rikas-musings

[rikas-musings]

PROJECT SHATTERCORE ☣︎

DIRECTORY

bruce wayne x reader, jason todd x reader, dick grayson x reader, damian wayne x reader, tim drake x reader

SYNOPSIS: you were taken young, too young to ever have known anything other than needles and pain. stuck inside a lab that was bright and loud, they enhanced every neural frequency within you, transforming you into more than you could have ever been. after years of experiments, someone finally comes to save you. he’s tall, dark, and terrifying. but he offers you safety in a new home. you feel like an outsider in the gloomy mansion, but you understand why they behave as though you’re not there. it’s probably your fault, but over time, things begin to change, and the people in your home are starting to act as if they want you here. is this desire something normal?

WARNINGS: 18+ only, DEAD DOVE; DO NOT EAT, death and blood, angst, child endangerment, alcoholism, descriptive medical abuse (not that bad but like,,,,still there)

PLAYLIST FOR THE CHAPTER: ♫ medicine - daughter, then teeth - 5 seconds of summer listen to this for ultimate immersion

A/N : hello! i am back!! this took a full day to write, forgive me if it's not the best!!! listen to the playlist above for full immersion, and go right ahead

CHAPTER ONE: NEURAL FREQUENCY

Your body curled into a fetal position; everything felt too loud. Your eyelids slowly opened to reveal a gray room. It looked clinical and pristine, unlike any of the shadowed corners of Gotham you were used to. Somehow, it’s so loud in here. 

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

You turn around to it—the machine, the source that’s grating your ears. It looks mechanical. Consistently, it beeps, a rhythm that doesn’t feel musical at all. Then the beeps begin to increase in speed, and your heart is humming against your sternum. You don’t understand why the silence in this room feels so loud; it makes you dizzy before the familiar stinging hits your sinuses. Hot tears well up in your eyes before they spill onto your cheeks, and you try to breathe, but it feels useless. Your breath feels snagged on a rib. 

Before you know it, doctors file into the room, the erratic spike in your heart rate having alerted them to check in on you. You’re so clueless, and the lights are starting to flicker and—

“I just want my Mama!” You yowl, your voice rasped in pain.

They freeze what they’re doing before hesitantly going back to injecting something through the IV line nestled in your right arm. You feel the cool liquid rush into you, and suddenly you feel calm. The tremors in your chest stop, and you breathe slowly. You feel immobile, but maybe that’s just exhaustion.

They proceed to shove the curtain beside you open, and that’s when you see her. Mama is attached to a bunch of machines and has an oxygen mask on. 

But she’s alive.

Your little heart flutters at that. You hear footsteps approaching and watch as the giant man from before walks in. He has a hard look on his face as he approaches your bedridden Mama. 

“Doctor says she has nothing of value inside her; she’s projected to become a nuisance in the future.” He speaks flatly into the air, and the other doctors solemnly nod their heads. You don’t quite understand what’s happening, you’re just so relieved Mama is here.

Your tiny hand reaches out weakly towards her, but your bed isn’t close enough. You watch her in awe; she looks so pretty, her hair is messy, but she looks clean. 

You hadn’t seen her clean in a long time.

The man caresses her head, just like she used to do when you were even tinier. You watch with content, orbs trailing his every movement.

His hand slides down to her mandible, caressing it gently. Then he grips her throat. It’s light at first, tender, but you feel a growing sense of urgency as his hands tighten, cutting off her airways. You feel a panic thrum in your chest, but whatever the doctors put in your IV seems to have you half lulled and unable to move with any real meaning.

Your tiny hand trembles as it desperately reaches out for her, just one more time. Your eyelids droop, but just before you fall victim to the drugs, you hear the shriek of the machine.

A flatline.

It’s the worst sound you think you’ve ever heard.

Sun Dokhwa lingered in his study; he tended to keep to himself when there was no work to be done. Instead, he theorized about the many things he could do. Sheets lined with unknown experiments and ripped pages from formulas that just didn’t work. His hand dragged across his face, and he felt the prickle of his stubble and sighed. Adjusting his square glasses, he pushed back from the table, rising to his feet.

Last week, he had sent for Daniel to get a job done for him; he succeeded, as he always did. His lack of presence helped in obscuring them from the vigilantes who so desperately tried to save Gotham. But he had picked up a special gift on his errand, and Dokhwa was hesitant at first, but when he saw them, I mean, really saw them. He almost foamed at the mouth from the possibilities.

This child was extraordinary— or rather, the possibility of what they could be. He felt an unholy sort of glee unfurl in his chest.

Daniel wasn’t exactly right in assuming it was electricity; it was something far more interesting than that. He wanted, no, needed to dissect it.

A few tests and blood samples confirmed what he already suspected. They had some mutation in their DNA, perhaps inherited. After some tests on the mother, he learned the anomaly in the child had nothing to do with her. Most likely passed down through their father, though who that was became irrelevant. If he were to truly uncover the scope of their capabilities— to mould this child into what he wanted, he had to get rid of the mother.

And so he sent Daniel to dispose of her. It had been after a week of testing, he’d given the go-ahead to exterminate her. He was slightly impatient; he felt a sort of chill crawl up his spine.

 Still, he would wait.

 Give the child two days to be isolated before making contact.

He’d done all the prep. How he would mould them, how he would approach like a gentle predator, offering shelter beneath his wing. Maybe, in time, he’d find a sense of family with them, though that wasn’t the goal. What mattered most was this:

 He’d haunt them forever. 

You cried for a full day when you woke up from your sedation. Tears stained the hospital gown they’d dressed you in—you were terrified. Confusedly screaming in your room, the buzz of the machines like a bee that wouldn’t leave your head. Anytime you’d get out of control, they’d pump the IV with more chemicals, and you were lulled back into nightmares of your Mama dying in front of you.

On what you thought might be the third day of being awake, the air shifted. The clean scent of alcohol laced the room. You heard footsteps once more and cowered in your bedsheets. Digits gripped the blanket tightly, knuckles white from the strain. 

A rap at the door stilled your shaking.  Your beady orbs peeked out from the covers, and you were met with the sight of another doctor.

Although this one looked… different.

He stood hesitantly at the door, almost afraid to come in. You raked your eyes over his form, and he looked non-lethal. His hair was brown and dishevelled in a nice sort of way, like your Mama’s used to be. He looked older, maybe in his 30s or 40s—you could never really tell. He adjusted his glasses, and you took note of his stubble; you scrunched your nose at the thought of how scratchy it probably felt. 

He speaks before you can, finally breaking the silence. You’re silently grateful for that.

“Hi there, little one.” His voice is fatherly but also boyish. You stare back at him.

Are they gonna kill me next?

You shudder at the thought of that. His eyebrows seem to furrow as he lets himself into your room. He approaches your bed with the caution of a rabbit. You let him, just for now. 

“I’m not here to hurt you, I hope you know that.” Something in his voice sounds real—genuine, even not like the other doctors' monotonous voices when they read your vitals. “I’m not like that scary man who hurt your mother.” He speaks calculatedly. Gauging your reactions, but all you can do is shiver at the thought of what that man did. 

“You’re not here… to hurt me?” Your voice is small, and he nearly coos at how cute you look. He clears his throat before nodding in response.

“I have something to tell you, do you know that you’re different from others?” He starts, and your beady eyes simply blink at him. He takes it as a sign to continue. “You little one, have special abilities.” You furrow your brows at him and go to speak, your voice coming out smaller than you hoped.

“H-how?” You ask softly. He gives you a warm smile, before reaching to take your hand in his. His palms are warm. 

“Have you ever noticed the lights flicker sometimes when you’re upset? Or feel a certain buzz in your head?” he queries gently. “You actually can disrupt radio signals, too, little one. It is something we call low-level aura disruption.” You suddenly are thrown back to the day you were taken, and you can’t believe it.

“Y-you mean I did all that?” You whisper. He nods his head before planting more new information into your little head.

“A lot of people don't like people like you; they think you shouldn’t exist in this city.” His voice is fractured as he speaks. A pit forms in your stomach.

“But not me, no, I believe we can make you into something even better.” His voice is excited, almost cloying. But this idea lights a tiny match in the pit of your stomach, and you look at him expectantly.

“W-what’s your name, mister doctor, I wann’ be better,” You mumble before tightening your grip on his hand.

“I’m Doctor Sun, little one.” He beams at you, pulling you into an embrace from the nape of your neck. You let it happen; you haven’t felt something this soft in a long time. 

Dr. Sun was a nice name.

FIVE YEARS LATER

Locked in that same room again, you learned not to cry as much. The machines shook your nervous system to its core, pulsating through the padded walls. There was a deafening ringing in your ear from the overload of information; you’d been locked in isolation for weeks this time, your eyes sunken from the stress. Your entire body felt like an exposed nerve, frayed raw.

Then came a voice over the speaker, somehow, you heard it— distinct, threaded through all the noises screeching in your head. 

“You can come out now.” Suddenly, doctors file into the room, removing the egregious number of wires attached to your body. They rip out the IV faster than they should, and you feel bile aching to rush up your throat. You cradle your arms, holding yourself tightly, averting their touch. 

You were ushered out of the room and into the cold hallways, which felt haunting, reminding you of everything that had ever happened in here. There was an obscene amount of silence when you left the room. Your body swayed like the fall leaves headed towards the ground, before you could crumple to the floor, an arm grabbed you. You stumbled into whoever's arms had held you, only in necessity. You were nearly passed out.

They sat you in another room, only one wire embedded into the nape of your neck. In front of you sits a glass, clear as the window pane, looking into your room. Their watching, expectant. 

“You know what to do.” A monotone voice came through the speakers

For the past month, they’d been attempting to get you to shatter glass; you’ve already passed the tests for disabling radios, at least—most of the time. You don’t understand why they believed you could shatter glass, they said you’re powers were low-level, but you assumed all the frying your nerves was to alter your body's limits. You picked at your cuticles until they bled, and the room fell into a manufactured silence. They always played dirty. You shrank in your chair, limbs folding in on themselves. Even breathing made you feel like you took up too much space. 

Despite your position, you knew you had to comply; you didn’t wanna think about what they would do if you didn’t. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you concentrate on the glass, feeling the aura in the space surrounding it. The lights flicker more violently than they used to, and you feel a hum in the base of your skull. But you focus harder. It’s not working though, your body is straining, but all you can manage is the glass teetering on the table, your irises shift upwards to give the crew a solemn look of discouragement when you see blonde hair—

KSSSSHKK

The glass SHATTERS across the entire room.

Dread unfurls in your stomach. 

Why was he here? 

Why was he here? 

He wasn’t supposed to be in today

No, no, no—

You watch as he gives you a grin, his presence is like poison in the air. The surrounding doctors stare at him in dismay. They had been trying to get you to shatter the glass without emotional disruption. For some godforsaken reason, you always freaked out around this doctor. One of them rubbed their temples with their hand while letting out an exasperated sigh. And so they logged the outbursts, but missed the cause. 

In a small sense of remorse, one of the doctors called in a favour. Someone you hadn’t seen in a while.

Before you know it, someone’s rushing into the room, and you’re sobbing, but you look up and there you see your saviour.

“Dr. Sun!” You rasp through tears. He gently picks you up and cradles you against his sternum, as you listen to the thrum of his heartbeat. 

“You did well today, little one.” His voice ghosts the shell of your ear. Your frame goes limp as you pass out from the sheer stress.

ANOTHER FIVE YEARS LATER

Bruce was exhausted, more so than usual, for once in his life, he wished he could take a real break. He’d tried desperately to find anything about it. He had Tim pull up anything he could find, but he always came up empty-handed. He felt his blood boil. His eyebrows knitted together on his face. Mandible tightening with stress. The dreary feeling was coming back—the ache in his stomach.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice comes steady, “I think it’s high time you met with your bed, it’s been days.” His voice is gentle, like a silent nudge towards better health. Watching the man he’d helped raise come undone at the seams.

“Alfred… what am I missing here?” Bruce’s voice comes out gruff and tired. He runs his hand through his hair, disheveling it more than usual.

When Bruce was out on patrol almost a year ago, he tailed a man who wasn’t anything special. At least that’s what he’d thought. The man then managed to get in a punch to his right temple. He had grumbled something that he almost didn’t catch. Something that felt off.

“All his time is focused on Project Shattercore; he couldn’t even give me a boost.” The man then roundhouse kicked him, before jumping off the roof of the building, but Bruce, in a moment of stun, wasn’t fast enough to catch him. When he searched the pavement below, there was no sign of a body; the man had somehow evaded him.

Bruce clung onto that piece of information like a vice; it was like a ghost; he could find no trace of it.

A year later and where had he gotten? Nearly nowhere. Dick had tried to convince him otherwise.

“Maybe you heard it wrong, Bruce. Maybe it was nothing.”

But Bruce was unrelenting; he couldn’t shake the marrow-deep feeling that this wasn’t a misheard whisper.

It felt like a weapon. And by the sounds of it, it might’ve been human. It sounded dangerous, like a needle hidden in something soft. Like it was going to ruin Gotham.

After a pause, Bruce’s breath stilled, and he silently got up, pacing towards the exit. He needed to rest if he wanted to ever figure this out. Alfred let out a breath he had been holding and ushered Bruce upstairs.

It was two nights later that he got the call from Tim.

“Bruce… I think I found something.”

TAGLIST: @alishii @lalana1703 @purple-obsidian @ghosty-the-grim-fairy @shadowsingers-redhood @staarflowerr @nininehaaa @hai-there-how-are-you @cynniee @lovebug-apple @nervousalpacalady @nisarelle @lilyalone @cxcilla @cupid73 @swag13r

[rikas-musings]

MILESTONE!! 𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑

thank you guys for 100 followers!!! im baffled that I've already reached this far .... in celebration, my requests are open for little drabbles!!! and I'll try to release project shattercore chapter one tonight ദ്ദി˶˃ ᵕ ˂ )✧

[rikas-musings]

⚹ fem reader - because the person I took inspiration from and dedicate this to is fem ⚹

Tags/Warnings: Friends to lovers // falling in love // corny jokes // laughing yourself into loving // I have never written for Dick Grayson before uh oh! // kissing // on my Dick is a yearner shit // uhhhh like 3 swears Idk // over 2k words! Yay!

Summary: Sometimes, inside jokes stay inside jokes. Sometimes, they’re just jokes. Not with you apparently. Not when it’s you— not when it’s Dick. Or: Dick can’t help himself but fall in love with light and laughter.

Dedicated to my friend, who made this joke and made everyone laugh over and over.

(Author’s note at the bottom!)

Dick thinks you’re so lovely. It’s not an uncommon thought for him to have, especially when you’re with him in some late-closing diner at the edge of Bludhaven; but it’s a poignant one nonetheless. Recurring. Stuck on loop every time you make one of your lameass jokes and corny comments before hiding your face in your hands in embarrassment. Laughing like you still can’t help but find yourself funny in a way that makes it feel like being around you is having a light shone on the dark underbelly of the world. He’d take you with him off-world if only to show the universe what star-cores look like. Not molten magma, not melting iron and heavy gravity; but you.

Giggling, silly you; still giggling, gearing up for your next joke, and he feels it before he sees it. His cheeks hurt from grinning but his heart feels so damn light.

“Could I try my hand at a marshmallow?” You’re pinching at the air above his plate with the world’s dumbest little grin, and he’s in love.

Dick stares at you, no brow raised, just staring, and lets out a huff of breath through his nose that sounds close to a laugh. He gestures to his plate with a lame wave, fist up to his lips to hide his aching grin. “All yours.”

But you’re not done. Your face pinches in stifled laughter when you awkwardly hum and haw, “You have to close your eyes first.”

Dick eases his milkshake to the table, lips pursed in confusion and amusement, but ultimately he closes his eyes, one hand to cover them for emphasis with his elbow propped up on the table. He’s laughing already, and he can hear the shuffle of your clothes and your uneven breaths as you laugh— settle yourself quickly, and laugh again so hard it comes out kettle-like. You’re taking so long though, that he peeks between his fingers, feeling awfully lightheaded and equally silly because you’re making him laugh so hard his chest hurts with it. And he shuts his eyes quickly closed when he sees your hand pinch a marshmallow off his plate. Dick can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of him when he hears you start wheezing again after.

“You done?” He asks, clearing his throat with a faux firmness that makes you giggle through a mouthful of marshmallow. It makes him open his eyes to catch yours as you chew, and your entire face warms from the way you start wheezing, doubling over the table in laughter as you try to blink your eyes open through your own fit.

When you catch your breath, you can barely speak without wheezing the words out.

“Can I—“ a wheeze. It takes you a good second to recover. “Can I try my hand at another marshmallow?”

You’re so so lovely, and so so beautiful, and Dick buries a laugh into his hand, half in disbelief at how stupid this is, and how much he loves it— but it’s not dumb, at all. Not when you’re laughing so hard your face is pinched and you’re pressing your forehead to the table. Not when he’s barely able to help himself as he squeezes himself into the cushion of the booth behind him, quiet laughter shaking him whole.

“This is so stupid,” he manages to choke out, and you look up from where you’re doubled over the table looking seconds away from crying, just to shrivel up like a prune again, wheezing at him like somehow he made the dumb joke.

You steal 3 of his marshmallows, that night. At one point tricking him into turning around (by telling him someone was in the window, of all tricks) and having him come face to face with your marshmallow padded cheeks. He fell in love with you hard, and fell in love with you stupid, with tears prickling his eyes at your dumb jokes and corny tricks and fuck he loves you.

Oh, he loves you.

———

The realization doesn’t change anything. You go about your lives meeting up and splitting apart, and Dick... Dick doesn’t remember when he started falling for you, but it had to be before the whole marshmallow thing that he can’t keep from bringing up now. It’s become something of a staple for him, actually. Stolen right from your dumb roster of inside jokes and absentmindedly applied to every aspect of his life. He’s accidentally said it to the crooks and goons he’s fought in the alleys, like somehow you’ve slipped even into his persona in the mask, haunting Nightwing as much as you haunt Dick Grayson.

Dick doesn’t realize how bad it’s gotten until someone points out that he doesn’t flirt as enthusiastically anymore, even as a joke. Like something in him feels the betrayal of doing so even when he’s not quite yet yours in the way he wants to be.

You’re spitting something in the world’s fakest maritime accent you have when he comes to terms with wanting you, by the way. Stopping to laugh at yourself with full guffaws that have your face scrunched as you belt out laughter like you’re singing. Which— you do end up doing here or there. Just breaking out into one-note songs before you’re back to giggling, and Dick is so in love with you. He feels like a kid with you around, laughing like you’re both always at a sleepover, and his whole heart aches with the want to be yours as you narrowly avoid choking on a spoonful of soft-serve.

He just— he has to interrupt the world’s silliest spiel to ask you. “Can I try my hand at some soft serve?”

Your giggles bubble up first, smile widening enough to show your teeth as you nod your head; giggles bubbling into full blown laughter when his shoulders start shaking too. He nearly drops the spoon trying to get it into his mouth, and you’ve turned your head away to wheeze into your hand, and he feels like he’s soaring.

“Mmm,” he hums, and your face screws into a deeper laugh.

“Why the hell are you just— ‘mm’,” you mimic, but it makes you start laughing so hard you cough on it, your face so warm. The way your eyes crinkle is permanently embedded into his brain, along with the very sound of your laughter. Carried through fist-fights in spandex and missions across the stars, like mental images of sunlight and diner-dinners so late at night it’s early. The kind of things he remembers when he’s at his most low.

Dick waits for your laughter to settle, his own breath stuttering as he swallows down a fit of it. “Can I—“

He doesn’t even manage through the sentence before you’re laughing again, and god does his heart do flips. A quadruple somersault— or no, quintuple. You’d make fun of him for that one, but he really does mean it, cause the extra spin is from the way you give him whiplash from laughing so hard neither of you could breathe.

He asks, “Can I try my hand at some more soft serve?” When really he wants to ask if he could try his hand at kissing you.

None the wiser, you nod— eyes crinkled so deeply you can barely see, and Dick feels like he’s floating when he loves you like an untethered astronaut gazing at the sun.

———

It becomes something that loops in his head, like completing a quote you never knew was only ever half finished. You’re so lovely, could he try his hand at kissing you?

He doesn’t even know how you’d react to that. Doesn’t know if you’d laugh or cringe… or just awkwardly cough at his sincerity, but that last one might just be him catastrophizing. But, he reasons with himself, it shouldn’t be this scary. Shouldn’t make his palms sweaty like he’s about to defuse a series of bombs Riddler’s put annoyingly complex codes on and he’s running out of time.

But you’re lounging there on the couch— in his apartment— with your eyes following the eye candy of the edit on your screen and suddenly it is scary. He’d call them a nameless character, but you’ve mentioned this one once or twice. Or a lot. Point is, you’re watching eye candy, and he wants to be dumb and stupid for once with you and that’s horrifying. Wants to let himself be dumb and stupid and just ask you—

“Can I try my hand at a kiss?”

He snaps his mouth shut and his heart immediately drops. And the way you turn over to him, eyebrow raised and lips pursed tight? Yeah, he’s giving himself amnesia again.

“What—“

“Wait,” Dick interrupts, hearing the laughter bubbling up your throat and his face falls in embarrassment.

“No, I’m—“ you start wheezing, putting your phone down just as he hears the beat drop. The timing’s perfect actually, because he’s pretty sure every beat of his heart right now is a beat drop in the world’s scariest horror-romance flick. If he even gets to the romance part. “I’m not— Sorry this is so mean but that was just so out of the blue.”

Dick’s stammering wordlessly, and for all his easy confidence Dick can’t seem to catch his footing. Caught between admiring the way you laugh, correcting himself, or doubling down; though the last two act as essentially the same thing because he won’t lie his way out of this one now. You’re in no easier a state, caught in a giggle fit as you catch your breath, shuffling closer to where he is on the other end of the couch and having to take pitstops and rest your entire weight on the cushions in deep, laugh-stuttered breaths.

“Dick,” you say weakly, and your laughter immediately picks back up and he wants to cry now. Both because he’s started laughing as hard as you and because he’s so awfully confused by the way you cradle his hands in yours. “Sorry your name is so stupid.”

You’re awful, you’re horrible, and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life, topping supernovas and hard-won sunrises as you tip your head back to look at him through grin-crinkled eyes. You’re awful.

“It’s my name,” he wheezes, half a confused whine, and you laugh so hard you tip forward into him. Your head pushes against his chest catching at the beat of his heart, and Dick feels laughter bubbling out of him like it was always meant to be there. Like he’s a kid again on the trapeze and you’re catching him. Like no matter what you say next he knows you’ll catch him regardless.

“Get a—“

“I did get a new one, and you and I both hated it,” he cuts you off, and you grin. You grin like you don’t know you’re starlight-made and stardust covered; like you think this doesn’t mean anything to him as you give his hands a squeeze. He’d go by ‘Ric’ again, if it made you happy for the rest of his life. Shave his whole head bald too, just to commit to it.

When you catch your breath, pulling back and leaning your head against the couch and breathing heavily, you finally manage to ask with a rasp to your voice, “Did you— actually mean it?”

Or at least he thinks that’s what you asked. Your words slurred a little together as you failed to stifle your laughter by the last few words and he kind of lost it, but he caught it, he thinks.

“Yeah,” he laughs quietly, so hard he nearly sobs, “I did mean it.”

And god he hopes you never stop laughing at your stupid inside jokes and taunts. Hopes you never stop smiling; hopes your old age comes with crows feet at your eyes and smile lines etched into your face. Hopes he gets to see it and bask in it for as long as he can keep himself light enough to stay alive.

“Can I—“ you start, looking drunk on laughter and exhausted from wheezing, but still lightly smiling, “Can I try my hand at— at that kiss you offered?”

And god he has to laugh first, has to get it all out as you both tip towards each other, forehead on forehead, because he loves you, and he’s so light, and he’s pretty sure he’s about to bust a fucking lung. When he kisses you, through slowing giggles and deep, grounding breaths, he finds his heart soaring and landing all at once. Finds that the sun, for all its warmth, doesn’t burn when you hold it. Finds that you’re lovely, and he wants to know if he can try his hand at being yours forever.

A/N: I hung out with my friends recently, went around for a drive to nowhere, and my friend, Anna, just kept making this same joke over and over again and making us laugh. Like, super hard. It made me think of how someone like her would fall in love with a superhero, any superhero, and Dick was the first one that came to mind.

I don’t pretend to know how to write him, much less how to write him well, but I hope he’s written alright here 😭 I just thought that of all of the batfamily, he and Duke were probably most likely to have that almost-normal romance. I’ve not yet even read much about Duke yet though so I’ll have to see about reading his lore and character analysis before I write for him!

Anyways, this is dedicated to Anna, hope she likes it <3

[rikas-musings]

RECLAMATION OF THE DAMNED ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

DIRECTORY

variant! mark x reader

SYNOPSIS: in your world, nothing is particularly wrong; there are no superheroes, but you do get to mindlessly indulge in shows and books. in fact, you're a casual fan of the show invincible. today, you’re perusing an old article about a haunted place when you stumble upon a house that's definitely out of the ordinary, and despite the absolute gloom that emits from the place, you can’t help but go in. what you don’t expect is encountering powers beyond that of your world. somehow, within the hour, your fate finds itself intertwining with that of mark grayson. but the real question is: can you save him?

WARNINGS: creepy town/off-putting vibes, you literally die, and descriptions of said death, blood mentions, that's all!

A/N : a silly little chapter, i had a few ideas on how this would go, but this is what i ended up with, sorry for the slow burn, i can't help but build tension...is this too short? too long? please let me know i'm lowkey losing it

CHAPTER ONE: CURSED

You’d arrived at the town of Hornnewle a few hours ago, and the train was slow but scenic. Pulling out your phone, you huffed at the walk from here to the town’s library. You’d already checked in at your motel, which was slightly rundown, but the town itself had a sort of charm. It wasn’t exactly charming in a touristy way; something heavier hung in the air. You watched as crows gathered by the streetlights, beaks twisted at an unseen force.

Must have found something shiny. 

The town looked like a snapshot of a horror film, paused mid-breath. Victorian buildings lined the misty streets, which reminded you of Gotham City from the comics. You snorted a bit at the thought. Somehow, the weather was warm, but the city seemed slightly shrouded in darkness. You admired the weird charm and happily walked towards your destination. It was getting closer and closer until you saw the wooden sign hanging from the building. It bore a gothic style font, and looked as if it had never been replaced in the past fifty years. 

You opened the creaky door, and the bell rang loudly. Your digits ran through your hair, startled, you tried to make yourself smaller. A woman who looked to be in her 70s made eye contact with you, and her wrinkled face offered you a small smile. You gave her a nod and hurried inside, light on your feet. You gripped your satchel and mouth parted to speak— the library, however, had other plans. You looked around in awe at the rustic place. A warm, red carpeted floor, walls littered with books, and the smell of incense and books filled your nose.

“Feels like home, right? I figure you’re not from here.” She begins, offering her hand up for a greeting. Your fingers hesitantly move towards hers, giving her a handshake feeling the cool metal from her ring touch your skin.

“How’d you guess?” You sheepishly smile. Her orbs run up and down your form, surveying you, not just observing. 

“I’ve lived here long enough to know everyone in the town,” She chuckles, and you watch her pink lips curl up sweetly. “So I know a new face when I see one!” she shrugs. She looks to be average height, and her skin is a pale colour, her gray hair falling in loose strands surrounding her clavicle.

“Well, I need some help finding a book, I’m doing some research…” You start, you cannot exactly reveal the true nature of your visit, because you do technically intend to trespass on barred land. You pretend to be in thought and furrow your brows.

“I’m doing a research project for school about the haunted place here called Maledictus.” You query with your hand on your chin. 

Her face scrunches at your request.

“You came all the way here for that book?” She confirms. Her eyes glaze over ever so slightly, you notice and shift in your spot.

“That place is barred in this town, though I imagine if you researched, you already know that, it is the only book on the matter, despite having a past reputation in the province.” She thinks and meets your eyes before sighing,

She nods her head towards an aisle in the back.

“It's on the back wall. I hope you do well on your research project.” She smiled, twisting the ring on her finger. You notice an insignia on it and squint at it before nodding and heading to the back wall.

Dragging your digits against the spines of the books lining the walls, reverence settles itself into your chest. You wished you could capture this moment in a painting, seal it away, and never drown in the feeling of loneliness again. Your fingers stop once they hit the book you’ve been searching for. A giddy feeling bubbles up in your chest, and you push it down gently. 

Grabbing the book, you step to the front of the store, the lady's eyes settle onto you, and she smiles, waving you farewell. You leave the mystic library with a huff as you run towards the nearest cafe you can find. The feeling of the book grasped between your fingers, blooming a feeling in your chest again, you don’t push it down this time.

Your digits greedily prod at the book as you find a seat to settle into. Your skin is digging into the gaps between the wood seat, but you haven’t a care in the world.

As you iris’s skim over the pages, your first order of business is seeking the location of the Maledictus. You read through a few words of warning, all things you’ve read before, nothing seemingly out of the ordinary. 

There it is.

The location, just on the outskirts of the main square, threaded deep into the forest, like a secret waiting to be revealed. You hum in contentment, scratching at the nape of your neck. You rise to your feet, slightly tender from the walking you’ve been doing. You loosely mapped out the path in your head and decided to persevere before it gets too dark. 

Your boots crunch into the sticks and leaves on the path to the forest, it has a cavernous aspect to it that you find oddly comforting. You continue skimming through the pages, trying to detect any mentions of relics and such. You bite your lip in focus as you walk, the book perched in your hands. You stop in your tracks as you finally find something. 

Relics! You hold back a shit-eating grin before humming in contentment and trekking forward. The photos are faded, but clear enough to make out minor details; there are many, they look dipped in gold, edges faded from standing the test of time. Ornate details catch your eye, carved neatly into them. Some pots, some rings and more. Before you know it, you’ve reached the point in the book where it details each—

You’re cut off by the sound of your head crashing into a tree. You grunt in pain, the book shielding your sternum from the same fate as your head—you cradle your head in response, feeling for any sign of blood. You had not paid any mind to the world around you as you ventured deeper into the forest—that was a mistake. You took a second to survey your surroundings, and that’s when you saw it. 

The building was tenebrous, gloomy like death encapsulated. It stood tall in the forest; a copious amount of cautious tape surrounded the exterior, in your head, it was practically ushering you inside.

It was a deep shade of brown, a fractured sort of building, oozing miasma. It loomed above you, with a mansion-like stature. You hesitated before shutting the book in your grip, jaw tightening in eagerness to trespass. You tucked the book gently into your satchel before your digits tapped the caution tape. You threaded yourself through the tape like a needle, eventually landing in front of the door. 

“That’s enough hesitating, I’m heading inside.” You mused. 

The door creaked open, as a rickety groan escaped the hinges. It was surprisingly orderly. As much as a place this ancient could be. It had rickety flooring, sure, but it held a timeless design inside. You took note of the cracked cornices and cobwebs; no matter how decent it was, it was still ancient. With it came a must in the air—a scent that felt decrepit, but also as if someone had inhabited this place recently. Like something or someone had been here.

That made the corners of your mouth twitch. 

Your eyes raked over your surroundings as you stepped further into the place, shutting the door behind you. It’s you and a dwelling etched in time and memories, said to bear a curse. You wouldn’t trade that for anything else. You spent your time delicately surveying the place, picking up items that matched the photographs in the book you had tucked away. It felt precious, a secret only you got to keep.

Not long after, you found your feet heading towards the billowing staircase, your fingers nimbly traced over the cracked wood as you made your way deeper into the stilled mansion. A darkness loomed around you, but you were no stranger to feelings like those. When you reached the top of the creaky steps, you made your way into a room on the far left of the gloomy hallway. 

Your breath hitched in your throat when you entered. The room reeked of age, old, rotted pages from a book and decaying flowers. The floorboards screaming beneath your feet, the sound thrumming in your eardrum like a warning. You pressed onwards into the large room, eyes landing on the stained mullions, the curtains drawn back as if inviting a fresh breath into the carcass of a room. 

That’s when something glinted from the corner of your eye, it pulled your gaze like a magnet. Your feet padded across the room, measuring your steps as you went to grasp it, ignoring everything in your stomach that twisted and furled at the creaking in the floorboard. 

You grasped it—before—

C R E A K

The floor crooned beneath you and gave out, your weight pulling you down, crashing through the rotted ceiling of the floors beneath you. A sickening feeling churned in your stomach as you fell through not one, not two, but five dark stories. Your life flashed before your eyes as you desperately clawed at the stale air for something to hold onto, but to no avail. The splinters from the decayed board sharply dig into your skin as you fall.

Your body then smashed onto what felt like solid concrete, nearly bouncing from the impact, your head collided with the ground with a deafening crack, your eyes watering as your breath dies in your throat. You feel warmth seeping out of your head, you’re sure it’s your blood, leaking from your cracked skull, you feel panic rise in your chest, your heart humming at a pace far too fast to be normal.

Your eyes wander down weakly to the relic in your hand. It looks untouched from the fall, pristine and shiny still. It looks like an angel, wings delicately curved in on itself. Your eyes wander around it, and you notice something carved into it. 

An insignia, huh, that looks just like the one the librarian had on her ring.

The thought fades away as you feel the sudden urge to sleep, your body is heavy and lies in a pool of your blood, you swear you can see the relic in your hand glow before your eyes droop shut, for eternity.

For some odd reason, you feel yourself waking up in a field of green grass, as fresh as could be. A TV was placed in the middle of the field, which was extremely out of place. Your eyebrows scrunch as the sun's rays dilate across your skin. 

The TV flickers on, and you watch as the channel plays—

Invincible?

A voice suddenly sounds from behind you.

“Why hello there, it seems you’ve made it.”

Made it? 

Where?

TAGLIST: @lalana1703 @lilacoaks @thatoneraeder @heiankyonoeiyuukun

[rikas-musings]

Reader whipping out the star charts for all the Marks like their kindergarten. They fill it up and winners gets a reward of their choice from a reward pool (I feel like you got to do two or three to maximize effectiveness via FOMO and jealousy). They even get choices made specifically for their interests (A night at the opera for Mohawk, a day at the animal shelter for Prisoner, game day for Sheisty ect). And it works beautifully, even the most mature or above the humble plebs of the lot can't ignore the sweet siren song of the reward star chart or the agony that comes with losing stars (visible confirmation of disappointment strikes like an arrow to the heart). And of course there's totally snitching and sabotage going on.

("Fine No googles I will add a get whipped option for you stop begging you're making this weird". Reader says rubbing their eyes tiredly.

"Maskless already told me how it really went Sinister. You don't get stars for saving someone you put in danger. In fact i am going to take three stars. You lose an extra one for lying to me." Reader proceeds to remove stars with a wailing Mark in the background complaining how he was so close to winning this week and cursing Maskless.)

Main Mark is pouting in the corner sad due to him not being on the sticker board. Where is his rewards.

-🌠

I'm also a giant sucker for gold stars. I have a whole sheet of stickers for my planner wahaha

The Marks are even bigger star whores than me so this would be an excellent managing system for whenever they get rowdy.

[rikas-musings]

in a harem situation the worse marks would probably make more effort to clean of course (mustnt scare off the potential mate lol) but i imagine its not as thorough as the other marks, and done with a lot of hasty coverups

you tell them youre coming to visit and targets bought a rug to cover a drink stain on the carpet, shiesty has rearranged his posters to conviently cover holes in the wall hes punched mid gamer rage, and mohawk has somehow tetris'd a months worth of dirty laundry into his closet where you wont see it. and after all that sinister relocates all HIS mess into their rooms while theyre waiting for you to show up and pretending hes been tidy the whole time.

the rest of the marks watch this happen from their rooms in various degrees of amusement and confusion

"mohawk has somehow tetris'd a months worth of dirty laundry" made me laugh fr

viltrumite mark would be so confused how they ended up doing this because he does not understand the concept of procrastination.

no goggles would be such a tattle tale; full mask too but he would be more sneaky about it like, he'd engineer an event where you get juice all over your clothes and he convinces you to go to mohawk's room because it's the closest to the dining room WAHAHAHA

[rikas-musings]

Careless Accidents

jason todd x fem!reader

aka you get hurt and jason’s pissed

warnings: reader’s wrist is accidentally sprained from being grabbed too hard

You could hear scuttling from somewhere else in the garden, an estate more than sizable enough than the game afoot.

You were under the distinct impression though that the bats and birds are playing with you similar to how they would a child. Slower, weaker, and less experienced than the big kids. You weren't complaining though. Because, frankly, it was stressful. They tend to operate more like they’re in a warzone than a game, you felt like you were about to be sniped out at any second.

Rightfully so, apparently, seeing how silently Stephanie had crept up on you.

“Hey,” Stephanie hissed, ignoring the way you jumped. “We’re doing alright for ourselves,” she said smugly. 

“Yeah,” you’d nodded, like you agreed with her more than you probably did. 

“Okay listen, I think the flag—” what flag? “—is by the fountain so, I think because there’s three of us and two of them, we should bait-and-switch.”

“We’re on teams?” you asked, no longer completely sure you know what you’re playing. 

“We are now!” she smiled, starting to run. “I’ll bait!”

She stopped briefly in her tracks and turned back to you hissing, “Don’t trust Cass,” before scurrying away.

Rather than sit around and wait there for…something?...to happen, you jumped up darting in the opposite direction with little to no indication whether this is a good move.

What you didn’t see is Cass rapidly approaching from your rear. 

What you also didn’t see was Dick crouched down in a row of shrubbery, which gave him the perfect opportunity to snatch your arm up and yank you down with him. You’d mewled a bit as your wrist made contact harshly with the grass, immediately buckling under you.

Cass was keen to your pain immediately, slowing her sprint to a stroll as she observed you.

“Are you okay?” she signs.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” 

The response was instinctual and you didn’t actually have time to register whether or not you were okay by the time you gave it. 

You pushed up on your elbows, trying to figure out whether Dick is even on your team, but the way the others approached had you halting consideration. They’re savvy to the situation at a speed in which you can only attribute to their vigilantism, looking at you with concern. 

“You good?” Tim asked, approaching languidly.

“That looked like it hurt,” Cass commented, crouching down next to you to see your wrist better.

Dick shook his head, “No, she’s okay.” He turned to you, prodding, “You’re okay.”

“Yeah, I’m, um…” you winced, looking at your wrist. “It hurts a little.”

Cass examined it closely, tilting it gently to the side. “It might be sprained.”

Dick paled. 

“No.”

Tim pointed a thumb back towards the manor, “We can get it wrapped upstairs.”

“No.”

You were only then able to clock the barely contained grin on Stephanie’s face, begging to break.  

“Ooooh. He’s gonna kill you.”

Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.

“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—” 

Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident. 

“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.

You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”

Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done. 

You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.

He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”

“Dick.”

He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes, 

He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.

“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.

You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”

Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”

You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically. 

Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.

“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”

Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”

Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”

A deadpan from Tim. 

“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”

Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”

Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”

Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?” 

“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.

“Oh my God.”

He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?

He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.

The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”

The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”

Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.” 

Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”

Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”

Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.

“I can’t help you.”

Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.

Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”

“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”

Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”

Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”

Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom. 

You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you. 

“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.

“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.

He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you. 

Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back. 

You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”

“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”

He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you. 

You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”

The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature. 

He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.

“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”

You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”

He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.

He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”

You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.

Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt. 

“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following. 

“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”

He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”

He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”

You nod, happy to ease his mind. 

You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.

You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.

You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.

He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.

“Fucking idiot—”

You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.

“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.

“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”

He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.

You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him. 

He scoffs, “It better have been.”

You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”

“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”

You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”

“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly. 

You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”

He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”

His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”

You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”

He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”

He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”

“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.

“Dick!”

The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.

He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes. 

“Where is he?”

Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding. 

Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.

He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”

But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.

He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.

There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail. 

“Really? Really?” Jason shouts. 

“It was an accident! It was a fucking—” 

He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.

“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”

Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.

Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”

Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”

He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him. 

Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”

Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”

“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option. 

“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring. 

Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to. 

“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—” 

Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”

“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”

Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”

“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”

 “Yeah, of course I did!”

For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body. 

The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.

It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more. 

“Jason.”

Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption. 

You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.

He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.

“I didn’t hit him.”

⭐️ your options are: (1) reblog fics or (2) be a little bitch ⭐️

[rikas-musings]

hello guys!! thank you for all the love on project shattercore & reclamation of the damned!! it means the world to me, i'm working on chapter one for them, debating doing weekly updates, i want to try and write a few chapters then release them, but i'll have to see... if you enjoy them, let me know or have any questions, my ask box is open to yap ( ˶˘ ³˘)♡

i never felt like my writing was up to par, so seeing people want to read it makes my heart burst (..◜ᴗ◝..) !!

[rikas-musings]

PROJECT SHATTERCORE ☣︎

DIRECTORY

bruce wayne x reader, jason todd x reader, dick grayson x reader, damian wayne x reader, tim drake x reader

SYNOPSIS: you were taken young, too young to ever have known anything other than needles and pain. stuck inside a lab that was bright and loud, they enhanced every neural frequency within you, transforming you into more than you could have ever been. after years of experiments, someone finally comes to save you. he’s tall, dark, and terrifying. but he offers you safety in a new home. you feel like an outsider in the gloomy mansion, but you understand why they behave as though you’re not there. it’s probably your fault, but over time, things begin to change, and the people in your home are starting to act as if they want you here. is this desire something normal?

WARNINGS: 18+ only, DEAD DOVE; DO NOT EAT, mild violence and blood, angst, child endangerment, alcoholism, cops being horrible

PLAYLIST FOR THE CHAPTER: ♫ slipping through my fingers - abba listen to this for ultimate immersion

A/N : welcome to my first batfamily x reader series!! please read ALL warnings because there are a lot in the series directory. here comes the prologue!! let me know if you enjoy :3

PROLOGUE

You lived on the streets from the little life you can remember, barely conscious at the ripe age of six years old. Your mother was always in a drunkard state, but you clung onto her for dear life. You depended on it, you did. Tiny grimey hands clutching onto her dress, eyes bearing into her face, wishing for any sort of love to emit from her. 

You always watched. You were quiet, but occasionally, you tried to garner attention from her. When things were right—if they ever were right—you’d vaguely remember her humming a lullaby that never quite left your memory. Her smooth hands caressing your velveteen hair, back when it wasn’t grimey and unkept. Back when you weren’t on the streets. 

This was your life, this was all Mama and you had known. Days spent searching for scraps in garbage bins, watching your mama disappear for nights at a time. She’d come back with scraps of food and more bottles.

The lights flickered whenever she came back, as if an angel had come down to bless the two of you, but changed its mind halfway. In the abandoned warehouse you and your Mama stayed in for the past while, you were tired. Your small body was littered with bruises and cuts from staying in the grimiest parts of Gotham City. But you persevered. Mama always tried her best for the two of you.

It happened on a Saturday night, the night’s mama always tried to get you special treats from the bakery that had leftovers in the trash. 

There were loud crashes, and the police were everywhere; you felt terrified. Unbeknownst to you, a robbery was happening at the bank beside the bakery. You shook like a leaf, scared for your life as you huddled in the alleyway between the bakery and the bank. A man as large as what you imagined a giant might look like, with blood splattered on his face, entered the alleyway. But that’s not what frightened you. He stood to the side, observing everything. Your mama was still far back, rummaging through the trash, most likely very drunk and oblivious to the situation unfolding before you. 

The police had entered the alleyway, and you were terrified. 

You felt the buzz of the radio before you heard it ‘The bats have the villain under control, but we got a call about a potential robber at this bakery.’ The man in uniform sighed and rubbed his face with his free hand before replying.

“Tell me why I got stuck dealing with the fucking homeless scum in the area.” He groaned, and your body stiffened. He made eye contact with you before you could attempt to run, even if you could, you could never leave Mama behind. 

Not long after, he caught sight of your mom and the other shadow lurking in the dark. His eyes widened, and he sneered before trying to call for backup.

The lights flickered violently as you desperately put your hands up in defence, staring at the police officer, he was gonna arrest Mama. Hurt Mama.

I don't want him to hurt Mama. 

You screamed and wailed, rendering your voice raw. When suddenly the radio crackled and sparked, the line cut and the police officer fell back off balance. You sighed in relief at the faulty hardware and his loss of balance.

Daniel was a weapon, made to be at least. Today’s mission was to stage a bank robbery. The place wasn’t big in itself, but the doctor had been hired to create new weapons and test them out by the harbour; therefore, he needed a distraction in the city to throw off the scent of any unwanted heroes. 

When he’d arrived, he’d blown up quite a few people before listening to the police’s radios on his comms. They were coming, and so were the bats. He gruffed, and his partner decided to be the bait.

“I’m gonna hide out until things calm down, don’t let them find out what the doctor is doing.” He grunts to his weasly looking partner beside him and hands him a bag stuffed with cash. His partner grins and nods their head before scurrying off to deal with the situation. Daniel sneaks out of the back entrance of the bank before entering an alleyway beside it. He let a smug grin fall onto his face. The plan was going spectacularly. 

In the alleyway was a woman rifling through a huge trash bin, and a little kid quivering as they clung to the brick wall. He hid among the shadows of the alleyway when a police officer showed up. He watched as the kid began to cry, but he froze when he noticed something.

The kid's eyes began to vibrate as the light flickered. While you screamed and wailed at the officer to stop, he watched as faint electricity crackled through your vibrating eyes, seemingly sending the officer stumbling back. His radio crackled with that same electricity. It was almost unnoticeable, especially to the untrained eye; it resembled any malfunction of faulty technology.

But not to Daniel. He noticed. 

He watched as the officer pulled out a gun, and before he could get his finger on the trigger, he smashed him into the wall with a loud-

CRACK.

Blood dripped down the wall of the alleyway as the officer's limp body crumpled to the pavement. Your breath quickened as you covered your ears at the sudden loud noise. You felt dizzy and tired—running away with Mama was the only thing replaying in your head.

She’d finally stumbled out of the bin when you made eye contact with her, her eyes sparkled with a sense of familiarity, as she clung onto a brown paper bag with oil spots. 

“Mama!” you wailed and went to dash into her arms, snot running down your face as you mustered all the strength in your body to reach her. 

But you didn’t reach her, not before the man did. 

He grabbed her neck, the skin taught against his grip, then looked down at you. 

“Hello, little one.” You looked up at him as your mama dropped the bag of baked goods, her hands going limp. You hesitantly reach out a hand.

“W-what’re you doing with Mama?” you spoke with furrowed brows, you were too dizzy and too tired as you watched the giant man, his orange eyes looked down at you with curiosity. 

“I’m thinking you two can come home with us tonight. The doctor would love to meet you.” He offers a faux grin. You feel sick to your stomach, but all you could do was hesitantly nod at him. 

He threw your now passed out Mama on his shoulder before picking you up and holding you with one arm. He smelled like smoke and gunpowder. You inhaled the weird smell before relaxing in his arms.

Maybe he wanted to help you and Mama.

TAGLIST: @alishii @lalana1703 @purple-obsidian @ghosty-the-grim-fairy @shadowsingers-redhood @staarflowerr @nininehaaa @hai-there-how-are-you @cynniee @lovebug-apple @nervousalpacalady @nisarelle @lilyalone @cxcilla @cupid73 @swag13r

[rikas-musings]

RECLAMATION OF THE DAMNED ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

DIRECTORY

variant! mark x reader

SYNOPSIS: in your world, nothing is particularly wrong; there are no superheroes, but you do get to mindlessly indulge in shows and books. in fact, you're a casual fan of the show invincible. today, you’re perusing an old article about a haunted place when you stumble upon a house that's definitely out of the ordinary, and despite the absolute gloom that emits from the place, you can’t help but go in. what you don’t expect is encountering powers beyond that of your world. somehow, within the hour, your fate finds itself intertwining with that of mark grayson. but the real question is: can you save him?

WARNINGS: none for the prologue! read directory for series warning

A/N : silly little prologue for before the series starts, let me know what you think !! also if you want a taglist!

PROLOGUE

Your last year of university wasn’t the easiest, your heart pounding in your chest as you were set to graduate within the next week. You had made it finally, every ounce of your being was tired, exhaustion threatening to shut your lids. Eyes peeled open as you hunched over your laptop at the school's library, your fingers shaking from the caffeine coursing through your system.

But you somehow made time for the things you cared about most, and one of those was exploring haunted places; you never really knew where you developed such an affinity for things like this. Maybe it was the horror movies you watched in middle school, or maybe it was because of the scar on your back—you hurriedly shook your head as if expelling the memories from your brain.

Not the time to think about that.

You researched myths, relics, and ancient texts; it probably didn’t help that you minored in occult studies.

Today’s research consisted of finding a new location to check out. You were planning to travel before your graduation, a little gift, you thought, for making it this far.

As your eyes scanned the text in front of you, the computer screen flickered, and your eyelids snapped shut before opening again to convince yourself you weren’t hallucinating from the exhaustion. Letting out a sigh, you chalked it up to the sleepless night before your exams; double majoring wasn’t your sharpest idea, but you couldn’t stop yourself, especially when you were graciously offered the scholarship of a lifetime.

You had found a perfect place, scanning through forums online from the darkest corners of the internet proved to be a hassle, but one you were content with dealing with when it came to things like this. Nothing haunted could ever avoid your grasp; just before it slipped away, you’d grip onto any information on it like a vice, refusing to let it die in obscurity. All you needed was the book to pinpoint the location, and potentially the relics that were inside. You nearly drooled at the notion of it.

This specific place was in a town called Hornnewle. The aforementioned haunted building was said to be a place of rest for a fallen angel, years of dread and deaths associated with it labelled it as barred by the residents, which was right up your alley. The cherry on top was the fact that it was in a secluded place far away from where you were.

“Okay, I just need to travel to the town and find the book, it’s such a shame they don’t have it anywhere else…” You murmured to yourself, pouting at the extra labour, but it wasn’t real frustration. Instead, you felt a buzz travelling through your veins, your fingers drumming lightly on the keypad.

Not long after, you shut your computer and breathed out of your nose. You eyed the stickers on your laptop, the blue and yellow standing out. The Invincible sticker you’d acquired not too long ago stared back at you, in a stereotypical superhero pose, you shyly smiled at it as if you were looking at the real deal. Your face flushed as you realized you were in public, and smiling at a sticker on your laptop most definitely looked odd, so you quickly packed it into your backpack, silently cursing yourself for being socially inept.

You felt a chill run down your spine as you turned to leave, noting the hairs standing up on your arms. You ran a hand through your hair, wondering why today felt off.

In the end all you could do was try to omit it from your memory, you went home and bought tickets for the train to Hornnewle. This would be your mini vacation!

What a trip this will be, you thought, smiling to yourself.

TAGLIST: @lalana1703 @lilacoaks @thatoneraeder @heiankyonoeiyuukun

[rikas-musings]

PROJECT SHATTERCORE ☣︎

MASTERPOST

bruce wayne x reader, jason todd x reader, dick grayson x reader, damian wayne x reader, tim drake x reader

SYNOPSIS: you were taken young, too young to ever have known anything other than needles and pain. stuck inside a lab that was bright and loud, they enhanced every neural frequency within you, transforming you into more than you could have ever been. after years of experiments, someone finally comes to save you. he’s tall, dark, and terrifying. but he offers you safety in a new home. you feel like an outsider in the gloomy mansion, but you understand why they behave as though you’re not there. it’s probably your fault, but over time, things begin to change, and the people in your home are starting to act as if they want you here. is this desire something normal?

WARNINGS: 18+ only, DEAD DOVE; DO NOT EAT, pseudo step-cest but reader didn't exactly grow up with them, also bruce and dick lowkey being creeps while reader is a teen, mild descriptions/mentions of sexual assualt, depression, self-harm, mentions of death, insecurity, dark fiction, angst, descriptive violence, descriptive medical abuse, toxic behaviour, yandere themes, possessiveness, no smut but potentially steamy scenes, lots of pain, some comfort, reader is a VICTIM of everything ദ്ദി( ;´ - `;)

A/N : welcome to my first batfamily x reader series!! please read all warnings because there are a lot. the reader is gender neutral, but there may be allusions to being AFAB; however, i'll keep those to a minimum

CHAPTERS:

prologue

one: neural frequency

two:

three:

series hashtag: #☆project shattercore

ASKS/BLURBS

TAGLIST: @alishii @lalana1703 @purple-obsidian @ghosty-the-grim-fairy @shadowsingers-redhood @staarflowerr @nininehaaa @hai-there-how-are-you @cynniee @lovebug-apple @nervousalpacalady @nisarelle @lilyalone @cxcilla @cupid73 @swag13r

[rikas-musings]

RECLAMATION OF THE DAMNED ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

DIRECTORY

variant! mark x reader

SYNOPSIS: in your world, nothing is particularly wrong; there are no superheroes, but you do get to mindlessly indulge in shows and books. in fact, you're a casual fan of the show invincible. today, you’re perusing an old article about a haunted place when you stumble upon a house that's definitely out of the ordinary, and despite the absolute gloom that emits from the place, you can’t help but go in. what you don’t expect is encountering powers beyond that of your world. somehow, within the hour, your fate finds itself intertwining with that of mark grayson. but the real question is: can you save him?

WARNINGS: 18+ themes, death and mentions of after, angst, descriptive violence, yandere themes, toxic behaviour because variants are lowkey evil, possessiveness, no smut but potentially steamy scenes, mentions of abuse, will add more as they come up

A/N : hello and welcome to my series!! this is an idea loosely based on villain creation system although i've been thinking about it for a while... feel free to comment any questions or concerns i have had a lot of fun planning this out, there will be multiple marks, but no spoilers yet hehe ( ˃` ⩌ ´˂ )

CHAPTERS:

prologue

one: cursed

two:

three:

series hashtag: #☆reclamation of the damned

ASKS/BLURBS:

TAGLIST: @lalana1703 @lilacoaks @thatoneraeder @heiankyonoeiyuukun

[rikas-musings]

THIS WAS ME GAAH thank you i was just nervous,,, i'm excited to start working on it <3

hello!! I just wanted to say i adore your villain creation fic so much so far, your writing in general is just beautiful!!! (,,>ヮ<,,)! i'm a writer and have an idea for a fic, like the opposite of the villain creation fic, where the reader has to save mark! obviously i realized this idea was inspired by yours, and there are differences in my idea as well... but I figured I should ask you if it'd be okay to credit you or if it's in poor taste to write a story like this....i just wanted to double check with what you'd think ( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;) thank you and have a lovely day!!! <3

Hi anon!

I'm glad you like VCS 🫶

You didn't have to ask me for permission though wahaha feel free to write!

[rikas-musings]

what do you want first? ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹

option 1: platonic yandere! batboys x neglected reader with powers in which where reader dies and awakens something inside them

option 2: yandere batboys! with an experimented on reader, in which they all find themselves growing feelings that shouldn't exist in the first place dead dove; do not eat (dark story) they're gonna be creeps

[rikas-musings]

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

[rikas-musings]

I’M TIRED OF SMUT, I WANT TOOTH ACHING FLUFF AND HEART SHATTERING ANGST.

[rikas-musings]

you are the only exception. (yandere! damian wayne x gn! reader drabble)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; discord server !

tw: implied s/h, bullying, and self-esteem problems.

ngl i'm thinking of damian — who's well past his childish tantrums and haughty behavior, once a child who has bloomed into a fully mature individual who can hold back his irritation towards his blockmates, courtesy of being raised dutifully by his family — paired with a pick-me reader who's the complete opposite, one so insufferable to everyone, to every professor, to the people who sit beside them, but most especially him.

you who loves to run your mouth off, talking in woes and poor attempts at prose to earn sympathy point: at how nobody ever likes you at all, how your friends are all unsupportive trash, how nobody ever chooses you as a group mate for class projects — not because you were some loner, no, your loud, grating mouth guarantees it could be heard from beyond the four walls encasing the suffering class; you were just lazy, cynical, someone who depends on others to achieve your goals yet somehow, some way, you'd end up with passing gpa — and when your professors would beg for anybody else to just pair up with you, while you sulk some corner and throw out some more venomous words to everyone else; it's oddly damian who has to stand up and just take one for the team, no matter how much he wants to shove a piece of paper down your throat to shut you up, no matter how much he sees his old self in you but denies it at every accusation.

at first, he actively despises you, because you're every bit of a liability under his responsibility whenever you're grouped with him.

and worse yet, he's the only guy around who can ridicule you without any sympathy for how you may have felt at the moment when he's degrading your poor attempt at your part for a project, he's the only one who can match up with your heartless statements, reduce your arguments with an equally unyielding drive to back you up to a corner when you realized he's the only one who wouldn't fold to you in defeat, when he wouldn't take your excuses at being late or absent to another group meeting. people around him praise him for how he handles the situation, somehow, even his professors, who'll greet him by the hallways, happy, smiles reaching past their ears, like the boy's a miracle granted by the world, and thank him for another job well done.

but he's also the same guy who breaks past your shell of false pretenses, who sees a misdirected sense of self-hatred in your widened eyes when he brings up another point to bring you down. who, as much as he pretends to hate you, hates it worse when you run off and past the double doors whilst the people in the background would emerge in celebration at another one of damian's win in your losing arguments; the boy could only drown out their pats in his back and invitation to treat him to lunch, he could only focus in the way your eyebags have been progressively worse, in the way bruises would appear more and more on your once, pristine skin, and how you'd just about avoid everyone else now— fear, he knows that emotion like he does the back of his hand, an undeniable weight swimming in your eyes when his "group of friends" would throw mockery in your way.

he's ultimately the only one to track you down afterwards.

actually, he's the only one who ever searches for you.

and then he finds you sobbing — without your normal bravado, without your fabricated, laid-back smiles — by an unlocked restroom. your cries were loud enough that you don't even flinch back at the sound of the stall's door opening, whilst he sees you emptying the contents of your empty stomach, witnesses you cry, and cry, and cry, unaware of his existence from behind you, as you beat at your heart endlessly, cry some more, scrape your bleeding knees against the tiled floors while he watches in utter dismay.

you mumble incoherently, in silent stutters through bitten, skin-peeled lips, yet somehow his sharp ears hear it.

— or maybe he's trained himself to always be the one who hears your voice, who recognizes it from a far distance when the people in your vicinity would groan at the sound of it; who knows its vibrato, its little quirks, how it wavers and how it quivers, all memorized by heart and by mind—

and he says it's part of what being born and raised as an assassin would do to you, but he's integrated into a seemingly normal life during the daylight, he knows when to block out people's voices, knows when to mind his business and knows when to carefully stay silent to analyze the surroundings like what a vigilante could do— and you're not villain, you're just a nobody to everybody, especially to damian, especially to him.

so it's strange, truly, how he knows you better than any person would, knows you better to the point where he knows your cries weren't a product of crocodile tears, to know that his words, how he called you "useless, a classless waste of air, pollution in the minds of like-minded, actually intelligent individuals," in a class of over thirty students, where all eyes are plastered on you; they did more than hurt you, they did more than just stinging your already crumbling persona— broke your rotting confidence, sliced it in half, sliced your heart in half at how everybody else laughed, agreed with his sentiments all mustered in a momentary whim.

even damian knows he doesn't mean those words, yet he also knows that everyone's perception of you is what he's stated— he knows the damage he's done.

he knows the sound of your heartbreak, feels the same pit of doom trembling in his heart as he watches you, watches your fingers dig deep into your battered skin, the high pitched scream rattling far beyond your parched throat.

and you are his business, you are his responsibility, even if you weren't, even if it wasn't his business to look after you after he's said all those cruel, degrading words.

he hears your legitimate woes: your undeniable self hatred, how it's your fault that everyone really does hate you, and it's your fault, it's your fault— that the only friend you could consider to be yours, that him, damian wayne, the same person who'd put you down, broke you with the simple truth, to the point where everyone else thought it as an invitation to destroy you even further; you hate yourself for leading him to hating you.

the only guy who's willing to share a desk with you, who listens to another wave of your superficial rambling, who sat beside you on the cafeteria table when you're all alone because all your old friends have cut you out of their lives, told you you were too draining, too attention seeking, too fucking annoying to be with and you know you are— and yet damian somehow managed to conceal his bubbling irritation at yet another one of your statements, talking about how, "people just can't get me, dami. they just can't."

and he listens, he listens because he's the only one who could, whose patience never wavers amidst your terrible display of affection; when your laughs sounded like crackling fire, which only burns brighter and warmer, when you'd slap his shoulders way too hard at another unfunny joke of yours, when you belittle your ex-friends because they can't handle your true self, or whatever you call it.

he does it with an air of coolness, until he couldn't anymore.

he slammed his fists on the plastic desk, and told you to shut up, insulted you, spewed venom towards you in front of everybody else after days, stretching past weeks 'til he couldn't handle the months of being forced to hear you rambling about yourself during a lecture, always yourself, that he loses it.

heartless as it is, you know his words were true.

you know you're hated by everybody, why else would damian be the exception to that hatred for an individual so unwanted like you?

it's shameful of you, it's terrible of you. you're a waste of space, a waste of air, a waste of life that you scream: about wanting to die, about wishing you were never born in the first place because everyone hates you.

damian, whom you thought made you an exception, hates you.

he hates you, he hates you so, so much and he admits to only tolerating you, everyone only tolerates you.

and he hates you.

— he doesn't.

it doesn't take much for him to drag you out of that stall, pin you down on the floor when he sees a blade on your dominant hand, inches away from drawing out blood from your wrist, from landing on a vein and slicing mercilessly like your life doesn't matter.

— like you don't matter to him.

it doesn't take much to shove that piece of metal away and onto another empty stall, far away from your reach, as he finds himself heaving on top of you, his arms pinning down your wrists to stop you from hurting yourself, legs locked on your waist to ground you even further, as he finds unfamiliar panic rise in his throat at— at that.

at your disregard for your life, at how he could've been the reason he's lost you.

when he returns to his senses, when he sees your disbelief on your poor, sunken eyes, hollowed, tear-stricken cheeks. when your attempts at kicking him, at the muscles on his thighs wouldn't do you any good, you're forced to return his heartbroken gaze towards you, forced to feel every shiver racking from his body.

how his fingertips would press deeper on your wrists, how he gulps in a patterned succession, how you never really see someone like damian be so utterly wrecked, even more-so than you that another tear escapes your waterline, your eyes closing in resignation, ignoring the way his head has slowly been lowering itself to you.

until the tip of his nose touches yours, nuzzles against it even, until you open your eyes and find his face so intimately close with yours, his warm breath hitting your skin clashing with the cold feel of the clean tiles. you can see every imperfection littering his skin: the split on his lips, the slit at his brows, those brilliant eyes greener than emeralds; wide, imposing, looking at you and only you.

"wh—!"

"don't you even dare do that again, (name)."

his right hand releases its harsh grip on your wrist, making way to cup your face whilst his face only moves closer, so close you could almost feel his disheveled hair touching your forehead, his lips nearly slotting with yours, almost feel your chest fuse with his— hear the thumping in his chest match your own heartbeat. when his palms move to touch your chin, thumb nimbly pressing itself on your cracked lips, he releases a tsks, swiping away at the blood as he brings it up to his lips to taste it.

you can only watch in breathless awe as his tongue licks away at the remaining blood, his eyes still plastered on you, glaring, squinting as he waits for your reply in bated breaths. the fingers from his other hand pinning you down eventually tangles with yours, calloused palms warm, refusing to let go; his other hand, meanwhile, returns to your face,

you can't comprehend the gears churning on his otherwise stoic expression, but you can tell from how his brows subtly furrow, that he's probably irritated, or nitpicking you like some specimen. you don't know, you can't tell, you're still... still experiencing the withdrawals of your wasted tears easlier, unable to understand the brewing desperation in damian's chest.

(and you can't exactly imagine the exact process going on in his mind. you can't picture someone like damian trying his damned best to not kiss your pretty face while you're on the floor with him right now. how he wants to feel your chapped lips pressing deeply against his own moist one, for you to taste the chapstick on him that you lovingly complimented him using one day; what it would feel like for his face to fuse so closely with yours until he could feel his eyelashes batting on your own— he can't, not while the restroom's doors are unlocked and he wouldn't want to share that intimately passionate moment with anyone else but you, and not while he can see the fading colors of yellows and blue splotched on your eyes that he once clumsily dismissed as imagination).

"tell me what happened," he bluntly demands, a grunt reverberating from deep in his throat. he's becoming more and more like his father these days, he notes to himself, but he can't deny how effective the intimidation factor is when he sees your eyes widen, knows he's gotten you right where he wants you to, when those precious orbs would flitter somewhere else in hesitation—

"(name)," this time, he calls more domineeringly, shifts in his leaning position just so that his face would be even closer to yours than it already possibly is — to the point you can smell peppermint and hints of that tea he loves to drink during early morning break time — yet you refuse to share eye contact with him, looking away, drowning out the sound of his heavy intakes of air; afraid, possibly, of the consequences if you were to confess how those friends of his loved to torment you in more ways than one—

no, you'd rather nobody knows about how truly weak you were, not even the person you proclaimed as your own friend.

those people would push your body to the walls of the campus' main building, uncaring if it inflicts bruises all over your body. they'd take your belongings, record you begging on your knees that they won't hurt you, and they'll fucking bash your face against the surface of the nearby garbage bin once they discover you're short on cash to pay enough for a day where they won't bother you.

you don't want him to worry about someone like you, who already caused him enough irritation. and if it means masking this stupid weakness of yours with artificial confidence, then you'll fake it 'til you make it.

that's what you're good at, that's what makes you survive in this world.

at least, that's what you thought until damian eventually had enough, clamps his thumb and index fingers on the sides of your face to force you to look him straight in the eyes, still unyielding from his position. you can't exactly move, you don't have anything else to distract you from damian nearly breathing down on your neck, and you don't know why he's so insistent on finding out what's wrong with someone he oh-so obviously despises.

"i—" he sighs before you could get a word in, like he's predicted an excuse to befall from your tongue, warm fingers gently grazing your cheeks, eyes still focused on your befuddled face.

"... fine, if you wish not to tell me..." his fingers stop mapping your face, thumb settling on the marred bruising on your right eyes, feeling the way you wince at even the slightest of contact. he can feel his adrenaline spike, the anger boiling right beneath the seams of his fingertips, ready to inflict pain and suffering on whomever dared to touch you.

because with just how avoidant you are of discussing the issue with him— that means it's someone else who caused these injuries on you, someone idiotic enough to mess with him of all people.

"... i will find out myself, and i will impose the proper punishment on those... those sub-humans who dared touch what is mine."

"wh- what do you mean—?" it's the first time he hears you talk without that grating pitch in your voice, the first time he hears that airy disposition that comes out in your most vulnerable moments; shit, he swears by the world that he'll protect this side of you from anyone who dares it away from him.

"i mean what i said. you are mine."

"so do not take my previous words to heart, i never meant it, i never meant to hurt you, habibi/habibti."

you're frozen in place as he sighs again, shakes his head, moves up so that his lips could kiss your temples, then it trails down to your cheeks, all the way to your heated ears. he mutters an apology in his mother tongue, you know because he mutters it with a pout during the times when his strength was too much, when he'd accidentally deliver an all-too powerful strike on your body that one time when you'd attempt to wake him up the first time you witnessed him sleeping in classes; and you can't tell the exact words, but it sounds like poetry, like silken honey dripping down on your thoughts.

all you can do is nod, which garners a kiss on the shell of your ears, before he ultimately shares another stare down with you.

"i am your boyfriend now," he declares, like it's some unbreakable law with no loops to escape from, "and because i am yours, and you are mine, that means i have every right to find the people who hurt my beloved, i have every right to deal the necessary pain towards anything that hurts you."

"you do not have to pretend around me anymore, do you understand?"

somehow, some way, the only thing you can plaster up right now is a shaky hum and your own fingers cupping his cheeks — the action alone caused tingles to erupt from his spine, and he swears it's like magic, your touch — afraid to reject him after he's practically confessed to you... which was enough.

enough for him to seal the deal, to finally slot his warm lips on yours, eyes closed, on the clean, restroom floors, sealing the deal.

you can only return the passion ten fold, when you realize just how devoid you are of human contact.

and that's when it clicks— how much he means it, how much he's deeply in love with you, with this persona of yours and the real you.

how he's willing to make an exception as long as it was you.

damian never expected already having planned his wedding vows to the likes of someone like you, someone so terribly foul-mouthed, that in some strange, twist of the world, he ends up falling in love real hard for you.

day by day.

he ends up falling for you when he's the only one you show your true colors to: someone vulnerable, someone who reflects the past him, someone who didn't have anyone to correct your mistakes.

he loves that version of you, he loves it when he is your exception, too.

to the point that when you eventually returned to your old persona, when you go off into another insufferable tangent— when someone rolls their eyes at you, or when someone opens their mouth to rebut and tell you to, for once, shut your fucking trap; somehow, this guy who used to glare daggers at you during chem classes, who would dig his fingers on your shoulders as a warning that it's not even the time to talk—

he was now actively defending your statements with all his passion, no matter how ridiculously ear grating, unrealistic, downright egotistical it may sound. those people would end up with dirt dug up on them, suspended, sometimes even expelled. his old "friends" were no exceptions once he realized they were the reason for your bruises, from when they pushed your body and beaten you black and blue from behind the campus' main building; they were thoroughly dealt with, efficiently, silently.

they were no more.

and just as quickly as he defends you, you're both now renounced as the gotham u's most untouchable couple. professors couldn't possibly attempt to expel any one of you because your behavior conducts, paired with damian being oddly professional with dealing the people who'd talk you down, doesn't truly disrupt anything.

... or at least, that is what everyone convinces themselves out of fear that they'd tick you off and they'll be victimized by another one of damian's threats.

'cause in the end, you did end up being chosen by, quite possibly, the worst contender for your own attention seeking method of gaining affection.

in the end, you're the only exception.

no matter how insufferable you may be.

a/n: if this flops, i will cry and then disappear some more /j also, june 16 is again & again's one year anniversary, and i have writer's block 😭🙏 that's the worse nerfing in one of my most special occasions. anyways, don't mind the subpar writing, i wrote this on a whim since i just got a random burst of inspiration but it's not the best i have so far because again, writer's block. apologies for this 😔✊ it's genuinely so bad but it's what i can only produce rn.