astraeasworld

[astraeasworld]

Between Worlds, Between Us - Mark Grayson x Batsis!reader

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Batsis!Reader + Batfam x Batsis!Reader

Summary: After an engineering failure on behalf of Cecil, he crash-landed into Gotham, the city of crime, corruption and a cauldron of Bat(themed-vigilantes)s, the most intriguing of them all being you. You patched him up, insulted his flying, and disappeared.

Neither of you expected to flirt mid-fight, or work well together, or think about it afterward. No names. No identities. Just quick banter, bruised knuckles, and the kind of tension that makes your brothers suspicious.

He thinks you’re mysterious. You think he’s kind of hot when he’s not crashing into buildings. You both think it’s definitely a one-time thing.

Spoiler: it’s not.

He might be Invincible. But you’re inevitable.

Content warnings: Swearing, teasing, violence, mentions of blood A/N: I love Invincible guys

The night was wet and thick with neon haze—exactly the kind of night Gotham liked to dress up in. Rooftops slick. Sirens bouncing off alleyways. Somewhere, someone screamed, which was pretty standard at this point.

You crouched at the edge of the parking garage roof, boots planted steady, watching the idiot in the sky.

He wasn’t a Gotham name. Not one of yours.

Bright blue. Golden-yellow. Hair whipping in the wind as if he thought it looked cool.

He hovered awkwardly over the warehouse below, scanning too slowly, too openly. You could see the hesitation in his posture. like he wasn’t used to the air here. Like he’d just realised Gotham didn’t have air. Just smoke, gunpowder, and judgement.

You pressed a finger to your comm.

“Oracle, Gotham's got a flier, clad in blue and yellow. New guy.”

“Confirmed. Invincible. Cross-dimensional. Vouched by Cecil Stedman of the GDA. Try not to hurt him.”

“No promises.”

You cut the comm and rose silently.

Let’s see how “Invincible” he really is.

You dropped behind him with the grace of a threat. The quiet sound of your boots on concrete made him spin in the air, startled.

His eyes landed on you, dark armour, blank expression, the bat crest clear and quiet across your chest. You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re—uh—one of them.”

You tilted your head. “One of?”

“The Bat people. The... scowl-and-vanish crew.” He chuckled sheepishly, hand on the back of his neck, an adorable gesture.

You blinked. Then smirked. Just barely.

“And you’re the one wrecking Gotham’s skyline like it’s a tourist attraction.” You said, sass laced in your sultry tone.

“Guilty,” he said, holding up both hands. “In my defence, I only knocked over, like, one smokestack. And that building was already leaning.”

“And the gang you chased into it?”

“Still conscious. Mostly.”

You paced slowly toward the ledge, watching the warehouse below. He floated closer to hover beside you, arms folded, you took a note of how his suit clung to his frame, the yellow fore-arm guards highlighting the contours of the muscle. (Sorry guys I think I like men with massive arms it's just really hot imo , comment if you agree)

“You’ve got a name?” you asked, not looking at him.

“Invincible.” He spoke, sounding very vincible whilst saying it, like his name was a foreign concept.

You glanced sideways.

“That’s a bold thing to name yourself.”

“Yeah,” he said, suddenly conscious. “Bit much. Wasn’t my idea.”

You hummed.

“And you are?” he asked, almost teasing.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“...Yeah,” he said, and that grin flickered across his mouth again. “I would.”

You looked at him properly this time. Up close, he wasn’t what you expected. Not just the usual flyboy muscles and cocky attitude. There was something thoughtful in the way he held himself, almost like he was still getting used to his own strength. Like he’d been hit more than once and still hadn’t decided if he liked it.

He was… kinda cute.

Unfortunately.

You dropped off the roof without another word. He followed.

You fought together for ten minutes in a graffiti-abused hallway. He took a hit for you. You knocked someone out before he could thank you. You both leaned against opposite walls, breathing hard, grinning through the blood.

“Nice moves,” he said.

“You’re not bad for a flying hammer.”

“So…. can I get your number?”

You looked him up and down. Still catching your breath. Still smiling, but not saying why.

“Ask me again after you learn to land without blowing out someone’s windows.”

“That’s gonna take a while.”

“Then we’ve got time.”

You threw a smoke pellet and vanished. Classic.

Mark coughed. He was still smiling when the smoke cleared.

Back at the Batcave

Jason was the first to bring it up.

“She’s smiling again. That’s suspicious.”

Tim looked up from his screen. “She always smiles after punching someone.”

“No,” said Dick, arms folded. “This is different. This is... rooftop flirtation energy. Bat-and-Cat style.”

They all turned when you walked in, still peeling off your gloves, damp from the rain, bruise blooming beneath your jaw.

“You meet the alien?” Dick asked.

“Maybe.”

“You like him?” He pried, tone curious and inquisitive.

“Don’t be weird Dickhead” You shot back.

Jason leaned closer, squinting. “You’re humming.”

“No, I’m not.” You responded, smiling behind your words.

“You only hum when you like someone or you’ve just committed a felony.”

“...Maybe I did both.” You shot your famous million-dollar smile/

They all groaned.

You walked past them with a smirk.

In another world, Mark Grayson lay in bed that night, staring at his ceiling.

“I have no idea who she is,” he told Rex over the phone. “But I think she’s the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

"Ugh, Mark you cheesy nerd." Rex chided, secretly happy his close friend had prospects of finding huzz.

He didn’t know your name.

But he’d remember your smile.

And the way it felt to orbit your gravity.

And he realised...

He realised he actually liked it.

Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!

Sources! -

Dividers - @omi-resources

Icon Header - @parkons

Property of suigenerisisadiva, do not repost my work pls & ty

[astraeasworld]

a package deal

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ dick grayson x fem reader. fluff. — 2.7k words ⭑ haley’s the sweetest dog you’ve ever met. her dad’s… pretty cute too, you guess. not that you’re thinking about him. a lot. or at all. he only hired you to dog-sit. but he keeps asking for you back, even on nights he stays home. and when nightwing starts showing up, you don’t realize you’ve been falling for the same man twice.

You sit cross-legged on the hardwood floor, sunlight streaming through the loft windows, brushing down the back of Haley’s fur in long, gentle strokes. She makes a soft huffing noise of contentment and flops onto her side, tail swishing.

“Perfection,” you murmur to her, scratching behind one of her soft ears. “That’s what you are.”

“I know,” comes a smug voice from behind you. “She takes after me.”

You glance over your shoulder. Dick Grayson is leaning against the doorway with a mug in hand and that ever-present glint in his eye. He’s in a loose henley and joggers, his dark hair still slightly damp from a shower. Completely unfair.

“You’re too cute for your own good,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow, looking almost proud.

“Thank you. I’m blushing.”

“I could not have been more clearly talking to the dog.”

He walks past you to set his mug on the coffee table, reaching down to ruffle Haley’s head. “We’re a package deal.”

You bite back a smile. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am. Shutting up now.” He bends down and kisses your cheek like it’s nothing. It doesn’t make your heart stutter slightly in your chest. Totally. Not. Because you’re super professional and it doesn’t matter how handsome or nice to you Dick is, it’s just… routine. Absolutely nothing more. Just business as usual.

Haley stretches out with a yawn and rolls onto her back, begging for belly rubs. 

“Haley,” You whisper conspiratorially. “I think your dad needs to get his hearing checked.”

She lets out a soft sneeze that feels a little too much like agreement.

Later, Dick finds you in the kitchen, struggling to twist open a stubborn jar of pasta sauce.

“Need some help?” he asks, appearing behind you. You jump and nearly drop the jar. This man was sneakier than a shadow sometimes.

You glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. “Why should I listen to you? Last time you tried to help, you almost broke the blender making smoothies for Haley. I still don’t think she’s forgiven you.”

He shrugs, grinning. “I’m her dad. Of course she does.”

You roll your eyes and hold the jar tighter. “Do I have to let you do it?”

He leans in, flashing his dimples at you. Ugh. Of course he has dimples. “Yes. Because I’m ridiculously handsome and impossible to resist.”

“Excuse me?”

“You were staring.”

“I was squinting. Glaring-adjacent.”

“Still counts.”

He leans in just a little, and you catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean and warm, with a subtle hint of vanilla and citrus. You hate how much you like it.

Without a word, you hold out the jar.

Dick takes it and opens it in one smooth twist, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Show-off.

—

The night you stay over, you’re tucked into his ridiculously soft guest bed, wearing a tank top and cute, tiny pair of cotton shorts. Haley hops up beside you, pacing once or twice before settling at your feet like a miniature guard dog with fierce loyalty.

You hear a soft knock at the door.

“You decent?” Dick’s voice filters through, lazy and amused.

You crack the door open just enough to peek out. “Define decent.”

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, a fond smile playing on his lips as he looks you over. Your insides squirm from the attention.

You scoff and reach down to scratch under Haley’s chin. “Your dad is—”

“Trouble?” Dick finishes for you with a raised brow.

You nod solemnly. “That.”

He chuckles quietly, eyes flickering to the tank top you’re wearing—his logo clear and unmistakable. Cute. 

“Nightwing fan, huh?” he asks, amused.

You shrug. “Who isn’t?”

For a moment, his usual confident posture falters—his gaze drops briefly, and there’s a faint flush coloring his cheeks before he clears his throat and looks back at you.

He chuckles quietly, breaking the moment. “I asked you to stay tonight because Haley gets anxious when I’m working late or on those random emergency calls. I know she’ll be okay with you here,” he says, voice softening. “And honestly? I don’t mind the company either.”

He’s never mentioned work in front of you before, and you’ve always wondered what his job was. Maybe a firefighter? Modeling? You’ve definitely seen him on a few magazine covers, and you’ve only known him a few months, but somehow, you’re convinced no normal job could fully contain his personality. You glance up at him, surprised by the honesty.

“Besides,” he adds with a crooked grin, “someone’s got to keep me from binge-watching bad crime dramas all alone.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “So I’m just your dog-sitter slash bad TV watchdog?”

He shrugs, stepping back with that familiar cocky grin. “Yup. Lucky you.”

“Don’t be silly,” you say, nudging the door open a little wider. “I’ll watch them with you.”

He blinks, just once, like he hadn’t expected you to say yes so easily. But then that grin of his deepens—real, quiet, warm. You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. 

Haley’s already curled up and snoring like she owns the place, and you realize that maybe this night, awkward or not, is exactly where you’re meant to be.

—

A few days later, you’re walking Haley around the block just after sunset, the sky still streaked in fading purples and deep blues. The air is warm, the quiet hum of cicadas buzzing in the background as you tug your hoodie tighter around yourself. It was supposed to be a short stroll, just some light post-dinner exercise. Haley’s trotting happily beside you, leash slack in your hand, until–

A hand clamps over your mouth.

Your heart spikes as arms hook around your waist and haul you backward. You try to scream, but it’s muffled against a gloved palm. Haley barks as you drop her leash, sharp and feral, No, no, let her go!, her nails scrabbling against the pavement as she tries biting at legs that you can’t see, but you’re already being dragged toward a dark van parked just out of view beneath a flickering streetlamp. 

You hear her soft whines fade as you’re dragged away, and you clench your jaw angrily.

They picked the wrong dog sitter.

You’re shoved into a dark van under a streetlamp that flickers weakly, like even it knows something shady’s going down.

The guy in the passenger seat pulls out a phone and dials, practically giddy. “Yeah, we got her. The girl. Pretty one with the dog. Yeah. Nightwing’s girl.”

You blink, disoriented. “Wait—what?”

He covers the phone, peering down at you. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not playing,” you say, still trying to orient yourself. “Is this about the one time I accidentally shoplifted, like, twenty packs of mozzarella string cheese from Trader Joe’s because I forgot they were at the bottom of my cart?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“What?” says one guy. The other just stares at you like you’ve grown an extra head. 

“I went back the next day and paid for them, by the way,” you add, because, even under the threat of possible death, your moral compass refuses to shut up.

“No,” the first guy says slowly, like you’re the idiot here. He lifts the phone to his mouth again and mutters under his breath, but still loud enough for you to hear:

“Yeah… Nightwing’s girl is kinda stupid. Real cute, though.”

You blink. “Wow. Rude. And for the last time—I’m not Nightwing’s girlfriend!” you shout, equal parts annoyed and terrified, somehow still managing sarcasm from inside a van that looks like it moonlights as a mobile organ-harvesting operation.

“Wait, you’re not?” one of your kidnappers asks in confusion.

“She’s not?” echoes another, the disbelief so stupid it almost makes you laugh.

“Never mind, you can shoot me now,” you mutter.

Except you don’t give them the chance.

You drop your weight low, twist your hips the way you learned years ago in that self-defense class, and drive your foot between the leader’s legs with more precision than a brain surgeon. He drops like a stone.

The van door bursts open in the same breath, a crack of air and motion colliding as a streak of blue and black descends from above.

Nightwing lands in a crouch and as he stands up his hand flies to his mouth, the white eyes of his mask widening to a comical degree while surveying the scene of three grown men groaning and curled on the floor around him.

His gaze lands on the one gasping for air with his hands between his legs, and then on you—panting, but standing tall.

“Ouch,” he mutters under his breath, blinking once. “Even I felt that.”

Afterward, you sit dazed on the curb, wrapped in a blanket courtesy of some poor local EMT. Nightwing crouches beside you.

“You did good,” he says, voice lower than you expect. Kind of familiar even, but there’s no way. That’d be weird. Your head is just jumbled up from being kidnapped earlier. “Quick reflexes. Nice kick.”

He pauses, voice softening. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”

Your eyes widen as panic suddenly strikes you. “Wait—Haley. Where’s Haley? Sweet little pitbull, big blue eyes, softest ears—please tell me she’s okay.”

Nightwing’s lips twitch into something between a smile and a smirk. “I checked. She ran all the way to the nearest police station. Smart girl. She held her own.”

Relief rushes through your chest so fast it makes you a little dizzy. “God. I can’t believe I left her—”

“You didn’t plan on getting kidnapped,” he says simply, his tone steady and reassuring. “She’s safe. You’re safe. That’s what counts.”

Then, as if on cue, Haley barrels into view, leash trailing behind her, tail wagging wildly as she launches herself into your lap.

“Haley!” you gasp, practically crushed under the weight of her excitement as she covers your face in frantic, sloppy kisses. You laugh, blinking through tears. “Okay, okay, I missed you too—”

“She’s the reason I found you so fast, by the way.” Nightwing adds, standing beside the two of you now. “Not that you needed me.” He grins sheepishly, scratching his cheek.

Haley lets out a happy little huff, tongue lolling out as she turns to Nightwing expectantly. He crouches down and pats her head, and she melts into his hand like she’s known him forever.

You squint at the sight. A weird wave of deja vu washes over you. Like you’ve seen this scene before. But no, that couldn’t be. This is the first time either of you have ever met Nightwing. Then again, Dick did say she loves everyone. Even strangers.

Still. The way she looks at him—tail wagging with a pat-pat-pat against the ground, body relaxed, happy—it scratches at something in the back of your brain.

But you’re too tired to chase it. For now.

He offers you a lollipop, holding it out with a small, boyish smile.

You blink at him. “Do you always carry candy in your utility belt?”

“Usually for kids,” he says, voice softer than usual. “You earned it.”

You hesitate, but take it from him. Your fingers brush his glove—warm, steady—and it lingers just a second longer than necessary.

“You calling me a baby?” you ask, popping the lollipop into your mouth. Yum, strawberry. 

His gaze doesn’t waver. “If the shoe fits,” he murmurs, voice rich with something unreadable.

Your pulse stutters and you smirk, trying to shake it off. Haley wags her tail faster, sat between the two of you. “That supposed to be flirting, or are you just bad at compliments?”

His lips twitch as he raises a hand to scratch Haley behind her ears. “Why can’t it be both?”

—

You’re in your kitchen, the warm smell of chocolate chip cookies filling the air as you carefully pull a tray from the oven. Tonight, you’re bringing them over to Dick’s place. It’s a small peace offering—or maybe just an excuse to see him.

Before you can wipe your hands on a towel, a familiar voice comes from the doorway.

“Ah, love that smell,” Nightwing says, leaning casually against the frame like he’s done it a hundred times. 

You freeze, eyes wide. “Dude. Did you just break into my house.”

He shrugs sheepishly, an infuriatingly charming smile playing on his lips that was unfortunately working on you. “Can’t a guy visit his baby?”

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

You flash back to that night — the rush of adrenaline as he dropped from the shadows, the men who grabbed you, Haley’s sloppy kisses on your face, the sweet taste of strawberry candy, his voice low and steady as he told you you were safe now.

He winks. “I remember how much you liked my lollipops.”

You blink as your cheeks warm. The sheer audacity. “Okay, first of all, gross. Never say that again. Second—what?”

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says, wandering over like this is normal behavior and not highly illegal. Guess rules don’t apply to superheroes when they're too busy fighting people who break them. His gloved hand reaches toward the tray of still-steaming cookies.

“Do not touch those, they’re—”

“Hot, hot—!” he yelps, shaking his hand after you, predictably, let him grab one. He blows on the cookie dramatically, then takes a bite. “Mmm. Five stars.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to smother a smile. From the way his eyes twinkle and the not-so-guilty grin on his face, you can tell this isn’t his first time pulling this exact stunt. You shake your head.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He beams at you, still chewing. “If you give a mouse a cookie…”

You sigh, jug in hand already pouring. “...he’s gonna ask for a glass of milk.”

Nightwing accepts it with a chuckle and a soft thank you, the sound warm and achingly familiar.

Something akin to home.

—

It happens slowly, like the puzzle’s been coming together in the background without you even realizing.

The lollipop.

The voice.

The subtle bruises he brushes off.

The way Nightwing always shows up when you’re in trouble.

The way he takes off during weird hours of the day, calling you if you could watch Haley for him while he’s gone. 

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling.

You hear movement from the living room.

Quiet footsteps. A rustle of fabric. The soft click of a window closing.

You sit up.

Your heart pounds.

You step out and see him standing by the window, pulling a hoodie on over—

Blue.

Black.

Gloves.

His hair is mussed. His cheek has a shallow scrape. He freezes when he sees you.

“…Oh,” Dick says.

You blink.

“No,” you whisper, realization blooming like a sun flare behind your ribs. “You’re Nightwing?”

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “In my defense… I never said I wasn’t.”

Your jaw drops.

“You absolute—!”

“Before you yell,” he says, hands raised in surrender, “I’d like to remind you I just saved your life. Again.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

You stalk toward him and jab a finger into his chest. “You flirted with me as Nightwing.”

“Technically, I flirted with you as me. You just didn’t know it was both. Also,” He grins, “Doesn’t my ass look great in spandex?”

You groan. Then collapse against his chest.

You can’t even fight back at that.

“…I’m going to kill you,” you mumble into his hoodie. He smells so good. Too good. Damn him.

“Please wait until after I take you to dinner.”

You shove at him. He laughs.

Later, curled up on the couch in his arms, Haley snuggled happily between you, you stroke her velvet-soft ears. The movie's long forgotten, the room washed in the warm, quiet hush of almost-sleep.

“Has there ever been a time when you didn’t expose me to danger?” you murmur.

Dick hums thoughtfully. “About... eighty-seven?”

You elbow him. “I’m thinking of a number between one hundred and infinity.”

“You wound me mortally,” he says with a grin, voice lazy against your hair.

Then he adds, “What about that time I tried to make pancakes and accidentally set your smoke alarm off three times in one morning?”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “That counts.”

He chuckles, smug and unrepentant.

You smile drowsily and nuzzle into his shoulder again, Haley’s soft snores grounding the moment.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, brushing his lips to your temple. “We’re a package deal.”

You glance down at Haley, who kicks in her sleep, then sighs with the contentment of someone deeply loved.

You snuggle closer. “Works for me.”

[astraeasworld]

Kindergarten Crush

Synopsis: Damian finds himself stuck with the annoying popular girl everyday

TW: neglectful parent(s) alluded too???

A/N: okay yall🤩 since yall rlly liked that last fic I uploaded about all the boys, here’s one about just Damian lol🤭 (okay but fr yall ate that shit up and I couldn’t be any more thankful <3 thank you so much and enjoy reading!!)

⋆˚✿˖°

Gotham Academy was a school for the rich, and Damian Al Ghul Wayne was one of the many kids that attended…lucky him. The concept of going to school seemed like a waste of time for him considering he was an assassin. He should be spending his time training, and yet his father shipped him off to some useless school during the day.

He tried not to draw attention to himself, but his ‘sophisticated’ personality really just made him stand out all the more…especially considering his father is the Bruce Wayne. So, to counter the annoying popularity that came from his last name, he preferred to stay alone. Partner work? He would ask to work alone. Projects? Alone. Lunch time? He would sit in the school courtyard and eat the lunch that Alfred prepared for him.

It was always quiet out there. There would rarely be other students, and if there were, it was the social outcasts who preferred the silence like he did. But he couldn’t blame them, they left him alone and he left them alone.

It was like any other lunch period. Damian sat alone at one of the stone tables, bag of apple slices laid out and one of his many thick chapter books pressed against the stone with his free hand keeping it open. His green eyes scanned each word as his mind consumed the words on the page, his mind playing the scene in his head.

“Is that Y/N?”

“What is she doing out here?”

“Go talk to them!”

The once quiet courtyard was now filled with chatter that Damian desperately tried to ignore, but even with his icy glare toward the others, his gaze landed on Y/N. Damian labeled Y/N an annoying presence, just like the other popular kids at his school. He knew her, but not well. Her father was some big shot in the government or something, but Damian didn’t really care who her father was. He just knew that he despised her and her clique.

But for once, she seemed relatively human. She sat alone at one of the other stone tables, a sketchbook pressed against the table with her earbuds in.

He rolled his eyes and finished his meal before packing up and heading toward the library for the rest of the lunch period.

The following day, Y/N wasn’t outside and the courtyard returned to its quiet setting again…and for the next few days, it was the same.

Until a week later on some random Thursday.

Damian sat at his table again, this time studying for some math test he would be taking later in the day. He had finished his meal a little while ago, and now sat studying…or he would have been studying if it wasn’t for Y/N standing in front of his table looking at him.

“Can I help you?” He rudely asked.

“Would you mind being my muse?” Y/N sweetly asked.

Damian tore his eyes away from his textbook and looked at Y/N. “No.”

“Oh, okay,” she then turned and walked off.

The next day, Y/N found Damian again outside and sat down across from him. “I need help on my language homework, can you help me?”

“No—.”

“But it’s Arabic,” Y/N insisted. “Don’t you speak it? I heard that you did.”

He did, fluently. But why would he take time out of his day to help her?

“I do, but why would I help you?”

A week passed before Y/N wandered up to Damian after one of their shared classes together and asked him for some notes she missed. Damian wanted to tell her to go away, but she was clearly persistent considering she kept coming back. So finally, he gave in.

It took two months before Damian began to warm up to Y/N. He wasn’t going soft, not at all. But maybe she wasn’t as bad as he originally thought.

“Why do you no longer hang out with those popular kids?” Damian finally asked during one lunch period.

“I realized they weren’t good people,” she shrugged. “Why do you always hang out alone?”

“Touché,” Damian replied.

Another month passed and he found himself thinking about Y/N, even on missions. How bothersome. He still did his missions flawlessly with his father, but even he could tell he was acting slightly different, even if he didn’t admit it out loud. Self awareness.

“Do you want to share my Oeros with me?” Y/N asked as she sat beside Damian in the library. It was raining outside which caused the two to haul up inside the quiet library.

Damian glanced at the small blue box labeled ‘Oreos’ before his eyes flickered to Y/N. “I’m okay,” he said. “But a whole box for lunch? That seems…unhealthy.”

Y/N shrugged and opened the box of cookies. “Not all of us have parents who care about their kid’s nutrition.”

“My father does not care,” Damian replies. “Pennyworth is the one who prepares my meals.”

“Pennyworth?” Y/N replied with furrowed brows as she ate her cookies.

“My butler,” Damian said.

“You have a butler? Must be nice,” Y/N sighed. “I have to do everything myself.”

“It’s his job to provide assistance,” Damian stated as he reached into his black school bag and pulled out a container of strawberries. “But your self reliance is admirable…although I doubt that Pennyworth would allow Oreos for just a meal.” He then glanced down at his strawberries, “if you…want some strawberries…you can have some.”

Why did he just offer some of his meal? It’s his meal, and if Y/N was dumb enough not to pack a proper meal, that was on her.

“Oh, okay, thanks,” Y/N smiled.

Damian gently slid the container between them as he tried to act aloof and ignore the way his heart seemed to flutter at her smile. But he looked away and reached into his school bag and brought out a small black sketchbook, as well as a pencil. He flipped it to a free and clean page as Y/N spoke up, “I didn’t realize you drew, Damian.”

“Father said it would be good for me to pick up a hobby that wasn’t training…something to keep me occupied,” Damian admits. “I suppose I’ve found myself enthralled with it.”

His father had recommended a multitude of hobbies, literally anything that wasn’t training for missions. He already knew Damian would train anyway, he had done it since he was just a little kid…but Damian needed outlets…something other than getting murderous tendencies.

“Training?” Y/N asked, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

He slipped up, and he hadn’t meant to. Why did he slip up anyway? He was usually so good at keeping his mouth shut about the whole Robin thing.

“Fencing,” Damian lied. “Father believes that I spend too much time obsessing over it.”

“I didn’t know you took fencing,” Y/N said as she reached for the strawberry container and picked one up.

“Fencing, martial arts, self defense,” Damian trailed off as he began to draw. “I take multiple lessons.”

“Maybe you can teach me sometime,” Y/N suggested. “I used to take martial arts as a kid, but I was too little to keep it up.”

He briefly paused as he thought over her request. Was he seriously considering spending time with her? …yes.

“Perhaps when I have time,” Damian vaguely said.

Y/N nodded as her eyes flickered to the sketchbook, “what kinds of things do you like to draw?”

“Whatever comes to mind,” Damian admits. “I am not picky.”

Y/N smiles, “you’ll have to show me sometime.”

“No.”

“Yeah, alright, that’s fair,” Y/N said as she leaned back in her chair. “I refuse to show anyone what I draw too.”

Damian silently nodded as he went back to his drawing, although he was silently aware of the girl’s presence beside him. He was aware of the way she crunched on her cookies, which was a little annoying…but then she’d take a strawberry from his container. He knew his mother would be disappointed him, especially his grandfather.

“You’re staring,” Damian pointed out with his eyes still on his sketch. “You’re not very subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Y/N nonchalantly replied.

The sound of a bell then echoed throughout the library causing Y/N to groan in annoyance. “Lunch is over already, how annoying.” She grabbed her last Oreo and shoved it into Damian’s hand before getting up and leaving.

Damian’s brows furrowed as he stared and watched Y/N leave before his eyes trailed down to the cookie in his hand. The dark cookie contrasted against the milk white cream in the middle. Damian couldn’t help but softly smile in amusement before shaking his head and silently eating the Oero.

[astraeasworld]

pretend we're more than friends

dick grayson x fem reader

tags. journalist reader, best friends in luv, unrequited requited, detective dick cause i love him, subtle angst

— blatant repost from my old acc, title from lybmha by laufey :((

“I can’t make it to dinner tonight.” 

Dick scratches the underside of his jaw, wincing when his nails ghost over the tender spot where he nicked himself shaving days earlier. Your stress comes crackling through the telephone’s shitty speaker as a staticky, crushed-glass sigh. 

“Bad day at the office?” 

He contorts to hold the receiver between his ear and shoulder, ignoring the looks his coworkers send him. He supposes that he must be a sight to see, tipped back in his chair, case documents teetering on the knife’s edge of spilling out of a manila folder in one hand, the other twirling the cord of the landline around his finger. 

“The worst,” you agree with another sigh. It must be the fifth time you’ve done that in the past minute, and if Dick closes his eyes tight enough, he can imagine you in front of him, dragging your hand down your face. “They want my column in print tomorrow—not Monday—and this fuck-ass editor is crossing out everything in my doc.” 

You mutter something about what fucking loaded language and it’s a goddamn opinion piece while Dick shoves his case folder into the depths of some dark cabinet and starts clearing the mess of reports on his desk until he unearths the collection of takeout menus pinned under the keyboard of his computer. 

If you can’t make it to dinner, Dick could just take dinner to you. 

He weighs his options; you’re probably not in the mood for pizza or burgers, and Chinese gets crossed off because you don’t work well on an oily stomach. Vietnamese is out of question too, you had that last week; this leaves Mediterranean and Italian, both of which are too far a drive for him to even bother. The food would get cold before he’d manage to make it up to your apartment. 

(His coworkers think it’s strange that he has dinner dates with his best friend every week. Just friends, they laugh, you’ll be saying that even after you’re married. Dick doesn’t think anything about it— you’ve never thought anything of the teasing, so he won’t either.) 

“When’s the last time you got up and took a walk?” he questions, grabbing a pen and scribbling a quick grocery list onto the palm of his hand. The ink runs out midway through a ‘t’ with a pop, leaving a big blot on his skin. The pen soars into the trash without a single beat passing and Dick keeps scribbling on with another in a different color. “Let the blood go back to your brain. Take a long, hot shower or something.” 

“No time for that,” you say, but he knows that you know he’s right—it’s in the nth sigh you let out, crackling electric over the phone. 

“C’mon.” 

“Fine, five more minutes.” 

Dick smiles—wide, lady-killer, a thousand watts of brilliance—and shuffles all his loose-leaf papers into a stack bearing some semblance to neatness, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair. ���It’s getting late, gotta go.” 

“Sorry about dinner. Next week?” 

“Sure.” 

He presses the receiver down with ink still drying on his palm. Even when his superior clears his throat and reminds him that his investigative report is due tomorrow— yes, tomorrow, you would’ve remembered if you weren’t giggling to your girlfriend like an idiot— the giddy feeling knitting its way up his throat doesn’t go away. 

An hour later, Dick steps up to the ratty doormat before the door of your apartment, manila folder tucked under his arm, groceries in hand, keys in the other. He doesn’t take long to find the key to your apartment—he knows the shape of it better than his own. 

He’s barely relocked the door and out of his shoes before he’s setting the case folder right next to the reporter’s notebook and laptop on your coffee table, the plastic bag of groceries on the nearby counter. In the corner beside the ratty couch you bought off an online catalog, Dick thumbs through your collection of records (most of them his), picking out a slow jazz album from a long defunct band. 

The vinyl is set on the mount of your record player (another thing of his, again, from when you finally escaped the bullpen) and he lays his jacket across the arm of your couch just as the trumpet and saxophone begin a gentle, crooning dance. You stumble out of the bathroom with your skin still dewy when the butter Dick is pushing around the pan begins to sputter. 

He watches you settle down on the carpet with your back to the couch, level to the coffee table. 

“Thought we postponed dinner,” you groan, popping your neck. Dick can see the red lining your sclera, highlighted starkly with the blue light from your laptop. The lines of your article fly past your glassy irises. “What’s on the menu, Chef Grayson?” 

“Linguine.” He folds his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, and he swears that your eyes are following his fingers as he twists the cuffs over themselves. But that can’t be true, because people don’t watch their best friend with great interest as they roll their sleeves. “Capers or cilantro? Or both?” 

“You know me,” you say, dragging his manila folder towards you. “Proof yours if you proof mine.” 

Dick laughs, tapping the butter off his spatula and turning down the heat. The blue flames simmer as another song begins with a swaying piano solo. “Well, mine’s classified.” 

“Don’t see a big red stamp anywhere.” 

“I’m kidding, those copies are redacted.” 

You grab your laptop and climb up onto the couch, dragging his jacket over yourself as you sink into the cushions, “Yay.” 

The linguine flops into the colander, steam rising in a veil that is pierced when the streetlight beside your window flickers on, bathing your apartment in an orange, yolky hue, the kind that comes from those eggs you love buying from the Japanese mart two blocks down. 

Somewhere in the near distance, a train rattles along its track and sends tremors up the foundation of the building. 

A particularly loud grumble from your stomach punctuates the hiss of the gas turning off. Dick strides over with two shallow bowls, two forks, two mugs. 

Dinner is quiet, quaint affair, interrupted only by the scrape of your fork and the clink of your mug as you set it down. 

“This would be good with wine,” you say, stretching your legs along the length of the couch. Dick looks up from his spot on the carpet, slowly as to not further the ache building in his curled neck. 

You’re painted in the dim, clementine halo that’s streaming in from outside and he swears that the shadows are sublimating right off you. 

He has to fish around in the dark for his words, string them along in a fishing-line sentence, “Uh…next time. I’ll bring over something from the store.” 

“Maybe you should make dinner more,” you suggest, setting down your bowl with nothing more than a soft clink against the coffee table. “Prices are going up, y’know.” 

It’s not like expense is a problem; you know that Dick has quite the sum of money, and you’ve met Bruce before. Still, that doesn’t deter you from fighting for the bill. 

Dick agrees with a smile, and you reach over the table with your computer dangling out of your hand by the corner of the base panel. He swaps it out wordlessly for his case report, swiping back and forth on the mousepad to awaken the screen. 

VIGILANTES: UNINTENTIONALLY HARMFUL 

You start talking about an upcoming journalist’s banquet that your company is hosting at a theatre in Gotham—yea, you say, Gotham, as if isn’t better than Blüdhaven. 

Dick is only half listening, scrolling slowly down your article. 

Growing up in Gotham, encountering vigilantes was anything but rare. I was thirteen when I first caught sight of Batman’s sidekick, Robin. The boy wonder swung right over me with a hand clutching the vine of his grappling wire and five minutes later, authorities issued an evacuation order for that block— 

Scroll. 

—that day, Robin did save me. If I hadn’t seen his shadow fall over the ground, I wouldn’t be here today. For that, I am grateful, but seeing the aftermath I so narrowly escaped from changed me. Do the lives lost really outweigh our growing dependence on vigilantes? 

Scroll. Vaguely, he registers that you’re scribbling notes in the margins of the copy of his report. 

—while it is impossible to dismiss the corruption within legal law enforcement, the question is still raised of whether illegal enforcers truly benefit the wider public or only culminate in bigger threats from worse people like the Joker— 

Scroll. You yawn and draw the jacket that’s been laying over your chest up to your face, pressing your nose into the worn leather. 

—doing what they believe is good at the risk of causing more harm. Even with the presence of vigilantes guarding our streets, it still is not truthful to say that we are entirely safe. 

“I think,” Dick says, and you draw your face out of where you’d buried it in his jacket, “that your editor is one crazy son of a bitch.” 

You smile, soft and smudgy in the clementine light that evaporates all the shadows around you. He almost forgets about all the secrets he’s harboring in the cabinetry of his anatomy. 

(Scars on the back, memory lapses from one too many concussions, a deep-seated ache in his knee that never really goes away.) 

“Told you so,” you sing, pen dancing around your fingers. “Yours is fine, just read my notes.” 

He barely catches the folder when you toss it back— luckily, anything that’s loose-leaf doesn’t slip out. “Careful, I don’t wanna reorganize my report.” 

“Paperclips are in my room,” you punctuate this with a tilt of your head towards the hallway. “Go take a shower too.” 

Dick raises an arm and feigns a couple of confused sniffles. “Do I stink that much?” 

“Yea, you smell like the shitty drip coffee at the office.” 

“You act like we can afford the nice espresso you guys get.” 

You scoff, sliding off the couch to grab your laptop and lead him to your room. The floorboards give with a small creak under his weight; you let the device fall onto the bed and rummage around your drawers for the clothes he always leaves here and the towel you’ve set aside for days like this one. 

“Hurry up,” you say once you shove a bundle of pajamas into his hands. You put your palms on his sternum—he wonders if you can feel the fight his heart is putting up—and push him towards the bathroom. “I’m making you watch a movie with me for the entertainment page.” 

His smile is barebones, a gentle twist of his mouth. It’s the kind that feels like a secret between the two of you. “You’re not usually this excited for an assignment. Is the entertainment editor cute or something?” 

“Shut up,” you blurt, pushing harder with a spark of panic in your eyes, and Dick catches himself stumbling backwards into the counter. 

“Oh, you have a crush, you like him!” The words feel uglier than they should be, rearing a twist of hurt-envy-why around each vertebra in his spine. 

“Talk to me when you aren’t stinky!” You slam the door close, but not before Dick can see the embarrassed look flickering over your face. 

The water starts running cold as he watches the shampoo gather in sudsy clouds around the drain—he’s quick to go through the rest of his routine and slide back into your room with a hand still toweling his hair dry. 

You’ve calmed down since, checking your inbox mindlessly. Now that he thinks about it, Dick can’t remember a time you’ve been without that computer. You look up, and though the light in here isn’t clementine and only comes from the singularity point of your screen, he can still feel his breath tighten. 

“So,” Dick starts. When he climbs into your bed, he finds that you’ve already made room for him. “Tell me all about this lucky guy.” 

You roll your eyes, leaning against his shoulder almost as if on instinct. You’re warm against his cold skin. The tide behind his ribs swells until he’s about to burst. 

“He’s cute, I guess. Funny, smart, dark hair” —then you’re reaching up to card your fingers through his hair, and selfishly, he thinks that no matter how hot this editor guy is, he’ll never get what Dick has with you— “kinda like yours, almost the same cut, but his eyes are green.” 

He hums, taking the laptop from you and navigating to the movie. You continue to play with the hair at his nape absently, sending frisson down his spine. 

“Not gonna say anything else?” you ask, and Dick just puts his arm around your shoulders despite the ache it agitates in his side. 

(He should’ve iced that bruise.) 

He cranes until his lips are half a breadth from the shell of your ear, whispers into the conch of it: no talking in the theatre. 

Y’know, apparently this is his favorite new movie right now— 

Shhhh. 

The plot is so convoluted that Dick starts wandering, and it seems like you are too. Wandering in dreamland, that is, slumping until your breaths puff into the hollow of his clavicle. 

The silence of the aftermath—when the credits run through and he’s not entirely sure whether he should wake you up to brush your teeth (no, it’s almost two in the morning now and you’re too comfortable)—is broken only by the faint wail of a siren. 

It fades as quickly as it had come. 

But Dick can’t get it out of his head. He’s drawn to the fight like a moth to the flame. 

You’ll get up around nine, he thinks, because tomorrow is the weekend and your article is already being printed. 

VIGILANTES: UNINTENTIONALLY HARMFUL 

The words flash through his head, louder and brighter than sirens. 

He knows he’ll hurt you if he gets up right now, leaves a pillow in the hollow of your arms and dons the suit hidden under the false bottom in his car’s trunk. You’re right, everything you wrote is so fucking correct that it makes something in his chest— 

Dick slides—gingerly, with care, because that’s how he’s always treated you and that’s how he always will treat you—out from under the covers. He can be back before nine, with breakfast from that bakery you like and a newspaper tucked under his arm. 

(Your newspaper, your article, your words.) 

“Dickie,” you stir, fingers catching on the hem of his old sleepshirt. 

“Relax, I just gotta pee.” 

He’ll give you one truth for now, even if it stains his mouth sour, like the stale aftertaste of the bad coffee at work. 

Dick—no, Nightwing tries not to dwell on it too much. He has people to protect. 

— me feeling like the asian girl smoking in the cold meme rn, throwing down the cig and running up that snowy hill to my man.... also if u liked this please lmk!! i luv feedback and it motivates me to write more fic <33

[astraeasworld]

IT'S A MUTUAL THING

yandere tim drake x yandere reader | sfw

CW! gn reader, suggestive behavior, mutual stalking, both of you are freaks and I love it, Timothy "Stalker" Drake, harmless yandere reader, Tim is an ADULT (20-22), batfam is concerned, civilian reader, mutual pining, romantic leaning, established relatonship (r & t), both r & t are legal, why is part of this short so sad, slight hurt comfort???

Summary! Jason and Dick are concerned, and no one seems to have noticed the strange behavior of Tim towards you, and Steph is more or less concerned about Tim's safety. Only then do they realize it's mutual.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

The keyboard was basically being smashed into. Frantic typing and clicking on the screen of pictures. A map of someone being tracked.

A small satisfied smile on his face; Tim Drake Wayne's face. Watching his beloved move throughout her day. Hacking into cameras revealing you going through you're day.

Dressed all pretty with a smile on your face.

Tim couldn't deny this need to watch. Make sure you were safe and if anyone did anything to you he'd hurt the person who did.

Unbeknownst to Tim someone was watching. Jason looking on with a disturbed expression. His clear view of his brother's screen. A familiar person, that being you and Tim's partner.

You were sweet and kind to them all, and was very good to Tim. Always making sure he was taking care of himself and everyone appreciated it.

With your help he was doing a lot better, but the disturbance of what he saw was... He didn't know.

Currently Bruce was off world with the Justice League and Alfred was taking a vacation so,

His only choice was Dick.

So with frantic steps he ran to find his older brother. They were loud enough to catch Tim's attention. A narrowed view that looked where Jason used to be.

His smile faltered. Aware of what was gonna happen, because no one understood the love between you and him.

It was special, and not many people would ever get it.

"Huh?" Dick asked with a raised brow. "He's stalking someone? His partner?" The confusion was infused with fear. His Baby Bird; Tim was stalking his partner.

"Dick, he was basically stalking B and knew you were Robin based off your moves! Do you really think Tim would stop? I mean especially if he has a sort of attachment to them!?" Jason surely wasn't as smart as Bruce and Tim, but God damn he was still a detective of some sort. That sort of pattern isn't something to be disregarded.

Dick's disturbed expression only furthered his point. "Yeah [ ] is very special to them, but stalking them and a tracker?! That's going so far..." He mumbled to himself.

"B is off world and Alfred is away. The young ones, we don't wanna freak them out." Jason ran a hand through his hair as they walked to the living room.

"What do we do..." Dick trailed off when they saw Tim on the phone. It was on speaker and it was with you.

"Can't wait to see you." Tim giggled. It felt creepy. Normally it would have been okay but with this context it felt wrong.

The screen so subtly turned to his siblings. Tim has a shit eating grin. Like he didn't even care, and was proud of it. Jason felt sick to his stomach at that thought.

They couldn't hear your response. But it made Tim's smile even wider.

"I'll be ready then to pick you up."

Narrow eyes centered on Dick and Jason as he hung up with you. "Good Afternoon Jason. Dick." His blue eyes felt like an animals stare.

Like they were the prey.

"Hey Tim. Um..." With fast movements he grabbed the computer. The younger made no movement to grab it. To keep them from seeing what he was doing.

"What exactly are you doing stalking [ ]?" Dick pointed to the icon that was yours. "And TV cameras?!"

Tim gave a blank stare. "What if they get kidnapped? Or someone hurts them? I have their location so I'll be there lickity split." He got up and removed the computer forcefully from his oldest brother. "They can't defend themselves. How else do you expect me to keep them safe?"

Once again that smirk crossed his lips.

Jason was at a loss for words. He couldn't form any as Tim left to his room upstairs with a closed laptop.

"What just happened?" Dick asked Jason and received no answer. All that remained was echo of the darkness in Tim's voice.

-

You blinked seeing the text Tim sent you. How his oldest brothers caught him stalking you.

You laughed at it.

They were right to be concerned, but what they didn't know is the fact that it was a mutual thing. You less intense about it, harmless honestly, but at the same you could be creepy about your beloved Red Robin.

After all, the numerous pictures you've secretly taken of them say a lot. Or the many things you've stolen from him without his knowledge. The newest thing being an old notebook full of notes.

Among other things they were mindless things to collect. Sometimes you took things just to be silly, but at the same time you took them because they belonged to him.

Simply harmless when it came to Tim.

Perhaps an old staff with blood said differently. So maybe you were a little crazy. Tim didn't seem to mind. If he found it uncomfortable then he'd tell you.

After all, it was a mutual thing.

Harmlessly you got ready for the date you two were planning to go on. You had no doubt he planted some cameras in your own apartment. You mused about doing that too, but he was in a house of detectives, and Alfred wouldn't be too keen on that.

You'd rather avoid the spat.

Tim relished in it.

Speaking of the devil. Opening the door to find love of your life. "Hi Timmy." You giggled as he embraced you. "How'd it go with your brothers?"

"Oh, they are concerned. They think I'm gonna murder you or something." Nonchalantly he grabbed your hand as you exited your own apartment. Together hand in hand walking down the street to his car. "I heard they were talking to Steph. She'll probably sneak into your apartment since we're out."

You giggled, "Bad news for me."

"Oh?" He cornered you against the passenger door. Your hand grabbing the handle tightly. "What exactly of mine do you have?" A dark smirk on his face.

Realistically any normal person they'd think he was harassing you. Cornering you, but this was quite normal. Tim was quite the possessive one, and scaring you was a fun time for him.

You enjoyed the adrenaline and how you're heart dropped to your stomach.

You're bones shook. His eyes glazed over with a look you were familiar with, but never did you get used to. No one had ever matched, as others would say, your freak, before. Tim did, so a rather rare occurrence.

"Maybe an old notebook of yours...An old staff with dried blood." You pouted as he grabbed your chin. "I was even thinking of going a little farther and stealing a something you've worn. Or even stealing some food of yours that you hadn't finished." Leaning up you matched his expression.

"Ya know, typical creepy stalker things. So many options. Maybe I'll put cameras in your room after all, but Alfie will catch me."

"You naughty thing." He nickled your neck with his fingers. Almost threateningly. You shivered, and pinched him in solidarity.

You two erupted into laughter. "Yeah but Stephanie is gonna get the wrong idea."

"Definitely."

"Also tons of pictures when I've followed you around. Like at the mall when you were with Damian."

Tim chuckled, "Just like me. So shameless." He teased you playfully. You lightly slapped his hand away from your chin.

"If anyone's shamless it's you, Drake." You kissed his cheek, "We're gonna miss our reservation. Maybe we can watch the show?" You sent a knowing look to Tim.

He grinned widely, "You know me so well."

"It's so like you to put cameras in my room. Maybe even a tracker in my clothes which I did find in the pocket of one of my overalls."

"Maybe i wanted you to find it?" He wiggled his brows with a teasing smile. Bright teeth showing mischief.

"Of course you did." You huffed with a tired smile.

-

Stephanie wished she was joking. Pulling down her mask. Mouth agape when she caught eyes on a old staff that Tim used to use.

The top of it having dried blood that soon faded near the middle. Crimson that had never been cleaned. And it was leaning in the corner of your bedroom.

Alarmly, there were photo albums on your desk. Seemingly left there carelessly, as if they wanted to be caught.

Her mind echoed with Jason's words saying, "We caught him stalking them, Steph!"

Stephanie was disturbed to find photos of herself with Tim. Pictures with Tim and all of their other siblings, with Alfie, or with Bruce. Some by himself, and no one noticed the picture being taken.

Even some with them in costume.

My god you were...stalking your boyfriend too?

Stephanie caught the glint of something in the corner. A bookshelf of some old time classics, and in-between a copy of Frankenstine and Little Woman sat a tiny camera.

There was no way you put that there. Certainly obsessed with Tim, and not yourself, and considering Jason and Dick she was left with a perplexing and terrifying answer.

The both of you were stalking each other.

Already at that revelation she was contacting the two oldest, "Get over here now." Her voice was shaky as she looked over your room even more. The whole apartment, and found countless cameras.

God knows what the hell was even going on.

The question was if either of you even knew, and considering the cameras no doubt Tim was aware. He was fine with your behavior and that was terrifying.

To make it worse she found collections of notes. All from Tim considering his recognizable handwriting.

They were threatening. Creepy in a way that Stephanie couldn't believe she dated him once. This behavior...she wondered if Tim did it with her? He never left her notes like this.

"Steph?"

She jumped and found Dick and Jason staring at her. With trembling hands she handed over the notes to Dick. Jason was nearby looking over the room, and his stance was evident of his disturbance.

"What the ever loving...?" Dick was cursing in Romani as he read over every letter from Tim to you. Jason was in the corner with his mask off. Eyes wide as he surveyed the countless photos in the album.

Stephanie was still in shock. Suddenly rethinking her entire relationship with Tim. Horror reaching her eyes as she struggled to think of anytime the man was creepy and showing this aspect of himself.

Or was it just with you?

"Steph, you don't think...? Dick read her mind. His serious face led her to think even harder. Looking around the room to find that you were just as much of a freak as Tim.

Match made in hell, Jason thought as he closed the photo album.

"I can't think of anytime he did something like this. No creepy moments or even notes like this...I think..." Stephanie looked at the a picture that on the desk. A photo of you and Tim smiling and looking at each other in a way that Stephanie never had.

Something deeper and deeply held. Love between the two of you was something deeper, and not at all surface level or middle ground. Call it mania in terms of Greek love languages.

"They're both doing it to each other, and know about it." Jason completed her sentence. "I knew Tim was a little freak but not like this, or even his own partner." Taking the letters away and reading them over.

"Jesus." He cursed under his breath. "Little creep, and it seems [ ] isn't bothered by it."

Dick thought deeply, "Tim is aware that this is wrong...? But is it wrong when they're both doing it?"

"If they are?" Jason raised a brow with eyes full of scrutiny at the letters.

"I think so." Stephanie thought hard to herself. Hands to her chest when she clearly remembered her relationship with Tim when they were younger. He was seen as normal in her eyes, and was sweet.

Never was Tim so...creepy like this. Her mind blaring with the knowledge of knowing Tim found out about Bruce's identity at the age of 12. Knowing Nightwing was Robin, and that he was Dick Grayson.

Tim was capable of being this. What made it more clear is that he was keeping it on the down low.

And now you existed in his life. A person that no doubt held the same experiences, and you're behavior was similar to Tim in a way. The ability to love in you're own special way, even if it was strange and rather disturbing.

"Tim is happy? Isn't he?" Stephanie asked looking at Dick and Jason. The men having expressions she really couldn't decipher.

"He seems happy." Dick mumbled. Again looking at that picture frame. A smile on his younger brother's face, and eyes looking at you in a way he's never seen before. Bit of the same way he looks at Kori. "I think so...even if this way of expressing it...?"

"Then I don't think anything is wrong, even if this is rather disturbing. Even if Tim is hiding cameras, watching them, and doing these letters. Tracking [ ] too. Even [ ] on the other hand stealing his things and taking pictures. Keeping these notes." Stephanie smiled as her eyes moved to the camera.

No doubt in her mind of what she deciphered.

"Let's go. We'll face him when he gets home."

"We're really gonna pass over this?!" Jason retaliated. Stephanie patted his shoulder.

"What I'm getting is that is something the two of them share and unique to them. It's certainly strange to us, but to them, all this stalking and threatening its a mutual thing between them." Stephanie concluded.

"Nothing we need to intrude on just yet."

-

"Welp looks like you were right dearest." Tim, like the devil he was laughed brightly. Turning of his phone to show Steph and his older brothers in your bedroom and leaving.

You watched the three conversate.

Stephanie's horrified expression, and then that solemn yet understanding look.

"Is it true? You weren't able to express all of this when with her?" You pointed to Stephanie. Yes, of course you were jealous of the blonde in some capacity. She had you're beloved first, and call you bloodthirsty but the thought of anyone with him made your blood boil.

Tim huffed and sighed, "Yeah. She was normal girl for the most part. I mean I practically stalked B, so..." He whispered. Stuffing his mouth with some well-done steak.

"And it is you that I'm allowed to be my true self, [ ]." His thumb caressed your chin. Wiping away sauce from your lips. "My one and only who's accepted my strange ways."

You laughed darkly, "I hope so. I wonder if one day I won't be so harmless anymore, especially if you ever leave." Dangerously you're hand rested on the knife that was used to cut your own steak.

"Never my dear. But maybe we can explore that fantasy else where." Tim teased. His own glinting in the yellow light above you both.

"In bed I presume?" Blood from a medium done steak bled out. You're knife expertly slicing through. Glaring eyes that didn't move away from Tim as you did so.

"Perhaps. May have to sneak into the mansion for that and avoid conversations, but we always have you're bed my dear."

"I'd like that. I would also like to avoid a conversation. We both know how we love is extremely different and less strange." You're cheek puffed out as you chewed. Tim laughed lightly.

"I love that we're strange. My entire family is strange, and this isn't as bad as the Joker being, well, the Joker." He scoffed at the words of the clown. You only laughed before sipping you're drink.

"You got that. It's not everyday you see a couple mutually stalking each other."

"It's a mutual thing for us, isn't it dear?"

[astraeasworld]

PRETTY WOMAN ( Bruce wayne )

summary: On a night of boredom and emotional frustration, Bruce decides to take a different path back home and ends up meeting a pretty woman.

pairing: Bruce wayne x fem! reader

part one - part two

open request - dc masterlist

Star City was a city that never slept, filled with crime, injustice, and a bustling nightlife. The city's power was so great that insomnia was part of the air, infecting everyone.

Bruce Wayne, the millionaire playboy who usually strolled the streets at night as his other self, was now roaming the city without the elements that allowed him to be himself. He didn't have his suit, his cape, his mask, or his tools to fight injustice. He only had himself.

That same night Bruce had fled like a child from that charity gala, surrounded by corrupt and detestable people, he was stressed out just thinking about spending time with them, feigning interest and wasting his valuable time, all of which had pushed him to drive aimlessly through the wet streets of the East End.

And it was by fate that he stopped at a traffic light, then it was under a flickering streetlight that he saw you.

You wore black patent leather boots that rose to your mid-thighs, fishnet stockings that barely protected your legs from the cold, and a tight red vinyl dress that shimmered in the rain like part of the decadent neon lighting up the street. A knot of white fabric outlined your waist, improvising a cropped blouse that revealed your abdomen. Your makeup was striking, maybe too much so: perfect red lips, dark eyeliner, mascara that had smudged slightly with age. But even so, there was an undeniable beauty about you. Raw. Real. A beauty that didn't ask for permission.

Your hair was a bit messy from the humidity, but you didn't seem bothered. You held a small silver purse in one hand, and with the other, you played with the gum you were chewing slowly, as if nothing could touch you... even though your eyes said otherwise.

Your eyes. They weren't those of a broken woman, but rather those of someone who had learned to survive in a world that didn't offer many options. You looked at everything with a mixture of defiance and resignation, as if you expected the worst, but still dared fate to try.

The traffic light remained red, and although time seemed to have stopped, the city itself hadn't. In the distance, a police car turned around the corner, the sound of a motorcycle engine broke the silence, and the lights of a motel sign flickered as if trying to keep the rest of the night alive.

Bruce couldn't take his eyes off you.

You felt his gaze fixed on you, and without haste, as if you'd been through it all before, you peeled yourself away from the wall where you were leaning. The heels of your boots thumped firmly on the wet asphalt as you approached slowly, with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what effect they were having.

One step. Two. Your hips swayed to the rhythm of a silent melody, one only the streets knew. You stopped right next to her window, leaning slightly, letting the reflection of your figure blend with the rain and fogged up glass.

You gently tapped the edge of the window with a fingernail. "Are you going to stand there staring at me like I'm a painting... or are you going to invite me in, handsome?"

"Is everything okay?" he asked, his deep voice breaking the damp silence of the street.

You turned around without a start, as if you'd been expecting the question. You leaned against the passenger door, letting your hips form a slight, provocative curve.

"I'm fine." You paused, then added with a defiant air, "But I'd feel better if you invited me up with you, handsome."

Bruce didn't respond immediately. He just watched you. Not like the men who spent every night looking for easy companionship. There wasn't empty lust in his eyes, but something far more dangerous: real interest. Curiosity.

His fingers tapped the steering wheel subtly, as if he were considering all the reasons why he shouldn't let you in and finding them insufficient.

"And what would you do if I invited you?" he finally asked, a half-smile barely curving his lips.

You leaned in a little closer, lowering your voice, flirtatious, confident, letting yourself be carried away by the game you knew so well. "It depends on how long the walk lasts. "

Your words hung in the air like cigar smoke, slow and heavy with innuendo. You stood there, squinting at him, waiting. Testing him.

Bruce turned his face toward the windshield for a moment. Perhaps evaluating what he would do. Perhaps remembering that this wasn't his world and that if they found out, it would be a scandal, but still, something about you attracted him; he needed to quell that feeling.

With a soft sigh, he clicked the door lock.

The click was as soft as the rustle of a secret.

"Get in," he said without looking at you. "But I don't promise it'll last more than a few blocks."

"Oh, honey," you replied as you opened the door. "I've never needed more than a few blocks, I assure you."

You slipped inside with the grace of someone who'd learned to navigate any situation. The sweet, cheap perfume you wore mingled with the luxurious leather of the car, creating a perfect paradox. You crossed your legs slowly, staring out the window as if you didn't care at all about the man next to you... even though you hadn't stopped staring at him since you arrived.

Bruce started the car. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Because in that first glance, in the rain, with the flashing lights of Gotham as the only witness, they both knew the real journey was just beginning.

The engine roared softly as the car glided through the soaked streets of Gotham. The city gleamed in the rain, dirty and beautiful, like a blood-stained jewel. The silence inside the car was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was expectant.

You played with a strand of hair, watching the reflection of the headlights on the glass, still studying Bruce out of the corner of your eye. He was focused on the road, his knuckles digging into the steering wheel, his jaw tense. He wasn't like the others. He didn't speak, didn't ask questions. He didn't need to. And that, somehow, made him even more tempting.

"You have beautiful hands," you said suddenly, your voice soft but firm, letting the compliment float through the air like a caress. "Did you know that?"

Bruce didn't respond.

You turned your body slightly towards him, getting just a little closer, letting the red fabric of your dress stretch with the movement.

"I bet you could do some really interesting things," you added as your hand began to slowly slide down her arm, traveling purposefully towards his large thigh.

But before you could reach it, his hand caught yours firmly. Not roughly. But clearly.

"No." It was a single word, sharp and precise.

Your eyebrows rose slightly, more surprised than offended. You watched him for a second, then let out a small, soft, unhurried laugh, as if this, rather than a deterrent, were a mystery that piqued your curiosity.

"I think you're a little tense, huh?" you murmured, withdrawing your hand without any drama, resting it on your knee. "Don't worry, I'll help you."

You turned toward the window, watching the city slip by outside like a wet dream. Your lips were still curved in a crooked smile, like someone who hadn't finished playing yet.

Bruce didn't respond. He just tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles tense under the dashboard light. His eyes remained fixed on the road, as if he were contemplating what to do with you.

"Do you always drive so quietly?" you asked lightly. "Because if I charged you by the mile instead of the hour, you'd already owe me a pretty penny."

A smile curved your lips. He didn't see it, but he heard it. Bruce turned his head briefly toward you. A glance, no more. Assessing. Almost mechanical.

"Do you always talk this much?" he finally asked, without emotion.

You laughed, with your eyes. "They don't usually let me talk much when I get in a car."

A pause. Another poorly lit street. Bruce slowed as he reached an intersection, scanning signs as if he expected the city to speak to him. It wasn't. Star City, with its humidity and murky glare, was foreign to him.

"You're not from here, are you?" you asked, lowering your voice slightly. "You're driving like you're looking for an exit."

He didn't respond, but the corner of his mouth tightened, as if the truth bothered him more than he cared to admit.

"Hotel?" you insisted, tilting your head with a mischievous smile. "Or are you just letting fate take you there?"

Bruce clenched his jaw. Then, without looking at you, "Harbor Grand. Do you know him?"

Your eyes sparkled a little. “Of course, handsome. And you’re going in the wrong direction. But don’t worry… I’ll drive you.”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his expression unchanged. And without arguing, he turned the next corner.

“Fine,” you murmured, settling into your seat with a theatrical sigh. “First rule when you’re not from Star City: don’t trust the GPS. Second… trust me.”

The car resumed its journey, gliding through deserted avenues glistening with rain. The drops hit the windshield with a hypnotic rhythm, and for a moment, all that was heard was the city breathing through the glass.

You studied her profile. It was elegant even in its rigidity. Elegant in a dangerous way, like a secret that doesn't yet know it wants to be revealed.

"Did you come for business or pleasure?" you asked, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate slowness.

Bruce didn't turn his head this time. He kept his eyes straight ahead. "On business," he said simply.

The city began to change around them, becoming more tidy, more expensive. They were now nearing the hotel district. Golden lights, marble entrances, doormen with umbrellas.

"One street left," you said, nodding briefly. "After the traffic light."

The light turned green. The car moved forward slowly and stopped in front of the Harbor Grand. The revolving doors gleamed in the rain, and a valet approached with an umbrella, but Bruce didn't get out. He turned off the engine. Again, that moment of pause. That tense stillness.

Then, for the first time, he turned his body slightly towards you.

"Do you want to come up?" he asked. It wasn't a gentle invitation. It was curt, unadorned. Practical.

Your eyebrows rose in theatrical surprise, as if you hadn't seen the question coming, even though you'd been expecting it since they turned the corner. "You finally relaxed."

You quickly got out of the car, as if the rain were part of your scenery and not a nuisance. The valet approached with the umbrella, but you didn't even look at him. You walked toward the entrance without looking back.

Bruce watched you for a moment. Then he got out of the car and followed you.

When you entered the lobby you walked through it as if it were a catwalk. The plush carpet beneath your heels squeaked louder than it should have. Or maybe it was just the way everyone was looking at you.

Your short, sparkly red dress didn't fit into that world of gray suits and modest ties. But you didn't seem to notice. Or worse: you seemed to enjoy it. you walked with your head held high, as if that place belonged to you.

Bruce, at your side, paused for a second before crossing the hall. Without saying anything, he took off his jacket and, without much ceremony, placed it on your shoulders.

"What are you doing?" you asked with a surprised chuckle, but without rejecting the gesture.

—If you're going to attract attention, let it be for the company. Not for the lack of fabric...

The receptionist looked up as soon as he saw them. His smile was quick, but not convincing enough to hide the automatic scan he performed on you from head to toe. Bruce said nothing. He just looked at him as if that would cut off any further comment.

"Reservation in Wayne's name, he said."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne. Presidential Suite. It's ready."

The bellboy appeared silently and took the keys. You stood still for a moment, looking around with sparkling eyes.

"All this just for you?" you asked, turning to him with a flirtatious smile. "What a waste."

The Harbor Grand's presidential suite was as over-the-top as you'd expect. Thick carpets, heavy drapes, a private bar in the back, and huge windows that showcased the city like a painting. Everything sparkled. Everything looked expensive.

Bruce entered first, dropped his keys on the marble table, and took off his jacket—the same one he'd lent you minutes ago—hanging it neatly over the back of a chair. Then he loosened his tie, letting out a soft sigh. As if he could finally let go of his armor.

"Whiskey, wine...?" he asked without looking at you, opening the small bar.

"I don't drink at work," you replied with a soft smile, leaving your purse on an armchair and hanging your jacket on the coat rack.

He nodded briefly and poured a whiskey just for himself. He leaned on the edge of the bar, sipping in silence. Then you approached, your steps slower, the smile still on your lips, but your eyes on him. On how his shirt was barely loosening. On how, despite his rigidity, there was something vulnerable, almost broken, behind his perfect shoulders.

You sat on the arm of the nearest chair, casually crossing your legs, and gave him a mischievous look. "You can relax, you know? It's not like I'm going to do anything you don't like."

Bruce looked at you then, direct, but without a trace of desire. Analytical. Almost... comfortable.

You moved even closer to him, leaving him with no personal space once you sat on his lap with your legs on either side, while nuzzling his chest.

"I don't want... that," he said, without raising his voice, but with a firmness that wasn't rejection, but decision.

Your eyebrows raised in surprise. “You know I charge for time, right?”

Bruce placed the glass on the bar with a soft clink, walking a couple of steps towards you, stopping at a carefully measured distance. "I see you have a problem with time," he said, with that cutting calm that seemed to envelop everything. "So let's solve it."

"Does that seem right to me?" you replied, a little joking, a little defiant.

"How much for the whole night?"

The silence stretched slightly. Your lips parted, as if you didn't believe I'd meant it. "Stay here? You couldn't afford it."

He raised an eyebrow. The confidence in his voice didn't need volume. "Try me."

"Three hundred dollars," you said, with a practiced gesture of indifference.

"Done" he replied, without a second's hesitation.

Holy crap. i should have asked for more.

"Get comfortable, relax a little"

You didn't say much as you took off your shoes and settled into one of the oversized armchairs, crossing your legs beneath you. Bruce had found the remote for the entertainment system and was leisurely browsing through the titles. He sat next to you, not too close, but not too far either.

"Do you have a preference?" he asked, without looking at you.

"I like old movies. Black and white, maybe," you said, because for some reason you felt like you were going to impress him if you gave an unexpected answer.

Minutes later, the giant screen lit up the room with the flickering light of an old-school movie, To Have and Have Not. Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall filled the room with subdued tension and looks that spoke volumes.

You were looking at the screen, but you were also glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. How his shoulders were slowly slumping. How his profile, so stern before, now seemed more human. Younger. More tired, You had felt his heavy gaze on you more than once while you were concentrating on watching the movie.

So yu adjusted yourself, reaching out for him as if you were doing it unintentionally, your knee barely brushing his.

"You know what? Could you stop looking at me sideways and kiss me already?" you whispered in his ear softly.

He barely turned his face toward you. And this time, he didn't say anything.

Your lips met in a slow, unhurried kiss. One that didn't seem like part of the deal, but something that simply had to happen. Bruce kissed you like someone who didn't do it often, but who remembered how it felt to do it right. With weight. With intention.

And you, without realizing it, were already in his lap. Your hands were searching for the edges of his pants and the belt, while his hands ran down your back with a dangerous calm.

Morning crept softly through the heavy curtains, and the murmur of the city was barely a distant echo. Bruce sat on the edge of the bed, his torso bare, his cell phone pressed to his ear, his gaze fixed on the immaculate carpet.

"I understand," he said quietly into the phone. "A pretty girl. no, don't worry, i have one already ."

He hung up without further ado. His jaw tightened for a second, and then he smiled. Because suddenly, the solution was in the hotel room bathtub, softly singing a song he didn't recognize, but that sounded too good to ignore.

She approached the half-open bathroom door. Steam perfumed the air. The dim light outlined your silhouette reclining in the foam.

"Hey... morning" he walked into the bathroom slowly.

"Oh good morning, sorry I stayed, but I saw the tub and I couldn't doubt it."

"Don't worry, I hope you're enjoying it," he shared a soft look. "I have a business proposition for you," he said, arms crossed in the doorway. "Stay with me for a week."

You looked at him over your shoulder, eyebrow raised, as he followed your body through the water, taking in every detail of your skin glistening from the warm water.

"Okay...? But if we're talking about twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, it's going to cost you, you know?"

Bruce stepped away from the frame and approached, with that measured calm that seemed to be his even before he was born. He sat on the edge of the tub, smiling crookedly.

"Okay. Tell me how much. A ballpark figure would be good."

"Let me think... six nights, for six hundred dollars... make that four thousand," she said, with a gesture of false innocence and bubbles sliding down her shoulders.

He laughed low, a short sound, and shook his head.

"Ten thousand dollars for the full six days, and I'll pay you what you charge per night, multiplied by seven. And I'll cover everything you need. Clothes, hotel, whatever. Executive style."

She sat up a little, revealing more skin than Bruce intended to see… but he couldn't help himself.

"It's not true!" you exclaim exited as you sank completely into the tub.

You had found the goose that laid the golden eggs, none of the girls would believe you later.

[astraeasworld]

I was just gone for 1-3 days to get ready for school ( my start of classes is close😔 ), and there's a whole new issue in the batfam community (@luv-lock or whatever). we just survived the ai witch hunt ( I heard she came back again for a part 2 but deactivated again. Let's thank God for that ). Why can't people just be good people. 😭

[astraeasworld]

On October 22, 2023, an airstrike destroyed the house I was in — my grandfather’s home. It was the heart of our family.

I was there with my mother, my sister, and my three younger brothers.

When the missile hit, everything turned to smoke, blood, and silence.

My mother and sister were killed instantly.

My brothers and I were pulled from the rubble, injured — but alive.

Moments later, my father arrived at the hospital.

He didn’t know if any of us had survived. He ran through the halls, searching.

Al Jazeera Mubasher filmed that exact moment — the moment he found us.

This video isn’t easy to watch. But it’s the truth.

It’s the moment my father found his sons alive…

and learned that his wife and daughter were gone.

source:

https://www.instagram.com/share/_qqk5pMrz

I’m sharing this not to cause pain, but because I want people to understand what we’ve lived through.

This isn’t just a story. It’s our life.

It’s the moment that changed everything.

I’m still here. I’m trying to raise my brothers now.

We are trying to rebuild something from what was taken.

If you can help — even with a share — thank you

And if you just watched this, thank you for witnessing.

[astraeasworld]

─⋅⋆⁺𖤐

BREAKFAST AND GOODBYES

Damian Wayne x Constantine! Reader

A/N: First Part. Breakfast with the Waynes! I'm building their relationship, let me cook. Damian and reader are around 19, Fem reader. 1.4K.

Damian sits at his desk, listening to the sound of the shower and your soft humming coming from his bathroom.

The last few hours were very much not how he expected the night to go. He didn’t expect Constantine’s spawn herself to show up on his balcony bleeding out. He didn’t expect to give her over a dozen stitches, let her sleep on his bed, use his shower and wear his clothes. He certainly didn’t expect her to be invited to breakfast with almost his entire family present.

It’s fine. He’s Damian Wayne. He’s gone through worse.

The door to his bathroom creaks open and you step out in a gust of steam. Since your clothes are more blood and dirt than cloth, you’ve chosen to wear a pair of his sweatpants and a stupid Robin T-shirt Dick gave him that he’s never worn.

“I feel spoilt Dames, Is this how you treat all your patients or just the pretty ones?”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, watching you flop down on his bed. You look much better than you did a few hours ago and he doesn’t know why that lifts such a weight from his shoulders.

“So how’s Goliath? Haven't seen that big guy in forever.”

The unexpected question doesn't faze him.

"He is fine. I set him free on Lazarus island.”

You sit up a little to look at him better.

“You let him go?”

Maybe you’re overstepping a little but it’s a fair question.

“Just because he’s not here doesn’t mean he’s gone. Real bonds don’t fray with time or distance, even with dragon-bat creatures.”

He makes the mistake of looking at you after he says that, seeing the look on your face as you gaze at him while absentmindedly touching your stitches. He should chastise you for that but he just clicks his tongue and tries to go back to reading his book. A futile effort.

You breathe in deeply before sitting up,

“Well, it would be rude to keep Alfred waiting. What’s for breakfast?”

─⋅⋆⁺.

Apparently everything.

You have to swallow the drool pooling in your mouth as you stare at the ridiculous amount of food set out on the massive dining room table. You can't even remember the last time you had a proper full breakfast.

The sound of utensils clinking on porcelain stalls slightly when you arrive. You do a headcount of all the bats present; Dick, Cass, Tim, Steph and Duke. Damian takes the seat next to Cass, leaving a seat for you right next to where Bruce sits at the end of the table, reading the newspaper with a mug of coffee. God, could he act more dad-like?

“Hey, Bruce. Long time, no see.”

“Y/n, Nice to have you join us today.”

There’s an implied question in there that you choose not to ignore.

“Right. Well, just thought I’d stop by, y’know.”

You can feel Damian's eyes roll at the piss poor answer you just gave but you’d like to see him choke up something better. Dick leans forward, elbows on the table and asks,

“And just how often do you do that?”

You ignore his imploring stare and give a longing look at the breakfast spread.

“Clearly not enough. May I?”

You ask Bruce, and he nods his head, motioning towards the food.

“Of course.”

You sit yourself down and waste absolutely no time stuffing your face with almost every type of food within reach; eggs, bacon, hash browns, french toast, sausages, pancakes, bagels, scones, some other sides you probably can’t pronounce the name of.

You’re so busy in your mission to full your stomach that you don’t notice the mental war game going on between Dick and Damian.

Damian stares him down, fork stabbing into his eggs, a warning. Dick looks just about ready to burst, a million questions building up in his head, waiting to spill out.

“Ok, I can’t do it! What exactly is going on here?”

You look at him blankly, chewing a mouthful of syrupy pancakes. You give a small, “hmm?”

“Why are we all acting like this is normal?”

He looks over to his other siblings, who offer no assistance besides knowing glances and stifled laughs. They’re all very content to watch him find the answers to their burning questions, offering him up like a sacrifice to the Demon’s son. Damian sighs woefully, aiming an accusing look at you,

“Why couldn’t you show up when he was in Bludhaven?”

Bold of him to think you wouldn’t delight in making this even harder for him.

“Well, he wasn’t here last time, Babe.”

“Last time?! Babe?!”

You almost choke on your laugh as Alfred sighs at the eldest son’s ill mannered volume. Damian groans,

“Don’t make it worse, he’s too stupid to know when he’s being fooled.”

Dick looks at him confused and when he notices the quirk in Bruce’s lips being his coffee mug, he understands.

“You’re messing with me.”

He points an accusatory fork at you, to which you shrug. He sits back in his chair, eyeing the both of you.

“Oh, you’re perfect for each other.”

He swiftly dodges the fork Damian throws at his head. Alfred sighs again, stepping away to retrieve it from the wall.

Slathering a generous amount of butter on your croissant, you turn to Bruce.

“So hows that demon ward on The Batcave holding up? I can replenish it before I leave.”

Bruce looks up from his newspaper to address you fully. You resist the urge to look away, it’s always a little nerve racking to have The Batman’s full attention on you.

“The candle is still burning, no demonic related incidents since you put it up. It should be fine for now. If there is a problem, I’m sure Damian will be happy to get ahold of you.”

You break eye contact then. Clearing your throat, you nod in confirmation, looking down at your suddenly very interesting plate, like you’re only now noticing how pretty the porcelain is.

You pretend not to see Bruce’s small smile, or Damian’s tight grip on his fork. You pretend not to feel both Dick and Tim’s smug grins or hear Steph and Duke's childish snickering from four chairs down.

Most of breakfast is uneventful. It’s nice to just sit and listen to the small talk, to see what a real family looks like. Nobody asks about your father or why you scratch at your waist every now and then.

Bruce does tentatively ask if you’ll be staying in Gotham for a while, and you answer him,

“No, after this I should head back home. There are portals in every city if you know where to look, usually the cemeteries.”

Thankfully, nobody questions why you can’t just teleport back home, maybe because they don’t want to have to ask where exactly home is for you right now.

Alfred does offer you a chauffeur and you accept that graciously, not really wanting to walk around Gotham in Damian’s pajamas and your only surviving clothes; your old brown coat and converse.

After saying your goodbyes and thank yous to the family, Damian walks you to the front door, stepping out and closing it behind him. The way he looks when he turns his full attention to you, for some reason, reminds you of Bruce.

“Next time you visit, I would rather it be as a friend, not a patient.”

Your mind stutters when processing those words.

“Next time?”

He sighs a little, annoyance clear on his face as he looks out at the garden trying, and failing, to ignore the widening grin on your face as you lean forward.

“It almost sounds like you like having me around.”

It's not a question, it's an observation. He bristles.

“You came to me bleeding out. Took up my bed, my bathroom, my clothes.”

You lean in a little closer, taking the opportunity to make things worse.

“Well, when you sum it all up like that, Dicks theories really don’t sound so unrealistic.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Constantine.”

You chuckle. At least he looks you in the eyes when he says it. Standing a little too close now, you watch his demeanor, knowing you’ll miss it once you’re gone.

You also hear the shuffling and whispers from behind the door. Figures moving from behind the pretty front windows.

“Your entire family is watching from the windows.” You whisper to him, to which he answers through gritted teeth.

“Yes, I know.”

You huff a laugh and, not one to overstay a welcome or prolong a goodbye, you start backing away.

“I’ll call you.”

Your mind stutters on that one too, how does he keep doing that? You raise a skeptical brow.

“You will?”

“Yes.”

No further explanation, as if none was needed, as if it was silly of you to even ask for one.

You nod at the very Damian-like answer and after another moment, one last good look at his face, you turn on your heels and start down the stairs, towards the fancy black car and chauffeur.

“See ya around!”

Damian watches you go and hopes to all hell you didn't hear the various disappointed groans from behind the door, especially not Dick's,

“Aw, What the hell! I thought for sure they were gonna kiss!”

Damian sighs and rubs his forehead, this migraine is going to last for months.

─⋅⋆⁺𖤐

[astraeasworld]

─⋅⋆⁺𖤐

BLOOD AND CHANGE

Damian Wayne x Constantine! Reader

A/N: Part 2! Damian stitches up a wounded Constantine. They're like 18-19, Fem reader, Alfred's alive wdym haha?

Damian's eyes are open before the second rap on the doors to his balcony.

The katana he keeps under his bed is in his hand by the third. He stalks closer on quiet feet like the assassin he's trained to be.

Who could've possibly evaded the manor's security systems, scaled the wall to his bedroom, and all without alerting any of the vigilantes living inside.

No matter. He's Damian Wayne. He can handle anything this mystery person can throw at him.

His hand stalls on the balcony's door handle before violently throwing it open...

And there you are, slumped on the stone railing, covered in blood, clutching your torso where the white dress shirt is dripping red.

You give him a tired grin, shooting a finger gun at him (with the hand not clutching your bloody wound)

“What's cooking, good looking?”

Damian lowers his katana and clicks his tongue,

“Constantine.”

His eyes never leave your wound, assessing just how bad the damage is. He can smell the iron from where he stands. It's been awhile since you've seen eachother, you don't exactly make a habit of visiting very often, which makes this situation even stranger.

“Are we just gonna stare longingly at each other or are you going to let me in?”

He clicks his tongue again but steps aside so you can gracefully stumble inside his room.

“I will get Pennyworth, he-”

You swiftly interrupt him,

“What, you can't do it yourself? I heard you wanted to be a doctor or something.”

He skips asking how you know that to argue,

“That doesn't mean I'll just- ”

You interrupt him again,

“I can't heal it myself Damian, I spent all my energy just getting here so you could heal it. Letting a patient bleed out isn't a very good way to start your whole doctor thing.”

You hiss as you sit down on his too-big bed while Damian walks off to his bathroom, muttering curses in a language you understand better than he knows.

─⋅⋆⁺.

The wound looks much worse in the harsh light of the desk lamp Damian’s forcing you to hold at a very specific angle. You lie at the foot of his bed, brown coat discarded, buttons of your dress shirt unbuttoned up your torso, just enough for him to do his work.

He kneels at the end of the bed, emergency med kit next to him. He's still grumbling as he preps the needle while you help sanitize the bloody area.

“So the doctor thing... it's true then? I thought you liked being Robin.”

Your voice is soft, almost unsure, neither of you acknowledge it. You shiver when he smears cold topical anaesthetic around the wound.

“I need to know who I am when I'm not trying to be him…or trying to not be her.”

You both let that sit heavy in the air. Direct and blunt, as he always is.

He glares at your wound while piercing the needle in and out of numb flesh. You stare distractedly at the expensive looking ceiling.

“You could try it too... I know you feel the same way about him.”

His words startle you out of your trance. You look down at him with furrowed brows, his green eyes never stray from his work. You scoff,

“Oh yeah? And do what? Be a circus magician like Zatanna? Not all of us were getting medical degree knowledge by the age of 10, Wayne.”

Did you admire Zatanna’s talents? Of course, but you're no showman. You're a demonologist. Someone who does the dirty work that no one else can. It's unforgiving and often feels futile, but someone has to do it…Right?

Damian gently tugs the thread coming out of your flesh before cutting it.

“We both know how much you respect Zatanna, and we both know you could do any number of things with your life that isn't this."

He gestures to your freshly stitched waist.

"You don't have to do this just because it's what you've always done, or because it's expected. You can do anything you want.”

He doesn't say this in an encouraging way. He says it like it's obvious, like he's frustrated that you haven't figured this out yet or maybe that it took him so long to figure it out himself.

The air feels thick, Damian is used to the smell of blood, but the sight and feel of yours on his fingertips is not something he'd like to get used to.

“…You just wanna see me in fishnets.”

Damian's head shoots up from where he was applying the gauze over your stitches. He scoffs scornfully when he sees your satisfied grin and presses harder than necessary on the gauze which he immediately regrets when you groan a bit too loudly.

A single solitary moment later you hear three polite knocks on Damian's ridiculously big bedroom door.

“Master Damian, are you alright?”

Alfred. How did neither of you hear him walking up to the door? Both you and Damian stare at each other, completely lost for what to do. Though he's trained for countless situations, you doubt he's ever thought of what to do if he got caught with a girl in his room. On his bed with her shirt halfway up her torso, no less.

“I'm fine, Alfred.”

You pause a little at him calling Alfred by his first name, but he just stares at the door like he can will Alfred away with his gaze. You try to lift yourself up, so you can maybe hide in the closet or something but Damian pushes you down gently by your shoulders, giving you a stern look. Right, he's not about to let all his stitch work get undone.

“Lovely, and is Miss Constantine alright?”

You both freeze. Damian's hands still on your shoulders, you look at each other with shock, fear, embarrassment and a shared understanding that you didn't hear him walk up to the door because the old butler had been there the whole time.

The minute-long silence is broken when you burst out laughing, before clutching your wound and groaning. Damian watches you with a scowl on his face, which is tinted a more reddish colour, like he'd been trying to hold his breath too long.

“I'll be just fine, Alfred. Thanks for asking.”

Damian clicks his tongue once more as he packs up his med kit.

“Oh good, I will set up another chair for you at breakfast, Miss Constantine. It's been awhile since you've visited the manor, much has changed since your last visit.”

You give Damian a questioning smile, to which he rolls his eyes.

“Sure has.”

─⋅⋆⁺𖤐

[astraeasworld]

-–☆⁂☕︎Hacked☕︎⁂☆–--

~♡~ Part 2 ~♡~

After, like almost 250 likes on part one (omg) I have finally written part 2. Enjoy.

[tim drake] [part 2] [slow burn] [mlw] [damian wayne is a cutie patootie] [x reader] [fluff] [reader has glasses] [tim has glasses] [yearning!tim] [cutesy!tim] [awkward nerd!tim]

The silence stretches as Tim stares at you.

"His ward?"

"No, Timothy, his secret love child with Joker. Yes, his ward. He isn't completely heartless." You say. You making Tim look stupid caused Damian to take a liking to you.

"I like you. Make Drake look stupid again." He said, which got ignored when Tim spoke up.

"I– but– HUH??" He was having am existential crisis right now. He rubbed his temples before his brain exploded.

You offered to talk about it over lunch. It was a date. (With Damian poking your arm and asking you to make Tim look stupid again, but a date nonetheless).

>>—♡—>

"So, Sionis is your...?" Tim started as she sipped a hot chocolate.

"Adoptive father. Joker killed my biological parents and Sionis took me in as a 'fuck you' to Joker. But I grew up well. I mean I'm an engineering student. But Sionis is... thoughtful." The tone in your voice told Tim that he was not to push for more information, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Why were you following me, though. You do that to all the girls you hack or am I special?" You ask.

A smile graces Tim's lips. "No, just a regular day in life of Tim The Stalker."

Damian gagged. "You suck at flirting."

"Says the 9 year old who was rejected for the spring dance." Tim shoots back, and Damian stabs a fork into his thigh, not cutting flesh, but hurting him.

"Fuck." He whispers as he presses a hand over his thigh.

"I told you never to speak of it." Damian seethes, clearly it was a soft spot.

"Aw, kiddo. I'll go with you." You smile.

"Pardon?"

"I'll take you to the spring dance. Mine is too lame anyways." It was true, but the dejected pook in the 9 year oldest eyes makes your heart clench.

"Really?" Damian asks, confused as to why a beautiful young woman like you would want to go to a third grader's spring dance.

"Yeah."

>>—♡—>

And that's what happened. That Friday, a dapper 9 year old knocks on your front door at 6pm sharp. You open the door and you're in a cute floral dress appropriate for a primary school dance. Damian smiles with a few missing teeth at you. Alfred, in the car gives a small wave.

Damian gives you a single tulip flower. "Drake said they are your favourite. I hope you like it." He says. You smile and take the flower.

"Thank you, damian, I love it."

You look behind you as Roman Sionis stands there. Being a protective father figure, and wanting to tease the kid, he walked up.

"You better not break her heart, hear me boy?" Black Mask says. Damian nods, tempted to take his sword out and behead the man.

"Yes, sir." He says instead. Sionis kisses you on the head and let's you go enjoy your night.

"Miss, I am Alfred Pennyworth. It is lovely to meet you." The older man says.

"Hi, Alfred." You wave warmly. Damian sees what Drake sees in you. You're warm, fuzzy, chirpy and smiley.

>>—♡—>

The gym of the primary school is lit with neon lights and 10 year olds in the corner trying to act cool with gummy worm cigarettes. You take Damian's small hand and guides him to the dance floor.

"Father never taught me to dance," he admits sheepishly.

"Thats okay. I'll teach you a simple waltz." You say as you take his two hands. You slowly step forwards with your right foot, causing Damian's left foot to go backwards. The dancing teaching takes about 10 minutes until you've managed to teach him the gist of it. Soon, you're dancing with the 9 year old and you realise that this was so much funner than your stupid senior dance anyway.

Damian smiles and fetches you hors d'oeuvres. He's fancy like that.

"Drake has a very big crush on you. Like dinosaur big." He says before shoving a mini-burger into his mouth.

"Really?" You ask, not surprised, per se, but rather delighted.

"Mhm. He once spent over 30 minutes getting ready for a 'fit check' he sent you. He's pathetic." Damian muttered.

You smile as you think back to the random photos he sends. The ones that you look forward to seeing.

"I can see why he likes you. You are very kind and beautiful." He says it matter-of-factly, as though telling an simple fact rather than he, himself, finding you attractive.

"Aww, you're too cute, Damian." You smile.

"You made Drake look stupid. I suppose you are 'cute' as well. Did you enjoy the evening? Did I made an adequate 'date'?" He asks. You nod.

"You were lovely. 5 stars. Who rejected you?" You ask.

Damian turned pink as he subtly points to a ginger girl on the dancefloor who was dancing with a blonde boy who kept looking over at the two of you like he envied the guy who brought a highschooler. "Her. She's really pretty and compliments my drawings." He murmurs.

"Its okay. You'll find someone." You pull Damian into your side. Damian stiffens, but doesn't move away.

"Drake is quite lucky." Is all he says as the two of you walk out to the car.

"It is quite early, would you like to stay for some tea or perhaps some warm milk?" Damian offered. You spot Tim watching you from his bedroom window on the 2nd floor.

"Why not?" You say as you step inside.

As Damian gets washed and dressed for bed, you sitt in the dining room with a cup of tea as Tim walked in.

"Hey." He said. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?? HEY??? HEY???? WHY DID YOU SAY IT LIKE THAT. He internally panics.

"Hey, stalker." You reply.

"How was the dance?" He asks. "Did bat brat give you any trouble?"

"He was actually so sweet. He told me you had a big crush on me. Like dinosaur." You laugh.

"Who wouldn't? You're beautiful and kind." Tim says it in the same tone as Damian had said it, but with a hint of something extra.

"You think I'm pretty?" You ask as you walk closer to Tim.

"So pretty." He whispers once you're close enough. He brushes some of your hair from your face. "You look stunning by the way. May I have this dance?" He asks.

"You may."

Tim takes your hand, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it before bowing and beginning to dance the waltz flawlessly.

"You dance very well." You comment.

"Rich parents kinda means lots of Galas and lots of dancing. But thank you, you too." He says as he spins you around, your skirt flowing with the motion.

No music plays, but your heart flutters with each movement. Tim is internally celebrating that he is not only dancing with a pretty girl, but that pretty girl is you.

His lip moves between his teeth as he spins you, trying to contain his smile. His heart stops entirely when you press your lips to his when the spin comes to an end.

And he melts. His hands find purchase on your waist as he softly pulled you closer. The world stops and it's just the two of you, in the carpeted living room, Tim in a dress shirt, red sweater vest and trousers, no shoes, mismatch socks and you in all your stunning glory in that dress.

"Would it be considered Stockholm syndrome to kiss my stalker." You whisper once the kiss ended.

"Even if it would, I tend to have a thing for the mentally ill." Tim says, trying to hide his breathlessness that came from his heart racing. Real smooth. About as smooth as low tide's jagged rocks.

"Weirdo."

"I could be your weirdo. If you'll have me that is, if you won't, that totally fine—" You cut him off with another kiss, to which he promptly melts again, his hand splaying across the bare skin of your back, exposed by the backless dress you wore.

Alfred walked in with young Damian holding his hand, who glared at Tim.

"Pardon the interruption, Miss and Master Timothy, but young Master Damian wished to bid his date a good night." Alfred said.

You crouched in front of Damian who was in green lizard pyjamas. "Night, Damian. You were a lovely date and don't worry, I'm pretty sure that ginger girl isn't worth it anyway." You say, making Damian crack a smile.

"Get home safe." He concluded before pressing his little lips to your cheek, to which you returned the chaste gesture. Damian went up the stairs and Tim looked at you as you rose back to standing.

"Do i have to be worried about competition?" Tim teased.

>>—♡—>

"Where's the young boy?" Roman Sionis asked as Tim dropped you off at your house.

"He had a bed time. I wanted to escort the lovely lady home." Tim said. You kissed Tim on the cheek, causing a lovesick gleam to glaze over his blue eyes.

"Thanks, Stalker." You smile sweetly and walk into the house. Black Mask looks at Tim with narrowed eyes, sure he's seen the boy *somewhere* before, but unable to place it.

"Enjoy your evening, boy." The door shut. But that didnt stop Tim from going home and grinning like an idiot. Steph looked at him like he was a lunatic. Damian did not spill information, but he did smile every time he saw the picture of the two of you at the spring dance, you much taller that him, in your pretty dress and makeup. The photo was framed and hidden in his desk drawer.

Tags: @jedidiah1201 @stormz369

[astraeasworld]

†  patience with a fragile heart : tim.

⋆˙⟡ "You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person I have ever known - and even that is an understatement"

⋆˙⟡ request: this is not one. ↦ kalico note: my return will be slow. i am doing my best. do not rush or push me, please. this is not a full return.. this is simply a vent; a projection. ( there's a shit ton of mistakes in this. it's 2am. i'm not beta'ing it. ) my ability to transition time when you aren't moving, like passing time in the moment, is trash.

4:15 am

that's what the stove read as you passed the kitchen, arms crossed. the apartment was quiet, a common thing, but it was quiet in a way that only came at such hours - like time itself was suspended. it was the type of quiet that made you aware of the refrigerator's hum, the clocks tick - even that annoying, barely there shake of the ceiling fan.

stopping at the edge of the living room, you found him. you hadn't been searching, not really, you knew exactly where he was going to be. he didn't hide; he didn't go and find some secluded place. he stayed close.

you found him sitting on the floor, back against the couch and body slouched forward. his knees were drawn up, elbows pressing into them with his hands buried in his hair, fingers flexing at the roots.

his hair had grown out, unkempt, but somehow it fit everything about him. it hung past his jaw, curling just slightly, like it was trying to hide all of his sharp edges. the streetlight spilling through the window had other ideas, however - amber light settling over him just enough to show the dark circles and pale complexion.

you didn't have to ask why he was there. the way he subconsciously tried to make himself smaller told you everything you needed to know. for a moment, you simply looked over him, debating if he'd even accept company.

he didn't look up when you padded over, toes barely brushing the transition strip. he didn't even shift, didn't flinch. but you were aware that he knew, because he always did - you could feel how the air just barely shifted; soft and pointed, like a blade hidden beneath velvet. not much happened around him without his knowledge.

your thoughts still tumbled the idea around, whether you should join him or not. there was something that simply suited tim about the stillness, the darkness that wrapped around the room, it felt as though motion or something too loud would break him. silence had always been safer to him.

you waited for him to tell you to leave and it never came. so, you moved closer. one careful step at a time, giving him the time to stop you. time to tell you he didn't want the company - he'd never been shy when it came to telling people to leave him alone.

when he accepted your presence, you used the couch to brace yourself before sinking down, kneeling beside him. still no protest - it was almost concerning. you could hear the uneven breaths coming from him, something that told you he was somewhere far away in his thoughts.

it was hesitant but you reached for him, fingertips brushing his wrists as if he were glass before gripping them, thumbs pressing softly at his pulse. you coaxed his hands away from his hair, watching as they slowly uncurled and he let them move, falling with your guidance to rest at his sides. he was rarely so pliant.

he didn't complain about the movements.

he didn't complain when you shifted away.

didn't even sigh when you lowered yourself onto his lap, leaning back slightly against his bent legs.

you settled with the precision of someone who knew him; his edges, his reflexes, the way he flinched when touched too suddenly even if he didn't want to. you looked over him, hands smoothing over his collarbones to his shoulders and around, chest pressing to his own. it felt like you were attempting to hold something together - something fragile, something sacred. like someone who was holding themselves together by sheer will alone.

still, he didn't move. not right away. he was contemplating, thinking.

it felt like forever before he let out a breath, one he hadn't realized he was holding but it was a real one. shaky, like it had come out against his wishes; like your closeness knocked something loose. you felt it shudder through him; the barely noticeable shift of weight, the way his head tipped forward until his brow found your shoulder.

not collapsed nor broken - he was letting go.

tim drake never let go. he didn't have the luxury. but, he was giving you something.

uncertain, his hands brushed against your frame, fingers curling away at first. one at your waist, the other at the small of your back, tentative, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch you at all. it was like he was processing the moment, wondering if he'd hit the brink of exhaustion that had him hallucinating. his lips parted to ask, to confirm, before they shut, swallowing the pathetic question.

if it turned out you were never there, then he'd never have to explain.

however, as your fingers found his hair, he couldn't help but settle in the fact you were, in fact, real. they slid through, gingerly pushing through slight tangles; it was messy, overgrown. it made him look younger, human, like the boy he was never allowed to be. it breathed life into the person behind a name. your actions spoke words you refused to, not because you didn't want to, but because tim liked the silence; he liked not having to fill space with unnecessary chatter. they said i see you, it's okay, in a language he only accepted behind closed doors.

in that moment, on the floor, wrapped in each other while the world slept, you felt him finally start to unravel.

it was never with words. it was how he leaned closer, pressing his face fully into your shoulder as his hand flattened to your lover back, accepting that your presence was real. the warmth of your body against his own, the way you touched him with such reverence, like he deserved even a second of your spare time.

finally, he relaxed. not fully, but enough.

you didn't bother to ask what was bothering him. when he was ready to be seen and heard and let his thoughts out, he would speak on his own. without an invitation. you knew the moment would come eventually and that was enough.

your eyes closed and you took a deep breath, letting it out slow as one of your arms settled to rest over his shoulder, the other still bent, fingers tracing at the back of his neck. you tried not to move too much, tried not to adjust despite the discomfort that came with the position. you dealt with it.

you weren't sure how long you stayed there, pressed against him with his arms loose around you like he hadn't realized he was holding you yet. your head tilted, pressing your cheek against his temple, focused solely on the way it felt to have him breathe against you, each rise and fall reminding you that he was still there. each touch and caress was gentle, speaking through actions; you don't have to talk.

the world beyond the windows whispered, distant and quiet. as the sun slept on your side of the world, it was just you and him. breathing. existing. holding on to whatever time you could that wasn't life threatening.

that couldn't last forever, though.

it started slow, hesitant even, he was moving. not away, you weren't sure he was even capable of that just yet.

no, he only lifted his head from the spot on your shoulder, the effort behind it visible, like it hurt emotionally to part. he didn't go far, head tipping to brush his nose to yours. barely there. a touch that felt like it was begging you not to move, not to disappear. he was close enough for his breath to mingle with your own. there was something so fragile in the way it came out, uneven, like he still was grasping for some type of logical thought and couldn't find any.

for the first time since joining him, he spoke, barely registering:

"…i.. didn't mean to stay up this long."

you could hear what he wasn't saying. that he hadn't meant to sit here at all. that he'd stopped only for a moment, maybe to think, maybe to breathe, and just never managed to stand back up. he wasn't confessing because he wanted forgiveness, no, but because he was being honest in a way he rarely was.

so you tipped your head back enough to look at him, reading more into what he hadn't said. his bangs were hanging in his eyes, dark circles blooming beneath them. his lips - dry, slightly cracked, and clearly chewed on - were parted, like there was something else he wanted to say and couldn't figure out how.

"i know."

he let out a breathy laugh, something ragged. maybe it was how you said, how blunt it was - maybe how soft it was, like you were admitting to seeing the things he didn't want others to. you had found a way of saying i'm here without actually saying it. it broken something deep in him that he wasn't ready to acknowledge.

"you always do." he mumbled, bumping his nose to yours once more and bringing a hand up to brush over your cheek before settling at the side of your neck, thumb soothing over the end of your jaw.

"who else is going to?" you mused and the way you smiled - only briefly, something he wouldn't have noticed if he'd been further away - made something inside him ache.

his gaze shifted as you leaned into his touch, finding solace in the warmth of a calloused palm and fingertips, like it was the only place in the world you wanted to be. he didn't even have time to think. no time to shrink and disappear back into his thoughts. he swallowed any reply he was forming and tilted his head just enough to kiss you.

careful.

so careful that it didn't really have the right to be called a kiss at all. his lips touched yours like he was asking a question - seeking permission. like he was unsure if he was even allowed to want this, but he did anyway. a trembling, aching attempt at telling you something. confessing. breaking.

and you kissed him back.

just as careful, just as soft, and excruciatingly slow. like you had forever. like time had stopped just to give you this.

the kiss lingered. the weight of it settling in both of your chests, wrapping you in a warmth you couldn't put a name to, engraving itself in your memories. it wouldn't be something that slipped away so easily, not any time soon.

tim ignored the urge to deepen it, to chase you. he stayed close, lips ghosting over yours, eyes closed like he couldn't quite believe he'd done it. he didn't move in case it happened to not be real. he was taking his time, breathing you in, letting the faint taste linger on his senses.

you stayed with him, still and relishing, forehead resting against his. you allowed the warmth to speak for you, louder than any words you'd be able to conjure up. the thumb that rested against your jaw offered a light tap, followed by a hum in the back of his throat. thoughtless, like he was simply memorizing you before his mind could catch up.

reluctantly, you lifted your head, pressing your lips to his forehead as you cradled the back of his head, guiding him along as you pressed a second and third under each eye.

i'm so proud of you.

i've got you.

you're not alone.

i'm not going anywhere, okay?

the breath he took in hitched, like he understood each and every word behind the soft presses to his skin.

after a few seconds, you finally pulled away and let your hands slide free of him. one pressed carefully to his chest and you shifted up on your knees, preparing to lift yourself up completely despite the sense of loss it caused.

"come to bed..? you need rest." you mumbled, offering, but never pushing.

your head tilted and you began getting up, only to be caught by the waist and held in place. your brows twitched, not wanting him to see the way you wanted to furrow them at the sudden pause.

"wait, i-" he blinked up at you, voice catching, like everything had become to fast for him to register. his eyes were wider, only slightly, fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt. "can we.. we stay? just for a little bit."

you stared at him for a second, soft but shocked, because tim didn't ask for things. there was no fear or firmness behind his words. just vulnerability. a request from someone who lived in silence, who knew better than to ask for things. someone who hadn't let himself trust or be held in far too long.

you couldn't help but wonder what kind of person could look at him and say no. so you lowered yourself once more, content to rest against the warmth he offered. you weren't against the request, simply surprised.

he was oblivious, for once, tucking his head beneath your chin. his arms slid around you fully, no longer resisting the voice that taunted him at the back of his thoughts. the voice that told him this wasn't for him; that he wasn't worthy of this. his arms tightened, like you were the only thing anchoring him to reality, the only thing he had to silence that voice, even if for a few minutes.

back into the quiet, neither of you spoke. there was no need to. in this rare, private moment carved out of your hectic lives, you were just you. and he was just time. not robin, not red robin. he didn't need to be logical or figuring something out.

he could breathe and be the person who finally felt safe enough to ask. to be held and hold on for just a little longer.

your lips found the crown of his head, placing another kiss there and sighing. you weren't in a hurry. if it's what he needed, you'd stay forever.

forever felt right, especially as "a little bit" turned into a blur. the minutes stretched on until you were again lost on the time - it was an easy slip when you were focused more on him than anything else. neither of you moved, barely budged. his breathing had become steadier. slower. he wasn't asleep, but he was close.

you could feel the way his fingers occasionally shifted against your back, just enough to check if you were still there. like he was preparing for you to not be there at one point. like he was waiting for you to simply vanish and leave him to deal with everyone on his own, like he always had.

you'd nudge against his head each time, a careful reminder; he would seek and you would respond. despite the harsh ache in your knees and the carpet digging into your skin, you stayed because none of that mattered. only him; his relaxed weight against you, the brush of his breathing against your skin.

your thoughts were becoming hazy, senses dulling as you found yourself not able to fully stay awake. it was far too late - too early? - and you wanted nothing but to sleep, but you wouldn't leave him behind.

his voice broke the spell of dozing, causing your features to scrunch:

"haven't let it get this bad in a while."

the words too a moment to sit for you, only thinking them over for a second before realizing what he meant. he wasn't actually telling you, it was simply a slip - unfiltered, getting it out of his thoughts. a vent, of sorts.

you decided not to answer, just bringing a hand up to tuck back into the shaggy mess of hair and began running your nails along his scalp. the first drag earned a sharp inhale, one that he let out slow, hold tightening for a split second.

"it's been.. too long," he finally added, mumbling, slurring the tiniest bit. "didn't even notice the hair thing until this morning." a faint, bitter laugh followed. "there's too much to focus on.. missions. intel. gotham. here. everyone has been on my case about eating. it's not like i'm doing it on purpose."

"i noticed," was your only response. "but, i know you'll come back around in your own time."

he moved his head, just enough to nudge your shoulder in a silent thank you before falling quiet again, but only for a moment.

"…i missed you."

had you not been so close, had you not been listening, you'd have never heard him. his voice so small, like he was worried about how you would react.

it felt like the world stopped, along with your heart. not because it was hard to believe or you thought it was empty, but simply because tim never said those things. not out loud. not unless he genuinely thought something was going to go wrong. you'd only heard it once and he thought you were sleeping when he muttered the words.

you curled your hold on him slightly, more or less cradling him to you. it was your turn to hold him like he was going to disappear.

"hey, i'm right here.." you murmured. "i never left, and i don't plan on it."

you nearly crumbled at the way he leaned into you, like he was holding onto every syllable and believing them. it made your stomach twist and your fingers grip just a bit tighter. you didn't know when another moment like this would come and you were holding onto it.

your eyes squeezed shut as he nudged into you, his breath finding your neck, steadier but still shaky. for once, he was letting himself sink, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, melting into you like the world around didn't even exist.

his fingers dipped under the hem of your shirt, cool hands seeking warmth at your sides, barely even moving beneath the material. he ignored the way you shuddered, instinctively trying to move away from the cold at first before just settling again. you dropped your head to his shoulder, muttering something incoherent - he wasn't listening.

you shifted, attempting to relieve that dull ache in your back and hips, trying not to show the discomfort. you stayed regardless. even when he tilted his head to peek at you in silent question. you couldn't move.

not because it was comfortable - obviously - but because it was safe. it was healing and you weren't going to take that away from someone. it didn't have to be a breakdown or a long speech, healing could be one person enduring anything just for another to feel safe. and that was just a side effect you'd deal with. he was unraveling, coming down from a spiral - your body could hate you later.

time had slipped from you before you noticed how still everything felt. the amber light behind you began to flicker - one, twice, three times - before fading out with that little click of vanishing electricity. the streetlight was replaced by the soft, creeping streaks of smokey gray, signaling that morning was rolling in.

you sighed out the first breath of a new day and nuzzled against his hair, placing a handful of little kisses where you could.

"you really need to get some sleep," you whispered, again not wanting to push, but you could feel the exhaustion tugging at the back of your mind. you wouldn't leave without him, even if it meant sleeping on the living room floor.

his answer was a hum as he tucked closer. he seemed to be perfectly fine sleeping on the rug and it made you want to laugh, tired and a little strained. he'd found peace in one of the only people he trusted and he didn't want to do anything to lose that.

your gaze settled on the couch, hand smoothing over his hair in weak, lethargic movements. you watched as the room got a little brighter as dawn spilled into the apartment, painting everything in that early morning glow you hated to see. you'd seen in several times, staying awake well into the next day to finish paper work, finish a mission, finishing.. something, anything.

it made you nauseous but it was worth it. for him, you decided. you let your love speak into the silence, resting against him until you couldn't any longer. you could feel how the night had worn him out, grateful you'd found him before he slipped under completely.

attempting to peek at him, he was drifting right at the edge of sleep and it made your heart clench, seeing how peaceful he looked. the usual crease between his brow was gone, lips parted, lashes fluttering here and there.

with a sigh, your fingers moved to gently massage the back of his neck, easing him into reality before you started to speak. "let's go to bed," you muttered, slow and reluctant in the way you began pulling back, "just for a little while. please?"

you felt his fingers twitch and he didn't respond right away, only giving a small nod when he did. that was all you needed to start getting up. your own body felt heavy, the world tilting the higher you got, hands guiding him as you did. he followed, both of you nearly toppling over on the couch due to your own feet.

he let out something close to a laugh as he caught your hands, dazed and drowning in exhaustion. you squeezed his hands as a silent thanks and looked at him, being met with half lidded eyes and the ghost of a smile.

shaking your head, you began leading him towards the bedroom, slow so neither of you ended up on the floor. he was barely awake, shuffling along with you, never letting your hand go. you made a mental note to coo over it later when he was awake enough to tell you to shut up for teasing him.

it took several minutes to reach the room, shutting the door behind him, and gently nudging him towards the bed. you wasted no time in falling onto it, tugging him along with you.

he didn't resist, didn't speak, just sank into the mattress with a groan in the back of his throat. it was a mess trying to get you both under the blanket, guiding his limbs like he was something holy and needed to be treated with utmost care, because he couldn't seem to do it himself.

"tim, please-" you mumbled, the words carrying no weight at all. it was almost like he simply didn't know how to move without the help. you couldn't blame him - he was nearly lost to sleep the moment he touched the bed.

once you were both successfully under the blanket, he reached for you. silently asking, eyes barely open. you chuckled weakly, not even sure if the sound actually left you, and curled around him. one hand slid into his hair to cradle him beneath your chin, the other stretched out straight as you settled on your side.

he sighed, arms loose around your waist.

you could see the first golden light at the bottom of your curtains and tightened your hold, head tipping to press a kiss against the top of his.

"get some rest," you whispered, thumb moving against his hair, just watching as the light moved against the floor, trapped behind the hanging fabric. you couldn't bring yourself to sleep until you knew he was out - you had to make sure he wasn't fighting himself.

you felt it when he let out the last breath of being awake, body going lax, the hold on you loosening even further. his breathing was finally steady, calm and comfortable.

smiling to yourself, your eyes slid closed, content to know that he was finally letting himself sleep.

and for the first time in a very, very long time, he knew he wouldn't wake up alone.

[astraeasworld]

THE LAST LAUGH

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources & thecutestgrotto word count: 3.1k synopsis: Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed—until they are. a/n: I feel like I've been spoiling y'all with too much fluff and smut lately. Sooo, here's some angst. warning: Graphic depictions of death, blood and torture, character death

It had started as a routine patrol. A quiet night, for once. Jason had even allowed himself to relax. You’d been on the other end of the comm, he had been teasing you on your so-called cooking skills and threatened to order takeout behind your back while you laughed and scoffed. He was telling you he was going to be home soon and how he wanted to crawl into bed beside you and sleep for a week when everything happened.

Arkham’s roster was sealed. Every major threat was accounted for. There had been no alarms, no alerts, nothing unusual.

He should have known better. 

The moment he heard it—that laugh—his heart stopped. High-pitched. Guttural. Gleeful. Echoing faintly through your comm right before it cut to static.

Jason’s blood turned to ice.

Then he was moving.

Every instinct in his body screamed as he pushed the bike harder, weaving recklessly through traffic, past red lights and blaring horns. The city became a blur. He didn’t feel the cold wind biting at his skin or the way his fingers cramped from gripping the throttle too tight. He didn’t even notice the burning in his lungs.

He barely saw the road.

He saw you.

He saw your smile. The way you rolled your eyes at him, the way your voice softened when you held him through his nightmares. He saw every moment that made him believe—for the first time in years—that he could be more than his rage.

And he saw it slipping away.

Jason stormed the building like a force of nature. He didn’t pause to plan or think. He kicked down doors, tore through hallways, left a trail of groaning bodies in his wake. He moved on instinct—pure rage and terror—climbing blood-smeared stairwells two steps at a time.

He reached the top floor and burst through the final door, gun drawn, breath ragged, pulse roaring in his ears.

The room stank of copper and smoke.

His vision tunneled. Under the harsh flicker of overhead light, a crowbar lay bent and bloodied on the cracked concrete floor, the stains of red glinting under the flickering overhead light. there was no sign of the Joker. Only an old speaker crackling from the corner, looping the same sound over and over again.

Your screams.

Your cries.

Jason barely registered it. The sound stabbed through his ears like splinters of glass, but his mind could only latch onto one thing. Because then he saw you.

You were crumpled in the corner—your limbs limp, body slumped at a sickening angle. Blood seeped from the cracks in your lips, staining your skin, your ripped uniform, the floor beneath you. Bruises bloomed across your face and neck in violent shades of purple and black. Your eyes were still open. Staring blankly at the ceiling.

Jason’s world stopped. He dropped to his knees so fast the impact rattled up through his spine, and sent a jolt through his bones. 

“No, no, no—”

His voice cracked, raw and panicked. His shaky fingers brushed your jaw. Before he leaned in, listening for breath, for anything. He pressed trembling lips to yours and began CPR, counting beneath his breath through gritted teeth. One, two, three, breathe. Over and over.

He knew it was useless.

You were too still. Too broken.

But he tried anyway—desperate, mechanical, refusing to stop until his chest was heaving and his vision swam with hot, helpless tears.

As he stared down at your lifeless face, something shattered inside him.

He remembered every treasured moment.

Your smile, easy and warm. The sparkle in your eyes when you laughed. God, you always laughed so easily—so pure and genuine. But now, all he could hear were your screams echoing from the speakers.

He remembered the way your hands—soft and steady—would cup his face, kissing the scars that marred his skin. Scars left behind by the very same monster who had done this to you. You never flinched. Never looked away. You had kissed every wound like it didn’t disgust you. Like he didn’t terrify you.

Those hands now lay limp at your sides. Stiff. Cold. Gone.

Jason’s head dropped as the truth crashed down around him like a collapsing building.

And then it tore from him—a guttural scream so raw, so violent, it didn’t sound human. It echoed off the walls, swallowed by the emptiness of the room.

And then the rage came, white-hot and all-consuming.

It surged through Jason like fire in his veins, burning away everything else. The grief, the helplessness, the pain—it all gave way to something feral.

This was the final act. The moment that shattered what little remained of his restraint.

Slowly, he stood. His limbs felt detached from his body, like they were moving on their own. He crossed the room in a few soundless steps and bent down, fingers curling around the crowbar the Joker had left behind like a signature.

He stared at it for a long time.

There was blood matted into the metal, strands of your hair caught in its jagged edges. It was still sticky. Still fresh.

Jason’s grip tightened until the metal groaned in protest.

Then he vanished.

For three days, no one heard from him.

Not a ping on his comms. Not a trace in his safe houses. No movement in the surveillance grid. He refused to contact anyone.

And then the bodies started appearing.

In the Narrows, in alleyways, in burnt-out tenements. One by one, they turned up—Joker’s people. Goons. Smugglers. Middlemen. Anyone who ever associated with the clown.

Some were dead.

Some were on the brink, maimed and tortured. 

This was him sending a message.

He was coming after the clown and he wanted the Joker to know.

Back in the cave, the air had turned suffocating.

Bruce stood at the Bat computer, unmoving. He hadn’t taken the cowl off in nearly twenty-four hours. His jaw was locked tight, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed with something deeper than exhaustion. On the monitor in front of him, the footage played on a loop—Jason kneeling beside your body, desperately trying to bring you back. His hands stained red. His voice cracking. His scream of utter despair before everything inside of him seemed to shut down as he grabbed the crowbar. 

Bruce watched it again. And again. And again.

He blamed himself.

Tim didn’t stop moving. He threw himself into work, hunched over keyboards and monitors, fingers flying as he sifted through surveillance feeds, phone pings, facial recognition scans—anything to find his missing brother. Anything to stop what they all knew was coming.

“Jason’s going to kill him,” Tim said hoarsely, not looking up from the screen. It was the first thing he’d said in hours since he saw the video of your death.

No one disagreed.

Dick took it the hardest—at least the most visibly. He let out a yell as he punched one of the cave’s reinforced walls so hard his knuckles split open, blood dripping down his wrist. Alfred rushed toward him, reaching for his arm, but Dick jerked away, breath ragged and eyes blazing with fury.

“This didn’t have to happen,” he snarled, voice shaking with rage and guilt. “She should’ve never been alone. Where the hell was everyone?”

He turned away, bracing both hands against the wall now, shoulders hunched. The muscles in his back twitched beneath his suit. He couldn’t look at the others. Couldn’t stand to see his own grief reflected back.

You’d been like a sister to him. Not just because of Jason, but in bonds you took the time to form with everyone in the family. In all the ways you’d softened the edges of their lives. You’d been the reason Jason came back to them. You’d bridged the gaps they hadn’t known how to cross and fill.

You were the light in the darkness. And now that light had been snuffed out.

Damian hadn’t said a word since the news.

He’d watched the footage once, standing stiffly as your final moments played out on screen. As Jason collapsed beside your body. As he reached for the crowbar and stalked out.

When the video ended, Damian turned and walked away without a word. 

The next morning, Alfred found him in the training room. He hadn’t left. Hadn’t eaten. The punching bag had long since burst, its innards scattered across the floor. Wooden practice weapons lay broken in jagged halves. Sweat clung to his skin, dampening the same clothes he’d worn the day before. Bruises covered his arms, angry and dark, and his knuckles were scraped raw.

His bo staff—his favourite—had snapped down the centre.

Damian among the debris, breathing heavily, muscles tight with exhaustion and something far worse—grief.

“I should have gone with her,” he said hoarsely, not looking up. The words were quiet, almost choked. “I could have stopped it.”

“There was no stopping it,” Alfred replied softly, stepping into the room. His voice was heavy with his own sorrow and regret. “Not with that man. You would’ve been another victim.”

At that, Damian turned his head, just enough to meet Alfred’s gaze.

His eyes were colder than they should’ve been. Too old for his young face.

“He should already be dead,” he said icily.

His voice didn’t tremble. But his hands did.

They found Jason three nights later.

The building was a condemned warehouse in the Narrows—one of the Joker’s old haunts. The air inside was stale with rot and copper, a sickening echo of the place you had died.

The Joker was tied to a chair in the centre of the room, barely clinging to life. His face was a ruin—swollen, bloodied, almost unrecognizable beneath the purple bruises and caked blood. One eye was swollen shut. Teeth were missing. His breathing came in wet, rattling gasps.

Jason stood a few feet away, shoulders squared, blood spattered across his chest and arms. The crowbar—the same crowbar the Joker had used on you—hung loosely in his grip, stained dark.

“Get the fuck out,” Jason growled, his voice low and dangerous, without turning to face them.

“Jason,” Bruce said carefully, stepping forward. “Put it down.”

“She begged,” Jason murmured, hollow and distant, as though he hadn’t heard Bruce at all. “You know that? I got here too late… but not late enough to miss the audio loop. He recorded it. Her screams. The way he laughed while he broke her apart.”

Tim looked away, jaw clenched, throat tight.

Dick flinched as though struck, his hands curling into fists.

Damian didn’t speak. He only stood stiffly, his posture rigid, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone bone white.

“This won’t bring her back,” Bruce tried to reason, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

Jason snarled whirling around, “How many more of us does this psycho need to kill before you do something?”

His chest heaved with ragged breaths. His helmet masked his face, but they could all imagine what lay beneath—wild bloodshot eyes, tear-tracked cheeks, fury and grief twisting his features.

“He beat her to death with this,” Jason spat, lifting the crowbar, hands trembling. “Same way he did to me. Don’t you remember? because I do. Every. Fucking. Second. She shouldn’t have died like that.” At all.

His voice cracked, just once—but it was enough.

“He laughed while she screamed,” Jason whispered, like he couldn’t stop himself from reliving it. “I heard it. Over and over again, until it was all I could hear. I—”

He faltered, swallowing hard. His grip tightened around the crowbar.

“And now you want me to just… let him live?” Jason’s voice rose, not loud, but sharp—accusing. “After everything he’s done?”

“No,” Bruce said finally. His voice was firm, but the weariness beneath it betrayed him. “I don’t want that. But we don’t cross this line.”

Jason let out a short, bitter laugh—humourless and sharp.

“Ironic,” Jason spat, the word laced with venom. “When killing this scumbag from the very beginning could’ve saved thousands of lives. But you—” he turned his head just slightly, the crowbar still hanging at his side like an extension of his arm, “you let it go on. Again and again. Don’t talk to me about lines, Bruce. You’re no better than him for letting this go on for as long as it has.”

Bruce flinched.

Dick stepped forward slowly, cautiously, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “Jay—listen, man—just look at yourself,” he said, his voice tight with grief. “You think this is what she would’ve wanted? For you to throw away what’s left of yourself? To lose you after we already lost her?”

Jason’s eyes flicked to him. “Don’t you dare,” he said, voice low and cold, shaking with fury. “Don’t you fucking dare bring her into this to make me spare his life.”

Dick’s breath caught, but he stood his ground. “She loved you, Jason. You think she’d want you to throw everything away like this? You think she’d want her death to break you?”

“She was my everything, Dick.” Jason’s voice cracked again, and this time, he didn’t try to hide it. The grief bled through every word, every breath. “There’s nothing left to break.” 

His hand clenched tighter around the crowbar. His shoulders shook—not from rage, not anymore—but from the sheer devastation he couldn’t contain.

No one dared speak.

Tim stood frozen, his mouth slightly open like he wanted to say something—anything—but couldn’t force the words past the lump in his throat. He just stared at Jason, helpless and sickened. There was nothing he could say or do to make this better.

Then—Damian stepped forward.

His boots echoed quietly in the bloodstained room. His voice, when he spoke, was cold as steel.

“He deserves to die.”

All eyes turned to him.

“I would kill him myself,” Damian continued, his tone brutally calm. “For her. For Todd. For all of us.”

He looked at Jason then, gaze unwavering.

“But not like this.”

The room went still.

“Justice,” Damian said. “Not vengeance. Y/N lived by that as strongly as any of us. She believed in it. She wouldn’t want this.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

Jason looked away, jaw tightening until the muscle ticked.

“She deserved better,” he muttered. “Better than me. Better than this.”

“No,” Damian said, stepping closer, his voice softer now—earnest, for once, without a trace of sarcasm or pride. “She chose you. Don’t make her death a reason to become the monster she always believed you weren’t.”

For the first time, Jason’s stance faltered. His shoulders slumped slightly, as though the weight of his own grief had finally settled fully on his back. He swayed—not physically, but emotionally, like a dam cracking under pressure.

“She believed in you, Todd,” Damian added, quieter now. “Even when you didn’t.”

Bruce said nothing. He didn’t move, didn’t argue, didn’t try to justify the code he’d sworn to uphold. Because deep down, Jason was right. This was his fault. He’d let the Joker live—again and again—and this was the cost. You and every life Joker had taken was the cost.

Dick’s throat worked around words that refused to come. He looked like he wanted to speak, to reach out, to do something, but the grief caught in his chest wouldn’t let him.

Tim dropped his gaze, jaw tight, hands balled into fists at his sides. He focused on breathing, slow and steady, like that could somehow keep the guilt from swallowing him whole.

You had been too good for this world.

Too good for them.

They should’ve protected you.

But all they had left was the last moment they saw you—that bright grin you tossed over your shoulder as you hopped on your bike, your voice teasing in their comms, alive and warm 

Jason slowly lowered his head. The crowbar slipped from his grip, hitting the floor with a dull metallic clang that echoed off the walls like a gavel striking down a verdict. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of everything he had carried—grief, guilt, rage. His knuckles were bone-white, his hands trembling violently.

But then—

A wet, gurgling noise broke through the silence.

Behind them, the Joker let out a faint, wheezing giggle. Blood bubbled at the corner of his lips, teeth cracked and smeared red. His face so battered it barely held shape, but somehow—somehow—he managed to laugh. Mocking and triumphant.

Jason’s eyes snapped toward him.

And in that moment, he saw red.

All he heard was your screams. The way you cried his name. The echo of the Joker’s laughter overlaying it all.

Jason spiralled back into that sound. That laugh.

The sound that had haunted him since he was brought back by the Lazarus pit.

The sound he now heard in place of your voice.

He moved without thought.

In one swift, fluid motion, Jason turned, unholstered his gun, and pulled the trigger. The shot cracked through the hideout like thunder.

The Joker’s head snapped back with a jolt, the grotesque grin still carved into his face—only now, frozen in death. He slumped forward in the chair, limp as a marionette with cut strings, blood blooming in a single, perfect hole between his eyes.

For a long moment, no one moved. No one breathed as they registered what had been done.

Bruce closed his eyes. Not in agreement—never that—but in resignation. Because deep down, he had known. The moment he saw the crowbar in Jason’s hands, he had known how this would end. There had never really been a chance to stop it, not with the Joker breathing, not with your death on that clown’s hands. And though the code he lived by screamed in protest, Bruce said nothing. 

Because in the end, justice had failed you.

Dick’s expression twisted with shock, grief, and something dangerously close to understanding. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, as if he’d meant to reach out, to say something—to stop Jason before the line was crossed. But the words never made it past his throat.

What could he even say that hadn’t already come too late?

Tim flinched, the sound of the gunshot still ringing in his ears. His breath caught like a punch to the ribs, and he instinctively turned his face away from the body. He didn’t want to see it. Couldn’t. 

Damian didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. His green eyes burned with emotions but he said nothing more. 

Jason stood frozen. The smoking barrel of his pistol hung at his side, his arm limp now that the rage had left him. His entire body was rigid, locked in place, his face carved from stone—hard and cold and unmoving.

“She’s dead,” he said, the words brittle and jagged, like ice cracking under pressure. “And now so is he.”

He stared down at the Joker’s body, not with triumph. Not even with satisfaction.

Just emptiness.

“This bastard will never hurt another one of us again.”

[astraeasworld]

my masterlist

ENJOY:

dick grayson/nightwing

ex boyfriend!dick grayson:

distraught // trouble // atonement // one year later

vampire!nightwing:

bite me!

to come:

wayne heir!dick grayson (x socialite reader)

cowboy!dick grayson

divorced dad!dick grayson

former cheerleader!dick grayson

jason todd/red hood

your boyfriend!jason todd:

stories left untold

biker!jason todd:

shameless

tim drake/red robin

CASUAL:

prologue // chapter one // chapter two/two and a half // chapter three // chapter four // epilogue

wayne executive!tim drake:

headcanons

roy harper/arsenal/red arrow

cupid!roy harper:

ask the sky just what we had

to come:

poolboy!roy

quick fics

your boyfriend!jason todd:

jason todd, but..

your boyfriend’s clothes

cuffed

just roommates

fwb!dick grayson:

apologize!

misc. batboys:

wanna see you undo it

moodboards

tim drake:

wayne executive!tim drake

emo boy!tim drake

dick grayson:

wayne heir

social media AUs

your boyfriend's instagram:

jason todd

wally west

dick grayson

roy harper / proud dad

damian wayne

tim drake

playlists

dick grayson

tim drake

jason todd

special events!!

valentines weekend!!!

requests ..i'll do 'em when i do 'em

ex bf!tim drake returns

fluff w/ dg and jt

dick grayson x vigilante!reader

jason todd//size kink

love at first sight//cowboy!dg

hurt/comfort dick grayson

bruce wayne nsfw alphabet

divider courtesy of this lovely post

[astraeasworld]

heated shoulder kisses

kon el x reader

content: this is for my 300 followers event! this was the ask it was submitted in

you unzip your costume, a heavy sigh leaving your lips.

you were exhausted. the team had been called to diffuse a situation in mexico, only recently arriving back. everyone had been tired, which was a first for a few certain teammates of yours. bart had rushed straight to the bathroom to shower the grime away, beating cassie and cissie. the two girls grumbled under their breaths and had made their way to the kitchen for their post mission snacks. tim had sauntered to the computer to begin a report of the mission, though you knew he’d procrastinate on his phone once alone.

that left you and conner, the super grinning at you and offering to play a few games of mario kart. you completed a grand prix before the bathroom door cracked open and bart stepped out. his normally crazy red hair was matted to his skull, still dripping down his cheeks.

conner had grabbed your wrist and pulled you after him, calling dibs on the bathroom. there were multiple showers, one for each justice league member. you weren’t sure why everyone took turns rather than showering all together. maybe the girls weren’t comfortable showering with the boys. makes sense.

you shimmy out of your costume, stepping out of it as it pools around your ankles. just as you reach for the shower curtain, a strong arm wraps around your waist.

“what’s up?”

conner sounds tired as his chin drops to your shoulder. his grip on you tightens as you try to turn and laugh.

“showering. you know, like a normal person.”

he huffs a laugh, breath breezing over the skin of your shoulder. tilting his head, his lips graze over the junction of your neck and shoulder.

“i could join.”

the suggestive tone of his voice makes a smile crack over your face. he was funny.

“there are how many shower stalls? remind me why you want the one i’m getting into?”

his head tilts and his lips press against your shoulder. one gentle kiss, then another pressed near the first.

“what’s the fun in showering by yourself?”

conners tone turns whiny, though the teasing undertones cause you to roll your eyes. his fingers begin tracing against the lines of your abdomen.

“it’s not meant to be fun, it’s meant to make you clean and relax you.”

“i could relax you.”

he places an open mouthed kiss to your skin before you pull him into the shower with you and close the curtain.

“you’ll shut up if we shower together?”

his smile turns to a wicked grin. his arms lock around your torso and pull you into a kiss on the lips, his nose pressing into yours. a satisfied sound escapes him.

“no, i’d make you make some noise.”

you release an annoyed sound as he reaches for the shower lever. you had just wanted a normal day. 

masterlist

[astraeasworld]

THE STRANGER ON LINE 4 — SATORU GOJO

pairing — ceo!satoru gojo x artist!reader

summary — for 713 days, you've been sketching strangers on your morning commute, giving away portraits to brighten their day. when a missed train puts you on an unfamiliar route, you draw a white-haired man who's impossible to ignore. you think you'll never see him again—until he plasters half of tokyo with posters trying to find you.

word count — 16.4 k

genre/tags — modern AU, ceo x artist, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, soft romance, fluff, so much fluff, banter, provider!satoru gojo bc goddamn yes & him being a very dramatic puppy in love, misunderstandings

warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, brief mention of financial stress and reference to past cheating experience.

author's note — put on your favorite taylor swift playlist and get cozy for the fluff. i squeeeezed every tiny bit of fluff that i have out of my heart into this. side note, the idea came to me after seeing a tiktok of someone handing out sketches on a train hehe. hope it makes you smile <3

masterlist + support my writing + artwork by @3-aem

Your alarm goes off at exactly 5:45 AM, the same time it has for the past three years. You silence it with a tap (or try, anyway) and slip out from under your warm blankets before the urge to just stay there and call in sick becomes too stong to withstand it.

Your small one-bedroom apartment is quiet, save for the distant early morning traffic of the city outside your window and your groaning as you make your way to the bathroom.

Your morning routine was more muscle memory than anything other at this hour. Shower (seven minutes), hair (five minutes, more or less), makeup (eight minutes), and outfit—already sorted from last night (smart you)—coffee and an avocado toast. 

By 6:30, you’re checking your bag if you’ve got everything: laptop, planner, phone charger, and most importantly, your sketchbook—a simple Moleskine with cream-colored pages that are perfect for graphite—and a few spare pencils.

You flipped open to a new page in your sketchbook and wrote “Day 713.” Tomorrow’s entry would be 714. 

You’d been counting since the first time you gave a drawing to a stranger, an elderly street musician whose weathered hands moved across his guitar strings so smoothly, you couldn’t help but try to capture his ease. When you’d shyly offered him the sketch afterwards, the tiredness in his face gave way to something softer. 

Surprised. Delighted.

“Is this me?” he asked, his voice carrying that gentle kind of warmth older people always seem to have.

You had simply nodded.

The musician smiled, thanked you, and carefully tucked the drawing into the front pocket of his jacket, and that small moment sparked something in you—a sense of purpose, you could say, that had been missing from your otherwise structured life as a graphic designer. Since then, every morning without fail, you picked a fellow passenger on your train commute, capturing them in a quick sketch, and offering it to them before your stop arrived.

Maybe it was cheesy, but you didn’t care. It was the smile that made it worth it—the way a simple gesture could light up someone’s face at such early hours—that’s what kept you going, for exactly 713 days and counting.

As you locked your apartment door this morning—Tuesday, 6:32 AM—you had no idea that your simple, stupid little cheesy routine was about to change.

Your phone vibrated as you reached the station entrance. A notification from the transit app lit up your screen:

Line 6 service temporarily suspended due to overnight maintenance issues. Please seek alternative routes.

Great. Just what you needed.

Line 6 was your direct route to the office, the one that got you there at precisely 8:00 AM every morning. And you’d never been late. Not once in three years at Takahashi Media Group. And today of all days? Really? The Yamada account presentation was at 9:30, and as lead designer, you needed time to prep. 

Panic started to bubble.

“Excuse me,” you said to the nearest station attendant, trying to keep your voice steady while a tiny voice inside your head was screaming. “What’s the fastest way to Central District Station?”

Clipboard guy barely looked up. “Take Line 4, transfer at Miyashita to Line 9. Adds about twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes?

Now panic was definitely starting to bubble up. 

Okay, think. If you skipped your usual coffee stop and went straight to the office, you could still make it with just enough time to run through your slides once. Not ideal, but doable.

Line 4 was unfamiliar territory. Unlike Line 6, which you always caught early enough to get a seat, this one was already full. Businessmen in dark suits, students in uniform, and way too many elbows. And the smell—less lemony and clean, more like... cologne and sweat. You squeezed in and clutched your sketchbook to your chest as the doors closed behind you.

Usually, you picked your sketch subject within the first minute. It was like on autopilot by now. Your eyes would just land on someone, and you’d know. But in this crowded, unfamiliar car full of strangers, you felt a little bit lost. These weren’t your usual commuters, the ones you’ve come to recognize over hundreds of mornings, even if you’ve never spoken to them. 

But then you saw him.

He was standing near the doors at the far end of the car, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other tucked casually into the pocket of his pants. He looked completely out of place, so unlike the others around him.

He was tall. Like, really tall. And his hair was white. It caught the overhead lights in a way that made it shimmer, like fresh snow under a winter sun. He looked young, though. Early thirties, maybe? The white hair didn’t read as old, more like a choice. Or maybe it was natural. Hard to tell.

His suit was navy, perfectly tailored, but somehow different from all the other navy suits in the car. Maybe it was the cut, or maybe it was just him. He wore it like—well, like he wasn’t trying. Top button undone, no tie. A pair of green-tinted glasses perched on his nose, partly hiding his eyes, but not quite.

Everyone else around him was either half asleep or nervously checking their watches, the usual morning commute zombie routine. But not him. He looked completely at ease and almost... amused. Like the full train and countless elbows between one’s ribs didn’t bother him.

You flipped to a blank page in your sketchbook, adjusting your stance as the train swayed. Your pencil hovered, studying him for a moment. Then, like always, the world blurred at the edges as your pencil touched paper, almost making you forget about the schoolboy who stepped on your foot every few seconds, squeezed between other schoolchildren on their way to class. 

After a while, the train announcement: Next stop, Miyashita Station. Transfer for Lines 2, 9, and 11.

You signed the corner, tore out the page, and held it for a second. This part was usually easy—walk over, smile, offer the sketch, say something nice, move on. But something about him made you hesitate.

What if he thought it was weird? What if he assumed you were flirting? What if he had a wife and three kids and a very awkward story to tell over dinner tonight? What if—

The train began to slow. Now or never.

You stood and started weaving through the packed car towards the stranger. He hadn’t moved, still holding the rail with that same relaxed grip, still wearing that faint smile.

“Excuse me,” you said.

He turned, and for the first time, you got a clear look at his eyes through those green-tinted glasses. Startlingly blue. Vivid and almost unnatural. Somewhere between forget-me-nots and ripe blueberries. When they locked onto yours, warmth spread through your chest like you’d just stepped into sunlight.

“This is for you,” you said and offered him the drawing.

For a second, he didn’t react, and panic started to flare. Oh no. He hated it. He definitely hated it. But it was good, or not? Not Picasso, but decent. Solid. Right? Oh god, if he doesn’t say something, literally anything in the next second, you’re going to spontaneously die.

Then, finally, his lips curled into a slow, handsome smile. 

“A drawing? Of me?”

His voice surprised you. Deep and smooth, with a certain richness to it, like dark chocolate. And... was that a Kyoto accent? Subtle, but there. He reached for the sketch, his fingers brushing yours as he took it.

You watched, breath caught in your throat, as his eyes moved over the page. It felt like your entire morning—no, your entire existence—was waiting on his next words.

“You’re very talented.”

...Huh?

You didn’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that. Or rather, it was how he said it. Usually, people said “thank you,” or “oh, that's so sweet,” something polite and brief before they got off at their stop. But he said it like he meant every syllable. Like you’d just unveiled the Mona Lisa to him.

You. Are. Very. Talented.

The sincerity in his voice hit you oddly sideways.

Then the train doors hissed open and commuters surged forward, dragging you back to reality. Oh god—the presentation.

“This is my stop,” you said hastly, suddenly remembering everything else happening in your life. “I need to go.”

“Wait.” He took a small step forward, but you were already being swept along with the crowd.

“I hope you like it!” you called over your shoulder, catching one last glimpse of him, but then his white hair vanished among the sea of dark suits, and the doors slid shut behind you.

It wasn’t until you were halfway up the escalator to your connecting train that you realized something. Your signature—the tiny heart you always draw into the corner of your sketches. Gone. Missing. For the first time in 713 days.

It strangely bothered you. By the time you reached your office (7:58 AM—still on time, miraculously), you’d almost convinced yourself it was just the chaos of the morning and had nothing to do with the handsome stranger who made your heart beat just a little faster when your fingers touched. Absolutely nothing.

You shove the thought aside and focus on your presentation. Line 6 would be back tomorrow. Back to your normal route, your normal routine, your normal life. You’d never see that man again. 

Or so you think.

Your presentation went flawless. The Yamada executives nodded along to your designs, and your boss even cracked a rare smile by the time you wrapped up. It was almost unsettling.

And by the time you packed up to leave, the handsome stranger had faded into the background—a fleeting moment in a city full of them.

Line 6 was back on schedule that evening. You found your usual seat. Everything was exactly the way it had always been. Just how you liked it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The next morning, you slipped back into your routine without thinking. Alarm. Shower. Tea and toast. Line 6 at 6:52 AM. Your favorite seat at the end of the car.

Your subject today was a young woman with brightly colored headphones, who seemed lost in her music. When you handed her the sketch (this time with your trademark tiny heart in the corner) she beamed. You’d made her day, she said. 

Life continued exactly as it should. Drawing number 714, 715, 716... each one gifted, each one with a tiny heart in the corner. Your little bit of everyday cheesy rom-com magic thingy carried on, uninterrupted.

A week passed. You were on your usual train, putting the final touches on that morning’s sketch—an older man engrossed in a paperback novel. When you handed it to him, his face lit up. But then it changed. Surprise gave way to something else… something like recognition.

“Wait,” he said, adjusting his glasses to look between you and the drawing. “Are you the subway artist everyone’s been talking about?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The subway artist,” he repeated, like that explained everything. “There’ve been posters up on Line 4 all week. Someone’s trying to find the person who draws portraits on the train.” He smiled, gesturing to the sketch. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Line 4? I... I don’t usually take that line.”

But then it hit you. 

You thanked the man and stepped off the train feeling slightly dazed. All day at work, your mind kept drifting back to this strange turn of events. Someone was looking for you? Putting up posters?

There was only one person it could be.

The stranger from Line 4. 

After work, instead of taking your usual Line 6 home, you found yourself heading towards Line 4. Your heart beat a little faster.

The train was full with evening commuters, but you barely noticed them. Your eyes scanned the station walls as the train pulled into each stop. Nothing at the first station. Or the second. Then, as the train slowed for the third stop, you saw it.

There, on a pillar near the platform’s edge, was a poster. Even from inside the train, you recognized your own work. It was the sketch you had given the handsome stranger—or rather, a scan of it. Below, printed in bold, clear type:

LOOKING FOR THE ARTIST

Did you draw this portrait on Tuesday morning, Line 4? I’d like to thank you properly.

Please call: XXX-XXX-XXXX

The train doors opened, and without thinking, you stepped out, weaving through the tide of boarding passengers. You pushed your way toward the poster, staring at it in disbelief. It was definitely your drawing. No question. But why was he looking for you?

You pulled out your phone and took a quick photo of the poster, and then you just stood there, frozen. What now? Should you call? Would that be weird? What did “thank you properly” even mean?

You glanced around the platform, almost expecting to spot him nearby. But there was no sign of him. Only a sea of strangers, none of them with hair the color of snow. 

On impulse, you peeled the poster off the pillar and tucked it into your bag. Back at your apartment, you unfolded it on the kitchen table. The drawing looked back at you, familiar and strange all at once. You traced a finger over the phone number, wondering about the man who had gone to such lengths to find you. 

What kind of person did that? Was he just being kind? Did he want to pay you? Commission another drawing? Something about it was flattering… and also a little unsettling.

You took out your phone, entered the number into your contacts, and hovered your thumb over the call button.

This was ridiculous. You didn’t know anything about him—other than the fact that he had white hair and apparently enough time and money to put up posters in subway stations. What if he was a stalker? Or some kind of... weirdo?

You folded the poster again and tucked it into a drawer. Maybe in a few days you’d feel differently. Or maybe it was best to forget the whole strange thing altogether.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Next day, you were back on Line 6, back to your routine. You chose your subject—a woman with a long braids—and focused on capturing the way the morning light played in her woven hair. By the time you handed her the sketch, all thoughts of the poster and the maybe stalker had faded.

Two weeks later, you were running a little late for work. As you rushed onto your usual Line 6 train, something familiar caught your eye on the station wall. The doors closed before you could really process it, and the train pulled away. You spent the rest of the ride wondering if you’d imagined it.

The next morning, you arrived at the station a few minutes early to investigate and what you found made your breath catch. There on the wall of your station, wasn’t just one poster, but several. Each one with your sketch. And this time, beneath the drawing, a new message:

TO THE ARTIST

Dinner? This Friday, 8 PM.

Hanami Restaurant, Central District

You stared. Eyes wide. A dinner invitation? Posted publicly in the subway? Who even does that? Oh god. 

He was a stalker. 

Or… maybe it was romantic? No. Definitely creepy. Right? Who publicly invites a stranger to dinner using posters? A total stranger he didn’t even know? 

But... Hanami Restaurant? That was a nice place. Fancy. Not cheap. You’d seen it once on your birthday when your coworkers took you somewhere nearby. This wasn’t just casual ramen and a maybe—this was… effort.

“Oh, you’ve seen them too?”

You turned to see an older woman standing beside you, also gazing at the posters.

“Isn’t it the most charming thing?” she said. “They’ve been popping up all over Line 6 for the past few days. My daughter thinks it’s a movie promotion, but I think it’s a real love story in the making.” She gave a wistful sigh. “I hope the artist shows up.”

You muttered something polite and hurried onto your train, heart thudding in your chest. 

This had gone from odd to completely, absolutely weird. Not only had he expanded his poster campaign to your line, but now he was publicly inviting you to dinner? How did he even know which train you usually took? Or worse, were these posters up on every line in Tokyo? No. That couldn’t be possible.

You sank into your seat, sketchbook clutched tightly against your chest, your thoughts spiraling. Was this romantic dedication? Or borderline stalking? 

The invitation was for tomorrow night. You didn’t have to go. It’s not like he knew who you were or where you lived—technically, you could ignore it and carry on like none of this ever happened. 

But… what would happen if you did go? What if he was charming and witty and everything you’d secretly ever dreamed about on sleepy train rides? What if he was a total creep?

You looked down at your sketchbook, heart still racing.

My God.

What had you started?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Friday evening arrived, and you found yourself standing in front of your closet, absently fingering the hem of a dress you hadn’t worn in months. For a dinner you weren’t going to attend. With a man you’d barely met.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, shutting the closet door with finality.

You’d already made your decision. Absolutely not going. This whole thing had gone from charming to…well, kind of creepy. Who put up posters across the subway just to find someone they spoke to for like two seconds? It was excessive. Borderline obsessive.

You ordered takeout from your favorite place down the street and spent the evening sketching while a movie played in the background. Every so often, your eyes drifted to the clock. 

7:30.

7:45.

8:00.

He was probably at the restaurant by now. Maybe checking his watch.

8:15. 

8:30.

Maybe he’d ordered a drink to pass the time.

9:00. 

Surely, by now, he knew you weren’t coming.

You told yourself it was for the best. This way, he’d get the message. No need for awkward conversations or outright rejection. Just silence. Clear. Polite, in a distant kind of way.

Life could go back to normal. Back to routine. Back to sketching strangers who didn’t plaster the city with posters looking for you. 

And still, somewhere underneath all that logic, a quiet little voice whispered: What if he’s just sitting there, alone, sad, and feeling as unsure as you do right now?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The weekend passed uneventfully. By Monday morning, you’d nearly convinced yourself you’d done the right thing. You’d protected your peace. Maintained your boundaries. All good decisions.

Your alarm rang at 5:45 AM. Shower. Hair. Makeup. Outfit. Green tea and avocado toast. Sketchbook and pencils in your bag. Everything back to normal.

On your usual train, your eyes landed on a high school girl seated near the doors. She looked tired, but focused. A textbook rested in her lap, worn at the corners and stuffed with colorful Post-it notes poking out from all sides. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leaned in to read.

By the time the train neared your stop, the sketch was finished, your signature heart placed neatly in the corner. You stood and made your way over to her, when a flash of colour outside the train window caught your eye.

Another poster. But this one looked different.

As the train slowed, you could make out your sketch—the one of the white-haired stranger—but now surrounded by a border of…were those flowers? 

You squinted, leaning closer as the train rolled to a stop. Then the doors opened, but instead of handing the student the sketch you had made of her, you stepped out onto the platform without thinking.

You moved toward the poster. It was definitely your drawing in the center, but someone—him, obviously—had added to it. Were those real flowers? Pinned around the edges? You leaned in. Yes. Small blossoms. Some still fresh, others beginning to wilt.

And below, a new message:

TO THE ARTIST WHO DIDN’T COME TO DINNER

I understand. Perhaps too forward. My apologies. But I’d still like to meet you.

Coffee instead? Your choice of time and place.

Same number below. No more posters after this, I promise.

Call: XXX-XXX-XXXX

You stared at the poster, not sure what to think of it. It was still... a lot. But the tone had changed. It didn’t feel like pressure anymore. It felt like a peace offering.

“Is that about you?”

You jumped slightly and turned to find the schoolgirl from the train standing behind you. She was looking between you and the poster, eyebrows raised. You hadn’t even noticed her step off.

“What? No, I—”

“It is, isn’t it?” she said, pointing to the edge of her portrait still peeking from your sketchbook. “You’re the subway artist! I’ve seen these posters for weeks. Everyone at school’s been talking about them.” Her eyes lit up. “But it’s real! It’s actually you!”

Your face went hot. “I just… draw people on my commute. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” She looked at you like you’d just told her the earth was flat. “Someone literally covered half the subway trying to find you. That’s so romantic.” She paused, glancing back at the poster. “Though I guess... it might feel a little intense if you don’t know him.”

“Exactly,” you said, a little too quickly, but relieved that someone finally understood. Not that you told anyone, anyway.

“But now he’s apologizing and backing off. That’s actually kind of sweet, don’t you think? Like he realized he overdid it.” Before you could respond, she suddenly gasped. “Oh! Were you going to give me something?” She pointed to your sketchbook.

“I—yes, actually.” You’d almost forgotten. You tore out the page with her portrait and handed it over. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She took the drawing, her face bright. “This is amazing! You made me look so... I don’t know, determined? Like I actually understand what I’m reading about.” She laughed. “Thank you so much!”

A chime echoed through the station—the warning for the next train.

“That’s my transfer,” she said and glanced at the poster one more time. “You know, if I were you, I’d call him. Not everyone gets a second chance at something interesting.” And with that, she turned and vanished into the crowd of boarding passengers.

You stood there for a moment longer, staring at the poster. At the flowers he’d carefully pinned around your sketch. It must have taken hours. 

Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. Morning meeting in fifteen minutes. With one last glance at the poster, you turned and headed for the station exit.

Maybe the girl was right. Maybe there was something here worth exploring. Or maybe this was exactly how people ended up in true crime documentaries. 

Either way, you had a decision to make.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

For the next three days, the poster haunted you. Not in a scary way, but enough to slip under your skin and stay there. 

You caught yourself absentmindedly sketching floral patterns during meetings, doodling petals in the margins of your planner, even on the back of your grocery list. His phone number was still saved in your contacts. You hadn’t called it. Yet.

By Thursday afternoon, in the middle of yet another agonisingly boring meeting, you finally made your decision. 

The moment your boss wrapped up, you grabbed your phone and slipped into the empty break room. Your heart thudded so hard it felt like it might knock your ribs loose. Before you could overthink it, you dialed the number.

It rang once. Then—

“Hello?”

That voice. Deep. Warm. Curious. Instantly familiar.

“Um. Hi,” you said, suddenly questioning every life desicion that had led you to this moment. “This is… well, I don’t know if you’ll remember, but I drew your portrait on the train a few weeks ago, and—”

“You called.” He sounded genuinely relieved. “I was starting to think you weren’t ever going to.”

“Yeah, well…” You took a breath. “You do realize those posters were kind of creepy, right?”

“I thought they were romantic?”

“For someone I don’t know, it’s more creepy than romantic. And also, what if I was already taken?”

“Are you?”

You went silent. Right. You probably should’ve seen that one coming.

“I’m Satoru, by the way.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

You gave him your name in return, nervously clicking your pen against the break room table.

He repeated it slowly, like he was trying how it sounded on his tongue, and that somehow sent a strange flutter through your stomach. Why did hearing him say your name suddenly make you so nervous? It was just a name. Your name. You’d heard it a million times before.

But from him, it felt different. More intimate somehow. Ridiculous, you told yourself. You were overthinking it. Probably. Still... the little flutter lingered.

“Listen,” you said, clearing your throat, trying to sound casual. “I’ve got my lunch break in about an hour. If you’re free, maybe we could meet. Nothing fancy—just coffee or something.”

“An hour? Yes. Absolutely.” A pause. “Where do you work? I can come to you.”

You hesitated, then figured it was harmless. It was a large and well known office building downtown, after all. Not exactly revealing your home address. “Takahashi Media Group. Midtown Tower, fourteenth floor.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you in an hour.”

The call ended, and you stared at your phone for a beat before heading back to your desk. You tried to focus on your emails, your task list, anything—but your eyes kept drifting to the clock.

It was just coffee, you reminded yourself. Just a casual meeting with the stranger from the train who’d launched a city-wide poster campaign to find you.

 Totally normal.

Fifty-five minutes later, you were gathering your bag when a commotion near the reception area caught your attention. Moments later, your coworker Aki appeared beside your desk.

“Hey, there’s someone asking for you at the reception. And he’s... well, you should just come see.”

“Someone’s here for me?” you asked, frowning. “But I was supposed to meet—” You stopped. “Oh no.”

You hurried toward the reception area, Aki trailing close behind. As you rounded the corner, you saw a group of coworkers gathered near the glass doors, all pretending very badly not to be gawking at something—or better said, someone.

And there, standing right in the center of the chaos, was the handsome stranger form Line 4.

He was even more handsome than you remembered. Tall, effortlessly confident, and dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, with a blue tie that was the exact same shade as his eyes.

When he spotted you, his entire face lit up with a smile so dazzling it looked like it belonged in a toothpaste commercial. You saw your coworker Mei place a hand over her heart, and you could’ve sworn someone behind her whispered, “Oh my god.”

“Artist!” he called, completely unaware of (or more likely, entirely unbothered by) the scene he was causing. “Wow, you’re even prettier when you’re mortified.”

And then you saw the flowers. 

Correction: you saw the flowers.

He was holding the most ridiculous bouquet you’d ever laid eyes on. A vibrant, overflowing explosion of violet, pink, and red, easily three dozen stems if not more. It was a lot. Even for him.

Every head in the lobby turned toward you.

Great. Just fucking great.

You walked over, ignoring the heat rising in your face and the whispers following behind you, wanting nothing more than to quickly escape the awkward scene. Reaching him, you grabbed his elbow and leaned in, voice low.

“You really don’t know how to be subtle, do you?”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Satoru had suggested a café not far from your office, and you followed him down the busy street, relieved to be away from the scene he had caused with nothing more than… his face.

People glanced at him as you walked, some doing double takes. He seemed completely unbothered by it. Perhaps he’s used to it. Being pretty comes with stares naturally, you assumed.

Maybe he was a model. Or a singer. Or both. And you were the only person in Tokyo who didn’t recognize him and later it will be so awkward when paparazzi take photos of you holding hands on your way out and splash them across trashy magazines with some ridiculous headline and—

Wait.

Holding hands?

Why were you even thinking about holding hands?

He could still be a stalker. A total weirdo. A—

You nearly tripped over someone weaving through the crowd, lost in your thoughts. Before you could catch yourself, Satoru’s hand landed gently on your elbow, steadying you as he pulled you closer to his side. Your arm brushed against his, and that brief contact sent a shiver down your spine.

Stupid, handsome and cute weirdo, for sure.

A few minutes later, you were seated in a quiet café, staring hard at a menu you’d already ordered from because pretending to study the drink list was easier than making direct eye contact with the man who was definitely watching you.

You could feel it. His gaze. Not bashful. Not subtle. Not even blinking, apparently. 

Finally, you set the menu down. “You’re staring.”

“I am,” he said, without a hint of shame. “It’s not every day I get to meet the artist who’s been haunting my dreams for weeks.”

“Haunting your dreams, huh?” You glanced up and met those absurdly blue eyes. “You know, you do sound very creepy sometimes.”

“Do I?” He tilted his head slightly. “I’ll admit, I don’t do this often.”

“What, stalk people? Or launch city-wide poster campaigns?”

He laughed. “Both, I guess. That might’ve been a bit much. My colleagues say I have a tendency to go overboard once I’ve set my mind to something.”

“Oh really?”

His smile widened. “Okay, fair. I deserved that. But in my defense—it worked. You’re here.”

“Out of curiosity more than anything,” you said, though you weren’t entirely sure that was true. “So now that you’ve found me, what exactly was the plan? Beyond coffee, I mean?”

He paused, considering. “I must admit, I didn’t think that far ahead. I just wanted to meet you. To thank you for seeing something in me worth capturing.” There was an unexpected softness to his voice. “And maybe to find out if the person behind the pencil is as interesting as her art suggests.”

“And? Verdict so far?”

“Even more interesting,” he said without hesitation. “But I still have questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as how long you’ve been sketching strangers on trains. Why you give the drawings away instead of keeping them. Whether you draw for a living.” He leaned in slightly. “And if you’d ever let me see your sketchbook.”

Before you could answer, the barista approached with a tray.

“Here’s your cappuccino, miss. And Mr. Gojo, your usual.” She set down a borderline theatrical coffee drink in front of him, along with a small plate of pastries you definitely hadn’t heard him order.

“Chef sent these over for you both,” she added with a smile. “It’s that new recipe you suggested last week.”

“Thank him for me, Hana,” Satoru said, offering her a warm smile that made her visibly melt. “They look perfect.”

“Of course, Mr. Gojo. Anything else you need, just let me know.” She gave a polite bow before heading back.

You watched the entire exchange with growing suspicion. As soon as she was out of earshot, you leaned in.

“Okay. What was that about?”

“What do you mean?”

“The chef takes your suggestions for pastries? And the barista knows your ‘usual’, which looks—by the way—like something from the kid’s menu.”

Satoru looked mildly amused as he slid the plate towards you. “Try one. They’re amazing.”

You took one, but fixed him with a pointed look still. “Still not answering my question.”

“I come here a lot.”

“I’ve been going to the same coffee shop near my apartment for three years,” you said, “and they still spell my name wrong on the cup.”

He laughed—a real one. It drew a few subtle glances from nearby tables.

“Fair point.”

The pastry was every bit as good as he promised—light, buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness. But you weren’t letting him off the hook.

“So?” you asked, licking a crumb off your thumb. “Why does everyone here treat you like you’re... I don’t know. Someone important?”

“I suppose because I am someone important”

“What does that mean?”

“I figured I’d bring this up eventually.” Satoru took a sip of his kid’s menu drink, then set the cup down. “I own Gojo Holdings.”

You stared at him. Blankly.

“Our headquarters occupies the top ten floors of this building,” he added, casually gesturing upward.

Suddenly, the name clicked into place. Gojo Holdings—a name you’d seen before. On office towers, in business headlines, maybe even on the news channel. One of those massive investment and trading firms. It was the kind of company that quietly owned half the city without anyone really noticing.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” His tone was surprisingly straightforward. “I’m the CEO. Have been for about five years, since my father stepped down.”

“So this building—?”

“I don’t own the whole tower. Just the top portion. Company offices. This café’s independent, though we partner with them for corporate events.”

“Which is why they know your usual.”

He gave a small shrug. “Perks of a eating here often.”

“So when you were on that train…”

“I was just commuting. Like anyone else.” He sipped his coffee, completely at ease. “Traffic sucks. Trains are faster.”

“A practical billionaire. How novel.”

“CEO. Not a billionare,” he corrected. “Well—technically—”

“Not helping your case,” you cut in, and to his credit, he actually looked sheepish.

“So that’s how you managed to plaster half the city with posters.” You leaned back, studying him again. “Most people would’ve just... posted something online.”

“I don’t do things halfway,” he said, not even pretending to apologize. “Besides, I don’t have social media. Too messy in my position.”

You took a long sip of your cappuccino, buying yourself a moment. Then you asked the question that had been quietly building in the back of your mind.

“So what exactly does the CEO of a major trading company want with a graphic designer who sketches strangers on the subway?”

“The same thing I wanted before you knew any of this. Get to know you.”

You tilted your head, unsure whether to believe him. He must’ve sensed your hesitation. 

“Okay, listen,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ve been renovating the executive floor of our headquarters and there’s this white wall in my office. It’s been empty for months because nothing felt right for it—”

“You want to commission me?” You blinked, more confused than ever. “For your office?”

“Yeah. Actually, for the whole floor. A series of pieces,” he said. “Not landmarks or cityscapes—everyone does that. I want your version. The people. The soul of each place. Like the sketch you gave me.”

“So all this—the posters, the dinner invitation, the whole subway artist manhunt—was for a commission?”

Something flickered in his expression. Not quite hurt, but close.

“No,” he said after a second. “Yeah. I mean—” He sighed. “Does it sound that stupid?”

“I don’t know. It’s... unexpected. That’s all.”

“Is that a yes?”

You took another sip of your cappuccino, more for the excuse to think than anything else. “It’s an ‘I’m thinking about it.’”

“Perfect,” he said, pulling out a business card of his and sliding it across the table. “No pressure. No expectations. If you're interested, call me.”

You turned the card in your fingers, still watching him. “How do you even know I draw anything—beside subway sketches, that is? I never told you.”

He raised an eyebrow, like he couldn’t quite believe you said it yourself. “You don’t?”

Stupid, handsome man. “I  hate you.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Back at your desk, you twirled Satoru’s business card between your fingers, trying to make sense of it all. Was he being genuine? Or was he making fun of you? 

You glanced at the flowers he’d gifted you—still sitting in the large glass vase Mei had found in the office kitchen. They were slightly too vibrant, slightly too much, still too beautiful to ignore. No one brought those kinds of flowers as a joke. Right? And yet, the absurdity of it all made you question even that. 

You slipped the card into your desk drawer and turned your attention to the ad campaign mockups waiting on your screen. But your focus faltered. Your mind kept drifting back to blue eyes, white hair, and the warmth in his voice when he said your name.

Aki appeared at your desk not long after, not even trying to hide her curiosity. You offered her the bare minimum. Just someone whose portrait you’d sketched on the train. Nothing serious. When she pressed further, you sighed and handed over his business card.

Her reaction was immediate. “Gojo Holdings? That Gojo?”

You nodded, reluctantly.

“And he wants to commission you? For art? In his office?”

“He mentioned it,” you said, already regretting sharing anything.

She didn’t miss the nuance. “Oh. He mentioned it. But also stared at you like you hung the moon?”

Your cheeks warmed. She grinned.

That evening, you moved the card from your desk drawer to your wallet, telling yourself it’s just in case you decide to take the commission. Nothing more. 

The rational part of your brain knew this entire situation had ‘bad idea’ written all over it—in flashing neon, no less. But the less rational part of your brain kept remembering how he looked at your sketch as if it were something precious. Not just charcoal on paper.

Days passed. Then weeks.

You kept up your morning ritual—train sketches, quiet observation, the meditative act of putting pencil to paper. But now, each time you boarded, your eyes scanned the car, quietly wishing to see him again. He never appeared.

The business card moved again—from your wallet to your bedside table, then tucked into your sketchbook, then back to your wallet. You drafted emails. Professional, polite. None of them made it past your drafts folder.

And then, life—as it so often does—made the decision for you.

It started with your car being a bit bumpy, then a strange rattle under the hood. And finally, smoke. The repair bill was roughly equivalent to two months’ rent.

That night, you sat at your kitchen table, staring at your bank account and mentally rearranging numbers that didn’t cover the bill no matter what you tried. Between rent, old student loans, and the usual cost of just existing, you didn’t have a cushion big enough to absorb the hit and your parents were still helping your younger sibling through college. Credit cards would only delay the problem.

Your gaze drifted to the business card sitting on the counter where you’d left it earlier. A commission from Gojo Holdings would cover surely more than the car repairs. And then some.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“This entire hallway is yours to reimagine,” Satoru said, gesturing with a casual sweep of his arm. You trailed a few steps behind, sketchbook in hand, scribbling notes as he pointed at one blank wall after another. “Boardroom entrances, reception, executive offices—the whole floor could use your touch.”

The headquarters of Gojo Holdings was exactly what you’d imagined. Sleek, modern, almost intimidating. Walls of glass divided up the offices, giving the illusion of privacy without actually offering much of it. Matte blacks, brushed steel, deep grays, and just enough warm wood or marble veining to say ‘tasteful’ without inviting any real comfort. But maybe that was the point.

Offices like this weren’t meant to feel cozy. In these rooms, decisions were made that shifted markets. Billions moved with a gesture. A signature. A nod. And somewhere at the center of it all was Satoru Gojo, walking through it like he was on his way to pick up coffee at the mall.

“How many pieces are we talking about?” you asked, already measuring the length of yet another white wall in your mind.

“However many feels right.” He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch your raised brow. “What? I mean it.”

“You know, most clients have a vision board. Timelines. Color codes. Budgets. A whole approval chain.”

“I’m not most clients.”

“Clearly.”

He continued the tour, leading you through a maze of meeting rooms and long corridors, while you took notes in your sketchbook—dimensions, how the light shifted through the glass and how certain walls caught the sun. 

You paused often to sketch rough layouts or mark potential placements, all while trying to ignore the way Satoru was watching you more than the rooms.

“And this,” Satoru said, stopping in front of a pair of sleek double doors, “is my office.”

His office was huge—at least four times the size of your apartment—with windows stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a stunning view of the Tokyo skyline. Gentle afternoon sunlight streamed in, causing everything to shimmer softly, as if in a dream.

“It’s…” you hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t stroke his ego, “…adequate.”

Satoru burst out laughing. “Adequate? That might be the first time anyone’s used that word to describe my office.”

“I’m sure people usually fall over themselves with compliments.” You moved towards the windows. “I thought I’d try something different.”

“And that,” he said, following with hands tucked casually in his pockets, “is exactly why I hired you.”

“Because I don’t stroke your ego?”

“Because you’re straight forward. I like that.”

Something in his tone made you glance up at him, but his expression was unreadable as he gazed out at the city below.

“That wall there,” he continued, pointing to the large empty space behind his desk, “is where I originally thought your work would go. But then I thought, why not the whole floor?”

You walked his office slowly, taking in the space, the light, the simplicity. “It’s quite the blank canvas.”

“I’ve been told my style is too minimalist.”

“By who? The interior design magazine that did a feature on your last penthouse?”

His eyes widened a little before crinkling at the corners. “You Googled me.”

“Basic research before meeting a new client,” you said, but your cheeks, of course, betrayed you.

“Mmhmm.” He didn’t look convinced. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

You approached the window where he stood.

“See that building there?” He pointed toward the horizon. “The one with the copper coloured roof?”

You squinted, seeing hundreds of buildings but not sure which one he meant. “Not really…”

“May I?”

Before you could fully register the question, he was behind you, one hand grazing your shoulder, the other gently tilting your chin to guide your gaze. His warmth at your back made your breath hitch.

“There,” he said, his voice brushing your ear. “Between those two towers. That’s where I first saw your work. A small gallery in Ginza. Community showcase. Your cityscape series.”

Your pulse stumbled. “You knew? All this time?”

“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted, still close enough that you could feel the quiet rumble of his words. “I’d actually thought about commissioning you back then—at the gallery. But things got busy, and I let it go. When I saw your sketch on the train, I recognized it immediately and it felt like… I don’t know. A sign. Like the universe was giving me a second chance.”

“How poetic.” You turned slightly, realizing his face was only inches from yours. “Why didn’t you just ask the gallery for my contact info? Would’ve saved you a lot of time. And posters.”

His lips curved into that maddening smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the woman who stalks stranger on the train and draws them.”

“You’re the stalker here.”

“So, what do you think?” He stepped back and leaned casually against his desk. “Can you handle transforming the most boring executive floor in Tokyo?”

“Let’s talk numbers first.”

“I was thinking something in the range of two million yen for the full project,” he replied, watching you carefully.

You nearly choked. That was more than generous—enough to fix your car, pay off a good chunk of your student loans, maybe even take a breath for once. But something in his easy confidence made you want to test his limits.

“Four million,” you said, eyes steady. Bold.

His brows lifted. “That’s quite a jump.”

“I’m quite an artist.”

“That’s already well above—”

You tilted your head, pretending to reconsider. “Hmm. So, if you don’t want me…”

You let the words hang as you casually closed your sketchbook and took a slow step backward, turning like you were ready to walk out. “I get it. It’s a big commitment. I’m sure someone else can paint your sterile corporate walls.”

Satoru blinked. “Wait—”

You took another step.

“Three million,” he said. “Final offer.”

“Deal,” you replied, quick before he could change his mind. “But I have conditions. I want full creative freedom.”

“Naturally.” He pushed off the desk and extended his hand. “Three million yen, complete creative freedom, and dinner.”

Your hand froze halfway to his. “Dinner?”

“Just a simple business dinner,” he said innocently. “To go over project details.”

“We can go over those in an email.”

“Some things are better discussed in person. Over good food. And maybe a glass of wine.”

You crossed your arms. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”

“Only if you want it to be,” he said, mirroring your stance.

“I don’t.”

“Then it’s not.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. One business dinner.”

“At Narisawa,” he added casually. “Private dining room, excellent view.”

“Narisawa? That’s a two month waiting list.”

“Not for everyone.”

“You’re really trying to blur the lines between business and private, aren’t you?”

“I’m merely suggesting a restaurant worthy of an three million yen commission.”

“McDonald’s exists.”

“I’m not taking you to McDonald’s.”

“I thought I had creative control in this partnership.”

“Over the art,” he said. “Dining arrangements fall under my jurisdiction.”

You gave him a look. “I’m starting to think this dinner is more important to you than the actual commission.”

“What would give you that impression?”

“Maybe because you’re pushing harder for this dinner than you did for the art.”

“I didn’t need to push for the art. You were already sold.”

“Presumptuous.”

“Am I wrong?”

You sighed, knowing you were fighting a losing battle. “One dinner. No private room—that’s weird. Main restaurant only. And I’m paying for myself.”

“Main restaurant’s fine,” he conceded, far too agreeable. “But I’m paying. Consider it a signing bonus.”

“That’s not how signing bonuses work.”

“It is at my company.”

“Fine. But this changes nothing. It’s strictly professional.”

“Of course,” he said. “Just two colleagues having a quiet eight course meal at one of Tokyo’s finest restaurants. Completely professional.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, agreeing to both the commission and dinner.”

You extended your hand to finally seal the deal. “Three million yen, full creative control, and one—singular, not two, only one—business dinner.”

He took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you hated how weak that made your knees feel.

“If you say so,” he said.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Over the next two weeks, Gojo Holdings basically became your second home. You spent hours wandering the halls, filling your sketchbook with rough layouts and scribbled notes, snapping photos of how the light shifted from morning to dusk. 

The project had you more energized than anything you’d worked on in years. Full creative freedom and a proper budget? That almost never happened. You didn’t want to waste it.

What you hadn’t expected was how often you’d see Satoru, though. Despite being constantly pulled into meetings and conference calls, you know, running a whole financial empire and all that, he somehow always knew when you were in the building.

Sometimes you’d catch glimpses of him through the glass walls of the conference rooms, commanding attention with a casual confidence that was almost mesmerizing to watch. He’d be deep in conversation with some serious looking executives, completely in his element, and then, as if he could sense your gaze, his eyes would find yours. A subtle wink or the ghost of a smile just for you, and suddenly your stomach would do that stupid fluttering thing again.

Other times, he’d just… appear. Out of nowhere. Usually while you were measuring a wall or standing on your tiptoes trying to track the afternoon shadows.

“Need a hand?” he’d ask, already handing you a coffee like he knew you forgot to eat again and make some terrible joke about “hanging” your work. (“Get it? Because they’ll be hanging on the wall?” “Yes, Satoru, I get it. It’s still not funny.” “You smiled though.”)

He’d carve out little bits of time—ten minutes here, twenty there—despite his full schedule. Sometimes he’d walk with you through the space, telling stories about silly board meetings. Seriously, who would’ve thought that a company handling millions in the stock market could be run like a sitcom half the time? 

Other times, he’d just sit nearby while you sketched, sipping his coffee in silence and letting you work. Strangely enough, his presence was never distracting. If anything, it felt… comfortable. Good, even.

And occasionally, he’d say something that surprised you. A thought about layout. A comment about color balance. Something you didn’t expect from a guy who usually talked in numbers and strategies.

“Shouldn’t you be doing CEO things instead of analyzing my color palette?” you’d ask.

“I could, but I’ve already yelled at three departments today. I’m ahead of schedule,” he’d reply with a grin.

And the strangest part wasn’t how much he was around. It was how quickly you got used to it. And how weirdly empty the rooms felt when he wasn’t there.

Your concept came together almost on its own. A series about Tokyo told through its people. Not neon signs or city skylines, more salarymen passed out on the train, old women gossiping in corner markets, teenagers packed into ramen shops after school. Quiet, ordinary moments that felt honest. Human.

Your apartment turned chaotic. Canvases leaned against furniture, reference photos were spread across every flat surface, and your sketches were taped to the windows just to see how they looked in different light. You worked late most nights, completely losing track of time until your stomach reminded you that you hadn’t eaten anything except an energy drink and half a protein bar.

You’d send status updates to Satoru sometimes. Professionally, mostly.

The concept boards are coming along well. I’ll have something concrete to show you by next week. — You

His replies, however, did not share your sense of professional distance:

I’m sure they’re amazing, but I’d rather see the artist than the art. When are you letting me buy you dinner? — SG

You rolled your eyes at his persistence, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

The art comes before the artist. Patience, Mr. Gojo. — You

Mr. Gojo was my father. I’m Satoru to you, remember? And patience has never been my strong suit. — SG

The exchanges continued like this—you sending actual work updates, him responding with barely veiled attempts to see you again. It was absurd. Unprofessional. And yet… you looked forward to his replies more than you cared to admit.

Three weeks in, his patience seemed to officially ran out:

Dinner. This Friday. 8 PM. I’ve already made reservations at Narisawa. Unless you’re planning to work through the weekend again? — SG

You stared at the message for a long moment before typing back:

I’m in the middle of the sixth canvas. Friday won’t work. — You

His response came almost immediately:

Art can wait. Food can’t. The reservation is at 8. — SG

You scoffed.

I don’t recall agreeing to this Friday. Reschedule? — You

Ten minutes passed with no response. You had just returned to your canvas when your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.

“Hello?”

“I don’t accept a no.”

“That sounds problematic.”

He laughed. “Only when it comes to dinner invitations. Specifically ones I’ve been waiting weeks for.”

“I’m covered in paint and haven’t slept properly in days.”

“You could show up in pajamas and still be the most interesting person in the room.”

“Flattery won’t work.”

“You’re an awful liar, you know that? Your voice just did that thing it does when you’re trying not to smile.”

Your traitor lips curved anyway. “You can’t possibly know that over the phone.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

You sighed and set your brush down. “Why are you so persistent about this dinner?”

“Because I want to see you,” he said simply. “Because you’ve been painting pieces for my walls and I haven’t even seen your progress. Because maybe I miss the way you look at me like you’re immune to my charm.”

“I could send photos of the work.”

“Or,” he said, “you could wear something you like, let me feed you something expensive, and tell me about your process in person.”

“You won’t let me out of this, will you?”

“No.”

You sighed. “Fine. But I’m paying for myself.”

“We’ll discuss that over appetizers.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Friday at 8,” he said, ignoring your protest. “I’ll pick you up.”

“I can take the train.”

“Humor me.”

You could practically hear the smile in his voice.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible?”

“You. Repeatedly. It’s part of our thing.”

“We don’t have a thing.”

“Yet,” he added. And before you could argue, “I’ll see you Friday. Wear something that makes you happy.”

After the call ended, you stared at your phone for a few moments longer, until the screen turned black.

Somehow, despite your best efforts and at least three attempts to ghost him, you had a dinner on Friday night. Not a date, you told yourself. A business dinner. With a man who was way too attractive, way too confident, and had launched an entire campaign just to commission you. Totally normal.

You turned back to your canvas and tried to focus, but the flutter in your stomach wouldn’t go away.

It was just dinner. In a restaurant. With candlelight and probably a lot of eye contact. Nothing more.

Still, as you painted into the night, you caught yourself wondering what you might wear that would make you feel good. And maybe—just maybe—make him look at you the way he had in his office, when he stood so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.

Strictly professional, you reminded yourself.

Even you didn’t believe it anymore.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Friday evening arrived with the kind of weird, way too warm weather that made you rethink your outfit three times before settling on something that felt like you—comfortable but still nice enough for... whatever game Satoru might be playing.

You were fixing your lipstick when your phone buzzed.

Downstairs. Take your time. — SG

You walked over to the window for a quick glance outside—and there he was.

Satoru was leaning against the passenger side of a sleek black car, arms crossed, dressed in a dark suit that looked almost identical to the one he’d worn the day you first saw him on Line 4. As if he could feel your gaze, he looked up. And saw you. 

No wave, no wink—just a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.

You blinked and stepped back from the window, heart fluttering in a strange way it hadn’t in a long time. Who even was this man? And how had he managed to get under your skin so completely, so quickly? You were dressing up, wearing lipstick, checking the window like some high school crush was picking you up for prom.

It was ridiculous. Stupid, even.

You grabbed your bag, took a breath, and headed downstairs before your brain had time to start asking too many questions.

He was still just a client. A persistent, maddeningly handsome client.

When you stepped out, he was still leaning against the passenger side door and just for a moment, he froze. No smirk. No teasing remark. Nothing prepared. His usual cool confidence seemed to falter as his eyes swept over you slowly and deliberately, like he wasn’t quite sure he was seeing you right.

“Wow,” he said quietly, straightening up a little and running a hand through his hair before letting out a breath. “You look…” He actually stopped to find the word—that alone felt suspicious. “…really beautiful.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what? Being honest? Sorry, not tonight.”

Before you could say anything else, he was already opening the car door for you, one hand briefly touching the small of your back as you slid inside. Not in a sleazy way. More like it came naturally to him. Which made you almost forget to be annoyed by his presumption.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Narisawa was exactly what you expected and somehow even more—the kind of place where the lighting was soft without being dim, where the air smelled faintly of thyme and something far more expensive, and where every detail felt carefully chosen to whisper, ‘you absolutely cannot afford this’.

Satoru had, of course, managed to get a table by the window, offering a view of the skyline that felt almost unreal. It was the kind of view that made the whole night feel like it belonged in a movie and made you almost forget this was technically a business dinner.

Conversation came easier than you’d expected. Over the first few courses—each one more art piece than meal, which made you feel slightly guilty about ruining it by eating it (I mean, who does that? Making such pretty food just for it to end up in a stomach?)—you talked about everything from your work as a designer and your favourite bands, to his tragic inability to make anything more complicated than instant noodles, and how he once almost made it into the national basketball team.

But what surprised you most was the way he asked about your art. He had a way of asking about that didn’t feel performative or polite. He was actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.

“So, the third piece,” he said, slicing into what was probably the most perfectly cooked fish you’d ever tasted. “The one with the commuters—how do you get that sense of movement in a still frame?”

You paused. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“I told you—I’m interested in your process.”

“Most clients only ask when it’ll be done and how much it’ll cost.”

He smiled, lifting his wine glass. “I’m not most clients,” he said, echoing what he’d told you that first day at his headquarters.

For the next twenty minutes, you talked shop. Layering techniques, color and motion, how to evoke emotion without showing too much. He asked questions that actually made you think—sharp, specific ones that showed he wasn’t just nodding along to be polite. He was genuinely interested.

At some point, somewhere between your third course and your second glass of wine, you caught yourself relaxing. Laughing. Enjoying it. And then you paused and set your glass down.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, unsure why the question suddenly felt heavier than it should.

“Anything.”

“You really went through all this—the car, this restaurant, the whole dramatic dinner—just to talk about brushwork and layering techniques?”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers resting lightly against his glass as he searched for the right words. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I just like you.”

“You like me?” you echoed, unsure if it was a question or a warning.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Kind of, yeah.” You fidgeted with your napkin. “I mean, you could be having dinner with a dozen other people tonight. Models. Actresses. CEOs’ daughters. People who don’t get paint on their shoes and give you a hard time.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why.”

Something shifted between you at his words. Like someone had turned the volume down on the room so you could hear each other better. You took a slow sip of wine, partly to buy time, partly to keep your expression neutral as you studied him across the table.

“So, you’re single then?” you asked. “Unless your girlfriend’s very cool with you taking strangers to fancy dinners.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I have a girlfriend?”

“I’m asking if I should expect an angry phone call later.”

He laughed. “No angry phone calls. And yeah—I’m single.”

“Shocking,” you said. “A successful and attractive CEO who can’t keep a girlfriend? What’s the catch?”

“Maybe I’m just picky.”

“Or maybe you’re married to your work,” you teased. “Let me guess—canceled dates for board meetings, forgotten anniversaries because of some deadline?”

“That’s…” He paused, glancing down on his glass for a moment. “Actually, my last girlfriend cheated on me.”

Your smile slipped. “Oh. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be sorry. She wasn’t the right one. If she had been, maybe she would’ve understood that building something that lasts takes time. And attention.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About two years.” He reached for his wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. “Haven’t really dated since then.”

“So, casual things?”

“More like burying myself in work. Honestly, the closest thing I’ve had to female company lately is my secretary. And she has this strangely strict voice that sounds exactly like my mother when she’s disappointed.”

You laughed, sharp and sudden, covering your mouth with your hand. It wasn’t even that funny, not really. But the way he’d said it—so dry, and slightly frightened—and the face he made, like a kid who’d just been scolded for wearing the wrong socks to a school recital, caught you completely off guard.

For a moment, he didn’t look like the CEO of a massive company or the man who moved literal billions without blinking. He looked boyish. Almost shy. Like he was letting you peek at something most people didn’t get to see. And somehow, that made it even funnier.

You tried to compose yourself, but your shoulders were still shaking as you dabbed at the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled as he watched you try to hold in your laughter. “I like when you laugh like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not thinking about how you look doing it.”

Something in the way he said it that made the humor settle into something softer, something that hangs in the air a little too long. Like neither of you wanted to be the one to move past it first.

“Well,” you said, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up, “your secretary sounds scary. I can see why you’d rather have dinner with me.”

“Among other reasons.”

Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. You picked up your glass, needing the excuse to look away for a second. “Are you always this charming?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out a little softer than intended.

“I’m trying,” he said. “With you.”

He said it like it wasn’t heavy at all. But it was. And you could feel it settle in your chest.

“Satoru…” you started, not even sure what was going to follow. But then the waiter showed up and set down the next course with a brief description you didn’t really hear because you only had eyes for him.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Dinner had stretched well past ten, neither of you making any real effort to end the night. So when Satoru suggested a walk instead of heading straight to the car, you said yes.

The night had cooled off more than you expected, and you pulled your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders as the two of you wandered through the quiet streets near the restaurant. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and glistening under the streetlights. At one point, a small puddle stretched across the sidewalk, and before you could react, Satoru just scooped you up without a word and carried you over it like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Maybe it was the warmth the wine had left in your chest, or maybe it was just the way his arms felt around you, steady and sure, but you let yourself lean a little closer against him before he set you down again on the other side. 

“That was unnecessary,” you said, trying to sound annoyed, though you didn’t make much effort to slip out of his arms.

“Maybe,” he replied with a grin, “but I’ve always wanted an excuse to do that.”

It felt good—being with him felt really good. The kind of good that made you forget to guard yourself. The kind that crept in quietly and made you wonder what it would be like to have more nights just like this.

You’d just rounded a corner into a small park when you heard soft violin music drifting through the air. You slowed, then stopped entirely. Just ahead, a street musician stood under the warm glow of a streetlamp, playing something slow and aching and beautiful.

You stood still and listened for a moment, a smal smile tugigng at your lips. 

“Dance with me,” Satoru said.

You turned to him. “What? No.”

“Why not?” He held out a hand.

You hesitated and looked around for a second. 

“You know, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

You surrendered and took his hand. “This is so stupid.”

He smiled, soft and sincere, and stepped in close. One hand found your waist, the other guiding yours up between you. His touch was warm, steady. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“You know,” you began, as he gently started to move. Not quite dancing, more like remembering how. “I usually don’t do this with clients.”

“Figures. I always suspected I was your favourite.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” you teased. “That other client of mine, a guy from an accounting firm is pretty smooth too.”

“Oh really? Did he buy you dinner at Narisawa and slow dance with you in the park?”

“Not yet.”

“I like when you try to mess with me.”

“I’m not trying. You just make it easy.”

He spun you gently, then pulled you back in, your hand pressed lightly to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his dress shirt—too fast, like yours.

A few people passed, smiling without staring. It didn’t matter. You were too aware of his breath near your cheek, the weight of his palm at your back, the quiet between songs that didn’t feel like silence at all.

“You’re good at this,” you said softly.

“I only dance with people who make it easy.”

“That line would work better if your hands weren’t shaking a little.”

He leaned in closer, his breath gazing your ear. “So are yours.”

You swallowed, the closeness of him settling into your skin. You didn’t answer. Just let him hold you for a few more seconds, rain beginning to fall in light taps across your shoulders, your hair. And then he dipped you back gently, one hand firm behind you.

“Still think it’s stupid?” he asked.

Your breath caught as you stared up into those impossibly blue eyes, your back arching as he supported your weight effortlessly. The rest of the world faded away until there was nothing but him and the violin and the electric space between you.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Absolutely.”

“But?”

You hesitated, then let your fingers curl lightly around the front of his jacket. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

That’s when you felt the first raindrop hit your cheek.

His gaze flickered down to the raindrop on your skin, how it slowly run down, and for a second you could have sworn he looked at you lips. And maybe, just maybe you wished he’d kissed you but then the rain came heavier.

“That’s our cue.” But he didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed on you. 

Finally, he lifted you back up, drawing you close against his chest. You were both breathing hard, though you’d barely been moving. The rain was falling more steadily now, and you could see Satoru’s white hair beginning to darken with moisture.

“Home?” he asked, voice rougher now, like he wasn’t quite ready for the answer either.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything without giving too much away. Because at some point, this had stopped feeling like dinner with a client. You weren’t sure when it changed—only that it had. And now everything felt a little too close, a little too important.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

When the car pulled up to your building, he was out and opening your door before you could reach for the handle yourself. Of course he was. Always one step ahead, always just… thoughtful in that maddening, disarming way.

“Thank you,” you said, stepping out into the quiet night.

“My pleasure.” 

The air smelled like wet pavement and something faintly floral from someone’s balcony. He walked you to your door, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking toward the sky like he wasn’t quite ready to say goodnight either. 

You fumbled with your keys for a moment, buying time before the inevitable goodbye. The silence stretched, not tense, but full. Full of everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t.

When you finally turned to him, he was closer than you’d expected, close enough that you could see the way his white hair had dried in soft waves from the rain. He smelled faintly of wine and cedar and like someone you could spend the rest of your life with.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you said. “Thank you. For the dinner, the dancing, the completely unnecessary puddle rescue…”

He smiled, a little crooked, a little tired. “Even the terrible jokes?”

“Especially the terrible jokes. Though the stories of your secretary will probably haunt me tonight.”

“Oh, she haunts everyone,” he said. “She’s very scary.”

You both laughed, but the sound died down fast, like the moment had suddenly remembered it was trying to mean something else. His gaze dropped, if only for the briefest moment, to your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you waited, hoping, expecting—

“I should let you get some sleep,” he said. But instead of stepping back, he stepped closer.

Your breath caught as his hand rose—slow, deliberate—coming to rest gently at the back of your head. But instead of the dreamy kiss you’d hoped for, he kissed your forehead. Not your mouth. Not even your cheek. Your forehead.

The kiss was soft, warm—overflowing with care. But not the kind you’d been waiting for. It was tender, almost reverent, and somehow, it left you feeling strangely hollow.

“Sleep well,” he murmured against your skin before pulling back. And then he turned—just like that—and walked back to the car. No glance over his shoulder. No hesitation. No second thought.

Inside your apartment, you leaned against the closed door, jacket still damp against your shoulders. You touched your forehead, where his lips had been. It had been sweet. Really, it had. Just… not what you’d expected. Not what you’d wanted.

You let your head fall back against the door with a soft thud. Why hadn’t he kissed you? Why would he do all that just to not... kiss you?

You’d been so sure. The way he’d looked at you over dinner. The way he’d held you during that ridiculous dance. The way it had all felt like a slow build to something. And you wanted that something.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you were just another commission to him after all, something to be handled with care but ultimately kept at arm’s length.

It shouldn’t have stung the way it did. But it did.

More than you cared to admit.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Monday morning arrived under a gray drizzle that matched your mood a little too perfectly. You stepped into a puddle on the way out, got your umbrella stuck in a doorway because you’d forgotten it was open, and then someone on the subway sneezed directly in your direction. It was that kind of morning.

You’d spent the entire weekend replaying Friday night over in your head—every glance, every word, every fleeting gesture—until you’d nearly driven yourself mad with questions that had no answers.

And Aki was absolutely no help. She was already perched on your desk when you walked in, your usual coffee in one hand and dark circles under your eyes doing all the talking.

“Soooo… how was your fancy dinner?”

“It was fine,” you said, powering up your computer.

“Fine?” Mei materialized beside her like she’d been lying in wait for gossip. “That’s it? You go to Narisawa with the hottest CEO in Tokyo and all we get is fine?”

“It was a business dinner. We discussed the commission.”

“What kind of man gets you flowers that pretty just to talk about business?”

“A man who takes his commission very seriously.”

You could feel their stares burning into the side of your head.

“Come on,” Mei pressed. “Did he kiss you? He kissed you, didn’t he? I can tell by your face.”

“He didn’t kiss me.”

“Ah,” Aki said, with that stupid satisfaction of someone who’d just solved a puzzle. “So you wanted him to.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Can we please not?”

But of course, they were relentless, firing question after question at you about what you wore, what you ate, what he said, if there was a ‘vibe’—until you were actually grateful for that boring meeting before lunch with a client who always rejected your ideas, made you change them back and forth a dozen times, and inevitably circled back to the original design. As frustrating as that was, it still didn’t compare to what was coming later.

You had a meeting with Satoru after work to talk about delivery logistics—when to bring the artwork, how many pieces were ready. The commission was nearly complete, and a few canvases could be brought to his office already. But the thought of standing across from him again, making small talk about framing and placement, felt unbearable.

Not to mention figuring out how to get those giant canvases out of your apartment, which was now packed to the walls with drying paint, sketches, and so many drop cloths you’d basically lost your kitchen to the cause.

For weeks, this commission had felt like the best thing to happen to your career. But now, standing outside the gleaming tower that housed his office, you weren’t sure what to think anymore.

Was this just business to him? Had you imagined the connection, the tension, the way he looked at you like you were someone special? Maybe successful men like Satoru Gojo were just naturally charming, and you’d been naive enough to think it meant something more.

You straightened your shoulders and walked into the building. If he wanted professional, he could have professional. You had a job to do, no matter what kind of game your heart thought it was playing.

You raised your hand to knock on his office door—though really, there was no need. The walls were glass, and he’d already spotted you the second you moved. 

He was on the phone, his shoulder pinning it in place as he typed something on the laptop in front of him. With a slight nod of his head, he gestured for you to come in. And there it was again—that maddening smile. The one that made it look like his whole face lit up just from seeing you.

You stepped inside, lingering uncertainly near the door. He was still deep in conversation, something about a company merger and someone named Gerald being an absolut idiot, and how he might as well handle it himself. Always busy, it seemed. 

Satoru shifted the phone slightly and glanced at you. “Hey, you want coffee?”

You nodded and then he was back to his call. You wandered a little further into his office, taking in the space. It was always so tidy which felt strangely at odds with how chaotic his work seemed to be. You drifted toward the tall windows and looked down at the city below. In the gentle afternoon sun, people were rushing through the city—commuters heading home, students in uniform, ordinary lives unfolding far beneath you.

Satoru stood and walked over to you. He was close—Why would he come so close?—and placed a hand gently at your waist, a brief touch that lingered just long enough to make your breath catch. He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he said, voice low. “I’m nearly done.” 

And then he was gone, stepping out of the office and leaving you reeling.

When he returned two minutes later, he had two mugs in one hand and a canned coffee tucked under his arm, balancing it all as he kicked open the door with his foot. Phone was still pressed between his shoulder and ear. He poured two cups and handed you a one, flashing you that easy smile of his.

You took a seat on the couch, sipping carefully and doing your best not to make eye contact. But you were sure he’d already noticed the flush creeping into your cheeks.

Finally, he hung up and let out a long sigh. 

“I’m so sorry. There’s this big merger we’re handling, and the guy in charge is like the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”

“It’s okay.”

He ran a hand through his hair, sending it falling messily back over his forehead.

“No, it’s not. I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

“I bet that just comes naturally with being important.”

“I’m not that important,” he replied with a grin.

“The whole tower has your name on it. I’d say that qualifies.”

“What’s more important right now,” he said, standing and walking over to you, “is you.” He took the seat across from you. “So… how was your day? Treat you well?”

Why was he asking about your day now? What kind of game was he playing?

“It was fine. Monday’s not exactly my favorite.”

“Don’t get me started.” He laughed. “I hope at least your meeting went well?”

You blinked. He remembers? You’d mentioned it briefly during dinner.

“Oh, uh… yeah. It went okay,” you said. “But let’s talk about the commission. That’s why I’m here, right?”

He frowned, and there was a moment of silence. “Sure.”

You spent the next hour and a half going over the artwork—discussing placement, lighting, framing. He was enthusiastic and attentive, genuinely appreciative in a way that still surprised you, even now.

You moved through the headquarters together. Most people had gone home by then. The sun had already set, casting long shadows through the quiet halls. A few late workers lingered, but Satoru told them to go and rest and sent them home. And just like that, it was the two of you, walking side by side through the empty building, planning where each piece would live.

It was in one of the offices on the west side of the building—the ones with the perfect view of Tokyo Tower—that you found yourself on your tiptoes, trying to tape a placeholder on the wall for one of the larger pieces. You stretched, struggling to reach just high enough to get the angle right.

“Wait, let me.”

Before you could respond, Satoru was suddenly right behind you. He gently took the tape from your fingers, easily reaching over you to press it into place. His body hovered just a breath away, tall and warm.

“Thank you,” you said, suddenly flushed. But he didn’t move away. “You can step back now.” You didn’t dare turn around because if you did, you would end up facing his chest. And you really didn’t want to face his chest.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I’m just checking in,” he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand inches away from someone like this.

“You have a strange way of doing that.”

“I had a feeling.”

“About what?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I don’t.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your shoulder, and then slowly trailed the back of his hand down your arm. It sent a shiver down your spine that you hoped he didn’t notice.

“So this doesn’t bother you?” he asked, almost curious.

“Satoru, what’s your mission here?”

You finally turned to face him and regretted it immediately. You were much too close, nearly pressed against him. His white dress shirt did nothing to hide the muscle beneath, and you hated the fact that your first thought was how unfairly good he’d look without it.

“You’re blushing.” He reached out, gently cupping your chin and tilting your face up toward his.

“It’s hot.”

“It isn’t,” he said, and smiled.

He was right. It was around eighteen degrees. Damn these fancy offices and their perfectly functioning ACs.

“Can we go back to work? I’d rather not have a sleepover here.”

Satoru didn’t move. Instead, he leaned in closer, placing one hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in.

“You’re acting strange today,” he said softly.

“Maybe because you’re keeping me here.”

“Was I mistaken?”

“About what?”

“Our date.”

“What about it?”

His hand dropped from your chin. “I thought it was… good.”

You blinked, trying to read him. “It was—” you cleared your throat, “—it wasn’t just good. It was great.”

“Oh. Yeah… I think so too. Then why—”

“But you didn’t kiss me.”

His eyes widened just a little. “You… wanted me to kiss you?”

“I…” You hesitated, feeling your face getting even hotter then is already was. “Yes.”

“I thought I’d be a gentleman and take things slow. Are we actually kissing on first dates these days?”

“I mean… yeah. It depends—I guess, but…” You trailed off, absolutely flustered.

He paused for a beat, then that maddeningly smug grin spread across his lips.

“Don’t smile like that,” you said, pushing lightly against his chest.

“I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t want to rush things. I mean, my whole approach was already kind of—”

“Weird? Borderline stalker—” And then his lips were on yours, silencing your words. 

No hesitation this time. No uncertainty. You melted into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. 

His hands slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss with a confidence that made your knees go weak. One hand traced the line of your jaw while the other found the small of your back, pulling you closer until not even air could fit between you.

You could taste the coffee on his lips, could feel the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed that he wasn’t as composed as he looked. When he pulled back, you were both breathless, foreheads pressed together under the dim lights.

“Still think this is just about the commission?” he asked, his thumb brushing gently across your bottom lip, now flushed and swollen from his kiss.

“Shut up.” And then you grabbed him by his tie and pulled him back to your lips.

This kiss was different. Hungrier. Needier. He pressed you back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other tangled deep in your hair. You couldn’t stop the soft sound that escaped when he deepened it further, like you’d been waiting for this longer than you wanted to admit.

“What’s the hurry?” he whispered between kisses, his mouth trailing along your jaw.

“You made a whole-ass campaign to find me,” you said, breathless, your fingers twisted in his shirt. “Don’t back down now.”

His laugh was low and rough against your neck. “Fair point.”

Before you could answer, his hands slid down to your thighs, and suddenly you were being lifted, your back pressed firmly against the wall as he held you there effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and the new position brought you eye-level with him, close enough to see just how dark his eyes had gone.

“Still think I’m moving too slow?” he asked against your throat, his breath warm on your skin.

“Getting there,” you managed, though your voice was shakier than you’d intended, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

“I do like a challenge.”

Without breaking the kiss, Satoru carried you across the pace into his office, your legs still wrapped around his waist, until he reached the leather couch by the windows. He lowered you both down, following you as you sank into the soft cushions, his weight settling over you as his hands framed your face.

“Much better,” he breathed against your lips.

His kisses deepened, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to explore the taste of you. One hand slid into your hair while the other traced the curve of your waist. 

“I hope you sent everyone home,” you said, fingers threading through his white hair as his mouth moved along your neck.

“Don’t worry. And besides—glass or not, the walls are soundproof. One of the perks of being CEO.”

“How convenient.”

“I thought so.” His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw, making you gasp and arch beneath him. “Though I have to admit—I didn’t imagine using it like this when I had them installed.”

You tugged gently at his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours. “Then what did you imagine?”

“Boring conference calls,” he said between kisses. “Definitely not as interesting as this.”

The leather of the couch was cool against your back where your shirt had ridden up, highlighting the heat of his large hands as they explored the newly exposed skin. Outside, Tokyo shimmered in the night, but the only thing holding your attention was the man above you—the way he kissed you like he was memorizing every reaction, every breath, every soft sound you made.

“What makes you think I’m that loud?” you murmured against his mouth.

“Oh, I have a feeling.”

His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before skimming up the inside of your thigh. The touch sent a rush through your veins, making you gasp softly into his kiss.

“Satoru,” you whispered, fingers gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as his touch grew bolder.

“I know.” His hand inched lower between your legs, while his lips kissed down your neck. “I hate waiting too.”

Then his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans, chasing every bit of tension that had been building between you since that very first subway sketch. And as the lights of Tokyo glittered beyond the glass, the rest of the world fell away, leaving nothing but the heat between you—and the things neither of you could hold back any longer.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Later, you lay tangled together on the leather couch, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your bare shoulder. Everything had gone still, except for your breathing and the distant noise of Tokyo still awake outside.

“So,” Satoru said, his voice warm with amusement, “where exactly did we leave off with the commission?”

You lifted your head to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Pretty sure we got distracted somewhere around placing the canvas in the west office block.”

“Ah, yes—the once perfect placement. Facing the window, not the door. ‘Omg, what was I thinking?’” he teased in a gentle mimic of your voice, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “For what I’m paying you, I really have no say.”

“Don’t blame this on me. You gave me full creative freedom. Or maybe you need better negotiation tactics.”

“My negotiation tactics are pretty solid,” he protested, his chest rumbling with quiet laughter beneath your cheek. “I got exactly what I wanted.”

“The art commission?”

“Among other things.” His arms tightened around you, drawing you closer. “Though I still think the pieces should face the door, so I can see them from the hallway when I pass that office.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Mr. CEO?”

“That’s my completely biased, utterly smitten opinion,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The CEO in me would probably have a lot to say about the productivity level of tonight.”

“Poor productivity indeed. We only managed to discuss half the rooms.”

“Terrible oversight.” His hand slid slowly down your back, caressing your hip. “We’ll have to schedule another meeting. Several, probably. Very intensive. Very hands-on.”

“Hands-on is definitely the way to go with this project,” you said, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, and the look he gave you was so tender it made your heart skip.

In one smooth motion, he flipped you beneath him again, his weight settling over you as his lips found yours. “I think we should continue our discussion right now,” he murmured, trailing kisses down your throat.

You were just beginning to melt into his touch when the sound of the office door opening made you both freeze.

“Oh fuck! I didn’t know you were still here,” a voice blurted.

You scrambled to grab Satoru’s shirt from the floor next to the couch and pulled it over yourself as you pressed back into the couch cushions. Thankfully, the back of the couch faced the door, giving you at least some cover, but your heart was hammering so hard you were sure whoever it was could hear it.

Satoru pushed himself up, running a hand through his messy hair, looking far too at ease for someone who’d just been caught in a very compromising position

“Suguru,” he said, voice calm and unbothered. “What’s up?”

“Don’t bother—I’m just looking for my laptop charger. I’ll leave.”

“It’s okay. We were just...” Satoru began, then seemed to realize there was no good way to finish that sentence. “...Having a meeting.”

You buried your face in your hands, mortified. Why the hell is he starting a conversation right now? This was not how you’d imagined your evening ending—almost naked on Satoru’s office couch, wearing only his shirt, while his colleague stood in the doorway looking for his goddamn laptop charger. 

The time you waited for the guy to get his charger were the most agonizing twenty second of your whole life and to your bad, Satoru wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed.

Little did you know that Suguru would become one of your closest friends once you and Satoru were actually in a relationship. But every single birthday party or casual gathering, that story would come again. “Haha, did you know Suguru caught us on the couch?” Satoru would joke, while Suguru would groan, “Can we please never talk about that again?”

Six months later, the apartment Satoru found for the two of you was perfect in the way only he could manage—spacious enough for both of you to have your own creative corners and with big windows that caught the morning light beautifully and offered a stunning view of the city skyline. It was nestled just across from a quiet park where the trees already turned gold for autumn.

But it was the room he’d turned into your art studio that brought you to tears the first time you saw it. Windows that faced the north for consistent lighting, spacious storage for your materials, and enough wall space to work on several large canvases at once.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you’d said, running your fingers along the custom easel he’d installed.

“I wanted to,” he’d replied simply, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “I want to see what you create when you have all the space and time in the world.”

You’d cut your hours at Takahashi Media Group down to part-time—something that would’ve been financially impossible before Satoru. But the commission for his headquarters had led to three more corporate projects, and suddenly, you had enough steady work to support yourself as an artist. Real work. Meaningful work. Not just subway sketches—though you still did those too. Now, Satoru sometimes joined you on weekend train rides, amused by the way strangers reacted to receiving unexpected portraits.

Your mornings became a rhythm of coffee in bed while he read financial reports and you sketched ideas for new pieces. After the third time he found you passed out over a canvas at 2 AM, having forgotten to eat dinner, he installed a espresso machine in your studio. Now, he’d show up with perfectly crafted lattes and whatever takeout he’d ordered, settling into the window seat with his laptop while you painted—taking calls with investors in Tokyo, New York, and London, all while keeping an eye on you and making sure you don’t overwork yourself again.

“You know I can hear you smiling through the phone,” you’d tease after he hung up from his calls.

“Can’t help it,” he’d say. “I’ve got the most beautiful view in the city right here.”

The subway sketches evolved too. Instead of giving them all away, you started keeping some—the ones that captured something more, moments that felt like little revelations about people, about life. Satoru convinced you to include them in a group exhibition at a gallery in Shibuya. The opening night was small and intimate, but watching people connect with your work in a way they never had when you were just handing out drawings on trains felt like validation of everything you’d been trying to do.

“This feels like coming full circle,” Satoru whispered into your ear as you both watched guests study your pieces, his hand resting warmly at the small of your back.

“From stalking me through my art to displaying it properly?”

“From falling in love with your work… to falling in love with you,” he corrected. And even after months of dating, after hearing him say those words more times than you could count, they still made your heart skip.

Suguru became an unexpected constant in your life too. What began hella awkward slowly turned into real friendship. And the three of you fell into an easy routine of weekend dinners and spontaneous museum visits, Suguru often playing the role of best friend and occasional voice of reason when Satoru’s grand romantic gestures got out of hand.

Which happened more often than you’d expected. Like the time he rented out an entire floor of a restaurant because you’d wanted to eat there but hated crowded rooms. Or when he bought a whole flower shop’s worth of peonies because you’d mentioned loving them once. Or the morning you woke up to find the city’s best sushi chef—apparently an old friend of his, because Satoru seemed to know everyone in this goddamn town—preparing breakfast in your kitchen, just because you’d been craving good fish.

“You know you don’t have to keep trying to impress me,” you told him after each increasingly excessive gesture. “I already said yes to moving in with you.”

“I’m not trying to impress you. I’m trying to spoil you. There’s a difference.”

The truth was, it was the small things that meant the most. The way he’d automatically order your coffee when you were running late, or how he’d text you photos of interesting architecture from whatever city he was traveling through, or the fact that he’d learned to distinguish between your different paintbrushes and how to clean them properly when you forgot. 

He even kept a sketchbook of his own now, filled with terrible but enthusiastic drawings of you working, cooking, sleeping, just existing in the space you’d built together.

Your family adored him, of course. Your mother immediately started calling him her ‘second son’ after a chaotic family dinner he’d attended—which, by the way, you always thought was kind of weird. Like, why would parents call him their ‘son’ when he was spending every other night between your thighs?—Still, he charmed everyone with stories about his work, genuine interest in your father’s completely ordinary job and about your cousins’ college applications—and even remembered your aunt’s dog’s name. He always brought the perfect wine to pair with whatever your mom was cooking, and never forgot a birthday.

The subway sketches and posters that had started everything found a permanent home in the hallway of your shared apartment. A dozen framed moments that told the story of your work and your relationship. The original sketch you’d given him on that crowded train of Line 4 hung proudly in his office at work, right next to his desk where everyone could see it.

“That’s where it all started,” he’d say whenever anyone asked. “Best investment I ever made.”

Three years later, when Satoru proposed during one of your morning train rides—getting down on one knee right there in the subway car where you first met, causing a scene that had fellow passengers cheering and taking pictures—you realized that sometimes the best love stories start with the smallest gestures. 

A sketch handed to a stranger. A poster campaign that was equal parts romantic and unhinged. A decision to be brave enough to call a number written on a business card.

And every morning, as you watched the city wake through the studio’s windows while Satoru hummed in the kitchen, probably checking market reports with one hand and making your coffee with the other, you couldn’t help but smile at how beautifully imperfect it all was. How your once carefully ordered life had been turned upside down by a man with white hair and the kind of heart that didn’t know how to love in small doses.

“Still think I’m weird?” he’d ask sometimes, appearing in your studio doorway with a mug of coffee and that same grin that had made your knees weak the very first time.

“The weirdest,” you’d always reply, taking the coffee—and the kiss that came with it. “But you’re my weird. And I love you.”

“I love you more,” he’d say, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

And that, you’d learned, made all the difference.

masterlist + support my writing

author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me 10 minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology <3 (am i shamelessly using my reach to gather primary data ? yes. yes i am. and i have no regrets.)

here's the link.

it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.

other than that, thank you so much for reading !! i hope you enjoyed the story. i need provider!satoru gojo so bad like ugh but instead i’m stuck in higher education trying to become my own provider. send help :')))

wishing you all the soft chaos you deserve. take care <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna @cocomanga

@nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @chiyokoemilia @janbannan

@bloopsstuff @snowsilver2000 @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu

@90s-belladonna @fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy

@wiserion @moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss

@raendarkfaerie @yeiena @rainthensun @yvesdoee @amayaaaxx

@Cristy-101 @bnbaochauuu @markliving @strawberryswtchblaxe @whytfisgojosohot

@Bloodandnix @zanayaswrld @noble-17 @soapyaya @ethereal-moonlit

@beaniesayshi

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[astraeasworld]

By the Sound of Your Voice

TIM DRAKE/FEM!READER

cross-posted from ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62679460

SUMMARY: As long as his love echoes both in your mind and in your heart, and even after life rips you away from each other, you will find Timothy Jackson Drake.

"You save everyone," you had told him once, on the near-empty rooftop of Gotham General not too long ago. "But who saves you?"

"My friends," was Tim's answer then. "And family."

He didn't think much of his answer back then because it was the truth. Tim knew he could always rely on them. He trusts that his friends and family will always have his back.

On that same rooftop, you had looked up at him shyly. "Guess you won't ever need saving from me then, huh?"

Behind his mask, his eyes narrowed. Tim glanced over at the city skyline but found his gaze moving back to you. He felt his heart pounding, cold cheeks flushing.

"Are you kidding?" He said teasingly before gesturing over to your teal scrubs. "I'm going to eventually need your expertise; the streets of this city are highly dangerous, you know?"

"Expertise. Uh-huh, " You raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Well, I guess I'll just have to be ready for when that day comes."

"I can rest easy, then."

"Hey, now," you had warned him. "Don't make this an excuse to be reckless. You've got to be careful out there, you hear?"

Why didn't he listen to you?

If there was one thing Timothy Jackson Drake has always been proud of, it was being a brilliant strategist. He was always ten steps ahead of the enemy and, if ever caught in a pickle, would always have backup plans labeled from A to Z.

So why now?

Why now, when you needed him most, did he fail?

Why fail now?

"It should have been me." He looked at you, your limp body cradled in his arms. "It should have—"

His voice broke.

"Oh god, please," he cried, burying his face on your shoulder. "Please, I can't… I can't lose you… not you… no… please…"

All those nights spending time with you on the hospital rooftop came back to him. When Tim wasn't working on a case, he would often swing by during patrol, and you would always be there. Dressed in your scrubs and oversized hoodie to protect you from the cold, you were there waiting for him with a warm cup of hot chocolate.

You didn't know who he was behind the mask, yet you still took care of him simply because you could. He had asked you why, why help a complete stranger? You didn't even hesitate when you told your reason.

"Why not?" You had asked him, your gaze above the skyline as you watched the early December snowfall. "I'm a doctor, remember? Saving strangers is basically in my job description."

Tim takes off his cowl to look at you properly. You were still bleeding from your head wound and the bullet hole on your stomach. Besides that, you almost fell to your death, and he couldn't bear to think what would have happened if Dick hadn't caught you.

"Red Robin."

Tim could hear the sirens in the distance, but he could not bring himself to leave you. The sounds brought him back to the night he confessed to you. He had made the decision to tell you who he was underneath the cowl.

It was early February, mere days away from Valentine's Day. He had lamented how cheesy it felt that he had chosen that month to confess, but he knew it couldn't wait. You had told him of your plan to move to another state, and if he didn't tell you how he felt, he was certain he would never get to.

You had looked at Tim like he was crazy when he peeled away his mask without forewarning. Then it had registered to you that he had shown you his identity in broad daylight (sure, you were on the rooftop, but still). You shrieked before slapping the mask back on his face.

"Are you insane?!" The conversation had to stop there after Signal flew past, then, chasing a stolen armoured vehicle. The GCPD was not too far behind them.

He felt Dick's hand land firmly on his shoulder. "Red Robin, we have to go."

"I'm not leaving her."

"Look, I've tied up the Riddler—"

Tim froze.

He could feel Dick's heavy gaze on him, watching him closely as he laid you gently back on the ground. The docks were quiet that evening, devoid of any activity after he and Nightwing had taken down Edward Nygma and his hired hand. His eyes fell on the shipping container you had fallen from earlier, two stories high from where you were now.

"Tim, don't—"

He kicked his brother in the jaw, knocking him down.

The Riddler had kidnapped you to get to Tim—no—to Red Robin. Then he beat you with his cane. And, as if that wasn't enough, he shot you. The impact had pushed you over the edge of the shipping container.

He and Nightwing had just arrived as you fell.

Tim hadn't been fast enough. But Dick was.

Still, that didn't erase the pain the Riddler had inflicted on you.

He was on the rogue before Nightwing could even recover from the kick. He punched the villain once. Twice. Thrice.

"Red Robin—"

He growled at the arms suddenly around his neck, restricting his airway. “Hood…”

A gas mask was suddenly forced over his face, and Tim found himself struggling more.

“No!"

He couldn't fight against Red Hood even if he wanted to, not when he was now being forced to breathe in oxygen and nitrous oxide. Faintly, he heard Dick's admonishing tone and Jason's sardonic one. On the verge of losing consciousness, his gaze found you.

Tim reached out to you.

Before darkness engulfed him completely, he swore you were reaching out to him too.

You two fell in love in the middle of May.

Azure skies and soft clouds painted the heavens with bright hues. Verdant parks and clean streets livened the city, no doubt the reasons why Poison Ivy has not made an appearance for months. Above the looming skyscrapers, birdsong joined the tumultuous sound of Gotham.

Among those birds, one robin fell.

No one had clipped his wings, thankfully. This time, Tim simply chose to fall. Why shouldn't he, when you were there to catch him lovingly?

He had picked you up for your first date. It had been the first time you saw each other wearing something other than your usual attire. Gone were your scrubs, often rumpled due to working sixty hours a week, and, in their place, was a maroon pinafore dress with what appeared to be sunflowers stitched into it.

Tim had looked down at his own clothes, a blue button-up (because everyone, even Damian, had insisted it brought out the colour of his eyes) and dark jeans, and he somehow felt oddly underdressed.

"I love your shirt; it makes your eye colour pop." And just like that, Tim decided to use more blue shirts.

You two had decided on a picnic date, and Tim had pulled out all the stops. He had prepared the food himself, under Alfred's careful and strict instruction, making sure to have all your favourites. That experience definitely made Tim appreciate Alfred all the more.

When Tim had found himself lying on his back a few hours later, staring at the clouds with you, he wondered idly why he felt light. He glanced at you and found you already staring right at him. He felt your hand grasp his softly.

Tim had realized then why he felt light, like he was falling.

He held your hand tightly in his.

"Tim," a familiar voice murmurs his name. "Timothy."

Tim gasped.

Stalactites and bats greet him. He blinked.

"Tim, sweetie?" The voice says again. "Guys, he's awake! Tim’s awake!"

There was a bunch of loud noises, and then Tim finally saw your face. "Tim?"

He felt your hands cup his cheeks, and, despite feeling groggy, he lifted his hands to cradle yours. "I thought I'd lost you."

“Tim…”

"I saw him shoot you," he cried, moving to press his forehead on yours. "And then you fell over the edge. If I had just gotten there faster—"

You silence with a kiss. It was soft and unhurried before you pulled away again. "You didn't lose me, Tim."

For a moment, he believed he did. Seeing you lying motionless on the floor, he really thought he had lost you forever. It felt like his chest had caved in and that you had taken his heart with you.

"But even if you did," you breathed the words against his lips. "I promise to find you by the sound of your voice, wherever you are. In every lifetime."

For as long as his love echoes both in your mind and in your heart, and even after life rips you away from each other, you will find Timothy Jackson Drake.