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We looked inside some of the posts by raven-december and here's what we found interesting.
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big fan of characters who look cool and tough and stoic but only because theyre internally thinking "fuckkk what do i say. how do i make friends. they didnt teach me how to do that in sword school."
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Why the fuck did jd Vance think it was a good idea to make a public statement that if anything were to mysteriously happen to Donald trump he’s ready to take over the country like no matter what happens now it just seems like he’s either responsible or plotting something
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Thinking about how Bruce Wayne cracks his wife every chance he gets when he's even slightly stressed
He's known peace for the longest time when he put a fat diamond on your finger and suddenly you became his little stress reliever. He's given you the option to be a stay at home wife, go shopping, get your nails done and have your hair cut; but he somehow always forgets his lunch and you, oh so sweet, bring it to him.
You walk into his office, clad in your normal every day attire, black, sleek, and the tiniest bit sexy and simply walk past the receptionist, who doesn't even bother looking at you because dammit Bruce is a committed husband.
So when you finally come into his office he's running his hand through his hair, "hey sweetie, how are you?" He subconsciously opens his legs for you to sit between them while you ramble about your day,
You expect him, like clockwork, to be reaching under your skirt and elsewhere, he knows your so pliant, so obedient, that you simply let him,
"And she thinks, that I can't afford it—like as if! I was literally wearing Valentino Bruce!" You huffed about a little altercation you had at the mall, to which Bruce hums into your shoulder, "that's ridiculous baby," you hummed as he pulled your panties aside to play. "Like, Brucie, what was I supposed to do?"
He shook his head and kissed your ear, "let me take care of it," and he always did.
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Vinnie Hacker's live on twitch (23.08.2025)
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Perfect Night
ღ summary: Bruce is late for patrol. Damian doesn't have the patience of a saint.
ღ pairing: Bruce Wayne x fem!reader
ღ warnings: Damian. (<3)
"Father. Wake up."
If anyone were to see a child dressed in a Robin costume squatting on their headboard in the dead of night, staring at their sleeping figure with unnatural silence, they'd probably freak. But not you or Bruce, who's lovingly laid in each other's arms with years worth of experiences under your belt.
Bruce had fallen fast asleep after coming home from Wayne Enterprises, careless with his attire which was still simply strewn messily on a hanger by the closet. He was only dressed in his boxers, one heavy arm slung over your waist while the other pillowed his head, your own tucked right under his chin. The absence of the usual hardness present on his face made him look peaceful, relaxed. His mouth was opened slightly, soft breathes puffing out a steady rhythm. If you were awake right now you’d have your phone out to take a picture.
Usually the vigilante is quite punctual with his schedule, but it had been a tough week for him. One which included not one but two galas, a criminal breakout from Arkham and one nasty visit from the Joker.
You recall him muttering something about "resting his eyes for a bit" before patrol, but it feels like age is catching up to him because he's well passed out beside you without a care in the world.
Damian must've been too impatient to let the man bring himself down the cave, so he resolved it by approaching his father himself.
But of course, Damian couldn't just wake him up normally. The young boy was bent down right onto Bruce's face, gloved fingers physically prying apart the older man's eyelids to show a peek of blue underneath. And Bruce with his killer instincts—even when half-conscious—snapped right up at the intrusions, only relaxing slightly when he was greeted by Damian's masked face. Naturally, he sported an irritated face, as if his father had inconvenienced him by being asleep.
Another perfectly normal night at the Wayne household.
"Come on, let's go, patrol time. The streets are waiting." Damian insisted, still with his fingers all up in Bruce's eye. The older man blinked out into the darkness of his bedroom, making shape of blurry dark eyes, nostrils sticking out and a pair of eyebrows that looked like his own.
Damian was practically vibrating with energy, Titus panting heavily on the side of the bed as if mimicking his owner. He was always like this ever since he took the mantle of Robin. The first to be up for patrol, the first to stand in the Batcave with full gear on. Always so eager to be the one fighting crime. He had that same thirst for justice like all your other kids did.
Bruce let out a low grumble, sighing deeply as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He remembered the weight of you in his arms and peeled you off gently, keeping an eye on your face to make sure none of this ruckus awoke you from your well-deserved slumber. He would much rather stay with you in the very expensive sheets he exclusively bought for the master bedroom, but he equally wouldn't let Damian run around Gotham alone. Despite whatever reason he came up with each week to go out as vigilante alone, Damian is his son before he is Robin. No amount of training and Assassin 101s could take away the fact that Gotham doesn't discriminate when it comes to showing no mercy.
So with a resigned sigh, he ran a hand through his tussled dark hair, the motion doing absolutely nothing to tame the mess. Without even looking, he reached his left arm out to point at the door, muttering a tired but firm, "Cave."
Damian leaped from the wooden headboard, yellow cape bellowing behind him and landing with a sound thud. Though he was light on his feet, Bruce still whipped his head around to warn him sternly, mindful of his sleeping wife beside him.
"Quietly, Damian. Don't wake your mother up."
He was just about to check on you when he noticed the dog not hot on its heels behind Damian, followed by the quiet croak of your voice.
"Dami?" You stirred, hearing muffled voices of what you could guess as your husband and son.
Well, neither Bruce nor Damian woke you up, because Titus was already in front of you, panting and licking your cheek.
Even if usually well-behaved, the Great Dane had a certain affection for you. You and Alfred, aside from his owner, were the two people constantly around him around since he was a small puppy. Especially when the boys were out doing their nocturnal activities, the two of you would feed him treats and play with him.
Before you could turn around to confirm who the voices belonged to, you felt the heat of pants right in front of your face. One that suspiciously smelled like beef and dog treats. Titus seemed to respond even more eagerly seeing that you were awake, pushing his head onto yours as he sniffed the hand that laid in front of you. "Oh hello Titus.."
Damian, like the good son he is, stopped right in his tracks and immediately responded to your call. He zoomed past to your side of the bed, bending down to your level when you reached a hand out.
"Ummi." He greeted, melting under your palm on his head. You smiled sleepily at your boy. Despite the darkness tempting to swallow you back up into sweet dreams, you could still make out the bright green of his eye mask and the silhouette of his spiky hair. And especially the special lift at the corner of his lips that only showed when you showered him with affection—like he was proud to be noticed by you. You love him so much. He's just like a little cat.
A stubborn, homicidal little cat.
As much of a heartwarming scene this was, Bruce could tell that you were nearly fully awake. It wasn't helping that Titus was getting louder with his excitement, pawing the floor while his collar rustled loudly. Even if his life felt a hundred times better when you waited up for him to come home, he didn't like when you skipped out on resting time.
He needed Damian and Titus out of the room stat, but it didn't seem like the former noticed, too busy being fawned on by his mother.
Bruce stared down at his son with just enough intensity that Damien could feel a definite weight on the side of his face. When he turned, they engaged in a staring contest when Damien started fighting back with defiance. Prideful little thing. Once he finally piped down with a quiet "tt" (which Bruce couldn't bother to scold him for), the man jerked his head to signal for Robin to leave for the cave.
Damian for once, happily obliged Bruce's command.
He didn't forget to give your hand a squeeze before he left, getting up with a newfound vigor as Titus bounded behind him.
Immediately the older man leaned forward to settle his weight next to you, one bare arm finding the strewn duvet to cover your body before softly landing beside your shoulder.
"Go back to sleep, sweetheart. We're leaving for patrol." He whispered gently, closing in on your face to nose at your cheek.
You were already back on your side at this point, sleep starting to set back in once the room quieted down. When you felt his breath on your cheek, you lazily reached a hand to land on the side of his stubbled face and gave it a soft pat. "Oh.. okay. Be careful. Love you both."
Bruce felt your arm slacken and smiled at the way your voice trailed off into small breathes. Cute. He lifted his left hand to take your palm off his face, pressing a small kiss to the center before doing the same to your temple. He took the chance to pause and breathe in the moment, staring at you with deep, unabashed love. With reverence. As if the mere sight of you slumbering could solve all the problems of this world and fight the darkness that plagued it.
He placed one more soft kiss to your cheek, promising his and Damian's safe return before he got up from the bed, knees cracking in a weak protest.
"We love you too."
And off he goes, Gotham University shirt only halfway on, trudging behind his eager son to go fight crime while his wife slept soundly at home. Maybe not a normal one, but it was a perfect night at the Wayne household.
CHAT WE LIVE FROM GOTHAM CITY. Thought this comic scene was really cute!
dividers @hyuneskkami @strangergraphics
@ pls don't repost or feed my works into ai thaaank you
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I literally heard myself wheeze at one point reading these. 😂
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𐔌 ⋮ “He gives you things, doesn’t he?”
– or, the language of devotion from a boy who was raised to conquer, not to love
It starts with the ring.
An emerald, cut sharp like a blade, set into gold with ancient Arabic filigree etched so fine it’s barely visible unless the light catches it. She finds it on her nightstand one morning—wrapped in black silk, warm as if it had been held in a palm all night.
The note is in his handwriting. Neat. Small. Precise.
“For your hand, which should always be protected.
She wears it. Of course she wears it.
She doesn’t expect the next gift—two weeks later, an anklet. golden, thin and elegant, a tiny د (the Arabic letter dāl) dangling from the chain. Damian doesn’t say anything when she finds it.
He just kneels down during a quiet hour in the Manor and clasps it around her ankle himself. His hands are steady. His touch reverent.
“I want them to know,” he says simply, eyes flicking up to hers. “Wherever you walk, you’re mine.”
She forgets how to breathe.
“Okay, but like,” Steph says later, eyes wide, “that’s not just romantic. That’s spiritual warfare.”
Jason whistles low. “Man’s out here forging rings like it’s Lord of the Rings, but hot.”
Dick smirks. “I told you. He’s an intense little poet when it comes to her.”
There are other gifts. A hair comb, made of dark wood and inlaid with jade. A carved pendant with lines from a pre-Islamic Arabic love poem, words so old they taste like desert wind and firelight.
He gives her a dagger once.
Not large. Not flashy.
But beautiful.
Etched down the spine, in Arabic script so fine it’s almost hidden, it reads:
“Whoever touches what is mine will bleed.”
She isn’t scared. Not of him.
She understands what it means—what he’s never been able to say without wrapping it in old language and older steel:
That he was raised by people who saw love as weakness. That he is fighting to unlearn that. That when he gives, it isn’t casual. It’s sacred.
They sit alone on the rooftop again.
Gotham sprawls below. The stars are faint. She’s wearing the anklet. The ring. A new necklace now—another gift, this one with a pressed green stone the color of his eyes, suspended above her collarbone like a vow.
“You’re mine,” he says softly, fingers brushing the pendant.
“Mm,” she murmurs. “Yours, huh?”
“I don’t mean that lightly,” he says. “I mean it the way temples mean prayer. The way altars mean blood.”
She smiles. “I know.”
“I would kill for you.”
“You have,” she says.
“I would die for you.”
Her hand finds his. “You don’t have to.”
Damian looks at her for a long moment. The kind of look that feels like burning incense and ancient gods and poetry that doesn’t rhyme.
Then he says, voice barely above a whisper:
“You are not mine like a thing to be owned. You are mine like breath is to lungs. Like fire is to a blade.”
She closes her eyes, heart thudding. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m yours too,” he says.
Tim finds the dagger a week later.
Jason reads the inscription and whistles. “This boy’s out here writing Arabic death vows.”
“Poetic menace,” Steph mutters. “I love that for her.”
Dick just grins, arms folded. “Told you. He doesn’t love. He consecrates.”
And maybe that’s what it is.
Not love like hearts and flowers and Hallmark cards.
But love like carved emeralds and sacred steel. Love like an altar. Like devotion. Like the whole world could burn—and he’d still reach through the smoke to clasp her wrist and whisper:
“rūḥī…”
i don't really what how i feel about this one .Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 (if you want to be added,comment down below!)
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Dean loves Sam like a feral dog loves its owner. With a whole lot of biting and apologetic licks over wounds he created.
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god can you imagine glados equipped with tiktok therapyspeak. she’d be unbearable
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i wrapped my heart up for u in foil in case you want it later it's in the fridge
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