allowing that woman into the sanctity of our home—”

Duke raises a hand cautiously. “Okay, but can we at least talk about how Tim basically has diplomatic immunity now? No rogue in Gotham is gonna mess with him. He’s Harley’s kid!”

And it’s true. Between Harley’s reputation and Poison Ivy stepping in as Tim’s unofficial stepmom (because of course she and Harley got back together), the rogues have adopted a weird kind of reverence for him. Tim’s no longer just a bat to them—he’s Harley’s kid.

Picture this: Tim’s out on patrol, and Riddler has the gall to interrupt with a riddle—only to end it with, “You’re sharper than I thought, kid. Guess Harley taught you well, huh?” before disappearing into the night.

Harley’s brand of parenting is chaotic but deeply personal. She knows Tim’s tells, the way his hands shake when he’s overwhelmed or the too-quiet moments when he’s retreating into himself. She’s the one who sits cross-legged on the floor with him, working on puzzles and cracking jokes until the tension lifts.

She carries extra band-aids in her purse because “Ya never know when a fight with some thug is gonna leave ya with a paper cut!” She also leaves sticky notes on his projects with scribbled messages like “You’re a genius, baby boy!” or “Don’t forget snacks!” They’re goofy, sure, but they make Tim smile when he needs it most. She keeps a stash of snacks in the Manor because Tim forgets to eat when he’s working. She shows up with pancakes at 3 a.m., douses everything in syrup, and calls him “baby boy” in that soft tone that makes Tim feel… safe.

Even Harley’s chaos has an odd kind of comfort to it. She’ll burst into the Manor unannounced, dragging Tim into impromptu “self-care parties” with face masks, bad rom-coms, and every flavor of ice cream imaginable. Somehow, it works.

Ivy, on the other hand, balances Harley’s energy with her own structured nurturing. She insists on “proper nutrition” and occasionally sends Tim home with meal prep containers filled with organic, eco-friendly food labeled things like “Stress-Busting Smoothie” or “Brain-Boosting Soup.” If Bruce raises an eyebrow at it, Ivy simply reminds him that “The human body can only fight crime properly with the right fuel, Bats.”

One time, she cornered Bruce in the greenhouse, pointing an accusatory finger. “If you send Tim out on patrol without a proper meal or at least six hours of sleep, I swear, Bruce, your rose garden is compost.”

And while Harley is the queen of hugs and chaos, Ivy is the one who sits with Tim on the porch at night, talking softly about resilience and regrowth, using plant metaphors Tim pretends not to understand but secretly finds comforting. Once, after a particularly bad night, she gifted him a small cactus with a note: “Even when it feels like the world is trying to tear you apart, you’re stronger than you think. Also, low maintenance, like you.”

Bruce knows the family doesn’t fully understand. But as he watches Harley teaching Tim how to make lasagna one night, the two of them laughing as the kitchen turns into a war zone of flour and tomato sauce, he doesn’t regret it.

Sometimes family doesn’t look like you think it will. Sometimes it’s stitched together from the most unexpected pieces.

And sometimes, it’s an ex-rogue, a traumatized teen, and a brooding billionaire all trying to figure out how to keep the lasagna from burning.

Welcome to Gotham.

[kentjohnson91]

one thing that I’ll never not think about is the interview where Brock Boeser discusses his dads health issues (this was before he passed away) and he starts crying and then they try to like move onto Petey to ask him questions but Petey started crying too and then they moved onto Quinn Hughes but he was like too choked up to speak and they ended up moving onto Conor Garland who like tried to reign it in but still kinda failed because now basically they were all crying.

they love each other i swear. all 4 of em

i can’t find the video. only the brock part but i swear they were all crying if someone finds it send it to me i beg you

EDIT: IM ADDING THE FULL VIDEO THANK YOU TO @blueredacted FOR REPLYING WITH IT

[ruinix]

Thinking about Quinn losing his shit after you surprise him with a tattoo of his number on your hip

Hello, lovely… I tried, of course. Let me preface this, let’s imagine the tattoo healed for exactly 2 weeks (google says: the minimum healing time of the (surface) skin is about 2-4 weeks, deeper layers heal for approx. 3-4 months)...so yes. What i wanna say is: Be safe. Hope you enjoy 😌 [Disclaimer: I made Q drink tea here when he doesn't drink tea or coffee 😔]

Breakfast & Tattoos

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Unprotected sex (use protection, silly), Tattoo healing inaccuracy (let it heal pls), Quinn being a literal Horny one

Count: 3544 words | Masterlist | Taglist

You have that grin. A silly and mischievous grin. Quinn cautiously takes a sip of tea you brewed for him—you might’ve put something in it—but it’s just tea.

He greets you, receiving an immediate response. The grin never wavers even as he cooks you two breakfast. You’re…suspicious. Pretty with your comfy pajama shorts and—his—hoodie but suspicious.

He tries to let you be. Maybe you’ll drop it. Maybe you’ll just outright tease him for his bedhead, because his waves are all over the place from sleeping like dead after a two-week road trip. Maybe you just want to tell him something silly. Maybe. You always tend to do those things. He likes that.

He wants to ask, but you move to the sofa with your iPad, humming a tune. You’re on your back with your legs up an arm rest, feet covered with fluffy socks with strawberries. Still, you throw glances at him, grinning whenever he meets your gaze. He hears the upbeat sound of a game. You definitely found another game. That must be it. You love your games especially on that specific iPad—that was his, now yours—with those stickers of him.

Stickers. They’re cute, but he can’t help the blush on his face whenever he sees them. You’ve never stopped buying stickers from Etsy or from artists on different social media. Of him. It doesn’t matter if it’s memes or little cute cartoons. It’s just him. He knows your little hoarding box where you put your spares which also got their own spares—spare of a spare, you describe them.

It’s adorable but the way he looks so haunted in some of them... He can’t help it. It’s his face.

It’s funny and a bit embarrassing—in a good way

But he never feels bad about it. Not when you cherish every sticker. Not when you are so giddy and filled with excitement every time you buy one. Not when he catches you just gazing at them before hugging it so tightly.

Quinn has to turn away. His cheeks are burning. You make him feel good even through cute little stickers.

Sighing, Quinn finishes up with breakfast. He takes the plates to the coffee table, jumping when you suddenly sit up. You give him a fat smooch on the cheek before you mutter about getting him more tea and your coffee. But, fuck, his cheek burns from your touch. The kiss is soft and quick, but it seeps down to his bones, down to his… It’s way too early to be horny.

Quinn shakes his head, trying his best to clear it. However, he catches your shorts glide up your thighs when you bend over to get something from the lower cabinets. Oh, he’s fucked. It’s not helping how he notices your lace panties imprinting through your shorts.

Somebody, help him.

He looks away, counting down from ten to one, up from one to ten. He’s hard. It’s fucking eight in the morning. What the fuck is wrong with him? He closes his eyes for a second, thinking about hockey, practice, and literally anything else. He fails. His mind keeps showing him the image your ass, grinding against him as he fucked you—

“I think I want some orange juice right now,” he forces out, planting one foot up to hide his erection. He needs something to cool him down.

“mm’kay!” Your sweet voice just made him painfully harder.

“Thanks,” he coughs out. “Maybe a couple of ice?”

“Anything for my Quinny,” you say in a singsong voice, then you start humming a tune, moving your hips with it.

Fuck.

Quinn might need to lock himself in the bathroom at this point. You’re not letting him catch a break. How can he not get turned on after not having his fill of you for two weeks? He can see the jiggle of your ass. He can see your pebbled nipples through your thin and cropped shirt, because you just got rid of your hoodie. Why did you get rid of it? The air conditioning is literally on.

Thank fuck he’s wearing his boxer and his black sweatpants. There would be a dark patch there, because he’s leaking pre-cum. He might even come right there if you don’t stop—

“You want the one with pulp?” you ask, weight in one leg, while holding two orange juice cartons.

“Any,” he barely says, catching a glimpse of something peeking out the waistband of your shorts—what exactly is it, he doesn’t know—but you quickly turn away, bending over again which distracts him. “You slept good when I wasn’t here?” Quin pathetically asks, trying to shake away his hard-on away by pure will—it’s not working.

“Yep,” you gleefully say, finally finishing your instant coffee.

Quinn makes a mental note to make your usual brewed coffee later. He can’t just let you with a cup of instant coffee throughout the day. That’s not okay. His sweet girl deserves the best after all.

Well, after he cools the fuck down.

He settles on the floor, snatching the fleece blanket from the couch to cover himself. He swallows a groan when you slide into the same blanket, leaning against him. Your heat only seeps down his cock more than his shoulder. You are killing him.

He stiffly drinks his juice, shuddering when you kiss his cheek again. He almost doesn’t kiss your cheek too, because he’s a hair away from losing control. But he still does. He gives your cheek a peck. He wishes to kiss you deeper, bend you over the coffee table and just fuck you. He knows you’ll agree if he asks. He knows you’ll let him have his way with you.

He knows.

But he hears your tummy rumble.

He can’t fuck you when you’re hungry. You’ll need energy. Besides, it’s fucking 8AM. He’s so close to punching himself as a reprimand. No one should be this horny this early. That sounds hypocritic, because he remembers several times where he waited for you to wake up so he could fuck you sideways, kissing you through your just-woken-up haze.

Someone needs to bash his head until he gets amnesia.

He’s digging himself a deeper grave. Seriously.

Quinn focuses on breakfast. He loves breakfast with you. He loves it when your weight is partially on him. When you take sips of your coffee, urging him to drink his own beverage. When you talk about what you’ll be doing for work or for your day offs.  When you snatch some of his eggs and replace with potatoes or the other way around, because wanting more of one depends on the day. Today, you are doing the latter. All while, you grin at him with so many things brewing in your eyes.

He finally says, when you two are almost done with breakfast, “Okay, you are acting suspicious.” He narrows his eyes just a tad. “What are you planning?”

You turn and hug him from his side.

Quinn expertly holds you without you getting on his cock. It’s so hard. Especially when you shimmy to get more comfortable over his thigh. He almost starts pleading for you to move and get off him, because you’re so near.

“I have a surprise for you.”

A surprise? He blinks, repeating the word over and over in his head. For him? You have a surprise for him? Excitement courses through his body, temporarily distracting him from his aching member. He likes your gifts. He feels special whenever you give him something. It doesn’t matter what it is. Cookies, shirts, chocolates, a piece of candy. Even if it’s a kiss. Especially if it is. Speaking of a kiss, he wants to kiss you right now.

And he’s back to being a horny fucker.

He can’t help it. Your lips look so delicious, so damn kissable. When you run your tongue over your lower lip, biting it after, he’s done. He kisses you. Languidly. Unhurried in any way. The best thing about kissing you is you kissing back with the same intensity. When he deepens the kiss, tongue sliding past your lips, you are ready for him. You taste like your coffee and it’s perfect.

He missed this while he was away. He doesn’t know how he survived last night with a simple kiss to your forehead. He’s a fucking idiot. He missed out. Not that kissing your forehead is less than your kiss. No. Never. Just kissing your skin makes his heart ache. Just feeling your warmth is enough.

However, kissing your lips while breathing in your exhales, your moans, and your groans, that’s one way to live. If only he can exist with your air. If he can only kiss you every second of his life. If only.

When he parts from you, he feels your chasing lips as his. You two want so much more than a kiss. It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

Still, he must know what your surprise is. He needs it.

“A surprise, huh?” he murmurs, getting distracted by the flush on your cheeks. Wow. Just…wow. “Surprise for what?”

“I don’t need a reason to surprise my boyfriend.” Your nose scrunches, clearly and teasingly dissatisfied with his stupid question.

He can’t help but grab your cheeks, chuckling when you pout for good measure. When he caresses his thumbs over your skin, it makes you relax further into him. Your lips are red from the kiss. So plump. So wet from each other’s saliva. If he kisses you again, right now, he might end up just coming in his pants. Later. In a bit.

He coaxes, “What is it?”

You’ve hypnotized him when you drag your nail over his jaw and kiss along it. He can only cling to your waist. A whine left his lips when you let go. Where the fuck are you going? You can’t just leave him—

“Close your eyes,” you say, putting a halt to his thoughts. There’s that devilish gleam again, yet you add, “Please?”

You don’t need to say please. Quinn closes his eyes, immediately hearing the clatter of dishes and mugs being taken away. His hands curl into fists, turning irritated. You don’t need to clean up for him. He can do it, but he keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to betray your wishes. You are surprising him. He’ll be an idiot if he tries to sour the mood. But he dislikes it. If you’re going to do the dishes, he’ll do it with you. He doesn’t like not doing things with you, especially when it’s the regular season. He’s always away. It’s exhausting but you make it better.

One moment he’s horny. The next he’s acting pathetic.

“You’re overthinking, Quinn.” Your gentle voice hums, easing his troubled soul.

He feels and hears you sit down in front of him. On the coffee table. He fucking shivers when your feet brush the outside of his thighs. No blanket can mask your warmth, your touch. He can feel your eyes running all over him. His face. His neck. His hair. His chest. His cock. He really, really, really might fucking come.

He can hear your shaky inhale. You finally notice. Your voice turns higher, “Come closer.”

He does it. It’s more of moving the low table rather than scooting closer. Oh, the tiny squeak that you let out is adorable. You always forget that he’s strong. You’ve admitted that to him, that he looks small on ice, that he’s cute. He couldn’t blame you. He is just 5-foot-10 around people who are 6-feet and taller. You told him he looked like he wouldn’t be able to lift you. So, Quinn learned to remind you that he can lift you and more.

Now, his mind pesters with image of you against the wall, legs around his waist while he fucks you hard. That’s his favorite way to prove it—Can he fucking stop? Seriously?

He feels your touch over his shoulders, thumb rubbing into his muscles, up his neck, up his jaw. Soon, you have your forehead against his. Quinn’s trying to feel the table any clues about your surprise. So far, he hasn’t found any. He’s so curious. Just what is it?

“Open your eyes for me, handsome.”

Quinn does. He instantly gets mesmerized by your eyes, the eyelashes delicately framing them, your blinks. You’re just beautiful. He won’t have any complaints if this is your surprise. A simple eye-to-eye contact minute with you. Now that’s an amazing gift. Because now, he sees the details of your eyes—the darker and lighter specks of your color and the impossibly wide pupils.

“I love it,” he says with satisfaction.

You laugh, blushing so hard. “You’re silly.” You kiss the tip of his nose, taking his hands to plant it around your waist. “Look down…”

Again, he does. He gazes at every inch of you like he hasn’t. He can’t help but feel your breasts, thumb swirling over your nipples that were begging to be seen and touched and freed from your shirt. After hearing you moan and making your back arch into his touch, he moves on, smirking when you grumble about your need. Later.

He teases your skin, your navel. He’s so lost seeing how you tremble, hips slightly moving and trying to create friction. He bet you’re soaking through your pretty panties—

Quinn stills the moment he catches something on your skin. On your hipbone. What the fuck. What the fuck is that?

His heart hammers against his chest as he hooks a thumb into your shorts and tugs down.

Holy shit.

No matter how much he blinks it doesn’t change.

A tattoo. A fucking tattoo on your left hip.

‘QH43’, it says.

Quinn is literally felt his stomach flutter with fucking butterflies, thumb subbing over it, trying to see if it’s temporary, but it doesn’t have a shine nor does it crack.

He should be worried. It must’ve fucking hurt. It’s over a bone. He should shake you and ask if you got caught up in a dare. He should be livid you kept this from him. Tattoos are big decisions. You always confide in him for big decisions. You didn’t have this when he left for the road trip. It looks healed. He should’ve been with you and helped you take care of it. Damn it.

Yet, the more he looks at it, the more desire courses through his veins. It melts his worries.

It’s just ink in your skin. Ink in your blood. His fucking initials and numbers on you. Permanently. Forever.

QH43. Just four characters in a normal script. So simple yet it’s enough to get him all shaken up.

“Why?” He asks, taking a hand into his cock. He looks up to your eyes, except you aren’t looking at him. You’re staring at what he’s doing with a blush on your face like you haven’t seen him jerk off, haven’t seen his dick in your pussy. You’re cute.

“Because I want it.”

“It’s bad to have your boyfriend’s name tattooed on your person.” Quinn wants to smack himself for saying that, because he likes it.

“Good thing it’s his number.” You crossed your arms, smirking and unfazed. “Besides, my boyfriend will never leave me. He promised me all the time.”

“Yes. I will never leave you.” He nods, moaning when you put a hand over his cheek. “’m so turned on.”

“I can see that.” Your nails scratch over his jaw again.

He’s losing it. “Did it hurt?”

“It stung but not too much. Want help?”

Quinn shakes his head. He needs an initial relief. His hand will do. For now. He can’t help but preen as you snatch away the blanket. Sweat starts to bead on his skin as he nudges his pants down, tightly gripping and working his cock. Fuck.

“Wanna cum on it?” You ask, your voice shaking as you pant. You lean back, planting your hands on the table, spreading your thighs wide, showing him the wet patch over your thin shorts. You’re evil for that.

Quinn doesn’t know he can get any harder, but he does. Especially when he can basically smell you, taste you through it. He missed this so much. An ache forms in his chest for missing out, for not being with you.

“Is that safe?” Quinn moans, swiping a thumb over his slit, shivering as his pre-cum dribbles down his length. Totally forgetting how he was rubbing it a minute ago, he gasps, “Don’t want it to hurt.”

“It’s healed,” you reassure. “Ugh, I hate my panties. They’re so wet.”

See, you’re really complaining. The annoyance is clear on your face, but it’s cute as fuck. You shimmy your shorts and panties down, shivering when your arousal creates a string from the lace to your pussy. You still sit at the table, waiting for him to come on you.

“You’re killing me, my Love.” Quinn crawls up to his knees. “All wet for me?”

“Yeah.” Then you slide one hand over your pussy, parting it for him, making him see you quivering hole. “You really like my tattoo?”

Quinn can only nod. There’s a lump in his throat. He’s panting as he chases his relief. The way your pussy drip is getting to his head. Fuck, why is he still jerking off when your pussy is right there? He scoots closer, sliding his cock along your pussy. Both of you groan. You feel so good and he’s not even inside.

“Quinn,” you gulp, hands coming up his shoulder. “Maybe. You can jerk off later? I’m right here. I need you, handsome.”

He feels your pain and he feels the same. He presses his dick in your entrance. He warns, “I’m going to come soon.”

“Yes, please.”

Something snaps.

It’s his control.

You really know how to make him lose it. Those two fucking words. It might as well be a prophecy. He will listen and make it happen rather than wait for it to come true.

One smooth movement, he’s inside. His eyes nearly roll up as your pussy squeezes around him, seemingly determined to milk his cum out. By some miracle, he doesn’t come right away. He doesn’t it matters he did. He fucks you with urgency.

You feel divine. Your pussy. Your heated skin. Your arms that slot over his shoulders, urging him to fuck you faster. Your long nails dragging red stripes down his nape and back. Pain and pleasure sears down his soul.

“Quinn,” you call, tugging at his hair.

He moans your name like a prayer just for you. For his Love eternal. Fuck, he deeply loves you so much that it. More than anything in this world. You are the light of his life. Light, not a flame that would burn him. A light makes everything clear and visible. He’ll never get lost with you by his side. Lost in you, now, that’s a different topic.

He catches sight of a sweat dripping down from your temple, your cheek, your jaw, your neck, to your collarbones. He’s there, licking it up from its destination and up your jaw. Fuck, your taste—the saltiness, your scent on his tongue—is alluring.

Your moans mix with his, drowning out the buzz of the air-conditioning, the slight creaking of the coffee table, the ringing of his fucking phone. Who the fuck is calling him this early in the morning? It doesn’t matter. Not important right now. No.

Your hands cling to his arms, nails digging deep crescents into his skin. When his thumb circles your clit, he feels your pussy walls contract and pulse, making him come deep inside you. One spurt. Two. Three. Then he pulls out, so he spills right over your tattoo. You both pant, watching his cum make a mess on your skin, watching the cum dripping down your used pussy.

Your hand wraps around his cock, squeezing him fucking dry, making sure every drop is on your skin, your hips, and your thighs. He can’t help but gasp, forehead resting against yours.

He can’t believe he got you to come before him when he was so close to the edge.

So happy that you did.

So fucking ecstatic that he starts rubbing his cum into your skin, swiping its thickness into your damn tattoo, making sure it’s thoroughly coated. This is what you wanted. He also fucking wants it. His other hand travels to your pussy to push his cum back in. Your thighs quiver, shaking. Your moans and whines are loud and clear in his ears.

Fuck, he’s still so hard.

And you know it. How can you not? You’re holding him. It’s so evident that he’s ready for more.

You meet his eyes as you pant. Your lips are so red from being bitten. Quinn reaches up, taking his pushing his thumb slicked with his cum in your lips. When you immediately lick and suck on it, he can’t stop himself from grinding on your pussy. You’re just as greedy as him.

He loves that and he needs to fuck you again.

“Another?” he pleads.

“Yes,” you murmur, kissing his thumb. “Please.”

You don’t need to say anything else.

[hischiershoe]

for your blurb night, the world needs you to write cozy quinn and his hoodies for the prompt “sharing each other's clothes (especially hoodies)”

thank you for your service, abby 🥹🫶🏼

no warnings needed. just fluffy bf!quinn

You and Quinn hadn't been dating for very long, still very much in the early and shy stages of your relationship. You still got bashful anytime he'd compliment you or hold your hand, and he'd still get flushed whenever you kissed him first or ran your hand through his hair. Everything with Quinn was new and it was exciting, but staying at his apartment for the first time made you just as nervous, if not more, as your first date did.

You knew Quinn liked to keep his apartment on the colder side, but you didn't think it was going to be this cold. The t-shirt and shorts you had packed weren’t doing much to keep you warm, and even under the blanket and tucked against his side, you felt yourself start to shiver after a while. You tried to keep it subtle enough that Quinn didn't notice, but you failed miserably.

"Hey," He softly calls out your name, tightening his grip on your waist, "Are you cold?"

"No, I'm okay," You deny, though the goosebumps littering your arms and legs gave you away.

"Liar," He airily chuckles as he shifts underneath you, "C'mon, let's go get you some warmer clothes."

Quinn stands before you, grasping your hand in his own as he carefully yanks you off the couch and down the hallway to his room. Fortunately, you were still wearing socks so your feet were protected from the cool floor beneath you. He briefly stops at the thermostat on the wall, bumping it up a few degrees despite your protest that you were fine, before he steps into his room.

“You can grab whatever hoodie from the closet,” He softly suggests, though it was more instructive than anything, “I’m going to find some sweats for you.”

You mumble a quiet sound of acknowledgment as you pad towards his closet, pulling the doors open to reveal his copious amounts of hoodies and t-shirts. Eventually, you settle on an oversized grey hoodie and you pull it off the hanger. As you're pulling it over your head, you could hear him mumbling to himself as he sifted through his drawer, and you couldn't help but let out a quiet giggle.

"What's so funny," He calls out, suddenly much closer to you than he was before.

You peek over your shoulder to see him standing right behind you, loose strands of hair falling in his face as he gives you a smug look. His eyes are darting from your eyes, to your nose, to your lips, and it was making you forget that your mouth had the ability to form words.

"Nothing," You breathily let out, keeping your eyes trained on his face, "Just wondering who you were talkin' to over there."

"Okay," He drawls, playfully rolling his eyes before he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into his chest, "I was mumbling about my sweats. Wondering which ones you'd like the best."

Your heart was drumming in your chest when his fingers absentmindedly slipped under the material of your shirt, rubbing soothing circles against the skin as you relax in his hold, "Are you sure? I know there's a silly little joke that you can see ghosts, but maybe it's true."

"Maybe I do," He hums, nestling his chin on your shoulder, "Someone has to keep me company when you're not here."

"That's why we have cellphones," You tease, letting your head gently fall against his own.

"Fair enough. Let me grab the pants so you can get all warmed up," He presses a quick kiss to your cheek before retreating back to his dresser.

He hands you a pair of black sweats with a 'Drew' logo on them, and you hastily slip them on, a faint sigh of relief passing through your lips. Quinn can't help but admire the way you look in his clothes, in some of his favorite clothes. While they might've been a bit too big on you, you still looked perfect to him because you were his girl, and that was more than he could've ever dreamed of.

When the two of you were back in his living room, he was quick to settle back on the couch with you between his legs and his arms wound tightly around your body. Though he could barely pay attention to the movie as his gaze kept drifting to you. He'd never been as content as he was now. With you wrapped up in his hoodie and falling asleep against his chest, he realized he was already in deep with you and he had no intention of going back.

[captain-huggy-bear]

In Sickness and in Health

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Talks of sickness and the grossness of it

Summary: You've convinced yourself that you're not actually that ill, mostly because setting cover for your lessons is more trouble than its worth. Quinn is having none of it.

Notes: I have a chest infection and convinced myself that I was making it up and it wasn't that bad, apparently it is. So I figured Quinn is the voice of reason that I need in my life.

Thank you for the 400 followers as well! Very much appreciated :D

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

Quinn's watching you like a hawk from the doorway to the living area, you're bundled up on the couch with at least 3 blankets (far too many for how warm the apartment is), tissues piled high in a bin next to you as you wheeze into another. You've opted for your most comfortable clothes in an effort to make yourself feel better as you cough and cough and cough some more. Your cough is harsh and can only be described as hacking, for someone who has never smoked a day in her life you sound like you've smoked 20 packs a day for 50 years. Your chest crackling and rattling, wheezing in a way that sounds unnatural and decidedly unhealthy.

He hates it, hates that every single night for the past few weeks you've been awake in the night, coughing so hard you make yourself throw up violently, head hanging over the toilet bowel, his hands coming to hold your hair out of the way. He hates that you've taken to sleeping on the couch in an effort not to disturb him, worried about his sleep schedule even though he can hear you through the walls and would feel better if you were beside him in the night. He hates that you've been going into school, teaching while struggling to breathe simply because you feel guilty about taking a day off, about the extra work for others and because somehow you've convinced yourself that 'its not that bad'. He hates that he can't snap his fingers and make you better. He hates seeing you sick, worse still seeing you sick and not properly looking after yourself. Worse still feeling powerless to help.

His eyes narrow this time as you cough so hard you bend in two, whimpering as your body tries to expel phlegm from your chest and fails. Only succeeding in causing your chest to hurt even more and for you to taste blood in the back of your throat. You're practically shivering from discomfort and he decides he can't take it anymore. He's fed up of being the nice boyfriend that lets you hurt yourself further because you're feeling guilty and deluded. Because you're being a bit of a brat, a stubborn arse. A stubborn arse he loves, but a stubborn arse anyway.

"That's it. I'm taking you to the doctors." He's already reaching for your coat by the door, and bending down to pick up your shoes. Even as your head turns to him slowly, eyes half-open and fatigued, mouth opening in protest.

"I'm fin-" You're cut off by your own cough, wheezy and rattling, the sort that is definitely not 'fine', "I'm fine, it's just a cough. It's nothing, it'll go soon..." You've been saying this for 2 weeks and it's less reassuring and believable at the near 3 week mark.

"You've been up every night for 2 weeks. I'm taking you to the doctors." It's a Saturday morning and he knows the walk in clinic is open, he also knows he won't get you to agree to go on a school day. This is his best chance and Quinn's decided, as he looks at the pallor of your skin and the limpness of your body, that you're going even if he has to carry you out to his car. Even if he has to drag you kicking and scream like a naughty toddler. Even if he has pictures all over the internet and headlines exclaiming 'Canuck's Captain, Bully of a Boyfriend?'. If it means you'll get better he'll take all the press, all the stares, all the heat.

"I'm not even that sic-" Once again, your cough interrupts you and this time, Quinn cuts in before you can continue. He's crouching in front of you, your shoes placed beside your feet in their snoopy socks.

"Baby, you might have gas lit yourself into believing that, but I know better. I'm taking you to the doctors, we're going to get you some meds. That's final." Quinn treats you like a princess, always has, and sure he usually takes a more dominate and traditional role in the relationship. But, it's rare for him to lay down the law, for him to outright remove your choice. Mostly, because you usually make the wise one anyway...today, you seem determined to put your health at risk and if that means he has to force you to do something you'd rather not? Well, the captain in him will come out to play and nice boyfriend Quinn will go take the bench. Nice isn't going to keep you healthy. Letting you get your way isn't going to make you better.

"Quinn..." Even the way you say his name is wheezy and it hurts, it hurts your chest to breathe, to speak. A sort of dull ache, a discomfort that deep down you know isn't normal...even as you try to push through.

"Shoes on. Now." His voice is sharp, not unkind, but firm. It's an order, not a request. A voice he rarely uses with you. Quinn only uses it under 2 scenarios: 1) You're putting yourself at risk and he's sorting it out or 2) it's an agreed role choice for your bedroom. He'd rather not have to use it for the first reason, but you're not really leaving him any choice.

"Bu-"

"Shoes, baby." He softens the tone, pulling back a little on the captain voice even as he grabs your right foot and forces you to put your first shoe on. You seem to give in, letting him help you into your shoes, tying them so they're supportive and comfortable.

He stands, reaching for your hands to pull you to your feet, holding onto your arms as you sway, lightheaded and dizzy at the upward movement. It takes longer than he would like for you to recover and it settles Quinn's mind even firmer on the course of action he's taking, helping you into your coat before leading you out of the apartment.

It's slow going, you're dizzy and short of breath and each step seems to take you even longer than normal. But, he's just happy to get you to his car, knowing that the next step is the triage walk-in centre 15 minute away.

You practically slump in the passenger seat, curling towards the door, blinking as the streets pass by. You have to admit, even if not audibly, that Quinn's right. This isn't just a cough, you feel like death warmed over and you know there's something not quite right. Even if you're loath to admit it. Even your students had picked up on how ill you were this week, being extra nice for once and not forcing you to yell at them like they knew you physically couldn't raise your voice even if you wanted to (which you didn't). Even the two boys you'd asked to stay behind to talk to about their behaviour had been patient when you'd had a coughing fit, unable to address their poor behaviour for a good minute.

When you finally arrive at the medical centre, he's very tempted to carry you inside, but you just about accept his arm as he helps you to the door and to the front desk. He takes over, describing your symptoms to the receptionist as you wheeze beside him, pressing your face into his arm as you seek some sort of comfort and you don't stop when you sit in the tiny uncomfortable seats waiting for your turn to see a nurse. Seeking his body for comfort, Quinn runs his fingers through the ends of your hair, occasionally rubbing the nape of your neck. He hates the way you whine into him, like everything is wrong with the world. He hates that he can't immediately fix how you're feeling.

It takes longer than Quinn would like for your name to be called, in the time it takes you're so tired from the outing that you're almost falling asleep on him. Your breathing is shallow and laboured as you wheeze in and out. All he can do is offer comfort and support, even as he forces you to stand once again and make the walk to the nurse's examination room.

You struggle through describing your symptoms, Quinn jumping in when he feels you're underplaying them or have missed something out. The nurse takes your blood oxygen levels, tutting as she does, and gets up to listen to your chest.

"I know what I'm going to hear already, but let's have a listen." The stethoscope is cold as she lifts the back of your shirt and slips it against your skin. You try to breathe in and out as normal as she moves from each section of your back, the top down to the bottom, left to right.

"Just as I thought, very crackly in the bottom left of your lungs...you've got a pretty nasty chest infection, lovely." She gestures for you to take a seat and you ignore the look Quinn gives you from the corner of your eye, the sort that screams 'I told you so.'

"Right, I'm going to prescribe you a course steroids and a course of antibiotics. You need to take 8 of the steroids in the morning for 4 days, just take the first dose the moment you get home today. The antibiotics you need to take for 5 days, 2 today and then 1 a day for the remaining 4, okay?"

You nod at her instructions, not feeling much like talking. You know Quinn is mentally cataloguing each instruction so that he can make sure you take your medication right and fully. A relief because you're so tired you're not sure you'd remember right now.

She prints out your prescription and hands it to you, which you promptly hand to Quinn, who holds it tight like he's scared it'll blow away in the windless room.

You both thank her as you leave and Quinn insists on going straight to the pharmacy next door and putting your prescription in. It takes longer than he wants, 20 minutes before you have your meds in hand and he's ushering you back to the car and strapping you in because you look too tired to do it yourself. You hold the little paper bag of medicine on your lap and watch him as he drives, your blinks are slow and tired and he keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, clearly worried. Quinn's hands tighten on the steering wheel.

The moment you're in the apartment, he's helping you from your coat and shoes, ushering you to the coach and helping you sink down into it, your head drooping as your arms dangle between your knees.

"I'm going to get your meds ready, okay? Just sit right here, baby." His hands run over your hair, across your shoulders, comforting strokes as he watches you struggle. He's relieved you have medicine now, even if he's angry that it took so long to convince you to get checked out. The anger isn't directed at you, but at himself and at the schooling system, the guilt its put into your head. The feeling that you can't be sick, can't take a day off. Anger that he'd allowed you to put this off for so long when he should have pushed more.

"Okay...Thanks, Quinny..." Your voice is fragile, delicate and his chest aches at the way you look up at him with tired, red eyes. Tired, hardly sleeping, fatigued from an infection attacking your body and still so thankful for him.

"No trouble at all, baby." Quinn leans down pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering slightly as you sway into him, eyes closed and nearly fall forward when he pulls away. But, Quinn's hands are there to right you, gently leaning you back against the couch pillows.

In the kitchen area he pours you as big glass of water and counts out 2 antibiotics, dark green capsules, and 8 tiny uncoated steroid tablets.

When he reaches you he hands you the glass, watching as you take a big gulp, holding it in your mouth as you gesture for the first pill. One at a time he hands them to you, watching as you swallow each with a healthy mouthful of water to make them go down easier. You shiver at little after each, like your body doesn't want you to take them, but they go down easy enough.

"Baby, I think you should go lay down in bed..."

"Mmm..." You're starting to feel sick, nausea hitting as your body processes the unfamiliar but strong medication. Your head is pounding, you feel like you're going to be sick and it's with nothing short of gentleness that Quinn scoops you up into his arms, your head nuzzling into his neck.

"C'mere..." You're not a light person, adult humans generally aren't, but Quinn has spent years as a pro-athlete training his body and in more recent years making sure he can bench as much weight as possible so carrying you isn't ever an issue. For reasons like this. The need to support you when you're sick or hurt. The idea that you might need him like this and he be unable to provide was simply unacceptable.

He moves carefully, steady so as not to rock you too much or too harshly as he walks you the short distance to your shared bedroom. He's gentle as he deposits you on the bed, helping you pull the blankets up around you as he sits beside you, fingers tracing a path over your forehead and down your cheek.

"How you feeling, baby?"

"Dizzy...nauseous...feel horrible, Quinny..." You almost sound like you might cry a little, a shakiness to your voice that pulls at his heart strings.

"I'll go make you some ginger tea for the nausea..." Quinn goes to get up but you're gripping his hand as hard as you can, eyes blinking up at him blearily, a pout directed his way that you know he can't really say no to. "No. Stay, cuddles please."

"Okay, baby, cuddles."

Quinn wastes very little time getting into bed besides you, letting you curl into him, your leg slung over his hip and your face pressed into his sternum like you could bury yourself in his chest and hide away from how you feel. All he can do he does, wrapping you up tight in his arms, hand rubbing soothing circles across your back.

Your breathing is shallow and shaky, swallowing as the nausea hits in waves. You can feel Quinn pressing kisses to your hair, your temple and it makes you feel better even if it doesn't take the sick feeling from your stomach.

"Thank you for looking after me..." You mumble it against his jaw, pressing a light kiss there, energy to do anything more none existent. Quinn responds with a kiss of his own to your hair, fingers reaching up to run through the ends as you nuzzle closer to him, chest to chest.

"I'm always going to look after you, baby. That's my job..."

"No...you're job is...your job is to play hockey." You sound a little confused and dazed, not really a surprise with the brain fog you've had this entire sickness. You seem to struggle to realise that he's not being literal, but it's cute. It's cute now he knows you're being medicated and not letting yourself get progressively worse and more and more likely to end up with pneumonia.

"Mm, that's my paying job, sure...but you're my real job. I just want to make sure you're okay, baby...especially when you're stubborn." Quinn's fingers rest on the nape of your neck, massaging the tense muscles there as you press further into his neck, little kisses being left like it's the only thing you have the energy for. It's sweet, even as you wheeze and rattle like an old change machine.

"I'm sick, don't be mean to me." Your voice is pouty and playful, and there's a slight relief in it for Quinn. That if you're being playful you're probably feeling a little better, a little more like yourself. He readjusts your leg around his hip, a hand resting there to keep you close.

"Never, baby. I love you too much to be mean to you."

"Liar." There's no animosity in it, just playful back chat that has him leaning back slightly to look at you with raised eyebrows.

"Oh, I see you're already feeling better? Absolute brat." Quinn grins at you for the first time in days, the relief that you're feeling even slightly better, the feeling of accomplishment at having convinced you to go to the doctor's, all combining to make him feel lighter than he has in a while.

"I'm sick, a sweet baby actually." Even you smile slightly as you look up at him, eyes slightly delirious and hazy like you're not all there right now which is probably about right. Your voice is croaky, but no less sweet to listen to.

"Mmm, sure y'are, baby. My sick, sweet girl who's also such a brat."

"Fuck off." You pretend to shove him away but he barely moves, your push weak and completely not serious. Even your voice has absolute no bite, just humour in it, the sort he's missed from you. You've been so down, so tired, so sullen that he's missed the banter, the back and forth, the playfulness that you two have.

"Alright-" Quinn pulls away, starting as if he's going to get up, but you're leg locks over his hip, arms practically crushing him to you as you stop him leaving your cuddle pile, the nest you've made, "No, stay! 'm sorry, Quinny...stay, feeling so much better with you here." You mean it. Maybe you still feel sick, nauseous and achy. Maybe your chest still hurts, your cough still rattling through you. But, being close to him helps, it makes you feel comforted in a way that you need right now and the idea of him going makes you want to cry. Even though rationally you know he's joking and not serious.

"Okay, sweet girl. I'm not going anywhere, okay?" He settles back into space next to you, hand running from your knee to your hip in soothing strokes as his other hand rubs circles over your back.

"Love you so much." You mumble it against his neck, face pressed as tight as you can, inhaling his cologne, the smell of his skin, the distinctly Quinn scent that brings you a sense of safety and comfort.

"Love you too, sweet girl."

Maybe Quinn hates the way you refuse to get help when you're sick, maybe this whole episode had terrified him to his core, made him worried sick, but God, he loves you enough that he'd do this every single year of his life if he had to.

In sickness and in health, right?

[theerurishipper]

Twitter AU Masterpost

I decided to compile a list of my Twitter posts, and just put in a little summary of what goes on in each so anyone who wants to can find whichever one they want.

Now also on AO3:

Part 1

Damian bullies Bruce and Dick messes with him, Bruce simps for Superman on main and Clark and Damian take on a hater in the replies, Jason wants to be verified and his siblings bully him a little.

Part 2

A fan of Nightwing's gets a picture of him and Robin and Red Robin battle it out in the replies while Flash stirs up shit, Donna posts a picture of Dick and the Fab Five take on a hater, Damian texts Dick about his profile picture, a lucky Gothamite snaps not one but two pictures of Batblob.

Part 3

Nightwing posts a picture and the people of Bludhaven take the time to appreciate him, Red Robin reminisces about kicking Red Hood and Red Hood gets bullied some more, Batman posts a picture of baby Robin!Dick and everyone coos over it, Riddler questions how Batman got his Twitter handle.

Part 4

A warning is issued for Gotham vigilantes about Batman and Catwoman getting busy and Nightwing's trauma about this is addressed, the debate over Batman's sex life is put to rest, Talia issues a clarification and sets the record straight, Gotham discusses Bruce's emo era.

Part 5

Lex hateposts about superheroes and Bruce annihilates him in the replies, there's an investigation into the matter of Luthor's handle, a mysterious troll makes an appearance, Dick questions Clark, Bruce reveals his and Clark's shenanigans from Dick's Robin days, and a hater is given even more power.

Part 6

Lex is salty and Lois and Clark tear him apart, Superman posts a picture and is accused of plagiarism, Nightwing starts a trend, Babs takes issue with her overuse of coffee being questioned.

Part 7

Oracle and Red Hood reveal the story of why Joker is banned from Twitter, the people of Gotham reminisce about an old tradition, Bruce gets roasted by Alfred, Damian has a wholesome interaction.

Part 8

Damian bonds with Dick and gets trolled by Steph, Spoiler finally creates an account, Spoiler poses a question to the people of Gotham, Batman is bullied by his kids and a billionaire.

Part 9

Spoiler gets a present, mistakes have consequences, Red Robin questions Nightwing's decisions, a resident of North Dakota has a life changing experience.

Part 10

Some well-meaning Gothamites stand up for Red Hood and Oracle gives a history lesson, an old face makes a less than triumphant return, the fab five have some fun, a relatable photo of Batman reveals something more and a new player enters the picture.

Part 11

Harley Quinn beats up Joker, Flash is disgusted by Nightwing, Batman's hypocrisy is revealed, Superman has some fun at Batman's expense.

Part 12

Black Canary fondly remembers a better time, Green Arrow confronts Batman, Green Arrow issues an apology, Oliver schemes and plots, a well-kept secret is finally revealed.

Part 13

Arsenal reveals a personal secret, the people discuss some new revelations, the fab five weigh in on Arsenal's problems, Nightwing takes a stand.

Part 14

The Gotham villains share some opinions, Two-Face and Riddler have an argument, Flash finally picks a side, Green Arrow evades responsibility.

Part 15

Some observers share some hot takes, the Superfam witnesses a breakdown, Lois asks Bruce for help, Dick puts an end to the ongoing feud, everyone starts to move on.

Part 16

Deathstroke shares a story of a failed assassination, someone loses their Twitter privileges, the Court of Owls tries to recruit Nightwing, Talon gets more than he bargained for, some very recent history repeats itself.

Part 17

Bruce is a meme, The League has some concerns about their monthly budget, Nightwing's personality confuses everyone who knows him.

Part 18

Bruce's mistakes reveal his most defining character trait, an early present for Superman causes chaos in the present, Superman's reactions to the goings on lead to some pleasant destructive results, Bruce's inability to understand memes is discussed

Part 19

Red Hood shares an embarrassing opinion, Red Robin starts an argument, Superman wins massively, the superhero community can agree on one thing.

Part 20

The villains discuss their least favorite Robin, Nightwing defends his pettiness, Red Hood endures some misplaced blame, Tim explains his masterful plan, Jason finally gets a win.

Part 21

The Court of Owls is humbled, Nightwing's friends face a problem, a culprit is found responsible, Arsenal gets in hot water.

Part 22

One of Bruce's childhood obsessions is revealed, Riddler tries to call out Batman and runs his mouth online, Riddler issues an apology, the Wayne kids' comments about Bruce eccentric habits reveals their own inadequacies.

Part 23

A tweet is posted by a concerning individual, the heroes find a surprising ally, Superman is the victim of a prank, Superman fires back.

[dearstvckyx]

If you wouldn't take the help? - Quinn Hughes

After a crushing 7-0 loss to the Golden Knights, Quinn Hughes spirals, putting immense pressure on himself and shutting everyone out. When his teammates and coaches fail to get through to him, they call his childhood best friend (the reader) and fly her out from Michigan. She confronts Quinn, reminding him that he can’t become a better player or person if he won’t take the help being offered. He finally lets his guard down, breaking down in her arms. - The Neighbourhood , How

Quinn Hughes x Reader , ft. Canucks players

Warnings: Angst, emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of anxiety, self-imposed pressure.

Note// I got carried away….

The Neighbourhood Lyrics Masterlist - ⌂

The locker room was suffocating.

The air was thick with the stench of sweat and defeat—the kind of defeat that clung to the walls and weighed heavily on everyone’s shoulders.

7-0.

Seven. Nothing.

To Vegas.

It was humiliating.

The Canucks had been completely outplayed. Every shift felt like an uphill battle. The mistakes piled up, one after the other. Turnovers. Bad reads. Missed coverage.

And Quinn Hughes felt every single one of them like a weight on his chest.

He sat on the bench long after the game ended, his skates still on, staring blankly at the floor. The rest of the team had already begun to file out—some hitting the showers, others slumping into their stalls in bitter silence.

But Quinn didn’t move.

He just sat there, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed, fingers tangled in his damp hair.

His chest felt tight. His throat burned. His vision blurred slightly from how hard he was blinking.

His hands curled into fists.

It was my fault.

He knew it wasn’t entirely true. He knew they lost as a team. But in his head, the errors—the ones that led to the goals—were his. The misstep on the blue line. The puck he should have cleared. The coverage he lost track of.

If I had just played better…

The self-loathing festered.

And it didn’t stop.

⸻

The next few days were rough.

Quinn was quieter than usual at practice. More withdrawn. More irritable.

The boys noticed immediately.

Tyler Myers gaze lingered on Quinn when he didn’t so much as crack a smile during a chirp-filled drill. Petey gave him wary glances when he noticed Quinn staying late on the ice by himself. Brock tried to get him to go out for dinner after practice, but Quinn just shook his head.

The boys didn’t miss the way he was pulling away.

By the time the next game came around, Quinn was gripping his stick so tightly his knuckles were white. He was trying to play perfectly—too perfectly. Overthinking every pass. Second-guessing every zone entry.

And it made everything worse.

When he sat back down on the bench, after missing 3 passes, he slammed his stick hard against the boards, cursing under his breath.

None of them had ever seen him this rattled.

When the game ended, Quinn left without saying a word.

And that’s when the guys decided enough was enough.

They tried to talk to him—first as teammates, then as friends. Tyler sat with him after practice, offering words of advice that Quinn barely acknowledged. Petey tried to lighten the mood in the locker room, hoping to at least get him to crack a smile. Brock gave him space but kept a watchful eye.

Even Tocchet tried pulling him aside in his office.

But nothing worked.

No matter what anyone said, no matter how much they tried to be there for him, Quinn kept waving them off.

Kept brushing them aside.

Kept saying he was fine.

But he wasn’t.

And when it became clear that Quinn wouldn’t take the help they were offering, the boys made one final call.

To you.

⸻

You barely had time to process it.

You were sitting on your couch in Michigan when your phone rang. The moment you saw Brock’s name flash on the screen, you knew something was wrong.

And before you could even ask, he was already explaining everything—the game, the weight Quinn was carrying, the way he was shutting everyone out.

You didn’t even hesitate.

The next morning, you were on a plane to Vancouver.

⸻

Quinn had no idea you were coming.

He didn’t expect the knock at his apartment door late that night. He figured it was one of the guys. Maybe Brock, checking in again.

So when he swung the door open and saw you standing there, he blinked, stunned.

For the first time in days, he truly didn’t have the words.

“Hey, Q,” you said softly, offering a small smile.

He stared at you for a beat too long.

And then, before you could even say another word, he reached for you.

Without thinking. Without hesitation.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against him.

And you let out a soft breath against his chest as he clung to you tighter than he probably meant to.

You felt his heart pounding faintly against your cheek, too fast, too unsteady.

For half a second, he didn’t move.

But then you felt it—the slight tremble in his arms.

And you realized he was barely holding it together.

Your arms tightened around him.

“Let me in?” you whispered softly against his collarbone.

Without a word, he stepped back and let you inside.

⸻

You sat cross-legged on the couch while he sat stiffly on the opposite end, his hands running restlessly over his knees.

He was still wearing his hoodie from practice, but his hair was still slightly damp from a recent shower. You could see the faint redness around his eyes—the barely-there evidence of the frustration and exhaustion clinging to him.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You just watched him.

Watched the way his fingers curled and uncurled. The slight bounce of his knee. The tension in his shoulders.

And finally, softly, you broke the silence.

“You’re shutting them out.”

Quinn’s hands stilled.

“You’re shutting everyone out.”

His eyes flicked to yours for half a second before he shook his head slightly.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

You stared at him.

“No, you’re not,” you said softly.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, the muscle in his jaw clenching slightly.

You slowly uncrossed your legs, shifting closer, resting a gentle hand over his.

“Quinn,” you whispered. “How do you expect to be a better player… a better person… if you wouldn’t take the help?”

His fingers twitched slightly beneath yours.

And for a second, you thought he was going to brush you off again.

But instead—his face just crumpled.

The tension in his jaw loosened. His shoulders dropped slightly.

And then, without a word, he exhaled shakily, slumping forward.

Your breath caught softly when he leaned into you. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, and you felt his breath hitch unevenly against your collarbone.

Your arms slipped around him immediately, holding him tightly against you.

And for the first time in weeks—he let himself break.

You felt his grip tighten around your waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of your hoodie. His breaths were uneven, shaky, shallow against your neck.

You didn’t say anything.

You just held him.

Your fingers slowly ran through his hair, the way you had when you were kids—the familiar motion easing the tension from his shoulders, loosening the knot in his chest.

After a long moment, you felt him exhale softly, his breath warm against your skin.

You shifted slightly, gently nudging him back just enough to meet his eyes.

And the moment you saw them—red-rimmed, glassy, and vulnerable—you felt your chest tighten.

Your hand slowly slid up to his face, your thumb brushing softly along his cheekbone.

And you saw it—the way his breath caught slightly at your touch.

The way his eyes lingered on your lips for half a second too long.

But neither of you said anything.

You just sat there—his forehead resting against yours, your breaths softly intermingling, hearts barely steadying.

For a fleeting moment, you thought he might kiss you.

You thought about closing the small space between you.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you slowly brushed his hair back from his eyes, your fingers lingering slightly longer than necessary.

And softly, barely above a whisper, you murmured,

“I’ve got you.”

And he believed you.

[fiastomatocheek]

SNOOPY CUTS ALL OF HIS CURLS OFF!

series: ‘happiness is a warm blanket’

pair: dad!luke hughes x f!reader

genre: family, fluff, humor, domestic cuteness.

warnings: none just pure fluff!

summary: father’s day was supposed to be filled with chocolate muffins, art, hugs, and happiness until luke decided it was time for a trim without letting anyone know. the result? a dramatic showdown when his 6-year-old sidekick, lucy, realizes their matching locks are gone.

fia’s note: i guess y’all saw it, right? luke’s curls are gone, i mean, gone gone and i’m honestly so sad. i miss his curls!! this can’t be real, please tell me i’m just having a bad dream 😂 and i think it’d be so fun if lucy found out he cut them without saying a word. you know luce would be soooo dramatic about it, gasping, pouting, maybe even staging a miniature protest.

tagging team fia ! — @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @dancerbailey3 @mashmashi @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk @kell9rs @alwaysclassyeagle @nokiaholland @macka @silvenyy @voidvannie @itsonlyaddi @ruinix @when-im-with-you @puckinghughes @astrotrilogy @definitelynotdomanique @fallinallincurls

fia’s masterlist | join fia’s taglist | yap & fic

“That’s a looooot of chocolate chips, Mommy! Snoopy’s gonna be soooo happy when he sees them! Because Snoopy really loves chocolate, just like me! And we’re kind of the same person! Because we have matching…curls!!”

Lucy giggled, adding another generous handful of chocolate chips into the bowl.

“That’s true, you and Daddy are kindred spirits.”

You nodded warmly, smoothing a lock of her messy, wild hair.

“Curly team for life.”

“That’s right! Curls-for-Life!!”

Lucy cheered, bouncing up and down in her seat, nearly bouncing off it in pure happiness.

“Snoopy and me! Forever! Oh, Mommy, I made something for him! Do you wanna see??”

She darted toward a stack of art paper and tugged a large sheet from the pile.

“It’s a picture of me and Snoopy with matching curls! I made matching glitter borders! So pretty, right, Mommy??”

“That’s so beautiful, Luce.” You nodded, admiring the glitter-covered picture.

“He’s going to love it. This is a very special Father’s Day.”

Meanwhile, across town, Luke was sitting in a barbershop with Jack and Quinn. His nervous reflection stared back at him in the mirror.

“Are you sure I’m not making a mess?” he whispered quietly, tugging a lock of his thick, curly hair.

“That’s a big change. I know how much Lucy… and honestly my wife… love it.”

“That’s the point, Lukey.” Jack nodded casually, turning a page in his golf magazine.

“Change is a good thing. It grows back. Plus, it’s kind of a new era. You’re a dad Lukey, you’re not a kid with flowy locks anymore.”

Luke pressed his lips together, reluctantly nodded, and turned toward the stylist.

“Alright… cut it.”

He closed his eyes as the first locks fell to the floor, a momentous transformation underway while Jack tried (and failed) to stifle his smugly amused smirk.

Back at home…

“Mommy, I think Snoopy’s gonna be soooo happy today! Because I made him something SUPER special, and we made his favorite muffins and we’re matching!!”

Lucy hopped down from her seat, carefully placing her picture in a purple envelope.

She turned back toward you, bouncing on her toes.

“I wanna wrap it! Did we buy wrapping paper, Mommy?”

“Yes, we did! Let’s go wrap it together.”

You turned off the oven, drew the muffins out, and placed them to cool while you and your enthusiastic sidekick made your way toward the wrapping paper.

Just as you and Lucy finished wrapping up all the chocolate muffins, you heard Luke’s car pull into the driveway, you knew today might bring a dramatic moment or two with your fiercely passionate 6-year-old.

He opened the front door with a huge smile. His arms were already stretched wide in anticipation, his ‘open-arms-always’ policy for his little girl.

“Luce! Snoopy home! Where’s my little Luce?”

He barely finished his sentence before a small tornado of pure happiness came darting toward him… until, halfway across the living room, Lucy came to a dramatic halt freezing in place then turning on her heels and darting directly toward you instead.

“Mommy!! SNOOPY CUTS ALL OF HIS CURLS OFF!!”

Lucy’s big eyes glimmered with tears of disbelief, sadness, and betrayal.

“That’s not Snoopy anymore! Where are his curls? Did… Did Uncle Rowdy cut them off while he was asleep?”

“That’s a very good theory.”

You knelt down to ease her worries, placing your hands warmly on her small shoulders.

“But I think Snoopy chose to cut them… just a little… because sometimes people need a small change. But I know they’ll grow back Luce, he’s still your Snoopy. Curls or not.”

Meanwhile, Luke stood a few feet away, unsure whether to move forward or hang back.

He pressed his knuckles to his forehead.

“Aw, Luce… I messed up big time, huh? I’m so sorry I made you sad. I know you really liked matching me…”

He knelt down to her level. “Would you… still be my team if I grow them back? Because I think I made a big mess today.”

Lucy turned, reluctantly, to face him.

“That… depends… if you grow them back faster!!”

She crossed her arms in pure dramatic style.

“And I wanna be matching again… soon. Okay, Snoopy?”

“That’s a deal, Luce.” Luke nodded warmly, extending his pinky finger toward her, their tradition.

“Pinky promise.”

She reluctantly intertwined her small finger with his.

“That’s not all, Snoopy! I made you something!!”

Lucy darted toward the envelope, then turned back, adding with pure dramatic flair, “but I’m still mad, you know.”

She handed him the envelope. Inside was a picture of the two of them with matching glitter-covered borders.

He held it up, smiling warmly.

“It’s beautiful, baby. I’m going to hang it up in our room. So we remember, team Curls-for-Life.”

He pressed a small kiss to the top of her messy locks, then turned toward you.

“That… was dramatic.”

He sighed quietly, tugging you into a side-hug.

“That’s our family.”

You whispered back, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Full of chaos, and a whole lot of love.”

[pancake404]

Character(s) Descriptions in the Limbo: Catnap and Yarnaby

So these are going to be the character descriptions on how they are in the Limbo.

Starting with the pets, Theo and Quinn. Theo behaves like an older sibling, taking care of the still intellectually challenged Yarnaby(though he can be surprisingly clever at times) while Yarnaby, chooses to stick with and guard Theo. He doesn’t need to as Theo can take care and likes being by himself but clearly luck is not his favor as Yarnaby and a couple of others don’t leave him alone.

No one can understand Yarnaby as he can’t speak but somehow, Theo has the ability to communicate with him even when neither is talking.

Despite them being close, Yarnaby isn’t aware of Catnap’s…recent thoughts.

You might ask, what those shadow forms are behind them. Well, the toys in the limbo refer them as “Mirrored Nightmares” or just “Mirrors”. Dark reflections that manifest from the pain, guilt, or negativity of the individual. They can be a variety of things and appear in multiple forms.

Their strength and growth varies from how much the individual is feeling of it. Some Mirrors even develop almost a mind of their own. They can even be used as weapons against others but a lot of the time, they behave like weapons to themselves. Hurting the same individuals who’ve casted them.

Theo’s mirror is the feeling of abandonment and self mockery after the Prototype killed him. He tried to convince himself that those ten years of worship wasn’t for nothing and that the Prototype had a good reason for what he did, that he still cared. The more he does though, the stronger the HAND gets. It behaves like a twisted version of the comforting and caring Prototype Theo remembers. Protecting him from characters Theo hates.

A bad coping mechanism.

Quinn’s mirror is similar as it too manifested from possible abandonment however Quinn got his from the idea of him failing the doctor, he had a task and failed. In his head, and the mirror’s, he deserved to be disposed of due to his failing. He has one of the more dangerous mirrors as it truly developed a mind and mindset of its own. The EYE will cause Yarnaby to be hostile of others through manipulation as well as try to gain total control of Yarnaby. All it has to do is isolate Yarnaby away from toys like Catnap.

Don’t let mirrors take control and engulf you in them, you might not be able to swim out.

[cyberhughes]

congrats on 200 again!! i hope soon you’ll be able to add an extra zero to that 🤞

can i request a quinn hughes (duh) angst with prompt #16

i can’t wait to see what u cook up 👩🏻‍🍳

ps i better be crying after reading or u failed 😢

cyberhughes 200 follower special ⋆ .˚

rum & coke coming up!!

prompt #16: "would i lie to you?"

warnings: angst angst angst...mentions of sex but it's not very descriptive

isaaaa i love you. i INSTANTLY knew what to write w this one i had to pause writing what was in my drafts cause this one was STUCK on my brain. i hope it's as gut wrenching as you hoped it'd be :p

ps…for the extra heartbreak listen to chemtrails over the country club by lana del rey. you’re welcome

prompt list

quinn had been distant these past few weeks, so distant it had felt like you were living alone. you'd only see him in passing, a quick morning kiss as he left for practice while you sat alone, eating the breakfast you had prepared for the two of you, but of course he needed to leave early. you'd often find yourself going to bed alone, waking up in the late hours of the night to see his back turned towards you, your body cold from the absence of his touch.

it felt like he was sailing away, leaving you stranded on an island alone, and you didn't know how to call him back.

you thought that maybe it was your fault, had you gotten too comfortable in your relationship? you didn't find yourself doing your makeup or dressing up as much, and maybe he wanted to be able to show off instead of having to hide you. maybe you would just have to show him that you were still the same girl you were when you met him.

and so, for the whole afternoon you had spent your time cooking a homemade dinner. you didn't cook anything too extravagant often, but you needed this to be special. you had called your mom for her recipes, listening to her guidance as you carefully crafted your meal.

everything was set up strategically on the table, you had pulled out a tablecloth that you never used, gone out and bought a few candles for ambiance. you loosely tied your hair up, and put on a simple red dress that was growing lonely in your closet, the same dress you had worn when you met quinn that night at the bar.

now all there was to do, was wait.

you read a few chapters of your book, scrolled through pinterest, walked around your apartment, organizing things that had already been organized a hundred times.

8:00 pm.

he was supposed to be home around 6, but you brushed it off. you made a million excuses for him in your head, maybe there was traffic, maybe he needed to have an emergency meeting with his teammates. but nothing you came up with could ease the feeling in your gut.

the food was already cold, and the candles had been burning too long, and you thought that maybe you'd be spending the night without the feeling of his arms around you yet again.

just as you stood up to start putting the food away you heard the lock click.

you stood frozen as you watched him walk in. his eyes were tired, his mouth fixed in a slight frown. taking his keys out of the lock, he looked up to the display.

"y/n..." he spoke your name, barely above a whisper as you walked toward him.

"i made you dinner." your voice was shaky as you tried to prevent yourself from crying, you didn't know why you would cry, he was home now.

"you didn't have to do this." he sighed, feeling exhausted from his long day. you helped him take his jacket off, fingers lingering on him before you moved to hang it up. you didn't reply, unsure of what to say. "you should have just started eating without me." he said and you bit your lip, unsure of how to reply.

he noticed the way your eyes were glassy from the tears that formed and he exhaled, "i'm sorry. i didn't mean anything by that. thank you, y/n." but you knew what he meant. he didn't want to have to entertain you after a stressful day.

neither of you spoke as you ate, you simply sat there feeling the tension grow stronger, and your heart break into more pieces.

"why were you late?" you asked mindlessly, toying with the salad on your plate. he shook his head, "bunch of media stuff." you knew he was lying of course, he always poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue when he lied.

you nodded as you stared intensely at the food on your plate. you were sure that if you took another bite you might throw up.

"is there someone else?" you asked quietly, but he could barely hear you. "what was that?" he took a bite of pasta into his mouth, not looking at you once.

"is there someone else?" you voice cracked and he finally looked at you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he swallowed his bite. "what?" you hated the way he was looking at you, like you were on the verge of uncovering something you didn't truly want to know. "no, no there isn't y/n, why would you even say that?"

you took a deep breath, "you...you're never home. you never tell me you love me anymore." a tear fell down your cheek and you quickly wiped it away, not wanting to seem pathetic. he closed his eyes and sighed, processing what you were saying.

you watched as he stood up from his seat, moving towards you and kneeling down, taking your hands in his, a feeling of comfort you hadn't felt in a while.

he tilted his head to the right, "would i lie to you?" he stared into your eyes with ruth.

maybe you had overreacted. he had an insane career, of course his schedule would be busy.

"no, you wouldn't. i'm sorry quinn." you let another tear fall and he swiped it away, thumb caressing your cheek and you leaned into his touch. "don't be sorry, how about we just go to bed, hm?" he suggested and you nodded, letting him lead you to bed.

you savored the way his fingers felt on your skin as he helped you out of your dress, taking your hair down and moving it to the side and he pressed kisses along your neck. you felt your heart tighten at the feeling, it had been too long since he lingered on you like this.

maybe things were going back to normal.

after that night, he had made it a point to have more meaningful interactions with you. staying a bit later to eat breakfast with you, cuddling with you on the couch as you watched your show, trailing kisses up your thighs as he got closer to your core, wanting to show you that he still loved you.

everything had gone back to normal.

your boss had let you off work early one day, so you decided to pick up a pizza from his favorite place to surprise him. you felt giddy as you drove home, excited to hear about his day and feel his lips on yours.

your steps were quick walked up to your apartment, nearly tripping up the stairs in excitement. you tried to open the door quietly, not wanting him to know you had gotten home just yet. you pushed the door open, feeling it caught on something. you squeezed through the small gap, looking down to see what had blocked it.

you furrowed your brows in confusion.

you don't remember owning a pair of red heels like that.

you placed the pizza down on the counter gently, feeling the unease in your stomach grow as you called out his name, not receiving another answer.

you crept to your bedroom, hearing some shuffling. the door had been cracked open slightly and you peeked inside, not yet opening it.

you slapped a hand over your mouth at the sight in front of you, feeling like you had just been stabbed in the heart by your own lover.

there he was, balls deep in some other girl, whispering words of affection you had never heard from him before. you couldn't take your eyes away as you watched the way he fucked her with more passion than you had ever seen from him.

"quinn..." he groaned at the way she moaned his name, nipping at her neck. "promise you're gonna leave her?" he laughed at her words, picking up the pace of his hips as he spoke into her ear,

"would i lie to you?"

[breannasfluff]

It’s a little past midnight when Danny hears someone scream. He drops the rubble he was collecting as Phantom and transforms back. He might be safer in ghost form, but any situation that has people screaming might also include someone reporting a ghost. 

Still, he trots toward the sound, keeping light on his feet. It means that as he rounds a corner and someone runs into him–hard–they both go down in a tangle of limbs.

“Shit shit shit shit!” His assailant scrambles off him. “Run!”

There are angry shouts and oh, Ancients, that’s a gang chasing this person, isn’t it? Danny’s up and booking after the person before he thinks twice. Only then does he clock what the person is wearing and nearly slides to a stop again. “Are you Harley Quinn?”

The outfit is familiar, even if the hair is currently a dark, dirty blonde. 

“None of your business!”

He’ll take that as a yes. 

“Why are they chasing you?”

Harley hisses as she slams into a wall, feet slipping on garbage as she tries to make a sharp turn. Danny lets himself drift just slightly into intangibility and relies on some minor flight to make the same turn. He doesn’t need to slam into a wall, thank you very much.

“Knew a Shell and was trying to find them, but got too deep. Mistah J doesn’t take kindly to people poking into his business. Even if he is in Arkham right now. Fuck.”

The last is because she’s run into a dead end. Danny skids to a halt next to her. While he could intangibly pull her through the building that blocks their way, it would raise a lot of questions he doesn’t want to deal with.

“Don’t you have a hammer?”

“Do I look like I’ve got a hammer stashed in my shirt?” Harley snaps back. 

It’s a fair point, but not one Danny cares about. He can’t let her get hurt. “Here.” Pulling out his taser, he shoves it in her hand. “Don’t lose it, I can’t afford another.”

“Wait, what about–” Her question is cut off as the gang rounds the corner.

“Nowhere to run,” one of them sneers. The men fan out, blocking any further chance of escape. 

Danny takes a slow breath and shakes out his arms. Ghost strength, don’t fail him now. 

“Think we’ve got a wannabe vigilante on our hands?”

Danny glares at them, settling into a defensive crouch. “Why don’t you come find out.”

Read the rest here!

[metal-raccoons]

Jason Todd meets Joker Jr.

............................................................................

Jason stops by the Manor after his patrol and he sees everyone huddled around in a group, and sound like they are panicking.

Out of curiosity he tries to listen to what they are saying and he hears someone mention something happened to Tim.

Jason, expecting it to just be a dumb accident from patrol, wanders over to check it out but finds himself befuddled when the others try to block him from seeing Tim.

As Jason shoves the others out of the way he sees a thirteen-year-old Tim Drake, jittery and panicking instead of the calm seventeen year-old he's used to seeing around on patrol.

Once Jason sees Tim fully he goes to ask someone what is happening when he hears a giggle, that slowly turns into manic laughter-

ha ha Ha Ha HA HA HA HA HA HA

It dawns on Jason what Tim looks like. The Joker.

Jason stumbles back trying to get his bearings back on where he is and all he can see is green. Not the Lazarus green he is oh so uncomfortably used to, but Joker green, just like Tim's hair, and just like one of the last things he saw before his death.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and hits it away quickly, still panicking slightly on the inside, although it did help ground him, he looks towards Tim on the floor again, laughing, and as he looks closer he sees scars just like the Jokers right from cheek to cheek across his mouth in a twisted version of a smile.

Jason turns to Bruce ready to interrogate him about this but gets cut off by the sound of younger Tim's voice muttering to himself unintelligent, it sounds reminiscent to Harley Quinn's voice, unlike his normal higher class Gotham accent.

Jason looks around his family and notices almost everyone looks confused but not as horrified as Jason himself. The only others who don't look confused are Barbara, Alfred, and Bruce who Jason realises are the only ones who were around for when Tim was still new to being robin.

Jason notes everyone still seems to be too shocked to try to fully help the boy, even though he looks so close to the man who killed him he can see this isn't a recreation, this is a victim as well.

Jason warily goes closer to Tim and calls Ace the Bat-Hound over just as something that Tim would recognize and as a grounding weight. Tims laughter slowly dies down into a small quiet giggle and Jason sits beside him, still on the Manor floor trying to make sure Tim is alright, hating the fact Bruce has failed another Robin without his knowledge.

While Jason sits beside Tim all he can think about is "I almost killed him, and he's like me. This boy. This thirteen-year-old boy."

The laughter and strain of being brought to his mental and physical state made Tim slowly fall asleep under Ace's weight and he slumps against Jason.

Jason carefully picks Tim up and lays hin down on the couch before advancing towards Bruce wanting to know "What the fuck is THIS".

Bruce goes to the front of those at the manor tonight and explains "During Tim's first year of being Robin he was kidnapped by Harley Quinn and The Joker for three months, and by Joker's choice, they used different tortures to break Tim's mind and force him into believing he was their son." Bruce has a solemn expression as he explains

Jason takes a deep breath not wanting to yell on the off chance it would wake Tim up again. "He was stuck with the Joker for three months. Three months. You couldn't find him for the entirety of three Months." Jason grabs Bruce's shirt collar out of anger and for emphasis. "And you didn't even kill him after that. He still lived, didn't he." Jason's voice in the end comes out closer to a snarl.

"I didn't kill him, but the Joker isn't alive. He hasn't been for over a year now, that's why you never saw him when you came back." Bruce looks strangely guilty in Jason's perspective.

"How did he die." Jason's voice has less outrage than before but he still has warning in his tone.

"Tim" Bruce only says the one name and Jason can feel all his anger and infuriation melt away and now he just feels even more worry for the kid's mental state. Even though Jason himself doesn't feel bad for killing anyone this is just a kid. A thirteen-year-old kid.

............................................................................

First ever one shot thing! I never write so forgive me for bad grammar etc.