#love and hate him in equal measure

[americanoddysey]

ben meredith's delivery in this episode was so fucking good he has No Right

[larsisfrommars]

It makes me insane that the solution to making Xander Harris less frustrating is (to me) genuinely and blatantly being motivated by complex reasons for hating vampires and not just feeling rejected by Buffy over Angel. Or at least if that’s what was even partly intended in-canon they could’ve made it more obvious.

To elaborate there isn’t actually a lot I would change about the character other than his more hurtful/negative actions having more direct consequences. Regardless of whether/how much he’d learn from those consequences. I think characters are more fun flawed and messy and confrontational!

Xander’s unnuanced distrust/hatred for Angel would be SO much more interesting if it wasn’t in large part about not getting in Buffy’s pants. It makes him look overwhelmingly petty and selfish when it (and he!) could be framed in a much cooler way. If only they’d let him actually express WHY he feels the way he does. Instead of just, y’know, being confrontational and not getting into the root of the issue.

There’s evidence in the text that could’ve taken his story in this direction too! Jesse and his death as a human and his death as a vampire (by Xander’s hand, if only by accident) should’ve mattered more to the overall story! Xander being gung-go about killing vamps and other monsters could’ve been more about revenge and a genuine desire to not let anyone else experience that!

I honestly think what makes him structurally unsound as a character aside from the typical Whedon-isms assigned to him; are the same problems the story has as a whole with constantly contradicting itself on whether vampires are actually inherently evil and unredeemable on the whole or not and what a soul even means/does when you have one.

This is canon in my head, and it’s also so important to me that the deaths that the show glazes over matter. I want characters like Jesse and Kendra to haunt the narrative WAY more. I like Xander more than most people and I cuss out the writers’ internally for doing him soooo dirty istg when the whole concept of diving deep into the fact that “The Heart” of Buffy hating vampires more than anything, in juxtaposition with Buffy’s integral attraction to them can be SO good.

[merrysithmas]

when ppl see this & this, directed by the same person, and think the narrative is "anakin is evil" not "anakin is a steward of the balance, a force demi god, as was foretold on Mortis" 😂

[idontgotopartiesanymore]

i am, first and foremost, a callum ilott fan

[0bsequi0us]

I'm at the point of my hyperfixation where I'm starting to get more normal again and man is it a relief

I've been into Trials for over 7 months now and like. For a while there I could not stop thinking about it like every day. I feel like it was actual psychosis. I have written over 57k words of fanfiction which is WAY more than I have for any other fandom. I got really sick around the new year and even that wasn't a suitable distraction.

idk how people do it man. After like 5 months I was so fed up

[faultlessspills]

Tbh I am a Paul-coded Paul girl.

However I also really want to be/to be with/ to devour John Lennon.

This evidence suggests that I may actually be Paul McCartney.

[scribblesgalore]

Every single Poirot mystery I’ve ever read (like 30) made me believe Hastings is stupid. And every single Poirot mystery I’ve listened to in audiobook form made me believe Poirot is an insufferable little guy. The tv show bridged the gap nicely and now they both equally piss me off

[roobylavender]

a random thought but i really am very obsessed with how deeply committed bruce is to his love of people and to the extent that it’s a regular divide between him and talia. not that she is without love, no, hardly so, but love will never come before principle for her in the sense that the principle does stem from love, but from a selfless love, not a selfish one. and i use these two descriptors purely as a means of analyzing perspective, so selfless and selfish not necessarily as moral indicators as they are often used today but merely as expressions of whether you’re acting for the sake of others or for yourself. talia is someone repeatedly acting at expense to herself for the sake of others. she gives her child away, she ends her marriage, she doesn’t say a word about it again for years despite having the chance, she takes on a high level espionage mission without speaking a word to her ex-lover, maybe to protect herself, maybe to protect him. whether those were worthwhile decisions to take is certainly debatable, but she acts near strictly from a perspective of caring about others and the world first. bruce is comparatively a very selfish person. every victim an extension of his own trauma, every grief taken to heart, every desperation for companionship so heavily internalized that he ends up pushing people away bc at some point he can’t bear to take them down under with him in his sorrow. it’s funny that he tries to be the rational voice in a room bc up to a point he is, but he also cares too much about his own personal affairs to be that way consistently

and in light of all of that i am thinking about the conversations he and talia must have in that alternate universe where damian is normal and newly revealed to both of them as a concrete concept in their lives, for bruce as the son he never had and for talia as the son she gave away, come back to them by way of fate. why did you never tell me you didn’t actually miscarry. why did you never tell me you had a son and you gave him away. why did you pretend like it was over when it never was. why did you look me repeatedly in the eyes over the years like there wasn’t something more that was there. when you said you couldn’t talk about it before i boarded a plane back home i held my tongue. when you let yourself be beaten within an inch of your life bc your city was falling to pieces i held my tongue. when my father took the contingency plans you made and used them to turn your friends against you i held my tongue. when i worked for a man who would for all intents and purposes use the knowledge of my relationship with you against you i held my tongue

how can bruce, a person so wrapped up in his love for people, not understand the number of sacrifices that talia has had to make for his own sake. her repeated protection of him, of his sanity, of his sanctity, is simultaneously her greatest crime and her greatest benevolence to him. she carried that grief of loss for years and years bc of how important bruce is to her. and bruce loves her, loves damian, too much to even begin to understand what love means outside of the parameters of his own feelings for them. that is his dilemma writ large wrt people he loves. that he can’t see the extent of what they do for him, bc he loves them too much and doesn’t know how to get out of the sheer grief and possessiveness of it

[candycryptids]

Is this our fate? To be discarded by humanity when we’re no longer deemed useful?

Who am I even more like, anymore? A sentient being with the body of a machine- what even am I, now? Did they grieve for you, or was it quiet and lonely? Did it hurt, can you even feel pain? I’m here now. I’ll remember you too.

[dvdrip]

i think i need to force my dad into the realization that the beatles truly will never belong to him and will always belong to teenage girls. i need to make him watch hard day's night. i need to make him watch all the beatles movies. i need to do the currency conversion of music to film arts so i can... so i can what? so we can understand each other better -_- so i can hear his opinions on the way the beatles were marketed, actually. my dad has a lot to say about the beatles, and i want to see if he ever considered aspects of them outside of their later albums... he seems really focused on the end of the beatles. i think it's like true crime to him.

i asked him one question about the beatles on xmas day and he talked for like 20 mins without stopping. and i guess i see that and go "well... this man needs someone to talk to about the beatles" and i jump in front of that bullet

[desceros]

god damn it nanowrimo starts tomorrow night and here i am thinkin about possessive bayverse leo i fkkin hate it hereeeeeeeeeeee

[kingdomoftyto]

...Okay well damn, season 2 is way better than 1 was. I'm actually getting kind of invested now

[kavehayati]

Genuinely gonna cry cause I saw the most disgusting thing ( literally what’s new I get new traumas at least once a day LMAO )

[desigal-26]

Everyone, this is my first Oscar Piastri post and my first SMAU post, so please treat me as fragile little baby 😂

Requests are open and well appreciated

Shy Cat Who?

Oscar Piastri x Actress!Reader

She was the controversial ex-WAG. He was the shy cat of McLaren. But together? They were the storm media hadn’t expected.

F1 75 Event was the most awaited event of the Formula One world. Drivers and new liveries sprinkled with a bit of glitz and glamour. But no one expected the cameras to catch a face no one thought would be seen in the F1 circles again.

Warnings: Max and Kelly slander (see, I love them both sooo much, but for the sake of the plot), fluff, internet hate towards reader, she is a famous actress and is part of Stranger Things and her character’s name is ‘Kat’ and knows archery, fluffy, use of ‘slur’ and ‘whore’ once. I guess that’s it.

The flashes of the paparazzi cameras came in rapid bursts—sharp and relentless, much like the corners of the track he was so familiar with. But unlike the adrenaline of a race, the weight of expectation tonight settled far heavier on his shoulders than ever before.

Oscar was the quiet one—the calm, reserved McLaren driver who rarely made headlines outside the track. In stark contrast, his teammate was loud, charming, and unapologetically extroverted—the kind of personality that drew fans and critics in equal measure. Lately, the latter group had grown louder, branding Lando a “playboy” for reasons Oscar never cared to dissect.

Drama had never been Oscar’s brand. He was the steady hand, the focused mind, the last person anyone would expect to stir the media into a frenzy.

So when he stepped onto the F1 75 event carpet with a well-known actress on his arm—someone with a turbulent history involving the current world champion—the world paused. For a split second, even the cameras hesitated. Then the chaos erupted: flashes exploded, questions flew, and voices rose in a desperate bid to make sense of the unexpected.

His hand rested gently on the small of her back, the silk of her white dress soft beneath his rough, calloused fingers. Subtle, comforting circles traced against her spine—his silent message to her that he was here, steady and unshaken. She looked poised, even radiant—she had likely faced this kind of attention more times than he had taken to the grid.

But he knew this wasn’t just another appearance for her.

Because they would be here.

Because the past had a way of resurfacing.

And because no one—not the media, not the fans, not even the critics—had expected her to return to this world after the scandal that shattered her once-golden image.

“Are you alright?”

Oscar blinked, dragging his gaze away from the blinding barrage of camera flashes. His smile softened as it landed on the woman beside him—her lips curved in quiet encouragement, her eyes glimmering with concern that reached deep into him, melting away the stiffness in his posture. His hand shifted from the small of her back to wrap securely around her waist, drawing her closer as he leaned down and whispered with a teasing lilt, “Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?”

She laughed—a full, uninhibited sound that echoed like music across the cold marble of the entrance. Her head tilted back, eyes crinkling at the corners, catching the lights of the flashing cameras and reflecting them like a million tiny stars. Oscar, the ever-composed Aussie driver, would usually be wary of such attention. In any other moment, he would’ve steered her quickly into the venue, avoiding the scrutiny. But here and now, watching her laugh so freely, he forgot everything but her.

The whispers of criticism waiting online, the haunting pieces of her past, the quiet insecurities that clung to him like shadows—all of it dissolved the instant she leaned into him, instinctively seeking his warmth as a cold gust teased at her hair. He welcomed the closeness, pressing a soft kiss to her temple in a gesture no camera could cheapen.

“Let’s go inside,” he murmured, his arm loosening around her waist only to slip his hand into hers. Her fingers fit against his with practiced ease, the kind that comes only from months spent in secrecy—shared meals under dim lights, whispered conversations behind closed doors, fleeting touches exchanged like promises.

The world saw her now—the poise, the grace, the way she smiled up at him like he was the very air she breathed.

But only he had seen the broken pieces beneath.

Only he had held her through the nights she couldn’t sleep.

Only he knew the shape of the wounds left behind by the man who now stood at the pinnacle of the sport.

And tonight, for the first time, they were stepping into the light. Together.

Sinking into the plush mattress of the hotel room felt like heaven to Oscar. After hours beneath the hot glare of camera flashes and the overwhelming buzz of voices and attention, the stillness was a balm. He didn’t mind the fans—he loved them, truly—but this, the quiet, the dim light, the comforting weight of a smaller body curling instinctively into his side… this was where he felt most at home.

He looked down, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he took her in. She had showered too, her face now free of the makeup, glamour, and practiced poise that the world always demanded of her. In this room, she wasn’t the headline-grabbing actress or the woman people whispered about in scandal-heavy tones. She was just his. The woman he loved—not despite everything the world had said, but because of everything she was beneath it.

“What are you doing, baby?” he asked, brow slightly furrowed as he noticed her focused on her phone. It was rare. When they were together like this, their phones usually stayed untouched, traded for quiet conversations, kisses, and the rhythm of shared silence.

She hummed in response, glancing up at him with a mischievous grin. Without a word, she turned the phone toward him. Oscar matched her smile, but as his eyes scanned the screen, his expression shifted to one of surprise—quickly softened by amusement.

He raised a brow. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice low and curious, one hand moving to lazily twirl the ends of her hair—something he always found himself doing when she was near and he was at peace.

“I wouldn’t have come today if I wasn’t,” she replied, voice gentle, sure. Then, she leaned up and kissed the edge of his jaw—slow, grounding—before asking the same question back, eyes gleaming with something deeper than simple mischief.

Oscar chuckled, the sound warm in the quiet room, before flipping them over in one smooth motion. Her surprised squeal was followed by laughter, the kind that came from deep inside—the kind only she could coax out of him. She swatted at his shoulder in playful protest as he hovered over her, the shadows dancing across the contours of his face.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. She smiled into it, her breath mixing with his.

Reaching for her phone, he glanced at the screen again—her Instagram app open, a carefully chosen photo of them from the event tonight waiting to go live. His thumb hovered over the ‘post’ icon. For a second, he hesitated—not out of doubt, but reverence.

He looked back at her, wordless.

She met his gaze, her smile answering questions he hadn’t even asked.

And without another moment’s pause, he pressed ‘post.’

cookies.and.creammm just posted!

Liked by oscarpiastri, lando, mclaren, alexandrasaintmleux, and 36789 others

cookies.and.creammm that’s my man ✨

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oscarpiastri that’s my girl 💗

cookies.and.creammm 🤭

lando gross 🥴

cookies.and.creammm we are not talking about you lando 😇

carlossainz55 ROASTED

alexandrasaintmleux the pretty lady is back 😍

cookies.and.creammm only for you ✨🫶🏻

alexandrasaintmleux 🤭🫶🏻

charles_leclerc uhhh hello?

mclaren our best wag 💪🏻🧡

cookies.and.creammm you mean your only one?

lando I feel attacked 🥲

oscarpiastri you should

user leave our shy cat be!!!

oscarpiastri just posted!

Liked by cookies.and.creammm, lando, mclaren, logansargeant and 15987 others

oscarpiastri my pretty girl ✨

view all comments

cookies.and.creammm my fast driver 🎀

lando gross 🥴

oscarpiastri kindly shut up lando

lando what happened to my shy cat 🥺

cookies.and.creammm he is busy playing with his 🐱

oscarpiastri 😊

mclaren we do not meddle in our drivers’ conversation 🤐

logansargeant I heard lando gag from Florida

user that was a shut up call for everyone calling Oscar too shy

[fromdove]

ㅤ ⁞ 𝓐ND 𝓨ET, 𝓣HE 𝓗EART ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ (𝓔VER 𝓢O 𝓕OOLISH) ㅤㅤ

ㅤ ⁞ 𝓦HISPERS 𝓨ES.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𐔌 ⋮ d.wayne x fem!reader ꒱

«لا أعلم كيف أنتمي إلى هذا العالم»، يقول، «لكنني أظن أنني قد أنتمي إليكِ».

—୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ you're on a date at a carnival with damian wayne & get caught by his bat siblings! ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

It begins on a Tuesday. Because Tuesdays are the most humiliating of days.

Damian Wayne does not do carnivals.

He does not do sticky-fingered children shrieking with laughter, cheeks streaked with frosting and dirt like war paint. He does not do the scent of frying oil clinging to every inch of breathable air, or the grotesque mascots wobbling about with their oversized foam heads and eternal grins, or the synthetic prizes that look like they’re filled with sorrow and asbestos in equal measure.

He certainly does not do funnel cake. (He doesn’t even understand funnel cake. What is it funneling? Why is it called a cake? Is it some kind of regional inside joke he’s not privy to?)

And yet— Here he is. 6:28 PM. Ankle-deep in trampled woodchips. Sweat beading beneath his glove where your hand brushed his a moment ago. Heart thudding like a war drum, idiotically hopeful.

He promised your parents he’d have you home safely before 9.

You're beside him. Smiling. Laughing at something he didn’t quite catch because he was too busy watching the way the late sunlight breaks in your hair like gold dust. You’re looking up now, head tilted toward the Ferris wheel as it turns slow and skeletal against the peach-blue dusk, and Damian thinks—sudden and uninvited—that this is the kind of moment people write poetry about. Or terrible love songs. Or die over in operas.

(Repulsive.)

But he gets it now. He hates how much he gets it. That breathless kind of ache. The quiet terror of wanting. Of hoping. That unbearable softness in his chest like something is growing there, tender and glowing and completely beyond his control.

“You good?” you ask, nudging his arm with your shoulder.

He startles slightly—just barely—and then blinks. You’re watching him with that half-smile you wear, all crooked charm and warm amusement. His gaze flickers, unsteadily, to your mouth. He looks away too fast.

He clears his throat like it might help. “Fine,” he says, stiffly. “Perfectly functional.”

You laugh. Quiet and real. Not at him, exactly—more like with him, even if he hasn't laughed yet. It’s a sound that does something catastrophic to his chest.

He prays no one is filming him. Because he’s smiling now. Actually smiling. Not the close-lipped, diplomatic expression Alfred coached into him for Wayne Foundation photo ops—but something uneven and unsure and human. The kind of smile that might belong to a boy. A person. Not a weapon honed into precision.

“Wanna do the ring toss?” you ask. “I’ll warn you, though—I’m unbeatable.”

Damian scoffs. “Unbeatable? Beloved, I was trained by the League of Assassins.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Cool. I was trained by YouTube.”

(He beats you. Three times. Of course he does. But he lets you win the fourth.)

You don’t call him out on it. Just bump your shoulder against his again and say, “Maybe you’re not totally hopeless.”

And Damian, who has faced death more times than most people have faced a dentist, feels something unfamiliar and terrifying settle in his chest like a promise.

He thinks it might be joy. Or worse—hope.

── .✦

He buys you a plush duck the size of a small planet. It’s hideous—lopsided eyes, neon yellow fuzz, a beak stitched on upside down. It looks like it lost a fight with a sewing machine.

You adore it immediately.

You squeal when he hands it to you, arms barely fitting around its squishy girth. “He’s perfect,” you declare. “I’m naming him Reginald.”

Damian feels like the stupidest, proudest person alive.

And then— It happens.

The horror movie moment. He hears it before he sees them: that voice, carried across the carnival on a gust of pure doom. Loud. Teasing. Unmistakable.

“Is that our little demon on a date?”

Damian’s soul leaves his body. No. No no no no no.

He whips around like a soldier under siege. And there they are. The Batclan. Every last catastrophic member. Lined up like a Renaissance painting done by someone high on.... something. Something illegal definitely.

Jason’s holding a pretzel in one hand and an oversized soda in the other, grinning like a man with nothing to lose. Tim’s already filming, phone tilted like he’s documenting the downfall of Rome. Stephanie’s waving with both arms like she’s flagging down aircraft. Cass is halfway to your booth already, serene and smiling like a forest spirit coming to bless your crops. And—God help him—Dick is looking at you like this is his niece-in-law and the wedding is next Thursday.

Damian takes a physical step back. “No,” he breathes. “No no no—how did they find me?”

You blink, confused but amused. “Um. Friends of yours?”

He turns to you, face pale with the betrayal of fate. “Define ‘friends.’ Then subtract about seventy percent of the dignity from that word.”

You laugh, too delighted. And then—you wave at them. With your entire hand.

Damian stares at you, betrayed. “You’re encouraging them.”

But it’s too late. Dick Grayson is already bounding over, the human embodiment of serotonin. His smile could power Gotham for a week.

“Hi!” he says, a little breathless. “You must be [Y/N]! I’m Dick. Damian’s favorite brother.”

“Objectively false,” Damian mutters, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Jason saunters up next, shoving the rest of his pretzel in his mouth. “Don’t mind him. He’s just shy.”

“I’m not shy—” Damian starts, but—

“Sure, baby bat,” Jason says, eyes glinting. “That’s why you look like you want the earth to swallow you whole.”

Cass gets to you next and, without hesitation, hugs you. It’s silent and warm and grounding, the way only Cassandra Cain can manage. Damian watches with wide eyes like he’s watching a hawk land on someone’s shoulder. Cass doesn’t hug just anyone.

“Your aura’s soft,” she says simply, then steps back like that explains everything.

You beam. Stephanie shrieks, “Those shoes are so cute, oh my god.” And before Damian can react, she’s already offering you lip gloss and a scrunchie from some mysterious pocket in her jacket. You accept both like it’s perfectly natural.

Then— Tim.

Tim slides in beside Damian, not looking up from his phone as he asks, “So. Are you two, like. Dating?”

Damian short-circuits. You glance at him, expectant, curious. There's a beat of silence.

“We are in the process of engaging in a trial romantic exploration,” he blurts, hands rigid at his sides like he's about to be arrested.

Tim stops filming.

He blinks.

“So… yes?”

You burst out laughing. Damian wants to disappear into the woodchips.

There’s cotton candy in your hair. You’re grinning so hard it scrunches your nose. Your laugh is bright and uncontrollable. You’re wearing his hoodie now because it got cold, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The monstrous duck—Reginald—is tucked protectively under one arm.

And somehow— Somehow—

Damian’s not mortified anymore.

He’s just… soft. Full. Quietly radiant, in that fragile, terrible way love makes you feel. Like you’re being held even when no one’s touching you. Like you’ve opened a door in your chest and trusted someone not to slam it shut.

Tim’s still filming. Jason is genuinely stunned. Steph is saying something about a group selfie. Dick is already inviting you to the manor for family movie night. Cass is holding your hand like she’s decided you’re hers now.

And Damian Wayne, child of shadows and sharp edges, just watches you smile at all of them and thinks—

Maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world to be seen. Especially if it’s like this.

── .✦

Later, after the others have (finally) dispersed into the night—chasing cotton candy and reevaluating their life choices—you and Damian settle onto a weathered bench just beyond the carousel. The lights have dimmed to a soft glow, the music now a distant lullaby mixing with the rustle of night breeze. Above you, the moon hangs low and silver, casting long, quiet shadows over the fairground.

Between you rests Reginald—the monstrous plush duck—looking somehow smug, like he owns this ridiculous moment.

You break the silence first, nudging Damian’s leg with a light elbow. “So. That was fun.”

Damian groans, the sound low and a little reluctant. “If by ‘fun,’ you mean psychologically scarring and a clear violation of personal boundaries, then yes.”

You smile, nudging him again, softer this time. “Come on. They love you. All of them.”

His gaze shifts out toward the twinkling lights of the rides, distant and impersonal. The glow reflects faintly in his dark eyes. He’s quiet for a long moment, like weighing the truth.

“…They tolerate me,” he says finally, voice rough around the edges. “Sometimes.”

You pause, then tilt your head, voice gentle but firm. “You know, love isn’t always quiet, Damian. It’s not always soft and clean. Sometimes it looks like Jason stealing your Oreos so you’ll chase him through the carnival. Or Steph sneaking embarrassing pictures just to have ammunition for blackmail. Or Dick planning your wedding after two dates and acting like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

Damian blinks at you, expression blank but you catch a faint twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth.

A beat passes. Then, quietly, with all the seriousness in the world:

“…Are we getting married?”

You laugh, the sound warm and light. “Slow down, Romeo. Let’s survive the Ferris wheel first, then we’ll talk.”

He folds his arms, but there’s no retort—just a soft exhale, like he’s letting something settle inside. The air between you thickens, charged with something fragile and unspoken. A kind of gravity you can’t quite name—like the moment right before the first kiss, when everything holds its breath.

Then, soft as a shadow:

“The world is cruel,” Damian says, voice low, almost a confession.

You glance at him, heart hitching.

“But you… you make it tolerable.”

That’s Damian’s version of a compliment—awkward and clipped, but sincere beneath the surface.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he stares up at the stars, as if sharing his truth with the indifferent sky.

His fingers twitch beside yours, restless—like he wants to reach out, but something inside holds him back.

Your heart stutters—a stupid, messy thing. Real.

You close the distance instead, your hand sliding gently into his. His fingers don’t flinch. Don’t pull away.

You squeeze once. Quietly.

And somewhere, just beyond the carousel’s glow, the Batfamily is definitely spying again.

But Damian doesn’t care anymore.

── .✦ 𝓐FTER 𝓣HE 𝓓ATE:

True to his word—and to the cautious trust of your parents—Damian got you home before 9 p.m.

Your room is warm.

Unreasonably warm for Gotham, where the cold usually hangs on. But tonight, in your very room, it’s lamp-lit and soft, filtered through linen curtains that ripple slightly like waves.

You’re both still marked by the evening: sugar-crusted sleeves, the scent of fried dough clinging to your hair. Damian wears the glow-in-the-dark wristband you foisted upon him at the ring toss booth. It glimmers faintly under the lamplight, absurd against the clinical precision of his wrist bones. He hasn’t taken it off. You suspect, with some quiet fondness, that he won’t.

Reginald, your plush duck, lies beneath a blanket like royalty in repose. His beady eyes peer out from a pink pillow with the blank stare of a veteran. You insisted on tucking him in. Damian had watched silently, the corners of his mouth twitching at your ceremonial fluffing of the pillow, your grave whisper: “He’s had a long night.”

Privately, Damian suspects Reginald is an elaborate surveillance device.

He leans against your desk. Arms crossed. Body honed sharp, but curiously at ease—as if, just for tonight, he’s chosen not to be a weapon.

You sit beside Reginald’s throne, cross-legged. You’re quiet. So is he.

The air between you is full of unspoken things, spun gold in the lamplight. Everything in the room is soft-edged.

You pat the space beside you. Carefully, so as not to jostle His Royal Duckness.

Damian moves slowly. As if unsure whether sitting beside you might trigger a pressure plate. As if the room might demand proof of intention.

He sits. Not touching, but close. A hairbreadth away. A choice away.

And God, you want to choose.

The silence thickens. Not tense. Not awkward. Just weighted. Like the kind that forms between people who are beginning to orbit each other without permission.

He doesn’t speak right away. His fingers twitch against his biceps.

“I’ve surveilled targets in crowded spaces before,” he says, clipped and serious. “But I don’t believe that qualifies.”

You blink. Then snort. “So. Yes.”

He looks at you, flatly accusatory. You raise your eyebrows.

“…Are you collecting intel?” he asks, wary. But there’s no real bite to it.

You smile down at your hands. “Maybe. I just… I want to get it right. For you.”

You didn’t mean to say it out loud. But there it is. Floating in the space between your hands and his silence.

He looks at you then—really looks. Like someone realizing a song they’ve been humming under their breath for years actually has words. Like every version of him—assassin, son, boy—has been quietly orbiting the moment your eyes met his.

“You already did,” he says, voice like thread pulled from a tapestry. Quiet. Final.

You look at him. Your throat is full of sparrows. You nod, just barely.

The city is gone. The world is nothing but your breath and his.

And then—

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

No calculation. No control. Just a boy sitting too still in the hush, asking like he might never ask again.

“…Yes,” you whisper.

Eyes wide. Doe-eyed. A little doomed.

He leans in.

He kisses like someone unsure the world will last long enough for a second try. Like your lips are a holy place and he’s trespassing with muddy hands and shoes. His mouth moves against yours slow and cautious, like he’s memorizing the shape of safety.

You tilt into him.

His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw like he’s sketching the borders of a country on a map.

And in that moment, Damian Wayne is not a soldier. Not a son. Not an heir to shadows.

He is just a boy. Warm and breakable and yours.

No tactics. No retreat.

Just this. Just you.

When you part, it’s soft. Reverent. As though the kiss has weight, and letting go might shatter it.

Your foreheads touch. Breath shared. Heartbeats learning how to dance in tandem.

“I’ve killed men,” he murmurs, voice close and dangerous and infinitely tender, “for less than what I feel for you.”

You pull back, just enough to meet his eyes. “That is… hands down… the most terrifyingly romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

A smile flickers across his mouth.

Real. Brief. Crooked like a secret.

You decide—then and there—you decide that you’ll spend your whole life earning that smile again.

And again.

He stays a little longer. Close, but not clinging. You talk. Or something like it. Laughter. Stories. Accusations about Tim’s dart game. The lingering warmth of the night still glowing in your bones.

Eventually, the room feels stretched. The spell thins.

He stands. Moves to your window like it’s instinct. The night folds around him like a cloak.

You follow him, toes quiet against the carpet. He steps onto the sill, the city licking at his boots.

He glances back.

Face neutral. But eyes like firelight—alive. Human.

“Sleep well,” he says.

“You too.” Then, lighter: “Tell Reginald goodnight when you land. He’s fragile.”

Damian doesn’t laugh.

But his smile tilts—barely. A bowstring loosed, if only slightly.

And then—he’s gone.

Gotham swallows him, and you are left blinking.

You press your fingers to your lips.

You've shared your first kiss with none other than damian al ghul wayne.

[hellowoolf]

something, somehow, someday

chapter 3: sun stall | prev | next | series masterlist

series summary: you know you will love satoru for the rest of your life, but when you wake with his cursed energy in your navel there is no option but to flee. what future is there for a child of a god? at 18 satoru is without you, and you make off with a piece of him you hoped he'd never meet.

pairing: secret baby daddy!gojo x reader

tags: secret child trope, angst (lots), eventual fluff, eventual smut, hurt/comfort, a lot of yearning :P

a/n: i have a poll up on chapter length so if you have an opinion please vote! it's been tied up almost the whole way, and the poll will end around sunday. also, as always, feel free to send asks about context/content, i know i can be...sparse sometimes >:) i love you all

main masterlist

18+! minors dni <3

~~~~~~~

SATORU, for his part, never resented you for leaving. he missed you almost masochistically: he dreamt of you on purpose, refused outright to forget, dragged your memory behind him, the whole comatose body of it. but soon after your leaving he failed so spectacularly at protecting amanai, and suguru defected not long after. he lost that year in totality to his own failure, to a boundless and indiscriminate wash of waste and desecration. it was everywhere. and so covered in it as he was, it was impossible to discern the particulars; your disappearance was a limb to a much larger, beastly thing. 

for a time he hated himself for losing two of the most important people in his life, though even that he had to abandon for megumi and tsumiki’s sake. by the time he had enough clarity to truly wonder why you left, he had the sense to recognize that returning to 2006 could do him no good. so no, there has been no hatred—in fact, he doesn’t think he could ever hate you—only a quiet wanting, the remainder of the ways he once loved you, and your koi fish in the stream. 

he hasn’t spent much time in this part of tokyo. shoko seems to have crested her temporary calm and dissolved again into a tremor satoru pretends not to see. she scans the neighborhood with fear and appetite in equal measure and he finds himself doing the same. she stops suddenly, remembering something.

“you should take off your blindfold.”

his brows pinch together. “ha?” it doesn’t come out cruel so much as confused.

shoko makes an expectant face: you are at my mercy. satoru continues walking as he slips a finger behind the fabric and pulls it off. “you know, it’s cruel to string me along in the dark like this. just because you know something i don’t doesn’t mean you can prey on me,” he mutters.

shoko scoffs. “you think i’m enjoying this?”

“yeah, actually, i think you are at least a little bit,” he bites.

“gojo, i have scanned medical records, cctv footage, eye witness accounts—god i got teachers at the kyoto school involved for this—”

a small grin slides over satoru’s face. “utahime?”

shoko’s annoyance persists. “i’ve put years into doing this for you and you can’t offer me the courtesy of trusting me? this one time? after i’ve done something so monumental on your behalf? jesus, gojo, you really are—”

something behind satoru’s ribs turns over once, twice, snaps open. there are teeth in his sternum. he feels it all before he sees it, the tug to square his shoulders towards something, the echo of the person he used to be bellowing something inside of him, but he can’t make any of it out. he sees his eyes first, they’re his eyes, looking over your shoulder. they look frightened; he’s never seen his own eyes so afraid before.

there are a few things satoru knows immediately and a few others that are slower on the uptake. that is his child—this point is undeniable, though there isn’t much internalization that can happen right at this moment—and you are his mother. he would know you anywhere, he would know you in the dark, he would know you senseless, and he certainly knows you like this, eyes wide open and ten yards away. your back is turned and satoru also knows, right then, that you cannot sense him yet.

the kid does, though. he looks like a ghost, embraced in your arms, an eerie reconstruction of himself at that age. satoru wonders now if everyone found him as incandescently striking looking as he now finds this child, or whether it’s because it’s his. his child. there are no words or musings in him, only this feeling, the bite of wonderment and love and hurt. the latter, he thinks, wins out on his face.

the child whispers something in your ear and your back straightens. you shake your head a little, and the movement lets satoru see the side of your face for a brief and monumental second. god, you are just as terribly lovely as the day you left. there are more whispers between you and you stand, slowly, and satoru sees that you are now terrified, too. you come all the way up before you turn.

there is only a deep breath’s worth of time spent like this: satoru, frozen on the sidewalk and as helpless as he’s ever been, you, eyes wide, refusing to panic but nonetheless knowing that everything has changed, and your baby, the siphoning of each of you, stepped now in front of your legs. and that’s the worst part, satoru thinks. yes, it may be the most awful thing to have ever happened to him that this child worries satoru may hurt you. shoko and the neighborhood fade, blurred on the periphery of this little massacre shared among the three of you.

satoru moves first. a step towards you, and then another. you don’t make to protect your son, he knows you know that you don’t have to, but the boy clings to your knee behind him, so furious somehow and so petrified, and most of all determined to keep you safe. for one of the first times in his life satoru is glad for his six eyes; he can look at you both at once.

when he arrives at the altar of your feet satoru squats to his son’s level. it occurs to him only then that he must recognize satoru as his father; if he knows at all what his own face looks like then it would be impossible to miss it. 

the belated circumstances arrive in satoru’s head; this child has cursed energy, he has a cursed technique, he’s using it right now. satoru extends a hand towards the boy slowly, pauses each time he flinches, until suddenly his palm just…stops. whatever was left holding him upright leaks out his ears now as satoru sinks all the way to his knees.

your voice, against all odds, is even. “it’s okay, takara.” takara. he slumps a little as he relaxes, but keeps a chubby arm barring your legs from moving forward. you drop to the ground anyway, tears streaming down your face, and they look like they burn.

“say something,” you plead quietly.

satoru wrenches your name from his mouth like a death rattle. “what can i say? what do you want me to say?”

you shake your head, “i don’t know, i—i’m sorry. i can’t—you were never meant to meet him.”

“and what? you were just gonna keep him from me forever?”

you almost look confused as to how he couldn’t understand. “of course i was. he is your son, satoru. if people knew they would take him,” your voice raises only a fraction, “nobody could protect him from the onslaught of people who would use him to hurt you,” your words sound like sobs, they are heartbreaking, but you continue, “it was all i could do to protect you both.”

“and what about you? what about your protection? i could have been there for you and for him—”

“satoru, stop.”

“no, be serious with me. be honest with me. don’t you owe me that?” he’s almost manic now, so angry and so devastated and it bares itself in his voice, “how could you have decided without me?”

satoru wonders if you’d be yelling at him if takara wasn’t between you, but as it is you keep two hands on your volume. “i was practically a child! and so were you! i did what i thought was best. i did it for you. how could you ever be a father? i couldn’t burden you with that responsibility, there was too much on you already!”

satoru shakes with a terrible laughter. “and yet i ended up halfway to parenthood anyway!” he exclaims.

you suck in a breath. “what does that mean?”

where does he even begin? he tries his best to keep himself human but god how could you rob him of this? “i took in two zenin kids around when suguru defected.”

this information only slows you down for a moment before your face twists again. you had heard about suguru’s defection; yaga left you a voicemail, worried he’d seek you out. it’s one of the only times you had to well and fully restrain yourself from reaching out to satoru, who had loved geto voraciously, you think. you cast the thought aside and say again, slower, “i felt like i had no options. no way out but��away. i knew what you’d do if i told you.” 

and this is by far the most devastating thing you’d said to him so far. to acknowledge how deeply he cared for you seared you both, each of you shuddering with the memory. satoru practically whispers, “i can’t believe you took this from me…took him from me.”

the words rush out of your lips faster now. “i never wanted to hurt you, not ever, and that’s why i left. i stand by that choice.” you poke your pointer finger into his chest and he lets you. “he’s gotten to live free from us.” 

satoru grabs your wrist and keeps it close, firm but gentle, still. even feeling so betrayed by a version of you gone by he seeks your touch for comfort: his fingers wrap around to your pulse to feel you living. neither of you think much about how physically familiar you remain to one another. “he has my technique.” 

you both look at takara now, the first time since you began arguing. he looks even smaller up close, satoru thinks. his hands are wrung behind his back and his toes point in but he does not look at all confused. it’s clear to the both of you that he’s understood every word, or at least the meaning, and his eyes well with the knowing but he refuses to loosen. he stands stiff as satoru tilts his head and holds his hand out, releasing your wrist.

“my name is satoru.”

~~~~~~~

YOU cannot, try as you might, reconcile satoru gojo in your living room. takara points out his various toys at your request, and satoru watches him intently, nods when takara glances up at him. shoko had slipped quietly away watching the tableau of the three of you at the park, and against your better judgment you had let satoru through your front door; the two of them are blinding, beaming in each others company despite takara’s trepidation and satoru’s lingering hurt. they kneel together on the floor while you watch from the couch, witness now to a sacred moment, trying not to move.

you’re only mildly alarmed that you still know satoru’s posture enough to know he is trying to consume as much of takara’s presence as he possibly can. he’s hunched the way he is when he eats, ingesting the sight of his son who he’s known less than an hour. and you have so much left to say to him but you are not so cruel as to rip from him this time, too.

takara is sharp, too. in between turning his wooden trains upside down and sideways in this strange, stilted performance, he asks satoru enough questions to make a running catalogue in his mind: where do you live? do you have a job? do you have parents? how long did it take to get here? and satoru’s smile, already fond, nearly takes you to an early grave.

at least, you think to yourself, you can at last put to bed your questioning: you are still in love with satoru. watching them acclimate to each other's company, for the first time in a long time, you remember what it is you gave up for takara’s sake. in taking takara from satoru you forsake him, yes, but you denied yourself these moments, too. and part of you dreads the conversations with gojo that are sure to follow, but the rest opens itself to the warmth of the two of them, splayed unceremoniously across your carpet.

still, you meant what you said before; you don’t regret your decisions. the world of jujutsu asks for takara now, and you find a small comfort in the fact that he knows, to some degree, what he would lose if he took up the post of his lineage. 

takara’s eyes are sleepy as you glance at him now.

“bubba why don’t you say goodnight to satoru and i’ll come help you wash up in a few minutes?” 

takara hesitates. “will i see him again?”

you refuse to look at gojo when he asks. “yes,” you assure him, “i promise you will.” you mean it in a way takara can feel. he drags himself away and down the hall, leaving you alone with…what would you call your relationship now?

satoru takes his time situating himself on the couch next to you. how strange it is to see him again, to be thrust into such devastating conflict, to miss him so strongly at an arm’s length. he’s more stunning than you’ve ever seen him, blindfold still off and unfurled on your coffee table.

“he’s amazing,” he breathes. 

you can’t help the small smile that makes its way onto your face. “yeah, i know.”

satoru chews a moment on his question before he asks it. “did he ever ask about me?”

you deflate a little. “don’t do that.”

“don’t do what? don’t ask? don’t i deserve to know about my son?” his hands gesticulate ahead of him. you suppose the both of you are as angry at the other as you were earlier today, which is to say not very much, you think. mostly he is hurt—he cannot hide this from you—and you, somehow, are wounded, too, and you’re both floundering watching the other lick their blood dry. satoru continues, “don’t i deserve to know whether my son needed his father?”

“needed you? i assure you, satoru, i have been more than enough for him. i’ve given up the rest of my life in service of—”

“—that’s not what i meant—”

“isn’t it?” his eyes flit across your face, he’s looking for something and you’re unsure whether he’ll find it. “aren’t you asking me how often i’ve left a gap big enough for him to miss a man he never met? how often i failed?”

“no! i—no,” gojo reaches for you on instinct but leaves his palms hovering an inch from your forearms. “it’s obvious you’ve done an amazing job with him, especially given the circumstances, but—”

“and what circumstances would those be, exactly?” you ask with no small amount of cruelty. the funny thing is, you know exactly to which realities he is referring—your financial and familial solitude—but still it stings to feel questioned by this heir to a very real monetary fortune, beyond the immense power already bequeathed to him. “i may have wanted for things, gojo, but takara never has.”

bluer than anything human, satoru’s eyes look devastated, taken by gravity down his face. “don’t call me that.”

you purse your lips. “i just…” something vicious and sharp dissipates into the air, the both of you taking a breath, softly. “i’ve worked so hard to be proud of the way i have parented him.” satoru nods you on. “it’s not that i don’t want you in his life, i mean—i don’t think there was ever a moment when i didn’t want that at least a little bit. i can’t tell you how many times i wanted you to be there. but i feel…” you reach for him this time, resting a palm lightly on the back of his hand. “a little afraid, i guess,” you whisper.

satoru lets your admission flower in the silence a moment before he smiles, tiny and wry. “afraid of me?”

“yes,” you breathe. the white gleam of his hair bounces in the lamplight. “because everything is different.” you feel the steeled tension melt a little; you want to be honest with him, more than anything. “it feels a little bit like you’ve spoiled everything.”

satoru nods a little again, sober. “maybe i have.”

and your next confession will sound to satoru like a promise, you know it will, but it finds its way out anyway: “i can’t deny you him now, can i?”

“not without being terrible.”

you laugh something watery and real. “yeah, i guess not.” 

a silence consumes you both again, but it’s no longer hostile, the both of you too exhaustedly malleable  for anything more charged now. 

in the soft sounds of your apartment you are given the space to notice that you have an urge to ask about satoru’s life now. you don’t think you are capable of philosophizing more on your choices and the unyielding consequences tonight, and he’s seen now—at the cost, maybe, of your sanity—what your life has been in your six years away. and you suspect it may hurt you somehow to know more concretely how he’s lived in your absence, but the day has been long. you are tired. you allow yourself this luxury.

“you said you…adopted two kids? is that right?”

“i—yeah,” satoru says, surprised in a gentle sort of way, “they were collateral from a mission that summer.”

you soften even further at the thought of satoru growing into guardianship at the same time you did. something catches in your lungs. “how old are they now?”

satoru smiles at the thought of them. “the little one, megumi—a pain, honestly, and so mean to me—will be ten this year. tsumiki is three years older. i sometimes forget it, though. she acts so much like a little adult,” he laughs softly.

“i’d like to meet them,” you admit.

“i want you to, too,” satoru says, almost too fondly. you preen a little in it anyway.

“do they live on campus with you?”

“no, no. i tried that at the beginning but it felt…i don’t know, inappropriate? i got an apartment as close by as i could, and i stay there as often as i can.”

you hum. “you seem…” you have to look for the right words, “suited to this.”

“are you surprised?” he scoffs, not unkindly.

“i don’t know, i guess so,” you admit with a grin. a little teasing. a time capsule.

“i’m very mature now,” satoru says back.

and because the only secret you could ever keep from satoru was ruined this afternoon, you confess: “the you i have in my head has been from when you were 18. all this time has passed and—” you tilt your head back and forth slightly, “—and you haven’t aged in my mind at all. not until today, all at once.”

satoru’s eyes on you warm your cheeks and you can’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed, not really for anything. “and?”

you narrow your eyes. “and what?”

“am i still as wonderful all grown up?”

the laugh that comes from you is real. “that’s yet to be determined, actually.”

“smart girl,” he says, you hope without thinking. the quiet asserts itself again.

all these years later, you find yourself still intimately familiar with the choices satoru makes in your company. when he moves, and how: all of it has been in his own image, a predictable force. you have never flinched when he has reached for you, in part because you are unafraid, but also because you have always seemed to know when he wanted to move his hands.

but you are rendered entirely still as you realize—your mind is a moment behind you—that satoru is holding you, now. 

his arms are so warm you almost want to tear them from your body. instead—fool and terminally lovesick that you are—you press your forehead to the cradle of his neck and breathe the scent of him in. nothing has been settled tonight, not really, but neither of you move to acknowledge it, lest this sacrosanct handful of seconds be broken. you merely allow the bruising grip of his elbows around your biceps, the claw of your fingers around his sides, to hold.

tomorrow teases you from below the skyline. it’s only beginning to darken to evening but still you are confronted with the passing of time, with the reality of today. 

though you remember, here in his grasp, one of the things you used to love so much about pressing up against a supernova like satoru; all other light fades, and the darkness, too, is gobbled up. time stops for a moment, you think, a withholding of breath as the sun stalls in its burial below the city. you allow yourself to forget temporarily about the fact that you have no idea what to do, of how to continue living on top of the remains of this life you crafted so carefully, and push your nose further into satoru’s shoulder.  he whispers into your hair, so quiet you wonder if it isn’t meant for you: “i missed you.”

~~~~~~~

a/n: i feel SO eternally grateful as the taglist for this series continues to grow. i can't tell you all how much it means to me that you keep reading. i adore you <3 also, if you're interested in having a say on my chapter length in the future, vote in the poll i posted on sunday hehe. as always, let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

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