Drug arrives years after pandemicâs peak, but could still offer protection to vulnerable populations.
An antiviral pill has, for the first time, been shown to prevent COVID-19 in people exposed to the SARS-CoV-2 virus at home, according to trial results published today in the New England Journal of Medicine1.
The drug could be a lifeline for those who still face real danger from the virus, such as care-home residents or transplant recipients on immune-suppressing medication.
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R!DAI Companions + Advisors with an Inquisitor that wants a baby (and/or is pregnant)
Hey guys, I'm alive. This is something I've had for a while, and it's also the longest post I've made. So... yeah. Sorry I don't post all that much, I promise I'm trying.
Anyways, enjoy this self-indulgent fluff piece that I've been working on.
This had every companion, romanced except for Cole, Leliana, and Vivienne (so that means you get romanced Varric in this, you're welcome.)
HEAVY SPOILERS AHEAD! And slight NSFW, nothing too bad, just Bull being sex-positive.
TOKOPHOBIA WARNING
It started innocently enough, the Inquisitor would wander around Skyhold, visiting their friends and lover, just to check in (or give their lover a smooch.) Then a squeal of delight was heard, probably by everyone from Undercroft to the Rookery, that came from the Inquisitor. What they were squealing and cooing about? A baby. A chubby, chortling baby a pilgrim had brought to Skyhold that the Inquisitor had practically stumbled into. The Inquisitor was so enamored with the child, that they ended up spending the rest of the day wandering around Skyhold with the little one.
Then it got worse.
Parents, unable to resist the temptation of the Inquisitor offering to take their little ones for a stroll while they got some well-deserved rest, happily gave the Inquisitor their children. The children that did get babysat by the Inquisitor had far more fun than expected, walking along the battlements, eating a meal or two curated by the Inquisitor, and even being told stories of their exploits. The children of Skyhold grew to adore the Inquisitor, and the Inquisitor adored them in turn.
Soon enough, The Inquisitor became often sidetracked while on missions (more so than usual.) They would stop in their tracks to hold up a trinket or a flower and smile to themselves, telling their companions how they intended to give whatever they held to a specific child. By the time the mission was over, the Inquisitor had lined their pockets with various items to give to the children.Â
All of this led to the Inquisitorâs friends and/or lover asking âwhy?â To which the Inquisitor looked them dead in the eye and shrugged.
âI want a baby of my own.â
Blackwall/Thom Rainier:Â
Platonic: Blackwall shrugs, he gets it. The kids are cute. And itâs far more healthy for the Inquisitor to spend time taking care of other peopleâs children rather than go out and just⌠have one.Â
Not like he wouldnât mind, Uncle Rainier sounds like a nice title, right? Hopefully, The Inquisitor wants a hand-carved cradle when they have their child.
Romanced: He goes âUh⌠is that⌠something you⌠want to do⌠now?â Rainer never truly saw himself settling down officially. He didnât think he truly deserved that. But the idea of having a few kids? With the woman he loves? Top-tier fantasy in his book. And now with his true identity out of the way, he feels a little better about his future. Especially with his lover.
He needs to hear his lover say ânot right nowâ because he would be more than happy to give his Inquisitor a few kids, and he wouldnât have the mental strength to say no if they asked.Â
Now if his lover does, by some chance, get pregnant. Heâs over the moon. He fights harder, and faster, always eager to end Corypheus and retire. Heâs such a sappy guy too, always wanting to stay as close as possible to his lover. So one should expect him to personally request that he be sent out all the time with The Inquisitor. That man has a nursery ready to go by the time The Inquisitorâs ready to give birth. He carves a cradle, high chairs, and everything the baby could need. Heâs willing to build a palace with his two bare hands for his family.
Cassandra:Â
Platonic: She gets it. Kids are super cute, why not have a few? If she didnât become a seeker, she knows she would have a few of her own, whether she wanted to or not. But hopefully, the Inquisitor isnât planning on having any now. Like⌠now, now. Because the Inquisition still needs them, she still needs them.
If The Inquisitor ends up pregnant or their partner ends up pregnant, she gets furious. She chews them out a little, claiming how immature they are for bringing a child into the world when the world is in so much turmoil.Â
She calms later, especially when the child is born, recognizing the love The Inquisitor and their partner show for the child. She doesnât apologize, as sheâs still pissed, but she does adore the child.
Romanced: âOh.â She says before her face goes completely red. Sheâll have to pull them aside and talk about their future together. Sheâs honestly flattered when the Inquisitor claims they want to have children with her. Sheâd be a liar if she said she didnât want kids of her own, especially with the Inquisitor, but the both of them ought to know that they canât⌠not yet⌠anyways. But once all the rifts are closed and they have some more time for themselves, then⌠then, yeah. Yeah, she would like that.
Maker, help her if she ends up pregnant, sheâll be extremely stressed, for both her and her loverâs sake. One should expect her to refuse to go out on missions until the baby is born, and expect her to be furious when her lover goes too.
Cole: He understands, mainly because he read the Inquisitorâs mind, but he understands deeper than that. He thinks the Inquisitor would be an excellent parent, especially with how they treat him (if high affinity.) He holds a great deal of respect for them, and he knows that their heart is full of a very fluffy, wholesome type of love. One that Cole is more than happy to reciprocate.Â
If the Inquisitor does end up having children, Cole is a very willing babysitter, as he doesnât sleep and heâs able to tell what exactly a baby wants.
Cullen Rutherford:Â
Platonic: Cullen furrows his brow before his gaze softens. He understands, he does. The thought of a little house, a family dog, and the sounds of little feet pittering against the floorboards, itâs nice. But that life is⌠unachievable, especially for a man like him. A man who is so busy, who has no right to live such a dreamy life. But The Inquisitor? They deserve that. They truly do.
He doesnât need to ask if they mean right then and there, he knows what they mean and that they donât intend on bringing in a child just yet.
âYou would be wonderful.â He says, placing a comforting hand on their shoulder
If the Inquisitor ever ends up pregnant, Cullen wonât be able to stay very calm at all. He encourages the Inquisitor to stay behind in Skyhold but gives up when the Inquisitor becomes stubborn. He eventually has to turn to Leliana or Cassandra for help.
Romanced: Itâs a simple desire, to have children. And Cullenâs had it every once in a while, like when he was in Kirkwall and saw a small child toddle towards another templar. He watched his colleagueâs wife follow after the child, about to scold the babe for interrupting their father in the middle of work. The templar, instead, scooped the child up in his arms and showered the childâs pudgy face in kisses. That domestic bliss was something Cullen found himself longing for. But he was too busy, life was too busy. And then The Chantry exploded, and he was in The Inquisition⌠he couldnât think about that. Not until he met his Inquisitor. Now he imagines what life will be like after the pair are finished. If The Inquisitor has already affirmed that they arenât leaving him, Cullenâs willing to have a family with The Inquisitor, as long as the two are finished with Corypheus first.
But if life finds a way⌠heâs happy and nervous. He begs his lover to stay behind in Skyhold, terrified of the billion things that could go wrong. Of course, rifts must be closed, so, against his better judgment, he lets her go.
His dreams get progressively worse when sheâs away, it was always like that⌠but the dreams are worse when sheâs pregnant. It gets to a point where he goes weeks without sleep, aside from the occasional nap that he gets jolted up from. The second his lover is back, Cullen whisks her away from the War Room and ushers her back to her quarters, where he has a healer check on her and the baby. Once he is certain she is fine, and the sun has gone down, Cullen lays down next to his lover and passes out into a dreamless slumber.
Dorian Pavus:Â
Platonic: âOh that is hilarious.â He laughs before his smile falls, âWait youâre serious?â
He listens to his friend, but worriedly reminds them how dangerous it is to bring a child into the world, especially with the Inquisitor in such a highly scrutinized role.
If the Inquisitor assures him that they donât plan on having kids just yet, heâs relieved, but secretly disappointed. He does like babies⌠when theyâre not puking or pooping.
Now if the Inquisitor is planning on having a child or is already pregnant, heâs ecstatic. Heâs all over that and canât wait until the baby comes. The man buys cribs, toys, parenting books, and much more. Donât be surprised if he gets a âworldâs best uncleâ wine glass or something.
Romanced: He jokes, âWe could just adopt, Iâm sure there are plenty of little Tevinter babies that need two insanely beautiful fathers.â
Now, he is joking, but heâs secretly terrified. But not because heâs worried heâll be a lousy father or anything, he knows heâll be different from his father. But, the thought of having kids is something he always knew he was going to do. And then everything happened with his father and his Amatus, and now he feels like⌠he has a choice? He can say no. He can say yes. He can adopt, or have a surrogate. He doesnât have to fit into the status quo anymore.
But what if something happens? What if something goes wrong? What if he isnât able to provide for his child the way they deserve?
It takes some talking down from his Amatus for him to truly relax. The two will need to speak about what they both plan future-wise. And while Dorian may not follow the same ideals as most of Tevinter, he still plans on putting a ring on it before they have kids. After all, they have to have some decorum. But, he also wants to get married because he does love his Amatus and marriage just makes things feel more official.
Iron Bull:Â
Platonic: He likes kids, so he gets it, too. He may not outright encourage it, but he assures the Inquisitor how great of a parent theyâll be. Now, if the Inquisitor does end up pregnant, heâs overjoyed⌠on their behalf⌠not, like, because he wants to be called an uncle or something⌠(he wants to be called âuncleâ very badly)
He makes the kid an honorary member of the Chargers and attempts to make the little one a onesie that has an embroidered âBullâs Chargersâ lettering on the front.
It takes him all of the pregnancy, but once the baby is born the child has a lovely little onesie that looks incredible. He wonât admit it, but that embroidery took way too long than anyone expected.
Romanced: âWe can make that work.â He smiles. Honestly, he assumes that The Inquisitor might have some sort of kink. Heâs more than happy to oblige. If the Inquisitor doesnât clarify what they desire, claiming that they want a baby, Bull watches them closer. He notices small things that make him draw his conclusions. The way his lover holds a small child, how they speak to them, and how sad they look when they have to hand over the child to their parents at the end of the day. He will bring it up in the next few days, and eventually ask them if they want to be parents together, once everything is handled. He wouldnât mind a kid or two, if his kadan wants it, Bull knows his kadan would be one hell of a parent.
Maker help him if The Inquisitor ends up pregnant, heâs so happy he canât bother himself by being nervous. Just kidding, heâs super nervous. The Qun doesnât have fathers, how the hell is he supposed to be there for his kid when he has no idea what kids need?
He needs constant reassurance and ends up going to Krem for advice on taking care of children. Krem had siblings, so he should know⌠right?
He has his game face on by the time The Inquisitor has the baby, Bull read every single book on childbirth, so heâs basically an expert. Heâs all about that counter pressure and breathing techniques, so much so that the midwives are impressed themselves.
Josephine Montilyet:Â
Platonic: She sighs, one of those dreamy sighs, âOh I completely understand, well⌠a little bit. Iâm sure having children is much different from having siblings, so Iâm certain itâs better.âÂ
She knows the Inquisitor isnât going just to waltz off and get pregnant or get someone else pregnant. But she does clarify if they want a child right then and there. If they say that they intend to have a child as soon as possible, she may faint.
Sheâs stressed if the Inquisitor or their partner ends up with a child, and gently encourages the pair to get maybe married. Less of a reputation sting that way. If they refuse, she mentally prepares herself for questions from nobles and a few Orlesian nobles who were interested in The Inquisitor themselves.
Romanced: She smiles, âI would⌠like that.â She says. Sheâs come from a big family, Josephine would be a liar if she said she didn't want to have a big family of their own. But then she proceeds to clarify ânot right now.â
âI do think about children, but you and I both know what a terrible idea it would be to bring them into their lives now." She also clarifies that she intends to cross a few relationship milestones too.
Leliana: A decade younger, Leliana wouldâve been right next to The Inquisitor, cooing over the children they affectionately spoke so much about. But Leliana was older⌠and admittedly more cynical now. It didnât help that Leliana was now a spymaster in the Inquisition.
âI⌠understand, but do try to resist any temptation that points you towards⌠having any children at the moment.â She says plainly.
Maker helps Leliana if The Inquisitor has children with their partner. Sheâll end up frustratingly baby-proofing the entirety of Skyhold.
Sheâs happy when she finally meets the baby, and she canât help but soften for a little while as she gazes down at the newborn. Her faith somehow returns and any doubts she had over the Maker disappear, as if there was no Maker, how could something so perfect exist? At least, she thinks that until someone looks at her, then sheâs all business again.
Sera:Â
Platonic: Not interested, or at least, the statement doesnât faze her. Why would such a badass want little kids? Snotty⌠annoying⌠chubby cheeked⌠super cute- okay, she gets it.
She tells her friend they would probably be a good parent, but would also totally not believe the Inquisitor if they were pregnant or got their partner pregnant. It would only be until she saw The Inquisitor or their partnerâs bump that she would accept that maybe they were having a baby.
She loves the kid like a sibling and often offers to make cookies for the baby, not realizing that the baby cannot have solid food for the first few months. She counts down the days when she can goof around with the kid on her own, whenever that might be.
Romanced: Laughs for a while, only to pause when she sees the serious look on her loverâs face.Â
âYouâre serious? You wantâŚâ She thinks for a moment before laughing again, âYeah⌠Iâd want that too! Weâd be great mums!â She giggles.
Sheâs super on board, and would be the âfun mom.â This means The Inquisitor would be the one that would have to discipline the children. But aside from that, Seraâs all over having kids.
Solas:Â
Platonic: High approval Solas would approve, he would nod and tell The Inquisitor that they would be an excellent parent, that they have the wisdom and patience that would be fit for a parent. He advises them to wait, first, as having a child while Corypheus is still at large is a terrible idea.
Low approval, he kind of just nods. He tells them that they should wait if they intend to have a child, as itâs a bad idea. He doesnât do much else, no encouragement, just a simple shrug, and sigh. He doesnât care.
Regardless of approval, if the Inquisitor or their partner ends up pregnant, and Solas is still there, he sort of freaks out. His main concern is the mark and its effect on the child, but once thatâs ruled out, he still feels guilty. Hopefully, he leaves before the child is born. Because he cracks when he sees them for the first time. Does he really have it in him to end the world when someone as pure and untouched as that child exists?Â
It takes some deliberation, but he does. And he leaves, praying he never meets the child ever again.
Romanced: He pauses, were they⌠serious?
Solas canât help himself but imagine a life with his vhenan, away from responsibilities, with a few children surrounding the pair. Heâd be a liar if that lovely thought didnât cross his mind when he would steal gazes at his vhenan, but⌠thatâs all it was⌠right? A thought.
He claims that his vhenan would be an excellent parent, but also ensures that he doesnât want children, not before Corypheus is defeated. But maybe itâs an accident. He breaks his rule of not sleeping with Lavellan under false pretenses. Once his vhenan is pregnant, his actions depend on The Inquisitorâs dialogue choices. If The Inquisitor were to drink from the Well of Sorrows and then affirm Solasâ choice of fixing the past, he would leave. Not without incredible pain, but he leaves. But if by some chance, by some sliver of a chance, Lavellan says the right things, Solas stays. He hates himself for it, so he promises himself heâll stay until the birth. Then he looks at his child and weeps. Like if he was platonic, Solas is thrown into turmoil, how could he destroy the world of a child? His child? So he resolves to stay and give up on his mission.
On another note, if he leaves, and Lavellan sees him in Trespasser, heâs more willing to take his vhenan and his child with him.
Varric Tethras:Â
Platonic: Varric laughs, âNow that would be a twist⌠The great Inquisitor, changing diapers in between closing rifts and demon fights.â He smiles to himself.Â
As a dwarf, their fertility is comparatively lower than the other races, and honestly, he never thought of himself as a parent, at least, not until he met and started parenting Cole. Of course, he doubts heâll ever have his own family, Bianca and he, it would never work out. But he can understand the desire.Â
He laughs so hard he cries if The Inquisitor or their partner ends up with a kid, like, hunched over, canât breathe laughing.Â
Heâs nervous for The Inquisitor, though, he knows how hard it is to be a parent, but having a kid while theyâre so⌠important? Itâs a recipe for disaster.
Might end up writing the kid out of the story if The Inquisitor requests, maybe The Inquisitor doesnât want anyone knowing they potentially had a child out of wedlock.
Romanced: Varric doesnât laugh, he just smiles. He hadnât started thinking about having a family until he and The Inquistor started going out officially. He nods,Â
âIâd like that too.â He says, and the pair might find themselves discussing their future more often. Names for future children, where theyâd live, does the Inqusitor want a dog?
He reminds his lover that Dwarves arenât known for their fertility, but reminds his lover that âthey can still tryâ and winks at his lover.Â
Varric is so caught up in the feeling of being loved so freely, that he sometimes forgets that thereâs an evil, red-lyrium magister that wants to rip his lover apart piece by piece. It getâs him nervous, but heâs confident in their shared abilities. And damnit, he loves The Inquisitor, heâs not giving up on them.
Heâs speechless if his lover comes up to him and confesses that theyâre pregnant, like⌠actually speechless. He opens his mouth to say something before closing it. Then he just smiles and throws his arms around his lover and says that he loves them. Heâs happy to be a dad⌠heâs happy to have a family, heâs happy to have something he never thought would be his.
Vivienne: She doesnât laugh, at all. Sheâs kind of pissed.
âYou arenât planning on bringing in a child now? Not here, right?â She has to clarify.
She thinks the Inquisitor and their partner will be wonderful parents, but they shouldnât have kids right then. They need to wait.Â
If the Inquisitor ends up pregnant/getting someone else pregnant, she scolds them fairly harshly, not to be mean or anything, sheâs just upset with how âcarelessâ they could be. If the Inquisitor tells her off or, Maker forbid, starts crying, sheâll feel bad. She doesnât apologize, however, she knows that having a child while the world is still basically in peril and youâre the main person preventing utter chaos is one of the worst things you can do.Â
However, the second the child comes into the world, sheâs all over them. She isnât obvious and wouldnât be caught dead with the kid on her own, but she canât help but smile when she sees them all swaddled or when they look so chubby she just wants to eat them up. Only when she sees what a wonderful parent the Inquisitor is, she apologizes for being harsh. She does it in her way, so the Inquisitor shouldnât expect an âIâm sorryâ or anything, but they will get some sort of comment on how she may or may not have been wrong to judge them. Regardless, the Inquisitor better take what they can get.
i dont think i can iterate enough how much of a loverboy and romantic this guy is
like hed do so much corny shit i believe. but he does so with with the stupidest cutest grin on his face whilst looking all flustered and nervous oh how could you NOT kiss him stupid RIGHT WHERE HIS ASS STANDS
i can see him call you the british versions of terms of endearment aswell (like hun or luv or whatever you may think of)
okay whatever lets get into the stuff i think he would do for his partner (or youđdidyou read thatđi saidyouđhis partner is youđwink)Ok
i think heathcliff is the type of guy who would hold your hand while youre on the loo đ¤i was about to go further with this but i wont ill say things i wont be able to take back anymore
gift giving i think is something he would like ... not necessarily buying stuff but making it himself and giving it to you. you both think it holds more value that way, and he adores seeing you light up by something he himself made with his own two hands
another one of his love languages is physical touch!
youre that hallway couple everyone hates.
no im playingBUT LIKE hed definitely like holding your hand whilst youre on a date (i mean like if your man didnt i think you should snipe him) and especially in private he likes cuddling or just touching you casually
in private a bit more though hed be more confident and comfortable touching you there. he gets a bit nervous doing it in public.
not in a bad way or anything! its just that his co workers are lowkey better professionals at making light hearted comments about his relationship to him and teasing him about it than they are at their current occupations in limbus company.
see its because it almost always manages to fluster or piss him off
laying his head on yours or yours on his or on either of your shoulders, lying on the others lap, wrapping your hands around his arms are all gestures i think would make him blush
for some reason i feel like hed like books or writing. i mean he literally keeps a diary too (definitely writes about you in it too oh my god what a whipped loserNo im sorry i didnt mean that but dear lord)
the concept of library dates with heathcliff..đcynthia what are you doing here
hed definitely also always tend to your needs . hes a very protective guy in general, too. if he thinks something is wrong, he wouldnt hesitate to come to you about it
ergo i think hed be an awesome boyfriend dude.
đŽ đŞđŠ : HONG LU . . âĄ
im envious that you bagged the physical manifestation of the bag tm
trust that you will be pampered and spoiled. NOT in a dom sugar daddy way though sometimes hong lu buys you very questionable stuff solely on his own accord
like man okay imagine hong lu goes on trips regularly (like ie how he does in the lcb world with the bus) and he just purchases you the weirdest shit ever.
"hong lu what in the corporations am i looking at." you'd ask him, "i bought you some time from t corp.!" he'd answer, "and what am I supposed to do with it exactly?" you reply, "...give me a kiss as a thank you?" he smiles.
...you suppose you can give that to him.
hong lu the type of guy to just NOT gaf about pda
and by that i mean he just touches you whenever the hell he wants where the hell he wants. đŞ
is it bad etiquette? kind of. has he been taught better? probably. does he care? not really.
i think your reactions are what amuse him and make him do that fuck ass face with the gigglyesque smile and the blush and the closed eyes and the "ya allah i want to punch your face" expression and
your relationship with him is just bickering/teasing and pampering eachother. among other things.
if he bombards you with gifts, you can bombard him back with physical affection! which he loves a lot.
i think as opposed to heathcliff, hong lu would like to be more public with you, and comments by others dont really bother him.
infact i think he would use them to his advantage to show you off moređ
whether you mind or not is up to you!
but something tells me you dont.
well in any case, hong lu being your other half comes naturally to him! he doesnt really have to "try to be a good boyfriend" or anything if that makes sense, your relationship is like in the permanent flow state and both of you just always know what the other needs
speaking of that i think as his partner you would be able to read him best too. like YES this motherfucker is cryptic DAMN but its little things you pick up throughout your relationship that makes his nature more transparent to you
maybe its the way he says a particular word or sentence, maybe its his facial expressions, maybe its his body language... its for you to know and find out!
i was in the flow state writing this too bruv. i hope you liked them dear anon... my bad for the delay<//3
ââ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?
ââ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
Wally doesnât fall hard at first.
Not really. Heâs a people person, used to talking to everyone. Charming, fast-talking, always the loudest in the roomâbut when he meets you? You donât flinch at his confidence. You look him dead in the eye, half-bored, half-amused, and say, âYou talk a lot.â
And thatâs it. Thatâs the moment.
The silence you leave in your wake buzzes louder than his speed ever could.
He starts noticing you everywhere.
You arenât trying to stand out, and thatâs what kills him. While the world is screaming for attention, you just existâquiet, steady, untouchable. You donât need to chase validation, and that burns something unfamiliar into Wallyâs chest.
He tells himself itâs just a crush. One of many. Heâs had dozens. Heâs charming like that, right?
But no. This one sticks.
He starts moving at your pace.
Literally. Wally Westâthe Fastest Man Aliveâslows down just to match your steps. You walk? He walks. You take the long way home? He memorizes every corner of it. You like quiet places? Suddenly, Wally knows every hidden rooftop in the city.
He starts showing up in places he swears he was âjust passing through.â
Heâs lying. He calculated every path to run into you.
The obsession sneaks in like a thief.
He remembers every little thing: your favorite snack, the way you tie your hair when youâre irritated, the exact inflection in your voice when youâre sarcastic. He collects those details like trophies, files them away like a case he needs to solve.
And god help the guy who flirts with you. Wallyâs smile doesnât falter, but thereâs an edge to it. A twitch in his fingers. A flash in his eyes.
Fast as he is, heâs even faster when heâs angry.
He gets possessive in ways he canât explain.
He doesnât mean to sound jealous. But when you talk about other guys? Other heroes?
âYou think Nightwingâs hot?â
âHeâs got nice hair, I guess,â you shrug.
Thatâs it. Dickâs getting his shampoo swapped out and his uniform âaccidentallyâ burned.
He knows itâs irrational. He just doesnât care.
He doesnât need to be around you all the time. But he wants to.
Thereâs a difference. Heâs still Wallyâfunny, fast, loyalâbut something about you makes everything else dim.
You become his constant. His gravity. His anchor. The world could end, but if you're safe? He'll laugh through the apocalypse.
And if you're not?
Well. Thatâs a problem no one wants to see the end of.
He watches you when youâre not looking.
Not in a creepy way (okay, maybe a little). But he stares. Long, intense, unwavering. Because when youâre not paying attention, youâre real. Soft. Human. And thatâs when he wants you most.
You once caught him doing it.
âWhy are you staring at me like that?â
ââŚLike what?â
âLike youâre hungry.â
He grins. âMaybe I am.â
You laughed, but it wasnât a joke.
When he touches you, itâs always gentle.
His hands are made to break the sound barrier, but when he brushes your skin, itâs like heâs afraid youâll vanish. He touches you like youâre sacred. Like youâre the only thing that makes him feel human in the blur of the world.
He wants to be close. All the time. Arm around your waist. Pinky brushing yours. His jacket on your shoulders. His heartbeat synced to yours.
Itâs not enough. Itâs never enough.
He gets scared of how much he loves you.
Because itâs not just a crush anymore. Youâve carved your name into the core of him. Wally would tear the world apart for you. Heâd time travel, bend physics, throw away the League, burn everything just to keep you close.
Heâs terrified of losing you. Of you not loving him back. Of you realizing what he really is underneath: a boy who never stops running because heâs scared of standing still.
But with you? He wants to stand still.
He confesses in a way only he could.
He grabs your face in his hands, eyes wild, chest heaving like he just ran to the ends of the Earth.
âIâve never wanted anyone like I want you,â he blurts out. âAnd itâs driving me insane. Iâm not good at thisâwaiting, wantingâbut if you told me to slow down, I would. If you told me to stop, I would. Justâdonât leave me behind.â
And when you kiss him?
Time. Stops.
After the kiss, he changes.
Not in the loud, obvious way. Wally still jokes, still grins, still makes the room warmer just by being in itâbut something in his eyes shifts. He looks at you like youâre not just his girlfriendâyouâre his reason.
And he tells you that.
Not once. Not twice.
Every single day.
âIâd die for you,â he says like itâs a fact, not a metaphor. âAnd if someone tries to take you from meâwell⌠theyâd better be faster than me.â
His obsession turns quiet. Dangerous. Protective.
You donât notice the little things at first.
Like how your co-worker suddenly transferred the day after he got a little too flirty.
Or how your phone never dies anymore, no matter how often you forget to charge it.
(He swaps batteries in your sleep. Replaces your charger. Monitors the voltage. You donât know.)
Or how your ex texts you, and the message deletes itself before you can open it.
(Heâs been in your phone. In your cloud. Heâs faster than any firewall.)
You never feel unsafe. You just feel⌠watched. But itâs Wally, right? Your Wally. He wouldnâtâ
He doesnât trust anyone with you.
Not your friends. Not the League. Not even Barry.
He masks it well, with smiles and sarcasm, but under the surface, heâs seething. Every time someone makes you laugh, every time they touch your shoulder or stand too close, he catalogues it. Keeps score.
And later, when no oneâs around, he whispers,
âYou know you donât need them, right? You have me. Iâm all youâll ever need.â
Heâs not asking. Heâs reminding.
He has nightmares. About losing you.
They start slowâharmless, even. You walking away. Forgetting his name. Laughing with someone else. But they escalate quickly.
You dying. You screaming. You reaching for him as heâs too slow.
(Heâs never too slow.)
He wakes up drenched in sweat, vibrating from head to toe, fists clenched hard enough to bruise his own palms. Some nights he just stares at you sleeping, watching your chest rise and fall, whisperingâ
âI wonât let it happen. I promise. I promise. I wonât lose you.â
He starts testing you.
Little things. Subtle.
âWhat would you do if I disappeared?â
âWould you still love me if I wasnât a hero?â
âWould you run away with me right now? No questions asked?â
He watches every flicker in your eyes. Measures your every breath.
You always say the right thing. But heâs waiting. Waiting to see if youâll betray him.
He hopes you donât. He prays you donât.
Because if you do?
He already has a plan.
He starts talking about the future.
But not in the dreamy, romantic way. Not with rings or white dresses or picket fences.
No. Wallyâs version of forever is you and him against the world. You donât need a big house. You donât need anyone else. You just need him.
âWe could disappear,â he murmurs into your skin one night. âI could take you so far no one would find us. Ever. Just me and you, baby. Nothing else. Doesnât that sound perfect?â
You laugh, a little unsure.
But he doesnât laugh back.
If anyone hurts you? Even emotionally?
They. Vanish.
He doesnât kill. He doesnât need to. Heâs smarter than that. Faster.
But you better believe they never show their face again. Maybe they get blackmailed. Maybe theyâre framed. Maybe they wake up halfway across the country with no memory of how they got there.
You ask Wally if he knows anything.
He just kisses your forehead and says,
âYou donât have to worry about people like that anymore. Iâll always protect you.â
And god help you, it makes you feel safe.
He keeps something of yours with him. Always.
A strand of hair. A necklace. The first note you wrote him. The chapstick you lost. He keeps it in a little box, hidden in a place no one can find. A shrine, almost.
When he misses you (which is always), he opens it. Smiles to himself. Breathes you in.
You are his god. His everything.
And he loves you too much to let you go.
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â Š luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites â
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ââ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?
ââ NOTES : There are some +18 parts. Minors DNI. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
You don't notice him at first.
Not really.
You're too busy tugging the hem of your cheap purple dress down over your thighs, smeared lipstick staining the corners of your mouth.
Mascara streams down your face, thick and ugly, like bleeding spiderlegs across dead eyes.
Youâre half-high, half-drunk, standing barefoot behind the shitty little bar where the real dirtbags like to crawl, and youâre lighting another cigarette with shaking fingers. The end of it flares like a dying star, and you pull the smoke into your lungs like youâre hoping it'll fill the hollow parts of you.
You stink of alcohol.
You smell like roses.
You taste like regret and somebody elseâs hands.
He sees you.
God help him, he sees you.
John Constantine, bastard mage, conman, addict, cynic â heâs not a savior. Heâs not a white knight.
He's just another piece of shit who recognizes his own.
He flicks the end of his cigarette into the gutter and watches you struggle with the strap of your dress, tits half-hanging out in the yellow light of the alleyway.
You should look pathetic.
You should look cheap.
You do.
But somehow, you look... more, too.
Thereâs something about you, something cracked and shining and wrong.
Like a broken mirror catching all the wrong reflections.
Something that crawls under John's skin, burrows between his ribs and digs in sharp little claws.
He tells himself it's nothing.
Just another lost girl.
Just another night.
But heâs lying.
Already, heâs lying to himself.
He lights another cigarette and steps out of the dark.
âYou alright there, love?â he rasps, voice like a bad memory, smoke curling from his lips.
You look at him with those dead doll-eyes. No fear. No real interest, either. Just this slow, heavy indifference like you're already halfway in the grave.
You shrug.
You hitch your dress up higher.
You donât bother pretending to be shy. You gave up pretending a long time ago.
âWhat do you want?â you ask, voice raw from cheap whiskey and cheaper choices.
John should walk away.
He knows this kind of girl, the ones with nothing left to lose. They eat you alive without even meaning to. They rot you from the inside out.
He should turn around.
He should let you slip back into the filth where you came from.
Instead, he laughs.
Soft, almost pitying.
âJust a light, sweetheart,â he lies, flicking open his battered silver lighter even though his own cigarette is already burning between his fingers.
You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious, but too tired to care.
You let him light your cigarette anyway, leaning in, close enough that he can smell the roses in your hair, the smoke on your skin, the slow stink of desperation leaking off you like cheap perfume.
You don't know it yet, but you've already cursed him.
That first night, he doesn't touch you.
He just watches you, out the corner of his eye, as you stumble back inside the bar, laughing that dry, broken laugh at something nobody else can hear.
He tells himself he won't come back.
He tells himself it's none of his business.
He tells himself heâs already got enough bloody ghosts to haunt him without adding another.
But he does come back.
Again.
And again.
You don't really notice him after that first night.
Not the way he notices you.
To you, he's just another face in the blurry noise of your nights â another man with a lighter, another set of boots tracking dirt across the floor.
You don't know he comes back.
Every night now.
You don't know he sits in the corner, half-drunk, chain-smoking, pretending to mind his own business while you keep carving pieces off yourself and handing them to anyone who asks.
You're too far gone to care.
Always high, always halfway between laughing and crying.
Your eyes â God, those fucking eyes â
half-lidded, lazy, dead as winter, but still so pretty it makes something sour twist in John's gut.
It happens on a Tuesday.
Youâre outside again, the bar's back alley, slumped against the crumbling brick wall like a broken doll.
Dress bunched up around your hips, one shoe missing, a cigarette burning forgotten between your fingers.
Youâre shaking. Coming down hard.
Youâre muttering to yourself under your breath, something sharp and ugly.
John watches you for a long time before he moves.
He hates himself for it.
Hates that he cares.
But he moves anyway.
Without thinking, he fishes a crumpled wad of cash out of his coat pocket and crouches in front of you, holding it out like a white flag.
"Here," he says gruffly, avoiding your eyes. "Get y'self something to eat. A bed, maybe. Somethin' better than... this."
You blink at the money.
Then at him.
And then â slow, crooked grin splitting your face â you laugh.
That dry, brittle laugh, like something breaking.
You grab the cash with one hand â and with the other, you reach for his belt.
John freezes.
Youâre clumsy, sluggish, but determined, tugging at his pants like itâs just the most natural thing in the world. Like this is just how the world works:
money = you.
"Y'wanna fuck me, right?" you slur, eyes glassy but sharp underneath. "Go on then, mister. Paid up, didn't you?"
He grabs your wrists, not rough but firm.
Pushes your hands away.
"Christ," he mutters, like a prayer, like a curse. "Thatâs not whyâ"
You tilt your head at him, mascara streaked down your cheeks, lips dry and cracked.
You look at him like he's the crazy one.
"Then why else you givinâ me money?" you ask, so blunt it cuts.
"No one gives girls like me free rides, mister."
You grin again, crooked and sad, and your dress slides even further up your thighs.
You don't even notice. Or maybe you do. Maybe you just don't care.
John exhales smoke through his nose, staring down at you, feeling something black and oily coil inside his chest.
"Pity," he says finally, bitter. "Maybe Iâm a stupid sod with a savior complex. Maybe Iâm just drunk."
You squint up at him through the smoke and the haze, studying him like he's some strange animal you've never seen before.
Then you shrug.
Simple. Easy.
Like youâve already decided it doesnât matter either way.
"Y'can fuck me if you want," you say, almost sweetly. "You're not ugly."
John laughs. A short, sharp, broken thing.
He almost wants to take you up on it, just to feel something real for a change.
Almost.
Instead, he shakes his head, rubs a hand down his face.
"Go sleep it off, love," he says, voice rough. "Get a hot meal. For once."
You clutch the money to your chest like itâs something hole.
Like itâs the first good thing anyoneâs given you in a long time.
And you just smile at him â
this soft, stupid little smile that shouldn't hurt to look at, but somehow does.
John tells himself it's still just pity.
Just a bit of guilt, a bit of bleeding heart nonsense.
But when you stumble away into the night, barefoot and laughing under your breath, he stays there, standing in the alleyway like a man who's just been punched in the gut.
And he watches you go, smoke curling around him, cigarette burning down to the filter between his shaking fingers.
He doesn't leave.
Not for a long, long time.
He sees you again three days later.
Heâs not looking for you â
at least thatâs what he tells himself.
Just grabbing a pint.
Just passing through.
You find him first.
"Hey, mister."
Your voice cuts through the noise.
Soft. Small. Almost shy.
He turns, half expecting the same disaster he left behind in that alley â
the smeared makeup, the too-short dress, the wild deadness in your eyes.
But youâre different this time.
You're...
sober.
No makeup.
No booze in your veins.
No cigarette dangling from your fingers.
Just you â
barefaced, raw, skin looking almost too thin for your bones, but real.
Alive.
You stand there awkwardly, hands buried deep in the pockets of a too-big hoodie, cheap sneakers scuffing the pavement.
You donât look like the kind of girl who sells herself to survive.
You just look like a girl.
"Iâm not a beggar," you say suddenly, fidgeting. "But... thanks. For the money."
John blinks, caught off guard.
You flash a little smile â nervous, genuine, heartbreaking.
"Mister's a good man," you say.
It punches something deep in his gut.
Heâs not.
Youâre wrong.
Heâs done worse than you could imagine.
But you say it like you believe it. Like itâs fact. Like it's written somewhere in a book bigger than either of you.
He swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat.
"You hungry?" he hears himself asking.
You light up. Not much, but enough.
A flicker. A spark.
"Yeah," you say simply.
You spend the day together.
Itâs stupid.
Itâs perfect.
You get street food â cheap, greasy chips wrapped in newspaper.
You drag him through the streets like a manic little hurricane, pointing out dogs that look like goblins, shouting compliments at old ladies, daring him to race you down alleyways.
At one point, you find a children's park â some half-dead little patch of grass and rusting swings.
You bolt for it like a kid.
"C'mon, mister!" you holler, kicking your shoes off and running barefoot through the patchy grass. "Play with me!"
John stands there like an idiot for a second, cigarette halfway to his mouth.
Then he sighs. Drops the smoke. Crushes it under his boot.
And jogs after you.
You end up pushing each other on the swings, spinning until you're both dizzy, laughing like two drunk ghosts.
You even convince him to climb the jungle gym â which ends with him cursing and almost falling on his ass.
You laugh until you wheeze.
He grins despite himself.
Youâre smiling.
Really smiling.
Not that broken, brittle thing heâs seen before.
This oneâs messy and real and full of life, like you donât know youâre supposed to be miserable.
For a few hours, youâre not a ghost.
Youâre just a girl.
Later, you sit side by side on the grass, lighting cigarettes with shaking hands.
The sun's sinking, staining the sky blood-red.
John takes a drag, exhales smoke in a long, slow stream.
"You..." he starts, hesitates. Scratches the back of his neck, suddenly awkward.
"You gonna... y'know. Work. Tonight?"
You turn your head slowly toward him.
Wide eyes.
Clear and open and a little confused, like you genuinely don't understand the question at first.
And thenâ
You laugh.
Sharp, bright, cutting.
"Why?" you grin wickedly, teeth flashing. "Mister wanna make his moneyâs worth?"
John winces.
You elbow him lightly, still laughing under your breath, cigarette bobbing between your fingers.
"Nah," you say finally, settling back on your elbows, face tipped toward the sky.
"Iâm good. Probably wonât need to for a week, thanks to you."
You tap ash into the grass.
"Guess you bought me a vacation, mister."
Thereâs a strange peace in your voice.
No bitterness. No shame.
Just simple, stupid gratitude.
John wants to say something â
something clever, something to fill the aching silence between you â
but the words stick in his throat.
You crush the cigarette out on the sole of your sneaker, rising to your feet in one fluid, tired motion.
"See ya, Mister," you say, tossing a lazy wave over your shoulder as you drift away into the gathering dark.
John stays where he is, sitting on the grass, smoke curling around him like a noose.
He watches you go.
Again.
And he tells himself itâs just pity.
Still just pity.
Itâs a week later.
Exactly a week.
John remembers, because you said it.
Because your voice â lazy and teasing and sweetly poisonous â stuck in his bloody head like a song he canât turn off.
"Probably for a week," youâd laughed.
And now it's been seven days.
He tells himself heâs just passing through.
That heâs not looking for you.
Heâs lying to himself. He knows it.
The night air smells like piss and diesel.
The streets are sticky with old rain and regret.
The city yawns open, ugly and hungry, swallowing girls like you whole.
Heâs late.
He knows it the second he spots you.
Youâre stumbling down a filthy back alley, shoes dangling from one hand, the other hand dragging along the brick wall for balance.
Youâre half-folded over, bent at the waist like youâre trying to walk on a sinking ship.
Your pretty dress is twisted.
Your hairâs a mess.
Your mascara â the little you bothered with tonight â is bleeding down your cheeks.
You giggle.
Itâs a wet, broken sound.
You take two more steps, your legs buckling.
Johnâs moving before he can even think.
You're about to hit the concrete when John lunges forward and catches you.
"Whoa there, love," he mutters, arms wrapping around your shaking frame.
You giggle again, breathless against his chest.
"Heyyy, Misterrrr," you slur, blinking up at him with those wide, beautiful, dead eyes. "You gonna fuck me nowww?"
John frowns, adjusting his grip on you.
Your body is practically boneless in his arms, and you reek of cheap booze and something sweeter underneath â
roses wilting in dirty water.
"You alright, pet?" he tries, voice low.
You donât answer.
Just hum some tuneless nonsense under your breath.
Your fingers tug weakly at the sleeve of his coat like a child needing comfort.
"Christ," he mutters, pulling you closer.
"Youâre a bloody mess."
You nod cheerfully like you heard him, but you're not really there, not really.
Your head lolls back and you grin up at him â wide, dumb, beautiful â before you suddenly double over andâ
you vomit all over him.
All over his coat, his shirt, his bloody boots.
John grimaces, steadying you as your whole body shudders.
"That's alright, love," he says quietly, patting your back while you cough and gasp and sag against him.
Still â something twists deep in his gut.
Doesnât even think about it.
Instead, he just tightens his grip and scoops you up â
like youâre something precious, something fragile, something heâs terrified might break if heâs not careful.
He takes you to his flat.
Itâs not much â
just a shitty little place that smells like old books, cigarettes, and alcohol.
But itâs clean.
Itâs safe.
He strips off his ruined coat, tosses it into the sink, and carries you to the couch.
Youâre half-passed out by the time he gets you there.
Youâre murmuring under your breath, little nonsense things, like a kid muttering in their sleep.
John finds a blanket.
Tugs it up around your chin.
Your face is flushed.
Your lips are parted.
You look so fucking young like this. So stupidly young and vulnerable.
He pulls a chair close to the couch and sinks into it heavily, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.
He watches you.
He watches you all night.
He doesn't move.
Doesnât sleep.
Not really.
When he finally dozes off â just for a moment â the dream hits him hard.
Itâs you.
Of course itâs you.
Your body under his.
Your mouth gasping his name.
Your nails digging into his skin.
Hot and dirty and desperate.
His.
He jerks awake with a sick, guilty twist in his gut, heart hammering against his ribs.
Youâre still sleeping, innocent and oblivious, curled up like a child under the blanket he gave you.
John scrubs a hand down his face.
"Fucking hell," he mutters.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
You donât remember a damn thing when you finally stir hours later.
Youâre sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped up in the blanket like a cocoon, staring down at your hands.
When you see him, you blink.
Confused.
Flickering through memories that arenât quite there.
"I... um," you start, frowning. "Did I...?"
"You threw up on me," John says dryly, tossing a clean t-shirt over the back of the chair.
"And passed out. Real classy."
You flush â a soft, miserable red creeping up your neck.
"Sorry, mister," you mumble, cheeks burning. "Didnât mean to be a bother."
John ruffles your hair, chuckling dryly.
"Sânothinâ, love. Youâre alright."
You sip the coffee that he gave you, curling your bare legs under you, shrinking into yourself like a kicked dog.
John doesnât like that look on you.
Not one bit.
He makes you breakfast â
burnt toast and greasy eggs and orange juice that tastes like tar.
You eat like you havenât had a real meal in days.
He watches you across the table, smoking and pretending heâs not watching.
When youâre finished, you wipe your mouth on your sleeve and stand up awkwardly.
"I should... go," you say, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders.
"I'll drop you," John says quickly â too quickly.
You blink at him, surprised.
"Really, mister. It's fineâ"
"I insist," he says, already grabbing his keys.
He tells himself itâs just to make sure you get home safe.
He tells himself itâs not because he needs to know where you live.
Heâs lying again.
The walk to your place is quiet.
You lead him through crumbling back alleys and graffiti-smeared stairwells until you reach a battered old building that looks half-abandoned.
You pause at the front door, shifting from foot to foot.
"This is me," you say softly.
You smile â small and sad and shy.
"Thanks, mister," you add. "For... y'know. Not letting me die in a gutter."
John shrugs like itâs nothing.
Like it didnât cost him anything.
Like he didnât dream about you all fucking night.
You wave again â
that same lazy little wave â
and disappear inside.
John stands there for a long time after youâre gone.
Smoking.
Thinking.
Feeling things he doesnât want to name.
He canât stop thinking about you after that.
He tells himself heâs just worried.
Just making sure youâre alright.
But itâs not just that.
Itâs the way you looked curled up in his blanket.
Itâs the way you smiled at him like he was the only good thing in a world full of monsters.
Itâs the sound of your voice â broken, brutal, beautiful.
He starts going back to the places he might find you.
Starts listening for your laugh.
Starts noticing every girl with a cigarette and mascara-smudged eyes and thinking, There she is. Thatâs her.
But itâs never you.
And the empty ache in his chest just grows bigger and bigger.
It becomes a ritual after that.
Every night now, John comes to take you home.
Doesnât matter where you are, what you're doing.
He finds you.
In some shit-stained alley.
In the back of some filthy dive bar.
In the arms of strangers.
Sometimes he catches you mid-fuck â
bent over some broken table, some guy's hands bruising your hips, your eyes half-closed, mouth open but silent.
Sometimes youâre wiping your face with the back of your hand when he gets there.
Cum glistening on your cheeks, your lashes, your lips.
John doesn't say anything.
Doesn't yell.
Doesn't judge.
He just shrugs out of his coat, drapes it over your shoulders, and leads you away like heâs guiding a sleepwalker.
But it eats him alive.
Every time he sees another man's hands on you, another man's cum dripping down your chin â
something black and ugly and furious wakes up inside him.
He hates it.
He hates it more than heâs ever hated anything in his cursed, miserable life.
So he starts giving you money.
Not much, at first.
Crumpled bills tucked into your pocket with a gruff, embarrassed cough.
"Buy yourself a proper meal, yeah?" he mutters, looking anywhere but at you.
You smile â that soft, broken little smile â and take it without question.
You donât ask why.
You donât ask for more.
But John sees the change almost immediately.
You stop letting strange men touch you.
Stop letting them buy your drinks, pull you into dark corners.
You cling to John instead.
Follow him home like a stray cat.
Sleep curled up on his couch, wearing his t-shirts, stealing his cigarettes.
And he lets you.
He fucking lets you because somewhere along the way, he stopped being your savior.
And started being your jailer.
You just donât realize it yet.
You trust him.
God help you, you trust him because heâs the only man who hasnât tried to fuck you.
The only man who doesnât look at you like you're a thing to be used and thrown away.
John keeps telling himself that's all it is.
That he just wants to protect you.
That itâs not about the way your t-shirts ride up over your thighs when you stretch.
Not about the way your bra strap slips off your shoulder when you laugh.
Not about the way your lips wrap around the neck of a beer bottle absent-mindedly when you're not even thinking about it.
Itâs not about any of that.
Itâs not.
Until the night it is.
You're sitting on the couch, barefoot and cross-legged, wearing one of his shirts thatâs far too big on you.
Talking.
You were rambling about your past againâ
About shitty foster homes and shittier men.
About how you learned real young what men really wanted.
About how you stopped believing in fairytales because your prince charming turned out to be another monster with rough hands and a mean mouth.
You were laughing when you said it.
That pretty, broken laugh of yours.
Like it didnât hurt anymore.
Like you didnât care.
John should be listening.
He really should.
But heâs not.
Heâs staring.
At your lips, moving so soft and easy.
At your chest, rising and falling with every careless breath.
At the hint of skin peeking out when you shift, the worn fabric of his shirt clinging to the curve of your tits.
He feels his cock twitch in his jeans.
Hardening.
Throbbing.
And suddenly heâs not hearing a word you're saying anymore.
Just staring.
Just wanting.
You donât notice at first.
You're still talking â
some story about some bastard who left you bruised and bleeding and crying at a bus stop.
But then you glance at him.
Catch the way his eyes are dark and heavy and fixed on your mouth.
Catch the obvious, aching bulge in his jeans.
Your smile falters â
just for a second.
Just a flicker of something sad and brittle flashing across your face.
And then you smile again.
A dull, tired smile.
Like you're used to this.
Like you expected it all along.
Like it doesnât even hurt anymore.
You crawl across the couch to him.
Settle between his knees.
Fingers working open his belt like it's just another job, just another disappointment.
John grabs your wrists.
"Wait," he rasps, voice cracked and desperate.
You look up at him.
Not angry.
Not pleading.
Just resigned.
"âS'alright, mister," you murmur, that flat smile never leaving your lips. "Youâre different, yeah? Itâs fine."
He wants to tell you no.
Wants to shove you away and run and never see you again.
But he doesnât.
He lets you.
Lets you free him from his jeans, your small hands working his cock free, hard and throbbing and leaking pre-cum.
Lets you take him into your mouth â
warm and wet and willing.
Lets you suck him off slowly, lazily, like you're doing him a favor you don't even care about.
And it feels good.
God, it feels so fucking good.
Better than anything heâs had in years.
Better than magic.
Better than whiskey.
Better than the cigarettes burning a hole in his lungs.
He groans low and broken, one hand finding its way into your hair, guiding you with trembling fingers.
You don't protest.
You don't flinch.
You just take it.
Take him.
Until heâs spilling into your mouth with a raw, guttural gasp, the world going white around the edges.
Afterwards, you sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
Still smiling that awful, empty smile.
John pulls his jeans back up with shaking hands.
Silence stretches thick and suffocating between you.
Finally he croaks out, "Do you... do you hate me now?"
You tilt your head at him, considering.
Shrug.
"Hateâs a strong word," you say lightly. "I'm just disappointed."
The words slice into him sharper than any blade.
But you donât seem to notice.
Or maybe you just donât care.
You stand up, stretch your arms over your head, and yawn like a cat.
"Itâs fine," you add, already wandering toward the kitchen.
"Not that it matters. You're the one paying me now, right? âS'all good."
And somehow, that hurt worse than anything.
Worse than if you had screamed at him.
Worse than if you had slapped him across the face.
He just sat there, jeans still undone, staring at you.
At the hollow place where your soul used to be.
At the pretty, broken thing he was slowly making his own.
After that night, something inside you changes.
Youâre not sweet anymore.
Youâre not soft.
You still smile â
God, you always smile â
but itâs dull now.
Lifeless.
Like a neon sign buzzing in a dead city.
You're full.
Full of disappointment, full of resignation, full of the ugly truth.
John's just another piece of trash.
No different from the rest.
Just another man who wanted something from you, no matter how pretty he dressed it up.
John tries to pretend itâs love.
Tries to kiss you like you're a fucking miracle.
Tries to touch you like you're made of something holy.
But you're not.
Youâre empty.
You're a vessel.
A cracked and leaking thing.
And heâs just another man filling you up with his filth.
Another Mister who wants something and takes it.
You don't hate him.
You don't love him either.
You just accept it.
Same as you always do.
Then it happens again.
And again.
You donât protest.
You donât pull away.
You let him touch you.
Let him rut against you.
Let him use you.
But you don't feel it.
Not really.
You don't kiss him with your mouth.
You kiss him with your absence.
You moan because you know he likes it.
You arch your back because that's what they want.
You scratch your nails down his spine because someone taught you that men like to feel owned, just a little.
But your eyes are always distant.
Wandering.
Dead.
John notices.
He notices everything.
How you never meet his eyes anymore.
How your smile never reaches your cheeks.
How you don't fall asleep curled against him like you used to.
You just lie there â
cold, silent, naked â
like a broken doll someone forgot to put away.
Sometimes, when heâs fucking you, he talks to you.
Whispers your name into your neck.
Tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you are, how much he needs you.
You donât answer.
You just whimper prettily when you think youâre supposed to.
It drives him insane.
Because youâre there â
but youâre not.
He can touch you, own you, fill you â
but he canât reach you.
Youâre a locked room he lost the key to.
Youâre a dead girl smiling.
One night, heâs rougher than usual.
Not violent.
Just desperate.
Hands grabbing too tight.
Mouth bruising your skin.
Fucking you deep and hard, like he's trying to break through whatever walls youâve built between you.
You let him.
You always let him.
Afterward, he collapses beside you, panting, sticky with sweat and shame.
You roll away from him, staring at the cracked ceiling.
Silent.
Smiling.
He touches your hair, brushes it back from your face.
"Youâre not... you're not mad, are you, love?" he asks, voice raw.
You blink slowly, still smiling that awful, empty smile.
"Nah," you murmur. "Youâre just Mister, right?"
You say it so sweetly.
So gently.
And it cuts deeper than any knife ever could.
John doesnât know what to say.
Doesnât know how to fix this.
Doesnât know if he can.
So he just lies there, listening to you breathe, feeling the space between you turn colder and colder.
Like a grave filling up with dirt.
After that, it gets worse.
The sex is mechanical now.
A transaction.
A ritual.
He gives you money.
You give him your body.
He holds you like a lover.
You let him.
He kisses you like you're precious.
You let him.
He tells you he needs you.
You let him.
But in your eyes â
God, in your eyes â
he sees it.
The truth.
Heâs no different.
Heâs nothing special.
Heâs just another man who fucked you when you were too broken to fight back.
Just another name on the list youâll forget one day when you're drunk enough, dead enough, free enough.
And the worst part?
You donât even blame him.
You just accept it.
Because thatâs all youâve ever known.
And John...
he hates himself more every day.
But he still keeps coming back.
Keeps reaching for you like a man dying of thirst reaching for a poisoned cup.
Keeps hoping for a miracle that never comes.
Because youâre already dead inside.
And heâs the fool who helped bury you.
â MASTERLIST â
â Š luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites â
ă ¤Öšă ¤âšă ¤ #ă ¤FLOWERS ON THE MOONă ¤.á Öš â ęą
ââ PAIRING : Kyle Rayner x Fem Reader
ââ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?
ââ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
It starts slow. It always does.
You met Kyle before he became Green Lantern. Back when he was just Kyle Rayner, the artist scraping by, unsure of his place in the world, but always smiling anyway. You were someone who made him feel seenâreally seen. Maybe you asked about his art. Maybe you told him you liked how he saw the world. That one line? It stuck with him like blood on canvas:
"You see beauty in everything, Kyle. I wonder what you'd see in me."
And oh, Godâhe did.
That night he went home and sketched you in twenty different poses. Laughing. Sleeping. Looking away. Crying. He didnât even know why. He couldnât help himself. You were in his hands, in his pencil, in his head. And once Kyle lets someone into his heart? He doesnât know how to let go.
Once he's in loveâhe builds his obsession.
Kyle doesnât fall in love like most people. He creates it. He turns it into mythology.
You became his muse. Every piece of art he made had hints of you. Every woman he drew had your mouth, your lashes, your laugh. Even when he tried to stopâhe couldnât. It was like a compulsion.
You noticed, didnât you?
How he looked at you too long.
How his voice got soft when he said your name.
How every Green Lantern construct he made when you were nearby had something oddly familiarâlike a flower from your favorite book. Or a sweater you wore once in winter. Things you never told him you liked, but he remembered.
Kyle is a visual learner. An emotional sponge. The second he started loving you, he memorized everything.
The ring didnât help. It made it worse.
Once he became Green Lantern, the power gave form to his obsession. Kyleâs ring isnât just a weaponâitâs imagination turned real. And Kyle Rayner? Heâs an artist. A dreamer. He doesnât use the ring like others do.
He sketches you in his mind constantly. The ring picks up on it. When heâs hurt, constructs of you show up. When heâs dying, he sees your face in the stars.
He starts dreaming of a future with you.
He makes entire constructs of a life he wantsâyou, him, a house full of light and laughter, your drawings on the fridge. He tells himself itâs just comfort. But itâs more than that. It's yearning.
And when youâre gone for too long? He checks in. Texts. Calls. Hovers. He doesnât mean to be creepy, heâs just terrified of losing you. The people he loves always die or leave. He starts thinking if he just keeps you close, if he just knows where you areâŚ
Then maybe you wonât disappear.
Kyleâs obsession isnât violentâbut itâs unhealthy. And it spirals.
Heâll never hurt you. He loves you too much.
But heâll lie.
Heâll say heâs âin the sectorâ when really he flew across galaxies just to make sure you got home safe.
Heâll ârun into youâ at coffee shops he knows you go to.
He'll drop off little gifts anonymouslyâbooks he knows you wanted, little things with a sticky note: "Thought youâd like this."
He draws your face in his sketchbook every day.
He starts hiding how bad it isâhow many hours he spends watching old videos, listening to voicemails, rereading texts. The other Lanterns start to notice. Hal says something once, and Kyle snaps.
"You donât get it. Sheâs the only thing keeping me sane."
You become his anchor. His reason. His goddamn everything.
You shouldâve known something was off the moment he started showing up everywhere.
Kyle used to be subtle. A smile from across the room. A knowing glance when your favorite song played. He was careful, deliberate, romantic.
But obsessionâit doesnât stay still. It grows. It learns to disguise itself as devotion.
And you? You were too kind. Too warm. You always smiled when he called, always answered when he asked âCan I come over?â You didnât see the signs.
Not at first.
But the walls were closing in.
He knew your schedule better than you did. Knew which coffee shop you stopped at before work, which bookstore made you feel safe. Knew when you wore lipstick and when you didnât. Knew when you were tired by your silence alone.
One night, you caught him watching you.
He was in the sky, a small green glint through the window. Like a star that refused to leave.
You went outside. Looked up. He was gone.
The next day, he brought you flowers.
âI had a dream about you,â he said with that soft smile, eyes too bright, too desperate. âYou were crying. I had to see if you were okay.â
You laughed it off.
He didnât.
Inside Kyleâs mind, everything was breaking.
Your voice wasnât coming fast enough anymore. Your texts were shorter. Your smiles didnât reach your eyes. And it hurt. Because he thought he was being good. He thought he was protecting you.
His sketchbook turned darker. You, drawn in the rain. You, asleep in a glass room. You, with someone else.
He ripped that one out. Burned it. Refused to draw anything else for a week.
He stopped sleeping. Stopped patrolling. Stopped eating.
All his willpower went to one thing: you.
Then you confronted him.
You werenât angry. You were gentle.
âKyle⌠are you okay?â
And that was the problem. You asked like you cared. Like you still saw the boy behind the mask.
He broke down.
Told you everything. That heâd been watching. That he couldnât stop. That he didnât want to stop. That you were his muse, his heart, his light in a galaxy full of death.
âI donât know how to live without you,â he whispered, voice shaking. âI donât want to.â
Your breath hitched.
He was still Kyle. Still that boy with too much heart and not enough control. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to run. But there was something tragic in his eyes. Something that made you feel like you were the only thing keeping him sane.
So you told him you needed space.
He nodded. Smiled. Said he understood.
He lied.
Now heâs watching again. But heâs learned.
He doesnât hover anymore. He doesnât call.
But heâs there.
He saves your city before it makes the news. Leaves green roses on your windowsill once a month. Makes sure no man gets too close. They never know why they leave with a weird feeling in their gut. Or why their car doesnât start.
He never lets you see him now.
But you feel him.
In the shadows. In the air. In the way your dreams always end with green light.
You moved cities.
He followed.
You started dating.
He smiled.
You got engaged.
He died inside.
But he never lets go. Not fully.
Not Kyle.
Heâll always be yours. Even if you forget him.
Even if you marry someone else.
Even if you grow old.
Heâll still draw you every night.
Still whisper, âI love you,â to the stars.
And maybe one day, when youâre alone and tired and the world forgets youâ
Youâll look up at the skyâŚ
And see him there.
Watching.
Loving.
Waiting.
Years passed.
The world kept spinning. The stars didnât stop for broken hearts. And you⌠you moved on. Or at least, you tried to.
You built a quiet life. One without space gods or green light or tragic poetry in the sky. You worked. You laughed again. You even fell in love. Real, warm, normal love.
But some part of you never healed.
Because some nightsâespecially the quiet onesâyou still felt him.
Not in a way that scared you. Not anymore. It wasnât obsession now. It was something gentler. Softer. Sadder.
Like a phantom limb.
Like a presence the your mind refused to let go.
He never came back. Not really.
You hadnât seen Kyle in years. Not since that night. The one where you asked for space and he pretended to give it.
You never saw the sketchbook he buried in a lantern-made coffin deep beneath an uncharted moon.
You never knew that he watched your wedding from orbit, wrapped in shadow, whispering blessings he never believed he deserved to say aloud.
You never saw the way he shook when he erased your face from his ringâs construct memoryâhands trembling like an addict saying goodbye to their last hit of joy.
You never heard the way he cried when you gave birth to your first child. The way he whispered,
He never touched you again. Never wrote. Never called.
But Kyle loved you until the end of the galaxy.
Then one day, a letter came.
No return address. No handwriting you recognized. Just a small green envelope and the smell of stars.
Inside was a sketch.
You. Sitting by a window. Older, wiser, tiredâbut still beautiful. There was a second figure, drawn beside you.
Him. Gray streaks in his hair. Laugh lines. Peace in his eyes. Not real, not now. Just⌠how he imagined it couldâve been.
The back read only one thing, in that soft, broken script:
"If love was art, you were my masterpiece.
Thank you for letting me draw you."
You pressed the paper to your chest. And for the first time in years, you cried for him. Not because he scared you. Not because he followed you.
But because you finally understood.
He didnât want to haunt you.
He just didnât know how to stop loving you.
The news came weeks later.
Kyle Rayner: missing. Presumed dead. Last transmission from a dying star in Sector 2814. No remains. No trace. Just green light⌠and silence.
The League held a memorial. You didnât go.
Instead, you sat by that windowâjust like in the sketchâand whispered into the night:
"I missed you too."
Somewhere far away, on a forgotten moon, lies a tiny lantern coffin.
Inside is a sketchbook.
Filled with you.
Every version. Every year. Every smile.
He never stopped drawing you.
Not even when the stars began to fade.
Because to Kyle, you werenât just a love story.
You were the whole damn universe.
â MASTERLIST â
â Š luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites â
ââ PAIRING : Genderbend au â Stephen Brown x Fem Reader
ââ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?
ââ NOTES : This is written accurate to Stephanie orginal story so obviously we have teen parents. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
It starts as curiosity.
Stephen noticed you before you even knew his name.
You werenât flashy. You werenât like the Batboys or the rogues or the capes. You were⌠there. Steady. Smart. Brave in a quiet way. You didnât try to be noticed â which made you impossible to ignore.
And Stephen? Stephen was dying to be seen.
Your name crossed his lips like a secret he was trying not to spill. At first, it was just that â a name. A passing interest. You were friends of friends. Maybe classmates. Maybe someone he saved once. But you smiled at him like you meant it. Like he mattered. And when your eyes held his for too long, he felt it in his bones.
He started finding reasons to be around you. At first, normal ones â study groups, missions, late-night rooftop patrols. Then stranger ones. Coincidences that didnât feel like coincidences.
You laughed at his jokes. You called him smart. You touched his arm when he was bleeding and didnât flinch away from the mess of him.
You looked at him like he was good.
No one ever looked at Stephen like that.
Then it turns into need.
Stephen knows he's not like the others. Not perfect like Dick, not a detective like Tim, not royal like Jason. He's a patchwork of flaws stitched together with grit and desperation. Heâs the Spoiler, remember? The mistake. The unplanned variable.
But you? You make him feel like heâs enough.
And that... is dangerous.
He starts checking your location under the excuse of âprotection.â He keeps track of your schedule better than you do. If anyone flirts with you â even jokes â he doesnât laugh. His smile gets tight. His fists clench in his hoodie. He goes quiet in a way that makes the air hum.
No one touches his girl. Not even in their imagination.
If you date someone? God help them.
He wonât kill them. Not directly.
But heâll ruin them. Secrets spilled, crimes exposed, social ruin. Heâs the son of a villain, remember? He knows how to dismantle people without a drop of blood.
Youâre single again before you realize why.
He becomes the only one who understands you.
Stephen listens better than anyone youâve ever met. He remembers the small things â your favorite chips, the exact way you like your hoodie sleeves pushed up, the music you play when youâre anxious. He weaponizes kindness like a knife to the throat.
He shows up when youâre sad. When youâre sick. When you donât even know you need someone.
He is someone.
You cry once in front of him â a soft, painful moment â and he cradles it like itâs holy. His hands tremble when he touches you, like heâs holding the only thing that ever mattered.
And he whispers, âIâve got you. Iâll always have your back.â
Because Stephen doesnât believe in temporary love. Heâs all in, or heâs nothing.
And for you? Heâs so far in heâs drowning.
You belong to him.
Stephen doesnât think itâs creepy. He calls it love. Real love. The kind that makes you bleed. The kind no one else could possibly give you.
He follows you on patrol sometimes, just to make sure youâre okay. You donât always know itâs him. Sometimes you do.
He gets jealous of people you trust. Even the Batboys. Even the ones who donât care like he does. He never tells you, not really, but you feel it. In the way he watches you. The way he smiles too hard.
He starts calling you his. Not out loud, not yet. But in his head, in his journal, in the carved initials inside his glove. He thinks about your last name next to his. He thinks about your body wrapped in his hoodie. He thinks about hurting anyone who thinks they can take you.
He doesnât want to hurt you. But if you ever tried to leave⌠heâs not sure he could handle it.
Heâd beg. Cry. Break.
Or maybe laugh and lock the door.
He doesnât know.
Youâre the only thing keeping him together.
He already belongs to you.
It wasnât supposed to happen like this.
The night it happened wasnât special. Just a blur of tension and comfort. An argument, maybe â one of those fights where he got quiet and you got cruel, and neither of you meant it but both of you bled for it.
Then the silence after. The shaky truce. The hands reaching out in the dark.
You whispered âstay,â and he did. But he never left after that. Not really.
He was obsessed before. But the second that test turned positive, his obsession become worse.
The first thing he feels is fear. Then something worse: joy.
Stephen never planned to be a father. Not because he didnât want to â but because he never thought heâd live long enough. Heâs his fatherâs son. The disaster. The mistake. The walking reminder that everything goes wrong eventually.
But you?
Youâre pure. Good. Better than him.
And youâre carrying his child.
That means heâs anchored now. Tied to you. Not just by obsession, or devotion, or love â but by blood. Youâre the mother of his child. Youâre everything.
It changes him.
It breaks him.
It fixes him.
He becomes soft when youâre scared. He cradles your stomach before it even shows. He starts researching vitamins and baby monitors and how to build a crib with his bare hands. (Fails miserably. Tries again.)
He steals the best for you. Gothamâs got resources â he just has to take them. Youâre too good for secondhand. You deserve a palace. You deserve the world.
And heâs going to give it to you.
The Batfamily finds out. They have Opinions.
Dick tries to talk him down like a big brother, but Stephen's not listening. He's always been the outsider, and now they're trying to act like they care?
No.
Stephen has you.
Thatâs all he needs.
He isolates fast. Doesnât trust anyone near you. Even friends start to feel like enemies. He hates the way people look at you. As if you're fragile. As if they're waiting for you to fail.
Stephen won't let you fail. Not his girl. Not his baby.
If he has to kill, heâll kill.
If he has to die, so be it.
Heâs going to keep you both safe. Forever.
You get scared sometimes. He can see it.
The way his eyes linger on your belly. The way his grip tightens when someone brushes past you. The way he stays up all night pacing, muttering, carving your name into his gloves.
You love him.
You do.
But this version of him â raw, wide-eyed, unhinged â itâs like kissing fire. Sometimes beautiful. Sometimes it burns.
You try to talk to him.
He listens.
But it doesnât change the way he keeps a knife under the crib.
Or the way he says âyouâre mineâ when you fall asleep.
Or the way he looks at you like youâre not just his girlfriend â but his salvation.
Then the baby comes.
He cries before you do.
You scream and break and bleed and fight. And he never leaves your side. Not once.
The second he sees his child â your daughter â everything in him goes still.
He holds her like something holy. Something dangerous. Something that could shatter if he breathes too hard.
And when he looks at you, exhausted, sweat-soaked, still crying â he realizes:
Youâre not just his love.
Youâre his family.
And thereâs nothing on Earth or Hell thatâs going to take you away.
He gets worse after that.
He drop out of school.
Protective doesnât begin to cover it.
He screens your calls. Walks you everywhere. Homeschools you if he has to. He carries weapons with him everywhere.
You fight.
A lot.
But every time you scream at him to let go, to trust you â he says the same thing:
âI canât lose you.â
You think heâs talking about your safety. But really?
Heâs talking about his sanity.
It starts small.
A slammed door.
A broken plate.
Your voice raised a little too loud â his silence stretched a little too long.
The babyâs fine. The baby's always fine. But you? Youâre tired. And heâs⌠not the boy you loved. Not completely.
He's not Robin anymore. He's not anything, really. Just a scared, obsessive teen dad with a bruised heart and a hero complex.
You try. You swear you try. You tell him what you need â space, air, peace. He nods, he swears he understands, and for a day, maybe two, he does better.
Then he spirals again.
Stephen doesnât know who he is without you.
He never had a foundation. His father was a joke. His childhood was a mess. He wanted to be good so bad it made him bleed for it. Being Robin was the closest he ever got to feeling worthy. And then that was ripped away too.
But you â you chose him.
Even when he was pathetic. Even when he was broken.
You let him crawl into your life with shaking hands and kissed his ugly parts and told him he mattered.
And now you're pulling away?
He canât survive that.
He begs you one night. Actually begs.
You pack a bag. Just a small one. Just a break, you say. Just a few days at your momâs. Youâre not leaving, not forever, you just need some time to breathe.
He drops to his knees.
You think heâs joking, until he grabs your waist and buries his face into your stomach, sobbing so hard it feels like something inside him is breaking.
âPlease, baby. Please. Iâll be better. I swear Iâllâ Iâll be nothing if you go. I canât be without you. Iâll kill myself. I swear I will.â
You freeze.
You want to be strong.
But then he looks up at you with those soaked lashes and that red, pathetic face and he means it. Every awful, manipulative, honest word.
You drop the bag.
You hold him.
You hate yourself for it.
He tries to be better. He does.
He cooks dinner. (Burns it, every time.)
He lets you go out for air. (Texts you every ten minutes.)
He goes to therapy. Once. Hates the guy. Never returns.
Youâre raising two kids now â your baby, and the boy who gave you that baby.
And sometimes? You look at him and remember the boy who made you laugh in gym class. The boy who stitched up your wounds. The boy who kissed you like you were his first prayer.
But mostly?
You see someone drowning.
And dragging you down with him.
He writes you letters. Pathetic, messy letters.
Stuffed under your pillow.
Taped to your mirror.
Tucked in the diaper bag.
âIf you stop loving me, Iâll understand. Just don't leave me.â
âYou made me real. I love you.â
âI want to be better. I just donât know how.â
âIf you leave, take my heart with you. Itâs always been yours anyway.â
One day, you find one he never meant you to read. Itâs written in pen. Sloppier than usual.
âShe doesnât love me anymore. I think she pities me. I canât blame her. Iâm not even a good dad. She deserves a partner. Iâm just a weight. A body. A burden.â
âI donât want to scare her. I just⌠I just want her to see me again.â
You fold it up. You hide it. And for the rest of the day, you cry every time he looks at you like youâre his sun.
Because you are.
And heâs still the same sad, scared boy who thinks he doesn't deserve the light.
Itâs not even about the guy.
Not really.
Heâs just⌠there.
A friend. A shoulder. Someone who doesnât cry every time the baby screams or beg you to stay every time you step outside.
Heâs calm. Normal. He helps carry your groceries. He holds the baby right. He asks how youâre doing instead of treating you like his oxygen tank.
You didnât plan it. You didnât even kiss him.
But you wanted to.
And somehow, that feels worse.
Stephen knows. Of course he does.
He notices everything when it comes to you.
The way your phone lights up and you smile without realizing.
The way you laugh too easy around that guy.
The way you stop flinching when heâs the one who touches you.
Stephen doesnât say anything at first. Just watches. Waits.
Rots.
He starts talking less. Sleeping less. Watching you more.
You think heâs over it. Or maybe you think he didnât notice.
But then one night, after you come home late and lie straight to his face, he doesnât cry.
He doesnât scream.
He just stares.
âYou donât love me anymore,â he says, voice low, calm, shaking. âSay it. Say it so I can die already.â
You try to lie. But youâre not good at it.
âI do love you.â
âNo. No, you love the me you thought I was. The boy you made up. The one you fixed in your head.â
âI never said thatââ
âYou cheated, didnât you?â
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
His lip curls, like it hurts to breathe. âDid you fuck him?â
âNo!â you snap, too fast, too defensive, too guilty.
Silence.
He covers his mouth with his hand. Shaking. Laughing. Crying.
Then he sinks to the floor like someone shot him in the spine. Fetal position. Rocking back and forth like a madman. Whispering, âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry. I shouldâve been better. You were mine. You were all I had. Sorry. Sorry.â
He doesnât talk for two days.
You still live together â teen parents in a crappy apartment with a crib that squeaks and bills you canât pay. But he moves like a ghost.
Takes care of the baby. Doesnât speak.
Doesnât touch you. Doesnât even look.
You find him one night curled up on the bathroom floor with his old Robin gear spread out like a shrine.
Heâs got a knife in one hand. The other oneâs bleeding.
He doesnât cut. He just holds it. Thinking.
âWould you cry if I died?â he asks. Voice empty. Eyes glassy.
You scream. You yank the knife away.
You hold him.
You hate him.
You love him.
You donât even know anymore.
You almost leave again. Almost.
You pack the babyâs bag. Yours too.
Stephen watches from the bedroom door.
He doesnât beg this time.
Just says, soft and destroyed: âYou donât have to stay. But if you go, donât come back. You're not invited to my funeral.â
Your hand hovers over the doorknob.
You stare at your reflection in the window. Tired eyes. Sleepless nights. The boy who ruined his life for you. The baby you both made.
You sit down.
You stay.
Later that night, he holds you like he did before the world fell apart.
Whispers, âI still love you... You know that, right?â
You cry.
Not because itâs sweet.
Because itâs true.
And it scares the hell out of you.
â MASTERLIST â
â Š luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites â
ââ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Terry McGinnis, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.
ââ NOTES : Kinda spicy. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
â BRUCE WAYNE â
You present it in a little velvet box. All black leather. Expensive. Sleek.
âItâd look so good on you, baby.â
He raises a brow like youâve lost your mind.
âYou expect me to wear that?â
âI expect you to kneel too.â
He glares. Refuses. Walks away.
But next night you find him in the dark, shirtless, wearing it. Doesnât say a word.
He wonât bark or crawl. But heâll let you hold the leash while he eats you out on his knees.
âIâm still in control,â he growls.
âKeep telling yourself that, pup.â
â DICK GRAYSON â
You donât even have to explain. You show him the collar and leash combo and heâs already wagging his metaphorical tail.
âOh my god, is this for me? You want me to be your puppy???â
âDown, boy.â
He wears it proudly. In the apartment. On video calls. At brunch. Heâs your golden retriever boyfriend and heâs LIVING for it.
âCan I get a tag with your name on it? Maybe like a bell?? Ooh! A harness???â
He lets you walk him on all fours, panting, tongue out. When he misbehaves, you tug the leash and he whines.
He even sends you selfies in it, after jerking off, with cum on his chest. Caption:
âBad boy waiting for your punishment.â
â JASON TODD â
You toss the collar on the bed like a challenge.
âPut it on.â
âYou think Iâm a dog, princess?â
âI think you bark a lot.â
He fights it. Glares. Snarls.
But five minutes later heâs shirtless. Leather collar snug around his throat. Chain leash in your hand.
âYou gonna make me sit too?â
âNo. Iâm gonna make you beg.â
He growls when you tug him. Tries to act feral. But the flushed ears? The panting? The trembling thighs? Youâve turned the Red Hood into your whimpering pit bull.
â DAMIAN WAYNE â
You present it like a gift. He looks offended.
âI am not some mutt to be paraded.â
He resists. Until one night, in private, he kneels at your feet and presents his neck.
The collar clicks. The leash dangles. His breath is shaky.
âThis is⌠humiliating.â
âAnd yet your cock is hard.â
You walk him around the room like royalty leading her chained beast. He never breaks eye contact. You slap his thighâhe growls. You make him crawlâhe obeys.
And afterward? He stays in the collar. Lays his head in your lap like a cat.
âI belong to you. Donât ever remove it.â
â TERRY MCGINNIS â
You pull out the collar, sleek black with red accents to match his suit, and flash him a grin.
âYou wanna be my pup tonight?â
â...I mean⌠only if you call me âgood boy.ââ
Terry is SO down bad for you itâs ridiculous. One little pout and heâs on his knees with the leash between his teeth, wagging his ass.
You tug the leash and he yelps. You make him crawl to you and bark? He does it. And he looks hot as hell doing it.
âIs this degrading or kinda hot?â
âItâs both, baby.â
He loves the attention, the control, the way you stroke his hair and say,
âSuch a pretty little pet.â
He will wear it under his Batsuit. Just a little secret between you two.
â BARRY GORDON â
You show him the collar and he snorts.
âOh? You finally decided to leash your man, huh?â
âIâve always owned you, Barry. This is just proof.â
He acts like itâs a joke. Makes snarky comments the whole time.
âOoooh nooo Iâm your pretty little pet now, what ever shall I do?â
But when you buckle it around his neck and yank the leash? His eyes flutter shut.
And when you murmur,
âMine,â
he goes silent.
It breaks something in himâin the best way.
After? You find him wearing it while working at his computer, casually.
âDonât mind me. Just a man in love.â
â CASSIAN CAIN â
You donât even ask. You just hold the collar out. Cassian looks at it⌠then slowly gets on his knees and bows his head forward.
No words.
You buckle it around his throat and hook your finger in the ring. He follows you without resistance. Crawls behind you silently. His body lean, powerfulâbut tamed.
You speak gently:
âMy good boyâŚâ
His breath catches. His fingers twitch. He nuzzles into your thigh like a trained dog.
Cassian doesnât speak during it. He just moans. Whines. Purrs.
And afterward, he sleeps at your feet like a contented panther.
â STEPHEN BROWN â
You show him the collar and leash and this man practically jumps into your arms.
âOH MY GOD is this real? Do I get to be your pet??? Please tell me you bought the matching ears too???â
Heâs running around shirtless with the collar jingling like a bell.
âBark bark! Ruff! Ruff! Iâm such a good boy, arenât I??â
âStephen, sit.â
immediately drops to his knees wagging his ass.
He is the definition of âenthusiastic consent.â You walk him around the house. You make him beg. He even licks your hand.
âYou gonna feed me treats next? Or am I the treat?â
The leash is practically glued to him. He even wears it during movie night and cuddles in your lap like your oversized lapdog.
â MASTERLIST â
â Š luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites â
ââ HEADCANON : Cute Things That They Do When They're In Love.
ââ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.
ââ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
â BRUCE WAYNE â
He gets up earlier just to make you coffee âand not just any coffee, the perfect one: oat milk, a swirl of honey, exactly 173 degrees. Heâll place it on your nightstand with a silent kiss to your forehead before disappearing into Bat-mode. You pretend you donât noticeâbut you totally do.
Leaves post-it notes when he goes on patrol. Theyâre hilariously robotic: âBreakfast in fridge. Donât forget vitamins. Love you. â B.â But he draws a little bat in the corner every time, and you keep every one of them.
He reads bedtime stories to you when you canât sleep âbut itâs always classic literature. Pride and Prejudice. The Great Gatsby. Heâll be half-asleep himself, voice rough and low. One night he mumbles, âMr. Darcy is weak. I wouldâve burned down London for you.â You never let him forget it.
Sleeps with his head on your chest. The man carries Gotham on his back but curls up like a cat when he finally sleeps. His favorite thing? Your heartbeat. He wonât say it out loud, but thatâs how he knows heâs home.
He keeps a framed candid photo of you on his Batcomputer. Itâs you, mid-laugh, covered in flour, from when you tried to bake together. Tim caught it. Bruce keeps it where no villain will ever find itâbut he looks at it before every mission. Every single one.
â DICK GRAYSON â
He gives you piggyback rides literally everywhere. Down the street? Piggyback. Grocery store? Youâre climbing on. You joke that his back must be destroyedâhe grins and says, âBaby, I do flips off rooftops. You weigh like, three clouds.â
Kisses your cheeks 37 times a day. Minimum. Your temple. Your jaw. Your nose. Bonus kisses if youâre mad at him. Heâll follow you around the apartment like a puppy, peppering kisses like, âStill mad? What about now? Now?? NOW???â
He talks in his sleep and itâs always about you. Once he said, âNo, she canât marry Chris Evans, Iâm hotter,â and you laughed so hard you woke him up. He whined, âWaitâwhat did I say?â You just kissed his dumb forehead.
He braids your hair. Like, really well. Like itâs a thing. âComes with the package,â he claims. Heâll sit behind you on the couch, legs on either side, humming some 80s song while twisting your hair like heâs done it forever.
He fake cries to get cuddles. Full pout, big eyes, âBaaaby⌠you donât love me anymoreâŚâ until you sigh and pull him into your lap. He melts. Absolute cuddle slut.
â JASON TODD â
He lets you paint his nails. He acts all annoyed, muttering about toxic masculinity, but then he flex and be like, âDamn, I look good.â Also lets you do matching colors.
He makes you playlists with names like âIf You Ever Leave Me Iâll Die (jk... unless?)â. Itâs full of angsty rock and a few disgustingly romantic acoustic songs you know heâd never admit to liking. You tease him. He shrugs. âIâm a man of culture.â
Carries your lip balm in his jacket. He grumbles about it every time: âYou have, like, five of these.â But he pulls it out before you even ask, like some sort puppy.
Always comes home with something for you. A book you mentioned once. A weird snack from a gas station. A kitten once. âHe was gonna get hit by a car, what was I supposed to do?!â
He gets super possessive when you're sick. No one else is allowed to help. He makes soup (burnt), tucks you in (aggressively), and yells at your fever. âSheâs not answering your texts because sheâs DYING. BACK OFF.â
â DAMIAN WAYNE â
He draws you in his sketchbook all the time. But never shows you. Heâll be all tsundere about itââItâs not for display,ââyet the moment you catch a glimpse and say, âIs that me?â, heâs like, âTt. Obviously.â (Itâs always you.)
He feeds the stray animals because you like them. Now Gotham has a growing population of cats, crows, and one raccoon named after you that follows Damian home. âShe understands command. Clearly superior.â
He makes you lunch bento boxes. Theyâre perfectly arranged. Like, Michelin star level. Sometimes they have little food animals. You once teased him about it and he straight-faced replied, âAesthetics are important.â But his ears were so red.
He picks flowers for you during patrol. Likeâheâll come home at 4AM covered in blood with a perfectly intact wildflower in his hand. âIt reminded me of you,â he mutters. âResilient. Pretty. Sharp if touched incorrectly.â
When heâs injured, he goes to you. Even when Alfred or medical professionals are RIGHT THERE. You could have no medical knowledge and heâll still stumble in, covered in blood, saying, âIâm fine. Just⌠hold me for a moment.â
â CASSIAN CAIN â
He only speaks to you. One or two words max. But when he does? It's so soft. Youâll be talking and suddenly hear a tiny: âPretty.â Or âSad?â Or âStay.â Heâll tug your sleeve and rest his head on your shoulder and thatâs it. Youâve melted.
He copies everything you do. You tilt your head? He does too. You braid your hair? He stares until you let him try. He mimics you like a curious baby bird, trying to understand the world through your eyes. He loves your laugh and repeats the sound softly under his breath when heâs alone.
He believes everything you say. You once told him ducks are just water chickens and now he will fight Bruce over that fact. âChicken,â he says seriously, pointing at a duck on patrol. âNo, Cassââ Too late. Heâs already gone.
When you cry, he cries. He doesnât understand why it happensâhe just feels it. Even if itâs a sad commercial. Suddenly he's sitting next to you, eyes full of tears, holding your hand. âWhy?â he asks softly. And it makes you cry harder.
Youâre his safe place. You talk, he listens. You sit, he follows. You nap, he curls up at your feet like a puppy. Sometimes he tugs your hoodie sleeve and signs, Home? And he doesnât mean a building.
â STEPHEN BROWN â
He falls in love with you hard. Like day one. He makes it everyoneâs problem. âI think I met my wife,â he says to Barry (M!Barbara). He's like, âYouâve known her for five minutes dude.â Stephen shrugs. âYeah. Iâd die for her.â
He wants to match with you in EVERYTHING. Pajamas. Costumes. Hoodies. He even altered his vigilante suit to match your favorite color. Tim saw and just walked away like he couldnât handle the secondhand embarrassment.
He builds you blanket forts. Complete with snacks, fairy lights, and a âno sadness allowedâ sign. He calls it âThe Anti-Depression Fortress.â You both stay up giggling like kids.
He cries when you do nice things. You brought him lunch once and he got misty-eyed. âNo one ever packs me food,â he said, voice cracking. You put a sticky note on his sandwich and he framed it. It said, âEat your damn veggies.â
He accidentally proposes once a week. Youâll say âthis soup is amazing,â and heâll go, âMarry me.â Youâll trip and land in his arms? âThatâs a sign. Marriage time.â Heâs serious every time. Youâve started keeping a tally.
â MASTERLIST â
â Š luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites â
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ââ HEADCANON : The Most Basic Question. Tits, Ass Or Thighs?
ââ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Terry McGinnis, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.
ââ NOTES : There are some +18 parts. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
â BRUCE WAYNE â
Tits. 100%. Classy.
You catch his eyes dipping to your chest mid-conversation. Doesnât matter what youâre wearingâa tight dress, his button-down shirt, or even just a tank top and pajama pantsâheâs looking. Bruce is an ass man in public, a thigh man in theory, but when it comes down to it? He worships your tits in private like theyâre sculpted by gods.
He's the type to wrap a diamond necklace around your neck, only to trail it slowly down between your breasts, eyes hooded, voice gravelly:
âYou have no idea how hard it is to focus when you look like this.â
Loves sucking on them when heâs stressed. Burying his face in your chest when he gets home late. One hand palming your breast while the other types on the Batcomputer like nothing's wrong. Heâs obsessed in that quiet and unrelenting way. The way a storm looms on the horizon. Cold fingers sliding under your bra while youâre trying to talk about something innocent.
And when heâs really in the mood? Heâll sit you in his lap, kiss down your chest like itâs the last thing heâll ever taste, and say with that low rasp:
âThese are mine. You know that, right?â
â DICK GRAYSON â
Ass. Without shame.
Dick is an ass man to his core. Itâs not even a debate. Heâs the type to openly admire it in the mirror while youâre getting dressed. The kind who walks by and gives you a casual, playful slap thatâs way too possessive to be innocent.
His hands naturally find your hips, always pulling you closer until your buttâs flush against him. Heâs the type to lay on the couch with you on top of him, hands running down your sides just to grip your ass like it's his anchor.
âGod, babe⌠youâre killing me. You seriously expect me to behave when youâre walking around looking like that?â
When you bend overâeven slightlyâitâs over for him. He gets feral. Heâll pause mid-sentence just to gawk. Like a golden retriever seeing food.
Dickâs favorite position? Anything where he can grip, spread, and praise that ass like itâs the eighth wonder of the world. Heâll smack it, groan like a sinner in church, and whisper against your skin:
âYouâve got the best ass in Gotham, baby. Donât even argue.â
â JASON TODD â
Thighs. The Sinnerâs Choice.
Jason is a thigh man and you know he is. Itâs the way his gaze lingers when youâre sitting with your legs crossed. The way he kisses your inner thighs for way too long before doing anything else. The way he grips them like a man starved.
Big hands squeezing your thighs while you're straddling him? Thatâs his therapy. Thatâs his church.
He especially loves when you wear thigh-highs or those tiny shorts you think he didnât notice. Youâll catch him staring, jaw clenched, knuckles white, and five minutes later heâs on his knees, spreading your legs, murmuring,
âYou really gonna tease me like that, baby? After everything Iâve done for you?â
Jason doesnât even try to hide it. Heâll rest his head on your lap and just inhale you like your thighs are made of heaven. Obsessed with hickeys on your inner thighsâterritorial and tender at the same time. And when he's feeling really possessive?
âNo one gets to touch these but me. Say it.â
â DAMIAN WAYNE â
Tits & Thighs, but he lies and says itâs your mind.
Damian acts like heâs above it. That heâs too focused, too honorable, too disciplined to be distracted by something so carnal.
But the second you stretch, yawn, or lie on your stomach in one of his shirts? His eyes zero in like a falcon on prey.
Heâll never say it out loud, but heâs a tits and thigh man. Dual weakness. He worships your body with that intense, reverent devotion that makes your heart race. He doesnât just lookâhe memorizes. The curve of your thighs when you're asleep, the weight of your chest in his hands, how your nipples react to his touch. He's studious and unrelenting.
When you ask him directly?
âWhat do you like most about me?â
Heâll narrow his eyes, smirk like the smug bitch he is, and reply,
âYour intelligence, obviously.â
All while his hand is halfway up your thigh and his other is resting on your chest.
He kisses your thighs like he's pledging allegiance, palms your breasts like heâs claiming a throne. In private heâs downright filthy. Heâll pull you into his lap, growl in your ear in Arabic, and say with absolute finality:
âYou are mine. Every inch of you. And I will never tire of you.â
â TERRY MCGINNIS â
Ass. But he tries to pretend he's not down bad.
Terry thinks heâs slick. Thinks heâs keeping it cool. The boy grew up in Neo-Gotham, wears a skintight Batsuit, flirts like heâs Bruce Wayne himselfâbut heâs not fooling anyone.
Heâs an ass man through and through.
Youâll catch him staring when you walk away. Youâll feel his hand ghost over your lower back during hugs, just low enough to be suggestive. And when you call him out, heâll smirk like heâs innocent.
âWhat? Just admiring my girl. Canât a man appreciate fine art?â
Terry likes bending you over his bike, holding you tight against his chest with a hand planted firmly on your backside. Night flights? Always an excuse to touch. Back home? Heâs got your ass in both hands, eyes glazed over like itâs the cure to every bad day.
But the filthiest part? He talks during. Low, breathy praise in your ear:
âAll mine. You know that, right? Nobody else gets to see you like this. Nobody touches what belongs to me.â
â BARRY GORDON â
Thighs. Gentleman. Pervert. Dangerous combo.
Barry looks like a soft, calm man. Wheelchair-bound, polite, smiling, with warm hands and careful eyes.
But beneath that? Heâs got the mind of a freak and a thigh fixation that runs deep.
Itâs all about control for Barryâthe way your thighs twitch when he kisses the inside, the way you squirm when he goes slow. His hands are always on your legs. Stroking them, gripping them, resting possessively over your knees in public like a silent claim.
âYou're always so tense, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.â
He has a special seat adjustment in his chair so you can straddle him when he pulls you into his lap. Thereâs something sinful about the way he kisses your thigh with adoration, then bites like heâs claiming you inch by inch.
And when you wear short skirts around him? Youâre not leaving the house without a long, lingering stare and:
âDonât test me. I may not walkâbut Iâll drag you back to bed.â
â CASSIAN CAIN â
Tits. Doesnât understand why heâs obsessed. Just is.
Cassian doesnât speak a lot. He expresses himself with action. Touch, breath, the sound of a soft grunt in your neck.
But the one thing that makes him visibly weak?
Your tits.
He gets flustered when youâre in anything low-cut. His eyes dip without meaning to, jaw tightening like heâs mad at himself for lookingâbut he canât stop. He likes resting his head there. Likes the feel of you against him. The way you fit in his lap, soft and warm and everything he doesnât think he deserves.
But donât mistake his silence for innocence. Cassian touches you like heâs memorizing. Like your breasts are sacred, fragile, and sinful all at once.
kiss, kiss, press his cheek to them, breathe hardâgroan like a sinner breaking.
Heâll get rough sometimesâbiting, sucking, markingâbut afterward, he looks at you like heâs ashamed of how much he needs you. Like heâs afraid heâll ruin you just by loving you too hard.
You tell him you like it, and he just nods. No words. Just pulls you to him again and palms your tits with reverent, desperate hands.
â STEPHEN BROWN â
Ass & Tits. Greedy.
Stephen is energetic in the sheets. The type to laugh mid-makeout, worship you like a goddess, and never stop touching you. But if he had to pick?
âAss. No, waitâtits. Shit. Can I pick both? Please? Come on, donât make me suffer.â
Heâll literally spin you around in his hands, grabbing your ass, motorboating your chest, moaning like you just gave him a million bucks. Every moment with him is hands-on, mouth-on, needy.
Heâs the one smacking your butt in the kitchen, squeezing your tits while you brush your teeth, throwing himself into your lap like he deserves it all.
âYouâre so hot, babe, I could write poetry about your curves. Limericks. Whole damn musicals.â
Stephenâs a playful lover, but when he gets serious? He gets serious. Pushes you against the wall, whispers in your ear with a trembling voice:
âNo oneâs ever gonna touch you like this. Iâll kill them. You get that, right?â
Then immediately follows it with, âAlso, your tits are amazing. Just saying.â
â MASTERLIST â
â Š luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites â
ââ PAIRING : Genderbend au â Stephen Brown x Fem Reader
ââ SYNOPSIS : Stephen gets blasted with Poison Ivyâs sex pollen, and you have to deal with him. Itâs humiliating, itâs gross, and itâs so fucking hot you hate yourself for it.
ââ WARNINGS : NSFW, sex pollen, blowjob, drooling, overstimulation, cum swallowing, public sex, not a couple, 18+ MINORS DNI.
ââ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
The alleyâs a goddamn slaughterhouseâvines thrashing like snakes, goons sprawled out cold, and the air so thick with Poison Ivyâs fucked-up perfume itâs like breathing lust.
Then it goes to shit. Ivy, that sadistic plant-fucking bitch, send a glowing pink flower your way, and Stephenâthe dumbass he isâdives in front of you like a fucking martyr. The flower explodes, drenching him in glittery pink dust that clings to his suit like cum on a cheap motel sheet. He stumbles, choking, eyes bugging out as the dush burrows into his skin, and youâre already movingâchucking a batarang that slices Ivyâs arm, making her hiss and bolt with her goons scrambling after her. Youâre not done, but Stephenâs fucked.
âRobinâoh shitââ he wheezes, collapsing against the grimy brick wall, legs giving out like heâs made of wet paper. You whip around, ready to rip him a new asshole, but jesus fucking christ. Heâs a disasterâface red as a slapped ass, pupils blown, sweat pouring down his neck, soaking his suit. His hands claw at his crotch, andâfuck meâhis dickâs so hard itâs practically ripping through the fabric, a wet patch spreading like heâs been jacking off for hours. Heâs trembling, teeth chattering, trying to stand, but every moveâs a pathetic whimper, his eyes glued to your bare legs like theyâre his personal porn.
âStephen, what the fuck is wrong with you?â you snarl, grabbing his arm to prop him up. Your shorts shift, flashing more thigh, and he moansâa loud sound that makes your face burn hotter than a Gotham riot. âItâsâfuckinâ Ivy,â he slurs, voice high and broken, hips twitching like heâs about to hump your leg. âIt hurtsâcanât thinkâplease, Y/n, I needâfuck, your legsââ Heâs drooling now, a shiny trail dripping down his chin, and his cockâs leaking so much pre-cum itâs staining his pants.
Youâre livid. This is the worst fucking timingâIvyâs getting away, her goons are circling back, and youâre stuck with this horny-ass disaster who canât even walk. âGet your shit together, Brown!â you hiss, dragging him into the darkest corner of the alley, behind a dumpster that reeks of piss and rot. But heâs goneâeyes glassy, tongue half-out, babbling nonsense, âYouâre soâfuckinâ hot, those shortsâplease, Iâll do anythingââ His dickâs throbbing visibly, and shit, itâs making your mouth water despite the rage boiling in your chest.
You glance at the streetâgoons shouting, boots stomping closer. Youâve got minutes before this mission goes to hell, and Stephenâs useless like this, a shaking, whining mess whoâd rather fuck the wall than fight. Your stomach churns, a sick mix of anger and heat pooling low, because goddamn it, heâs pathetic but heâs hotâblond hair plastered to his face, lips wet and trembling, looking at you like youâre his fucking savior.
âFuck my life,â you mutter, shoving him harder against the wall, dropping to your knees in the filthy alley like youâre about to commit a goddamn crime. The gravel bites your skin, but you donât care, yanking his belt open with a snarl, ripping his suit down just enough to free his cock. It slaps out, heavy and obscene, so thick it makes your throat tighten, pre-cum oozing down the shaft like a fucking faucet. âDonât you dare make this weird,â you growl, glaring up at him, but heâs already nodding, frantic, drool running down his neck.
The second your lips close around his tip, he loses it. A high-pitched squeal rips out of him, his head smacking the brick so hard you hear it crack. âF-fuckâY/nâoh my fucking god,â he babbles, voice shattering like glass, hips jerking so fast he nearly chokes you. His cockâs salty, musky, pulsing against your tongue, and you suck hard because youâre pissed and this needs to be quick. Youâre humiliated, cheeks burning, but fuck, the way heâs falling apartâtongue lolling out, eyes crossed so hard he looks brain-dead, drool dripping in thick strings down his chinâitâs got your pussy clenching, soaking your shorts despite yourself.
Stephenâs a fucking wreck, face flushed cherry-red, mouth open in a sloppy, drooling grin, eyes rolling back until you can only see whites. âS-soâhnnnghâso good, youâreâfuck,â he slurs, voice a wet, broken mess as his hips buck, shoving his cock deeper. You gag, spit slicking your chin, but you donât stop, pinning his thighs to keep him from fucking your face raw. Heâs shaking like heâs having a seizure, babbling gibberishââLove youâfuck, please, donât stop, Iânnghââand itâs so pathetic you almost laugh, the vibration making him scream.
Itâs messy, disgustingâspit and pre-cum dripping down your neck, pooling in the dirtâbut youâre too far gone, too turned on by his desperate moans. He cums in seconds, a strangled âY-Y/nâfuck!â as his cock explodes, thick, hot ropes of cum hitting your throat like a firehose. You swallow it all, gulping it down, because spittingâs not an option when he's keeping your head in place. Heâs sobbing, shaking, but heâs still hard.
âMoreâplease, I canâtânngh,â he whines, hips grinding, and youâre too deep in this shit to back out now. Your pussyâs throbbing, shorts sticking to your lips, and you hate how much you love thisâhis pathetic, drooling face, his cock twitching like itâs begging for more. You suck harder, bobbing down until your lips kiss his base, nose pressed against his pelvis, and he cums againâa wail so loud it echoes off the walls, cum spilling so fast you choke, swallowing frantically as it leaks past your lips, dripping onto your chest. Heâs convulsing, tongue hanging out, drool soaking his suit, and when you push him to a third orgasmârelentless, sucking until heâs screamingâhis cumâs so thick it clogs your throat, forcing you to gulp it down while he thrashes, babbling, âThank youâfuck, thank youââ
You pull off with a wet, sloppy pop, spit and cum smeared across your face, chest heaving as you wipe your mouth with a shaking hand. Your face is on fire, humiliation burning hotter than the slick heat between your legs. Stephenâs a corpseâslumped against the wall, cock still leaking, face a glistening mess of sweat, drool, and tears. His eyes are half-lidded, crossed, tongue dangling, a blissed-out grin plastered on his lips like heâs been fucked into another dimension. âH-holy⌠s-shitâŚâ he mumbles, voice a wrecked slur, body trembling like heâs been electrocuted.
âGet your fucking ass up,â you snarl, yanking his suit back over his dick, ignoring how itâs still twitching, still leaking. âWeâve got shit to do, and Iâm not babysitting you.â Your voice is venom, but youâre shaking tooâembarrassed, pissed, and so turned on you can barely think. You canât look at him, his cum still sticky on your chin, your shorts so wet theyâre obscene. He stumbles, legs like jelly, muttering, âY-youâre⌠fuckinâ perfect,â and you want to punch him, but his giddy, drunk smile just makes your heart lurch.
âMove, Brown, or Iâll leave you for Ivyâs goons,â you snap, storming toward the street, but heâs trailing you, wobbling, still babbling praise like a lovesick idiot.
â MASTERLIST â
â Š luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites â
ââ SYNOPSIS : When You Give Them A Soft Peck On The Lips.
ââ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.
ââ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
â BRUCE WAYNE â
You were never one for dramatics, unlike the man currently sitting beside you. Bruce always had this ridiculous ability to make even the smallest things seem intense. Like now, as he sat on the couch in his study, one arm lazily thrown over the back, expensive whiskey in hand, looking at you like he knew every secret in the world.
You rolled your eyes. Show-off.
"You're staring," he noted, smirking.
"You look stupid," you deadpanned, crossing your arms.
Bruce chuckled, the sound deep and amused. "Mmm, that so?"
Instead of answering, you simply leaned in and pressed a quick, soft peck to his lips. Just a simple touchâbarely even a second longâbut when you pulled away, his smirk was gone. He blinked, looking at you like you had just flipped his entire world upside down.
Then, a slow, dangerous grin stretched across his face.
"Oh? What was that?" His voice dropped an octave, teasing yet undeniably pleased.
You shrugged, feigning innocence. "Felt like it."
Bruce hummed, setting his drink down. "You know, sweetheart, when you start something, you should always be ready to finish it."
You gasped as he suddenly pulled you onto his lap, trapping you with strong arms, his lips dangerously close to yours. "How about you try that again?"
You huffed, smacking his chest. "Cocky."
He only chuckled, leaning in. "Only for you, darling."
â DICK GRAYSON â
The second your lips touched his, it was over for you.
Dick was already the human equivalent of an overly excited golden retriever, but the moment you surprised him with a soft peck on the lips? Yeah, you werenât getting away.
"Waitâwait, no! Come back! Do that again!"
You laughed, taking a step back, but he immediately followed, his hands gently cradling your face, lips chasing yours desperately. His eyes were wide, filled with the kind of love that could melt glaciers.
"Dick, it was just a peck!" you giggled, pressing your palms against his chest to keep some distance.
He poutedâfull-on, actual pouted. "But it was so nice! And soft! And perfect! Babe, please, I need moreâjust one more! Justâjustâ"
You dodged as he tried to kiss you again, laughing as he groaned dramatically. "You're so mean!" he whined, chasing after you as you playfully ducked away.
"You're so needy!"
"I'm your man, and I deserve love! Come back here!"
Eventually, he caught youâbecause letâs be honest, heâs a former acrobat and you were never going to escape. He tackled you onto the couch, pinning you down with his arms as he peppered your face with soft, dramatic kisses.
"You did this to yourself!" he declared, pressing another lingering kiss to your lips.
You sighed, shaking your head. "Regret. Instant regret."
"Liar," he grinned against your lips.
Yeah, okay. Maybe a little.
â JASON TODD â
You shouldâve expected this reaction. Really, you should have.
The second you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Jasonâs lips, he short-circuited.
His entire body tensed like you had just struck him with a bolt of lightning. His breath hitched, hands tightening into fists at his sides. And when you pulled awayâjust slightlyâhis eyes were wide, pupils blown out, andâoh god, was he shaking?
"Jay?" you asked, tilting your head.
His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. He looked utterly offended by what just happened.
"WhâYâyouâWHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!"
You flinched at the sudden rise in his voice, barely holding back a giggle. "A kiss?"
"AâA KISS?!" His face was so red it was concerning. "YOU CAN'T JUSTâJUSTâDO THAT!"
You raised a brow. "Why not?"
Jason made a strangled noise, running both hands through his hair. "Becauseâbecauseâthatâsâ" He groaned loudly, looking anywhere but at you, his ears burning red. "You canât just go around kissing people like that!"
"I didnât kiss âpeople.â I kissed you."
Jason froze. His breath stuttered. Oh, you got him.
His mouth opened and closed again, as if he was trying to find an argument but failing miserably. Then, suddenly, he threw his hands up and groaned like a dying man.
"I hate you," he grumbled, shoving his face into his hands.
You smirked, poking his cheek. "No, you don't."
Jason peeked through his fingers, glaring. "...shut up."
But when you leaned in and kissed his cheek this time?
Yeah, his entire brain stopped working.
â DAMIAN WAYNE â
You leaned in and pressed a soft peck to Damianâs lips, pulling away with a small smile.
He didnât even blink. Didnât flinch. Didnât react at all.
Just stared.
Like youâd just done something as mundane as handing him a pen.
You frowned. "You didnât even close your eyes."
Damian tilted his head slightly. "Was I supposed to?"
You blinked. "I mean... yeah? Thatâs how it usually works."
He was completely unaffected. "If you want me to do so next time, tell me beforehand." Then, before you could even process his words, his hand grabbed your chin, tilting your face up as he leaned in.
And kissed you again.
This time, it wasnât just a peck. His lips were soft, warm, and lingering. Not desperate, not needy, just slow and calculatedâintentional. Like he was memorizing the feel of your lips against his own.
When he finally pulled away, your brain had completely stopped working. But of course, he wasnât done.
Damian smirked. "Would you like to tell me how to hold you next time as well? Perhaps where you like to be touched?"
You choked. "Damianâ"
"Or," he continued, eyes glinting mischievously, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip, "should I just figure it out myself?"
You shoved him, face burning, and he chuckled, looking far too smug.
â CASSIAN CAIN â
Cass was quiet. Always quiet. You were used to it by now, the way he communicated in nods, soft looks, and the smallest of gestures.
Right now, he was standing beside you in the kitchen, nibbling on a cookie Alfred had made. His cheeks were puffed slightly, and his dark eyes were locked on yours, curious and observant as always.
You smiled. And, without warning, leaned in to press a soft peck to his lips.
Cass froze.
Like, completely.
His eyes widenedâhuge, round, confused puppy eyesâand his entire body locked up like a deer caught in headlights. You pulled back just a few inches, waiting for his reaction.
He just⌠kept staring.
Seconds passed. Then his face exploded in red.
He quickly looked away, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth as his shoulders curled inward. His fingers lightly touched his lips, as if checking if what just happened was real.
"Cass?" you giggled.
No response. Just more blushing.
And thenâoh. Oh my god.
Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and tugged on your sleeve like a little kid. Soft. Gentle. Seeking.
You tilted your head. "Hmm?"
He hesitated. Then, he tapped his lips with his index finger.
Your heart melted.
"You want... another one?" you whispered.
He nodded. Fast.
You cupped his cheek, pressing another kiss to his lips. This time, when you pulled away, he didnât run or hide. He just clutched the fabric of your sleeve tighter, burying his burning face against your shoulder.
You stroked his hair, smiling. "You're adorable."
His muffled whimper told you he absolutely agreed.
â STEPHEN BROWN â
The second your lips brushed against Stephenâs, you knew you messed up.
Because instead of a normal reaction, he immediately threw himself onto the ground.
"OH, CRUEL FATES! WHY DO YOU TOY WITH MY HEART SO?" he bellowed, clutching his chest like heâd just been mortally wounded.
You just blinked. "Stephenâ"
"TO HAVE BEEN GRACED WITH SUCH A KISS, ONLY TO HAVE IT TAKEN AWAY SO SOONâOH, THE AGONY!"
You groaned, rubbing your temples.
He gasped dramatically, rolling onto his back. "MY LOVE, DO YOU NOT SEE? I AM BUT A HUMBLE MAN, A MERE PEASANT, UNWORTHY OF YOUR DIVINE TOUCH!"
"...Stephenâ"
He pointed at the ceiling. "IF I WERE TO DIE THIS VERY NIGHT, I WOULD DIE A HAPPY MAN, KNOWING THAT I HAD ONCE TASTED HEAVENâ"
"STEPHEN."
He paused, blinking up at you innocently. "Yes, my dearest?"
You crossed your arms. "Are you done?"
He sat up immediately, grinning. "Nope! Can I have another one?"
You stared at him for a moment. Then promptly turned around and walked away.
"HEY, WAIT! DON'T GO! MY HEART CAN'T HANDLE SUCH REJECTIONâCOME BACK, BABE, I WAS ONLY PLAYINGâ"
You rolled your eyes as he literally ran after you, already preparing another ridiculous speech.
You were so done.
â MASTERLIST â
â Š luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites â
ââ PAIRING : Genderbend au â Cassian Cain x Fem Reader
ââ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?
ââ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
It starts with stillness.
You didnât notice him at firstâbecause he didnât want to be noticed. Cassian doesnât speak, doesnât make a sound. But he watches.
You were kind. Not loud. Not a threat. Thatâs what first made him pause. People are noise to him, always broadcasting their intent with every heartbeat and twitch. But you? You didnât broadcast danger. You didnât make yourself bigger. You were quiet in a way that didnât mean violence.
So, he lingered.
Heâs not supposed to get attached.
Batman said so. Oracle said so. They all said so. Cassian nods when they speak, but he doesnât follow unless it feels right in his bones.
And you feel right.
He starts following you when heâs off patrol. Silently. No footsteps. He memorizes your routine like itâs a mission. When you laugh, he flinches. When you cry, his hands clench. He doesnât understand either, but he feels it. He doesnât know if itâs protectiveness or something else. But it burns.
He watches more than he should.
Through windows. Across rooftops. In your shadow like he belongs there. You never feel unsafeâbecause he never lets you. Any time danger comes close, itâs gone before you even notice. A man following you home? He disappears. A mugger across the street? Out cold in the alley.
You start to joke with your friends. âItâs like Iâve got a guardian angel.â
Cassian hears that. He feels that. His heart does something strange and awful and warm.
He starts leaving things for you. A lost scarf. A fixed bike chain. A cup of tea from your favorite shop on a cold morning. He watches your eyes light up. You smile. You whisper, âThank you.â
He mouths it back, even though you canât see him.
â...Welcome.â
He doesnât know what to call it.
He doesnât understand what this is. But every move you make is written on your body, and he reads it like scripture. Youâre beautiful, but not in the way people usually mean. Youâre good. Youâre real. You walk like someone who carries her own pain and doesnât let it harden her.
Cassian is soft around you in a way heâs never been. He wants to be near. Wants to be allowed to be near. He doesnât know how to ask.
So he stares.
You catch him one day. Rooftop. Rain. His black suit blending into the night like heâs part of it. But he doesnât leave. He lets you see him. For the first time. You stare at each other for a long time. You donât run. You donât scream. You step forward.
And Cassian... he doesnât move. He doesnât breathe. You speakâsoft, confused, kind.
âAre you the one watching me?â
He nods. Once. Like a silent prayer.
You should be scared. But you arenât.
After that, heâs around more.
Not close. Not yet. But close enough that you could talk if you wanted. And you do. You start talking to him, even when he doesnât answer. You tell him about your day. About your cat. Your classes. Your fears. Your hopes. He listens like itâs sacred.
And slowly... very slowly... he starts to answer. With signs. With the barest movements. A tilt of the head. A hand lifted in answer. One night, he writes something in the dust on your windowsill.
âSAFE?â
You nod.
He taps his chest. Then yours. Then nods.
âSafe.â
Cassian doesnât sleep. Not really.
But when he does, he dreams of you. Not in a twisted way. Not violent. Just with you. Holding your hand. Sitting beside you. He dreams about what it might be like to speakâto tell you what you mean.
He wants to be close, but he doesnât understand how. You smell sweet. Like flowers. But heâs scared heâll ruin that. That the same hands that kill could never touch you without staining you.
He loves you. But he doesnât know thatâs what it is. It feels like need. Like obsession. But tender. Careful.
Heâs learning.
Eventually, he touches your hand.
It takes months. Maybe a year. But one day, after you patch up a cut on his arm in silence, he just... touches your hand. Light. Hesitant. And you donât pull away.
You say, âI missed you.â
He doesnât say anything. But his eyes are glassy. His lip trembles.
He doesnât talk. But if he could, heâd scream I miss you even when Iâm right here. I want to be near you forever. I want to be your shadow. I want to be enough for you to love me back.
Instead, he leans his forehead against your shoulder.
And you hold him.
Cassian is obsessed.
Not in a way that hurts you. In a way that worships. In a way that learns. He doesnât know what a boyfriend is. What a partner is. What love is. But he learns for you. Slowly. Clumsily. Lovingly.
Because even though heâs been trained to kill, to move in silence, to never ask for anythingâhe wants you.
And when you kiss his forehead for the first time?
He cries.
Silent. Still.
But he cries.
It begins, as always, in silence.
He is on your balcony againâhalf in shadow, half soaked in moonlight. The wind plays with the hem of his black cloak, but his body is still. That same tilt of the head when he watches you like youâre the only thing in the world that makes sense.
You never flinch anymore.
You donât look surprised.
You open the window like itâs the most normal thing in the world and smile.
âHey, angel,â you whisper.
And Godâif he had a heart that worked like anyone elseâs, it might stop.
He doesnât understand why you call him that.
He doesnât look like an angel. Heâs bloodied most nights. His knuckles are bruised, dried cuts line his jaw. His hands, no matter how much he washes them, remember violence. Remember pain.
But when you say itââangelââyour eyes go soft. Your smile goes tender.
âMine,â you sometimes say, brushing back a strand of his hair. âMy shadow. My angel.â
And he leans into your touch like itâs air, like itâs light, like itâs grace.
He still doesnât talk. Youâve stopped expecting him to. Youâve learned his silence has weight, has texture. Itâs how he tells you things.
Sometimes, he brings gifts. Not flowers or chocolatesâhe wouldnât even know where to buy them. No, he brings you buttons. Trinkets. A ribbon from someone who bothered you. A feather from a rare bird. A kitten once, curled in his coat, half-dead. You cried when you held it. He just stared at you the whole time.
The kitten sleeps in your bed now. You named her Moon.
You whispered, âSheâs like you. Quiet. Soft when she wants to be. But deadly.â
Cassian tilted his head. Then nodded.
He doesnât know what school is.
You were talking onceârambling about your day while cleaning his cuts, your voice low and casual.
âClass was boring today,â you said, wiping at the gash on his shoulder. âProfessor wouldn't stop talking about stupid warsâlike, who cares how Napoleon died?â
You expected the usual blank silence.
Instead, he looked at you. Blinked.
Then lifted one hand. Tilted it side to side. Question.
âWhat?â you asked, laughing. âYou donât know who Napoleon is?â
He tilted his head again. Shrugged.
âWait⌠Do you know what school is?â
Nothing. No reaction.
You stopped everything. Looked him in the eyes. ââŚdo you know how to read?â
He looked down. Then slowly, pulled something from his belt. A folded, dirty slip of paper. It had a single word written in his jagged, childlike handwriting.
SAFE.
Your chest ached. You looked at him and saw not a vigilante, not a ghost in the night, not even a weapon.
You saw a boy.
Someone whoâd never been given a childhood.
Someone who knew how to kill but not how to write his name.
You touched his hand, gentle. Like always.
âDo you want me to teach you?â
He blinked. Then nodded. Not once. Not sharp.
Slow. Like the word mattered. Like you mattered.
You start with his palm.
You donât use pens or paper at first. No pressure. No rules. Just touch.
You trace letters into his skin with your fingertip. His hand twitches every time. Heâs not used to gentleness lasting this long.
âThis is A,â you whisper, dragging your finger down, then across. âNow BâŚâ
He watches your lips when you speak. Like they hold truth.
Like he can taste knowledge just by watching you.
You guide his hand next. Hold his finger. Drag it across your open palm to form shaky letters.
He frowns when he messes up. You kiss his brow and say, âItâs okay. Try again.â
Youâve never seen him so focused. Not even in a fight.
You make flashcards next.
Simple words. Safe. Home. Name. Yours. Mine.
He stares at âMineâ for a long time.
He taps it. Then points at himself. Then at you. Then signs you with the softest hand against his heart.
Your breath catches.
He mouths something. Itâs silent. You canât hear it. But you know.
Mine.
You donât correct him.
Your balcony becomes a classroom.
Every night, you sit with your legs crossed, flashcards in hand, and he crouches next to you like a child soaking up your light. You tell him storiesâyour childhood, your friends, what your teachers are like, how you used to be scared of the dark until now.
âNot anymore,â you murmur, glancing at him. âBecause now I have you.â
He doesnât smile. But he closes his eyes like your words are warmth.
One night, you wake up and find something under your pillow. A folded paper. On it, in shaky writing:
âYou = Safeâ
âMe = Angelâ
âMineâ
You keep it in your diary.
You still havenât kissed him. You donât touch him unless he touches you first. You donât ask him to stay, but you never ask him to leave. Heâs not your boyfriend. He wouldnât understand the word. But youâve never felt more seen.
Heâs learning. And every time he writes something new, he brings it to you like a child bringing a drawing to their favorite person in the world. And every time, you say the same thing:
âPerfect.â
Because to you, he is.
Cassian doesnât understand the world.
But he understands you.
And thatâs all heâs ever needed.
To watch you, to learn you, to protect you like something sacred.
He may never say it aloud.
But every step he takes, every breath he draws near you, every clumsy letter he writes in your palmâ
Whispers it.
I am yours.
It happens slowly. Like dusk bleeding into night.
No lightning moment. No dramatic turning point.
Just quiet devotion blooming into something deeper.
Cassian is still silent. Still follows you in the shadows like your personal moon. Still crouches on your balcony, waiting for a look, a touch, a word from you to exist again.
But somethingâs shifted. You feel it.
Maybe itâs in the way he lingers longer now. Or how he watches your lips not just to learnâbut to memorize. Maybe itâs in the way he holds onto every scrap of paper you write on, like holy relics, like prayers.
He started sleeping curled up by your window once. You found him there at 3AM, arm wrapped around the kitten. Shirt torn. Blood dried on his cheek.
You ran to him. He didnât flinch.
He opened his eyesâand smiled.
Just barely. Just for you.
He starts practicing. Alone.
You donât know this. He never tells you. But when you sleep, he stays near your fire escape. He stares at the flashcards you gave him, mouthing the letters, the words, again and again. His lips shape your name in the darkâlike a secret prayer, like the answer to every question heâs never asked.
You = Safe.
You = Light.
You = Home.
One day, you catch him trying to write a sentence.
You donât laugh. You donât mock the messy letters or the misspelled words. You sit down next to him, and smile softly, like you always do.
You help him fix it. Guide his hand, one slow letter at a time.
By the end, it says:
âYou are my safe.â
He stares at the page like itâs magic. Like he made something beautiful and didnât know he could.
Your hands cradle his face. Your thumbs brush his cheeks.
âYouâre learning so fast,â you whisper. âIâm so proud of you.â
His breath catches.
He wants to say something.
It rises in his throat like a scream heâs buried for years.
But nothing comes.
Not yet.
It happens on a rainy evening.
You were pacing, talking fast about something that upset you. School stress, maybe. A rude stranger. The weight of being alive that day.
Cassian stood by your window, watching. Silent. Still. But tense.
He didnât know how to help. He only knew how to fight.
You noticed. You stopped.
âIâm okay,â you said softly, walking up to him. âI didnât mean to make you feel like you have to fix it. Just you being here⌠It helps.â
You reached up, brushing back his hair with your fingers.
âMy angel.â
That word again. Yours, not his.
But he wanted it.
He wanted it to be his word, too.
You turned away. He didnât move.
Thenâquietlyâbarely a whisper:
ââŚY/N.â
You froze.
The word was broken. Heavy. Like glass under bare feet.
But it was real.
You turned.
He looked terrified. Like heâd done something wrong.
You smiled. Your eyes filled with tears.
You walked back to him slowly, hands trembling as you reached up and cupped his cheeks.
âSay it again,â you breathed.
His lips parted.
He hesitated.
Thenâ
ââŚY/N.â
And this time, it wasnât about the word.
It was about you.
You kissed him.
Soft. Gentle. Like a secret between only you and the night.
His hands hovered in the air before settling on your waist. He didnât press. Didnât move.
He just held you.
Like that was the miracle.
That night, you taught him a new word.
"Love."
He traced it in your palm again and again.
And when you fell asleep curled in his arms, he whispered it once. Into your hair. Into the quiet.
ââŚLove.â
He may not understand the world.
But he understands you.
And nowâ
Heâs learning how to say it.
You still donât know his name.
You never ask.
Not because youâre not curiousâ
But because you know he doesnât know how to give it.
He doesnât know what names are supposed to mean. He wasnât given one with love. His name was forged in fists, shaped in silence, beaten into bone. It's not a name he wearsâitâs a weight.
And yetâ
He says your name like itâs sacred.
Like itâs the only sound in the universe he wants in his mouth.
Sometimes whispered into your pillow when youâre not looking.
Sometimes scrawled onto paper over and over again in shaky letters.
You find them.
Little scraps folded in your books, tucked in your drawers:
Just your name.
Written with devotion.
Childlike. Obsessive. Sweet.
You call him angel, still.
Sometimes shadow. Sometimes pretty boy in a half-teasing tone that always makes his ears pink.
One day, you ask him softly, brushing your lips across his cheek:
ââŚWhat do I call you?â
He tilts his head. Blinks slowly. Thinks hard. Like the question is in another language.
You try again.
âDo you have a name?â
His brows furrow. He shrinks a littleâjust a little.
You cup his cheek and whisper, âItâs okay. You donât have to tell me.â
But then, one night, wrapped in your sheets, skin pressed to yours, after you taught him how to touchâ
He gives it to you.
Not because you asked.
Because he wanted to.
Because for the first time in his life, it felt safe.
ââŚCassian.â
Your breath catches.
âCassian,â you repeat, voice warm. âThatâs beautiful.â
He looks away.
âJust like everything else about you.â
And he doesnât say anythingâbut his fingers curl around your wrist and his lips press to your neck, and you know heâs trying to say thank you without words.
He doesnât know how to kiss properly.
The first time he tried to kiss you, he just pressed his forehead to yours, trembling, lost. You smiled, took his face in your hands, and showed him. Patient. Gentle. Lips brushing lips like butterfly wings. Again. And again.
Heâs a fast learner.
And heâs hungry.
Not lustfulâdevoted. Starving to worship. To memorize every sound you make. He touches like you're a secret language he was born to learn.
Teaching him gets intimate.
You write words on his chest with your finger.
Safe. Love. You.
He trembles when your nails drag down his ribs.
You take his hand and guide it along your thigh, your collarbone, whispering body parts like vocabulary.
He mouths them in returnâquietly, obediently.
âShoulder.â
âNeck.â
âHip.â
ââŚY/N.â
âNo, Cassian,â you giggle softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. âThatâs me, not a body part.â
He just stares, wide-eyed. Then kisses your shoulder in apology.
He worships you.
Itâs in how he kneels between your thighs like youâre holy.
How he tugs your shirt up just to rest his cheek on your stomach.
How he breathes you in. Touches you like youâll disappear.
He never wants to go further unless you guide him.
You do.
Slowly.
You teach him how to make love like you taught him how to speakâ
With your hands. Your eyes. Your patience.
He follows every breath. Every arch. Every sound.
He writes love on your back in kisses.
One night, after, he lays there in silence, watching your fingers trace letters onto his palm again.
He mouths them carefully:
âB-e-l-o-n-g.â
And then, looking straight into your eyesâ
He spells the last word:
âT-o Y-o-u.â
And you smile, pulling him close, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper:
âYes, Angel. Always.â
â MASTERLIST â
â Š luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites â
Note: Notes: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
Damian doesnât fall in love; he descends into it with the same calculated intensity he approaches a fight. It begins innocuouslyâa mission gone awry, your paths crossing in Gothamâs shadowed streets. Youâre a private investigator, clever enough to evade trouble yet stubborn enough to find it anyway. The first time he saves you, it isnât out of compassion. Itâs practicality. Youâre in his way, a civilian caught in the web of crime and darkness that Gotham weaves around its inhabitants.
But something about you clings to him after that night. Maybe itâs the way your eyes, so defiant, didnât flinch when he loomed over you in the Bat suit. Maybe itâs the sharpness of your tongue when you told him you didnât need his help. For Damian, who grew up in shadows and blood, your fire is intoxicating. You arenât a mission or a tool; youâre a puzzle, one that he canât put down.
Damian begins to watch you. Not out of lustânot at firstâbut out of necessity, he tells himself. Youâre reckless, and Gotham devours the reckless. He starts with the basics: tracking your movements, hacking into your phone, listening to your calls. He justifies it as protection. Itâs his duty to keep you safe. After all, you wouldnât last a week in Gotham without his silent interventions.
But it doesnât stop there. He learns your habitsâthe cafĂŠ you frequent, the books you read, the way you twist your hair when youâre lost in thought. He doesnât realize when protection turns into possession. All he knows is that the idea of you existing outside his control fills him with unease.
For Damian, love isnât soft or tender. Itâs consuming, an ache that claws at his chest. Heâs never been good at moderation. Raised by the League of Assassins and tempered by the Bat, he only knows how to want completely or not at all. And he wants you.
It starts smallâfleeting glimpses of a shadow that seems too deliberate, too familiar. You convince yourself itâs paranoia. Gotham does that to people. But then there are the gifts. A book you mentioned in passing appears on your doorstep. A necklace you admired once in a shop window finds its way into your apartment.
He tailors his interactions with you, ensuring he always appears just when you need him most. Itâs a slow burn, one he orchestrates with the precision of a symphony.
But in the quiet moments, his thoughts spiral. He imagines youâlaid out beneath him, vulnerable and bare, trembling as he whispers that you belong to him. He dreams of your gasps, your pleas, your moans as he claims you in ways no one else ever could. And these fantasies? They become impossible to ignore.
Itâs why he starts leaving little reminders of himself in your life. His scent lingers on the gifts he leaves, his hands brushing against yours just a moment too long during your brief encounters. He needs you to feel him, even when he isnât there.
And then there are the rescues. Every time youâre in danger, Batman is there. Too quickly, too conveniently. Youâre not sure whether to feel grateful or unnerved. The way he looks at you, even through the cowl, sends shivers down your spine. His gaze lingers a moment too long, his touch steadying you when you falter but holding on just a bit too tightly.
Damian doesnât believe in limitsânot when it comes to you. When a petty criminal threatens your life, he snaps. The Bat codeâhis fatherâs codeâis forgotten. He breaks the manâs arm without hesitation, the crack of bone echoing in the alley. He wouldâve done more if you hadnât screamed his name.
Thatâs when you realize something is deeply wrong. Batman isnât supposed to lose control. But Damian doesnât care. He tells you it was necessary, that Gotham doesnât follow rules, and neither can he when it comes to you. His voice is calm, but his eyes burn with something you canât name.
One night, you find yourself in danger againâa gang cornering you in a dark alley. By now, you expect him to come, and he does. Heâs a shadow in the night, a whirlwind of brutal efficiency. But this time, when the last thug is down, he doesnât leave. Instead, he steps toward you, towering over you in his suit, his green eyes glowing behind the mask.
âYou shouldnât be out here,â he growls, his voice low and dangerous.
You snap back, angry at his audacity. âI can take care of myself!â
Heâs on you in an instant, his gloved hand gripping your armânot hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to show you heâs in control. âNo, you canât,â he snarls. âYouâre reckless. Foolish. You donât understand how fragile you are.â
The tension crackles like a live wire. Heâs closeâtoo close. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the intensity of his gaze burning into yours. And then it happens: his lips crash against yours, rough and possessive, stealing the breath from your lungs.
Itâs not a kiss born of tenderness but of desperation, of need. His hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him as he devours you like a man starved. When he pulls back, his eyes are wild, his voice trembling with barely restrained desire.
âYou drive me insane,â he admits, his words raw and honest. âDo you have any idea what you do to me?â
After that night, Damianâs control unravels. He stops holding back, his obsession consuming him entirely. He starts appearing at your apartment unannounced, stepping out of the shadows like he belongs there. And in his mind, he does.
His touches grow bolder. A hand on your lower back as he guides you through a crowd, fingers brushing against your thigh as you sit together. He delights in the way you shiver under his touch, even if you wonât admit how much you like it.
But itâs not enough. He wants all of youâyour body, your mind, your heart. He begins orchestrating moments where youâll need him: sabotaging your car so he can give you a ride, pulling strings to ensure no one else can get close to you. He wants you dependent on him, tethered to him in every possible way.
And when he finally has youâwhen youâre beneath him, his name a broken whisper on your lipsâhe feels whole for the first time in his life. He takes his time, mapping every inch of your body, leaving bruises and bites as proof of his claim. His voice is dark and velvety as he whispers in your ear, âYouâre mine. Youâve always been mine.â
He begins isolating you, subtly at first. Friends cancel plans, your phone malfunctions, and job opportunities slip through your fingers. He doesnât trust anyone else with youânot Gotham, not its people, and certainly not your own judgment.
When you confront him, his response is chilling in its sincerity.
âEverything Iâve done is to protect you,â he says. âYou think youâre safe on your own? Gotham doesnât care about you. But I do. I always will.â
You try to leave, but Damian is always a step ahead. He knows your every move, every thought before you act on it. He doesnât hurt youânot physically. His control is far more insidious. He makes you doubt yourself, your reality.
Eventually, you stop fighting. Itâs easier that way. Damian doesnât celebrate your surrender, but you see the satisfaction in the way his shoulders relax, the ghost of a smile on his lips when you stop flinching at his touch.
In his mind, heâs saved you. Youâre safe in the gilded cage heâs built for you, even if you donât see it that way. He tells himself youâll come to understand, that one day youâll thank him for his unwavering devotion.
And in the quiet moments, when his arms are around you and his voice is soft in your ear, you almost believe him.
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ââ HEADCANON : When You Give Them the Cold Shoulder.
ââ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Stephanie Brown, Male Cassandra Cain, Terry McGinnis.
ââ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
â BRUCE WAYNE â
Bruce doesnât do well with emotional gamesâheâs a man of logic, deduction, and shadows. So when you stop talking to him, no good morning kiss, no sarcastic remark about the news over coffee, no goodbye as he leaves for a missionâyou can feel the shift.
He notices instantly.
He doesnât say anything at first. Thatâs the terrifying part. He just looks at you. Like heâs dissecting you. Like youâre a crime scene.
âSomething wrong?â he asks, voice even, mask already half on.
You shrug and walk away.
Bruce is bothered, but he doesnât chase. Not yet. He waits, watches. You donât text him that night. You donât check in. You leave the mansion before he wakes up.
By day three, you find your favorite flowers at your doorstep. A small envelope. His handwriting:
âIâm not good at this. But I care. Whatever I didâtalk to me.â
He doesnât beg. Bruce doesnât beg. But his apology is in the way the manor seems colder without him trying to sit beside you. Itâs in the quiet presence at the edge of your room, waiting for you to just look at him.
When you finally crack, he just opens his arms and says quietly, âNext time⌠yell at me. Donât shut me out. I canât fix what I donât see.â
â DICK GRAYSON â
Dick panics the second he realizes youâre giving him the cold shoulder. Youâre usually so warm, so expressiveâand now youâre cold? Quiet? Passive-aggressively sipping your drink and not laughing at his dumb joke?
Heâs spiraling.
âWait, whatâd I do? Babeâbabe, I know that look. Thatâs the âyouâre dead to meâ lookâwhatâd I do?â
You donât answer.
He physically follows you around the apartment like a lost puppy. Tries to âaccidentallyâ run into you in the kitchen. Holds up his phone like:
âLook. This meme? That I sent? You didnât even react. You always react.â
By the end of the day, heâs crawling into bed beside you like a kicked dog, poking your shoulder.
âListen. I know I messed up. I probably messed up bad. Just tell me, okay? Iâll make it up to you. Dinner, flowers, matching onesies, whatever you want. Please just talk to me againâIâm going crazy over here.â
Dickâs the kind of guy who feels the silence like a scream. He doesnât stop until you finally crack and yell at himâand he just sighs in relief. âThank God. Youâre talking. Yell at me all you want, babe, just talk.â
â JASON TODD â
Jason is... not the most emotionally mature guy in the room. So when you go quiet on him? He clocks it right away.
His first instinct is: âThe hell is her problem?â
His second: âWhat did I do?â
His third: ââŚOkay, fine. Two can play that game.â
So now itâs a Cold War.
You ignore him? He ignores you harder. You roll your eyes? He scoffs. You sleep with your back to him? He âaccidentallyâ hogs the blanket.
But hereâs the thing: Jasonâs bluffing. Heâs miserable. Heâs sitting on the fire escape chain-smoking because heâs too stubborn to just apologize first. He types out ten different âhey princessâŚâ texts and deletes them all.
When you finally call him outâmaybe you explode, maybe you just break down and say why youâre madâJason goes quiet. Real quiet.
Then he sighs. Pulls you into a hug.
ââŚIâm sorry, okay?â he mumbles into your hair. âIâm not good at the soft shit. But I love you. Donât shut me out like that. It makes me⌠fuckinâ mad.â
Next time? He apologizes faster. Still grumpy about it. But faster.
â DAMIAN WAYNE â
Damian refuses to acknowledge the cold shoulder at first.
You ignore him? Fine. He acts like he doesnât care.
You roll your eyes? âTt.â
You donât respond to his usual sarcastic quips? âClearly youâve lost your sense of humor.â
But after a day or two? The cracks show.
He brings you your favorite tea and doesnât say anything about it. Sits in your space and watches you out of the corner of his eye like a stray cat too proud to beg for food.
By day three, heâs visibly tense. The only sign of his growing unease is the way he overworks in the training room and snaps at everyone else.
Finally, he corners you. Not aggressivelyâbut intensely. Arms crossed, lips thin, standing in your doorway like an angry little kitten.
âWhat did I do?â he asks, voice flat. âYouâre angry. I can tell.â
Heâs blunt. He doesnât beg. But thereâs a desperation in the way he hovers. When you finally tell him what hurt you, his jaw clenches. His apology is awkward but sincere.
ââŚI did not intend to hurt you. That was not my aim. But I apologize nonetheless.â
And then, softer: âPlease donât shut me out again. Itâs⌠difficult to function when you are upset with me.â
Damian shows love through action. So after that? He acts. Flowers from your favorite place in the city. A sketch of you he drew at 3 a.m. A stubborn but heartfelt vow to âdo better.â
Even if he still tts.
â BARRY GORDON â
Barry is used to being in controlâso when you go silent on him, it throws him hard.
He notices right away. And at first? Heâs cocky. Teasing.
âOh, weâre mad? What, you jealous of Supergirl again?â
You glare.
ââŚThat was a joke.â
But when you donât laughâor worse, donât even look at himâBarry starts pacing. Literally.
Heâll spend all night analyzing the conversation that led to this.
âWas it the mission? Did I interrupt you? Did I mansplain something again? God, I did, didnât I?â
Heâll call. Text. Show up at your window. Tap the glass like a wet cat.
When you finally let him in, he talks a mile a minute.
âOkay, okay, I know Iâm a jackass. I was being flirty at the gala, but that was just protocol! Diplomacy, babe! I love you!â
If you stay cold even then, heâll finally drop the charm. Get real quiet.
ââŚJust tell me how to fix it. Please. Iâll do anything. Even sit through Titanic again.â
You do not want to know how fast he hugs you once you cave. Barry loves loud, but he hurts quiet.
â STEPHEN BROWN â
Stephen is devastated.
He thrives off your attention. Your warmth. Your laughter. So when you suddenly go cold on him, he spirals.
First step: Denial.
âHa ha⌠youâre just messing with me, right?â
You arenât.
Second step: Drama.
âOkay, okay, is this about the glitter incident? Because in my defense, I thought it was washableââ
Still silence.
Third step: Crybaby.
He lays on the floor. Arm draped over his face.
âGod is punishing me.â
Stephen texts you like:
đ
why have u forsaken me
[voice memo of him singing âAll By Myselfâ into a fan]
Eventually, though, the jokes fade. He gets quiet. You find him on the fire escape, legs dangling, hoodie over his head.
ââŚI hate this,â he mutters when you finally approach. âNot knowing what I did. Not being able to fix it. You not⌠being you with me.â
He sniffs, trying to play it off.
âI know Iâm a dumbass sometimes. But I swear I love you. Like, a lot. Like, "Iâd let you kick me" love you.â
Once you forgive him? He clings.
âNever do that again,â he whispers into your neck. âCold Shoulder You is my least favorite version.â
Also, you catch him journaling later:
âToday I almost died. Emotionally. Y/n was mad. But I survived. Barely.â
â CASSIAN CAIN â
ââŚâ
He doesnât know what to do.
Cassian isnât just a man of few words. Heâs a man of zero words when it comes to emotional conflict.
So when you go coldâwhen your body shifts slightly away, when your eyes donât meet hisâhe notices immediately.
It hits him like a blow. He feels it in the air.
And he panics. Internally. But outside, heâs just still.
He brings you small things. Your favorite candy on the counter. A neatly folded blanket on your side of the couch. No words. Just⌠presence.
Heâll sit nearby but not touch you. He doesnât know if heâs allowed.
Eventually, he hands you a note. Folded. With his childish, naive handwriting:
âI did not mean to hurt you. Please tell me how to fix it.â
When you do finally speak, even if itâs angry or tearful or sharpâhe listens. Soaks it in. His head bowed, his expression focused, like every syllable is precious.
He doesnât interrupt. Doesnât justify. Just nods with teary eyes.
And later that night, he says it for real. Quiet. Low.
ââŚsorry.â
Cassian doesnât need words to show he loves youâbut when he does speak, he means it with his entire soul.
â TERRY MCGINNIS â
Terryâs first thought when you start giving him the cold shoulder is: âOh god. Not again.â
Because heâs used to things going wrong. Heâs used to messing things up. He has that subconscious fear that everything good in his life is temporary, especially you.
So when you stop responding to his texts, or start leaving the room when he walks in, he goes into lowkey panic modeâbut tries to play it cool.
Heâll hover. Try to act casual. Lean on your doorway like he isnât dying inside.
âYou good?â he asks.
You nod.
ââŚRight. Thatâs convincing.â
He wonât push. Heâs too scared youâll say itâs over.
But one night, he shows up at your place in the Batsuit. Mask off, hair a mess, eyes tired.
âYou donât have to forgive me right away. But just tell me what I did. Please.â
Thereâs a vulnerability in Terry that breaks your heart. Once you finally talk, he holds your face like youâre glass.
âIâll fix it. I swear to God, Iâll fix it.â
â MASTERLIST â
â Š luv-lock. don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites â
ââ HEADCANON : How Would They Be With A Timid And Shy Darling?
ââ CHARACTERS : Terry McGinnis, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.
ââ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
â TERRY MCGINNIS â
Terry didnât mean to be so intense at first. Really. Heâs not stupid. He knows how someone like you reacts to pressureâflinching, avoiding eye contact, your voice shrinking to a whisper. Youâre like a rabbit, all soft eyes and delicate limbs, startled by shadows and loud sounds. The first time he met you, he spoke too fast and you nodded like a malfunctioning bobblehead. He realized then⌠he kind of liked it. A lot.
He starts showing up at your classes. Your job. The coffee shop you go to every Sunday. At first, you think itâs coincidence. Terryâs good at playing it coolâuntil heâs not.
âDid you eat today?â he asks, appearing behind you like a bat out of hell, making you squeak and clutch your bag like itâs a shield. He loves the way you mumble and look down, like saying âyesâ to him is some sacred act. It makes him want to crush you to his chest and snarl at anyone who looks.
He gets pissed if people speak over you. Heâll bark, âLet her talk,â and youâll freeze, eyes wide. But then he turns to you with a gentler voice, like youâre a bird on his palm. âGo on, sweetheart.â
Terryâs love becomes possessive, protective, territorial. He walks you home, no questions asked. He memorizes your schedule and makes sure no one bothers you. And when you shyly thank him, face burning, his ears go red. âDonât thank me. Youâre mine.â
You start finding little gifts in your locker. Silently. No notes. Just a protein bar if you skipped lunch. A plushie he swears he didnât win at the arcade for you (he did). A hoodie youâll drown in. All smelling like him.
He dreams of you clinging to him like a koala and calling him âT-TerryâŚâ in a shaky voice. He wonât admit it, but he fantasizes about you crying and needing himâand only him.
â BARRY GORDON â
Barryâs a talker. Youâre not. Thatâs exactly why heâs obsessed.
Youâre his little mystery. His shy angel. The girl who canât meet his eyes for longer than three seconds before darting away, cheeks aflame. Heâs addicted to pulling those reactions out of youâthose nervous laughs, the way your fingers twist in your sleeves, the way your eyes widen when he compliments you in public.
âGod, youâre cute when youâre nervous,â he whispers once, just to see what happens. You nearly trip over your own feet. He has to bite his fist not to squeal. He wants to eat you. Wrap you in his arms and whisper dirty things until you melt.
He texts you every dayâparagraphs. He wants to know everything. He asks if youâre okay, if you ate, what music you like, what book youâre reading. Heâll tell you about his day too. He gets a little panicky if you take too long to respond. âSorry if Iâm being too much!â he types. Heâs not. He knows heâs not. You like it. Right?
When you stammer his nameââB-BarryâŚââhe physically twitches. The first time you gently touched his arm, he couldnât sleep for three days.
When youâre scared or overwhelmed, Barry talks you through it like a therapist. âBreathe with me, sunshine. In, out. Thatâs it. Youâre safe. Youâre with me.â
He buys you noise-canceling headphones, sends you daily affirmations, even learns sign language just in case you ever want to speak that way.
Your softness doesnât make you weak to himâit makes you precious.
Barry likes the idea of you relying on him. Of being the one person you feel safe around. Heâll sit beside you at parties and lean close, shoulder-to-shoulder, whispering jokes and blocking you from everyone else. âJust us, babe,â heâll say with a wink. Your face goes pink. He leans back, smug.
Heâs the type to gently place his hoodie on your shoulders without asking. Youâre too shy to give it back. He likes that. A lot.
â CASSIAN CAIN â
Cassian is silent. Not quietâsilent. But with you? Itâs different.
He doesnât talk much. But he listens. Listens to your shaky voice. To your soft words. To how you pause when youâre scared someone will interrupt. He hears your heartbeat spike around him. Youâre scared. You donât run.
That means something to him.
He appears out of nowhere. Always near. Sitting by you in the library. Walking beside you in empty hallways. You never see him coming, but somehow, youâre not afraid. You feel⌠safe. Watched, yes. But protected. Worshipped.
When Cassian finally approaches you, he offers a flower. Doesnât say a word. Just holds it out with eyes full of desperate hope. You take it, whisper âthank you,â and he smiles like he just won a war.
Cassian likes how small you seem next to him. Heâs lithe and quiet, but thereâs power in him. He doesnât speak unless itâs important. When he says your nameâjust your nameâit feels like a thunderclap in your chest.
Heâll do anything for you. Literally anything. Hurt for you. Kill for you. All without a sound. He doesnât need you to say thank you. He just wants you to look at him like he matters. Like heâs yours.
The first time you nervously held his hand? He stared at your intertwined fingers for five minutes like it was a religious experience. Then looked up at you and nodded. Approval. Devotion. Possession.
Cassian wonât say âI love you.â Not aloud. Heâll just stand behind you like a shadow, stare down threats, and brush hair from your face with two fingers. He memorizes every sound you make, and files them away like treasures. When you whisper his name, he closes his eyes.
Heâs yours. Completely.
â STEPHEN BROWN â
Stephen is loud. Energetic. All smiles and chaos. And then he meets you.
The shy, timid, adorable little bunny who squeaks when he gets too close. The one who hides behind books or hoodie sleeves. The one who blushes just because he smiled.
Game. Over.
He immediately adopts you like a hyper golden retriever boy who just found a kitten. âHey, dollface,â he says, popping up beside you every morning. âMiss me?â
You nod, cheeks on fire, and he howls with glee inside. He teases you nonstopâbut itâs all affection. âCareful, sweetheart. You look at me like that and I might melt.â You bury your face in your hands. He giggles. Youâre so easy to fluster. Heâs obsessed.
Stephenâs not subtle. He wants people to know youâre his. He brags about you to the others. He calls you his âshy little sugarplumâ and doesnât care how embarrassing it is. He lifts you off the ground for hugs and spins you like youâre weightless.
He lives for when you whisper his name all embarrassed. âS-StephenâŚâ and he just beams, practically wagging his tail. âYeah, baby?â
Heâs constantly touchingâpatting your head, brushing his fingers against yours, looping your pinky with his. But always watching your face, making sure heâs not scaring you. He needs you to feel safe with him.
But the moment someone teases you? Itâs over. Stephen turns from golden retriever to rottweiler. âYou got something to say about my girl?â Suddenly heâs dragging you away, arm wrapped tight around your shoulders, muttering, âGod, people suck. Letâs go somewhere quiet, just us, yeah?â
He knows you canât handle PDA, so he abuses that. Kisses your forehead in public. Holds your hand in class. Wraps an arm around you when you sit. When you whimper and hide your face? Thatâs the good stuff.
Stephen makes you laugh when you want to cry. Heâs loud enough to drown out your fears. And heâll never stop saying, âI love you,â even if you canât say it back. Yet.
You donât know heâs already planned your future. Joint bank accounts. Pets. Matching pajamas. Your wedding is already pinned on his secret board.
â MASTERLIST â
â PART 1 â Bruce Wayne ¡ Dick Grayson ¡ Jason Todd ¡ Damian Wayne
â Š luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites â