akiraxmoon

[akiraxmoon]

THANK YOU SO SO MUCH 💙 I havent been on tumblr much but I'll try to be more active on your blog !

Hiii :)

I wanted to ask if you could write a little about baby reader thinking that Neytiri's contractions (pregnant with neteyam or lo'ak) were her literally dying. Reader then runs to Jake explaining in a very dramatic way such that Jake literally thinks Neytiri is hurt and has to drop his work and run over, just to see Ney' giggling as she rubs her belly 😭 you can twist this is any way and make it better :).

Take your time (or ignore cus I know we ain't got no time for shi nowadays)

THANGUUU 🎀

sully family x human!daughter/sister!reader synopsis, pregnancy is scary !!

note, ty for your request and thank u for your patience ! ily <3 here are some crumbs while death in the family gets written :)

( MASTERLIST )

/

2156 (you were five)

when neytiri was pregnant with lo'ak, you knew the drill. you had one brother already, you were practically an expert!

but you were older now, and in the year between neteyam and lo'ak, you gained a bit of consciousness

nearing the end of neytiri's second pregnancy, you noticed the shift in her behavior. she was a strong mother, but the toll of growing a whole other being was taxing nonetheless

she rested more, sent jake out to hunt instead, and nested for hours

you've never seen neytiri show any weakness whatsoever, so seeing her a little lethargic was a novelty to you

you became territorial and protective of your mother—in your little mind, someone had to step up for her until she could get back on her own two feet

jake passed neytiri an exasperated look from across the room, fruit in his arms. she smiled and made no effort to help him, delighting in his predicament.

"i'm just tryin' to feed your mom, baby." jake explained gently, peering down at where you blocked the entrance to the marui. not like he could just... step over you or anything...

"did you wash those?" you countered, crossing your arms.

"the rain washed them—"

"dr. grace said the rain has lots of stuff in it. you could hurt mom and the baby. wash it again, or it's a no." you waved him off.

he scoffed a laugh, catching neytiri's eyes again as he smiled. "it's a no for what?"

"no coming in."

"hey," jake pointed a finger at you firmly, putting his dad face on to mask his amusement. "listen here, little miss. that's my wife, and this is our tent. i can come and go whenever i want."

you scrunched your nose in disgust, pointing a finger right back. "washing fruit is hard for you?"

"...no."

"so then do it and come back." your tone was dripping with judgement for his laziness. you gripped the bead curtain of the marui, sliding it shut with finality.

he could hear your little feet run over to neytiri, who whispered soft praises in na'vi with the occasional chuckle.

jake stepped back with a roll of his eyes, making sure neytiri heard his heavy sigh before starting the trek to wash the fruit in a nearby waterhole. you were a strict nurse, that's for sure. and neytiri loved every minute of it. he couldn't complain, though, not when his girls were happy.

it's hard raising parents, isn't it? you could speak from experience

anyways when lo'ak's due date came around, you noticed neytiri needing moments to catch her breath

you'd get very worried at these times, fretting over her as she groaned

they seemed temporary, as she'd return to normal and cup your face, telling you that there was nothing wrong

when these contractions got longer and closer together, that's when you panicked

you entered the marui with a cool rock you found, hoping to present it as a gift for your new brother. it clattered to the ground when you saw neytiri gripping your flimsy practice bow so hard that it snapped.

"sa'nok?!" (mother?!) you squeaked and rushed to her side. you held her shoulders and shook her in an effort for her attention, panicking further when she didn't turn.

you pulled back your hands and felt sweat coating your palms (your sweat or hers? we'll never know for sure), wincing when you heard her pained moan. her face was twisted in discomfort and her muscles were tensed.

"ah!" you had no idea what to do, so you just screamed in fear. as neytiri sank to the floor, your heart sank to your stomach. "oh no." you grabbed her shoulders and rattled her like toy.

"please don't die!" with those final words, you bolted out the marui to track down your father. with your small size and quick feet, you wove through the crowds effortlessly.

you burst into the clan's council area, earning shocked and confused looks from the people around you, especially jake.

he immediately stood up, suspicion on his face as he walked over to you. "what's happenin'? why're you all worked up, huh?"

you gasped for air, struggling to articulate your thoughts without hyperventilating. jake held your face in his hands and shushed you, guiding your breathing back to a normal cadence.

"what, you let your ball roll off the tree again?" he teased, pinching your cheek. "i told you last time, i won't be mad as long as you don't try to go get it yourself—"

"mom, she—" you inhaled deeply, wiping your clammy palms on your legs. "fell, and—"

"what? fell?" jake immediately straightened up, his expression sobered. his grip tightened around you before he let go, standing to his full height. "when? just now?"

"yeah, in the tent. she—"

jake didn't let you finish. he broke into a sprint, leaving the council members hanging. they didn't look very pleased. you shuffled awkwardly under their glares before taking off after your dad.

when you arrived, you saw both your parents calm. jake kneeled in front of neytiri, shaking his head in relief while rubbing her belly. she smiled as he did so, though the tiredness was still evident on her face.

"she's not dead." you remarked as you creeped closer.

jake glanced over his shoulder with a scolding look. "no, she's not. but you might as well have killed me instead. you scared me, baby." he turned his gaze to neytiri. "and you. don't do that to me again."

she rolled her eyes. "it was your daughter, not me."

"i thought you were dying!" you exclaimed defensively, frowning.

neytiri pulled you into her side and shook her head, tousling her braids against your stomach. "not dying, ‘itetsyìp (little daughter). the baby is telling me he's almost ready."

you were also ready... if you weren't a nurse beforehand, you certainly were in the moments leading up to lo'ak's delivery.

. . .

thanks for reading!

© jsooly ‘25

[akiraxmoon]

😍

ㅤ۟ㅤㅤ──ㅤ𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓ㅤ۫ㅤ ͏ㅤ𑜞᭄ ㅤ۪ㅤ⊹ㅤ𓈒

🧷 𑁯 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 ── 𝓙𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 w/ an 𝐈𝐓 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 ! reader ഒ

♡ · REQUEST ── ❝ Could I pretty please request a fic thats Jason Todd X reader!!! But like... Reader is THAT girl . . . She has and always will be the shit of Gotham . . . Jason and reader have been friends since his robin dayz, and after he dies they still get back together and resume their bad bitch couple shit . . . it melts ppls hearts. ❞

⊹ 💬 · these reqs are so fun i love writing jaybeans and reader totally in love and being the hottest people in the room <3

ഒ DIRECTORY⠀;⠀RULES⠀;⠀REQ HERE (CUR. OPEN).

Jason thinks he knows what sanctuary feels like—heaven built brick by brick by the hands of an angel he once knew before the waves of the Lazarus Pit covered him completely. It changed his young skin into something marred.

He did come back. He clawed his way out of his grave. But he came back wrong. He left something of the boy he used to be under that dirt. The name ‘Jason Todd’ etched upon that gravestone was long forgotten by most.

By most. Not all.

There had been white lilies upon his grave. It was like clockwork. Every month She came to him—or where She thought he rested. He watched from afar. His eyes never left the angel he used to know—his sanctuary.

She had grown up into something otherworldly. She wasn’t the girl he used to see during the Galas Bruce dragged him to, clinging to her parents as if everyone else around her scared her. Her glossy eyed stare had found him then. It had been so easy to attach himself to Her.

She was his friend. Is still now by the look of it. She never stopped visiting with those White Lilies, grieving losing something as if he was something She held dear.

She’s something different now. The girl She was still lingered behind those sharp eyes—hypnotizing to a fault—eyes that used to trap him in their hold and still continue to do so to this day.

She walks with a purpose now. Every step is calculated. People in Gotham City worship or curse the ground She walks on. It doesn’t change the fact everyone knows Her. Everyone notices Her.

She shines the brightest in this whole damned city.

He had wished She could shine upon him as well. He took his chance. Like a dog scratching at its owner’s door, begging to be let in—he caved and ran to the only sanctuary he’d known—Her.

She opened the door.

It was a dark night when he visited Her. The alabaster moon’s light was akin to a halo around Her. Her hair was perfectly imperfect—styled but slightly messy from sleeping. Her skin just as alive as he remembered it.

Her eyes still looked at him as if She loved his own sea-green eyes. Her hands now slender and soft—different from the calloused hands of his—still tender as they grazed his face, testing if he was real. As if this was a dream for Her, as if She dreamed of him.

The way She brought him into Her hold felt like a dream. The way She let him wrap his arms around her felt like a dream.

He’d entered the sanctuary again after that night alongside Her. Or maybe, the sanctuary was always just Her.

Next to Her he felt alive. The boy Jason Todd came alive under Her touch. It felt akin to lightning under his fingertips. It felt like a drug he was getting addicted to.

She was his. He was Hers.

The wide-eyed stares the two of them got was ever so worth it. Gotham City’s angel had brought heaven to the devil. Her hands played the entire Gotham elite like an instrument. She was Gotham City’s crowned princess, and him—the prince.

The media was alive with rumors about the two of them.

‘Is Love Real? Jason Todd's Soft Eyes™ Only for Gotham's It Girl: Gotham gasps. Media combusts. Hearts melt.’

Jason wasn’t used to this kind of light.

Not from the moon, not from Her living room dimmed by candlelight, not from the soft flash of paparazzi bulbs trying to catch a glimpse of their joined silhouettes through the tinted windows of a passing car.

He wasn’t used to being seen like this.

Not as a weapon. Not as a story of resurrection gone wrong.

But as Hers.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

There's something about the way She walks beside him. Like Gotham belongs to Her and She’s just letting everyone else borrow the sidewalk.

Jason doesn’t flinch under the eyes anymore. He used to. Used to brace himself for whispers or stares, expecting judgment or recognition or worse.

But now—now the stares are different.

They’re envious.

Jason said, “You wanna ditch this place?” His voice carried the weight of a man who’d learned the value of simple pleasures after tasting both death and resurrection.

She turned to him, eyes gleaming like She knew every life he'd lived—and said, “Yeah. But I'm driving.” The words simple but carrying universes between them.

He’d never loved a voice more in his life.

The next morning, tabloids were in flames.

‘Gotham's Golden Girl and the Reformed Robin.’

A grainy photo of them in a booth at some dive on the east end—Her in his leather jacket, him smiling like he forgot how to scowl, like happiness wasn’t just something that happened to other people.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

Tim said, “So, this is a thing now?” His voice cutting through the manor’s morning quiet like a curious bird.

Jason shrugged, sipping coffee in the manor kitchen like he didn’t just spend the night wrapped in silk sheets and Her perfume, like dawn hadn’t broken over his skin with Her breath against his neck. “Guess it is.”

“Since when?”

“Since she opened the damn door.” And with those words, heaven had let him back in.

Dick walked in, caught sight of the look on Jason's face and went, “Oh my god, he's in love.” The words hanging in the air like a revelation.

That’s when Roy burst in through the back entrance, wild-haired and sleep-deprived, clearly running off three hours of rest and one Red Bull, a whirlwind of motion and disbelief.

“I just saw the photo, and I swear to God, tell me it's Photoshop.”

Jason blinked. “Morning to you too, Harper.”

Roy stormed into the kitchen, phone in hand, showing the now-viral tabloid shot of Her sitting on Jason’s motorcycle in a black leather mini-dress and his jacket like she was the poster girl for ‘my boyfriend’s a reformed vigilante and I run this city.’

“This. This is real?! You and her?!”

Jason didn't even look. “Yeah. Real.” In those two words, the certainty of a man who’d touched divinity and lived to tell about it.

Tim sipped his drink like this was better than reality television.

Dick leaned against the fridge, smirking. “He’s been soft for her since we were kids.”

Roy stared at all of them, processing, then slowly sat down at the kitchen island like his legs gave out. “No, I need a minute. I’m dizzy. Jason Todd has a goddess who voluntarily chooses to hang out with him?”

Jason raised a brow. “You good?”

“No! I am not good!” Roy pointed dramatically. “You’re hot in a feral, ‘I fought my way out of hell’ kinda way. She’s hot in a ‘Vogue cover and private yacht in Monaco’ kinda way. That math doesn't math.”

“Sounds like jealousy to me.” Jason just grinned like the devil himself got a second chance at heaven.

© petalbcrnes | all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified. viewer discretion is advised.

[akiraxmoon]

NOO MY NEYTIRI

[akiraxmoon]

😨

I found this on Pinterest (sadly it didn't said who the artist was) but hello??? I'm foaming at the mouth, I NEED to ride him lmao

[akiraxmoon]

Hi there,

I’m reaching out with a quiet hope in my heart. These days are heavy, and my family is living through a reality filled with uncertainty—but I’m still here, doing my best to hold on and keep going.

If you have a moment, please check out my pinned post.

A simple share could help it reach someone who might be able to make a difference.

If you’re able to give, even the smallest kindness can bring light into the darkest places.

Your time, your voice, your compassion — it all matters more than you know.

With deep gratitude,

@nadinfamily

💙

[akiraxmoon]

Hi, my name is Mosab , I’m from Gaza, and like many here, I’ve lost more than I ever thought I could bear — my family, my home, my sense of safety, and the simple moments that once gave life meaning. 💔

I’m not writing this to ask too much of anyone. I’m sharing a piece of my story — not because I want sympathy, but because I still believe someone, somewhere, might care enough to listen.

If this message finds you at the wrong time, I understand.

I’m truly sorry if it feels like an interruption.

➡️ Please feel free to DM me if you'd rather not receive asks from me — I'll make sure not to contact you again. 🤍

✨ If you do feel moved to help — even by sharing — it means more than words can say.

Every repost, every bit of care, helps keep hope alive in a place that has seen too much darkness.

🙏 Thank you for taking the time to read.

📌 Post Link

Wishing you peace, healing, and comfort — wherever you are.

With deep appreciation

💙

[akiraxmoon]

Hi there 🌱 I hope you are doing well. My name is Naser, and I’m from Gaza. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, but I wanted to share a piece of my story — because right now, it’s the only way I know to try and survive.

This war has changed everything. I lost my mother and my sister. Our home is gone. What used to be a normal life — school, family meals, laughter — has been replaced by fear, rubble, and silence.

Now, I’m displaced with my three younger brothers. I’ve become their protector, their parent, their hope. We sleep side by side and I try to make them feel safe, even when I’m scared too.

We are trying to raise funds to rebuild our lives — to find a safe place, to go back to school, to have something to believe in again. I dream of going to university. My brothers have their own dreams too — of being a doctor, an engineer, just being kids again.

If you’re able to support us by donating 💌 or even just sharing our campaign 🔁, it would truly mean the world. Every small act of kindness brings us a little closer to hope.

Visit my post

Thank you for taking the time to read this 🙏 And if you'd rather not receive messages like this, please just let me know and I won’t reach out again.

With love and resilience

💙

[akiraxmoon]

“you’re bleeding on my bath mat.”

“technically,” dick says, biting back a wince, “we bought that bath mat.”

you glare at him. he’s sitting shirtless on the closed toilet lid like it’s a throne, hair damp with sweat and blood, black suit unzipped and pooling around his waist. his lip is split, knuckles scraped, and he’s got the nerve to be smiling.

“that doesn’t make it better.”

“no, but it makes it ours.”

you mutter something unflattering under your breath as you kneel beside him with the first-aid kit. “what happened?”

“some guy had a knife.”

“and you didn’t?”

“i had... optimism.”

“idiot,” you sigh, tilting his face toward the light. the cut on his cheekbone is shallow but angry. he winces anyway. you try not to think about how pretty he still looks like this, bloodied and cocky, grinning like he won a prizefight instead of nearly getting gutted in an alley.

“you worry too much,” he murmurs.

“you bleed too much.”

“fair point.”

he stays still as you clean the wound, but his eyes never leave your face. there’s a softness there that doesn’t match the bruises. like he’s memorizing your every frown. every sigh.

“you gonna kiss it better?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

“i’m gonna disinfect it,” you reply, deadpan. “if you’re lucky.”

he groans when the antiseptic hits, the sound dramatic enough to make you pause.

“you’re the worst nurse,” he complains, slouching dramatically. “i came here for comfort.”

“you came here for sympathy and post-fight cuddles.”

“and pancakes.”

“you’re not getting pancakes.”

“...you’re so mean to me.”

you set the bottle down and look at him. his lashes are dark and damp, his lip swollen, cheekbone starting to swell. and still—he looks at you like you’re gravity.

“you’re lucky i like you,” you say, softening despite yourself.

“you love me.”

you lean in, slow and careful, and kiss the corner of his mouth—right where it doesn’t hurt. he exhales against your lips like he’s been holding his breath since he climbed through your window. your hands find his jaw, cradling him gently. his own fingers twitch like he wants to touch you back, but he doesn’t move.

“you’re bleeding on me,” you whisper when you pull back.

“technically,” dick grins, lips brushing yours again, “we’re even now.”

and then he kisses you properly—bruised mouth and all.

[akiraxmoon]

If I can't have you baby, no one else in this world can!

SYNOPSIS: The Batboys & Cass at their most unhinged, most protective, and most devoted. TAGS: FEMALE Reader! Fluff! Jealousy! Fake Marriage, Mild possessive behavior, Mild innuendo / suggestive banter, Mentions of weapons/violence + Older! Of-Age! Damian NOTE: Don’t take the content or characterizations too seriously! It’s literally just a goofy, for-fun fic :ppp AO3: yenwayne Ko-Fi: buy me a coffee!

જ⁀➴ RICHARD GRAYSON

“I hate these missions,” came Dick’s voice, petulant and immediate in your earpiece.

You didn’t pause. Instead, you stepped delicately around a marble column, your heels tapping rhythmically across the ballroom floor. Your dress shimmered with every movement, a slinky midnight blue number that hugged your form like it had been stitched by jealous gods. Your fingers grazed the low curve of your hip, pretending to adjust the fabric, when in reality you were activating the mic hidden beneath a faux diamond brooch.

“Nightwing,” you said calmly, smiling at a champagne server as they approached. You took a glass with a graceful nod, flipping your hair over your shoulder with casual elegance. “We’re at a gala. There are hors d'oeuvres and a string quartet. Try not to combust.”

“I am combusting,” he muttered, like he was personally being subjected to torture. “You’re pretending to be married to Barry Allen. That’s basically infidelity.”

“We fake-filed a fake tax return together like, five minutes ago,” you said dryly. “Relax.”

Dick huffed—huffed—and you could practically see him brooding on some rooftop, arms crossed like a bat-gargoyle. “I just think I, your actual husband, should be there.”

You let out a quiet sigh, walking toward the ornate staircase where Barry stood chatting up a senator. You could already see the knowing glint in his eye as he spotted you, lifting his glass like a man trying too hard to appear casual.

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath, smiling sweetly as you closed the distance. “You are literally in my ear. You’re more present than Barry is right now, and he's the one touching me.”

“What?!”

You glanced sideways at Barry. He shifted, his palm resting in the safe, polite territory of your lower back as he leaned in to whisper something to the senator. “Arm, Dick. It’s just an arm. We’re blending in. No need to send in the Batjet.”

“I swear to god if he tries the forehead kiss thing—”

You blinked. “What forehead kiss thing?”

“He does this thing,” Dick said, his voice a little breathless with outrage, “where he smiles all slow and soft and tilts his head, and he leans in like he’s gonna whisper something but instead he does this little forehead press like he’s in a rom-com. I hate it. That’s how he seduced Iris that one time!”

You bit the inside of your cheek to suppress a laugh, shifting your weight subtly as you allowed Barry to guide you toward the center of the room. The music shifted into a softer waltz.

“Pretty sure they were already dating when that happened.”

“Not the point. I should be the one fake-forehead-kissing you at fancy galas.”

You stepped past an older couple slow-dancing near the fountain centerpiece and turned, giving Barry a small apologetic smile as you pretended to be distracted by something in your clutch.

“Would that make you feel better?” you whispered.

“Immeasurably.”

You were about to respond when you caught the faintest flicker of movement overhead. The security camera nearest you pivoted. Just slightly. Just enough.

Your smile vanished.

“Did you just hijack the camera feed to watch me?”

Silence.

“Dick.”

“…No?”

“Dick.”

“Camera’s just doing its job.”

“You are the camera.”

There was a beat of long, silent guilt on the line.

“It’s a security sweep,” he finally muttered, defensive. “Totally standard.”

You turned and stared directly up at the rotating lens, narrowing your eyes. “You’re pouting, aren’t you?”

“No,” he said, full pout in his voice.

You glared at the camera, already knowing the exact pout he was pulling behind the cowl. Barry chuckled beside you, still in his gala-husband role. You looped your arm through his and leaned in with a soft smile, playing along for the watching donors. Wealth glittered across the ballroom. Pearls, tuxedos, and dresses worth more than a small country’s GDP.

And then Dick dropped the line.

“You just had to wear that gown, didn’t you?”

Your eyebrows twitched.

“It’s a dress.”

“It’s a crime scene, actually.”

You nearly snorted champagne up your nose. “Are you okay? Do you need to go punch a mugger and walk it off?”

“You don’t understand,” he hissed. “There are at least six guys pretending not to stare at you right now. One of them dropped a canapé. I watched it happen. I’m seconds from pulling the fire alarm.”

You hummed in amusement and tilted your head, letting the chandelier light catch the sheen of your lashes.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

You swirled the champagne in your glass, then took a slow, knowing sip, the bubbles tickling your lips as you smirked. “Are you gonna rappel in through the ceiling and punch Barry in the face mid-waltz?”

He didn’t answer immediately. And that was the worst part.

“…Maybe.”

You laughed under your breath, drawing curious eyes from across the floor. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever married.”

“I’m the only man you’ve ever married!”

“For now,” you teased.

Dead. Air.

You could feel it through the silence. The precise moment Dick’s jaw clenched, the way his hands probably curled into fists on some high-rise ledge. You almost felt sorry for the next criminal who looked at him funny.

“Sweetheart,” he said finally, voice dropping into that dangerous purr he only used when he was 70% teasing and 30% ready to commit felony assault. “If Barry so much as breathes too close to you, I’m driving over there and disguising myself as a waiter just to strangle him with a linen napkin.”

You giggled again, covering it with the rim of your glass and a quick flutter of lashes.

“Relax. You’re still my real husband.”

“I should hope so. I signed that marriage license in blood.”

“You pricked your finger opening the envelope.”

“It still counts.”

જ⁀➴ JASON TODD

The dim light of the bookstore warmed the space, the faint scent of old paper mixing with the musky air of Gotham’s streets. It was the perfect Saturday afternoon. You and Jason had been to this little corner bookstore a few times, tucked away near the flat you shared, where no one bothered you, just the way you liked it.

Today, the place had a sale. And you were taking full advantage. Because, books.

You bent slightly, pulling another book off the shelf. Your fingers lingered on the spine, the title catching your eye, but your gaze drifted briefly to Jason beside you.

He was holding a stack of books you'd already picked up, his strong arms braced beneath the weight. His other hand was occupied, casually flipping through the pages of a suspense novel. His worn-out motorcycle helmet hung off his elbow, the strap digging into his skin like it always did when he wasn’t too concerned about making a spectacle of himself.

The sight of him in his usual attire, tight compression shirt, cargo pants, and those damn ratty boots, was almost enough to make you forget why you were even here. You couldn’t help it. Your husband, who exuded that rough, untamed charm that always made your heart skip a beat, even after everything.

You coughed, quickly pulling your focus back to the shelf, cheeks flushed. You weren’t here to ogle at him. You were here to buy books, to stock up for the upcoming winter nights in your cozy little flat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him glance over at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he noticed the way you’d momentarily gotten lost in thought.

“You okay there, doll?” His voice was low, but that teasing drawl was there, practically sending your internal warning system into overload.

You snapped back to the shelf, cheeks now officially flushed. “Fine. Just… you know, checking out some new releases. That’s all.”

Jason took a step closer, his hand reaching out to adjust the stack of books he was holding, brushing against your side. You could feel his eyes on you, that damn teasing look in them. He knew.

"Uh-huh," he muttered, clearly amused.

You shot him a glare. “Stop being so obvious.” You grabbed a couple more books, pretending they were the most interesting thing in the store, while mentally trying to avoid imagining how good he looked in those pants.

The moment passed, and you made your way to the counter. But, of course, Jason insisted on carrying all the books for you, despite them weighing next to nothing. Which, really, wasn’t a huge shock. The man could bench press a car if he felt like it.

The cashier, a young guy in his twenties, greeted you with a friendly smile as he began scanning your newest babies.

“Oh, you read The Cruel Prince?” the cashier suddenly asked, lifting the book from your pile with excitement. “I’ve been dying to meet someone else who loves it.”

You couldn’t help but grin, excited to talk about one of your favorites. “Yes! It’s amazing. I love Jude as a character. She’s so strong, and the plot twists? Wild.”

The cashier, clearly eager to engage, leaned in slightly, his elbows resting casually on the counter. “I know, right? I just finished The Wicked King,” he said with a boyish laugh.

“I’m almost done with The Queen of Nothing now.” His eyes flicked up, lingering a moment too long on your face. “You into high fantasy like this, or was it just a one-time thing? ‘Cause if you’re looking for recs… I’ve got a few I think you’d really love.”

You smiled, delighted by the conversation. “Oh, I’m always open to fantasy suggestions. I love character-driven stuff with sharp worldbuilding.”

Completely absorbed, you missed the way the cashier’s eyes dipped briefly down your frame before flicking back up to meet yours. "Lucky for me, you stopped by today.”

Jason, who had been standing just behind you, tensed. Subtly, he stepped closer, the warmth of his body brushing your back as he shifted the weight of the books in his arms. His free hand settled on your waist, low and firm.

It was casual, at least outwardly, but there was nothing casual about the way his fingers flexed slightly against your coat.

The cashier, oblivious or ignoring the shift in energy, handed you the receipt, gaze still lingering. “Seriously, though. A doll like you geeking out over The Cruel Prince? That’s rare. Real rare. Kinda makes a guy believe in fate.”

Jason’s voice cut through the moment, cold enough to make the air around you drop a few degrees. “Yeah,” he said, eyes locked onto the cashier’s now, unreadable but intense. “She’s one of a kind.”

The cashier blinked, clearly feeling the shift, but tried to laugh it off. “Right, of course. I’ll, uh, finish ringing this up.”

Jason didn’t move, didn’t blink. “You do that.”

A moment later, the books were bagged, and the cashier’s enthusiasm had visibly dimmed. He offered a half-hearted smile, handing you the bag. “Enjoy your books.”

Jason took it before you could, his hand brushing against yours as he did. “We will.”

You followed Jason out of the store, blinking at the sudden rush of cold Gotham air. You were about to say something when you caught the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes stayed forward.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Jealous?”

He scoffed, but didn’t deny it. “Nah. Just making sure it’s clear. You’re mine.”

You slipped your arm through his. “Always.”

જ⁀➴ TIM DRAKE

“Hi, Timmy Junior,” you crooned, crouching low to the penthouse floor with a dramatic sweep of your coat as it slipped from your shoulders. Your fingers found the cat’s chin, scritching gently beneath the plush fur.

The feline let out a noise of pure bliss, an undignified grrrrrr-rup purr as he leaned his entire ridiculous body weight into your hand.

“You’re so spoiled,” you whispered like a secret, ruffling his ears. “Where’s your dad, huh? Inventing new molecules? Hacking the Pentagon again?”

You padded deeper into the apartment, your heels left by the door, your coat sliding neatly onto the rack with one smooth toss. The air inside was warm and low-lit, cast in that signature honey-gold glow Tim always adjusted for you when you worked late at the hospital. Cozy, inviting. The kind of lighting that lured you toward rest like gravity.

Your gaze landed on him instantly. Folded up on the couch in a soft Gotham U hoodie and well-worn sweatpants, socked feet tucked beneath him, glowing laptop balanced on his knees.

The blue light framed his face like a crime scene photograph. His fingers flew across the keys, precise, fast, controlled. His brow furrowed, and his jaw clenched just slightly, like whatever he was typing deserved war.

You didn’t say a word.

Instead, you launched yourself forward like a sleepy jungle cat and collapsed into his lap, head-first, limbs folding as you burrowed in like you belonged there. Because you did.

Tim paused, but only for a second. Then one arm wrapped around your waist, locking you into place as his other hand resumed its furious typing like your sudden weight had simply activated some comforting subroutine. Like muscle memory. Like ritual.

“You’re late,” he murmured, finally meeting your eyes with that gentle, tired smile you’d always been weak for.

“Code blue,” you mumbled, curling tighter into his hoodie. “And two separate idiots who thought knife fights belonged in the ER lobby.”

He hummed low and familiar. “Gotham.”

You exhaled slowly, melting into him. The scent of him wrapped around you—green tea, clean soap, and ozone, like he hadn’t moved from this couch in hours. The safest smell in the world.

But something… tugged.

You felt it now. His body didn’t soften the way it usually did when you came home. His hold was there, but too controlled. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t gone away. He hadn’t kissed your forehead.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong?”

Tim’s lips parted like he wanted to deny it, but instead, he let out a breath that deflated his whole chest. “It’s nothing,” he said, almost too fast. “Just… internet drama. Dumb stuff.”

“About work?” you asked, brows raising.

“No,” he said after a beat, tone shifting. “About us.”

You stilled.

Tim blinked at you, then sighed. “You did an interview with Vicky Vale today?”

You blinked again, slower this time. “…Yesh,” you mumbled into his neck. “She was a nightmare in heels, but Bruce said something something ‘positive press,’ ‘curated coverage,’ PR speak, blah blah—”

“Right,” Tim cut in, nodding slowly. Too slowly. “And in that very public interview, broadcast to half of Gotham… you said Nightwing was your favorite vigilante.”

Silence.

You shifted.

“I stand by my words.”

He gasped in faux betrayal and grabbed your hand, holding it up like a piece of evidence. The diamond on your engagement ring caught the light dramatically.

“This is a literal rock,” he said, dead serious. “A shiny, cut-from-the-mountain, six-years-of-our-life-together rock. And that,” he gestured vaguely in the air, “is slander.”

You bit back a grin as he continued, spiraling.

“…Treason, even,” Tim added dramatically, eyes wide with mock hurt. “I should call Bruce. Or the League. Or Alfred. Someone’s has got to arrest you.”

You covered your mouth to stop the laugh threatening to bubble out. “You’re going to tattle on me to Alfred?”

“Damn right I am. He likes me best. He’ll understand.” He pointed a finger accusingly. “And you—you—are officially banned from Titans reruns, YouTube edits, and any content where Nightwing is in leather and doing that thing with his sticks.”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “What thing with his sticks?”

Tim looked personally wounded. “You know what thing. The twirly thing! The one with the hip pivot.”

You smirked, throwing your arms around him like a blanket. “Hm. But you're still my favorite fiancé.”

He scowled into your hair. “Not good enough. I want it in writing. Signed affidavit. Notarized.”

“Fine,” you deadpanned. “I, under oath, declare Timothy Jackson Drake to have the second-best butt in Gotham.”

Tim pulled back sharply. “Second?!”

“Best fiancé,” you corrected with a squeal, kicking as he launched a tickle assault. “Best fiancé! Tim! Stop! I swear to—!”

He kept going, merciless and grinning, until you both dissolved into laughter and flailing limbs on the couch. Tim finally flopped beside you, chest heaving, arms still tangled around you.

You were still breathless, clutching your stomach, when he murmured:

“…Still should’ve been first-best butt.”

You reached over and kissed his nose. “You’re number one in my heart.”

“And in Alfred’s rankings.”

“Exactly.”

જ⁀➴ DAMIAN WAYNE

The wind bit at your exposed skin, Gotham’s chill cutting through every crack in your suit, making you shiver despite your best efforts to hide it. You tried to pull the oversized cape tighter around your shoulders, Damian’s cape, and flicked it dramatically, hoping for a bit of extra warmth. It made you feel a little ridiculous, but god, it was warm.

You glanced sideways at Damian, the stone wall of a man beside you, not even acknowledging the cold as he stared down at the street below, his jaw set and his posture as rigid as a statue.

You raised an eyebrow. “You know, I’m freezing my ass off in your oversized cape, and you’re standing there like a stone wall, making me look like a damsel in distress.”

Damian flicked a glance at you, his lips barely twitching into a smirk. "You do look ridiculous."

You rolled your eyes, adjusting the cape again. It really did swallow you whole. You felt like an overgrown child in a giant’s cloak.

"Well, at least I’m warm," you muttered, "unlike some people."

“Tt. I’m fine, beloved,” he said, but there was a little something extra when he said beloved.

Something warm. Something intense. And despite the cold, your heart did a little leap.

Sexy stone statue, you grumbled to yourself. You were so not above it.

The night air crackled with tension for a moment before Damian broke the silence. “Something’s off. Stay close.”

You straightened, your body on high alert, instinctively leaning closer to him. You followed his gaze toward the flickering lights…A bank alarm.

The unmistakable shriek of Gotham’s most wanted sound—bank robbery.

“Trouble,” you said, giddy with the thrill.

“Indeed,” Damian replied, voice low and dangerous. Before you could respond, he vanished into the night, melting into the shadows.

“Show-off,” you muttered, launching a web and following him across the rooftops.

You landed beside him, crouched above a black van outside the bank. Thugs were unloading duffle bags—money and cologne, Gotham’s finest.

“Someone’s making a withdrawal,” you whispered.

“Then let’s make sure they don’t get too comfortable,” Damian muttered. With a single flick of his wrist, a Batarang flew out, slicing through the air and knocking one of the thieves out.

“Smooth,” you swooned, eyes wide with admiration. “Hey, this might be the best date night we’ve had all month.”

“Tch. I prefer less… crowded dates,” Damian shot back, already taking down another guy with a fluid motion that made it look effortless.

Fast. Precise. Unfairly hot.

You couldn’t help but grin, heart racing as you jumped into the action, doing a flip over one of the thieves to disarm him mid-air. You were all set to land on your feet, ready to keep up the momentum, when suddenly, a shadow slammed into you from nowhere.

The impact knocked the wind from your lungs, sending you crashing into the rooftop with a grunt.

Damian’s head snapped your way, eyes dark, hand flying to his blade. Ready to kill.

"Wait!" you said, breathless, as you pushed yourself up and caught sight of the person on top of you.

"Black Cat?" you breathed, disbelief flooding your chest.

She grinned down at you, that too-familiar cocky smile spreading across her face.

"Hey, Spider," she said, pressing a hand down on your shoulders, keeping you pinned, her fingers firm and possessive. "Long time no swing. You look… deliciously out of breath."

Your brain short-circuited. "Holy shit. What are you doing in Gotham?"

Before she could answer, a shadow dropped hard beside you. Damian. Radiating absolute fury in a tight, concentrated glare.

“Get. Off.”

Two words. Ice-cold.

Black Cat didn’t flinch. In fact, her grin widened.

"Ooooh," she said, drawing out the syllable like she’d just tasted something expensive. “You must be new. You gotta get in line, cutie. Spider’s got fans, you know.”

“I am not a fan,” Damian snapped. “I am her partner.”

You sat up. “Aw.”

Damian flushed.

“In combat,” he added stiffly.

You winced. “Less aw.”

Black Cat howled. “Oh, this is so much better than I hoped. You got yourself a territorial one, huh?” She leaned in close to Damian, eyes twinkling. “Tell me, do you bite?”

“I don’t bite,” Damian said coldly.

“Oh?” she said with a smirk. “Shame.”

“I maim.”

“Well, you’re no fun,” Black Cat tsked, her hips swaying as she walked forward with that signature, cat-like confidence. “Relax, Bird Boy. Just saying hi to my favorite Spider.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Guys! Seriously? We are not doing this right now. We’re literally in the middle of a robbery!”

Black Cat flipped her hair over her shoulder, unfazed. “Handled it already, sweetheart. I snagged the bank’s security drive, webbed the goons to their getaway van, and took care of the heavy lifting before I jumped you. You’re welcome.”

“…You webbed—my web fluid?!” you gawked.

“Borrowed,” Black Cat said airily. “Don’t be stingy.”

“I made that with bio-polymers and blood, you kleptomaniac bat-licking menace—”

“Oh, please,” she rolled her eyes. “I'm sure you can make another one of your web knick-knacks.”

Damian’s eyes flashed. “Those cartridges are proprietary.”

“Pro‑pri‑e‑tar‑y!” you echoed, stabbing a finger at her. “He means off-limits, you thieving furball!”

Black Cat rolled her shoulders, utterly unbothered. “I’ll return them. Hm… rented at a fair rate, of course. Maybe half a million an ounce?”

Damian growled low in his throat. “You—I'll—”

“Okay, okay, enough. Look. I’ll put them back before breakfast tomorrow, deal?” Black Cat offered, waggling her fingers like this was a brunch invitation and not felony-level theft.

You opened your mouth to protest because you absolutely did not agree to that, but it was too late. With a mock curtsy and a wicked glint in her eye, she vanished into the shadows, her laughter echoing like a warning shot.

You turned back to Damian, who stood tense, blade still in hand, every muscle in his jaw working overtime.

“I should have let her fall off the building,” he muttered.

You snorted. “You would never.”

“I could have accidentally loosened her grip.” He sheathed his sword with more force than necessary. “No one touches you like that. No one pins you but me.”

Your brows shot up. “So you do want to pin me—”

“Strategically,” he snapped.

“Strategically?" you purred, arms wrapping round his shoulders. "That’s what we’re calling rooftop makeouts now?”

“I—Tt—focus.” But Damian's hands settled at your waist anyway, traitorously warm. “We need to debrief. Secure the scene. Call in the GCPD. Recheck the vault—”

“Oh, Dames…”

જ⁀➴ CASSANDRA CAIN

You were no better than a man.

You were definitely not supposed to be staring. Or, at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself as you tried to focus on the workout in front of you. But there was no way you could ignore Cassandra right now.

She was… perfect.

Her form was flawless as she moved through her calisthenics routine. Push-ups, pull-ups, even backflips! Nothing seemed to faze her. And here you were, struggling not to turn into a puddle of goo on the gym floor.

It wasn’t fair, honestly. How was one person allowed to be so hot? You were supposed to be stretching, but instead, you were completely fixated on your girlfriend, who was now hanging effortlessly from the pull-up bar.

She wasn’t even breaking a sweat. Meanwhile, you were sitting here pretending to stretch, but your eyes couldn’t stop following her every move. How could you not? She was making calisthenics look like some kind of sexy ballet, and you were feeling some type of way about it.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you barely heard the guy who suddenly sidled up to you. You looked up, confused, to see him standing a little too close.

"Hey, uh…" He cleared his throat, clearly trying to sound casual. "I noticed you were watching your friend there… I could totally show you how to lift weights, you know. Maybe even you."

You blinked at him, trying to suppress a laugh. Your brain was still stuck on your friend? Was that supposed to be his pick-up line?

“Uh… really?” you said, raising an eyebrow as you glanced back at Cassandra, still breezing through her workout like she was in some kind of fitness commercial. You could barely keep your mouth from hanging open.

"Yeah!" He puffed out his chest like he was some kind of Greek god. "I can handle lifting your body weight, no problem."

You blinked again. "Oh??"

"Yeah," he said with a cocky grin. "I can totally do it."

You crossed your arms, trying not to burst into laughter. “Okay, then. Show me.”

The guy dropped to his knees in front of you and looked up, ready to lift you. You tried to brace yourself, but honestly, you weren’t sure what was going to happen. This was either going to be impressive or a disaster, and you were pretty sure it was going to be the latter.

He grunted. Nothing.

You raised an eyebrow, watching as he struggled. His face was turning red, sweat starting to drip from his forehead, and—yeah, this was as bad as you expected. He couldn’t even get you an inch off the floor.

“Need help with that?” you asked, barely able to hold back the giggle bubbling up.

“No—no, I’ve got it!” he snapped, lifting harder, but the effort only made him wobble like a newborn giraffe.

"Maybe next time, huh?" you said with a sigh, holding back your amusement.

Then, just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, Cassandra appeared. You didn’t even see her coming. One second, the guy was still struggling with the whole “lifting you” thing, and the next, Cassandra was casually stepping between the two of you. She looked at him like he was a bug she couldn’t be bothered with, then lifted you effortlessly with one hand.

You froze.

One hand.

The guy’s face drained of color as Cassandra set you down like you were a stuffed animal she was tossing back on the shelf. She didn’t even glance at him as she flicked her hair back, returning to her workout like nothing happened.

Meanwhile, the guy? He was just standing there. Shocked. Maybe a little bit scared. His mouth was moving, but no words came out.

Could not have imagined a more embarrassing moment for him…

Turning to Cassandra, your grin only widened. “Baby… you just broke his soul.”

Cassandra didn’t even glance your way. She simply raised an eyebrow, then shot you a small smile as she signed, He should have known better.

As you were about to respond, the guy finally seemed to snap out of his daze. He stammered something about ‘his form’ and ‘next time’ before practically sprinting off, likely rethinking every choice he’d made that led him to this moment.

You chuckled under your breath, eyes flicking back to Cassandra. “Well, looks like you just ruined his chances of ever lifting a girl again.”

Cassandra shrugged, clearly unfazed, and went back to her pull-up bar. Not my problem.

As she started packing her things, she shot you a sly smirk. Let’s go home. I’ll give you a workout of your own.

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile pulling at your lips. “That… sounds promising.”

And just like that, the gym, the only thing on your mind now was what your workout would look like tonight.

Goopyness... This was very fun to write!

My requests are open! Please...Uwu

[akiraxmoon]

[akiraxmoon]

ix. the fall and the cage

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: MILD SMUT (will put indicators if people want to skip), Established relationship, Wounds, Violence, Suggestive jokes, Doppelgangers AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

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 ༻⊰───⋅

His glare locks back to you. “What are you?”

You meet his eyes, the mask you usually wear cracked open by exhaustion and fear.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “But I do know I’m not your enemy.”

Bruce stares. The silence stretches again.

Then, he pulls out a small cylindrical device from his utility belt, something that clicks with a low, mechanical hum. “Then you won’t mind proving it.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

"It's just me."

Bruce doesn’t react immediately.

For a moment, the rooftop is silent. Eerily so. The wind whistles around you, the tension crackling in the air like an approaching storm. Damian’s breath catches in his throat. He watches his father closely, prepared to move the second things go wrong.

Bruce’s eyes, what little of them you can see beneath the cowl, widen, ever so slightly. His jaw tenses. 

It takes him only seconds to put the pieces together. 

He is, after all, the World’s Greatest Detective.

The voice. The presence. The way you stood beside his son, not as a stranger, but as someone who had always belonged.

“…You,” he says at last, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Me.”

Bruce takes a slow step forward, not in aggression, but something more cautious. Measured. “How long?” he asks, and there’s something raw beneath the steel of his tone. Hurt, maybe. A sense of betrayal.

You hesitate, “It hasn't been long. Around homecoming."

Bruce’s expression darkens again. “And you or Selina never thought to tell me?”

“I didn’t want to lie,” you say quietly. “But I also didn’t want to be locked in a cell before I had a chance to prove I wasn’t your enemy.”

“And this—” Bruce gestures around, to the aftermath of the fight, to the blood still drying on Damian’s lip— “This is how you prove that?”

“You attacked me,” Damian interjects sharply, his voice clipped, sharp as the blade at his hip. “You didn’t ask questions. You just assumed the worst, as always.”

Bruce’s eyes flick to him, briefly, sternly, but it’s not anger that rises in him. It’s fear. Tightly bound, fraying at the seams. It spills out as aggression because that’s the only way he knows how to hold it.

His glare locks back to you. “What are you?”

You meet his eyes, the mask you usually wear cracked open by exhaustion and fear. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “But I do know I’m not your enemy.”

Bruce stares. The silence stretches again.

Then, he pulls out a small cylindrical device from his utility belt, something that clicks with a low, mechanical hum. “Then you won’t mind proving it.”

Before either you or Damian can react, the device hisses. A wave of high-frequency sound and dark energy explodes outward.

The world goes black.

Not just dimmed. Obliterated. The lights of Gotham vanish. The stars are swallowed. The moon flickers out like a candle. And then, worse, your senses vanish too.

Your balance fails. Your skin prickles. Your vision spins even in darkness. It's as though the air is being stripped of meaning, every nerve ending short-circuits. You stumble back with a sharp gasp, clutching your chest as something inside you twists. It’s not pain, exactly. It’s violation. Something ancient and unnatural brushing too close to your core.

Damian curses beside you, struggling to stay upright. 

“It’s a blackout field,” he growls, teeth gritted. “Father! Don’t you dare—”

You drop to one knee, gasping as something inside you pulses off-beat, involuntarily. The organic webs in your system shiver. Not physically. Metaphysically. Like they’re being mapped, indexed.

The device Bruce activated is a diagnostic emitter, one of his more aggressive ones. It scans for foreign particles, unusual bio-signatures, multiversal residue. It’s designed to extract information from metas, especially those with unknown origins. You realize, with a spike of fear, it’s not just trying to detect what you are, it’s trying to expose it.

Your breathing quickens. You feel seen in a way that’s not comforting at all.

“No,” you rasp, clutching your side. “Hurts—”

Bruce's silhouette, ghostly in the blackness, remains motionless. Cold. Watchful. “If you’re telling the truth, you’ll survive the scan.”

“And if she’s not?” Damian’s voice slices through the dark, sharp as the blade still clenched in his hand. “You’ll kill her just to make a point?”

“I’m not killing her,” Bruce snaps. “I’m making sure she isn’t a walking bomb waiting to go off in your bed.”

That word, bomb, stings more than any blow. Damian flinches at it, too.

Bruce’s emotions flicker now in the quiet: anger, yes, but beneath it, fear.

Deep, ancient fear.

The kind that digs in like a parasite and doesn’t let go. You’ve seen it before. It’s not about you, not entirely. It’s about what you represent. Something unknown. Something he can’t control. And if Batman can’t control it, he has to neutralize it.

His voice is lower now, almost strained. “I’ve seen too many people die because I hesitated. I won’t risk it again.”

You force yourself upright, swaying slightly, every cell still buzzing with residual static. “I’m not asking you to risk Gotham. Just... trust him.” You tilt your chin toward Damian. “Trust your son.”

Bruce doesn’t even blink.

You gasp again, eyes wide as a final jolt of energy hits you like lightning to the spine.

And then everything tilts. The rooftop sways. Your head slumps forward. The last thing you feel is Damian grabbing you before you hit the ground, his voice warping into a panicked blur.

Then... nothing.

༻⊰───⋅

??? - ???

You wake up cold.

Metal surrounds you. Fluorescent lights above. A containment area. Sleek, clinical. No visible seams or exits, just smooth, reinforced panels and a faint energy field humming at the edges of your vision. 

“Hey,” a voice says urgently. “Habibti—! Eyes on me. Open your eyes.”

You blink. The world swims into focus. Slow and fragile. The hum of the emitter is gone. The dark has lifted. But your limbs feel like they’re made of concrete.

“Wh—” Your throat is raw as you turn your head, eyes still unfocused. The dim shape of Damian looms close, his silhouette familiar but strange in this sterile, harsh light. You're in a containment cell. A forcefield buzzes faintly, locking you inside, making the space feel smaller with each passing second.

“Wh-what happened?” Your voice cracks on the words, pain flaring in your chest. You shift slightly, the movement slow and deliberate.

Damian is there, his usual intensity replaced with something closer to frustration and... concern. He’s not wearing his mask, and you can see his eyes.

Green, sharp, and cold. 

His nails dig into the forcefield, his jaw clenched tight. 

“Father employed a diagnostic emitter. High-level blackout field,” he says, his voice laced with venom, as though he couldn't bear the taste of the words. “Nearly obliterated your nervous system. The bastard didn’t even flinch.”

You shift, wincing. “He’s scared of me…”

Damian scowls, his lips curling in distaste. “That does not grant him the right.”

Across the batcave, you catch the silhouette of Bruce standing still, like a statue, his posture rigid, unmoving. The device is in his hand, the embedded screen lighting up with data. His face is grim, his lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line as he scans the readout.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of silence, he speaks, his voice subdued but edged with something you can’t place. “No radioactive residue. No multiversal degradation. No artificial structure. You’re not a clone. You’re not a weapon. You’re...” He trails off, as if uncertain how to finish the sentence.

You blink slowly, your mind catching up to the words. “Not normal.”

Bruce’s eyes shift ever so slightly, acknowledging your response. “No,” he agrees quietly, almost as though the admission is a reluctant concession. “You’re not.”

But there’s something in his posture that changes, subtle but unmistakable. A slight loosening of his shoulders. Not trust, not yet, but something far closer to hesitation.

You attempt to move again, your head pounding with the remnants of whatever Bruce used to sedate you. Your body feels foreign, your limbs sluggish, like you’ve been asleep for too long. But it’s the ache in your head that consumes you. You blink hard, trying to clear the fog, but it doesn’t help.

Bruce finally speaks again, his voice softer than before, though still carrying the weight of an unspoken decision. “You left me no choice.” There’s no apology, no anger. Just that same, infuriating calm that always manages to get under your skin.

“This isn’t punishment,” he continues, his eyes hardening slightly. “It’s a precaution. You’ve seen what happens when powers go unchecked.”

You grit your teeth, lifting your head as best as you can despite the ache that pulses with each movement.

"I’m not a weapon," you rasp, your voice hoarse and desperate for him to understand.

“That’s not your decision to make.” Bruce’s words are like a blade, cutting through the air with finality.

Damian growls low, slamming his palm against the barrier between you, his frustration boiling over. “You could have just talked to her!”

Bruce meets your gaze briefly, unreadable. “I am talking to her now.”

Damian doesn’t let up, his fury now a raw shout, almost echoing in the silence. “You kidnapped her!” He gestures toward you with an elegance that seems out of place in the intensity of the moment. “You employed a blackout charge on someone you know personally, someone you know does not mean this family harm—”

“She lied,” Bruce counters, his tone quiet but resolute, his eyes locked on you, unflinching. “She could be lying to you. She put the entire family at risk.”

Damian’s lips curl with contempt. “She protected this family. You simply couldn’t see it, because she did not come with a Bat on her chest.”

Bruce doesn’t respond. And that’s what makes it worse.

༻⊰───⋅ An hour later, Selina arrives.

Damian’s posture tightens immediately, his whole body coiling like a spring, ready to strike. His eyes narrow, scanning the room, searching for a threat.

When he sees her, his muscles relax just slightly, but his scowl doesn’t waver. His hands are still clenched, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

Selina stops just before the forcefield, her figure smaller than usual. She’s hunched, like she’s holding herself together by a thread.

When her eyes find you, they widen with concern, and for a split second, her usual mask cracks. The woman who cares more than anyone knows is there, and it’s almost painful to see. She takes a few cautious steps forward, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“Dammit,” she mutters, voice rough with barely contained emotion. Her hands press against the forcefield like she could just push through it and hold you. “You’re okay, right? They didn’t hurt you? Tell me they didn’t hurt you.”

You shift, wincing. You feel like dead weight, but you try to reassure her, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m fine. Just... tired.”

Selina raises an eyebrow, the disbelief clear in her eyes. “Tired? Bullshit,” she snaps, stepping closer, her fingers pressing harder against the barrier. Her eyes flick to Damian, then back to you, burning with protectiveness. “I know you better than that. You think I can’t tell when you’re not okay? They locked you in here like a criminal... for what?” She scoffs, throwing her hands up. “Bruce... sometimes I swear he forgets what it’s like to care about anyone.”

Before you can respond, she cuts you off, raising a hand. Her sharp features soften just a little, but there's still frustration in her voice. “I just need to know you’re okay,” she whispers, her hand trembling against the forcefield. “I should’ve... I should’ve been here sooner. I should’ve known better.”

“I...” you try to say, but she shakes her head.

“Shh.” Her forehead presses gently against the barrier, a soft breath escaping her lips. “I’m not leaving you here, okay? I’ll figure this out. I’ll get you out of here. Bruce... he doesn’t get it.”

Her voice is steady, but there's a tremor in her hands, a crack in her resolve. For all her strength, seeing you like this has brought her to the edge.

The guilt hits you like a tidal wave. Your head drops, and you blink hard to stop the tears from falling. You were supposed to listen. Selina warned you.

“I should’ve listened to you…” Your voice breaks, barely a whisper, and the weight of it all crashes down on you. The isolation, the fear, the mistake—it floods over you and you can’t hold back anymore. The tears fall, hot against your skin.

Damian watches, his expression darkening as he notices. He leans in, brow furrowed, his forehead resting gently against the forcefield near yours.

Selina watches in silence, her hands still pressed to the barrier, lips tight in a thin line. She wants to reach out, to do something, anything, to make this better. But she can’t. All she can do is stand here and promise she won’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, your voice thick with guilt. “I didn’t mean for this to happen… I didn’t—”

“Shh. I know,” she murmurs softly, her voice full of understanding, but also an undercurrent of something stronger. “But it’s not over. I’m here. We’re getting you out. Just hold on.”

༻⊰───⋅

The hours stretch on, heavy with silence. It's thick, suffocating.

Upstairs, Selina is no doubt locked in some heated argument with Bruce. You can almost hear her voice rising above the din of the Batcave, cutting through the tension. But here, with Damian, the world beyond feels like a distant memory.

Damian hasn't moved. Not really. His body is a taut wire, ready to snap at any moment. His forehead rests gently against the cold forcefield beside yours, the harsh chill of it matching the ice in his veins.

He's still angry—too angry, in fact. 

You're not sure how much time has passed, but you can tell he's exhausted.

The anger, the worry, the helplessness.

All of it is wearing him down

"Damian," you whisper, your voice soft and almost too quiet to hear. Your eyelids are heavy with exhaustion, but you force yourself to keep your gaze on him. "You should go to bed. You haven’t slept since this started."

He doesn't answer immediately. His jaw tightens, the tension in his body practically radiates off him. His hands twitch, like he’s fighting an instinct to destroy something—anything—that will release the pressure building inside him. There’s a simmering fury beneath the surface, something raw and dangerous that’s been festering for too long.

"I don’t need sleep," Damian mutters, his voice low, gravelly, like it’s been dragged through a storm. His eyes never leave the barrier that separates you, dark with something he won't let you see fully. "I know how to micro-sleep. But I won’t close my eyes while this is happening. Not with you stuck in there."

“Damian…” you whisper again, softer, laced with a hint of pleading. “You don’t have to stay like this. It’s... It’s not your fault. I’m fine.”

He scoffs, a sharp, bitter sound that cuts through the air like a blade. His eyes narrowed, the raw emotion within them flaring like an exposed wound. When he speaks next, his voice shakes with a deadly mix of pain and fury.

“Not my fault?” he spits, turning his head sharply to face you, his words coming out like a snarl. “I can’t watch this anymore. I can’t watch you in here.”

You try to hold his gaze, but it feels like staring into the sun.

“I can’t stand seeing you locked up,” he growls, the frustration practically radiating off him. “You’re not some criminal. You don’t belong here.”

The weight of his words presses into you, and you know, deep down, that if he had any way to tear through this forcefield, he would’ve already done it.

“I hate this,” he mutters, voice quieter now, but there's still a burning anger in it, twisted inward. His forehead presses harder against the cold, unforgiving barrier, a cruel reminder of the distance between you. "Hate seeing you trapped, helpless. I don’t care what Bruce thinks. I don’t care what anyone thinks."

His gaze flickers to yours, raw and desperate, and for a split second, you see him—just Damian. Not the stoic, hardened boy with a mission, but a kid who’s barely holding it together. The weight of the world pressed down on him.

“… I need you to be okay."

“I will be,” you promise him, voice stronger despite the exhaustion that threatens to drag you under. "As long as you’re here."

Damian doesn’t respond right away, but you can feel the shift, the slight easing of the tension in his body, like he’s finally letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, though this time, it’s less about anything you’ve done and more about the weight of it all. The burden of everything that’s happened. “I didn’t want to drag you into this.”

Damian's lips curl into a strained smirk, but it’s tired, sad. “I chose this. You didn’t drag me in.” His voice drops, low and dangerous. “I knew exactly what I was getting into. Don’t you dare blame yourself for this. Not when it’s my father who’s too blinded by his damn paranoia to see what’s right in front of him.”

Suddenly, there’s a sound. The hiss of a hidden seam opening in the paneling. You blink, shifting weakly toward the noise.

“Alfred?” your voice is rough, barely above a whisper.

The butler steps through a narrow passage concealed within the far wall. The shimmer of the forcefield adjusts slightly to accommodate the entry. He’s holding a covered tray in his hands, a soft towel draped over his forearm. Calm, collected, and somehow solemn.

Damian’s head snaps toward the movement, eyes narrowing. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

Alfred doesn’t even flinch. “And yet, Master Damian, here I am.”

Damian’s scowl deepens. “You shouldn’t risk this. If Father finds out—”

“He will find out,” Alfred replies calmly, his gaze unwavering. “But he will not stop me. Not when someone I care about is being treated like an enemy in their own home.”

He steps up to the edge of the forcefield and looks to you, his face softening. “I thought you might want something warm to eat. The kitchen has been dreadfully quiet without you stealing things when you think I’m not looking.”

Despite everything, a fragile smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “You always knew?”

“I always know,” he says, with that faint spark of amusement that only Alfred can manage, even in the darkest of moments.

Damian steps forward, eyes locked on Alfred’s tray. “She needs to be freed. This is absurd—”

“Master Damian, if you too do not eat or sleep soon, you will collapse,” Alfred interrupts smoothly. “You are no good to her like this, and you know it.”

Damian hesitates, visibly torn.

Alfred softens again. “Let me sit with her, just for a few minutes. Go. Rest. When you come back, she’ll be here. I’ll make sure of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. You watch as Damian wrestles with himself. Finally, he gives you a look, still fierce, but there's a hint of reluctant trust there, too.

“…Don’t let him near her,” Damian warns quietly, a final glance toward the ceiling, toward Batman.

“I have no intention of allowing fear to masquerade as justice,” Alfred replies. “Now go. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

Damian lingers a moment longer, eyes on yours. Then he steps away. His footsteps echo up the stairs, quiet, but still filled with fury.

When he’s gone, Alfred finally kneels at the edge of the forcefield. He sets the tray down and pulls out a thermos, unscrewing the lid to let the scent of real broth waft into the air. “It’s not much, but it’s better than intravenous fluids.”

You smile tiredly. “You’re risking a lot coming here.”

Alfred’s gaze is gentle. “I’ve served this family for decades. I’ve watched it grow, fracture, and, on rare occasions, heal. But I will not sit idle while it lets fear dictate cruelty.”

Your breath catches slightly.

He continues, his voice lowering with a weight of years behind it. “Master Bruce… he isn’t thinking clearly. You mustn’t take it personally. He’s terrified. Terrified of what he doesn’t understand. Of what you might become.”

You press your lips together, trying to force the tightness in your throat to ease. “I know, but I want him to know that I would never hurt anyone—”

“I think he knows,” Alfred interrupts gently, his voice warm yet firm. “But logic rarely wins against fear. Especially for a man who’s lost as much as he has. He sees threats in shadows, and you, my dear, have always cast long ones.”

You look down, shame pressing like iron on your chest.

Alfred’s fingers brush the edge of the forcefield, reverent but firm. “But I’ve seen your heart. And I believe in it. Which is why I will find a way to help you."

Your eyes widen. “You’d… betray him?”

“I would defy him,” Alfred says calmly, a fire in his voice now. “Because loyalty should not be blind. And because this family should never forget what it means to protect its own.”

He presses the thermos closer to the barrier, and a small opening appears as if the system itself recognizes Alfred's authority, just enough for the steam to escape, just enough for trust to pass through.

A mechanical click sounds softly, and a hidden seam in the forcefield parts for only a moment, allowing Alfred to slide the thermos and a small, foil-wrapped bundle through. The opening seals again with a quiet hum.

“Rest, if you can,” he says, adjusting the towel on his arm with practiced ease. “Eat what you can. The body cannot weather storms when it’s starved of warmth. Neither can the soul.”

You reach out with trembling fingers, taking the thermos gently, cradling it as if it might disappear. The heat seeps into your palms and travels up your arms, grounding you. The smell, simple, comforting, familiar, brings tears to your eyes before you can stop them.

“…Thanks,” you whisper.

Alfred nods, his face unreadable but his eyes unbearably kind. “There is no need. If anything, I should apologize. For not intervening sooner.”

You shake your head. “It’s not your fault.”

“Perhaps not,” he murmurs. “But that doesn’t mean I’m absolved of responsibility.”

“I will speak to Master Dick,” he continues. “And Barbara. Perhaps even Tim. There are lines forming in this house. If Bruce refuses to see reason...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

You nod faintly, holding the thermos to your chest like it’s a tether. The food is a small act of rebellion, but it means everything.

Alfred rises slowly, smoothing the front of his coat. “Try to rest. If not for yourself, then for Damian. You know how reckless he gets when worry takes hold of him.” He pauses, a flicker of affection softening his tone. “And make no mistake... he's deeply worried about you.”

You manage a faint smile, weary but genuine. “Yeah. I can tell. He’s already halfway to batshit crazy.”

Alfred chuckles once, a dry and quiet sound. “Then I shall hurry back with something to slow him down. A full stomach and a cup of tea may buy us both a few moments of peace.”

༻⊰───⋅

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Bruce—she’s a kid!”

Bruce didn’t stop walking.

His boots were nearly silent on the stone floor, but Selina heard them anyway. Each step a countdown. Each second, a verdict being prepared.

He moved like someone who’d already made a decision hours ago and had been replaying its consequences ever since.

When he finally stopped, the only sound was the low hum of the elevator leading from the Batcave to the manor behind him, and the soft whirr of the security locks re-engaging in the distance. Still clad in full armor, he raised a gauntleted hand, calm, practiced, and slid the cowl back from his face.

His eyes, when they met hers, were flat and cold. Suspicion lived in their corners, but it wasn’t wild or paranoid. It was the kind that had been earned, honed over years of betrayal and hard choices.

“She’s not who you think she is.”

Selina’s jaw clenched.

Her heels struck the carpeted floor of the lavish living room with sharp, angry purpose as she crossed the space between them, the hem of her coat trailing like a shadow behind her. She grabbed his arm, nails digging into the fabric of his suit.

“Don’t do this,” she snapped. “Don’t pull the Bat-act on me right now.”

She leaned in, eyes narrowed. There was heat in them, rage, but also something softer beneath. The memory of small, stolen moments. Of whispered truths and painful choices.

“I know her, Bruce. I know what she’s been through. And so do you.”

There was a flicker, just a flicker, in his expression. A tightening around the eyes. A breath held just a second too long.

But it was gone before she could say his name again.

“She has enhanced abilities—arachnid in origin. She’s not registered. Her presence in Gotham is unaccounted for.”

“She’s also not blowing up buildings or turning people inside out with her mind,” Selina said, stepping in front of him. “You know what she is? She’s scared. She’s a teenager. She’s my girl.”

At that, Bruce finally met her gaze. His eyes, steely and guarded, held something deeper. A trace of doubt? A flash of guilt? Selina couldn’t tell. It was quickly masked, but it was there.

“She has enhanced abilities. Arachnid-based, if the scans are accurate. She’s a meta. That changes things.”

Selina let out a short, disbelieving laugh, bitter at the edges.

“Seriously?” Her arm shot out, gesturing toward the shadows just beyond the Batcave entrance. “Changes what? That she can stick to walls? Swing from buildings? Your kids are vigilantes too!”

But Bruce wasn’t looking. He stood still, cloaked in silence. The kind that meant his mind was already made up, whether he said it aloud or not.

“I can’t fucking believe you would even consider—”

“Selina, she could be a threat. You know I can’t ignore that.”

“She’s not a threat,” Selina snapped. “I told you—she’s my girl.”

“You’re emotionally compromised.”

“And you’re emotionally constipated,” she fired back. “You’ve known her for years, Bruce. And now one blip on a scanner, and suddenly she’s on your damn watchlist?”

“I’m doing my job—” he began, but Selina stepped in closer, her voice low and lethal.

“Bullshit.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, deadly, deliberate. “You’re doing your usual thing. Treating people like problems instead of people.”

There it was. The quiet truth, laid bare between them.

Bruce didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. His silence said everything Selina had feared: that even now, even after everything they’d been through, his first instinct was to see the girl as a variable in one of his plans.

As a threat. Not a person.

“You hurt people when you forget they’re not just names in your case files,” Selina said finally. 

“Don’t make me pick sides, Bruce.”

She held his gaze, unwavering.

“Because you know I’m choosing her.”

༻⊰───⋅

The thermos in your hands is still warm, its metal surface radiating a quiet comfort that doesn’t reach your chest. You’re halfway through a sip when it happens. 

Click.

Soft, almost silent, but enough to slice through the silence like a whisper against glass. The Batcave’s security systems are shifting.

You freeze, thermos hovering just below your mouth.

Footsteps follow, measured, deliberate. Not the kind that rush or hesitate. No scrape, no stumble. Just the steady rhythm of someone who knows they belong here, even if their presence wasn't expected.

A faint glow arcs across the far side of the cave, catching the edge of her hair. She steps forward slowly, shedding the shadows with every step, until the overhead light hits her face.

“Morgan?”

She grins. Casual and sharp, hands tucked into the pockets of her sleek jacket like this is just another late-night run. “Hey, sunshine.”

Your heart stumbles. “How—how did you get in here?”

She steps closer to the field. “Please. You think I’d let Bruce lock you up without a backdoor?”

Your eyes narrow. “But the system—”

“I rewrote parts of the failsafes months ago,” she says easily. “Just in case someone got… paranoid.”

A seam hisses open in the forcefield, something only Bruce—or, hell, Alfred—should be able to do.

You scramble to your feet, clutching the thermos.

Morgan just smiles.

“Relax. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to get you out. Let's go!”

“Now?” Your voice is low, uncertain. “I thought...? Damian—Alfred—they were trying to—”

Her smile tightens. Something colder flickers beneath. “You really think you’re safe here? Batman locked you up. Damian couldn’t stop him. Alfred had to sneak you food. That’s not safety. That’s a cage.”

You hesitate.

“I’ve been watching,” she says gently. “And trust me—if you stay, they’ll turn on you. Batman's fear spreads. It always does.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true. Damian—he—”

“Can’t protect you if he gets locked out. Something that's bound to happen,” Morgan’s tone sharpens. “And Selina? She made a deal. She was supposed to get you out. But Bruce pulled rank. So I improvised.”

You blink, frowning. “How do you—You’re... you're not messing with me, right?”

“Why would I?” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. 

You glance toward the stairs.

Morgan’s voice softens again. “Look. I get that you're confused right now, but I’m the only one not treating you like a threat. I’m here. Now. That has to mean something.”

You stare at her. At the forcefield now lowering. At the ease with which she bypassed every safeguard Bruce ever designed.

Then again, Morgan was always good at this stuff. It’s no surprise she did it this fast.

“I…” You take a step forward, uncertainty creeping into your voice, your hands trembling. “What about the others? When do we tell them?”

Morgan’s smile returns, sharp and clean. “We can’t risk it. Not yet.”

Something about her tone makes your skin crawl. But you push it aside.

You’re tired. You’re scared. And part of you wants—needs—to believe her.

Reluctantly, you follow.

Behind you, the Batcave’s lights dim just slightly, the system blinking in silent confusion, as if even the walls are beginning to suspect something is wrong.

Morgan doesn’t look back.

Her hand hovers near her waist, where you now notice a sleek device you’ve never seen before. Not Bat-tech. Not yours. Too polished. Too… alien. Her fingers twitch over it with ease.

You step into the shadows beside her.

Something stirs in your chest. Not panic. Just a flicker of tension. Your instincts are trying to whisper a warning you can’t quite hear. The air hums strangely. The cave itself feels warped around her.

!!!

You feel it.

!!!

But you shove it down.

Now isn’t the time. She’s here. She came for you. That has to count for something.

“Morgan?” you ask, voice soft.

She doesn’t turn at first. When she does, her smile is easy. Reassuring. Familiar.

“Yeah?”

You pause… 

DANGER.

... then smile back. “Thanks. For getting me out.”

“Of course,” she says, already turning away.

“We had a deal, didn’t we? You and me—we always look out for each other.”

You nod, forcing the knot in your gut to loosen.

Just nerves. Just stress.

And you follow her into the dark.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sooo... I'm back, and I’ve decided to finish this once and for all!

It’s been over a year, hehe... My bad! My senior year really took a toll on me.

I’m currently working on college applications >< I got accepted into everything I applied for, but next year, if all goes well, I’ll be transferring to Auzzieland!

Also... Sorry about the taglist... Kinda lost the list & It's been so long I'm not too sure people are still interested!

[akiraxmoon]

Neytiri being down bad for Jake while he tames his ikran for 1 minute and 7 seconds

[akiraxmoon]

💙

Mother is not coming to play🔥

[akiraxmoon]

HELP HIS FACE

He snapped 🔪

[akiraxmoon]

"Do I look like him?"

[akiraxmoon]

KISS LESSONS ! d.grayson x reader

"There’s a version of me that only exists when I’m with you. And I think . . . I think he’s who I was always meant to be.”

— sleepover with mr (teen) richard grayson !! gn!bsf reader (but written with a fem reader in mind), dick trying (& failing) to be nonchalant, truth or dare & he dares you to kiss him (for educational purposes...)

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

You were both halfway through a bag of popcorn when Dick challenged you to call the pizza place and do your best Batman impression.

“I am vengeance,” you rasped into the phone, making your voice deep and gravelly. “I’d like… a large pepperoni. Extra cheese. No mushrooms. I hate mushrooms.”

The guy on the other end of the line paused, clearly confused. “Okay?”

You lost it, collapsing into Dick’s side, gasping for air.

“My god,” he wheezed, “Bruce would revoke your honorary Robin privileges for that.”

“I think I nailed it,” you said, grinning up at him. “Tell me I didn’t.”

He shot you a crooked smile. “You totally didn’t.”

You nudged him with your foot. “Alright, Mr. Wayne Jr., truth or dare?”

Dick flipped onto his stomach, grinning like a cat who’d just stolen the cream. “Dare.”

You let the silence drag on for a moment, savoring the anticipation. “…I dare you to show me your Batman voice.”

His grin falters. “I can’t. I’ve sworn a sacred oath.”

“Lame.”

“Alright, fine—” He cleared his throat and, without missing a beat, dropped his voice low and growly, furrowing his brow dramatically. “‘Justice is blind!’”

You burst out laughing. “Okay, yeah, whatever that means.”

Dick smirked. “Fake fan. He’s literally said that before.” He tossed your challenge back at you, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Okay, your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Coward.”

You snorted and threw a Cheeto at him. “Oh, yeah? Fine then, dare.”

His grin returned, wicked and sharp. “Great.”

For a moment, he twirled a thread from your bedsheet around his finger, and you noticed how his movements were oddly deliberate, almost too calm. There was something a little too suspicious about the way he was watching you. Then, his tone softened, becoming almost casual. “I dare you to kiss me.”

You blinked. Slowly.

“Excuse me?”

He met your gaze and shrugged like it was no big deal. “What? We’re playing the game.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you serious?”

His voice stayed nonchalant, but you caught the faintest hint of red creeping into his ears. “Unless you’re scared.”

You snorted, trying to mask the butterflies that suddenly took flight in your stomach. “Of you? Please.”

Then his tone shifts — a little softer, a little less teasing. “You’ve kissed people before, right?”

You glance at him. “Yeah.”

He nods, like that confirms something. “I haven’t.”

“Not properly,” he adds, casually. “There was a mission once, but it was more like… spy stuff. Doesn’t count.

You stared at him. “Wait . . . you’ve never actually kissed someone?”

He shrugged casually, like it was no big deal. “What? You said you’ve kissed people. I barely have. I figure I should… y’know… learn from the best.”

Suddenly, he wasn’t just the dorky kid in a cape. He was... Dick Grayson, the guy who made your heart do odd flips just by being himself.

You shifted, sitting in front of him with your legs crossed, your arms resting casually on your knees. “You want me to teach you how to kiss?”

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

You smirked. “Don’t take that tone with me, Boy Wonder. You’re the one who asked me to kiss you. But fine, I accept.”

His eyes lit up—bright, eager, giddy, and a little nervous. He was a goddamn mess, a cute one, but still a mess. A mess you were willing to deal with.

You moved closer, just enough that your knees brushed against his. “Lesson one,” you murmured, voice low. “Stop overthinking.”

“That’s—” He swallowed. “Very difficult.”

“You’ll manage.”

You kissed him.

It was sweet. Hesitant. His lips were soft, unsure, like he’d never quite known how to navigate this. But he leaned in like you were something he’d been searching for and didn’t realize he could catch until now.

When you pulled back, he just stared at you, wide-eyed and breathless. “I—” He blinked a couple of times. “Okay. That was. Huh.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I think I blacked out for a second,” he muttered, voice dazed.

You snorted. “So much for the Boy Wonder.”

“I’m regaining composure!” he insisted, sitting up straighter and giving you a dramatic wave of his hand. “Give me five seconds and a glass of water.”

You kissed him again. Just to shut him up.

And this time, he kissed you back. Steady. Warm. Clumsy in the most endearing way.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. “Okay,” he said, blinking slowly like he was still trying to come back to his senses. “I’m either really good at this, or you’re really nice.”

You smiled. “Maybe both.”

He grinned back at you—goofy, warm, and flushed.

You leaned back, almost teasing. “So?”

His gaze softened, and he scratched the back of his neck, clearly caught between trying to sound casual and letting the nervous excitement slip through. “So… I’m gonna need more practice rounds.”

You giggled. “Greedy.”

“Thorough,” he corrected, as if that made all the difference. “You wouldn’t want your best friend running around Gotham being a bad kisser, right?”

“Oh, the horror.”

“Exactly,” he said, leaning in just a little closer. “Think of the city.”

you smile.

He just melts.

[akiraxmoon]

﹟— ❛❛cause when you know you know. part II.

☆﹟— paring: fem!reader x dick grayson.

☆﹟— summary: you've always had dick grayson's heart in your hands, since you were just sixteen.

☆﹟— warnings/tags: dick grayson x fem!reader. reader is an awkward dork. fluffy. spiderwoman!reader. slow burn at this point. best friends to lovers. the titans are your friends. you and dick acting like an old married couple. the amazing divider was made by @bernardsbendystraws, thank you!. some spiderman: homecoming and insomniac spiderman lore. reader is a mess. over 2k words. ☆﹟— MASTERLIST. NEXT.

EVERYTHING STARTED FALLING apart over the next couple of weeks. You lost your first real job, teaching physics at Brooklyn Visions Academy, after abandoning your classroom during what was supposed to be a routine emergency drill. You hadn’t planned on leaving your students unsupervised, but the moment the alert hit your phone, you knew something was wrong. That, and the sand.

It was already in the air, creeping through the vents, filling the classroom and the rest of the city.

Perfect day to snap, huh, Marko? You really hit the jackpot. Sandman was tearing through downtown Manhattan, and Miles Morales, your student and new patrol partner, was already on the scene. Outnumbered, overwhelmed, and calling for backup. 

You didn’t even think. One minute you were walking your class through Newton’s laws of motion, and the next, you were halfway into your suit, sprinting out of the building while sirens wailed in the distance. It took everything you had to help bring Sandman down, and by the time it was over, the streets looked like a war zone.

When you returned to school, the silence said it all.

Then came the meeting with the principal. The security footage showed your classroom empty for nearly an hour. Parents were furious. The administration wanted answers. And you didn’t have a single one that didn’t sound like a lie.

You were let go by the end of the week.

Without a job, you couldn’t keep up with rent, no matter how cheap your shitty little apartment in Queens was. So you did the only thing left to do: packed up what was left of your pride and moved back in with May. Tail between your legs. That old, choking feeling of failure rising in your throat again.

You’re used to it by now. You felt it when Mary Jane broke up with you after you missed your anniversary dinner — stood her up without so much as a call. You felt it when you turned down a full ride to MIT because you couldn’t leave New York behind. Not with Spiderwoman still swinging through the city, not with people still needing her so much.

You lost the college of your dreams. The girl of your dreams. The job of your dreams.

Now you’re back to delivering pizza and getting screamed at by J. Jonah Jameson like it’s the good old days. Only this time, it doesn’t feel nostalgic. It just feels like losing. Over and over again.

And of course you didn’t tell Dick about any of it. You’re totally fine, right? Just cried like a little girl while stitching up your left arm and repairing your suit after getting wrecked in a fight with Kingpin. No big deal. You only stood up your old high school best friend, Ned Leeds, and his girlfriend Betty Brant on their anniversary. And sure, maybe you shoved every photo of you and MJ into a box and stuffed it under your creaky, miserable single bed. But yeah. You’re fine. Totally fine.

"You know, honey, you could always call Pepper and accept that job offer," May said during dinner a few days later, her soft, warm eyes lingering on your exhausted face. Things were tight at home, like always. May never had much money, and most of what came in from her retirement plan went straight to FEAST.

"Nah, I’m good. I’ll find another job," you mumbled, pushing your food around your plate. You didn’t want to take anything that reminded you of Mr. Stark — not after his death. You already had enough to grieve. You didn’t need to mourn another father figure.

That’s why you never took the full-time position at Stark Industries. That’s why you turned down Bruce Wayne’s offers too. You weren’t leaving New York. Not now. Not ever. Being the city’s main hero meant putting your personal life, and your own happiness, on the back burner. That’s what you’d learned from Ben, the last time you ever spoke to him.

"If you can do good things for other people," he’d said, voice steady, "you have a moral obligation to do those things. It’s not a choice. It’s a responsibility."

The night he died in your arms was the night you stopped being just a high school kid. The night you became what everyone else needed you to be: a full-time hero.

"I’m really tired. I’m going to bed," you said quietly, pressing a kiss to May’s cheek. She didn’t say anything — just looked at you with that same worried softness she always did. You washed the dishes with the distant hum of sirens and car horns drifting through the window, then dragged yourself to your room. Your whole body ached like hell. Even breathing made your ribs and stomach throb. Every step felt like your bones were grinding together.

When you finally collapsed onto the mattress, your phone rang, loud and shrill, like it was vibrating inside your skull.

Fuck. Not tonight. Please.

"What?" you mumbled, voice half-smothered by the pillow, face buried in the sheets.

"You don’t sound happy, pretty girl," then came Dick’s voice, breathless and teasing, even as the chaos of Blüdhaven crackled in the background. You could hear the clang of metal, his escrima sticks in motion, and the distant shouts of a fight still unfolding around him.

You just listened to him, eyes closed.

"You don’t get tired, big guy?" you could hear him smirking against the phone while talking. You rolled your eyes. He was probably fighting Blockbuster.   

"It’s late, you cunt. Don’t tell me you called just so I could listen to you flirt with your enemies."

Dick laughed. Low, breathless, cocky. "What can I say? I multitask. But no, Webs, I actually called to invite you to something."

"Nah, I’ll pass. I’m broke as hell right now."

"I don’t care," he said. "Just shut up and listen. I already booked us two tickets to Jump City. It’s Wally’s birthday. He asked for you specifically, he wants you at Titans Tower."

Shit.

"Look, Dick…"

"I talked to Miles. He said he’d keep an eye on the city while you’re gone."

"Richard…"

"And you promised Kory you’d bring your LEGO Death Star so she could build it with you. She’s been holding onto that promise since last year."

You groaned into the sheets, fingers curling tightly around your phone. They were your friends, good people who somehow still wanted you around, even though you were never great at the whole teamwork thing or even the social thing. But if you were being completely honest with yourself… you kinda wanted to see Dick.

You missed him like always. 

Missed sharing a room with him, missed the way he’d cuddle up behind you and the way his lips would brush your cheek, your jaw, your neck — slow and reverent, like he had all the time in the world to cherish your skin. Missed how his hand would slip under your shirt to hold your waist with calloused fingers. Missed the low chuckle in your ear when he massaged your sore thighs and you let out a whimper you didn’t mean to make—

You really, really, hoped he and Barbara were off again.

Wait—what the fuck?

You shot your eyes open, coughing loudly like that could clear the thought from your head.

"Okay, fuck—are we leaving tomorrow?"

On the way to the Tower, already in Jump City, you glanced over at him as he drove a rented car. It was kind of sexy, you guessed, his biceps flexing against the steering wheel, that annoyingly strong jawline catching the sunlight just right. He looked good. Too good.

Unfortunately, he seemed to have his personal spider-sense for when you were ogling him like a horny fucker. He always did. He called it the "you-tingle." Absolutely ridiculous.

"What?" he asked, catching you mid-stare.

"You’re ugly as fuck," you shot back, deadpan.

"I love you too, baby girl," he grinned, not missing a beat.

"Ew."

A beat passed. Then:

"Are we sharing a room again at the Tower?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

"There are plenty of rooms. I can sleep somewhere else if you want."

"Nah," you said, eyes still on the road ahead. "Sleep with me."

"Ew". 

At the Tower garage, Dick grabbed all your bags before you could protest, even though you’re the one with super strength. But to be fair, it’s not like you brought much. Meanwhile, your best friend was juggling his four bags like it was nothing. Classic Dick. He had this ridiculous habit of buying things he absolutely didn’t need.

And somehow, watching him casually haul your things and his like they weighed nothing? Yeah. It was so hot, it almost made you forget Mary Jane’s face. You feel like closing your thighs, the jeans feeling too warm. Uhum, maybe you should call Felicia again and take it off your system— or maybe Johnny Storm?

"Oh wow—Spidey, is that you?" Wally grinned as he grabbed your hands and spun you around like you were walking a runway. You chuckled while Dick rolled his pretty blue eyes.

"Happy birthday, Walls," you said, kissing his cheek as he beamed and led you further inside.

Kory lit up the second she saw you, immediately asking about the Lego Death Star you’d promised to build with her. Donna gave you a warm pat on the shoulder, and Gar pulled you into a tight, cheerful hug. Even Raven, ever composed, offered you a small but genuine smile.

Dick took your hand softly, already steering you toward your shared room with a smug look on his face.

"Told you they missed you."

"I missed them too."

You stepped closer to him while he unpacked, sliding your hands around his waist and resting your nose between his shoulder blades. He didn’t even flinch — he was used to your touchy ways by now. The two of you had been like this since your teenage years.

"That’s the cologne I gave you for your last birthday," you murmured, your face pressed against his back, fingers idly tracing the ridges of his abs. You loved that scent. Warm, clean, just a little spicy.

"You’re wearing the shoes I gave you too."

"Yeah," you replied, shrugging. "They’re kinda cute."

Dick hummed, a soft sound of satisfaction, as he continued folding shirts onto the bed, letting you stay pressed against him.

"So, lovebirds," Wally’s voice rang from the doorway, teasing as always, "We’re heading to dinner. We’re waiting for you two."

You sighed against his back, reluctantly sliding your hands off his warm body. Wally had already wandered off toward the main hall to fetch Donna.

"I’m not going," you muttered. "Don’t have enough for that. Like I said, I’m broke as fuck."

Dick turned slightly, raising a brow at you over his shoulder. "You know I’m paying, dumbass. What’s even rattling around in that head of yours? I still don’t understand how you managed a doctorate."

You smacked his shoulder, letting that super strength of yours go out just a little. "Jesus—what the fuck? Fuck you. I’m ordering the most expensive plate on the damn menu now, you absolute cunt."

He laughed, full and unapologetic. "Dick," he said, imitating your voice with mock dramatics.

You threw a sock at his head. "Cunt".

But, hey, your night was something else. They take you to one of the nicest restaurants you’d ever been to in your entire life, and you couldn’t stop smiling. The food was incredible and the Titans were in rare form. Wally’s jokes were landing harder than usual, Donna was kinda tipsy, and Kory kept trying to toast with every single drink. 

But you only really had eyes for one person.

Dick sat across from you, his black hair falling perfectly into his stupidly pretty face, blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed. Every time he leaned in, his fingers brushed against yours on the table, casual and familiar and just enough to make your heart ache.

And then, when it was time to pay, of course he pulled a classic move to piss you off. Without a word, he stood, dropped his wallet into your hands, and winked as he headed toward the restroom.

"Seriously, Dick?" you called after him. “Come on!”

He waved over his shoulder without even turning around. You sighed, glancing at the waiter awkwardly, then opened his wallet to fish out his credit card.

You found his credit cards easily enough. But tucked between a few folded bills, something else caught your eye and your breath hitched.

Two photos.

The first was worn at the edges, a little faded, but still so vivid it made your heart clench. It was from your Homecoming dance at Midtown Tech, twelve years ago. You were sixteen, cheeks flushed and smiling at him. His hand was brushing your hair behind your ear, blue eyes soft and locked on yours. Ned had taken it, you remembered. 

The second one nearly made you snort. It was definitely from Aunt May. You, pre-bite: all limbs and nerves, drowning in an oversized sweater, thick glasses sliding down your nose as you held up a science fair trophy that was almost as big as your head. You looked like a terrified baby owl.

"Oh my god," you whispered. "This dumbass…"

"You look kinda red, Spidey," Wally said from beside you, chewing with all the grace of a starving dog. You didn’t even glance at him. Just smiled again, warm and a little shy, still staring down at the pictures hidden inside your best friend’s wallet like a huge secret.

"I’m good," you said softly.

cybergoth, 2025