#even a nap didn't fix it

[daemon-in-my-head]

Anyone in the mood to cut my hand off? Please? We can be weird abt it if it helps?

[superfluouskeys]

day 1 of 3 days of adventures (barely) survived

[ilikemicrowaves]

Just got home from Band Day and immediately started reblogging Dale Dimmadome. Someone shoot me.

[officialpenisenvy]

my head hurts 😵😣😥

[running-in-the-dark]

I slept for about 15 hours, it was great, I feel great

[neganium]

man I am so exhausted today for absolutely no reason; I haven't been able to get anything done today, fun, productive, or otherwise. I've mostly just existed; I ate lunch, but it apparently did terrible things to my insides...

[suksatoru]

"if you can hear me, chosen one, give me your strongest kick."

you lift your gaze from the book page pinched between your fingers and offer satoru an unimpressed glare. as scolding as you try to appear, there's a hint of a smile tugging your lips upward at his ridiculously adorable antics.

"i think our princess might be napping," he hums, pressing a flurry of kisses over the swell of your stomach as you squirm under his touch, wiggling your toes.

"you're going to be late, satoru! weren't you supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago?"

"hahh?"

he drops his face back onto your stomach gently, sighing happily as his hand glides over the soft bump. you decide to let him lie with you for a little while longer—the soft smile etched onto his face was far too precious to disturb.

"i'll text nanami and let him know you'll be a bit late to the mission, okay?" you say softly, carding a hand through his platinum locks as he hums softly, lashes fluttering close.

satoru talked to the baby in your belly quite often—even going as far as having full-on conversations with her. there had been countless nights where you stirred awake only to hear his silky sweet voice muffled against your stomach, all while he gazed starry eyed at the gentle curve of your stomach in front of him.

satoru's dearest dream had always been to have a family. it was a quiet truth he wouldn't ever dare to speak into existence because it didn't seem possible in any universe—but somehow, he stumbled upon a way. and now he gets to spend his evenings like this with you.

satoru's boundless affection during your pregnancy will forever be something you would be grateful for. the fondest thing you would look back on would have to be the endless amount of baby clothes he got—satoru had even purchased a matching set of onesies for all three of you to wear. typical satoru. he was adamant about making sure the three of you would have a bunch of pictures together as a family so he'd be able to send everyone he knew those corny holiday cards he always saw on tv—the only reason you remember that moment from so long ago right now is because of the phone call you received.

"hello?" you speak in a hushed tone, rocking the ivory haired baby in the crib next to you gently as you hold your phone between your cheek and shoulder.

"hello! is this mrs. gojo? i'm calling to confirm your family photoshoot scheduled for next week. it's the two hour session. it looks like you scheduled it a little over a year ago?" her voice comes to life through the phone, and your rocking slows to a stop.

"oh," is all you can manage at first.

you hear the sound of her typing come to a slow stop as she waits for your response. you resume rocking your daughter's crib before answering.

"i'm sorry, but it seems like my husband forgot to cancel the appointment."

she goes on a bit of a tangent, gently scolding you because the company was extremely busy with numerous photoshoots and you had canceled so last minute—but she promised to get it fixed and have the money refunded as soon as possible.

the line beeps quietly when you drop the call, and your hand feels perpetually numb as you drop your phone into your lap.

you rub at the sting that blinds your eyes a second later before rising on wobbly legs, not checking if your baby is asleep as you stumble towards your bedroom's balcony door and slide it open. you tuck your knees under you on the ground and rest your head against the railing, allowing the cool metal to be pressed against your cheek as you take a steadying breath.

you were nearing the one year anniversary of satoru's death and, quite stupidly at that, thought you'd be in a better condition by now. but his presence was irreplaceable—and it was moments like this where you were reminded how painful it was to lose your soulmate in the blink of an eye.

the night air kisses your cheek, whipping your hair around gently as it falls over your eyes—and the sensation is uncannily familiar to the way satoru's slender fingers would play with your hair and tickle your cheek whenever he was in a particularly playful mood.

the night traffic flowing beneath you fades to nothing as the wind whirls around you—but, it felt like if you closed your eyes hard enough, strained your ears as much as possible—then maybe you could make yourself believe that the whistling wind whizzing past your ear was satoru's voice lulling the ache in your chest away instead.

[dmitriene]

simon ghost riley has a quite strange perception of relationships, he can be balls deep almost every single hour inside your tight, gushing cunt with your molten, ragged voice calling out his name like a prayer, and he'd still think you aren't dating, just some casual thing between you two, even when you text him every day he's away, sending him such sacrosanct pictures only your lover should see.

he spends more than half of his free days in your apartment, stretched out over the couch, either napping or watching some movie, aside from bending you and fucking silly over the armrest, heavy body bracketing from behind, as your head dangles down uselessly, simon's hips slapping hot against the tingling, sensitive flesh of your perched asscheeks, and you don't mind, not when his full, heavy balls smack against your pebbled clit, your nerves flaring at the rough contact.

simon eats what you cook, goes around without wearing his balaclava and in nothing but some low hung sweats and simple shirt that seems just a bit too tight over his brawny chest and pumped biceps, cradles the back of your head with fingers curling tight in your hair, smushing his chapped lips against yours everytime he feels like it's a right moment for a kiss, even if it's unrestrained, spit messy and all teeth's, leaving you gasping for breath.

he eats you out as well first thing in the morning and before going to bed, next to you, making sure to sate his gut churning hunger, slobbering all over your pulsing, swollen pussy, clenching and fluttering at his every little movement, always the center of the attention, though, he gives your face a couple of kisses and let's you tug at his hair gladly, almost purring in delight, praising you through it, the imminent greediness in his eyes concealed behind fanning, pale lashes.

simon is really, always there, behind your back while you cook, joining you in a shower, making sure you're all clean but with your legs shaking, sleeping beside you, beefy body glued to your back, his calloused, wide hands burrowed under your pajama shirt, fingers splayed over your tummy as he snores in the crook of your neck, even if you leave for a shopping, he accompanies you, tucking you beneath his heavy arm with a sense of possession.

so when you go out sweet calling him as your boyfriend, he get's caught unexpectedly, eyes blinking slow and getting that little wide look you wouldn't notice often painting his face, eyebrow raised, almost tugged in a frown as if to show all his misunderstanding, rumbling that he didn't knew you're dating, and all that.

before you can ask what does proper relationship looks like for him, simon brushes you off with a wave of his hand, scooping you up in his arms, fixing you on his forearm like some princess, already leaning in to trace his tongue over the seam of your lips, humming that you would see, since you're his baby now, and he'd linger around for longer, even though he's already been particularly living at yours.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[vampirian]

why does god keep on giving his most inconsequential fights to his most disbelieving soldier aka my atheist ass having insomnia trying to fix my sleeping schedule and then waking up with a migraine at midnight and not being sleepy enough to go back to sleep even now at 8am

[xoxojisu]

TIRED !

synopsis: katsuki starts to pull back and you wonder if he's just overwhelmed and tired, or maybe tired of you.

notes: just a short lil drabble <3 apologies ik ive alr written like this exact thing. but this time there's COMMUNICATION? IN A JISU FIC?? well tbf it doesn't happen right away but guys open communication is insane. gn reader!

you don’t know when it started. the shift.

maybe a week ago. maybe more.

but suddenly, katsuki’s kisses were shorter. distracted. his replies came late, if at all. and when you curled into him at night, he didn’t always curl back.

you tried not to overthink. he’s busy. he’s tired. he’s katsuki. always intense, always chasing something, and you knew that when you fell for him.

but sometimes, it’s hard not to wonder.

did i do something wrong?

you think you're the exception for him. you're his lover, after all. but you feel the doubt creep in during the smaller moments.

when you rest your head on his chest and he doesn't automatically put his arm around your waist in return. when you say "i love you" as an easy given and he grunts out a response you can't really make out. when you act sweet and lovey-dovey and he just sort of sits there, looking a little annoyed.

you start pulling back a little. just in case.

you don’t want to be annoying.

you hesitate before texting him first now. you wait for him to initiate touch, which he barely does. and when you finally say "goodnight, love you," he just grunts in response, already turned away in bed.

you stare at the ceiling long after, heart aching in that quiet, sharp way.

you used to fall asleep tangled in him. breathing him in and feeling so utterly loved. now you lie perfectly still, like your presence might be too much. thinking thoughts you'd never thought before, like: "maybe he doesn't like cuddling" and "should i sleep in my own room tonight?"

you shake your head. you're being stupid. insecure.

..but then again, he hasn’t kissed your forehead in days.

he hasn’t called you baby or sweetheart in that uncharacteristically soft voice.

he hasn’t looked at you with that soft gaze he used to save just for you.

you still bring him his water when he forgets it. still fix his uniform when it's out of place. still buy that cinnamon gum you don't even like that much but get because katsuki likes it.

and still, you wonder:

is he just tired?

or is he tired of me?

-

he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

that might be the worst part.

he doesn’t notice how he’s been pulling away. how the warmth in his touches has faded, how he’s stopped saying the soft things that used to slip out when he was too tired to keep his walls up. how you, who used to fit into him like something natural, now hover a few inches away.

he’s just been tired lately.

not the kind of tired a good nap can fix, but the kind that builds and builds and builds until even breathing feels like a task. training’s been brutal. pressure mounting. grades to maintain. responsibilities stacking one after the other until his brain buzzes like static.

and when katsuki gets overwhelmed, it overwhelms his entire being.

it doesn't happen super often. katsuki is determined and driven and he's got a heart of steel. he's not usually one to get swept up like this.

or at least, not anymore. not since you.

but when it does happen, he is overwhelmed in all senses of the word. he gets terrible tunnel vision and forgets to pay attention to his surroundings. all he can think of is hero work, and even that's a stretch. his brain is on constant low-functioning mode and he feels foggy all the time.

so, being so absorbed in himself, he didn’t see the way your smile faltered.

didn’t catch how you flinched. barely, but enough, when he brushed off your hands with a muttered, “not right now.”

didn't catch how you didn't automatically curl up into his side like usual when you'd sit down together, and so pulling you close and dispelling your doubt didn't even cross his mind.

didn't catch how you were slowly pulling back, physically and emotionally. didn't catch how you were starting to doubt yourself.

until he finally looked up.

until he goes to your dorm late, bags under his eyes, heart hammering from some training that went sideways, a little confused why you weren't in his dorm, and sees you in bed. on your side of it, even though he's not there, hugging your own pillow like it’s some kind of stand-in.

you wake at the sound of the door. you turn your head when he enters, give him that same soft smile you always do, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“hey,” you say. “you okay?”

he nods, robotic. “yeah. just tired.”

and you nod back. not pushing. not getting up. not offering a hug or kiss or teasing nudge like you always would.

and it hits him then. the quiet. the distance. the way your affection hasn’t smothered him lately. no, the way it hasn’t even touched him.

and he realizes:

you’ve stopped trying.

and he thinks, suddenly panicked, how did i let it get this bad?

he moves before he can talk himself out of it. just crawls into bed and pulls you into his chest, tight. arms locked around you like you might disappear if he hesitates.

you tense for half a second.

“…katsuki?”

he exhales, shuddering. like he’s been holding it in.

“i’ve been a shithead,” he mutters against your shoulder.

you blink.

“what?”

“i didn’t mean to make you feel like… like i didn’t want you. i do. i just…” he groans, frustrated with himself. “there’s been so much going on. and when things get loud in my head, i forget how to… be. i get overwhelmed and i shut down and i didn’t mean to take that out on you.”

your fingers curl into his hoodie slowly.

he doesn’t stop.

“you didn’t do anything wrong. i was so stupid and up in my own head that i didn't realize you were hurtin' and i think i fucked it up.”

you’re quiet for a beat.

then, softly, “you didn’t fuck it up.”

his arms tighten around you.

you turn in his embrace, nose bumping his, eyes searching.

“…i thought i was annoying you,” you admit. “like maybe i was too clingy. too much. so i started holding back. well, you already said that, so i guess you noticed.”

he closes his eyes like it hurts.

“don’t,” he breathes, feeling so guilty that it's gotten to this point. “please don’t hold back. not with me.”

“then don’t shut me out.”

“i’ won't. i promise. just.. fuck, 'm sorry. for real.”

you press your forehead to his.

“thank you. i love you.”

and this time, he says it back. and he rubs soothing circles on your back the way he knows you like. and he kisses your forehead. slow. deliberate. like he’s making up for every time he didn’t.

like he knows now.

and won’t forget again.

masterlist reblogs + comments super duper appreciated! <3

[violetrainbow412-blog]

A little bit of jam [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x fem!mutant!reader

wc: 2.5k

Marvel and I are so fucking back, baby!! I think this mass love hysteria toward Bob is the best, and I honestly wanted to play with the "found family" trope a little because I love it so much. I hope you like it!

and if u have any idea, let me know ;)

Two months had already passed.

Two months since the sky split in two, since the world almost went to hell—again—and since a dysfunctional group of dangerously competent people were thrust into the headlines as the new “heroes.” No one was sure if the title was too big or too accurate. The only clear thing was that, after surviving hell together, you had ended up sharing something more than a mission.

Now you lived in the old Avengers Tower. Together.

It wasn't an official government decision or part of any rehabilitation protocol. It just happened. Most of you didn't have a fixed place to return to, and the few who did... didn't want to return at all. So, without saying it out loud, you started staying. One night. Then a week. Then a sofa became a bed, a kitchen became a habit, and lights left on at all hours stopped seeming strange. Without seeking it, you had made it work. As if the disaster had woven an impossible routine between people who, otherwise, would never have shared more than one mission.

Nobody said it, but you knew it.

You finally, amid all that chaos, felt like you fit in somewhere. You weren’t an Avenger, you weren’t an X-Men, you were never officially from anywhere. You’d grown up far from anyone who could explain to you what to do about your mutation, and you’d spent more time evading labels than claiming them. But now… now you had a room with your name written on the door in permanent marker (thanks to Yelena), a mug for your coffee (which sometimes Alexei stole from you), and an old Bob sweatshirt that you’d sometimes find hanging on your desk chair for no reason; as if someone knew when you needed it more than you did.

So, little by little, you began to look more like a team, a real team. But also, in a way, you shared a certain familiarity that all of you definitely needed in your lives.

Weekends were occasions, without explicitly stating it, to spend time together. Sometimes you'd just gather in the living room, put on a movie, and the rest would join in, or someone would start drinking, and soon you were all doing it.

Speaking of which, that day you had decided that a few boxes of donuts wouldn't hurt you and your friends. Maybe you could even make some coffee, since with the rain that had started to fall in the city, that seemed like a good plan.

When you walked in, you could see most of them. Yelena was sitting on the floor, completely wrapped in a huge blanket, eating a bag of chips with her feet up on the coffee table. Ava was leaning against the wall, silently observing everything, her arms crossed and a neutral expression that didn't quite hide her curiosity. John Walker was flipping through a magazine upside down, clearly just pretending to read while he kept an eye on what you had brought. Alexei was snoring in the largest armchair, face up, a remote control resting on his chest, as if it were a sacred artifact. Bucky was leaning against the counter, probably making himself a drink or reviewing policy documents.

And Bob… Bob was probably in his room. You noticed he was sleeping a lot lately. Not because he was lazy, not because he was idle, but because he was carrying his own mind, his memories, The Void… exhausted him in ways the others could barely understand. So none of you blamed him for taking long naps.

“I brought donuts,” you announced, in case anyone hadn’t noticed the packages you were holding.

NO one refused the food, and even Alexei, who seemed to be asleep, got up to get a couple upon hearing your announcement. You'd bought a variety of flavors, a box of classics and some more sophisticated ones, so almost all of you sat down at the coffee table to enjoy.

You exchanged a few pleasantries, talked about things that had happened and possible future missions. At one point, when everyone had already eaten at least two pieces, you saw Walker's hand reach for the box of donuts.

Serious mistake.

“NO!” you screamed, almost like a spring.

John froze, his finger brushing the blackberry's glossy glaze.

“Why not?” he asked, offended, as if you had denied him the last glass of water on the planet.

“That one’s for Bob.”

“But Bob isn’t here.”

“But it’s for him!” you insisted, crossing your arms, as if that closed the case.

“There’s more!”

“But don’t eat that one. Eat anything else.”

“It’s my favorite!”

“Well, what a shame, there’s only one and it’s not yours.”

Suddenly, everyone seemed interested in the donut. It was a blackberry donut with vanilla glaze, a small work of art in dessert form. The fluffy, lightly browned dough was covered in a smooth, glossy glaze that smelled of natural vanilla extract, not the cheap, cloying imitation. Above the glaze, a purple swirl of homemade jam snaked like a miniature galaxy, with tiny pieces of blackberry peeking out here and there like barely revealed secrets.

“I saw it first,” he replied, his hand now closer to the box.

“DON’T TOUCH IT!”

By then, Ghost had already materialized behind John, her head peeking out from over his shoulder.

"What if I cut it into two equal parts? Half for each of you."

“I said no!” you shouted.

“Do it,” John concluded, lifting the box to give it to Ava.

Yelena, sitting on the couch, gave a curious look while she chewed her third donut with total shamelessness.

"Why don't we just hide it and see who finds it first? Like a stupid, grown-up version of a treasure hunt?"

“No one’s going to hide that donut. I already told you it’s Bob’s,” you complained, twisting around to shield the box with your body as if it were a nuclear device.

Alexei, sitting at the bar with a beer in his hand, licked his lips.

"I say the only fair solution is hand-to-hand combat. Whoever wins keeps it!"

“No!” you shouted, and Bucky joined in. However, your friends had a different opinion.

“I fight,” Ghost said.

“You didn’t even want it in the first place!”

“Me too,” Walker said, already taking off his jacket.

“I can eat it while you guys fight!” Yelena said, but you had already thrown a pillow at her with surgical precision.

The room became a chaotic choreography: Walker dodging Ava, Yelena climbing the back of the couch like a cat on sugar overload, you trying to put the box on top of the cupboard, Ghost dematerializing mid-leap.

From his position, Bucky watched you like an exhausted dad and issued a warning about not breaking any of the furniture. Alexei, at his side, was shouting to encourage the fight.

Peace only returned when a sleepy voice was heard from the hallway:

“Why are you shouting? What time is it?”

Bob peeked out, his hair a mess and his eyes still squinting from his nap. The chaos stopped. You all looked at him. And you held the box up in the air like it was a trophy.

“Take it away!”

"What?"

“Take it!” you practically ordered him.

The poor man stumbled over to you and snatched the box from you, hearing a collective sigh. You were relieved, the others were annoyed.

"What is this?"

“I bought you a donut,” you explained simply.

Then he frowned and opened the box. It was a little squashed, but the blackberry dessert was still in one piece.

Bob blinked.

“Were you all killing each other over a donut?”

Perhaps it was the incredulous tone of voice, or how ridiculous the situation sounded when said out loud, but suddenly all of you found yourself holding back a laugh. A few seconds later, laughter erupted.

“What a shitty team we are.”

“We can share it, if you want…”

"Yes!"

“No!” you shouted in unison. Bob flinched slightly at the tone of your voice. “Walker can choke on all that’s left, but that one’s for you.”

You said it in a way that left no room for argument and he smiled slightly.

“It’s my favorite.”

“That’s what I said!” John complained. However, he didn’t pursue the matter further and approached the others, taking two more donuts as a sign of resignation.

As quickly as chaos had appeared, it was gone.

Alexei occasionally expressed his approval of what had just happened, arguing that this kind of situation was an exercise in group bonding. You thought you heard Bucky call you idiots, but in a tone that made it clear he didn't mean it.

"Here"

Your murmur brought Bob out of his thoughts, and he smiled broadly when you placed a mug in his hand. It was a gift from Yelena and was inscribed with: Today is a good day. Very appropriate, in your opinion.

"Thanks”

“Two of milk and one of sugar,” you announced with satisfaction.

His happiness only increased when he realized that you were actually paying attention to him.

You plopped down next to him on the soft couch—most people's favorite when it came to a nap—and he shrank down to give you space, sitting in the lotus position as he always did.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye. That day, he was wearing a thick, slightly baggy olive-green sweater with slightly long sleeves. The color had a muted hue, like moss or old pine, which brought out the sparkle in his eyes.

There was a white T-shirt underneath, barely visible at the neck. A pair of soft, dark gray sweatpants, the kind with drawstrings and deep pockets. And on his feet, a pair of dark socks with which he glided around the tower.

He didn't look scruffy, just comfortable.

“I got scared a little while ago. I thought something bad was happening.”

You let out a soft chuckle at his confession, feeling the tension in the air melt away.

“I’m sorry we woke you up.”

“Don’t worry. At least it wasn’t in vain,” he smiled reassuringly, taking a sip of his hot drink. The steam brushed his face before he opened the dessert box and looked at him with more than just hunger.

“How did you know this was my favorite?” he asked, surprised, as he carefully turned the box over in his hands.

“You told me.”

He looked up at you, clearly confused.

“Well… you didn’t tell me directly. I heard you muttering it in your sleep.”

“Do I talk in my sleep?”

“Apparently so. And you actually answer. Because when you said I'd give you a donut, I asked you what you were talking about… and you said you wanted this one.”

"How embarrassing.”

“It’s kinda cute, if you think about it.”

The rest of the group was absorbed in their conversations, muted laughter, and the occasional impromptu board game. Between you, the air felt more intimate, softer.

Bob took a bite of the donut. The slight crackle of the glaze broke with the sound of a deep sigh, as if something inside had loosened.

“When I was a good kid, my mom used to give me money to buy one of these,” his voice lowered slightly, almost as if he wasn’t sure if he should share “It wasn’t all the time, of course. And sometimes we went together, on the… the better days, you know. I think everything seemed simpler back then.”

He was silent for a moment.

“I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately, maybe that’s why I mentioned it in my sleep.”

“Oh… I��� had no idea.”

“But it's a good thing. I forgot how good it tastes” a soft, nostalgic smile spread across his face. “I always liked this flavor because it has just the right amount of sweetness, with a hint of sourness. “I feel like it’s very similar to what life is like.”

He was silent again for a second, fiddling with the napkin between his fingers.

“It’s probably not something you’re interested in, but…”

“Yes, I’m interested,” you quickly interrupted “Any story you want to tell us will interest us, Bob. There’s Alexei with all his anecdotes from his years in the service… we’ve never complained, even though he tells them over and over again.”

He laughed a little, brief but genuine.

“Do you want to try some?”

“But it’s yours”

“I'd like you to try it. It's something I want to share.”

You hesitated for only a second before accepting. You leaned closer and took a small bite from the side opposite the one he'd tried. The flavor was more intense than you expected: sweet, sour, and smooth all at the same time.

Bob watched you silently, as if observing your reactions was more important than the dessert itself. When your lips curved into a smile, he nodded, satisfied.

“It's delicious.”

“Um, you have a little bit of jam left…” he said softly, leaning slightly towards you. He raised a hand, hesitant, then pointed a finger at your lower lip “This way.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. The air seemed to stop for a moment.

For a moment, just a moment, it seemed as if he was going to lean closer. That he was going to wipe the jam off with his lips instead of his hand.

His eyes searched yours. And then, he took a deep breath. He lowered his hand, barely brushing your chin with his fingertips, and pulled away with a shy smile.

"That's it."

You didn't say anything at first. The warmth was still there, floating in the air, unnamed.

“You should, uh, drink your coffee. Before it gets cold.”

Your friend nodded at your suggestion and after that you tried to shake the nervousness from your mind, ignoring the sting that still burned where he had touched you.

Minutes later, fatigue began to take its toll. The noise of the group became a distant murmur, almost like a lullaby in the background. Bob leaned back slightly on the couch, still holding his cup in one hand. Without thinking twice, you approached and rested your head on his shoulder.

“Do you mind if I stay like this for a while?” you asked quietly.

“No. Stay”

His words were gentle. There was something so serene about him that made you close your eyes. Your arm instinctively reached for his, wrapping it around him in a gesture that didn't ask for permission, only offered shelter.

Bob stayed still, careful with every movement, as if breathing deeply could bother you. He felt your weight against his side, your breathing slowing. The warmth of your body was unlike any blanket; it was human, alive.

He felt held, loved, in a way he hadn't known he needed so much.

The team was always affectionate toward him. Many patted him on the back, hugged him unexpectedly, or sat very close without question. But this… this was different. It wasn't a casual display of affection. It was something that asked him to stay. Something that said: you're safe here.

He looked at you once more. You were already asleep, your lips parted and your brow barely relaxed. And although the chair wasn't entirely comfortable, and the noise continued in the background, Bob didn't want to move.

Not that night.

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

CRUSH- D.GRAYSON

pairing: richboy! dick grayson x girly! innocent!fem! reader

part one here! part three here!

word count: 2.7k

summary: its the morning after your prince charming had swooped you off your feet, and somehow- dicks secret superpower is diminishing hangovers, by taking care of you.

warnings: sexual thoughts/ implications, kissing/ slight make-out session, pet names, mentions of masturbation, size kink implied, swearing, dick asks reader out on her first date and kinda acts like a sugar daddy lol, he's kinda a soft dom in a way...

Your head felt like a truck had run over it.

As if you had been tossed on the road, and a Ford F150 had slowly taken its time driving its tires over your head.

You woke up, still in your clothes from the night before, makeup smudged and jewellery tangled. Groaning, you slowly pulled each limb out of bed, feeling like a jello.

The clock hands ticked just past ten thirty, but it felt like you had got an hour of sleep, tops.

You were in definite need of a nap today, you thought to yourself as you slowly rocked up to your feet, tugging off your clothes from the previous night.

The fact you had worn outdoor club clothes in your bed… yeah, you’d need to wash your sheets today too.

You let the morning light that peaked through your thin curtains illuminate the path to your dresser, where you tugged on a new pair of panties and an oversized band tee. Kicking past skirts and thongs, you placed your head in your hands before you managed the courage to go out and brave the bathroom.

And the kitchen. But the thought of greasy bacon and eggs made you excited, just a little.

You creaked open your door, starting to walk to the bathroom before stopping in your tracks.

Oh fuck.

Dick Grayson lay sprawled on the couch, blanket covering practically nothing as he snoozed. His legs were spread, one out on the floor, the other over the arm of the couch.

And his abs… Oh god.

Here was this man- completely sprawled out in your living room- that you had completely forgotten about him staying- mind you. You didn't know why he stayed- the couch clearly was not suited for him- but you were glad he did.

You just needed to get things ready before he woke. And put pants on.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck…” you mumbled, feet pattering on the hardwood as you scurried to the bathroom.

What you didn't know of course, was the man was already awake- and had been for a while. He had learned to “pretend sleep”, so his roommates would leave him alone when they came home and he was in the living room.

You didn't even let the water warm up before you were scrubbing at your face frantically, like a mad woman before trying to fix your bedhead.

Soon he’d be awake, and you wanted to make him breakfast in bed (on the couch? You didn't know what the hell to call it).

It was the least you could do for him, for taking care of you. He was so sweet. It made your heart flutter, remembering how kind he was to you last night. And here he was on your uncomfortable ass sofa!

A true gentleman indeed.

You frantically rushed to the kitchen, seeing his body still splayed out as you darted to the kitchen, trying your best to be quiet.

“Fuck fuck okay make coffee, make him coffee and find eggs…” you whispered to yourself, making him smirk to himself. He cracked an eye open, shifting so he rested his head over the sofa, watching you silently.

You were in your own little world, trying to reach for a mug on the highest shelf.

“Need any help with that bun?”

You jumped, whipping around to face where he rested his arms and head over the couch back- a smirk on his face.

“You scared me! How long have you been awake for? I’m so sorry if I was loud-”

“A while. You werent loud sweetheart. Dont need to get yourself all worried about me, okay?”

He stood with a stretch, ruminging around on the ground before he found his target- tugging on his pants from last night. You quickly averted your gaze- covering your eyes with a hand as he tugged them on, pulling your fingers apart just a peak to try and get a glance.

You felt guilty but- oh well. You already saw him when he was “sleeping”. 

Heat spread throughout your body as he made his way over to you, trapping you in against the countertop- facing his chest as he reached up with ease to grab the mug you were after. You were frozen in place for what felt like forever, as if you were a statue, just marveling at the sight of him.

“T-thanks.” you managed to mutter out as he handed you the mug, cocky grin plastered across his face- knowing exactly what he was doing to you.

Oh but wait! Things get better! Your inner monologue shouted at you as his hand reached up to brush a stray eyelash of your cheek, rough thumb so gentle across your skin.

“You feeling okay?” he asked gently, knowing last night was… something.

“I’m okay. I have this throbbing in my head- like a drum. S’annoying.”

He snorted, grabbing another mug for himself.

“Yeah that’ll do it. Coffee will fix you up.”

“Do you not have a headache?” you asked, suddenly broken from your trance as he neared the coffee machine, reminding you of your duties before he decided to flip flop your heart around.

“Me? You’re cute.”

You frowned, forehead lines crinkling in a way that made him swoon. You were so adorable when you frowned. Like a little bunny, crinkling its nose.

“Thats not fair.”

“Sweetheart, one of us here is a lightweight, and one of us here is not. Thats the way it goes. Plus, I’m a lot bigger then you.”

You raised your eyebrow, flicking on the machine, the hot liquid beginning to trickle out into his mug.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm. And stronger too.”

You swallowed, the distance between the two of you becoming smaller, and smaller. You’re apartment wasnt exactly a penthouse suite, but it wasnt super small either. Yet, your kitchen felt like it was crammed with him in it, the room turning hot, your cheeks filled with heat.

“I-I think your coffee is done Dickie.” you murmered, watching as he reached right past you, grabbing the cup and taking a sip.

He drank it black. Of course.

Whistling a little tune as he opened your fridge, craining down to dig around in your fridge, as if he had lived here for years. “Do you want some fruit?” he asked, pulling out a container of berries, and a carton of eggs.

“Please. God I need a strawberry in my system, or I’m gonna crash out.”

“What- you haven't already?”

You lunged at his remark, wacking his bicep lightly, making him laugh. “Make me eggs or I’ll crash out even more.” you smiled, snagging the milk out of the fridge door to pour in your own coffee, adding some sugar.

Popular opposites, it seemed.

He raised his hand to his forehead, giving you a stern salute. “You got it sweetheart.”

----------------------------------

It was the best hangover morning you’d ever had.

You didn't even know those existed, but with Dick Grayson- they did.

He made breakfast in your kitchen, like it was his house. Serving up perfect eggs and toast, with your fruit- it was as if it was gourmet.

Planting a soft kiss on the top of your head, before serving it to you was the cherry on top.

The two of you talked as the sun steadily filtered through the clouds, laughter and utensils clattering. He was just- you couldn't even put your finger on it. It was like he was your boyfriend- honestly.

You just met him the other night, and here he was, making you breakfast and laughing at your stupid jokes after staying the night on the couch- AFTER taking care of you.

There was no sex. No trade offs, no nothing.

It made your head spin, at the complete 180 he seemed to be from most college guys. He was older, yes, but not by much. A few years at most. But he carried himself as if he was matured, older and wise.

Like he could get anything he wanted, if he talked slickly enough- which he always did.

You were captivated under his spell, watching his blue eyes sparkle as he talked, and the ink black strands that would fall in front of them.

He was smart, he was funny and he was oh so sweet.

You wanted him to stay forever, just as company- in all honesty. He was amazing company. The silence was never awkward, when there was some that hung in the air. He’d just admire you from where you sat at the breakfast nook.

“You’re so pretty. You know that? The prettiest girl.”

It made your skin heat, always looking down at your hands fiddling in your lap, when his compliments became overwhelming (they all did).

But when the coffee grew cold, reality had set in, and he had to leave. As much as it pained you to let him go from your safe haven, you knew he had his own life to attend to- and you had yours. But that didn't stop you from trying to convince him, nonetheless.

”I think you should stay.” you teased as you opened the front door, leaving it swung open- as if to coax him back inside.

He groaned. “Bunny, you know I’d love to. But-”

His phone started to buzz, and he rolled his eyes, fishing it out of his pocket. Tim’s name flashed across the screen, a man you presumed was his friend.

“Speak of the devil. I gotta get back to help my roommates with something I promised them sadly, but I promise I’ll be back. Okay?”

You nodded, stepping out from where you were shielded by the door, body coming into full view. His eyes darkened, as he saw your thighs that poked out at him from your t-shirt in the dimmed hallway lighting.

“I’ll text you as soon as I can. Would you like to get dinner sometime this week?” he asked, stepping closer to you, so your breaths were practically intermingling.

You crained your head up to look at him with wide, doe eyes- and he nearly melted into a puddle. “I’d love that Dickie.”

“Yeah I know you would. Now cmere, I wanna kiss you. That okay?”

You licked your lips as he slowly backed you up against the doorframe, caging you in as his hand slipped up to grasp your jaw, holding it gentle- yet firm.

“I’d love that.”

He chuckled. “Yeah? This okay sweetheart?” he breathed, leaning down so his lips were almost touching yours.

Before you could answer, his lips were on yours, the sweet taste of him sending shocks up your spine- nerves coursing on fire at the sensation, as his tongue coaxed your lips to part, begging for entrance.

You moaned, muffled by his lips as he swallowed you whole, consuming you as he gripped your waist, tugging your hips closer to him, so your back was arched against the old wooden frame.

You felt dizzy, when the two of you finally parted, your lips feeling flushed and swollen, a dazed look in your eye as you just stared at him.

Was that the best kiss of your life? Yes.

Were you going to tell him that? Hell no.

You knew his ego did not to be inflated anymore.

He smiled mischievously, like a feline as he planted a kiss on your forehead, and then another, before he turned down the hall. Like he didn't just sweep you off your feet, leaving you dazed like some swooning princess who had just found her prince charming.

“I’ll call you sweetheart.” he called, waving without a second glance, before he disappeared down the stairs, and out the door- leaving no trace of him but your flushed skin and the door swinging on its hinges. 

--------------------------------

Dick was hounded the second his foot stepped in the door.

“So? When do we meet her?” Tim asked from the living room, perched beside the IKEA boxes of parts for the new couch he was supposed to help put up (even though they could easily do it without his help).

He slammed it behind him, hard. “Don't even start.”

Jason let out a little whistle, not even sparing Dick a glance, though he knew the look in his eye would set him off anyways. “He really likes this one Drake. Means he’s gonna get all possessive and not share her with any of us.”

He tossed Dick a wink, making Dick clench his fingers into fists. God they knew how to get under his skin.

“He’s scared she’ll decide she likes us better, don't worry Dickie, I get it.” Tim called, watching as Dick rolled his eyes, making his way over to the mess on the hardwood floor.

“When do we need this done by?” he ignored Tim, starting to pry open one of the boxes.

“Uhh I don't know, when do you want a couch for?”

“I don't know why we need a new couch. Our old one was fuckin fine.” Jason grumbled, flipping a screwdriver between his fingers, even though he was strong enough to probably just press the damn nails in.

“Because it was disgusting and I’m tired of breaking my ass on a spring whenever I watch a game.” Tim mumbled.

Dick was in his own world, tuning out anything that wasn't the thought of you. He already missed your presence. Your soft touch, your sweet smell, the little noises you made when he kissed you, pressing you firmly against the door.

So close he could feel your hardened nipples brush against his chest, skin hot to the touch.

He needed to see you, and soon. Where the hell did he want to take you for dinner?

Up on the East end?

No, not fancy enough.

He needed something spectacular for you. Ideally, he’d want you ending the bed in his bed, in his car- he didn't care where. He just wanted you again, your lips and your pretty little sounds that he would most definitely be imagining tonight when his hand was wrapped around his cock.

He’d take his time with you, unravelling you like a gift. Whether that was on leather seats or memory foam mattresses, he didn't care.

He’d needed this extra special for you.

He’d call in some favours.

---------------------------------- It was nearing the late evening when your phone buzzed, the only name you wanted to see popping up on it.

You were all ready for bed, facemask completed, everything shower done, soft pjs on, nails painted and candle lit. Seeing his name flash on the screen made your heart flutter, and you quickly opened his message, not even bothering to pause your show before responding.

Dick: Hey pretty. Does Tuesday work for dinner?

You: Hi :) Tuesday is perfect!

Even if you had plans that night- you’d push them aside.

Dick: Perfect. Be ready for 8pm, sharp ;)

You: Yes sir:)

You watched his message bubble up, before disappearing again. Then it popped up again, a notification alerting you that he had sent you money.

Your jaw dropped.

This man had just sent you $800 dollars.

Dick: You’re gonna accept this okay? Or I’m going to be very upset and I’ll find a way into your apartment and hand you the money myself. Get yourself something nice for Tuesday.

You were gobsmacked.

How the fuck were you supposed to accept this?

You: Dickie… I don't think I can accept this. And I don't even know what to wear.

Dick: You’ll accept it, and you’ll find something. Anything you pick will be beautiful, I promise bunny.

Your hands were shaking as you held your phone between twitching fingers, in a state of shock. You had known this man for two days, and he was splurging $800 on you? You didn't even know how to respond.

Although to him, you supposed- it probably was next to nothing.

Here he was, making you play dress up to some date planned- that you were unaware of. You had no theme to go off of, no idea of what was happening.

You bit your lip, fighting a little more, even begging for a clue or hint of what to wear- but he gave you nothing. Claiming he wanted you to be authentic, to wear whatever you wanted.

It was too much creative freedom.

Your head swarmed with thoughts of all the possibilities, $800 was a lot of money, and you didn't even know where to start. You let yourself have a mini freakout, and be overwhelmed, before you tucked yourself under the covers, pulling out your laptop to start browsing Pinterest.

You had no time to mess around.

You had a crush to impress.

--------------------------------------------------------

eek so dickie is gonna go all romantic and take reader on her first date? hmmm ;)

@gwyneveire <3 if anyone else wants to be tagged i can try and remember to add you in the future!

[22ayla21]

Hi! I have something for Leona.

Could you do Leona with wife reader where she call him by his full name. How he, his family and kids will react. Maybe bonus that Leona try to coax his wife for his to escape the situation.

Love your writing with my whole heart ❤

Full Name - Full Defeat

One innocent snack turns into a catastrophe when Leona realizes that his full name, spoken by his wife, is not just an address, but a sentence.

The heat in the Sunset Savannah was its usual mild and dry self. The day rolled on: the children were playing chess, servants bustled in the kitchen preparing dinner, and Leona... well, Leona was napping after lunch as always. No one batted an eye – it was his established routine, practically a law of life.

Everything was going as usual until a clear and almost ominous voice echoed from the kitchen.

"Leona Kingscholar."

The yard fell silent at once. Even the breeze seemed to quiet down, not wanting to miss a word.

The children, engrossed in a game of chess, froze. The boy slowly raised his eyes from the board where he was setting up the pieces. His sister, only ten minutes older, mouthed:

"Dad's in trouble."

Farena peered into the yard, papers in hand. He had already opened his mouth to say something, but upon hearing his brother's full name, he immediately darted back into the shade, as if observing a scene in the wild jungle where a lion had suddenly encountered an enraged lioness.

Farena's wife raised an eyebrow and said softly:

"She never calls him that. Only if..."

"...he's really messed up," finished Leona and Farena's mother, folding her arms across her chest and fixing her gaze on the kitchen door.

At that very moment, Leona, lazily stretching after his siesta, appeared in the doorway with a plate in his hand. An empty plate. He licked his spoon. Heard his full name. And froze in place.

"What the—?" he began, but stopped short, meeting his wife's gaze.

She stood tall – not very tall, but her look was formidable, her eyes narrowed, and the towel draped over her shoulder seemed not like a kitchen accessory, but a banner of righteous retribution.

"Please repeat," she said in an even, icy tone, "exactly what you just ate?"

"Um..." Leona, who was unfazed by magic, duels, or even Malleus's tantrums, suddenly felt his mouth go dry. "There was a plate there, and... I thought it was up for grabs."

"That was mine. I specifically left half to finish later. You knew that. I said it out loud. Three times. I even pointed at it once."

He scratched the back of his head.

"Well... it looked kind of lonely. And it smelled really good. I didn't want the food to go bad."

"Leona. Kingscholar," she repeated, and this time it wasn't just a voice – it was a tocsin.

A quiet movement began in the yard. The children started to slowly retreat towards the back door.

"Hurry, before Mom starts the lecture on personal boundaries," whispered the daughter, nudging her brother.

"Or, heaven forbid, she brings up 'that mango incident' again," he added with horror.

Farena, hiding behind the curtain, whispered to his wife:

"This is worse than when he spilled sauce on the archive maps. Much worse. At least it wasn't his food that was ruined then."

"She was saving that portion," Farena's wife nodded. "It had smoked meat in it; she specifically asked for it to be made. The chef said there are no supplies for next week."

Meanwhile, Leona, still holding the spoon, tried to force a guilty smile.

"Well, even if you're angry, I'm still your favorite, right?"

She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Leona Kingscholar. You ate my food. Without asking. Without apologizing. Without the slightest remorse. This is – betrayal."

"Oh, come on, that sounds a little too serious..."

"You knew perfectly well how much I wanted to finish it. You heard me. I saw you nod. And then... you. Ate. It. All."

He flattened his ears.

"Sorry..."

She rolled her eyes, turned away, and walked out of the kitchen, tossing over her shoulder:

"Make your own meat today. And look for any remaining conscience you might have."

Leona remained standing in the empty kitchen, ashamed, with the spoon in his hand and the face of a man who had finally realized what he had done.

He turned and saw his whole family watching him from the window.

Farena gave him a thumbs-up.

"Welcome to the club."

His mother sighed heavily.

"Well, at least she remembered his name. He's been getting too lax lately."

And only the children, hiding in the next room, giggled:

"Mom won. Dad's knocked out."

[rubystudios-yt]

He held the small thing in his hands, gently shifting it from side to side, careful to not puncture it's frail flesh with pointed bone. Softly poking at it's face with a knuckle to see the skin move with it and it squirm at the feeling.

The tuff of wool on top of it's head looked clean, thoroughly washed and cared for. He only wished his flesh hadn't rotted off some time ago, maybe then he'd be able to feel it's warm softness, even if just a smidge.

The little sheep had made it's way up the hill to greet him, and took it upon itself to try and climb up his robes when he didn't respond. He had to catch it when it started to slip.

He hadn't ignored it on purpose, he had simply just not heard the sheep's little bleats. Far too small to make a sound really that loud enough for him to hear when it had been on the ground.

But with him cradling it in his palms with his legs pulled up by his chest, leaning back onto an old redwood tree, he could hear it just fine. He wasn't entirely sure what it had been babbling on about, only really half paying attention. He did hear it ask what the scars on his bones that where his wrists where. The question went unanswered.

The sheep didn't seem to mind the old god prying at it or his lack of any vocal responses, after a while it did seem to finally tire itself out of talking and were content with taking a nap as he held it.

It was intriguing to him.

He watched it's chest rise and fall as it breathed small and evenly through it's slumber. The way it's face twitched and softened, a reflection of it's dreams it held onto.

It was fragile and light, any wrong move of his could crush bones and tear it's flesh apart. Surely the creature knew of this as well, and yet it still entrusted it's life within his hands.

He looked up over at the village that the mortal had come from, nearly hidden in the dense forest of Darkwood. It was a cute little place, decorated beautifully with bright florals and different brilliant shades of green. Roofs of straw and hay bundled together tightly to protect from the weather outside sat atop of wooden walls with carved windows.

He wondered which one the sleeping sheep had come from. Did it have any family? Did he? The four gods who had found him in chains called him their brother, so he supposed he had them. But their every movement and word seemed like they didn't know what to do with him. They were afraid to touch him, like he would wither away if they pressed on his bones too roughly, spoke with shaking soft voices that sounded forced. Like they didn't want to speak with him, he never reciprocated their words so he knows not why they forced themselves to.

In a way he knew why, having the need to use a slickly scythe designed for combat as nothing more than a walking stick (which now lay against the same tree as he), easily falling down as his legs felt as though caving in on themselves. But those where nothing time couldn't fix, if he kept walking without over exceeding himself then he wouldn't have to walk with one of the gods trailing close behind any longer. He wouldn't have to be a burden to them, it was troublesome enough as is.

He had managed to find escape away from the worm this time around. He felt terrible using his blindness to his own advantage, but he felt as though they had been suffocating him, coddling him as though he couldn't do anything at all on his own. He felt pathetically small around them, despite his height causing him to practically loom over the four of them.

The sky that overcasted the village was dark with the night's colorful blues and blacks. Stars twinkled bright above them. It felt like only minutes before the colors shifted to allow room for the sun's early morning rays. Highlighting the shadowy purples with pinks and golden orange and yellows. It made the village below feel more full in a way. Like this was how it was meant to be viewed as.

small doodle for a snippet I wrote a couple of months ago lol

[wordsofwhimsy]

𝓢𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓘𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮

Pairing: Variant!Mark Grayson x Childish!Reader [GN? I tried but didn't proofread so might lean more towards a fem reader]

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, romcom

Word Count: Total = 2,019 but each part is less than 600

Synopsis: Your beloved stuffed animal bit the dust in a cleaning accident – how will your boyfriend react when he comes home after a brutal mission to you, distraught, on the living room floor?

a/n: based on this ask! probably will do a part 2 with other variants but if i do it'll take awhile lmaoo

You’re already crying when the door opens. Not soft, aesthetic crying either—the real deal. Full-body hiccups. Wet cheeks. One sock on. Mascara down to your chin. You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room floor surrounded by glitter markers, open candy wrappers, and a very dead stuffed animal.

Well. Not dead dead. Just… armless.

You clutch the plush against your chest like it’s a wounded soldier in a war movie, sobbing into its fuzzy head. The vacuum lies tipped over nearby like a murder weapon, cord tangled around your ankle, nozzle still dust-speckled from the carnage.

“WHY DID I EVEN HAVE IT OUT?!” you wail. “I KNEW I wasn’t emotionally stable enough to vacuum unsupervised!”

The front door clicks open behind you.

You don’t look.

Mohawk!Mark

The door slams open hard enough to shake the wall.

You don’t look.

You’re too busy weeping into Mr. Buttons, the once-proud stuffed bunny who now has one arm, a scorched ear, and the emotional weight of a war veteran.

“WHY GOD?!” you sob again, eyes soaking the fur of your beloved stuffy.

“…You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You perk up a little, sniffling, cheeks blotchy. “Momo…”

His mohawk is disheveled, ends still smoking. There’s a gash torn through the blue panel of his suit, zipper half-ripped, blood drying in jagged trails down his chest. His gloved fingers twitch at his side, knuckles crusted with whatever the hell he just finished tearing through. One leg of his suit is shredded from thigh to ankle, exposing the angry red scrape underneath. He looks like war incarnate.

And he’s staring at a battlefield made of jellybean wrappers and glitter pens.

“I just ripped a guy’s spine out with my teeth, and this is what I come home to?” His eyes flick between the murder scene (the vacuum), your puffy face, and the limp corpse of Mr. Buttons. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You wobble to your feet like a tragic little Bambi, Mr. Buttons cradled in your arms like a wounded baby bird. You walk over—barefoot, because of course you are—and hold him up with trembling hands.

“He didn’t make it…”

Mark stares. Jaw clenched. Vein ticking in his temple.

“It’s a toy.”

“He had a personality!! He liked strawberry milk and The Princess Diaries and naps in the sun—”

“So you, then.”

“—and now he’s DEAD!”

Mark dragged a hand down his face. His fingers left a bloody streak across his cheek.

“You’re outta your mind.” He pushes past you and drops into a chair with a wince, crimson smearing across the armrest. “I am not dealing with this today.”

But you just follow him. Sniffling. Lip trembling.

“Can you fix him?”

“No.”

“But you’re strong…”

He levels a glare at you so deadly it could stop time.

“You want me to use my battle-scarred, alien-murdering superhands to sew an arm back onto your psycho bunny plush?”

You nod. Very seriously. “With pink thread, please.”

He groans like he’s being physically pained. “I don’t think you understand what I am—”

“You’re my knight in shining armor!! And right now I neeeeed yoooou to save me, PLEASE!”

He turns his face away. Covers his eyes with one bloodied hand again. God, why did you have to be so fucking cute?

His other hand’s already reaching—snatching Mr. Buttons from your arms with a muttered “gimme the damn thing.”

You gasp.

“YOU’RE FIXING HIM?!”

“I’m stapling it,” he growls. “And if you call that ‘surgery’ I’m tearing off all its damn limbs.”

You throw your arms around him before he can escape.

“You’re the best boyfriend everrrr, Momo!!”

“Don’t fucking call me that—”

“Momo Buttons!!”

“Stop.”

“Dr. Momo, PhD in bunny restoration—”

“I will punt this into the sun.”

And yet, an hour later, you’re curled up beside him on the couch with Mr. Buttons (now Frankenstein’d back together with questionable stitching and a battle scar across his belly), and Mark’s hand resting on your thigh, smudged with dried blood and glitter.

He hasn’t said a word in ten minutes.

But when you lean your head on his shoulder, he doesn’t pull away.

“...He missed you too, y’know.”

Mark grunts.

“Yeah, whatever.”

But his fingers brush over the stuffed bunny’s sewn-up arm. Just once.

Soft.

Lensless/No Goggles!Mark

The front door clicks open behind you, and then you hear his voice. Low. Lethal. Absolutely shook.

“...Oh. My. God.”

You twist around, sniffling.

Mark’s standing in the doorway, dripping blood down the entryway tile, holding a smoking chunk of metal in one hand and what might’ve been someone’s femur in the other. His suit is half-destroyed, the insignia across his chest seared clean off. His hair is wild. His smile is worse.

He’s staring at you ike he sensed the drama from space.

“You been crying this whole time, princess?”

You hiccup. “My bunny—he got caught in the vacuum and—and—”

His whole expression drops. “Wait…. What?”

You hold up Mr. Buttons. His little arm swings limply. Your lip quivers.

“He didn’t make it…”

Mark gasped like you told him a close family member had died. “...No.” He drops the bloody metal chunk with a clang. “No. NO. NOT BUNNY.”

“He’s missing a LIMB, Mark!”

“…Who did this?” His eyes fly across the room, landing with bloodlust on the vacuum. “Was it… you?”

Your heart feels heavy, sober. You nod solemnly and don’t say a word. He’s not even looking at you but you know he still feels the confirmation.

“You son of a—”

“THIS ISN’T THE TIME, POOGINS, CAN’T YOU SEE HE’S DYING?!”

Mark whirls around, eyes wild and teeth bared. His stare falls to the small, stuffed, inanimate object in your arms, as if it were his lost offspring. His expression falls, shoulders slumping in pain.

“No no no. No. Not today. I’ve already seen too much. I can’t do this again. Not after what happened to Mr. Wiggles last month.”

You sob harder.

“I didn’t mean to, I—I just wanted to clean up a little and he was under the couch and then I heard the ripping sound and I KNEW—!”

Markcuts in sharply. “STOP. This wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself for these things – we all make mistakes in the heat of battle.”

You’re full-body hiccupping now.

“He liked strawberry milk… and sunshine naps… and The Princess Diaries…”

Mark’s jaw clenches.

“He deserved better.”

He stands. Slowly. Somber. Taking the bunny from you like it’s a casualty of war.

“I’m going to fix him.”

You sniff. “You are?”

He turns back to you, dead serious.

“I didn’t survive a wormhole, three ambushes, and a sentient flame god just to come home and lose Mr. Buttons. Not today.”

“Do you want my sparkly sewing kit—?”

“Get me the hot glue.”

Emergency Surgery Begins

You’ve laid out the supplies on the coffee table: scissors, pink thread, glitter glue, bandaids, and a hot glue gun. Most supplies were just for show—wishful thinking at best.

Mark’s suit was peeled off his chest now and hanging around his waist — as if the heat was just too much to bear. Blood was drying across his chest as he hunched over Mr. Buttons like a field medic on the frontlines.

“Scissors,” he commands. You pass them to him with trembling fingers. He was steady as a heartbeat. All business.

“Glue gun.” Tears welled in your eyes, pinching your lids shut as you shoved the tool in his direction.

He cuts. Glues. Mutters darkly to himself the whole time.

“God, this plush was a fighter. Seam integrity’s strong. Stuffing’s still soft. He wasn’t ready to go...”

You sit nearby, hands clasped like you’re waiting for a loved one to come through open-heart surgery.

“Is he gonna make it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just dabs in the last bit of glue before glancing at you…

And nods.

“He’s stable.”

You burst into tears again. He pats your head—awkwardly, like he’s not used to emotional displays—but it’s gentle. Almost proud.

Then he sets Mr. Buttons upright between you both, his newly reattached arm flopping slightly.

“Rest now, soldier,” Mark whispers. “You’re safe.”

Viltrum!Mark

You’re already crying when the door opens.

Not full sobs—no. You’re trying to hold it in. Trying to be good. A few shaky breaths. Some tears slipping down despite your best effort. You sit very still on the floor, cross-legged and quiet, with your arms wrapped around Mr. Buttons like he’s the only thing anchoring you to Earth.

Or he was. Until the vacuum got him.

The vacuum lies discarded nearby. The bunny’s arm dangles by a thread.

You don’t sob. You don’t scream. You just stare at the wall and breathe—like that’ll keep the tears from breaking loose.

And then he appears.

There’s no sound when he lands. No footsteps. Just the faint shift of air pressure and the distant crackle of gravel. You don’t look up.

“You’re hurt.”

His voice is soft. Too soft for someone who once crushed a man’s ribs just for glancing at you in public.

You shake your head, still hugging the plush. “No, I’m okay. I just—” Your voice cracks. You clear your throat. “I was vacuuming. I didn’t know he was under the couch.”

Mark stares. Then his gaze falls to Mr. Buttons.

The limb.

The stitches.

The glitter sticker bandaid desperately trying to hold it all together.

You can feel the weight of his silence. It’s not judgmental. It’s... confused.

“You’re crying over a toy.”

You almost laugh. It comes out more like a hiccup. “I know it’s stupid.”

Mark kneels. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

“I didn’t say that.”

You glance at him then. Eyes red. Lip trembling.

He gently takes Mr. Buttons from your arms. Turns the plush in his hand with intentional delicacy. Something so foreign to hands that were built for war. His jaw flexes.

Then he vanishes.

Just—gone.

You blink. Sniffle. “...Mark?”

Sixty seconds later, he’s back. Holding three bunnies. Three of them are brand-new, tags still on.

“The original has been expedited to the top textile conservator on Earth. She’s expecting him by nightfall.”

You blink at him. “You—you sent him away?”

“To be restored properly.” He pauses. “In the meantime, I brought options.”

You look at the new plushies in his arms. They’re nearly identical. But none of them feel right. They haven’t been there with you since a child – they seem like strangers wearing the mask of your best friend.

“I don’t want a replacement.”

“You don’t need one,” he says, voice even. “You need him whole.”

You nod, and then he sets the others aside. Gathers you into his lap.

You don’t ask. He just pulls you in. Wraps himself around you like armor. Like a shield. One hand cups the back of your head. The other pulls a soft blanket over your legs.

“Don’t hide pain from me,” he murmurs into your hair. “Just because I don’t understand it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. If it matters to you, than it matters at all.”

You clutch his shirt.

“I didn’t want to bother you…”

“You’re never a bother.”

“Even when I’m crying over a stuffed animal?”

“Especially then.”

He tilts your face up and kisses your forehead. So soft. So reverent it makes your eyes sting again.

“Things like... Mister… Bunny… don’t exist on Viltrum. But I saw your face,” he whispers. “And I understand that for you it’s something that’s important. That’s all I need to see to know it matters then to me too.”

[seleneprince]

Snippet of my Neglected! Family x Yandere! Batfam au (I really need to find a name for this au already)

Wife! Darling has known of the Batcave's existence for years already, and so do her children.

She found out by pure accident. Her oldest daughter was doing her usual computer stuff she didn't understand, and said she found a weird signal coming from under the manor, in the underground...only they didn't know there was anything down there, not even a basement. Alfred never mentioned it.

The girl went to check, tracing the mysterious signal with her phone, and found a hidden compartment behind the pendulum clock. Before her mother could tell her to stop, she went down there.

Cue to Wife! Darling following her daughter to make sure she didn't get in trouble or hurt herself, because who knew if Batman even bothered with basic security measures for his vigilante stuff. From what she's seen of him as Bruce Wayne, she doubted it.

And that's how they found the Batcave. By the time Alfred found out and met them there, the daughter had already tinkered with half the equipment and replicated part of the Batcomputer's code in her tablet for fun, while her mother explored the whole place with a critical eye. Alfred expected them to be angry, to ask a lot of questions, but instead:

Wife! Darling!: "Who takes care of this place?"

Alfred: "Mostly me, Mistress (Name)."

Wife! Darling squinted her eyes, gaze darkening: "Just you? Does no one help you?"

Alfred: "It's part of my job, Mistress (Name). Don't worry, I can handle it perfectly well on my own."

She scoffed. "Well, this has to change. You're just one man, Alfred, and you're not getting younger with the years. The fact that they let you do so much already by yourself is infuriating, and you also have to clean after their crime-fighting bullshit? The nerve. I'll take care of this from now on"

Alfred blinked: "Mistress (Name), I can't possibly ask you that. You already help me more than enough around the house-"

Wife! Darling: "Nonsense, Alfred. You do way too much already. At this rate, it'll only affect your health for worse. I live here too now, so technically it's also my responsibility."

And that's how she ends up handling the maintenance of the Batcave along with Alfred, even taking over his tasks entirely. She starts off with the excuse of helping him, which it's true, but eventually she always takes care everything so the man has no option but rest.

And because she's such a perfectionist, she doesn't spare any efforts in the task. Cleans all the surfaces, fixes the suits, rearranges the weapons after cleaning them and creates a system to organize their gadgets so they're much easier to find. Even the Batmobile is left spotless, inside and outside. She goes as far to feed some of the bats casually roaming around the edges of the cave.

(And if her kids had naps inside the batmobile sometimes when they were down there, only she and Alfred are witnesses. Well, the bats too, but they're not snitching)

This way she takes some work off Alfred's shoulders. She finds it enraging that a man his age has such a heavy load of work with little to no help, so she takes over some of the house chores for him so he can have breaks. Plus, it helps her unwind and relax a bit from her usually stress-fuelled life.

She also begins to leave snarky notes about the shameful state of their gear when she finds it in particularly bad shape. And feels even worse that Alfred has had to take care of all of this at his age until she came.

"This blade is duller than your sense of self-awareness. Fix it"

"Blood is not a fashion statement. Grow up"

"If you die in this crusty suit, I’m not cleaning your corpse"

"Are you fighting villains or rolling in garbage?"

Seriously, the richest man in Gotham can't even afford a bit more of staff? But of course, she reminds herself he's the same man who forgot to use protection when fucking a random woman, so she shouldn't expect too much from him.

To avoid uncomfortable encounters, she specifically schedules her cleaning times for when the whole team is out, so she can work peacefully without being having to be in the same room as them. So far, it goes well. Alfred even warns her when they're coming back, and the Batcave is actually a pretty nice place to enjoy time for yourself when it's empty. Just the beeping of the computers as background noise, or her children messing around when they go down there to do their things.

It becomes part of her routine, one she even looks forward too during the day. Until one day.

The Batcave has been left spotless, as usual. Weapons polished. Suits lined up by height and damage level. Even the Batmobile has that new-car shimmer. It smells faintly of citrus-scented cleaning spray and frustration. There are also four sticky notes scattered across the table already, complaining about the state of their things again.

She is crouched near the weapon rack, holding the Batman suit with one gloved hand and a lint roller in the other, glaring at it like it personally offended her.

She mutters under her breath in Spanish, something about how "ni siquiera una máquina de coser podría salvar este desastre de traje, Dios mío." (Not even a sewing machine could save this disaster of a suit, my godness)

She’s in sweats, hair tied back in a messy bun. An apron over her tank top that says "KISS THE COOK (or don’t, I’ll stab you)". She's so deep in the cleaning zone she doesn’t hear the footsteps.

"Well, this is a surprise. I could get used to this."

Her entire body freezes. It feels like her blood turned ice in her veins instantly with the voice. That irritating, familiar voice.

Her head turns slowly, and there he is. Bruce Wayne in the flesh. Her husband in paper, father of her first child, owner of this cave, and responsible for half of the stress she deals with.

She could be annoyed or even embarrassed that he caught her like this, handling his suit no less. But instead, her mind is focused on what he said, and the tone in which he said it.

She arches a brow at him.

"Excuse me?"

He steps closer, clearly taking note of her work there. His eyes drifting to the Batmobile, the weapons, all she's taken care of already.

Bruce: "Me, coming back from work to find you cleaning my stuff. It’s so… domestic. It’s almost like we’re a married couple."

There’s a beat. A dangerous silence.

She blinks at him. Once. Twice. Processing the fact that he really said that. Out loud. To her. And in a completely serious tone.

Then he looks at her, and she notices the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. Oh, that filthy little-

Her eye twitches.

Wife! Darling: "...........Oh, absolutely."

WHACK.

She chucks a batarang at his head with a speed and accuracy that would’ve made Deadshot whistle. He barely ducks, and it slams into the metal behind him with a THUNK so loud the Batcomputer flinches and some bats burst out from their spots.

Bruce: "That could’ve taken my eye out."

Wife! Darling:"I was hoping so."

He stares at her, and then shakes his head, letting out a low chuckle. A chuckle. Since when is this man capable of that? Before she gets her answer, he pulls out the batarang with ease and places it back on the rack (Good, she would've murdered him for real if he left it anywhere else).

Bruce: "I meant it. I think I like this sight of you. Suits you well. You look like the ideal housewife."

Without looking, she reaches for another batarang and throws it at him. This time, he catches it mid-air, cool as ever, before setting it down on the table like he isn’t one second away from getting stabbed.

Bruce: "Was that really necessary?"

Wife! Darling: "It was either that or shoot you. You're lucky I'm generous today."

He watches her, barely concealing his amusement now, but there’s something else in his expression too, something he's never had when looking at her: Curiosity.

She doesn't like it.

Unbothered, as if he didn't just activate her kill switch, he starts to walk to the table and peels off one of the sticky notes, reading it aloud with a deadpan tone.

"Blood is not a fashion statement. Grow up."

Bruce: "You know I beat the shit out of people in this suit, right?"

She replies without sparing him a glance, wiping down a grappling gun with unholy aggression: "Yeah? Well, do it without staining it with their blood. You look like Gotham’s dirtiest raccoon."

He leans against the Batcomputer, arms folded. "How long have you been doing this, exactly?"

She scoffs, going back to adjusting the suit like she isn’t being interrogated. "Long enough to know that you leave your weapons in a shameful state. Honestly, it’s a miracle your stupid gadgets still function. Do you ever bother to maintain your own things, or do you just throw them around and hope Alfred fixes it?"

He watches her for a moment longer before finally speaking.

"And you’re doing this because...?"

"Because unlike some people in this godforsaken house, I actually care when an old man is running himself ragged taking care of things that none of you seem to appreciate."

Bruce pauses. He glances at the Batmobile, cleaner than it’s ever been. At his weapons, neatly arranged, polished, functional.

At the post-it notes stuck to the Batcomputer, scrawled in Rosa’s angry handwriting.

He actually huffs a quiet laugh. Again. It's unsettling her.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she mutters, "Besides, if you die because your equipment fails, it’s only a matter of time before you try to drag me into this circus. And I refuse to wear spandex."

He raises an eyebrow. "You’d look good in spandex."

Silence.

She throws the batarang at him again. This time, it actually clips his shoulder.

"Go get that treated before you stain anything, or I'll wipe the floors next with your face."

.......................

...........

Suddenly, Bruce starts to "casually" come to the cave early more often.

Now she has to adjust her schedule AGAIN to avoid him. And in the meantime, her children start betting on how many batarangs it takes before Bruce gets critically injured. Or dead.