#dc x reader

[dntaed]

oh, i’ve been gone for a few days, but !!! i have a little something for you guys <3 changing up my post’s styles a bit. i’d like to focus on headcanons and small imagines from now on. (dw my series won’t disappear). i just want to try something new! 🌷

a/n: not proofread, this work is sfw. have fun reading. MASTERLIST HERE !!

✹ ꕀ 𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 : ‘ 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽? ’ ( ✦ )

( ✦ ) In a few words, to describe a relationship with Jason Todd would be a fever dream, a reverie you didn't even know you were in until those sea-green eyes hit you like waves; you find yourself wanting to lose yourself in this dream.

Despite being a man with a reputation of a rather not-so-savory kind, he unexpectedly shows the most softness and tenderness for his partner out of all the Bat-boys.

೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 ⠀. ᰋ .. 🪻

JASON TODD loves quietly. He's subtle with his affections. The fact he loves you will be shown in the small details that collect over time. You don't even notice it at first. He's not used to expressing his feelings in a way that's obvious to the fleeting eye. Only someone who pays attention would see how utterly devoted your boyfriend is to you.

It's the way Jason always has a hand on the surface of your back or waist, guiding you through crowds or holding you while cooking in the kitchen. The touch serves as a safety net for you and a chain that connects the two of you. He needs you close to him. Your presence in the early morning or even in the busy streets of Gotham City has him feeling even calmer.

Jason devotes himself to learning everything about you. He silently watches you when you talk about the things you enjoy. It's a soothing sound to his ears. He makes sure to keep any important detail you mentioned tucked away in his mind.

The specific drink you like at that coffee place you've grown attached to, that book you've been reading (he's picked it up too, he wants to talk about it with you), what temperature you enjoy your tea, the route you take during your day—do you want that pretty ceramic cup he saw at the shop? He thinks you would. He's getting it for you, because when you're happy—he is too.

🗨️: Sorry, I talk too much.

J: But I want to hear you.

There are moments in your relationship when the confidence Jason tried to show you slowly crumbles around you. He doesn't realize that it's the walls he has built around himself finally disappearing when he's with you.

It's shown in the way he sleeps soundly next to you. The way your touch doesn't send spikes through his skin. The way he's more open talking with you. It comes to him naturally—talking with you all night, words slipping past his lips that he wouldn't trust anyone else with.

Acts of service is an important part of a relationship with Jason. He's up before you are. The hot cup of your favorite drink sits steaming on the counter. He's already fussing around the kitchen, trying to cook up a meal for you. (Keyword, trying. I don't have much faith in his cooking, and neither does he.) He's the first to go out for groceries. His hands are always full of the bags you carry. No matter how many times you reassure him you're okay on your own, he shakes his head. He's doing this because he wants to.

🗨️: It's okay. I can carry them.

J: No, no. It's okay. While we're at it, give me that bag you're holding in your left hand, looks heavy.

🗨️: You literally have five bags already!

He has a habit of resting his head on your shoulder or placing his chin on top of your head when he’s tired. He’ll murmur something like “Five more minutes, babe” if you try to move.

I already mentioned in a previous post that you two are not only lovers. Friends to lovers is the romance I see Jason being in. You're his best friend, and he's yours. You're the first one he looks for in a room because you're the only one who really knows him—in and out. He's Jason Todd to the rest of the world, but to you, he's your Jay. The Jay you met and slowly became friends with. The Jay you spent hours huddled away in a library with. You two discuss books non-stop in hushed whispers. Those whispers slowly turned into something even bigger, something that settled deep in your bones.

Jason adores physical touch, but only from you. He’s the kind of guy who acts grumpy about PDA but will still pull you into his lap when you least expect it. Forehead kisses, temple kisses, pulling you closer by the waist when someone walks too close to you—those are his specialties.

Dates include, you guessed it, library dates, that cozy restaurant you two found, the park during the evening, the homey feel of your shared apartment at midnight while a cheesy romance movie plays in the background, late-night walks around the busy streets while the kaleidoscopic colors of the city dance across your figures. It's all very saccharine sweet and simply soft.

The pet names I see Jason using are: a classic babe, pipsqueak (a more teasing one), a shortened version of your name, and pretty.

Jason isn’t a fan of social media, but he keeps a private account just to follow you. He never posts, never likes anything, but he’s always watching. If you post a picture of yourself, he’ll send a text: “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

Might be surprising to some, but he's a big gossiper. He's talking about everyone and everything with you. It's a monthly talk you guys have. Basically, gossip buddies.

Arguments are rare with Jason. I've already mentioned that love with him is a process of boundaries and promises to take things slow. I think the two of you don't cross any lines.

Even if something happens, he cannot bear to get mad at you. You're his person, his other half. It ends with apologies, and he needs to be in your presence for the next few days (like a cat with separation anxiety, following you from room to room).

God forbid someone threatens you in any way. Which in itself is rare, because of the automatic scary boyfriend privileges you have. Though, if someone is foolish enough to try, all you need is to give Jason permission, and the person is getting into big trouble.

He likes to write little notes for you. Slipping them into your book, sticking them on the bathroom mirror, or tucking them into your pocket. They range from “Don’t forget to eat” to “You looked so pretty this morning, I almost forgot how to breathe.”

He walks you to class. Shyly, he takes your hand in his and has a small celebration in his mind that he managed to do it. Off you two go, strolling through the campus as if it's your own world.

I think Jason would playfully tease you too. He's your best friend and now boyfriend. It's a requirement now. That's where the pipsqueak pet name comes from. He enjoys your reactions, the little huffs of exasperation or the way you try (and fail) to glare at him.

If he ever catches you crying, Jason immediately goes into comfort mode. He might not always have the right words, but his arms are strong, his voice is gentle, and he’ll hold you as long as you need.

🗨️: You don’t have to stay with me. I’ll be okay.

J: I know you will. But I want to be here.

Jason is so in love with you, it’s ridiculous.

But at the end of the day, despite all the teasing, all the quiet acts of love, all the soft whispers and quiet mornings, Jason Todd is just a man who loves you with everything he has. And he always will.

♥︎ . .. ♥︎ .. 🌷 ♥︎

© dntaed | all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified.

[brawberryz]

⎯⎯ㅤStupid detective

Batfam Yan! × L Lawliet! Reader

《Platonic》

Note: English is not my first language

TW / yandere behaviors, obsession, isolation, murder, violence, toxic relationships

L Lawliet! Reader, who is one of the family's best detectives.

L Lawliet! Reader, who is scolded daily for her diet of nothing but sweets. Several times they forced you to change your diet to a healthier one, but you simply refused.

Sweets were the best thing for you, and you weren't going to let anyone take that away from you.

L Lawliet! Reader, who spends most of her time in her room solving cases. You had surpassed the entire family in how far you could go without sleep.

Your dark circles were enormous and adorned your eyelids. Your family still wonders how you're still alive.

L Lawliet! Reader, who instead of using the shower or bathtub like a normal person decided to bathe in the washing machine. Alfred could still remember when he found you spinning naked in the washing machine.

Your excuse was that it was more comfortable. From that day on, your family's eyes never left you, afraid you'd do something stupid and end up dead.

You really didn't care. As long as they didn't bother you while you were sorting things out, you weren't bothered by their overprotectiveness.

L Lawliet! Reader, who began to obsess over a particular case, Kira. It was a case of a new serial killer tormenting all of Gotham.

Bruce offered to solve it, but you stopped him and told him you'd take charge. He trusted you in your abilities, but he believed this case was more dangerous than it seemed.

L Lawliet! Reader, who one day found you with a boy handcuffed to your wrist and a very loud blonde girl.

Apparently, you had found the culprits, but you didn't have enough evidence to blame them, so you literally stuck to them, refusing to leave their sides.

You can already hear Alfred preparing the guest room. They knew you weren't one to give up, and they knew you'd do anything to prove you were right.

And if that meant keeping two "innocent" people locked in your room and technically interrupting their lives to prove you were right, you would do it.

Fuck, of course you would.

L Lawliet! Reader, who can feel the murderous glares her family was giving their "guests."

They couldn't believe what you did. How dare you let strangers into the mansion and stick yourself to them!?

They hated how the blonde girl named Misa touched and hugged you. Who did she think she was, touching you like that?

It made their blood boil that someone other than them would touch you or spend time with you. Ever since those two people arrived, all your attention was focused on them.

Are they supposed to be your family? Why are you ignoring them now?

The no-kill rule trembled in each of them every time they saw you with Light or Misa.

They had to get rid of them NOW.

L lawliet! Reader, who ended up getting into a fistfight with Light after an argument, was surprising in that even though you were handcuffed and technically glued to him, your movements were skillful and quick.

Maybe your body seemed weak, but you weren't; you had been trained by the whole family to be perfect.

If Dick hadn't interrupted the fight, I could swear you could have killed him.

Although he wouldn't mind if you killed Light either; it would be one less problem on the family's to-do list.

L Lawliet! Reader, you have shitty posture. You could easily have some muscle problems when you're older.

Sometimes they wondered if your back or some muscle didn't hurt because of your posture.

L Lawliet! Reader, who is aware that she is surrounded by yanderes and murderers, you had realized this a long time ago.

You weren't stupid; you weren't the best detective for nothing, maybe better than Batman (although that would be too much of an ego boost for you).

You just hoped that your family's yandere-like behavior didn't interrupt your investigation into Kira.

My obsession with Death Note has returned. Omfg how I love that fucking show.

Maybe I'll do a Light and misa

[pomegranatelifethis]

The Forgotten Fox

Growing up in Gotham was already a difficult thing, but growing up in Wayne Manor was on another level. Bruce Wayne's adoption of you seemed like a salvation at first. You had lived alone on the streets for years, surviving by hiding your own strength. Your mother had inherited kitsune blood, but these powers had always felt like a curse. When Bruce saved you and brought you into his family, you thought it would be different.

But you were wrong.

Bruce's distant demeanor, the decisions he made to protect you; It was more like a leader's strategic moves than a father's love. Dick's warmth was always on the surface, but he didn't see you deep down. Jason couldn't even find the time to look back at you as he was drowning under the weight of his own past. While Tim was buried in his studies and didn't notice you, Damian... Damian was always one step ahead. He saw you as a weak, unnecessary being.

They didn't even notice you. Even when your ears and tails emerged, they saw you as a strange anomaly. Kitsune blood felt more like a curse than an inheritance. They thought they were protecting you, but they were actually putting you in a cage. And there was only one way to escape from this cage: to walk away.

One night, while you were sitting quietly as usual, you decided to leave. Without saying anything to them. As your tears wet your pillow, you thought about the life you would leave behind. But did it make any sense? Could there be any pain in leaving a family that doesn't see you anyway?

When you escaped to China, you felt like you could breathe for the first time. You discovered your Kitsune side and developed your powers. You began to come to terms with your mother's legacy. But deep down, there was still a piece of Gotham, still the Wayne family. That little spark of love lost in your anger and grief.

When they found you, some of you were surprised. Did they really call you? However, this happiness was short-lived. When Damian and Tim raided to bring you back, not only they but also the League of Assassins had their sights on you. The potential of their powers attracted them. When they caught you, you thought it was all over. They placed a "dampener" around his neck to suppress his powers. From that moment on, you became a shadow of the kitsune side.

When he returned to Wayne Manor, the emptiness inside him had grown even larger. Your ears and tail were still there, but your powers were completely gone. They put you in a cage… a real cage this time. They took away your freedom, but no one was aware of it.

“We're doing this for your safety,” Bruce had said, his voice as cold and firm as ever. But these words did nothing but hurt you.

Dick was doing his best to cheer you up, but the smile on his face was more forced than ever. Jason would come in between and say, "It's not that bad if you're still breathing," but you both knew how empty those words were. Tim was constantly buried in the computer, looking for a way to disable the dampener. Damian, on the other hand… Damian made you feel weak and insignificant as always.

“You know you're in this situation because you tried to escape, right?” he said one night, standing at the door of the room. There was neither sarcasm nor anger in his eyes. Just a reality. “You must learn to fight even without your powers.”

These words of his were the last straw. You turned to Damian, trying to hold back your tears silently.

“None of you understand,” you said, your voice shaking. “I don't belong here. I never belonged.”

You saw a crack in Damian's face for the first time. But that didn't stop you. You were pouring out everything inside you now.

“You are a family. I'm just a burden. My Kitsune blood, my powers, nothing of mine mattered to you. But now, do you care about me when my power is a threat? I don't want your fake interest anymore!”

Damian said nothing as your words echoed in the room. He turned around silently and left. This broke you even more. Maybe you were right; You never belonged to this family

After Damian left the room, loneliness fell on your room again. You were having trouble breathing. Your heart was so heavy that you felt like a stone was sitting on your chest. They didn't see you as a family. Maybe they never saw it. The reasons they brought you back were for security and control, not love.

Your eyes shifted to the dampener. It felt like a heavy chain around his neck. A piece of his power was still inside him, but this little device had taken everything away from him. The right to be yourself, the freedom…

That night, you didn't sleep. You watched the ceiling for hours, questioning yourself over and over again. Was it any use trying to escape? They would come after you again. They would catch you again and put you back in this cage. How could you break free from this cycle?

You finally made a decision. If you couldn't regain your strength, you should have at least done something to change that situation. You had to fight. This time you were going to show them that they couldn't control you. His eyes were cold as usual, but he looked a little tired.

“There's training today,” he said briefly. “You must learn how to survive without your powers.”

These sarcastic words made you even angrier. The anger inside him boiled as he walked into the training room with her. However, you managed to hide this anger. If you were going to surprise them, this anger should have been your guide. During training, you repeated the fighting moves under Damian's supervision. Without your powers, your speed and reflexes were weakened. Damian was hitting him in the face at every opportunity.

“You are weak,” he said coldly. “You can't even protect yourself in this state.”

You didn't answer him. Instead, you sought out that dark and silent power within you. Your Kitsune side was suppressed, but not completely lost. Damian's voice was heard as he closed his eyes to feel it.

"What are you doing? Focus your attention.”

You suddenly opened your eyes and looked at him. “I'm not trying to prove anything to you, Damian. But you always say I'm weak. What about you?”

Damian's eyebrows furrowed. “What does this mean?”

Your anger was now reflected on your face in an unstoppable way. “You say I'm weak, but do you really know me? Or is this an easy way for your family? Does calling me weak and saying I'm not a real threat make you right?”

Damian took a step back. His face was as hard as ever, but there was hesitation in his eyes. What you said touched him, you could see it. However, at that moment Bruce entered the training room.

“What's going on here?” he asked, his voice heavy and authoritative. Damian immediately tried to gather himself and answer.

“Nothing, just—”

But you cut it off. This time you wouldn't back down. “This is what's happening here, Bruce,” you said. “You see me as a threat, a liability. Not like a family member. If you're going to keep me here, at least accept this. “You bind me here not with love, but with fear.”

Bruce looked at you silently. You looked for emotion in his eyes, but they were expressionless as usual.

“We're doing this for your safety,” he said finally. “I understand how this makes you feel. But this decision is to protect you.”

These words made him lose his patience. “No,” you said, your voice trembling with anger. “This decision is not to protect me, but to reassure you. If you really cared about my safety, you would help me control my power. “You wouldn't see me as a threat.”

Bruce's face hardened. “What you say is emotional, but not realistic. You are safe here.”

Words were useless now. The pain and anger that built up inside you made you act. You didn't want to listen to Bruce, Damian, and the others again. With your eyes filled, you turned your back on them and headed for the door.

“If this is what it's like to be part of a family, I don't want it,” you said as you opened the door. “And if you try to force me to stay here… it'll be war.”

When you left the room, a silence remained behind you. But this time no one tried to stop you. Because they all realized that they had truly lost you.

@zealousgoldcollective

[luv-lock]

— DILF BRUCE WAYNE WHO'S YOUR PRETTY PLAYTHING !

cw. +18, smut, minors dni, fem!reader, sub!bruce, femdom, pegging, anal play, bondage, orgasm control, edging, forced submission, humiliation, degradation, praise, obedience training, cock cages, spit play, public teasing, light breath play, overstimulation, public humiliation, bondage under clothes, vibrating toys in public, praise, size difference, age gap, light CNC, discreet exhibitionism, teasing and general filth.

Subby Dilf Bruce who has been trained so fucking well that the moment you snap your fingers, he’s on his knees. Big, strong hands clasped behind his back, thick thighs trembling as he watches you with those desperate, needy eyes. Waiting. Because good boys wait until they’re given permission.

Subby Dilf Bruce who flinches when you grip his chin, tilting his head up so he’s forced to meet your gaze. “You drooling already, sweetheart?” you purr, swiping your thumb over his lips. His breath stutters, his cheeks burn, because fuck, he is.

Subby Dilf Bruce who can’t stop himself from leaning forward, lips parting, tongue darting out to taste your skin. He’s so fucking desperate for you—he always is. But you just laugh, pressing down on his tongue, watching as he sucks your fingers into his mouth without hesitation.

Subby Dilf Bruce who moans when you pull your fingers out, leaving him a panting, wrecked mess on the floor. He’s already hard, straining against the cock cage you locked him in this morning—so fucking sensitive, so fucking needy.

Subby Dilf Bruce who shakes when you press the remote in your pocket, the hidden plug inside him buzzing to life at full power. His hands clench into fists, a strangled noise escaping his throat as he rocks forward on his knees, pathetically trying to grind against nothing.

Subby Dilf Bruce who whimpers when you straddle his lap, your weight pressing down on his aching, caged cock. “Look at you,” you coo, running your nails down his chest. “Big, strong man reduced to a fucking mess just from getting his ass played with.”

Subby Dilf Bruce who cries when you finally unlock his cage, his cock slapping against his stomach, leaking so much precum it’s fucking obscene. His hips jerk the second your hand wraps around him, and when you whisper, “Be a good boy and don’t cum yet,” his body betrays him.

Subby Dilf Bruce who sobs when he spills all over himself, thighs trembling, pleasure so fucking intense that his mind short-circuits. But you tsk, shaking your head. “Did I say you could cum?”

Subby Dilf Bruce who knows he’s in trouble. Knows he’s about to get fucking wrecked.

Subby Dilf Bruce who is so fucking sensitive when you bend him over, strap thick and slick as you press into his stretched, needy hole. He wails when you slam into him, gripping his hips so tightly he knows he’ll have bruises tomorrow.

Subby Dilf Bruce who claws at the sheets, body arching, cock twitching, so fucking overstimulated that he can’t think—can’t breathe.

Subby Dilf Bruce who begs when you wrap your fingers around his throat, tilting his head back, whispering filth into his ear. “You love this, don’t you? Love being my dumb little fucktoy?”

Subby Dilf Bruce who nods frantically, tears spilling down his cheeks as he chokes out a pathetic, “Y-Yes—yes, please, please, I’ll be good, I-I’ll be so good for you, mistress—”

Subby Dilf Bruce who loses it when you ride him raw, keeping him right on the edge, never letting him cum. He’s broken, a mess of whimpers and moans and desperate, incoherent pleas. Begging for permission, for mercy, for anything.

Subby Dilf Bruce who shatters when you finally lean down, lick the tears off his cheek, and whisper, “Cum for me, puppy.”

Subby Dilf Bruce who screams when he cums harder than he ever has in his fucking life, body convulsing, pleasure so mind-numbing that he sees stars. His cum spurts out, painting his chest, his stomach, his thighs, and he doesn’t stop, his whole body shaking from the sheer force of it. He passes out the second you’re done with him, completely wrecked, completely owned.

Subby Dilf Bruce who wakes up marked—bruises, hickeys, bite marks littering his skin. A collar still snug around his throat. A plug still inside him. And fuck, the way his cock twitches at the memory of what you did to him ♡

Subby Dilf Bruce who looks so out of place next to you, this big, brooding man dressed in an expensive suit, towering over you like a shadow, while you’re a tiny, sparkling thing in pastel pink, glittery nails tapping against your phone as you tug on his hand.

Subby Dilf Bruce who blushes when you pull him into a luxury boutique, cooing about how “Daddy needs a new outfit~” and dragging him toward racks of soft sweaters and pastel button-ups. He whimpers when you make him try them on, pouting when he hesitates. “You wanna be a good boy for me, don’t you?”

Subby Dilf Bruce who nearly dies when you sit on his lap in the dressing room, fingers trailing down his chest, whispering in his ear about how pretty he’d look if you put him in something softer, something that matches you. His cock aches in its cage, throbbing as you grind against him like a spoiled little princess who knows she’s in control.

Subby Dilf Bruce who shudders when you pull away and giggle, patting his cheek. “Be good and buy everything I picked out, okay?” He does—because he always does.

Subby Dilf Bruce who carries your shopping bags through the mall, cheeks pink, hands shaking because he knows what’s inside him—knows that the plug you slipped inside before you left the house is still there, nestled deep, making every step a humiliating, agonizing reminder of who he belongs to.

Subby Dilf Bruce who almost collapses when you turn your toy on. His hands fumble for the remote in his pocket, pressing the button, eyes fluttering as the plug vibrates to life.

Subby Dilf Bruce who stumbles as he walks, thighs clenching, chest rising and falling in short, desperate breaths. People glance at him—confused, curious—but no one knows. No one knows that this big, powerful man is falling apart because his lovely, sweet-looking girlfriend is ruining him.

Subby Dilf Bruce who grits his teeth as you sip your milkshake, sitting across from him in the café, swinging your legs like you’re completely innocent. But your foot is in his lap, pressing against his cock, rubbing against his straining cage, making him sweat.

Subby Dilf Bruce who pleads with his eyes when you slide your phone across the table, screen lighting up with a message: “Don’t cum.” His fingers tighten around the table edge, thighs trembling as the toy inside him pulses, sending waves of pleasure through his body.

Subby Dilf Bruce who jolts when you suddenly giggle and wave at someone behind him. He turns, and—fuck. It’s one of his friends. One of the men who respects him. Looks up to him.

Subby Dilf Bruce who barely holds it together as his friend sits down, completely unaware that the man he looks up to is seconds away from breaking. He tries to talk, to breathe, but he’s so close—

Subby Dilf Bruce who bites his lip so hard it almost bleeds when you smirk at him over your straw, taking a slow, teasing sip of your milkshake. His friend keeps talking—oblivious—while he dies inside.

Subby Dilf Bruce who prays for mercy when you turn the vibration up another notch, his hands clenching into fists under the café table. He’s sweating, trembling, struggling to keep a straight face while his friend keeps droning on about business meetings.

Subby Dilf Bruce who feels like he’s going to die when you pout and bat your lashes. “Daddy, you’re all red… Are you feeling sick?” You press a soft, pink-nailed hand to his forehead, pretending to check his temperature while your other hand slowly drags up his thigh.

Subby Dilf Bruce who flinches when you tap the cage between his legs, watching his breath hitch as his eyes dart around the café, praying no one sees the way his body jolts at your touch.

Subby Dilf Bruce who almost moans when you innocently giggle, leaning closer to whisper, “Poor baby, maybe you should go to the bathroom and take care of it…”

Subby Dilf Bruce who knows there’s no way in hell he’s allowed to do that. You’ve had him denied for days, teasing him relentlessly, edging him until he’s a shaking mess. He flinches when you press down on his cock cage under the table, his thighs trembling as his friend checks his phone, thankfully distracted.

Subby Dilf Bruce who almost collapses when you pull back, smirking as you sip your milkshake, twirling your hair. He rushes to pay the bill, desperate to get out of the café before he completely loses it.

Subby Dilf Bruce who hisses when you tug him into a changing room at the mall, locking the door behind you. He’s so big in the tiny space, his broad shoulders caging you in—but he’s not in control. Not when you push him onto the bench and crawl into his lap.

Subby Dilf Bruce who groans when you straddle him, cupping his face with your tiny, soft hands. “Did my big, strong Daddy almost lose it in public?” You coo, thumb dragging over his lower lip. He’s so humiliated, so weak for you—his cock aching in its cage, his hole still twitching around the plug you’ve been torturing him with all day.

Subby Dilf Bruce who gasps when you suddenly pull on his tie, forcing his head back against the mirror. You’re so much smaller than him, so delicate and sweet-looking. He whimpers when you lean in and lick a slow, teasing stripe up his neck, your warm breath making him shudder.

Subby Dilf Bruce who claws at his thighs when you reach between his legs, pressing against his cage with your fingers. “So hard and yet so useless, huh?” You giggle, rolling your hips against him, grinding down in slow, torturous movements.

Subby Dilf Bruce who shakes when you pull down his shirt, exposing his broad chest, his perfect, sensitive nipples. He tries to stop you, but he’s too weak, too desperate—and then you lick over his nipple, sucking it into your mouth.

Subby Dilf Bruce who whines—fucking whines—as you bite down, your tongue flicking over the hardened bud while your fingers tweak the other one.

Subby Dilf Bruce who chokes when you murmur against his skin, “I should make you wear clamps all day, huh? So everyone can see how sensitive my little pet is.” He nods helplessly, his breath coming in short, shaky gasps.

Subby Dilf Bruce who moans when you finally shove a hand between his thighs and press hard against the plug inside him. His hips jerk, back arching off the bench, face burning red as his body betrays him. He sobs when you turn the plug up to max, sending brutal, relentless vibrations straight into his prostate.

Subby Dilf Bruce who grips your thighs in desperation, his whole body shuddering as he slams his head back against the mirror. He’s so close, so fucking close, and he knows he’s not allowed to cum—

Subby Dilf Bruce who freezes when you suddenly turn it off, leaving him teetering on the edge, his cock twitching violently in its cage.

Subby Dilf Bruce who lets out the most pathetic noise—a high, broken whimper—when you kiss his forehead and whisper, “Not yet, baby. Only good boys get to cum.” He nods through his tears, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

Subby Dilf Bruce who trembles when you pull back, adjusting your tiny, pastel outfit like nothing happened, while he sits there, wrecked and ruined, his thighs shaking beneath you.

Subby Dilf Bruce who stares at you in desperation as you giggle and fix your hair in the mirror. “C’mon, Daddy. We still have so much shopping to do~”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[invincibledc]

🗝️⋆.⚚.⋆꩜.ᐟ 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘

You are a dark angel, a fallen one by choice. You never imagined your descent would lead you to the most chaotic place imaginable: Gotham City.

Your dark wings and long hair covered your nude body, your body had no specific genitals showing either. It was as if you weren’t even a person. Which was true. You weren’t human before you died.

God shaped you in his image, crafting a being of purity and stunning beauty unique to your skin. You navigated the city with an effortless grace, unconcerned by the curious glances from those around you. Your wings, neatly folded against your back, remained a testament to your restraint, refusing to disrupt the human world.

Yet here you are, being interrogated by a masked figure cloaked in shadows—a hero seeking to question your intentions. It isn’t long before you realize this man is none other than Bruce Wayne, who effortlessly welcomes you into his home with just a few words, offering you warmth and clothing.

☥

Now, you find yourself ensnared in the confines of the bat cage, a gilded prison. Bruce, with his charming smile, showers you with compliments, delighting in your presence while keeping you hidden from prying eyes. He believes that perhaps, through your gentle nature, you can help him atone for his numerous sins.

Then there’s Dick, ever the clingy one, full of youthful energy and determination to maintain peace among his siblings. But in your quiet moments together, he confesses his inner turmoil, revealing the depths of his thoughts as he relaxes next to you. Your comforting presence soothes him, and he finds solace in your ability to simply be there, unburdened by the weight of his responsibilities.

Jason, on the other hand, plays a different game. He may seem aloof, but there’s an undeniable obsession lurking beneath the surface. He greets you sparsely, yet his gaze lingers, making it clear he’s tangled in thoughts he won’t reveal. You attempt to break through his facade, but he retreats, caught up in his internal struggle, even going so far as to sneak his clothes into your room, a twisted claim of ownership.

Tim presents a darker charm, his facade of innocence veiling a more complicated reality. He flaunts his technological prowess, boasting about his wealth and offering you a phone in a bid to keep you close, insisting it’s for emergencies. But you know it’s a ploy; his insistence weighs heavy with desire as he attempts to entwine your lives further.

Finally, we have Damian, the youngest who demands your focus unrelentingly. He thrives on your attention, often demanding to be close, believing it solidifies his status as the favored son. His possessiveness is glaring, and his affection is wrapped in demands, convinced that if Bruce were to marry you, you would never have to leave this sanctuary.

In this world he has crafted, you are more than just a companion; you are a focal point of their desires, each one drawn to the idea of keeping you close, securing a future where you are theirs to cherish and protect.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Dick: what does Jason have that’s just so appealing?

You: decency, determination, integrity, honesty, protectiveness, trust, vulnerability, self awareness, he’s sweet, poetic at times, well versed in books and literature, but you want to know what else?

Dick: what?

You: *goes over to Jason who’s talking to Roy and grab his thighs* thighs that kill, thigh that could crush my head like a watermelon and I’d say thank you.

Jason: what are you-

Roy: they’re not wrong there Jay-jay, you’ve got thighs for days! *joins you in squeezing his thighs*

Dick: …do they do this often?

Jason: all the time.

You and Roy: *laughing as you squeeze Jason’s thighs like gremlins.*

[stxrkiss]

𓈒⠀݁⠀﹙ 𝓢﹚𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹 ☆ ₊⠀ ៸៸៸

君を愛しすぎて、 恐ろしいくらいだ。

# 𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝒞𝓁𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝒦ℯ𝓃𝓉 𝑥 𝐹𝑒𝑚 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝐹𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℬ𝓇𝓊𝒸ℯ 𝒲𝒶𝓎𝓃ℯ ☆ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ³

# 𝑺𝒀𝑵𝑶𝑷𝑺𝑰𝑺 : 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 ����𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘺...

# 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵, 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘺 𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱, 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳/𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥⚠

# 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬 : 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦. 𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺!

She could hear him pacing.

The sound of his shoes slamming against the floor.

She sat on the edge of her bed, trembling, her fingers digging into her arms.

She had been expecting this.

Ever since she threw up that morning and Alfred had seen.

Ever since Bruce’s sharp eyes had noticed the way her body had begun to change.

She should have run.

She should have come up with something, anything, to stop this moment from happening.

But there was nothing.

There was nowhere to go.

And now Bruce was here.

Pacing.

Breathing hard.

Trying to control the rage rolling off of him like a storm.

Then, suddenly—

“Who is he?”

His voice cut through the air like a whip.

She flinched.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t look at him.

Her heart was hammering so loud, she could barely think.

“Who’s the father?”

He was standing in front of her now, towering over her, fists clenched at his sides.

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

She couldn’t.

Her lips parted.

Nothing came out.

“Who is that man?” Bruce growled. “Tell me.”

She shook her head, tears blurring her vision.

“I—I can’t.”

His breath came out in a sharp, furious exhale.

“You can’t?”

She shook her head again, shoulders shaking.

“I can’t tell you.”

Silence.

A silence so deep, so heavy, it felt like it was crushing her.

And then—

Something shifted.

Something in Bruce’s eyes.

His sharp, analytical mind was spinning.

Working.

Piecing things together.

She could see it.

And then—

His eyes went wide.

His breath hitched.

His fingers tensed.

“Oh my god.” His voice was hoarse, almost pleading. “Tell me it’s not Dick.”

Her eyes snapped to his in pure horror.

“What?! No! Of course not!”

His nostrils flared. His jaw clenched.

He wasn’t done.

“Then Jason.” His voice dropped to something dark, something almost begging. “He's the only one other than Dick that is close to you.”

Her stomach turned.

She felt sick.

“How—how can you even say that?!” her voice cracked. “They’re my brothers!”

Bruce’s hands ran through his hair, his breath ragged.

He turned away for a moment, as if he needed to regain control.

As if he needed to force himself to breathe.

Then, slowly, he turned back to her.

His gaze was burning, piercing, his entire body tense.

“Then who?”

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

No words came.

No sound.

Nothing.

Because she couldn’t.

She couldn’t say it.

She couldn’t make the words leave her throat.

Because if she did—

It would make it real.

Bruce stared at her.

His eyes darkened.

His voice dropped to a whisper, barely more than breath.

“It’s someone I know, isn’t it?”

Her body shook.

Her fingers dug into her own arms so hard she could feel her nails breaking skin.

Bruce took a step closer.

“Isn’t it?”

A sob ripped out of her throat.

She couldn’t do this.

She couldn’t—

“I CAN’T TELL YOU!” she screamed.

Tears poured down her face.

Bruce’s expression twisted, something between anger and devastation.

He turned away from her, hands clenched into fists, breathing hard.

His shoulders were shaking.

He knew.

Maybe not the name.

But he knew.

Of course he knew.

The air was crisp, cutting through the night with the kind of sharpness only Gotham could hold. The city stretched before them, endless and dark, its heartbeat pulsing in the distant hum of traffic and the flickering of streetlights below.

Clark stood next to Bruce, arms crossed, staring into the skyline. He didn’t dare look at him.

He couldn’t.

Not after what he had done.

Not after that night.

Bruce was quiet. Too quiet.

They had just finished a League meeting, the usual endless war against an ever-growing darkness. But none of it mattered to Clark. Not now. Not after what he had taken.

And then—

Bruce spoke.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

"I'm going to be a grandfather, you know?"

Clark's breath hitched.

What?

His fingers clenched against his arms as he forced himself to stay still.

Bruce never talked about personal things. Never.

But now—

Clark could hear the weight in his voice.

The way it pressed down like a slow, creeping tide.

He tried to smile, forced out a laugh, something light, something normal.

“That’s great, Bruce.” He swallowed. His throat was dry. “I’m sure Dick will be a great father.”

Silence.

A silence so deep, so suffocating, it froze the city.

Clark finally turned his head—

And saw it.

Bruce was smiling.

Smiling.

But it wasn’t real.

It wasn’t right.

It was wrong. Twisted. Something that should never be on his face.

A chill ran down Clark’s spine.

And then Bruce spoke again, and his words gutted him.

“Dick?”

He shook his head, slowly.

And then, still smiling, still mocking, he said—

“No, Y/N is pregnant.”

His daughter.

Clark stopped breathing.

The world stopped turning.

Everything—everything—crashed.

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

His heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

His face went white.

His mouth opened—

Nothing came out.

His ears were ringing.

This wasn’t real.

This couldn’t be real.

Bruce knew.

He knew.

Oh god. Oh god.

Clark felt his whole body lock up, every muscle going stiff as a corpse.

He tried—he tried so hard to find words.

To say something.

To fix this, to pull back, to undo—

But then—

Bruce’s smile fell.

It was gone.

And what replaced it—

Was worse.

His face darkened, the lines of his expression turning sharp, his eyes sinking into shadows.

He said nothing.

Nothing.

Because he didn’t need to.

Clark knew exactly what was happening.

What this was.

There was no need for screaming, no fists being thrown, no explosion of rage.

That would have been better.

But Bruce didn’t work that way.

Clark could feel it.

Bruce knew what he did.

It was only a matter of time.

Clark barely made it through the door.

His hands were trembling. His legs felt weak. His chest was tight, too tight—like something was crushing him from the inside. His breath came short, quick, shallow gasps that weren’t enough, weren’t nearly enough.

He staggered forward, gripping the nearest wall as he pull at his suit, fingers fumbling, desperate.

He couldn’t breathe.

God—he couldn’t breathe.

His mind was spinning, drowning in a black fog of guilt and disgust, thick and suffocating.

Bruce knew.

Bruce fucking knew.

He ripped his suit off, throwing it to the ground like it burned him. His chest rose and fell in erratic, panicked movements, sweat breaking along his skin as his stomach twisted violently.

He felt sick.

God—he was sick.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor, fingers gripping at his scalp as a sharp buzzing filled his ears, loud, deafening—

He deserved this.

He deserved so much worse.

God, how did this happen?

How did he let this happen?

How did he ruin her?

A young girl. An angel. Someone who had looked up to him with wide, trusting eyes, a girl who had spent her childhood watching him, admiring him.

She had been just a child.

And now—now she was ruined.

Because of him.

His stomach lurched. He barely made it to the bathroom before he vomited, heaving up nothing but acid and self-loathing, his body rejecting itself.

A knock at the door.

Soft at first.

Then urgent.

"Clark?" Lois.

God. Lois.

His hands gripped the edges of the sink as he tried to steady himself, his breath still coming in rapid, uneven gulps. His vision blurred. He squeezed his eyes shut.

What would she say if she knew?

What would she do?

The thought alone was unbearable.

He sucked in another broken breath, forcing his shaking hands under the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face. It did nothing.

It wouldn’t wash this away.

Nothing would.

Another knock.

Louder this time.

"Clark, open the door. What's wrong? You're scaring me."

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against the mirror.

I love you, Lois.

The words almost slipped out, almost choked him.

She deserved better.

She deserved a husband who wasn’t—who wasn’t—

He sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath, but it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

His chest was too tight. His throat too dry.

He gripped the sink harder.

His reflection stared back at him, empty.

He wanted to smash it.

He wanted to shatter himself into a thousand pieces.

But it wouldn’t change anything.

It wouldn’t erase what he had done.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— NEXT ☆ PART 1. PART 2.

— © stxrkiss ☆ don't copy, translate or use my works here or any other websites.

[luverine]

Goodnight, Red ♥︎

sfw ‧₊˚

The sharp scrape of your window being pried open jolts you awake, followed by the muffled thud of it sliding shut.

“What the-” You mumble, blinking against the darkness as your heart pounds.

“It’s just me.” A gravelly voice cuts through the quiet, rough but familiar.

“Jason?” Your voice is raspy from sleep, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, sorry. Go back to sleep.” His rough touch is gentle as he brushes your hair out of your face.

A hum of satisfaction escapes your lips, and you flop back onto the mattress, already sinking back into the comfort of your pillow. The dim glow of the streetlights outside spills through the window, just enough to cast his shadow across your room. You watch as he moves with quiet efficiency, peeling off his gear, each piece hitting the floor with a dull thud.

The distant sound of the shower hums softly, lulling you further into the haze of sleep. You blink once, twice, and suddenly, his warmth is enveloping you. His body molds to yours, strong arms circling your waist, pulling you close as his thick legs tangle lazily with yours.

A sleepy yawn escapes as you press a soft kiss to the stubbled curve of his jaw, a soft grunt slipping from your lips as the roughness tickles your skin. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, exhaling a deep, contented sigh.

“Sleep good, Angel,” he mumbles against your skin, his breath warm and soothing.

“You too, Red,” you murmur, your fingers tracing lazy patterns down his back.

As your eyes flutter shut, your heart beats in quiet harmony with his.

A/N: been enjoying ooey gooey fluff and decided to make some!

Likes, reblogs, comments appreciated 𓆩𓆪

[bloodyboi]

Credit: @pmkn2.0 on tt

[dovespovies]

Honey?

Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

First time you saw his face ( kinda?)

warning - nothing

Though people would call you crazy if you said you were letting a vigilante stay at your place as a token of gratitude—after he saved you from that lunatic of a man—you didn’t quite hate it. 

Not at all.

After the chaos of the invasion that scarred you for life, Red Hood was generous enough to buy you a new vase. When you came back from work—tired, irritated, and so heated you could’ve killed someone—you found the table, where your antique store vase once stood, now occupied by a new one. And not to mention, a few flowers spilling out of it. You froze in shock but immediately knew who was responsible.  

"I’m sorry for the suddenness, but I hope you like it."

—Red Hood.  

You smiled to yourself as you leaned in to smell the flowers. This vase wasn’t vintage like your old one, but it was intricate. Expensive, even. You picked up one of the blooms and sat on the floor beside the table, tracing the delicate patterns of the petals. Unbeknownst to you, Hood was right outside your window, watching with a faint smile of his own.  

It wasn’t clear how the two of you had grown so close. But after the night he saved your life, you’d developed an attachment to him. Not seeing his face or knowing his identity had faded into the background because, somehow, you found yourself constantly trying to please him—even impress him. Not that you’d ever admit it. But during your conversations, or the half-watched episodes of your show (when he stumbled through your window bleeding), you noticed his genuine interest in the books you read. And so, you read even more, annotating lines and paying extra attention—just so you could show him, Yeah, I’m cool too.  

The first time you got a glimpse of his face started like any other night—except he showed up hours earlier. You were making pasta when a loud thump made you jump out of your skin. Hesitantly, you walked toward the noise, only to find an exhausted and injured Red Hood lying on his side, blood pooling around him.  

Gasping, you immediately grabbed a towel and the first aid kit, crouching beside him—nearly tripping in your haste.  

"Hey, what happened?" Your voice was soft but frantic.  

He flinched at your sudden presence, as if he hadn’t expected you. 

“Hey… just… rough day," he winced, shifting to face you.  

And that’s when your breath caught.  

The right side of his helmet was broken, revealing a glimpse of his beautiful (what?) profile. Your throat tightened as you swallowed hard, frozen in place. He noticed your stillness and met your gaze—his eyes so deep you swore you could drown in them. His face was flushed, lips slightly swollen from biting down too hard.  

He hadn’t even realized until you snapped back to reality, clearing your throat and scrambling through the aid kit.  

"Uh… here, sit up for me…"

He obliged without protest, knowing arguing was pointless. A furrow creased his brow—then he felt the air against his exposed skin. His eyes widened, and for a brief moment, he covered his face with his palm. But then, slowly, he lowered his hand and looked straight at you as you cleaned the wound on his chest.  

He cleared his throat.  

"I’m sorry," you muttered, avoiding eye contact. "I saw your face… I didn’t mean—"

"It’s okay," he cut in, voice calm.  

Your eyes flicked up in surprise, questions burning on your tongue.  

A small smile tugged at his lips. "It’s you… I don’t mind."  

You wanted to crawl out of your skin. For some reason, that was far more flustering than you expected. You smiled shyly, suddenly feeling small under his unfairly attractive presence. You hadn’t even seen his full face—but if just this much was this beautiful, you could only imagine what the rest looked like.  

After cleaning his wound, you stood, mumbling something about getting him food and water.  

But then he grabbed your wrist, stopping you.  

"Thank you, honey… for everything."  

Why was he being so—whatever this was?  

You smiled. "You’re welcome."

You could’ve said it was nothing, but you left it at that. He grinned, his eyes crinkling with warmth as he nodded. You turned toward the kitchen, biting your lip to stifle the stupid, giddy smile threatening to take over your face.

As you brought him pasta and juice, he was staring out the window. In that moment, you realized just how comfortable he was with you.

And you were with him, too.

The thought made your heart do a silly little flip.

Thank you!

[kitkatscabinet]

YOU LOOK LIKE YOU'VE SEEN A GHOST

Requested by @/rainbowstar

Summary: You were dead... weren't you?

Pairings: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne x gn! reader.

A/N: Unedited. Can you tell I sort of ran out of steam by Bruce :(

DICK GRAYSON

Blood stained his suit, his hands, drips from his hairline and over his domino mask. His blood sluggishly oozes from the various cuts littering his body, but it’s Slade’s blood that soaks the rooftop.

It’s Slade’s blood that’s splattered across his face and heaving chest like a macabre painting. Yet somehow, the ounces of blood spilled still pales in comparison to the sight that had greeted Dick in your apartment months ago. He still sees it in his nightmares, the blood, your blood saturating what was supposed to be your safe haven.

Slade’s gargled laughter that fills the air as he spits out mouthfuls of red tinged saliva. It’s Slade lying at his feet, at his mercy.

Mercy.

The thought of sparing the madman still smirking wickedly up at him, of granting any form of leniency for his crimes reinvigorates Dick’s fierce anger.

Slade won’t beg for mercy and Dick won’t grant it. Two truths they both know. Slade won’t beg like you wouldn’t have, and Dick won’t give any, the way Slade hadn’t.

Neither of them spoke as Dick pressed Slade’s own blade against the man’s neck, the thin scarlet line of blood that forms trickling down his skin quickly with the increase in pressure.

"Always knew you had it in you, boy wonder." There's an ounce of smug satisfaction in his tone that has him pressing the blade further into his neck.

"You seem awfully relaxed for a man on death's door." Dick sneers.

"I'm not too concerned with your ability to follow through."

Dick sees red, his arm swinging back, ready to dole out his vengeance, when a hand suddenly grabbed his wrist from behind, twisting it behind his back as a foot kicked his knee out.

He lands harshly on a knee, dropping the sword, he braces both hands on the ground, lashing out with his good leg. The assailant grunts but catches his foot forcing Dick to wrench himself free.

Slade doesn't rejoin the fight, which sets off all sorts of warning bells. Yet they all go ignore the second Dick lays eyes on his attacker. The bottom half of their face is covered by a mask, but their eyes, your eyes, are on display. Only there's no recognition there, only a cold and calculating gaze.

"Gorgeous, aren't they? Do you like my new masterpiece, Grayson?" Slade mocks, and Dick lunges, only to be stopped once more, by you.

He squeezes his eyes shut, yet when he opens them you're still there, still staring at him with those cold, dead eyes.

He's still stuck in this nightmare.

JASON TODD

Jason has a lot of regrets in his life. None so big as Ethiopia, than you. He regrets going to say goodbye to you before leaving, and more than anything he regrets letting you convince him to take you with him.

Jason's drowning in regrets but he could never regret loving you, not even if the pain of losing you was a raw wound that would never heal.

He hadn't forgiven Bruce for not killing the Joker for him. He'd begrudgingly come to accept Bruce's reasoning, but he'd never accept it, not after what that psycho had done to you.

He'd promised the Bat he'd stop killing, but as far as Jason was concerned, the next time the Joker busted out of Arkham, it was open season.

Yet annoyingly, every time it happens, one of his nosy family members is suddenly hanging off his arm. It's like they know what he's planning and make it their personal mission to ruin his day.

Not this time.

It's like fate had suddenly decided to smile down on him for once instead of mercilessly fucking him.

He'd been the closest to the asylum when news of the breakout hit the police scanners, and he'd be damned if anyone fucked this up for him.

It's not that hard to hunt down the clown, not when his grating cackles ring out through the air.

"Hoodie!" The madman greeted excitedly, laughing at the sight of the gun raised and aimed at the space between his eyes. "We both know you won't, don't wanna piss off daddy Bat— " A shot rings out, and Jason watches, stunned, as the Joker slumps, his brains splattering across the road.

"Hood!" Nightwing's caught up already, great.

"Wasn't me." He denies, the two vigilantes watching as a figure emerges from the shadows, a booted foot nudging the Joker before they empty a clip into the Joker's body.

Jason's in too much disbelief and more than a little satisfaction to chase after the masked individual but Dick isn't. He lunges with his Escrima raised, yet even Jason can tell there's not too much heat behind his actions.

Their masks slip off in the ensuing tussle, and Jason freezes in his tracks. Your name falls from his lips in disbelief. He watches with his heart in his throat as your face scrunches up in confusion.

"Who the fuck is that?"

TIM DRAKE

He can't remember the last time he slept, nor will he, not until he's found you. His family are worried, he sees the pitying glances they throw his way as they try to get him to rest, to pull him away from his all-consuming quest to find you.

Dick had even resorted to sedating him once, Tim wasn't stupid enough to fall for that one again.

They say that you're dead. That he needs to give up his useless search because you're not coming back. Tim had nearly broken Damian's arm for saying that.

He doesn't care that the amount of blood covering that warehouse, all your blood, would have been impossible to survive losing. He doesn't care that you've been legally pronounced dead because he refused to believe it. As far as Tim is concerned, until he sees your body, you're alive.

He knows he's been more violent than acceptable lately. Tim can't find it in himself to care that he may have permanently disabled a few of Penguin's goons, if anything, he wishes they were dead. One of these lowlives knows what happened to you, where you are.

It's Damian who finds him, kneeling in the warehouse he'd lost you, fingers lightly tracing the old blood stains.

"Drake." The usual scorn Damian reserved solely for him wasn't present for once but the disapproval is still evident.

"Not now, Robin." His tone is cutting, he's too exhausted to fight right now. Not here.

"Father needs you, the Court —"

"Good thing he has you and everyone else then." Tim scowled.

"What's this? Some baby birds far from the nest?" It's all the warning he gets before he has to spin and block an incoming blade. Speak of the devil. Talons.

Damian and Tim do their best to fend off their attackers, but Tim's so exhausted he's practically deadweight and they just keep coming.

He hears a yelp, Damian goes down, and he's too far away to help. Panic flares, he moves, but he's too slow. He's going to lose someone else in this godforsaken building. Except suddenly, one of the Talons is turning on their own.

Beggars can't be choosers. He'll deal with the rogue Talon later, but for now, they just have to survive.

When the dust settles, Tim's got all sorts of questions, none of which he gets the chance to ask when they remove their mask, and it's your face glaring at him.

"Why are you looking for me?"

Tim's not sure whether to laugh or cry. He does both.

BRUCE WAYNE

For years, he'd been afraid to let someone in, let someone get close for fear of them being used against him. But you were persistent and refused to let him push you away.

His children loved you. He loved you and when months passed without incident Bruce finally started to open up to you, to let you into his life and heart.

He promised to keep you safe and he did. For 8 years he'd kept you safe and protected. Nobody ever made the connection between you and Batman, none of his rogues ever even thought to target you.

But he'd let his guard down, he'd forgotten that Gotham was a cesspool of misery seemingly determined to ruin his life.

It's not the Joker that takes you from him. It's not the Joker or Two-Face or the Penguin or Freeze. It's not any of the various villains he's tangled with over the years

It's a stranger with a gun. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. A simple coffee date with one of your friends in a small cafe had ended with you dead, lying in the morgue, with Bruce having to make the identification. Having to tell his children why you're not coming home. Why you'll never come home again.

He moves listlessly through his days, refusing to plan your funeral or let anyone else do it. He knows he needs to put you to rest, but doing so will make it even more real.

Just another regret of his. 9 days after your death, he gets the call, your body is missing.

Bruce Wayne drowns publicly in his grief. Batman ruthlessly rains down his fury on the criminals of Gotham.

He tears through the streets like a hurricane, practically annihilating every gang and every low-life criminal apart on his hunt to find whoever took you.

Talia insists it wasn't the League; Jason rips his way through them anyway. Bruce doesn't dissuade him from the killing.

The JLA try to intervene, but Bruce nearly kills Superman for his concern. The fight is bloody and brutal, with Bruce inflicting weeks of fury and grief on his friend.

His knuckles are bloody, probably broken from Clark's stupid Kryptonian body when a voice, the voice he'd been hearing pleading for him in his nightmares screams at him.

He turns just in time to receive a wooden baseball bat to the jaw.

It would have been easy to dodge, to block or disarm them. But Bruce is so stunned by the appearance of a person with your face that he lets the attack land.

It's Superman who disarms you, attempting to calm you down as he defends Batman. Defends Batman because you, the person resembling you, don't seem to recognise Clark, let alone your own husband.

Bruce doesn't care, he hugs you tightly against him, face buried in your neck, even as you squeak and writhe in offence. To which he can't help but smile.

Memory or not. This is you, and he's never letting you go again.

[urdreamydoodles]

For DC, would you mayhaps write about picking them up when they aren't expecting, or just didn't think you could, almighty writer?

DC COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

You pick them up as if they weighed absolutely nothing

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Kal-El (Clark Kent), Barry Allen, Diana of Themyscira, Arthur Curry, Hal Jordan, Oliver Queen, John Constantine, Roy Harper, Koriand'r (Starfire), Kara Zor-El (Supergirl), Slade Wilson, Kent Nelson (Dr. Fate), Rachel Roth, Zatanna Zatara, Dinah Lance, Wally West, Victor Stone (Cyborg), Garfield Logan (Beast Boy) & Lobo

Reply to anon: If I understood your request correctly (I really hope so), I love you for this request, it was so fun to write this headcanon.

Bruce Wayne (Batman)

- It is a rare thing to catch Bruce Wayne off guard, a feat most would deem impossible. He is a man of precision, calculation, and control, his every move rehearsed in the dark solitude of his mind long before it is executed. And yet, when you lift him into your arms with the ease of a shadow passing over the city, all his legendary foresight shatters in an instant. His breath stutters—just once, imperceptible to anyone but you—and his gloved hands instinctively grasp your shoulders, as if to confirm the absurd reality of what is happening. The weight of Gotham’s protector, cradled so effortlessly against you, is a secret victory that sends a slow smile curling at the edges of your lips.

- "Tch," he exhales, the sound more air than voice, his dark eyes narrowing in something between astonishment and begrudging amusement. "You’ve been holding out on me." His pride does not allow him to admit the full extent of his surprise, but the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly against your arms betrays him. Bruce Wayne is not a man who enjoys being caught unaware, and yet—there is something in the way you handle him, something in the unwavering steadiness of your grip, that quiets the usual tension that knots his body like a bowstring drawn too tight.

- He does not struggle. He does not order you to put him down. No, he merely tilts his head, calculating, the sharp angles of his face betraying the ghost of a smirk. "I assume you have a reason for this," he murmurs, his voice a low rasp against your ear. "Or do you just enjoy surprising me?" It is a challenge, an invitation, and perhaps, in some small way, a confession. For all his formidable strength, for all the ways he has trained himself to never relinquish control—there is a part of him that does not mind being held by you.

- Later, when the moment has passed and Gotham calls him away once more, he does not mention it. But you notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his fingers brush against your wrist just a little longer than necessary. And when, the next time, you reach for him with that same effortless power, you swear you see the corner of his lips quirk upward—just for a second—before he allows himself to fall into your embrace.

Kal-El (Clark Kent, Superman)

- The sky belongs to him, the very air bending to his will, the world itself no heavier than a breath upon his palm. And yet, when you lift him into your arms, when you cradle the Man of Steel as if he were something as light and effortless as a whisper, it is his turn to be left breathless. His blue eyes widen—just slightly, just enough for you to catch the flicker of disbelief that dances through them like a shooting star. "Whoa," he exhales, the sheer sincerity in his voice making you laugh. "Did you—did you just—?"

- He does not finish his sentence, because the answer is obvious. He is here, weightless in your grasp, and despite all reason, he cannot quite seem to wrap his mind around it. He has lifted mountains, shifted tectonic plates, carried entire cities upon his back—but this, this is something entirely different. He peers down at you with a mixture of awe and delight, a boyish grin breaking across his features, and suddenly, he is not Superman, not the Last Son of Krypton, but simply Clark—a farm boy who has just been shown a new miracle in a world that he thought he had seen from every angle.

- "Well," he laughs, resting his hands lightly on your shoulders, his touch warm, steady. "I guess turnabout is fair play." He is not used to being the one lifted, the one held, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way he lets himself be carried, as if surrendering to the simple joy of the moment. His grin softens into something fonder, something gentler, and his voice dips to a lower timbre, laced with that impossible tenderness that only he can wield so effortlessly. "You are full of surprises, aren’t you?"

- Later, as you stand together beneath the open sky, he will wrap his arms around you and lift you high into the air, spinning you in a slow, weightless circle, as if to remind you that the universe still bows to his strength. But the truth, the quiet, unspoken truth, is that he will remember this moment—not for the sheer impossibility of it, not for the surprise of being lifted, but for the way you looked at him as you did it. As if he was something precious. As if he was something worth carrying.

Barry Allen (The Flash)

- One second, he is standing before you, mid-sentence, hands moving animatedly as he rambles about some impossible feat of science, some breakthrough that only his mind could possibly keep up with. And the next—he is airborne. Suspended. A blur of red and gold frozen in time as you hoist him effortlessly into your arms, his entire train of thought derailing so spectacularly that for the first time in what is possibly ever, Barry Allen is at a complete and utter loss for words.

- His blue eyes blink, wide with sheer, unfiltered astonishment. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, as if struggling to find a logical explanation for what just happened. "What—how did you—" He pauses, glances down at himself, then back at you. "Okay. Alright. This is fine. This is normal. Totally normal. This is a thing that happens." His words come faster now, a breathless tumble of disbelief and delight, and despite the initial shock, there is no fear—only pure, infectious amusement.

- And then he laughs. Oh, he laughs—bright and bubbling over, like the crackle of lightning against an open sky, his body practically vibrating with sheer giddiness. "I mean, I know I’ve swept you off your feet before, but this—this is a whole new level." His arms loop around your neck, dramatic and theatrical, his head tilting back as he lets himself be cradled as if he were some fairytale damsel. "Be honest, you’ve been planning this for a while, haven’t you?"

- He will tease you about this for weeks, recounting the moment with exaggerated flair to anyone who will listen. But there will also be the quiet moments—when he leans against you just a little more than usual, when his hands linger at your waist as if remembering the steady strength of your arms. And maybe, just maybe, the next time you catch him at full speed, he will let you lift him once more—just to feel, for a fleeting moment, what it’s like to be caught by you.

Diana of Themyscira (Wonder Woman)

- The daughter of gods, sculpted from sacred clay, raised among warriors whose strength is the stuff of legend. To surprise Diana is no easy task, for she has spent centuries honing herself into something divine, something unyielding. And yet—when you lift her into your arms, when you cradle her as if she were no heavier than a whispered prayer, the Goddess of Truth is rendered momentarily speechless.

- Her lips part, her brows lifting ever so slightly, and though she does not gasp, does not falter, there is an undeniable flicker of astonishment in her gaze. "You are stronger than you appear," she muses, her voice warm, touched with something akin to admiration. A warrior recognizes another, and in this moment, she sees you in a new light—not merely as her love, but as something formidable, something unexpected.

- And then, she smiles. Not a small smile, not a coy smirk, but something radiant—something that reaches her eyes, that sets her entire face alight with unmistakable joy. "Impressive," she hums, resting a steady hand against your shoulder. "Though, I must admit, I rather enjoy this perspective." There is a teasing lilt to her voice, a challenge dancing at the edges of her words. It is rare for anyone to hold her in such a way, but she finds, quite unexpectedly, that she does not mind it at all.

- Later, she will return the favor with ease, sweeping you into her arms without effort, carrying you across battlefields, across cities, across oceans. But in that moment, in the quiet space between surprise and laughter, she allows herself to rest in your hold, to relish the warmth of your embrace, to be held—not as a warrior, not as a princess, but simply as a woman who loves, and is loved in return.

Arthur Curry (Aquaman)

- Arthur Curry is not a man accustomed to feeling small. He is a king, a warrior, a force of nature bound in muscle and salt, the weight of oceans resting upon his shoulders. He has wrestled sea monsters the size of mountains, stood unyielding against the fury of the abyss, and emerged from every battle with the untamed, feral grin of a man who belongs to the storm. But when you lift him—when your arms curl around him with a strength that defies reason, hoisting him off solid ground as if he were nothing but driftwood—his entire world tilts. His golden eyes widen, stunned, his calloused hands gripping instinctively at your shoulders as if the sea itself has betrayed him.

- "What the—?" His voice is a startled rumble, a sharp bark of laughter cutting through the shock. His thick brows furrow, then lift, his expression wavering somewhere between indignation and absolute, boyish delight. He has never been handled like this, not even by the tides he calls home, and it is as absurd as it is exhilarating. "Alright, alright, I get it," he grumbles, though his smirk betrays him. "You’ve been hiding those muscles from me, huh?" There is no protest, no attempt to reclaim his dominance—only the rough, teasing warmth of a man who knows when to yield to the unexpected.

- He tests you, just a little, shifting his weight in your arms as if daring you to drop him. But you don’t. Not even close. And something in his grin turns sharper, more wicked, because he loves this—loves being surprised, loves the way you refuse to let him be the only powerful one in the room. "Damn," he chuckles, low and approving, his gaze sweeping over you with something hungry, something possessive. "That’s actually kinda hot."

- When you finally put him down, he doesn’t step back. No, he lingers—crowds close, his massive frame still buzzing with the thrill of it. And then, without warning, his arms are around you, hoisting you off your feet with ease, spinning you in a full, dizzying circle before crushing you against his chest. "Had to return the favor," he murmurs against your ear, voice thick with laughter. "But next time, sweetheart? Give a king some warning before you knock him off his throne."

Hal Jordan (Green Lantern)

- Hal Jordan is weightless before you can even blink. A man accustomed to soaring, to the rush of flight beneath his ribs, he has never once imagined himself being lifted—not without the emerald glow of his will forging the sky beneath his feet. But now, here, in your arms, held effortlessly with no ring, no power beyond the sheer impossible strength of you—Hal is, for the first time in his life, truly speechless.

- "You—hold on, what?" His voice cracks, laughter bubbling out of him in a disbelieving rush. His hands press against your shoulders, his pulse hammering with something electric, something wild. "Oh, no way. No freaking way." His mouth splits into a grin, bright and reckless, his green eyes alight with sheer, giddy amusement. "Are you messing with me? Is this some kind of—?" But no, there’s no trickery, no constructs at play, just you, standing solid beneath him while the world spins wildly out of sync with everything he thought he knew.

- And he loves it. Oh, he loves it. Because Hal Jordan lives for the unexpected, for the thrill of new frontiers, for the rush of facing the impossible head-on. And you—lifting him like he’s nothing, standing there with that knowing smirk—you are a whole new adventure, and he is utterly, shamelessly hooked. "This is amazing," he declares, wrapping his arms around your neck, leaning in close, grinning like a devil who has just been handed the keys to heaven. "You do realize I’m never gonna let you live this down, right?"

- He doesn’t stop talking about it. Ever. The next time the League gathers, he flings an arm around your shoulder and grins at the others. "You guys won’t believe this," he announces, smug and gleeful. "This one? Picked me up like I was a damn sack of potatoes. I mean, look at me! Look at this!" And when the teasing inevitably turns back on him, when Barry is cackling and Diana is arching a knowing brow, Hal just shrugs, utterly unapologetic. "Hey," he says, looping his arms around you once more, flashing you that impossibly charming, infuriatingly smug grin. "What can I say? I’m into it."

Oliver Queen (Green Arrow)

- Oliver Queen has spent his life dancing on the edge of danger, slipping through shadows and fire with the unshakable confidence of a man who always lands on his feet. But this—this was not in his playbook. One moment, he’s standing there, all easy smirks and smooth arrogance, and the next? His feet leave the ground, his entire world tilting as you lift him with effortless strength, cradling him as if he were something delicate. And for the first time in years, Oliver Queen has no immediate comeback.

- "…You’ve got to be kidding me." His voice is flat, stunned, as his hands instinctively grip your shoulders. His green eyes blink once, twice, his mouth parting in absolute disbelief. "Did that just—did you just—?" And then it happens—the breathless chuckle, the slow realization, the sudden shift from shock to pure, unfiltered amusement. A wide, toothy grin breaks across his face, bright as wildfire, and before you know it, he’s laughing, full-bodied and unrestrained. "Oh, I love this," he gasps between chuckles, eyes gleaming. "I love this. Are you seeing this? Someone take a picture—no, wait, don’t, I have a reputation to uphold."

- He throws himself into the bit immediately, draping an arm over his forehead as if he’s some swooning noble. "My hero," he sighs dramatically, peeking at you from beneath his lashes. "How will I ever repay you for saving me from the perils of standing?" His grin is wicked, challenging, but there’s something beneath it—something warm, something fond, something that lingers even as his laughter fades into something quieter, something real.

- Later, when he’s sprawled beside you, still smirking, he nudges your side with his elbow. "You know," he muses, tapping his chin, "I think I might need saving again sometime soon." And then, without warning, he flings himself at you, arms wrapping around your neck with all the grace of a man who knows damn well you’ll catch him. "Quick, sweetheart," he grins, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "Before gravity kicks back in."

John Constantine

- John Constantine has seen many things in his life—things that would shatter the minds of lesser men, things that slither and whisper in the dark, things that crawl beneath the skin of the world and rot it from the inside out. But this? This is something else entirely. One second, he’s standing there, cigarette between his lips, coat draped lazily over his shoulders, and the next? He’s airborne. Lifted. Weightless. And utterly, utterly done with this reality.

- "Bloody hell," he curses, his usual rasp of sarcasm momentarily failing him. His cigarette nearly tumbles from his lips as he grips at your arms, wide-eyed, indignant. "You having a laugh, love?" But you don’t waver, don’t so much as break a sweat, and that realization sends something flickering through his gaze—something wary, something intrigued, something dangerously close to impressed.

- "Well, that’s just embarrassing," he mutters, exhaling smoke through his nose, tilting his head as he eyes you with newfound consideration. "And here I thought I was the one with all the tricks up me sleeve." He shifts in your arms, testing the hold, then smirks, lazy and sharp. "Alright then. Carry on, darling. Just make sure you don’t drop me—I’d hate to spill me pint."

- Later, when he’s sitting with you, fingers tapping against his glass, he glances your way with something softer hidden beneath the bite of his words. "Next time," he murmurs, swirling his drink, "maybe give a bloke a warning before you decide to turn his world upside down, yeah?" But there’s no real protest, no real annoyance. Just the lingering, undeniable truth—he liked it. He liked you. And that, perhaps, is the most dangerous magic of all.

Roy Harper (Arsenal)

- Roy Harper has been thrown, knocked down, and sent flying more times than he can count. But this? This is different. One second, he’s standing there—grinning, cocky, weight shifted lazily onto one hip—and the next, his feet leave the ground. For the first time in a long time, Roy Harper is caught instead of doing the catching. His mouth opens, a sharp inhale of surprise, his arms flailing for balance, but there’s nothing for him to do except accept it. And he absolutely, completely does not know how to handle that.

- "H-hold up—wait—what the hell?" The words tumble from his lips in a startled bark of laughter, his hands instinctively clutching at your shoulders. His blue eyes are wide, scanning your face for some kind of explanation. "You just—how did you—?" His brain stutters over itself, trying to make sense of it. It’s not that he thinks you’re weak—hell no—but he knows how heavy he is, how solidly he’s built, and the fact that you lifted him like he was nothing? That’s something else entirely.

- Then, of course, the reality of it sinks in, and Roy Harper, being Roy Harper, does what he does best—he leans into it. "Damn, babe," he whistles, his signature smirk creeping across his face. "If I’d known you were this strong, I’d have made you carry me around ages ago." He shifts slightly in your arms, testing your grip, then settles in with an exaggerated sigh, draping an arm over his forehead like a damsel in distress. "Guess I don’t need to hit the gym anymore—got myself a personal lifter right here."

- And when you finally put him down? He doesn’t walk away. No, he sticks close, bumping his hip against yours, looking up at you with a mix of mischief and something warmer. "You’re full of surprises," he murmurs, his voice dropping just slightly, almost thoughtful. And then, with a wicked grin, he adds, "So... how do you feel about carrying me to bed, sweetheart?"

Koriand’r (Starfire)

- Koriand’r is no stranger to flight, to weightlessness, to the effortless way she moves through the sky with the sun’s fire at her back. But being lifted by you—by your hands, your strength, your unwavering confidence—is something she has never felt before. And it stuns her. Not out of fear, nor shock, nor disbelief—no, it is something softer, something warmer, something that spreads through her chest like the first rays of dawn.

- "Oh!" The delighted gasp slips from her lips as her arms instinctively wrap around your neck, golden eyes blinking in wide-eyed surprise. For a moment, she simply looks at you, studying your face, as if committing this feeling to memory. And then, as quickly as the surprise came, it melts into sheer, unrestrained joy. "Oh, my love!" she exclaims, her voice a bright melody of laughter, her fingers tangling in your hair as she tilts her head. "This is wonderful!"

- She does not hesitate to make herself comfortable, resting easily in your hold, her warmth seeping into your skin like sunlight. "You are so strong!" she praises, her voice dripping with admiration, her eyes glowing with pure, genuine awe. "Why did you not tell me before? We could have done this so many times!" There is no embarrassment, no hesitation—only the full, boundless embrace of a woman who loves fiercely, who takes nothing for granted, who cherishes this moment for all it is.

- And later, when you place her back down, she does not simply walk away. No, she hovers, her hands still cradling your face, her lips pressing a kiss—soft, lingering, grateful—against your cheek. "I must carry you next," she declares, her voice rich with excitement. "It is only fair!" And then, before you can protest, she sweeps you into her arms, laughing as she soars into the sky, twirling you through the air in a radiant, dizzying dance of love.

Kara Zor-El (Supergirl)

- Kara Zor-El is used to being the strongest person in the room. She has spent her life holding back, careful with every touch, every movement, every breath, always hyper-aware of her own power. But you—lifting her so effortlessly, holding her as if her strength does not matter—it knocks the breath from her lungs in a way no villain, no kryptonite, ever has.

- "Wha—wait, what?" Her voice is higher than usual, startled, her hands gripping your shoulders instinctively as her legs dangle in the air. Her wide, blue eyes blink rapidly, scanning your face for some sort of answer. "You—you picked me up?" She sounds offended for a split second before the reality of it truly hits her, before the corners of her lips twitch and something suspiciously close to a giggle bubbles in her throat. "You picked me up."

- And then she’s laughing—full-bodied, bright, joyful—because it’s so ridiculous, so absurd, and so absolutely wonderful. "Oh my god," she wheezes, her head dropping against your shoulder as she shakes with laughter. "I love this." She leans back, resting easily in your arms, grinning up at you with an expression so full of delight it’s almost blinding. "How are you this strong? Have you been holding out on me? Are you secretly Kryptonian? Oh my god, are we long-lost cousins? Should I call Clark?"

- When you finally put her down, she immediately tests you again—jumping at you with zero warning, wrapping her arms around your neck, trusting you to catch her. And when you do? She beams. "Again," she demands, eyes bright with exhilaration. "Again!" And suddenly, she’s obsessed. She will never let this go. You have doomed yourself to a lifetime of Supergirl dramatically flinging herself into your arms at the most inconvenient moments.

Slade Wilson (Deathstroke)

- Slade Wilson does not like surprises. He is a man who calculates every outcome, who moves with precision, who keeps his world meticulously controlled. He does not get caught off guard. But this—the sudden shift in gravity, the impossible strength behind your touch, the way his feet leave the ground—this is a surprise so profound that, for one fleeting second, the legendary Deathstroke is stunned.

- His single eye narrows sharply, his body tensing instinctively, a thousand battle instincts screaming at him to react. But there is no attack, no enemy—only you, holding him like he is something fragile, something weightless, something you can control without effort. And that—that—is what truly catches him off guard. "Well," he rumbles, his voice dangerously low, "this is new."

- He does not panic. He does not flail or struggle. No, Slade Wilson merely analyzes, his sharp mind whirring as he studies your face, his expression unreadable. And then, slowly—so slowly it’s almost imperceptible—the corners of his lips twitch into something that is almost amusement. "You’ve been keeping secrets," he murmurs, the faintest ghost of a smirk curving his lips. "That’s dangerous."

- When you finally set him down, he does not step away. No, he lingers, his presence a solid, immovable force as he tilts his head, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. And then, just as you think the moment has passed, he reaches out—gripping your wrist with a strength that rivals your own. "My turn," he states simply, before sweeping you up effortlessly, his smirk widening as he watches your expression shift. "Now, let’s see how you handle surprises."

Kent Nelson (Doctor Fate)

- Kent Nelson is a man who has lived through centuries of battles, his mind tethered to the ancient wisdom of Nabu, weighed down by the knowledge of the cosmos. He is not easily shaken. He has fought demons, walked through dimensions where the laws of gravity bend and break, and seen the rise and fall of civilizations. And yet, for all his experience, for all his wisdom, nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the moment when you pick him up like he is no heavier than a feather caught in the wind.

- His body stills immediately, the flowing gold of his cloak pooling in your arms, his gauntleted hands frozen mid-motion as if his mind is struggling to catch up with his reality. He has faced eldritch horrors that defy comprehension, but this—this is something else entirely. "...Interesting." The word is measured, calm, but you can hear the faint edge of bewilderment in his voice. Beneath the helmet of Fate, his expression remains unreadable, but you can feel the way he is processing. Analyzing. Calculating how this is even possible.

- "There are few beings in existence who could accomplish this," he finally murmurs, and the weight of his words is almost laughable. But there is something else beneath them—something softer. Awe. Intrigue. A deep and abiding reverence for the unknown, for the mysteries of the universe that even he has yet to unravel. And right now? You are one of those mysteries. A puzzle he had not anticipated, but one he finds himself eager to solve. His fingers trail along your shoulder, light as a whisper, as if trying to feel the power beneath your skin.

- And then, in a rare moment of levity, the corners of his lips curve into something that is not quite a smile but something like it. "I wonder," he muses, "if Nabu knew about this." There is an unmistakable note of amusement in his voice, and you can tell—tell—that he is already planning the next time he can test your strength again. Doctor Fate may be bound to destiny, but Kent Nelson? Kent Nelson has just discovered something infinitely more interesting than fate itself: you.

Rachel Roth (Raven)

- Raven is used to control, to restraint. She has spent her life mastering herself, holding back, ensuring that nothing—not a single tremor of emotion—escapes without her permission. But control means nothing when you sweep her off her feet without warning. One moment, she is standing in the comfort of your presence, and the next, the world tilts—her balance stolen, gravity defied—and she finds herself cradled in your arms.

- "What—" The word is cut off, her breath catching in her throat, violet eyes wide and blinking as if she has glitched. It is not fear—Raven does not fear you—but it is shock, raw and unfiltered, slipping past the walls she has so carefully constructed. No one lifts her. No one dares. She is Raven, daughter of Trigon, wielder of darkness, but you—you lift her as though she is made of something far lighter, far softer. "...How?" The question is quiet, but laced with something dangerously close to wonder.

- And then, after a long, weighted pause, her lips part again. "Put me down." The words are flat, carefully neutral, but the telltale blush dusting her pale cheeks betrays her. You hold her a moment longer—just long enough to see the way her fingers twitch as if fighting the urge to grab onto you—and then, finally, you comply. The moment her feet touch the ground, she crosses her arms, tilting her chin slightly as if regaining her composure. But the faintest flicker of amusement sparks in her eyes. "You could have warned me."

- But later—later—when she thinks you aren’t looking, you catch her staring at you. Calculating. Considering. And the next time she finds herself in your arms? There is no sharp inhale, no startled demand to be put down. There is only the way her hands rest lightly on your shoulders, the way she allows herself to lean into your warmth. And if, just once, you hear the quietest whisper of "Again." as she buries her face in your neck, well... you say nothing.

Zatanna Zatara

- Zatanna is a performer. She has dazzled crowds, charmed audiences, and bent the very fabric of reality to her will with a flourish of her hands. She is a woman who makes the impossible look effortless. But what she does not expect—what she cannot predict—is you pulling a trick of your own. One moment, she is speaking, hands gesturing mid-sentence, and the next, she is in the air, her words dissolving into a startled gasp as she finds herself in your arms.

- "Well, hello there!" she exclaims, blinking in surprise before laughter spills from her lips, bright and genuine. "Was that part of the show? Because if so, I think I missed my cue." Her dark lashes flutter as she tilts her head, studying you with a slow, appreciative smirk. "And here I thought I was the one full of surprises." The twinkle in her eyes is unmistakable, a magician recognizing another masterful trick.

- "You have to tell me how you did that," she continues, wrapping her arms around your neck in a movement so seamless, so graceful, that it’s as if she was always meant to be there. "Strength spell? Secret training? Or—" she leans in, voice dropping to a playful whisper, "are you actually just a natural-born showstopper?" There is no flustered stammering, no embarrassment—only delight, only curiosity, only the unmistakable thrill of discovering something new.

- When you finally place her back down, she takes a step back, then claps her hands together. "Again." The demand is immediate, playful. "I need to know if it was a fluke! We must test this thoroughly." And just like that, you have created a monster. Zatanna will not let this go. From this day forward, any time she catches you off guard, she will jump at you just to see if you’ll catch her. And when you inevitably do? She’ll flash you that signature grin and purr, "Abracadabra, darling."

Dinah Lance (Black Canary)

- Dinah is a woman who stands her ground. She is not used to being swept off her feet—not figuratively, and certainly not literally. So when you do it, when you lift her with effortless ease, her first instinct is not to gasp, nor to flail. No, her first instinct is to fight. Her muscles tense instinctively, her fists clenching as if ready to counter, before her brain catches up and realizes—oh. Oh.

- "No way," she breathes, blinking as her lips part in pure, undiluted shock. "No. Freaking. Way." She actually leans back in your hold, looking at you with something between disbelief and sheer respect. "You’re kidding." Her voice wavers with something suspiciously close to laughter. "You did not just pick me up." But you did, and it is glorious.

- And then—because she is Dinah Lance—she grins. "Damn," she exhales, whistling low. "Okay, okay, I see you." And just like that, her shock melts into admiration, her blue eyes practically glowing with mischief. "Guess I better step up my training, huh? Can’t have my own girlfriend outmuscling me." She claps your shoulder when you set her down, shaking her head with a smirk. "That was impressive."

- But from that day forward? Dinah challenges you. Random push-up contests, lifting competitions, anything to test just how strong you really are. And if you ever lift her again? She just throws her head back and laughs, wrapping her arms around your neck and whispering, "Alright, babe—you win this round."

Wally West (The Flash)

- Wally West is used to moving faster than the eye can see, faster than thought, faster than the speed of sound. He is kinetic energy made flesh, a man who cannot be caught, cannot be contained. He is motion incarnate. So when you lift him off his feet—effortlessly—the sheer absurdity of it freezes him in place. His body, which has always been a blur of momentum, stops. And for the first time in his life, Wally West is utterly, completely still.

- "Whoa—whoa, whoa, whoa!" His voice cracks mid-exclamation, his arms flailing comically before his brain catches up. "What just happened? Did I trip? Did I pass out? Did I break the time stream again?" His hands immediately pat down his own chest, as if confirming that he is still in his body, that this is, in fact, reality. But the reality is this: you are holding him, carrying him without effort, and that? That should be impossible.

- His blue eyes widen, blinking rapidly as he stares at you in stunned disbelief. "You picked me up?" The words are barely above a whisper, his voice laced with an almost childlike awe. "You—just—picked me up?" And then, all at once, his expression shifts. His lips curl into a slow, mischievous grin, and a spark of amusement ignites in his gaze. "Oh, I see how it is," he drawls, looping his arms around your neck as if settling in. "You like sweeping me off my feet, huh?"

- From that moment forward, he turns it into a game. He will actively try to surprise you, using his speed to dodge your attempts—only to deliberately slow down at the last second so you can catch him anyway. And when you do? He laughs, bright and carefree, resting his forehead against yours with a smirk. "You got me again," he murmurs, voice warm with adoration. "Guess I’m falling for you all over again."

Victor Stone (Cyborg)

- Victor Stone is not easy to move, let alone lift. He is composed of reinforced titanium alloys, advanced cybernetics, a living fusion of man and machine. He knows exactly how much he weighs. He knows the sheer impossibility of what you are attempting. So when you do—when you lift him without struggle, without hesitation—his internal scanners glitch.

- "No way," he mutters, his voice layered with static interference as if his systems are struggling to process. His red cybernetic eye flickers slightly, running rapid recalibrations, recalculating physics itself. "Hold up—nah, this ain’t right." His brow furrows, fingers flexing as he subtly shifts his weight in your arms, testing your grip. But you do not falter. You hold him—steady, sure, unyielding. And for the first time in years, Victor Stone feels weightless.

- "I don’t know whether to be impressed or offended," he finally says, his tone a perfect balance of deadpan and deep amusement. "Like, damn, babe—this whole time, I thought I was the strong one." But beneath the teasing, there is something softer. Curiosity. Admiration. And something he does not voice, but you know he feels—trust. He has spent years reinforcing himself, ensuring that no one could ever carry him again, that he would never be helpless. And yet, in your arms, he does not feel lesser. He feels safe.

- When you finally set him down, he exhales a low whistle, shaking his head with a grin. "Alright, alright—you got me," he admits, rolling his shoulders. "But next time? You gotta let me return the favor." And sure enough, he does. He waits for the perfect moment—when you least expect it—before scooping you up effortlessly, his deep laughter echoing as he grins down at you. "Yeah, see? Feels kinda nice, don’t it?"

Garfield Logan (Beast Boy)

- The moment you lift Garfield Logan, his brain short-circuits. His limbs flail wildly, his mouth opens in a silent gasp, and his entire body goes stiff as if he has just been yeeted into an alternate dimension. His emerald green eyes go comically wide, and his next breath comes out in a strangled, "WH—?!"

- "Did you just—?" His voice cracks mid-sentence. "Did you just pick me up?!" His hands instinctively grasp at your shoulders, but his fingers don’t clutch—they cling, as if his entire existence depends on holding on for dear life. "Dude. Babe. Love of my life. My entire world. Are you—are you even real? Because this? This should be illegal."

- And then, the realization fully hits him. The shock melts into something else. Something dangerous. His lips twitch, his expression morphing into pure gremlin energy. "Ohhh, this changes everything," he cackles, his voice practically vibrating with mischief. "You know what this means, right?" He leans in, his green skin practically glowing with delight. "You are now legally responsible for carrying me everywhere."

- And true to his word, he commits. The moment you set him down, he refuses to accept it. He will dramatically throw himself into your arms at every opportunity. Walking? Nope. Lifting weights? Absolutely not. Why would he ever do that when he has you? "Babe, please," he whines, arms outstretched, giving you the biggest, saddest puppy eyes imaginable. "I was made for this life. I belong in your arms. Carry me. Carry me like one of your French girls."

Lobo

- Lobo is not used to being moved—by anyone. He is a Czarnian, a being of unmatched strength and durability, a walking tank with enough raw power to go toe-to-toe with Superman. He has never been overpowered, never been handled. So when you do it—when you lift him with ease—his entire soul leaves his body.

- "What the frag?!" The expletive leaves him in a near roar, his crimson eyes blazing with shock. His first instinct is to fight, muscles tensing, but then he realizes—you’re not even struggling. You are holding him like he weighs nothing. The Main Man. The Last Czarnian. In your arms. And it is so baffling, so completely ridiculous, that he just... stares.

- And then—then—he starts laughing. Howling. "Oh, this is priceless," he chokes out between laughs, his voice booming. "You just—pfft—you just picked up Lobo like he’s a damn kitten?!" His laughter is raucous, unrestrained, but there is no resentment. No wounded pride. If anything, he looks at you with a newfound respect. "Alright, babe, I see how it is. You got guts."

- But Lobo is not one to be one-upped. "Next time, though?" He leans in close, his grin sharp and challenging. "I ain’t goin’ down without a fight. You wanna sweep me off my feet? You better earn it." And true to his word, he tests you after that—deliberately throwing his weight at you, seeing if you can keep up. And when you do? When you always catch him, every single time? He lets out a deep, satisfied chuckle, wraps a massive arm around your waist, and murmurs, "Damn. I really hit the jackpot, didn’t I?”

[lavenderhateswritting]

Bruce Wayne x Male Reader

This is me kinda going further in depth on my ideas about Bruce and divorced BatDad link

There has to be something you're not understanding. At least that's what you have to keep telling yourself there has to be something here that doesn't connect that you aren't picking up on. Bruce has a biological child. A biological child who has been alive for less years than you have been married. Bruce cheated on you. Again.

The air in the cave is acrid. The boy. Damian. His name is Damian. Is speaking to Bruce. He's Talia's son because of course he's fucking Talia's son. God.

The world around you feels like its millions of miles away, muffled and unreachable to you. You should have known. Talia had known him long before you had come into the picture and had always been so much more than you could ever be. It wasn't just Talia though it was so many more than Talia and you kept telling yourself that it wasn't true because you just couldn't believe it.

Now there's no denying it. Now there's a child and now you had to make a choice because if you didn't nothing was going to change.

You must have been standing there for too long looking into space floating into a world where your marriage is happy and your husband loyal because Bruce finally walks up to you. He stands in front of you his cowl is down and his eyes have hardened hemselves. He's prepared for the coversation then great.

"You'll have to start the paperwork to get him in school." You finally say. The first thing you've said for 40 mins and for just a second you can see the confusion hits him for just a moment and then its gone. God forbid he shows you any fucking emotion.

"But you probably shouldn't do that before you acclimate him to average people." Your voice is airy like you're a second away from crying.

"And you're gonna need him to do placement tests - "

"Y/N I know you want to talk about this." He's interupting you.

"Because he's probably ahead of his grade and we - "

"Y/N please can we talk about this."

" We don't want him to take grades he doesn't need to. And I am talking about it. I'm telling you what you need to do for your child. You and Talia's child." Your breathe is starting to come out faster as you speak.

"I mean what else could there be to talk about. You, cheating on me. Again. With another woman. I mean do you even like men Bruce cause god knows you love cheating on me with women." Your hands are shaking now. It feels like you've been drenched in cold water.

"That's not important you have another child you need to take care of and unlik the others you can't fall back on me to handle the the civilian aspect." You finally look back into his eyes there's nothing there. Of course.

"Y/N please calm down we're going to talk about this, we're going to get through this, and handle this Damian situation together." He's grabbed your hands now the gloves of his suit means you can't feel him against your skin only the thick sturdy material.

"No, we aren't, you are." His eyes finally show a flash of fear like he understands what's finally happening.

"Y/N please try and be reasonable. You're in shock and I understand why, but you aren't thinking straight you just need to sleep through the night and then we can talk." His hands are griping you tighter like if he lets you go you'll run for the hills. Maybe he's right to be scared.

"Yeah I'll go to sleep and we'll talk about this later beacuse you need to go on patrol and this mission will always be more important than our fucking relationship. And then when I wake up you'll tell me it'll neve happen again and that you're sorry right. Like how you did with Selina, or Viki, or FUCKING TALIA. And then I'm goint to forgive you again and again and again because I love you, but you don't love me, do you Bruce." You hands have stopped shaking this isn't scary anymore. This is necessary for you you need to get out of this relationship or it's going to kill you.

"Of course I love you. I love you more than anything in the world you know this." He actually for once looks sad and isn't that something.

"But you don't love me enough to not cheat on me and I don't blame you. I keep forgiving you so why would you stop. Not this time though let go of me Bruce." His grip on you had gotten tighter and tighter as the conversation continued it was bordering on painful.

"If I let you go will you be here when I come home tonight." He's scared you've managed to scare Batman isn't that something.

"Don't make me lie to you. Don't make me treat you like you treat me." He flinches back like you've slapped him across the face and finally drops your arms. He probably would have perfered it if you had simply smacked him. Violence he understood. Violence was something he was good at.

"Is there anything I can say that will make you still be here when I come home." His voice hitches the smallest amount pushed down as soon as it comes up.

"No, and I think you already know that. I love you Bruce." You turn toward the staircase back up to the manor. You'll need to pack and stay in the penthouse tonight and then in the moring make a plan. You've reached the first step of your climb when Bruce finally speaks again.

"I love you Y/N I promise you I do."

There's no point in turning back so you keep going forward.

[l0vergirls]

you just know if yan batfam had a reader that was small they’d carry them around soooooo much, not to mention they’d prob be on their laps all the time. do NOT try to escape your ass will NOT succeed!!!

nonono exactly this!!!!

you'd think being as small as you are is an advantage, fitting into any nook and cranny there is, but when you're in the same household as the greatest detectives in the world, there's nowhere you can hide that they won't find you.

you learned quickly that hiding or trying to escape is useless, with their eyes on you constantly and a hand always laying on your body somewhere. you can't pinpoint exactly when, but it's escalated to you always sat on their laps or being carried around like you weighed nothing. and to them, you probably didn't.

it's demeaning, dehumanizing even, being dragged around like a rag doll. but what can you do? sometimes it even feels a bit nice, getting cradled in big strong arms all the time. it might be onset stockholm syndrome, but you're just making the most of your situation, right?

[sheep-from-rad]

Yandere Batfam x reader x Yandere Twisted Wonderland concept Note: I should be updating Blood Bound but here I am being plagued by an idea. This idea is stitching a lot of timelines at once wth :/ requests are open but I am a slow author T__T divider by: @cafekitsune also note: I don't own Twst and Batfam. Just my writing

Yandere Batfam where the reader wasn’t always a metahuman. They were a normal vigilante until a scuffle involving a weird storm almost made them encounter death and gain weird abilities. They continued being a vigilante but the new found abilities and powers created little cracks that turned to gaps that became a catalyst for them to seek out other metahumans instead. 

Instead of Damian, they would instead come to patrol with Claire Clover (Gotham girl). Later when Claire Clover revealed that she had been working with Bane all along, the reader's loyalty was questioned (guilt by association) by the family. Reader breaks their ties away and now finds themselves in Zatanna’s care and counsel (reader not wanting to go back even when Batman successfully reformed Claire from Psycho Pirate’s manipulations). Reader who survived the apokolips war fighting in the sidelines with the Signal and Jason and was there to witness the world fold into the fabric of the universe before it was followed by the sound of horses and darkness. 

They later on woke up with no memory, inside a coffin and being greeted by a talking, flaming cat. They have nothing but the outlandish kevlar suit, few injuries, and a keychain of what seemed to be a cartoon man dressed as a bat with a scowling expression. The mirror can’t bring them back home given that they don’t know where home is and mysteriously enough, their powers belonged in the wonderland. 

Meanwhile, The Wayne family and few of their allies found themselves being haunted by a nameless yet familiar face and memories that are slowly resurfacing.