Fai_Ryy
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
The Bowery Presents
Noah Kahan
macklin celebrini has autism
oozey mess
hello vonnie
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Discoholic 🪩
Love Begins
Andulka
we're not kids anymore.
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Misplaced Lens Cap
official daine visual archive
ellievsbear
trying on a metaphor
seen from Netherlands
seen from Poland
seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from South Africa
seen from Malaysia
seen from Netherlands
seen from Türkiye
seen from Ecuador
seen from United States
seen from South Africa
seen from United States
seen from Ireland
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
@rowans-library
Welcome to the library!!
I really like fanfics, and I needed a place to save them for later, so here we are. Also, I'm an adult, and I like adult content, so expect that on here as well.
Tag system
#media:___ -> what series, show, game, etc its from
#character:___ -> who its about
#type:___ -> fluff, smut, angst, etc
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Can we get some cute Danhausen on reader’s birthday 👀 you posted the second part of backstage handler on mine and it was the best gift ever
oh my goodness! happy belated birthday :) here's a little somethin' cute
“BIRTHDAYHAUSEEEN!!”
Danhausen tosses what looks like confetti from his hands but it clumps together, seemingly wet. It falls with a splat onto the concrete floor. Your gaze drops to it — the strips of paper are your favorite color.
im usually so nervous to request things but your writing is so scrumptious and i’ve been Very Normal™️ about danhausen lately so….perhaps danhausen with a reader that is also very weird and unusual? i keep watching him and having “omg he just like me fr” moments lol and i think that could be a super cute dynamic!! i feel most fics make the reader a fairly “normal” person but this would be so cute :D ty if you do it!
eek ur so real for that 💞 very happy to provide weirdness for you!!
゛WEIRDO ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ danhausen x reader
: ̗̀➛ requested! for anon
“ You are deep weird. Bones weird. Soul lives in a crooked little house at the edge of a cursed forest weird. ”
⤿ Danhausen slowly realises that you are just as strange, soft, and wonderfully unusual as he is, leading to a sweet kindred-spirit romance built on beetles, teeth, and being weird together.
tags | fluff | uh weirdness? lol | kiss |
Danhausen noticed things.
It was, in his professional opinion, one of his many excellent and very evil talents, right alongside cursing enemies, collecting human teeth in a morally ambiguous fashion, and appearing in places where people were almost certain he had not been standing a moment before.
He noticed when someone changed their entrance wrist tape. He noticed when catering tried to hide the good biscuits behind the sad oat bars. He noticed when wrestlers laughed too loudly because they were trying to impress someone nearby, or when their anger was not really anger at all, but embarrassment wearing a jacket with spikes on it.
Danhausen noticed these things because people were often very bad at hiding themselves, even the ones who wore leather, face paint, sunglasses indoors, or all three at once.
But you were different. You were not bad at hiding yourself. You simply did not appear to be hiding at all, which, in Danhausen’s experience, was much stranger.
The first thing he noticed was the little black notebook.
It was not unusual for people backstage to carry notebooks. Wrestlers had promo notes, trainers had schedules, production had endless lists of things that looked boring and important in equal measure. But yours was different because it had a sticker of a possum wearing a tiny crown on the front, and because you wrote in it with the severity of someone recording evidence for a haunting.
You sat in the hallway outside the locker rooms with one knee crossed over the other, boots planted carefully apart, head bent, lips moving slightly as your pen scratched across the paper.
Danhausen had been passing with a paper cup of coffee he did not trust, because it had come from a machine that sounded like it was choking on coins, when he slowed without meaning to.
You did not look up as he approached. “The vending machine near production is lying,” you said.
Danhausen stopped.
He looked behind himself, because sometimes people spoke to someone else when Danhausen believed they were speaking to him, and sometimes invisible ghosts spoke to him, and one needed to be certain. There was no one there. Only him, you, and the terrible coffee breathing steam from its flimsy cup.
“The drink machine?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
You nodded, still writing. “It says strawberry flavour, but it’s not strawberry. It’s red flavour. Totally different spiritual category.”
Danhausen stared at you for a long moment. The hallway hummed with the ordinary backstage chaos of rolling equipment cases, faraway voices, someone laughing too hard around a mouthful of food. You continued writing as if you had said something completely normal. Danhausen slowly looked down at his coffee, which smelled like burnt dirt and regret, then back at you.
“Yes,” he said carefully, because the statement was correct. “Red flavour is usually a deception.”
That was when you finally looked up, and your face changed with a tiny bright flicker of recognition, like someone had struck a match in your eyes. “Exactly.”
Danhausen should have continued walking. He had things to do, probably. Very important things. Evil things. Teeth-adjacent things. Instead, he stood there clutching his coffee while you tapped the end of your pen against the possum sticker and studied him with open curiosity.
“You’re Danhausen,” you said.
“Danhausen is aware.”
“I like your whole thing.”
His shoulders lifted at once. Compliments were suspicious unless offered with proper tribute, but yours seemed genuine, dropped between you with no sharp hook attached. “Yes, many people enjoy Danhausen’s whole thing. Very famous. Very evil.”
“You’re not evil,” you said, and returned to your notebook.
Danhausen gasped with such theatre that someone at the end of the hallway glanced over. “This is slander.”
“It’s an observation.”
“It is incorrect.”
“You have gentle eyes. You can't be that evil,” you said, not looking at him, and then wrote something else down as if that settled it.
Danhausen did not know what to do with that, which was rare and deeply inconvenient. He stared at you until you glanced up again, and when you smiled at him, it was not the smile people usually gave Danhausen. It was not indulgent, not confused, not entertained in that way that made him feel like a very strange painting someone had decided to hang in the lobby. It was warm, but also a little conspiratorial, like you had both seen the same ghost in the corner and agreed not to embarrass it by pointing.
He pointed at your notebook instead. “What are you writing?”
“Things I notice.”
Danhausen leaned forward slightly. “About the cursed vending machine?”
“Sometimes. Today it’s mostly about people’s walk cycles.”
“Walk cycles?”
You clicked your pen. “Everyone walks like they’re keeping a secret in a different part of their body.”
Danhausen blinked.
You shrugged, casual as anything. “Some people keep secrets in their knees. Some keep them in their shoulders. Some people walk like they swallowed a church bell and they’re trying not to let it ring.”
For the first time all day, Danhausen forgot to sip his terrible coffee. He looked down the hallway, watching a stagehand stride past with a headset and a clipboard, then squinted at him thoughtfully. “That one has a secret in the elbows.”
“Yes,” you said immediately, delighted. “Thank you! Finally someone gets it.”
Something very small shifted inside him. Not loudly. Not dramatically. It was more like a coin sliding under a door.
He did not know what it meant yet.
Over the next few weeks, Danhausen kept noticing you, which was not the same as watching you. Watching sounded too obvious, too human, too easy to make fun of. Noticing was different. Noticing was what he did when he found you sitting cross-legged on a production crate, eating crisps with chopsticks because, as you explained to a baffled assistant, “the dust is too powerful and I need my hands for dramatic pointing later.” Noticing was when he saw you whisper “good luck, don’t embarrass me” to your boots before a match, then knock twice on the left heel and once on the right. Noticing was when you politely moved a chair out of the way and murmured, “Sorry, sir,” to it, like the chair was an elderly man you had inconvenienced.
At first, he assumed these were isolated incidents. Everyone had a few strange habits. Hook ate chips like he was punishing them. Orange Cassidy could communicate a full paragraph with one eyelid. Wrestlers were not exactly a normal species. But with you, the strangeness was not a costume you put on for a laugh.
It was in the way you tilted your head when you listened, as if tuning your ears to a private frequency. It was in the way you collected shiny bottle caps, loose rhinestones, broken bits of ring gear, and once, very proudly, a tiny plastic sword from a cupcake. You called them “useful objects” and kept them in a mint tin in your bag.
Danhausen discovered this by accident on a rainy afternoon when half the roster had been trapped backstage by delayed transport, leaving everyone tired, damp, and faintly annoyed. He found you on the floor beside a radiator that did not appear to be working, sorting through the tin with great seriousness. He had been walking by, again with suspicious coffee, again telling himself he had no reason to stop, when something silver caught the light.
“What is that?” he asked, already crouching before he decided to.
You glanced up, then tipped the tin toward him. “Treasure.”
Danhausen’s eyebrows rose. “This is mostly trash.”
“Rude. This is a museum.”
He peered inside. There was a bent paperclip, two safety pins, a purple sequin, a fake pearl, a smooth black button, the cupcake sword, a tiny bell, and what appeared to be a googly eye with no adhesive left on the back. “What does the museum honor?”
“Evidence that the day happened.”
Danhausen, who had been reaching for the bell, froze slightly. “What does this mean?”
You shifted against the wall, your shoulder brushing the radiator. “I don’t know. Sometimes days feel slippery. Like they’ll vanish if I don’t keep proof. So I keep little bits of them.”
He looked at you then, properly. Your tone had not changed much.
You had not made it sad or dramatic.
You simply said it, honest and odd and soft around the edges.
The hallway lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere, someone shouted about missing wrist tape. Rain tapped against a high window in nervous fingers. Danhausen looked back into the tin and saw not rubbish, but a tiny archive of survival. A bell. A sequin. A pearl. Proof that a day had existed and had left something behind.
Very carefully, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small white object.
Your eyes widened. “Is that a tooth?”
“It is a spare tooth,” he said proudly.
“A spare tooth,” you repeated, reverent.
“Yes. For emergencies.”
“What kind of emergency requires a spare tooth?”
Danhausen looked offended. “Many kinds.”
You held out your hand, palm up. “May I?”
He hesitated. Danhausen did not hand teeth to just anyone. That was how one ended up with lawsuits, curses, or awkward conversations with management. But your hand remained open, patient and still, and your face was bright with the kind of interest people reserved for rare jewels or baby animals. He placed the tooth carefully in your palm. You looked at it for a long moment, then smiled.
“He has a good aura.”
“He?”
“This tooth is clearly a he.”
Danhausen nodded slowly. “Yes. His name is Mr. Chewy.”
You gave the tooth back without laughing.
That was important.
Danhausen did not realise how important until later, when he was standing alone near the curtain, touching the pocket where Mr. Chewy had been returned safely, and replaying the moment in his mind like a very strange little film. You had not laughed. You had not wrinkled your nose. You had not said, “That’s disgusting,” or “Why do you have that?” or “You’re so weird,” in the tone that meant weird was a cage with a velvet bow on it. You had accepted Mr. Chewy as a person of significance. You had asked about his aura. You had understood, without needing the world to translate.
Still, Danhausen decided not think too much of it.
That was a lie.
He thought of it constantly.
It became a problem. A very evil problem, but a problem nonetheless. He found himself looking for you at call times. He noticed when your bag was thrown beneath a bench, recognised by the keychain shaped like a haunted cat. He learned that you preferred sitting on floors to chairs when you were anxious, that you hummed old television theme tunes when you taped your wrists, that you had a habit of staring directly at people when they were being rude until they grew uncomfortable and wandered away. He learned that you did not like people touching the back of your neck, but you would let Nyla Rose pick glitter out of your hair without flinching. He learned that you laughed silently first, shoulders shaking, then made a small sound afterwards like a kettle remembering its purpose.
And, troublingly, he learned that you listened to him.
Not in the way people usually listened to Danhausen, waiting for the punchline, waiting for the bit, waiting for the performance to reveal where reality ended and the joke began. You listened as if every word he said was a pebble dropped into water, and you wanted to watch the ripples.
When he complained that one of the lighting rigs had “bad intentions,” you asked which one and then avoided walking beneath it. When he declared that a rival had the personality of wet cardboard in a haunted basement, you considered this and said, “No, wetter.”
When he told you, with great importance, that curses required intention, presentation, and good wrist posture, you nodded and adjusted your own wrist like he had taught you something sacred.
One evening, after a taping that ran too long and left everyone with hollow eyes and sore feet, Danhausen found you sitting alone near the loading bay doors. The air was cold there, carrying the damp smell of outside and the metallic breath of trucks. You had your knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them, chin resting on your sleeve. At first, he thought you were upset, and something in his chest tightened with immediate and inconvenient alarm. Then he saw that you were watching a beetle make its slow, determined way across the concrete.
Danhausen approached carefully. “Is this beetle bothering you?”
You did not look away from it. “No. I’m supervising.”
“Ah.” He lowered himself beside you, his knees cracking slightly beneath the dramatic strain of existence. “Does the beetle require supervision?”
“All creatures require witnesses.”
Danhausen considered this. “Yes. Otherwise how will anyone know they were very brave?”
“Exactly.”
The beetle paused near a small crack in the floor, antennae moving like it was receiving bad news from the universe. You leaned forward slightly, your expression solemn. “Come on, Kevin. You’ve crossed worse lands than this.”
“His name is Kevin?”
“Looks like a Kevin.”
Danhausen nodded. “Very determined. Slightly cursed, but in a charming way.”
You smiled without taking your eyes off the beetle, and he felt the smile like it had happened against his own ribs. The two of you sat in silence for several minutes, watching Kevin navigate dust, a stray thread, and what looked like a dried drop of coffee. People passed behind you, some glancing over, some ignoring you entirely. Danhausen found that he did not care. Usually, he cared a little, even when pretending he did not. Usually, he felt the shape of people’s attention, their amusement, their confusion, their expectation. Beside you, he felt only the cool floor beneath him and the steady presence of someone who did not require him to become easier.
After Kevin disappeared beneath a stack of pallets, you sighed. “Safe travels, tiny king.”
Danhausen lifted one hand in a small wave. “May your enemies lose their brains.”
You looked at him then, your eyes soft and amused. “That’s a good blessing.”
“It is a curse also, depending on the floor.”
“That’s most things, though, isn’t it?”
He turned his head. “What is?”
You shrugged, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “Blessings and curses. Depends where you’re standing.”
Danhausen stared at you for a beat too long.
You seemed to notice, because your smile shifted into something smaller. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, which was suspicious because Danhausen never said nothing unless the something was large and wearing a hat.
You tilted your head. “You’re looking at me like I just turned into a pigeon.”
“Danhausen would never accuse you of this without evidence.”
“Kind of you.”
“You would be a very interesting pigeon.”
“Thank you. I’d haunt statues.”
He made a strangled little sound that was almost a laugh and almost a cough. It startled him. It startled you too, because your smile grew, and then you laughed properly, that silent shoulder-shaking laugh he had started to recognise. He watched you with an expression he hoped was normal and suspected was not. There was warmth moving through him, slow and unfamiliar, like candle wax down the side of a black taper. It pooled somewhere dangerous.
He did not understand it yet.
Or maybe he did, and was simply pretending not to, because pretending was safer and had better lighting.
The penny did not drop all at once. It rattled first.
It rattled when you appeared beside him before a match with two paper cups in your hands and said, “I brought you a beverage of questionable origin.”
Danhausen accepted it with grave suspicion. “What is inside?”
“Brown.”
“Brown is not a flavor.”
“You of all people should know brown is absolutely a flavor.”
He looked into the cup, sniffed, and recoiled. “This smells like a shoe.”
“I know. I thought of you.”
He placed one hand over his chest, moved despite himself. “This is very romantic.”
You froze.
He froze too.
The air between you changed so quickly it was almost audible. Danhausen had meant it in the easy dramatic way he said many things, tossing words like glitter and curses, but the moment they landed, he saw them reflected in your face. Not discomfort. Not mockery. Something else. A quick flash of startled pleasure, buried almost immediately beneath humor.
“Careful,” you said, looking away as you took a sip from your own terrible drink. “I’ll start expecting dowry teeth.”
Danhausen’s thoughts fell down a staircase.
“Dowry teeth?” he repeated faintly.
You nodded, still not looking at him. “At least three. I have standards.”
“Only three?”
“I’m trying not to seem needy.”
Danhausen opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and discovered that for once, words had abandoned him in his moment of need. You glanced sideways, saw his expression, and laughed quietly into your cup.
The penny rattled again when you watched his match from the side monitor with your hands clasped beneath your chin, muttering encouragements that no one else seemed to hear. “Bite him spiritually. Yes. Good. Menace him with your elbows. Excellent posture. Oh, beautiful curse work.”
Danhausen only learned of this because Wheeler Yuta told him later with a baffled expression, asking, “Is your little friend always like that?” and Danhausen, who had been unwrapping his wrist tape, went very still at the phrase your little friend.
“My what?”
“Your little friend,” Yuta repeated, instantly looking like he regretted it. “The one with the notebook. She was commentating your match like a witch watching her favourite frog compete in a tournament.”
Danhausen stared.
Yuta raised both hands. “Not an insult.”
“It had better not be.”
“Honestly, I think she was into it.”
Danhausen’s tape tangled around his fingers. “Into what?”
Yuta looked at him for a moment, then snorted. “You’re kidding, right?”
Danhausen was not kidding. Danhausen was alarmed. Danhausen was many things, including very evil, but in that moment he was mostly confused, because the idea that you might be into anything involving him made his brain behave like a possum in a chandelier.
He avoided you for approximately twenty-three minutes after that, which was a lifetime by backstage standards and a pathetic blink by emotional standards.
He told himself he was being strategic. Mysterious. Unavailable. Very hard to catch, like a goblin with tax debt.
In reality, he spent most of those twenty-three minutes standing behind a stack of folded tables, staring at nothing and replaying every conversation you had ever had. The red flavour. The museum tin. Mr. Chewy. Kevin the beetle. Dowry teeth. Gentle eyes.
Gentle eyes.
He touched two fingers to the black paint beneath one of them and frowned.
When he finally emerged, it was because he heard your voice.
“You can tell him I’m not mad,” you were saying somewhere around the corner, your tone light but edged with something uncertain. “I just don’t know if I accidentally did something strange in the wrong direction.”
Danhausen paused.
A second voice, belonging to Willow, answered gently, “I don’t think you did anything wrong. He’s probably just being Danhausen.”
“Yes, but there are different categories of being Danhausen. There’s theatrical hallway Danhausen, ominous snack Danhausen, tooth economy Danhausen, and then there’s avoidant cryptid Danhausen.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Willow said, “Avoidant cryptid?”
“That’s when someone vanishes because feelings looked directly at them.”
Danhausen felt personally attacked by the accuracy.
Willow laughed softly. “Maybe talk to him?”
“I don’t want to corner him. Cryptids need habitat.”
Danhausen stepped back, hand pressed to his chest again, but this time not theatrically. Something was happening under his ribs, something with teeth and wings. You had noticed him too. Not the paint, not the catchphrases, not the curse hands everyone copied for photos. Him. His categories. His vanishing. His strange little weather patterns. You had seen him not as a joke or a puzzle, but as a creature with a habitat.
The penny rolled closer to the edge.
It finally dropped two nights later.
The show had been loud, frantic, and full of the kind of energy that made the walls feel too close. Danhausen had won, sort of. Winning was a flexible concept when curses were involved. You had lost, technically, though you had done so with enough spite and style that several people backstage agreed it barely counted.
By the time everyone began clearing out, the arena had emptied into that peculiar after-show quiet, when the crowd was gone but their noise still seemed to haunt the seats. Danhausen found you in the bowl of the arena, sitting halfway up the lower section with your boots on the seat in front of you, staring down at the ring.
He stood at the end of the row for a while before you noticed him. You had changed into a hoodie too big for your frame, hair a little messy, eyeliner smudged beneath one eye. In the dim arena light, you looked tired and beautiful in a way that made his thoughts trip over each other. Not beautiful like glossy posters or slow-motion entrances. Beautiful like a candle kept burning in a room no one else remembered to check. Beautiful like an odd little saint of lost objects and red flavour warnings.
“You may sit,” you said, eyes still on the ring. “The council permits it.”
Danhausen shuffled into the row and sat beside you, leaving one seat between you because he had not yet decided what his hands were allowed to want. “What council?”
“Me and the empty crisp packet under that chair.”
He leaned forward, spotted the packet, and nodded. “A wise council.”
“Very crunchy.”
They sat in silence for a while. Below them, crew members moved around the ring, dismantling pieces of the night with practiced efficiency. The ropes trembled as someone leaned against them. The canvas was scuffed and marked, evidence of bodies thrown, dragged, pinned, lifted, survived. Danhausen watched the ring. Then he watched you watching the ring.
“You were very good tonight,” he said.
Your mouth twitched. “I lost.”
“Winning is political.”
“That sounds like something someone says when they’ve been banned from Monopoly.”
“Danhausen has never been banned from Monopoly. Danhausen simply improved it.”
“By adding curses?”
“And teeth.”
You hummed. “Honestly, it probably needed them.”
He smiled despite himself, small and hidden, then folded his hands in his lap. The silence that returned was not uncomfortable, but it was heavy with all the things he had been avoiding. He could feel them gathering like birds on a telephone wire. You glanced at him, then away. For once, you looked almost nervous.
“Did I scare you off?” you asked softly.
Danhausen turned to you at once. “No.”
“You did do a bit of cryptid vanishing.”
He winced. “Danhausen heard this.”
“You heard that?”
“Danhausen hears many things. Very powerful ears.”
“Oh no.” You covered your face with your sleeve, laughing under your breath. “That’s embarrassing.”
“No,” he said quickly, then softer, “no. It was accurate.”
You lowered your sleeve. Your expression gentled. “I didn’t mean it badly.”
“Danhausen knows.”
He looked back toward the ring because looking at you made honesty feel too close. His fingers flexed against his knees. He could cut a promo in front of thousands. He could curse men twice his size. He could be strange on purpose, loud on purpose, impossible to ignore on purpose. But sitting beside you in the quiet, he felt all the fragile little bones beneath the performance.
“You are not scared of Danhausen,” he said eventually.
You seemed surprised by the statement. “No.”
“Many people are not scared exactly,” he continued, searching for the words as though they were hidden in the dark between the seats. “But they are unsure. Or they think Danhausen is funny, which is acceptable because Danhausen is very entertaining. Or they think Danhausen is strange, which is correct because Danhausen is very strange. But sometimes they look like they are waiting for Danhausen to stop being Danhausen.”
Your face changed. The humor slipped away, leaving something open and aching in its place.
He swallowed, still not looking at you. “You do not look like this.”
You were quiet for a long time. When you answered, your voice was low. “People wait for me to stop too.”
Danhausen turned then.
You picked at the cuff of your hoodie, eyes lowered. “Not always in a cruel way. Sometimes they think they’re being kind. Like if they’re patient enough, I’ll become easier. Less intense. Less odd. Less likely to talk to beetles or assign emotional motives to vending machines. They like it when it’s funny, but not when it’s inconvenient. They like the sparkle, not the static.” You breathed out a small laugh that had no real humour in it. “So, no. I’m not scared of you. I think I recognized the shape.”
The penny dropped.
Not with a clatter. Not with a grand burst of music or lightning splitting the arena roof. It dropped quietly inside him, landing in a place that had been waiting for it all along. Danhausen looked at you and saw every strange little thing at once, no longer as separate curiosities but as constellations forming a picture. The notebook. The treasure tin. The chair apologies. The beetle blessing. The way you looked at him like he was not too much, because you had spent your life being told you were too much in a slightly different language. You were not merely amused by him. You were not merely kind to him. You were, in some impossible, glittering, haunted way, like him.
Danhausen’s lips parted.
“Oh,” he said.
You glanced over. “What?”
“Oh,” he said again, more softly, as if the word had become a small creature in his hands. “You are weird.”
You blinked.
Then, slowly, your brows lifted. “Yes?”
“No,” he said, turning more fully toward you, his coat shifting against the seat. “You are very weird.”
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Danhausen leaned closer, eyes widening with the force of revelation. “Not fake weird. Not ‘wears a silly hat once at a party’ weird. You are deep weird. Bones weird. Soul lives in a crooked little house at the edge of a cursed forest weird.”
Your face flushed in the dim light. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“It is true.” His voice was almost urgent now, as though he needed you to understand before the feeling overflowed and drowned him. “Danhausen thought you were nice. Then interesting. Then possibly dangerous because you understood too many things. But no. You are like Danhausen.”
You stared at him, eyes bright and uncertain. “Is that good?”
Danhausen looked offended by the question. “It is wonderful. Terrible for everyone else, perhaps, but wonderful.”
That made you laugh, and the sound loosened something in him. He moved into the empty seat between you without asking, pulled by instinct more than decision, and suddenly you were close enough that he could see the tiny fleck of glitter near your cheekbone, the smudge of makeup beneath your eye, the nervous movement of your throat when you swallowed. His hands hovered uselessly for a moment. He was not often gentle by accident. He was theatrical, careful, strange, loud, but gentleness required a different kind of courage.
“You collect proof that days happened,” he said.
You nodded.
“Danhausen collects proof that people leave pieces behind.”
Your eyes flicked down to his pocket, where the emergency tooth tin usually lived. “That makes sense.”
“Most people do not think so.”
“Most people are cowards.”
A grin tugged at his mouth, small and helpless. “Yes. Very cowardly. Very normal.”
You smiled back, and the air between you warmed.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The crew below continued their work, distant and clattering, but the two of you seemed enclosed in your own strange little chapel of empty seats and arena ghosts. Danhausen’s gaze dropped to your hands. Your fingers were curled into your sleeves, only the tips showing. He thought about the way you had held Mr. Chewy with reverence. He thought about the way you had said “cryptids need habitat.” He thought about the word romantic sitting between you from days before, still alive, still waiting.
“May Danhausen ask you something?” he said.
“You may.”
“Is this why you watch Danhausen?”
Your eyes widened slightly. “I don’t watch you.”
He gave you a look.
You sighed. “Fine. I watch you a normal amount.”
“Normal is a lie.”
“I watch you a weird amount,” you corrected.
“Better.”
You looked down at your sleeves, twisting the fabric between your fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe. At first, I just thought you were fun. Then I saw you being odd in ways that didn’t feel like a joke. You talk like the world is full of secret rules only you can see. I liked that. I liked that you didn’t seem embarrassed by it.” Your voice softened. “Sometimes I’d see you do something and think, oh. He's just like me for real.”
Danhausen frowned.
“For real?” he repeated, testing the modern words in his mouth.
“Yeah, like as in, genuinely. I think.”
“Ah.” He absorbed this seriously. “He's just like me for real.”
You laughed into your sleeve. “Exactly.”
Danhausen sat very still. His heart was doing something deeply unprofessional. “And this is good?”
“Very good.”
“Because you like Danhausen?”
The question escaped smaller than he intended. It was not dressed in theatre. It had no cape, no curse, no dramatic echo. It simply stood there between you, vulnerable and blinking.
You looked at him for a long moment, and your expression went so soft that he almost looked away.
“Yes,” you said. “Because I like Danhausen.”
His breath caught.
You smiled, nervous now. “Is that allowed in the tooth economy?”
“Encouraged,” he said immediately, voice a little too high. “Very profitable.”
“Good.”
“Danhausen also likes you,” he added, then straightened as if trying to recover some grandeur. “Obviously. Because you are very weird and you respect beetles and you understand beverage crimes. Also, you have never insulted Mr. Chewy.”
“I would never.”
“He speaks highly of you.”
“I’m honored.”
“He says you have kind hands.”
Your smile trembled. “Does he?”
“Yes.” Danhausen glanced at your hands again, then slowly, carefully, held one of his own out, palm up. “May Danhausen confirm?”
You looked at his hand. The offer was strange, but then, so were both of you. After a moment, you slid your hand from your sleeve and placed it in his. His fingers curled around yours with surprising tenderness, cool at first, then warming quickly. He looked down at the contact like it was another piece of evidence, another relic from a day that needed keeping. Your thumb brushed the side of his hand once, tentative. He inhaled.
“Very kind,” he said quietly.
You leaned a little closer. “You have gentle hands too.”
“Impossible. Danhausen’s hands are instruments of evil.”
“They can be both.”
He looked at you then, remembering your words from the loading bay. Blessings and curses. Depends where you’re standing.
For once, he knew exactly where he was standing.
Beside you.
The thought made him brave enough to lift your joined hands and press a careful kiss to your knuckles. It was theatrical in shape, but not in feeling. The feeling was too honest for theatre. Your breath hitched, and when he glanced up, your eyes were shining in a way that made his chest ache.
“Was that part of the curse?” you asked softly.
“Yes,” he whispered. “You are doomed now.”
“To what?”
He swallowed. “To be liked by Danhausen. Very much. Perhaps forever, depending on contract negotiations.”
Your laugh came out small and watery. “That sounds serious.”
“It is extremely serious.”
“I should probably consult my council.”
“The crisp packet?”
“And Kevin, if available.”
“Kevin will approve. Danhausen saved him from no danger whatsoever.”
“You supervised.”
“Heroically.”
You were both smiling now, leaning closer without making any official decision to do so. Danhausen could feel the warmth of your shoulder near his, the soft brush of your sleeve against his coat. The empty arena seemed to hold its breath around you. For all his strangeness, for all his noise, he had never felt quite like this before. Seen, perhaps. Not understood completely, because what creature ever was, but recognised. As if some odd little lantern inside him had flickered, and instead of asking him to dim it, you had lifted your own.
He noticed that your gaze dropped to his mouth.
He noticed, because Danhausen noticed things.
“May Danhausen kiss you?” he asked, very softly.
Your fingers tightened around his. “Yes.”
He leaned in slowly, giving you time to vanish if you needed to, because cryptids needed habitat and strange people needed exits and affection was better when it did not behave like a trap. But you did not vanish. You met him halfway, and when his lips touched yours, the kiss was gentle, a little tentative, sweet in a way that made him feel briefly weightless. There was no audience, no performance, no punchline. Just your hand in his, your mouth warm against his, your quiet breath catching when he tilted his head and kissed you again with a little more certainty.
When you parted, you stayed close, foreheads nearly touching.
“I think,” you whispered, “this is going in the museum.”
Danhausen smiled. “The kiss?”
“The day.”
He nodded solemnly. “It requires a very good object.”
You reached into your hoodie pocket and pulled out a tiny loose rhinestone, probably fallen from someone’s gear, glinting faintly in the arena light. You placed it in his palm. “Proof.”
Danhausen looked at it, then closed his fingers around it with great care.
“Danhausen will keep this forever,” he said.
“I thought it was for my museum.”
“No. Shared custody.”
You laughed, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Fine. But I get visitation.”
“Generous terms.”
The two of you sat there until the crew finished tearing down the ring, your hand still tucked in his, your shoulder pressed lightly to his arm. Danhausen kept the rhinestone in his palm the whole time. He would put it with Mr. Chewy later, perhaps in a separate compartment, perhaps wrapped in tissue like a sacred relic. Evidence that the day had happened. Evidence that someone had looked at him and not waited for him to become easier. Evidence that somewhere in the strange, loud, ordinary world, there was another crooked little house at the edge of the cursed forest, and its windows were lit.
Danhausen noticed things.
And now, he noticed you.
Not as a curiosity. Not as a mystery to solve. Not as a normal person being kind to something strange.
He noticed you as a fellow creature. A kindred oddity. A blessing. A curse. A person standing in the same impossible place.
And for once, he did not feel strange alone.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ouchhausen notes!
winner winner chicken dinner
i love weird danhausen sm ty for requesting!!! 💞💞
taglist @brays-fireflies6 @alexandralily0709 @ashuhleawrites @yeahboyd0llfac3 @i-want-to-yeet @xtremerulez
゛MEDICALLY ELEGANT ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ danhausen x reader
: ̗̀➛ requested! for @alexandralily0709
“ we can agree Danhausen is handsome and move on. ”
⤿ I’ve been bingeing your writing! I’m obsessed!! Could I request a Danhausen fluff with an actually hurt reader from an accident during match (collar bone, dislocated shoulder, etc. something owie but not life threatening) and very concerned Danhausen or some fluff Danhausen overhearing reader confessing to another superstar that she likes Danhausen or is interested in him.
tags | shoulder dislocation | anesthesia | fluff! |
By the time she hit the mat, she knew something had gone wrong.
Not in the vague, manageable way wrestling often went wrong either. Not a mistimed landing, not a bump that rattled her teeth and left her winded, not the kind of pain you could grit through and tuck away until later. This was immediate, white-hot, deeply wrong pain, the kind that arrived all at once and demanded the entire room for itself.
One second the arena lights were blinding, the crowd was roaring, her body was still moving on instinct.
The next, her shoulder seemed to tear itself out of place.
She didn’t even manage to scream properly. The sound that left her was small and sharp, more breath than voice, swallowed almost entirely by the crowd before it ever became anything real. Her body curled around the pain instinctively, her good arm drawing inward while the other simply… failed her. It wasn’t just pain. Pain she knew. Pain was familiar. Pain was part of the job. This was something uglier. A sickening, unstable wrongness in the joint itself, a feeling that something important was no longer where nature had intended it to be.
The referee was at her side almost immediately.
“Hey, hey, stay down. Don’t move. Can you hear me?”
She could hear him, but only just. The world had gone strangely far away around the edges. Sound came at her in pieces, the referee’s voice, the shifting murmur of the crowd as they began to realize this was not part of the show, boots on the canvas, someone at ringside swearing under their breath. Her shoulder pulsed with bright, nauseating agony, each heartbeat a fresh burst of it.
“Can you tell me where it hurts?”
She gave him a look so flat and pained it nearly answered for her.
“Right, stupid question,” he muttered. “Shoulder?”
She managed the tiniest nod.
The movement was enough to send another violent flash of pain down her arm and up into her neck. Her stomach rolled sharply. For one awful second she thought she might actually throw up right there in the ring, in front of several thousand people and multiple camera angles, which would have been deeply humiliating on top of everything else.
Then Rhea appeared beside her in a blur of black gear and sharp concern.
Whatever expression was on her face must have been bad, because Rhea’s changed instantly.
“Ah, shit,” she said, and there was nothing performative in it at all. Her voice had gone low and stripped down, all the swagger burned right out of it. “Hey, look at me.”
She tried.
Rhea crouched closer, keeping her hands off her unless necessary, which somehow made it more comforting instead of less. “Breathe. Just breathe. Medical’s coming.”
The irony of being told to breathe while her body had forgotten how to do anything except panic was not lost on her, but she tried. The inhale came in stuttering, shaky little pulls that made her feel ridiculous.
“I think,” she managed weakly, teeth clenched, “I think it’s out.”
Rhea’s eyes flicked once to the angle of her shoulder and then back again. “Yeah,” she said grimly. “I think you’re right.”
That was somehow the worst confirmation possible.
She had dislocated fingers before. Jammed a wrist once. Hyperextended an elbow. But a shoulder? A shoulder sounded dramatic. Like the sort of injury one only sustained in war or while being thrown from a horse.
She shut her eyes hard. “That’s disgusting.”
“It is,” Rhea agreed instantly. “But I need you not to pass out on me, alright?”
“I’m considering it.”
“No.”
“It would be easier.”
“Still no.”
Medical slid into the ring around them, efficient and focused, asking questions in quick succession. Did she hit her head? Any neck pain? Could she feel her fingers? Could she move them? The answer to that last one was technically yes, but she deeply resented being asked to prove it.
By the time they helped her sit up, the pain had sharpened into something almost surreal. Her vision prickled at the edges. She breathed through her teeth and tried not to make any more embarrassing sounds, but one slipped out anyway when they steadied her.
Rhea looked murderous.
“Careful,” she snapped at no one in particular.
“We are being careful,” one medic replied, with the sort of saintly patience only medical staff seemed to possess around wrestlers and their overprotective friends.
“Well, be more bloody careful.”
They got her out of the ring, off the stage, through the curtain, and somehow the moment she was backstage the adrenaline started to fail in earnest. In the arena there had still been noise and lights and momentum to carry her. Back here, under fluorescent lights with concrete floors and black-clad crew members moving aside to let them pass, the reality of it settled in with cruel clarity.
She was hurt.
Properly hurt.
Her arm was hanging in a way it absolutely should not hang, and every tiny shift sent a bolt of agony through her whole upper body.
By the time they got her into the trainer’s room she was sweaty, pale, and on the verge of tears purely from the effort of not making a bigger deal out of it.
Which, to be fair, it was a pretty big deal.
The doctor examined her carefully, and she discovered very quickly that “carefully” still left plenty of room for suffering.
“Sorry,” he said more than once.
She stared at him with bleak accusation. “You should be.”
He almost smiled. “That’s a good sign. You’re still funny.”
“I’m not being funny. I’m being vindictive.”
Rhea barked a laugh from the corner where she’d planted herself like an aggressive gargoyle.
The doctor straightened up. “Well. The good news is, I’m fairly certain it’s a straightforward anterior dislocation.”
She blinked at him.
Rhea folded her arms. “Say that again in normal people language.”
“He’s saying my shoulder fell out the front,” she muttered.
The doctor looked impressed. “That is, medically speaking, a terrible way to phrase it, but essentially yes.”
“That is foul,” she said.
“It also means,” he continued kindly, “that once we get it reduced, you should feel a lot better fairly quickly. You’ll still be sore, of course. But the worst of this pain is because the joint is out of place.”
She let out a shaky breath. “Then please, for the love of God, put it back.”
“That’s the plan.”
The plan, unfortunately, involved a little more waiting than she would have liked. The muscles around the joint were already guarding hard, and she was tense enough to qualify as a structural hazard. The doctor explained that they were going to numb the area with local anesthetic before reducing it so it would be easier on her and less traumatic all around.
That sounded wonderful in theory.
In practice, she was too tired and hurting too badly to respond with much more than a weak nod.
“Will it knock me out?” she asked.
“Not fully,” the doctor said. “But you’ll probably feel a little woozy after. Tired. Fuzzy.”
Rhea snorted. “She’s already fuzzy.”
“I can hear you,” she mumbled.
“Yeah,” Rhea said. “That’s half the problem.”
The medic team began preparing everything, and in the meantime someone carefully helped adjust her gear so they could access the shoulder properly. It was difficult to maintain one’s dignity while half-undressed, sweating through ring gear, and trying not to cry because one’s arm had decided to detach itself from civilization. She gave it a brave effort anyway.
Rhea came closer and leaned one hip against the exam table. “You alright?”
“No.”
“Fair.”
“I feel sick.”
“That’s also fair.”
“And if anyone says it looked cool on camera, I’m going to hit them.”
“With which arm?” Rhea asked.
She stared at her.
Rhea held up both hands. “Sorry. Too soon.”
Then the anesthetic came.
The first sting of the needle made her hiss through her teeth, but after that there was something almost merciful about the spreading numbness. Not total relief, not instantly, but a dulling. A softening. The edges of the pain began to blur. The agony that had occupied every inch of her consciousness withdrew enough to leave room for other things, exhaustion, embarrassment, the general dizzy unreality of having one’s shoulder medically popped back into place backstage on a folding exam table.
“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked after a few minutes.
She blinked at him slowly. “Like soup.”
He nodded as if this were a medically valid answer. “That’s not uncommon.”
Rhea leaned in. “You look like soup too.”
“Cream of mushroom,” she said solemnly.
Rhea laughed so hard she had to turn away. “Oh, you’re gone already. You are absolutely gone.”
“I’m elegant,” she murmured.
“You’re sedated.”
“I’m medically elegant.”
That one nearly finished Rhea off.
The room had started to take on a cotton-wool quality. She could still hear everything, still register movement, but it all seemed slightly farther away than it had been a minute ago. Not dreamlike, exactly. Just soft around the edges.
The doctor positioned himself carefully. “Alright. We’re going to do this now.”
She tensed instinctively.
“Try to relax.”
“I hate when medical professionals say that.”
“I know.”
“Why do you all say it then?”
“Because it’s useful.”
“It’s infuriating.”
Rhea patted her knee with infuriating sympathy. “He’s right. Relax.”
“You relax.”
“I’m not the one whose shoulder’s in the wrong zipcode.”
Even through the fog and the pain, she barked out a laugh so sudden it hurt, which was a deeply mixed experience.
Then the doctor moved her arm.
Pressure first. Strange, deep pressure. Not pain exactly, not in the way it had been before, but a profoundly unnatural feeling that made every instinct in her body recoil.
Then one firm, decisive movement.
A heavy clunk.
A weird, nauseating shift inside her shoulder.
And suddenly the screaming agony was gone.
Replaced, yes, by a thick throbbing ache and the dizzy shock of her body trying to recalibrate, but gone. The sharp, unbearable sense of wrongness vanished in an instant so dramatic she nearly cried from relief.
“Oh,” she whispered.
The doctor stepped back. “There we are.”
“Oh my God,” she said, and then because she was full of grace and poise, tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh my God.”
Rhea’s whole face softened. “Yeah. Better?”
“So much.”
“It’s back where it belongs now.”
“That is disgusting,” she repeated weakly, but this time there was relief all through it.
The sling came next, which felt humiliating in a different and more manageable way. Her arm was immobilized close to her body, the joint supported. She already knew it would be annoying within the hour, but at that moment it was practically heavenly.
The doctor explained aftercare while she nodded like someone pretending very hard to remain in possession of coherent thought. Ice, imaging, follow-up, rest, no wrestling, no lifting, keep the sling on.
At “no wrestling,” she frowned as if personally betrayed by the concept of consequence.
Rhea, meanwhile, was listening intently enough for both of them.
“She’ll need someone with her?” she asked.
“Just for the evening, ideally,” the doctor said. “She’s had a lot of adrenaline and the anesthetic will keep her a bit groggy.”
“I’ve got her.”
That should have embarrassed her more than it did. In truth, it was hard to be proud while feeling like cream of mushroom and wearing a sling.
The room quieted once the worst was over. Medical staff stepped back. One of the medics handed Rhea instructions. Another asked if she wanted water. She accepted it with her good hand and somehow nearly missed her own mouth. That was a new low.
Rhea caught the cup before it ended in catastrophe. “Oh, brilliant.”
“I’m trying.”
“You are, against all odds.”
She took another sip and sank deeper into the table.
The relief was doing strange things to her. All the tension that had held her together through the actual injury was gone now, and in its place was something soft and sleepy and dangerously unfiltered. Her eyelids felt too heavy. Her limbs felt borrowed. The pain had become a distant pulse instead of an emergency, and her brain seemed to have interpreted that as permission to stop behaving.
Rhea noticed first.
“Oh no,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’re about to say something deeply unfortunate.”
“I am private.”
Rhea actually scoffed. “At the moment? You are a public hazard.”
She frowned, offended on principle. “That’s very mean.”
“It’s very true.”
A medic passed behind them trying not to smile. Traitors, every last one of them.
She let her head loll toward Rhea and lowered her voice to what she clearly believed was a stealthy whisper but was almost certainly still normal volume. “I have to tell you something... but it's a secret.”
Rhea’s expression turned immediately suspicious. “Absolutely not.”
“But it’s important!” she whined, dragging out the last syllables.
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Medical important, or your version of important?”
She considered this. “My version.”
Rhea closed her eyes briefly as though appealing to some higher power for patience. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“I’m serious.”
“That is also what I’m afraid of.”
She leaned closer anyway, because anesthesia had obliterated the part of her brain responsible for self-preservation. “You can’t laugh.”
“I’m already laughing inside.”
“Rhea!” she cried.
“Fine. I won’t laugh.”
“Promise?”
“I promise nothing.”
She frowned. “You’re a bad best friend.”
“And yet I’m still the best one you’ve got.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Devastatingly so.”
She blinked at her for a moment, then decided that was probably true enough to move on.
The trainer’s room door was open. People were moving in the corridor. Footsteps, passing chatter, the distant clang of a rolling case against the wall. She paid none of it any attention. As far as her soup-like brain was concerned, this was a private little bubble occupied by herself, Rhea, and perhaps a medically polite fern.
“I have a crush on Danhausen,” she whispered quickly.
Rhea went completely still.
For one magnificent second, silence.
Then Rhea inhaled through her nose in the slow, burdened manner of a woman who had been waiting months for this exact sentence and wished she were even slightly more surprised by it.
“Oh my God,” she said flatly.
Her eyes widened. “You promised you wouldn’t laugh!”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re doing the face!”
“I’m doing the face because this is the least shocking revelation of my entire life.”
“It is not!”
“It is.”
She drew herself up as much as one can while half-horizontal and medicated. “I’m so subtle.”
Rhea barked an honest laugh at that, immediately ruining her own promise. “No, babe. No you are not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You look at him like he’s the answer to a question nobody else in the room understands.”
Her mouth fell open. “That is so dramatic.”
“You're dramatic. It fits.”
“I am not!”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m so normal around him.”
Rhea gave her a stare so rich in disbelief it ought to have been bottled and sold.
“No,” Rhea said. “No, you’re not. You go all weird and nice and helpful. You magically appear with coffee. You ask if he’s eaten. You laugh at his bad jokes even when they’re objectively terrible.”
“They are not terrible.”
“Some of them are horrific.”
“They’re endearing.”
Rhea pointed at her like a prosecutor landing the final point in a murder trial. “Exactly.”
She slumped back against the exam table with a groggy, wounded sigh. “Well. Fine. Maybe I have a medium crush.”
“A medium crush?” Rhea repeated.
“Yes.”
“You’ve had that man’s birthday saved in your phone for six months.”
“That proves nothing.”
“You once asked me whether black and white face paint can smudge.”
She shut her eyes. “That was a private thought.”
“You said it out loud.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Horrible.”
“It really was.”
She put her good hand over her face. “I’m never going to recover from this.”
“Physically, probably. Socially? Jury’s out.”
“Do you think he’d ever like me back?”
The question came out softer than the rest had, stripped of the silliness underneath. That seemed to sober Rhea just a little.
Her friend’s voice gentled. “Honestly,” she said. “Yeah. I do.”
She lowered her hand enough to squint at her. “You’re just saying that because I’m injured.”
“No, I’m saying it because he pays way too much attention to where you are in a room for a guy who’s supposedly being casual.”
That made her heart do a traitorous little flutter. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as I can be without physically forcing the two of you into a cupboard and making you talk about your feelings.”
She blinked. “Would you do that?”
“Given the opportunity? Maybe.”
A noise from the doorway made Rhea glance up.
It was only for a second. Barely a flicker. But her expression changed. Not dramatically. Not enough to alarm. Just that tiny shift when someone realized the universe had, once again, chosen comedy over mercy.
Unfortunately, the injured and anesthetic-soft version of her was not perceptive enough to pick up on it.
She carried on.
“I just think he’s really lovely,” she said wistfully.
Rhea made a small strangled sound.
“And funny.”
“Mm-hm.”
“And weird, obviously, but in a charming way.”
“Yep.”
“And he’s actually really kind when nobody’s making a thing of it.” She stared at the ceiling, words going slower now, sleepier, but no less honest. “Like, he notices little things. He remembers stuff. One time I said I liked that awful cinnamon latte from the service station and two weeks later he brought me one because he happened to be passing. He pretended he hated it, but he still remembered.”
Rhea pressed her lips together so hard they nearly disappeared.
“He also has very pretty eyes,” she added.
At that, there was a muffled choking sound from somewhere near the door.
Her brow furrowed faintly. “Did you hear something?”
Rhea, the absolute picture of innocence, said, “Nope.”
She accepted this at once because she was, once again, soup.
“And his hands are nice,” she continued.
Rhea closed her eyes.
“They look... holdable. I don’t know why that’s relevant, but it is.”
“Of course it is,” Rhea said weakly.
“And sometimes he does that thing where he’s being all ridiculous and then he says something genuinely sweet and it catches you off guard and you have to just stand there like an idiot because suddenly your entire personality has left the building.”
Rhea inhaled deeply through her nose, looked toward the ceiling, and appeared to make peace with whatever happened next.
“I’m just saying,” she went on drowsily, “if he ever kissed me, I think I would die.”
At this, there was an unmistakable sound from the doorway.
A very human, very startled, very choked-on-air sort of sound.
She went still.
Slowly, she turned her head.
And there he was.
Danhausen stood in the open doorway holding what appeared to be a bottle of water and the shattered remains of his composure. He had clearly been standing there for long enough to hear far too much, and judging by his expression, he had not been emotionally prepared for any of it.
For one suspended, impossible second, nobody said a word.
Then she stared at him.
He stared at her.
Rhea made the deeply unhelpful choice to bite the inside of her cheek instead of intervening.
And only then did her brain catch up.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Danhausen lifted one hand a fraction, as if he might wave, thought better of it, and let it hover uselessly in midair. “Hello. Danhausen is here.”
She did not move.
Her whole body had gone hot and cold at once. The anesthetic haze did nothing to soften the horror of the realization. If anything, it made it worse. Slower. More surreal. Like watching herself be publicly executed from a comfortable chair.
“How long,” she asked in a tiny, broken voice, “have you been standing there?”
Danhausen looked at the ceiling, the floor, then vaguely somewhere over Rhea’s shoulder. “Danhausen is not sure whether you want him to lie or tell the truth right now.”
Rhea lost the battle and made a strangled noise that was one part laugh and three parts attempted restraint.
She turned to her with betrayed devastation. “You knew he was there!”
Rhea put both hands up. “In my defense,”
“You knew!”
“I only knew for, like, the last thirty seconds.”
“That is enough seconds!”
“Probably, yeah.”
She dropped her face into her good hand. “Where's the nurse? I need to be put back under.”
Danhausen, still in the doorway, seemed unsure whether to come in or back slowly into traffic and perhaps change his name. His face paint did not fully conceal the colour rising under it.
“I can leave,” he offered.
“No!” she said immediately, then wanted to disintegrate for an entirely new reason.
He blinked.
Rhea’s eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “I mean. You can. Obviously. Free country.”
“Danhausen is not sure that is how countries work.”
She gave a noise of despair.
That, for some reason, seemed to finally shake him out of his own stunned state. He took one tentative step into the room, then another, clutching the water bottle like it was a diplomatic offering between warring nations.
“I brought this,” he said, holding it up a little.
She stared at it. “You brought me… Evian?”
“Yes. It is your preferred waters.”
Rhea made a very suspicious coughing sound that sounded remarkably like “this is unbelievable.”
“This is the worst thing that has happened to me all week,” she sighed from behind her hand.
Danhausen’s expression softened instantly. “Well. Apart from the shoulder.”
She peeked at him through her fingers.
He still looked startled, still a bit pink around the edges, but the concern on his face was real. He was worried. He had been worried enough to come here with overpriced water and apparently stand in the doorway silently while she ruined her own life.
And somehow that was almost worse. Or better. Or both.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted.
“For what?”
“For all of… that.”
He blinked. “It was complimentary.”
Rhea made a delighted choking noise.
She groaned. “Please don’t make jokes. I’m too fragile.”
“I am not joking.”
Her hand slipped from her face.
Danhausen shifted awkwardly, then came closer to the exam table, close enough now that she could see the actual uncertainty under all his usual theatrics. “Danhausen did not mean to eavesdrop. Danhausen came to see if you were alright, and then Rhea was here, and then you were saying things.”
“I was saying too many things.”
“Yes.”
“Embarrassing things.”
He tilted his head. “Only if you want them to be.”
That stopped her.
The room seemed to get quieter around the edges. Even Rhea, sensing the moment at last, kept her mouth shut.
Her voice came out very small. “You’re not weirded out?”
Danhausen’s whole face changed. Something gentler. Softer. “No.”
She stared at him helplessly. “Why not?”
He looked almost offended by the question. “Because you are lovely and you are injured and also you said very nice things about Danhausen’s eyes.”
This was not a normal answer, and yet it nearly made her cry.
Rhea made a noise low in her throat and muttered, mostly to herself, “This is revolting.”
Nobody paid her any attention.
Danhausen took another step forward. “Also,” he said, with a kind of reluctant honesty that seemed to cost him something, “Danhausen likes you too.”
Silence.
Actual, ringing silence.
She blinked once.
Twice.
Then she looked at Rhea as if perhaps the anesthetic had finally crossed into hallucination.
Rhea, entirely unhelpful, just mouthed I told you so.
She turned back to him. “No, you don’t.”
He frowned. “That seems rude. Danhausen feels invalidated.”
“No, I just mean,” She stopped, swallowed, tried again. “You really do?”
“Yes.”
“Like. Actually?”
“Yes.”
“For real?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
He squinted as though this required serious accounting. “A while.”
“Define a while.”
“A medium while.”
She stared at him.
Rhea snorted so hard she had to walk away and pretend to read one of the medical posters on the wall.
“A medium while,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“That is not a unit of time.”
“It is emotionally a unit of time.”
She laughed despite herself, then immediately winced and clutched her shoulder.
Danhausen’s entire body reacted. “Ah, do not do that.”
“I laughed.”
“Yes, badly.”
“I’ll apologize to my shoulder later.”
“No, you will rest and stop making it worse. This is now a Danhausen medical command.”
She looked at him through the lingering haze of exhaustion and pain and humiliation, and to her horror, affection swelled up all over again. She had just publicly confessed to liking this man’s hands, and it was not enough to cure her.
“That’s very bossy,” she murmured.
Rhea turned back around. “He’s right. You’re done. No more dramatics.”
“I’ve barely had any dramatics.”
Rhea pointed at her. “You told the whole room he has pretty eyes.”
“I thought it was just you!”
“Life comes at you fast, babe.”
Danhausen, absurdly, looked pleased.
She stared at the ceiling. “I’m going to retire.”
“No, you’re not,” Rhea said.
“I’m moving to a cottage.”
“With one functioning arm?” Danhausen asked.
“That would be difficult,” she admitted.
“Very.”
The doctor returned briefly to check her sling and, after one glance at the atmosphere in the room, wisely chose not to ask any questions. He reminded her again about rest and avoiding unnecessary movement, then vanished before the emotional nonsense could splash onto him by proximity.
Once he was gone, the room settled back into a quieter shape.
Rhea came over, leaned close, and spoke directly into her ear. “Do you want me to leave, or do you want me to stay and supervise because you’re both catastrophically awkward?”
She gave this the thought it deserved. “A bit of both.”
“Helpful.”
“I know.”
Rhea sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’m going to get your bag and bully production into finding ice. Don’t die, don’t flirt too hard, and if either of you cries, I want details later.”
Then she was gone, leaving behind the distinct sense that she had engineered this entire emotional collapse personally and was very pleased with the outcome.
That left the two of them alone.
And suddenly the room seemed much smaller.
Danhausen still stood near the exam table holding the water bottle. After a moment, he unscrewed the cap and handed it to her carefully.
She took it with her good hand. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
She drank, because it gave her something to do besides combust.
He hovered.
“You can sit down,” she said after a second.
He looked around as though chairs might materialize if he wished hard enough. There was a stool beside the wall. He dragged it closer and sat, awkward at first, knees slightly apart, gloved hands resting on them. Much calmer than his ring persona. Quieter. Almost shy.
It was doing dangerous things to her insides.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then she said, “I genuinely did not know you were out there.”
“I know.”
“I wouldn’t have said any of that if I had.”
He considered. “That is fair.”
“I feel like I should crawl into a drain.”
“That seems unsanitary.”
She huffed a laugh. “You are not helping.”
“I am trying.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Badly, apparently.”
That earned a proper smile out of her.
His expression softened at once when he saw it. “There. Better.”
The word slipped out before she could think twice. “You came to find me?”
He shrugged, but it came off more self-conscious than casual. “You were hurt.”
There was something almost devastating about the simplicity of that.
No big speech. No fuss. Just: you were hurt.
As if that explained everything.
Her fingers tightened around the water bottle. “That’s very sweet.”
Danhausen looked momentarily uncomfortable with being sincerely called sweet, which only made him sweeter. “Well. Danhausen contains multitudes.”
“You do.”
“And some of those multitudes were concerned.”
She smiled. “I’m gathering that.”
He leaned forward a little, elbows on knees, studying her face with unusual seriousness. “Does it still hurt badly?”
“Not like before. It’s more achey now.”
“Achey is better than screaming.”
“Much better.”
“And are you feeling less like soup?”
She thought about it. “No. Possibly more like soup.”
“What kind?”
“Still cream of mushroom.”
“An unfortunate soup.”
“Very.”
He nodded gravely as if noting this for future medical reference.
She watched him for a moment. Really watched him. The black-and-white paint. The careful set of his mouth. The concern he clearly wasn’t trying especially hard to hide anymore. He looked almost bashful, which ought to have been impossible on a man dressed like that, and yet.
“Did you mean it?” she asked softly.
He looked up at once. “Which part?”
“That you like me.”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation.
No joke, either.
Just yes.
It landed somewhere low and warm and tender in her chest. “Oh.”
He gave the tiniest tilt of his head. “Did you think Rhea was lying?”
“She does lie for entertainment.”
“That is true.”
“And yet...”
“And yet,” he agreed.
The silence that followed was soft rather than strained.
She found herself growing sleepier by the second now that the panic had passed. The anesthetic and adrenaline crash were pulling her under hard. Her eyelids drooped.
Danhausen noticed immediately. “You should sleep.”
“I know.”
“You are fighting it.”
“I want to stay awake.”
“Why?”
She looked at him through heavy lashes. “Because this got unexpectedly good.”
Something in his expression changed at that, gentling around the edges until he looked almost unbearably fond.
“That is a very nice thing to say to Danhausen.”
“You were already told you are comfy and have nice eyes.”
He straightened. “Wait. When was Danhausen comfy?”
She blinked. “I don't remember.”
“That sounds like a lie.”
“I’m tired.”
“That is not a denial.”
She laughed softly. “Maybe you’re comfy-adjacent.”
“A high honour.”
“The highest.”
He seemed absurdly pleased by this.
Then, after a second’s hesitation, he held out one gloved hand between them. Palm up. Quiet. Unassuming. An offering rather than a demand.
She looked at it.
Then at him.
Then slipped her hand into his.
He closed his fingers around hers carefully, as if fully aware she was still fragile in more ways than one.
“There,” he said softly. “Now you may rest.”
The gesture was so unexpectedly tender she nearly lost track of how to breathe.
“Wow,” she murmured.
“What?”
“You’re really good at this.”
“At what?”
“Making people feel safe.”
Danhausen went still.
For once, no joke came to save him from sincerity. His thumb brushed once over the back of her hand, a small absent-minded motion he may not even have realized he was doing.
“Danhausen is glad,” he said quietly. “Because you looked very scared earlier.”
That undid her more than anything else so far had. Not because she was ashamed of it, but because she hadn’t realized anyone had noticed. She’d thought she’d hidden it reasonably well behind pain and swearing and sarcasm.
“I was,” she admitted, “I don’t like getting hurt like that in front of everyone.”
“No.”
“It makes you feel…” She swallowed. “Not stupid, exactly. Just helpless.”
His grip on her hand tightened slightly. “You did not look helpless.”
She met his eyes.
“You looked hurt,” he said. “There is a difference.”
And just like that, all the silliness of the moment folded around something real and warm and startlingly gentle.
Her throat tightened.
“You can’t say things like that while I’m drugged,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
“Because I might fall in love with you right here on the exam table.”
He blinked once. “That feels like a larger confession.”
“It probably is.”
There was a beat of startled silence.
Then his mouth curved into a soft, disbelieving smile. “Danhausen is having a very interesting evening.”
She covered her eyes with her free hand. “Please ignore me.”
“No.”
“That was humiliating.”
“No, it was not.”
“It was a little.”
“It was charming.”
“You are biased.”
“Yes.”
That answer came so quickly she laughed again, more carefully this time.
He shifted on the stool, still holding her hand, and after a moment asked, much quieter, “May Danhausen sit closer?”
Her heart skipped. “Yeah.”
He stood, moved the stool away, and very carefully perched on the edge of the exam table beside her, keeping clear of her injured shoulder. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. His body heat reached her immediately.
Everything inside her seemed to go soft.
This close, he smelled faintly of makeup, leather, and something clean underneath. Not cologne exactly. Just him.
She became acutely aware of how unfairly pretty his eyes actually were.
“I was right about your eyes,” she murmured.
He looked delighted. “Excellent.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Yes.”
“I’m injured.”
“And yet your taste remains impeccable.”
She laughed weakly. “That was awful.”
“It was good.”
“It was awful.”
“We can agree Danhausen is handsome and move on.”
“You’re impossible.”
“But right.”
She didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
After a moment, the combined warmth of relief, fatigue, and him sitting close enough to touch became too much to resist. She shifted slightly, then paused with an embarrassed little frown. “Can I ask something stupid?”
“Yes.”
“Can I lean on you? Or is that too weird?”
For a second he simply stared at her.
Then his whole face softened in a way she thought she might remember forever.
“No,” he said quietly. “That is not weird.”
He adjusted at once, one arm coming carefully around behind her shoulders, avoiding the injured side with obvious care. She let herself settle slowly against him, her head resting against his chest, her good side tucked in close. The moment she did, a long tired sigh escaped her without permission.
Danhausen went very still.
Then, after half a beat, he relaxed around her and held her there as though he’d wanted to do exactly this for longer than he intended to admit.
There was something deeply absurd about being half-sedated in full ring makeup, tucked against a man in corpse paint on an exam table backstage.
There was also, somehow, something perfect about it.
“You are comfy,” she mumbled against his chest.
He made a small sound of satisfaction. “There it is.”
“What?”
“The truth.”
She smiled, eyes drifting shut. “Don’t get smug.”
“Too late.”
His hand came up and hovered near her hair for a moment before touching, tentative at first, then gentler when she leaned into it. He smoothed it back from her face in slow careful strokes that nearly turned her bones to jelly.
“Wow,” she whispered again.
“You already said that.”
“I know. I mean it again.”
He said nothing for a moment, just kept gently stroking her hair.
Then, very quietly, “Danhausen has wanted to do this for some time.”
Her eyes opened.
She tipped her face up enough to look at him. He looked down immediately, clearly aware he’d said it out loud, but not taking it back.
“For a medium while?” she asked softly.
He narrowed his eyes. “Mockery.”
“A little.”
“Yes. For a medium while.”
She smiled.
He smiled back, smaller and softer than the exaggerated grins he gave the world.
Outside the room, footsteps passed. Someone laughed in the corridor. Somewhere a metal case rattled by. Ordinary backstage noise carried on around them, but inside the little pool of fluorescent quiet they’d somehow made for themselves, everything had slowed.
She was very, very tired now.
“Danhausen?”
“Yes?”
“When I’m less soup, would you maybe want to go out with me?”
He blinked. “Like a date?”
“Yes. A date.”
He looked comically pleased and tried, unsuccessfully, to hide it. “Danhausen would like that very much.”
“Good.”
“Very good.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ouchhausen notes!
yippie!!!!!!
its true danhausens hands look very holdable
anyways, requests are still open!! send me your wants and needs <3
Lab Work
🧪 Oneshot 🧪 Danhausen/Kit Wilson/The Miz 🧪 4k words 🧪 (explicit content, dubcon, trans male character, mind control) 🧪 Kit and Miz's brains are still fried. Danhausen decides they'll assist him in his experiments...among other things. / If you want to be tagged in my future fic uploads, say so in a reply or drop a DM. thanks! /
🔞
read on AO3 [x]
/
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
backstage wrangler - onetwoshot
you wonder if danhausen will come to you like he promised
author's notes: read part one here. this is nsfw. mdni. reader is on top. the awaited conclusion. ao3 link.
You pace your hotel room, skin still buzzing. It had been a while since SmackDown had finished filming, and you were still waiting on Danhausen to find you. You wonder if he had forgotten, if winning his match had caused him to move on to a victory lap instead of finishing what you started in the dressing room.
FATHERHOOD | ft. jason todd, tim drake
contents :: smau. established relationship. fluff. gender neutral reader. part 2 because tumblr is mean and only lets me upload 30 images, so i couldn't fit them all in one part. you can read part 1 with bruce & dick here.
lambie's notes :: istg i do write actual fics, these are just so much fun. this one is inspired by my new kitty ... who's name is timbit.
jason todd fic recs
✧.* fluff ⋆ | ˚꩜｡ series | ⚠︎ angst | ✪ g's star reads | 18+ below the cut
@njghtiee
✧.* do you wanna make out? jason is busy minding his own businesses, you're not even sure what he's doing, but whatever that is, it's taking a lot of time and you're bored. so you decide to simply ask him "wanna make out?" and you can bet your ass he wants to. ⚠︎ you die laughing joker kidnaps you, jason's girlfriend, and take his revenge on jason and the bats. he wants to see jason suffer and after all he's gone through, his only weak spot now is you. ✧.* you're freezing jason running hot with a partner who runs cold, both of you seeking each other out before you even started dating. needing each other more than the other realizes. can't go more than a day without each others touch
@oncasette
⚠︎ Meet You There the one where you call jason during a panic attack.
@cipheress-to-k-pop
✧.* daddy j.t. Despite the title i swear this is an innocent fic
@bloomcissa
✧.* Meet...crash? In which you hit a vigilante with your car
@er-osion
⚠︎ Fights Like These Reader and Jason get into a fight which causes Jason to storm out, in the separation, both you and Jason begin to fear the worst
@frogsnknightlilies
✧.* making an ass of u & me Jason didn’t mean to keep your existence secret from his family—really! At first, it was for his and your own protection more than anything, his double life wasn’t just for any average person after all. But, even after the whole marriage and settling down thing, he may have just—honest to god—forgot to mention it?
@kthologue
✧.* the bet ✪ it’s harder to keep your relationship with jason a secret from the world's greatest detectives than you thought. (3 times each wayne family member tries to prove that you and jason are together and 1 time they actually do.)
@iydiamartinx
✧.* RIDDLE ME THIS, HOODS GOT A GIRL? ✪ The Bats need information, Jason has an informant...who might also be more.
@fluentmoviequoter
⚠︎ That's All It Took? ✪ Gotham's newest it girl makes the mistake of going after something that's yours: Jason Todd. It takes two failed plans to learn what it takes to deal with her and your jealousy.
@amoebadue
✧.* Wear whatever you want, I can fight “You’re uh,” you clear your throat, “You’re okay with me wearing this?”
@cosmicfireheart
˚꩜｡ Do you love me? ✪ you just discovered you got pregnant from your ‘casual’ sort of boyfriend. Jason just knows you’re hiding something from him, can’t blame the poor guy for thinking the worst.
@annaevermore
✧.* I'm so lovesick After complaining about the lack of founding, Gotham's library gets a donation.
@ifyouweremine
✧.* I Prefer You Your wedding is coming up. Dick goes to great lengths for Jason’s bachelor party, but he… simply doesn’t want to stay.
❝ 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐩 𝐮𝐩 ❞
corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you find out just how much Clark keeps inside...
𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬: mild angst; 18+ mdni; smut—and I mean smut!; p in v sex; unprotected sex (pls use protection irl!); vv wet blowjob; dry/wet humping; Clark's massive CAWK; needy!reader is a freak for her man (who wouldn't be?); Clark is just as needy; lots of making out; even more cum; they both love creampies; little bit of cockwarming ; lemme know if I missed any!
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4.1k 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲: after much contemplation, ive decided that ive missed clark and that I want you guys to witness this filth...enjoy reading and tell me what you think!
The suspicion was easy.
He made it so easy for you, you wondered if he was doing it on purpose, maybe he was soft-launching it—giving you clues.
But you knew he wasn't doing it on purpose when he would exclaim an extremely delayed—albeit adorable—'ouch!' when taking a baking sheet from the oven with his bare hand. Pretending to run it under cold water even though the faucet lever was in the wrong direction.
And you, you made it even easier by pretending you didn't notice.
Dreams of You
pairing: jason todd x reader
summary: jason has a nightmare and reader goes to help comfort him
word count: 1.3k
warnings/tags: sfw, fem!reader, cursing, mention of death and injury, description of reader getting hurt from the joker in the dream, angst, comfort, no y/n, use of pet names
Your mouth feels dry where it rests against the pillow, while a shiver runs down your spine at the cold that now runs through your bones. You turn around, throwing your arm out to pull Jason closer, but you're met with empty sheets that hold a lingering body heat. Blinking harshly to adjust to the darkness of the room, Jason is nowhere to be found.
The faint sound of the living room window snapping shut catches your attention. You reach aimlessly toward the nightstand, sending something crashing to the ground in the process, before you grab your phone and turn it on. You're forced to squint against the blinding light of the screen to make out the time on the background: 04:17. You brows furrow slightly and you try to recall Jason having patrol this morning, but nothing comes to mind. The only thing you can think is that it would be an emergency, but even then, he’d leave a post it note on top of your phone so you know where he is.
There’s a sinking anxiety in your gut that makes you carelessly toss the comforter aside, slip on Jason’s worn-in hoodie that engulfs you in fabric, before padding out of the bedroom. As the window leading to the fire escape comes into sight, you see all 220 pounds of muscle hunched over on the escape looking over the still bustling city with an unlit cigarette in his hand.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
A lifetime of silence
Yandere Damian Wayne x Soulmate Reader
Everyone had a soulmate.
It wasn’t all romantic. Not inherently.
Some people met theirs at six years old. Others died without ever learning their name. Plenty divorced them. Plenty married someone else entirely. There were support groups, government registries, psychologists who specialised in soulbonds, and entire supermarket aisles dedicated to products designed around them.
Soulmates weren’t fairy tales. They were biology. Or fate, depending on who you asked.
An overwhelming majority of the population shared pain. 75%, according to the latest census.
A scraped knee here became a scraped knee somewhere else. A headache echoed across cities. Broken bones were shared. Childbirth had become an odd source of sympathy from complete strangers who suddenly found themselves doubled over in agony while their soulmate was on the other side of the world.
The remaining 25% were… stranger.
Shared dreams. Shared senses. Shared emotions. Occasionally something so rare that medical journals spent decades trying to categorise it.
Wanting
Neighbor!Jason Todd x gn!Reader
Summary: Jason has a new neighbor that he can't help but notice.
Warnings: brief mentions of Joker and alludes to wanting Bruce to kill him, mentions of minor injuries, potentially bad writing
WC: 1,211
Fluff!, No use of y/n, reader is very cheerful
—
Jason wasn’t used to letting himself want things. It’s easier if he doesn’t. When he lets himself want things, when he lets himself hope, he’s met with disappointment.
thinking about jason todd leaning down to hear you when you talk.
if i’m being honest, i feel like he does it often. sometimes, it’s because it’s a little too noisy where you’re at, and other times, it’s because you’re a little too soft-spoken, which makes it hard to hear you. overall, it’s because jason is just too damn big for his own good, so, most of the time, he just can’t hear you and has to lean in close so you don’t have to repeat yourself again for a third or fourth time.
it happens like this: he’ll be standing next to you with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes focused raptly on something going on in front of him. maybe it’s the news, maybe it’s a movie being watched on the couch by your friends— whatever it is, jason is locked in, jaw set in concentration as he focuses on what he’s seeing. then, when you quietly add commentary, his brows will twitch and he’ll mindlessly turn his head to the side, prompting you to say whatever you said again. it’s autopilot for jason— like it’s programmed into him already.
he doesn’t move all at once, either. his head turns first, then his body follows, but his eyes? oh, those fall to you last. his pretty blue eyes (that also flicker with this mysterious shade of green sometimes) stay trained on what’s in front of him for a few seconds longer. in comparison to the rest of his body, it’s almost as if they’re on a delay.
it’s only after he mumbles a quiet “hm?” to get you to speak again does he finally look at you, hinged at the hip with that white tuft of hair he has hanging in his face. all he’s met with in return is the lack of an audible response and the sight of you staring up at him in awe, your jaw slack and your eyes wide. whatever you were saying is clearly lost on you now, and jason realizes that, but it’s not a big deal. it would never be a big deal. you’re just nervous, and luckily for him, jason loves making you nervous.
“i didn’t say anything,” you lie unconvincingly, throat hoarse from this sudden bout of dryness that’s seemed to set in. you whip your head back towards the tv and jason snorts at your reaction, standing back up to full height with a cheeky grin plastered across his face.
“yeah, okay,” he replies, doing nothing to hide the amusement in his voice. “whatever helps y’sleep at night.”
# — navigation
Thinkin about you
Pairing: Jason todd x fem!reader
Summary:Jason just came home from a long mission and he just can‘t seem to fucking find you in your apartment.
Warning: panic attacks, kissing yk the usual
Wordcount: 2.1k
A/N: had to pump something out since ill see you in a minute is taking a little backseat also april dont use Frank Ocean songs as your title challenge GO all aside guys i have 100 followers thats insane!!the other day i was just celebrating having 20??? Now100????TYSM:^^
Aight Toodles!
Masterlist
ENGLISH IS NOT MY NATIVE LANGUAGE BE AWARE!
Jason kicked the door shut behind him, the weight of two weeks undercover in Narrows scum clinging to his shoulders like a second skin.
All That
Pairing: Jason Todd x librarian!fem!reader
Summary: After meeting the librarian, Jason becomes a regular at Gotham’s public library.
Word count: 4.2k
Tags/warnings: fluff, no use of y/n, jason is kinda awkward, reader wears glasses, literary references, this is yearner jason propaganda btw
A/N: To this day, this is my favorite thing I’ve wrote so far. The title is inspired by Carly Rae Jepsen’s song and the beautiful art in the header was made by the talented @dictearchive. This will probably become a series cause I have so many ideas for librarian!reader… English is not my first language, so if you find any mistakes that’s the reason lol. Anyway, enjoy!
masterlist | series masterlist
Let's be honest, Jason Todd doesn't really need to go to the library to get his books. In his bedroom there's a pile of unread books so high that the fact that it's still standing could be considered a miracle. But no one necessarily needs to know this as he walks for the third time this week in what has become his favorite place in Gotham: the public library.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Finding Strays
When Jason stumbles upon a shiny, unscathed car in the slums, he knows something's wrong. Inside is a fearful driver—paranoid and anxious from being stranded. Jason could ignore you, but how can he when he's a mechanic and knows how to fix your problem?
🔧 P: mechanic!Jason Todd x Reader | G: Fluff, strangers to lovers | WC: 3k | 🔧 TWs: Reader has she/her pronouns, AU where Jason is not the Red Hood, nothing else I can think of but LMK! 🔧 A/N: Been writing this on and off for a while, so I'm glad I finally finished it! This is also the first time I've written Jason where I actively don't think of him as Red Hood 🥹 Look at me trying new things omg
masterlist | read on ao3
this blog is 18+. minors do not interact. plz & ty! (ageless/minors/blanks blogs will be blocked)
It's a rare sunny day in Gotham, and Jason takes advantage of it by having his lunch at a nearby park. Although he has an hour break from his job as a mechanic, he typically goes back early. It's not because he's a workaholic, though some will claim otherwise, but he simply enjoys his job. He enjoys helping people, and there's a sense of accomplishment in resolving problems.
most normal thing in the world | jason todd
Summary: You get hit with a love spell. Naturally, the first person you seek out is Jason Todd.
Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader
Word count: 4.5k
Warnings/tags: love spell (so potentially mild dubious consent but all the feelings are reciprocated), lovesick you, lovesick jason, repressed jason, LOTS of cuddling/lovie stuff, needles, magic, pining, happy ending.
the divider
Jason's having a good night.
He made himself an indulgent lasagna, and now he's got leftovers for tomorrow. He's off from patrol tonight, which, he must admit, was nice of Cass to offer.
Yeah, Jason actually feels pretty normal. Feels like any young person would. Hell, he might put on a movie he won't pay attention to, or finally adopt a cat, just to keep the normal streak going. That's what young folks do, right?
(He can think of some other things young people do, things that Jason won't allow himself to dream of.)
Knock knock.
Jason sighs. Well. The streak was good while it lasted.
