☆

BABY, WAKE UP…

After a long night of patrol/training, you find your boyfriend passed out. Naturally, you take this as an opportunity to execute another prank; setting up a fake Uno pile, fanning out a hand directly into his sleepy grip, and waking him up insisting it’s his turn.

characters: Jason Todd, Wally West, Dick Grayson, Roy Harper, Damian Wayne, Conner Kent x Reader

Jason Todd

The plan was foolproof. While Jay was out cold on his side of the bed, you quietly shuffled the deck, set up a random discard pile right on the duvet, and expertly fanned out four cards to slip straight into his massive, relaxed palm. You smoothed down the blanket, took your seat, and nudged his chest.

"Jay. Baby. Come on, it’s your turn. You’ve been taking forever."

You pout, “I’m getting impatient. And you’re just sleeping.”

Jason grunts, his brow furrowing as his brain painfully tries to boot back up. His fingers automatically clamp onto the cards. He blinks heavily, squints at the bright green and red cards in his grip, and you can see the sheer confusion hit him—followed immediately by the stubborn refusal to admit he was passed out.

He forces himself to sit up, dragging a hand aggressively down his face and rubbing his eyes with his sleeve, refusing to give up and lay back down. Voice raspy and deep as hell, he stares intensely down at his hand, shifting the cards around in slow motion.

"I wasn't sleeping, I was thinking," he lies, his voice totally shot. He leans forward, bleary-eyed, meticulously scanning your fake pile. "What's... what's on top? Is that a green?" He stubbornly forces his heavy eyelids open, carefully picks a green card out, and slaps it down like a grandmaster. "There. Go."

Wally West

Wally was sleeping so deeply he was practically drooling on his pillow. Perfect. You fanned out five cards, tucked them gently between his fingers, and made sure the discard pile looked legit right in frost of him. You tapped his arm with a tired sigh.

"Wally. Hey. Lay a card down, you're holding up the game."

Wally snaps his eyes open, completely disoriented. He looks down at his hand, blinks twice, and panic immediately sets in—he thinks he blew his turn and lost his streak. He refuses to go back to sleep. He forces himself up onto his elbows, shaking his head like a wet dog to fight the massive wall of tiredness, completely buying into the trap.

"Wait, wait, sorry baby, my bad, my bad," he stammers out, his voice a pathetic, sleepy whine. He squints hard at his cards, shuffling them back and forth with clumsy fingers, his forehead creased in absolute, intense concentration. "Did you... did you play a yellow? Sweetie, tell me what color it is, my eyes are blurry." He stubbornly sits there, fighting for his life against sleep, until he finally drops a Yellow 2 and looks at you with absolute, half-awake seriousness. "Okay, hit me."

Dick Grayson

Dick was dead to the world after patrol, curled on his side. You carefully laid out a trick hand, slid six cards into his palm, and set up the fake table right on the mattress. You leaned down and whispered right in his ear.

"Dickie. Stop slacking, it's your turn."

He lets out a heavy, groggy sigh, his eyelids fluttering open. He stares blankly at the cards in his hand for a long three seconds. Instead of falling back asleep, he complies, because of course, he has to trust his amazing girlfriend. He grunts, forcing himself to sit halfway up and propping his head on one hand, completely committed to staying awake for the "match."

He holds the fan of cards up right in front of his face, squinting so hard one eye is basically closed. "I'm not slacking..." he mutters, his voice super thick and raspy. He carefully reorganizes his hand, tapping a card against his chin in deep thought while fighting off a yawn. "Is that a Blue 4? Okay. Don’t rush me. Hold on." He meticulously selects a card, lays it down with dramatic focus, and squints up at you. "Your turn sweetie.”

Roy Harper

Roy had taken a "five-minute nap" that turned into two hours. You placed a stack of fake played cards on the blanket, carefully placed a fan of seven cards into his grip, and shook his shoulder.

"Roy. Wake up, you're up."

Roy grunts, a dry, scratchy sound, and blinks open two bleary eyes.

“Up for wha— oh right.” He looks down at the cards, and you can practically hear his brain trying to load at 1%. But Roy isn't a quitter. He groans softly, forcing himself to sit up against the headboard, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with his palm to snap out of it.

"...What was played?" he rasps out, his voice totally rough. He stares intensely down at his cards, fanning them out with heavy, slow movements, totally convinced he's mid-game. He stubbornly stays upright, blinking against the room light, carefully picking out a Red 6 and laying it on the pile. "There. Back to you."

Damian Wayne

Damian would never admit to being caught off guard, which made him the ultimate target. While he was dead asleep post-training, you delicately slid four cards between his fingers, placed the deck down, and crossed your arms.

"Damian. Hurry up, it's your turn."

His eyes instantly open, sharp even through the haze of sleep. He looks down at his hand, and for a split second, total confusion flashes across his face. But his pride won't allow him to back down or drop the cards. He immediately sits bolt upright, rigid as a board, holding his hand close to his chest so you can't peek.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second to force the drowsiness away, squinting severely at his hand. "I am well aware," he lies in a low, crackly morning voice. He takes an agonizingly long time analyzing his four cards, fighting every urge to crash back onto his pillow, just to make a "calculated" move. He solemnly lays down a Wild card with absolute precision. "Blue. Proceed."

Conner Kent

Conner was passed out hard, snoring softly. You quickly set up the illusion—cards scattered, a neat discard pile, and five cards tucked firmly into his fingers. You poked his shoulder.

"Con, come on, stop taking so long."

Conner groans, shaking his head, his heavy eyelids barely parting. He looks down at his palm, and the utter panic of someone who thinks they fell asleep mid-hangout hits him. He forces himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed, dragging both hands over his face to force his brain awake.

"Shoot— sorry, I was just... thinking," he stammers out, completely tricked. He holds his cards up, squinting heavily through his messy hair, intensely analyzing the hand. He shifts the cards around between his thumbs, completely locked in. "Wait, what's the number on top? A five?" He hovers a card over the pile, double-checking it with dead seriousness before dropping a Draw Two with a smug, sleepy grin. "Boom. Draw two. Try and keep up."

Early morning rays filter through the sheer curtains, basking the bedroom in a warm glow of the sun. The mattress seems to swallow you whole, molding to your body, begging you to stay naked in the comfort of your sheets instead of waking up for the day. Simon sleeps behind you peacefully, finally back from a mission just in time for his holiday.

It's the third Sunday of June, Father's Day, and just before you are about to sneakily get out of bed to start the breakfast tradition, Simon wraps an arm around your waist and pulls your back against his chest. Your body relaxes in his hold, the warmth of his skin spreads throughout yours, and his calloused fingers draw circles on your lower belly which leaves goosebumps in his wake.

"Mornin' lovie," he says, voice low and rough with sleep, his breath hitting the back of your neck before he buries his face in the crook between your shoulders.

"Happy Father's Day Si," you reply, placing your hand on top of his while snuggling closer.

His cock immediately rises against your ass, hard and ready to go even after just waking up, and you have no shame when you grind against him. He groans, pushing his length towards you, pulling you closer to feel more of your skin on his. Your legs open ever so slightly when his hand trails lower, and two of his fingers run through your folds, teasing you before bringing them up to your clit.

He rubs slow, tight circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves, making your hips rock back and forth as you begin to crave the feeling of soft pleasure, all while drawing out quiet whimpers and moans from your lips. He kisses your nape, moving along your shoulder, up your neck, across your jaw until you turn your head to give him access to your mouth. His kiss is deep and claiming, raw and passionate, and he continues to grind against you.

"Let me put another one in you… haven't had you pregnant in years," he says in between kisses, his fingers working your clit faster the more your legs spread for him.

He’s used to being away from you. It’s his job. So, he tells you not to worry when you kiss him goodbye on your tippy toes, four days is nothing compared to the months he’s been away.

He grossly underestimated how different it’d be when you were the one gone.

The first day he’s fine, does mundane tasks around the house to distract himself. Mows the lawn, fixes that part of the fence you’ve been asking him too for weeks.

The second, he goes to the pub with Johnny, drinks one too many beers to fill a sudden void, and stumbles home to a terribly empty and cold bed.

The third day feels heavy, like there’s a mass weighing on his chest and making it hard to focus on anything other than you. The phone call he makes isn’t any better.

“Miss you.”

He says it first, quiet and uncertain. The giggle that follows makes his heart tighten.

“Miss you too, Si.”

You whisper it, so soft, and so fucking sweet he wonders how he ever left you to begin with. Hearing your voice should settle him, but it only makes his chest heavier. You should be there with him, sat in his lap, and pressing those words into his skin.

Day four he’s staring at pictures of you in his wallet and brushing his thumb over your face like he’s on deployment. Like it’s been months since he’s seen you and not four bloody days.

He doesn’t sleep that night when all he tastes is guilt. When this is how you must feel when he’s gone. A bed too big for one person, one pair of shoes at the door when there should be two, indents in the couch that aren’t filled.

You did your best to fill it.

Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.

Still, tonight’s recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.

A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.

Your whole body went rigid.

Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.

Someone was breaking in. Shit.

You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.

The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.

The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.

For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.

Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."

MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✶ you try a tiktok trend with your boyfriend, their reaction is not calm at all.

002. WARNINGS !

✶ use of pet names (my love, honey, baby, darling), suggestive language (bruce), married!reader (bruce), mention of ending lives (jason).

003. NOTE !

✶ i hope you guys like this and that the characters are not completely ooc. i tried my best but text fics are not something i usually do now, so i’m a bit rusty. also, are there any other text trends you’d like to see? if so, leave them in the comments or on my inbox 🫶

✦ BRUCE WAYNE

𝜗ৎ “𝓟𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞.”

part one here

Summary: Jason’s on a sex ban— or quite literally, a complete touch ban!

warnings: whiny, pathetic Jason.

Jason Todd was an absolute idiot, there was no denying that. But he was a very desperate idiot. And he was willing to do anything if it meant you’d touch him again. You see, you’d put him on a complete sex/touch ban for three entire weeks, and well? Jason was not taking it well.

By day twelve of the three-week sentence, the fearsome Red Hood had effectively ceased to exist. In his place was a six-foot-two, two-hundred-and-fifteen-pound disaster who was entirely losing his grip on reality.

Jason didn’t do things by halves. When he was a crime lord, he took over the East End. When he was an Outlaw, he traveled through space and time. And when he was put on a strict ban by the only person who held his entire heart in her hands, he turned into this absolute menace of compliance.

The apartment had never been cleaner. It was, quite frankly, terrifying.

When you walked through the front door after an exhausting shift, you didn't just smell the familiar scent of Gotham rain and Jason’s expensive cologne. You smelled lemon verbena. You smelled freshly bleached tile

You stepped into the kitchen and paused. The countertops were sparkling so intensely they practically caught the light. Every single dish was not only washed, dried, and put away, but the spice rack had been meticulously alphabetized. Even the labels on the canned goods were facing perfectly forward.

And there, standing by the stove, was Jason.

He was wearing a pair of dark sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a tight, sleeveless black compression shirt that showed off every single rigid muscle, and scar, across his broad back. And the sight normally should’ve been enough for you to jump onto him, He was currently plate-stacking three different Tupperware containers of custom-marinated chicken breasts, a batch of freshly roasted vegetables, and a pot of handmade gnocchi.

The moment the lock clicked, Jason didn’t just look up. His entire body snapped to attention. His dark eyes locked onto yours with this frantic, high-alert energy that reminded you of a stray puppy.

He didn't break the rules. His large, heavily calloused hands clamped firmly onto the edge of the kitchen island to physically anchor himself in place, but his broad shoulders slouched instantly into a pathetic, pleading posture.

"Hey," he said. His voice was incredibly rough, a deep, gravelly rumble that sounded completely worn out, like he hadn't slept in a week— which he hasn’t. How could he without your hugs and kisses?. "I made dinner. I made the gnocchi from scratch. The way your grandma does it, with the potato-to-flour ratio you like. And I prepped your lunches for the next four days."

You set your bag down, looking at the sheer volume of food, then at the pristine kitchen. "Jason... did you scrub the baseboards?"

"Yes," he blurted out, shifting his weight from one heavy foot to the other, his eyes tracking your every movement with an agonizing level of pining. "And I ran the vacuum over the carpet three times to get the lines perfectly straight. And I picked up Lily’s toys and sanitized every single block with baby-safe wipes so she doesn't ingest any rogue bacteria. I did it all."

"Wow," you murmured, leaning against the counter. "You've been busy."

"I'm losing my mind," Jason confessed, his voice dropping into a soft, intensely whiny pitch that would have shocked anyone who had ever seen him pull a trigger. He let go of the counter, taking one agonizingly slow step toward you, but stopping exactly two feet away to respect the boundary. He looked down at you from under his dark lashes, his jaw tight, his white streak of hair falling messily across his forehead. "Babe. Sweetheart. Light of my life. Look at me. I am literally vibrating. I haven't slept in forty-eight hours because every time I close my eyes, I just think about how I'm not allowed to hold you."

"It's only been twelve days, Jay," you teased, crossing your arms and fighting the massive smirk tugging at your lips.

"Twelve days is two hundred and eighty-eight hours!" Jason groaned, a loud, muffled sound of pure misery escaping his throat as he dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Do you know what I did last night? On patrol? I didn't even break any noses. A guy tried to mug a tourist in an alley, and instead of hurting him I settled on throwing him into a dumpster. I'm broken. You've broken the Red Hood."

He dropped his gaze back to you, his chest rising and falling in a heavy, desperate exhale. He slowly sunk downward, dropping his massive, muscular frame right onto his knees on your kitchen tile. He looked up at you from the floor, his hands resting on his own thighs, completely and utterly humbled.

"Please," Jason pleaded, his gravelly voice cracking slightly as he looked up at you with wide, desperate eyes. "Look at me. I'm on my knees. I'm saying the words. I'll be a good boy, sweetheart. I swear to God, I'll be the best boy you’ve ever had. I’ll never let Roy inside a three-block radius of this building again. I’ll make him sign a legal waiver. I’ll personally rewrite Lily’s vocabulary list. I will literally do anything.”

You looked down at him, your heart melting just a little bit at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of Gotham’s most dangerous vigilante begging for his life on your kitchen floor.

"Are you begging, Jason Todd?" you murmured, stepping half an inch closer.

"Yes! Yes, I am absolutely begging, I have zero shame left," he whispered frantically, his dark eyes instantly tracking your movement, glowing with a sudden, fierce spark of hope. He leaned forward slightly, though he kept his hands firmly on his knees. "I don't even need the whole thing. Just a deal. Let me negotiate. A partial payout. Five minutes of cuddles on the couch. You don't even have to move. I will just lie there like a giant, silent weighted blanket. I won't use my hands. I'll tuck them under my chest. Just let me smell your hair, babe. Please."

"Just cuddles?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"A kiss," he corrected instantly, his voice taking on a thick, desperate edge as he looked at your lips. "One kiss. Short. Sweet. Clean. Well, maybe not entirely clean, but just *something*. My lips are falling off, sweetheart. They’re dying. I'm a dying man."

You let out a soft laugh, finally breaking your resolve. The sight of him on his knees, completely devoted, utterly whiny, and entirely yours was too much to resist. You reached out, your fingers gently sliding into the soft hairs at the nape of his neck.

Jason practically shuddered at the touch, a low, ragged sigh breaking from his chest as he immediately leaned his face into your palm, his eyes closing in pure, unadulterated relief.

"Alright," you whispered, running your thumb over his sharp jawline. "The ban is suspended. Just for tonight."

Jason didn't even wait for you to finish the sentence. He surged up from the floor, his large, powerful arms instantly wrapping around your waist and lifting you completely off your feet. He pulled you flush against his broad chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck with a deep, shaky inhale.

"Oh, thank God," he mumbled against your skin

He didn't waste a second moving you to the living room, collapsing onto the couch and pulling you down on top of him. He was a man possessed by pure, desperate compliance, his massive frame sinking deep into the cushions until he was completely flat on his back, using his own chest as a platform for you.

"Rules," he breathed out, his voice a rough, scraped-raw whisper against your hair. He immediately tucked both of his massive, scarred hands flat underneath his own chest, pinning them between his body and the sofa cushions. He looked up at you from the pillows, his jaw open slightly, his eyes wide and completely glazed over with absolute devotion. "Look. Hands are away. I’m not moving 'em. See? Good boy."

You couldn't help the soft laugh that bubbled out of you, leaning your weight fully against his chest. Even stripped of his weapons and armor, Jason was a solid wall of muscle, but right now, he felt completely pliable beneath you, his entire body relaxing into a soft, heavy puddle the second your warmth pressed into him.

"Very good boy, Jay," you murmured, tracing a slow line down his cheekbone.

Jason practically whimpered at the touch, his eyes fluttering shut as he tilted his face aggressively into your palm, chasing the friction of your skin like a man dying of thirst. "More," he pleaded, his voice cracking, entirely unbothered by how pathetic he sounded. "Babe, please. Just keep doing that. Left side of my jaw. Right there. Oh, God."

You smiled, leaning down slowly until your lips were just a fraction of an inch away from his. You could feel the frantic, heavy thump of his heart hammering against your ribs, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The fearsome Red Hood was completely paralyzed under your gaze, his chest rising and falling beneath you as he waited for permission.

"Can I?" he whispered, his dark eyes snapping open, staring at your mouth with a hunger that was almost frightening, yet he didn't move a single muscle to take it. "Please, sweetheart. Just a little bit. I’ve been so good for you."

"Go ahead, Jay."

The second the words left your mouth, Jason didn't lunge—he just reached up with his face, his lips meeting yours with a soft, trembling reverence that completely dismantled the tough-guy persona. It was a deep, heavy, agonizingly slow kiss, full of the built-up tension of the last twelve days. He drank you in like oxygen, a low, needy vibration rumbling deep in his chest as his lips parted against yours, begging for more without his hands ever leaving their pinned position beneath him.

Hunhbknhjnkk oh my goodness this man he’s so fine wtf

pt 1

Jason Todd x reader

You don't remember deciding to move. One second you're on the floor, the letter crumpled against your chest, and the next you're on your feet, dragging your jacket off the hook by the door. Your hands are shaking too hard to get your arms through the sleeves properly. You don't care.

He doesn't get to do this. He doesn't get to decide this for you and vanish before you can even argue.

You've seen him do reckless things before. Jump off buildings. Walk into rooms full of men with guns like it was nothing. But this, this letter, this quiet, cowardly goodbye slid under your door like a bill you forgot to pay this is the most reckless thing you've ever seen him do. Because he's trying to protect you by breaking the one thing that's kept you steady since the day you met him.

Jason Todd x Reader

pt2

You find it tucked under your apartment door. No knock. No text. No warning. Just an envelope with your name on it, written in messy, familiar handwriting you’d recognize anywhere. Your hands tremble before you even open it. Because Jason never writes letters. Jason barely even texts. Jason just shows up. But not today.

You close the door behind you, locking it automatically, like the click might keep whatever this is from hurting you. Your fingers hover over the envelope, tracing the sharp slant of the letters.

He pressed hard when he wrote it. He always does that when he’s upset. You swallow and open it.

Sweetheart,

If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t have the guts to say it to your face. You deserve that much, at least. More than this. More than me.

There’s a faint smudge near the edge of the ink. You brush your thumb over it, wondering if it was rain. Or blood. Or his hand hesitating.

I need you to listen carefully, okay? And I need you to hate me if that’s what it takes.

Your chest tightens. No. No, you don’t like this.

You can’t see me anymore.

The words blur instantly. You blink hard, forcing yourself to keep reading.

This isn’t because you did anything wrong. You didn’t. You never do. That’s part of the problem.

Your throat burns.

You’re good. You’re soft. You still smile at strangers and feed stray cats and apologize when someone else bumps into you. You still believe the world can be kind. And I don’t get to ruin that.

Your hands shake so badly the paper rustles. You remember the way he’d watch you when you laughed, like he couldn’t understand how someone like you existed. Like you were something fragile he didn’t deserve to touch.

He knows about you.

Your breath stops. You don’t need him to say the name. You already know.

The Joker.

The word feels like ice in your veins.

He didn’t say your name. Not yet. But he knows you exist. He knows there’s someone I go back to. Someone I protect. Someone I love.

The tears fall before you can stop them. He never said it before. Not out loud. Not directly. Only in the way he held you like you might disappear. Only in the way he stayed until you fell asleep. Only in the way he always came back.

And that means you’re a target now.

Your heart pounds painfully.

I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen.

The next line looks messier. Less controlled.

I’ve died once. I won’t survive watching it happen to you.

A sob escapes your throat, quiet and broken.

You don’t belong in my world. You never did. You belong in sunlight. In bookstores. In quiet mornings and soft things. Not in blood. Not in fear. Not with me.

Your fingers clutch the letter desperately.

So this is me ending it. I need you to forget me. Move on. Find someone normal. Someone who won’t come home at 3 a.m. covered in bruises and pretend it’s nothing. Someone who doesn’t bring monsters to your door just by loving you.

The paper wrinkles under your grip.

You’re too fragile. And I’m too good at breaking things.

Your tears drip onto the ink, smearing the words.

This is the only way I know how to keep you safe. If he thinks you don’t matter to me… He won’t touch you.

Your heart shatters quietly.

I’m sorry. For every moment I let myself pretend I could have this. Pretend I could have you. You made me feel human again. That was my first mistake.

Goodbye, sweetheart.

— Jason

The silence in your apartment is unbearable. He’s gone. No footsteps on your fire escape. No shadow outside your window. No quiet presence leaning against your doorway like he belongs there. Just emptiness. And the letter. You sink onto the floor, clutching it to your chest like it might bring him back. He thinks you’re fragile. He thinks you’ll break. He thinks pushing you away will save you. But he doesn’t understand. He already ruined you. Because now you know what it feels like to be loved by him. And nothing will ever compare to that.

And I still see some of yall say ‘make this fic into a character ai pls!’

WE ARE RUNNING OUT OF WATER

Get off those god forsaken generative ai apps or you will go down with those who care

Especially those of you in the fanfic community, you steal your own work by going on c.ai and simultaneously kill us

For those who don’t know, ai takes from fresh water to cool its computer systems and the water can’t be recycled. ChatGPT alone uses 500 million gallons of water a day, and the AI industry used more water last year than the plastic water bottle industry. It also produces nothing original and takes from artists and writers alike.

You’d woken up late, hair a mess, throat scratchy, body sore in that way that only meant one thing; Simon had been entirely too much the night before… like usual. Your phone buzzed that morning and Simon, already half-dressed and standing by your dresser, looked at the screen and raised a brow.

"Doc visit?" he questioned, voice deep, lazy.

You blinked at your phone and realization hit you. "…shit." You did have a scheduled appointment for today which you entirely forgot about.

He shrugged. "I’ll drive."

And like an idiot, sleep-addled and still sore from the night before, you let him come.

Now here you are, spread on the exam table like a goddamn starfish, feet in the stirrups, paper gown bunched up around your waist, fluorescent lighting making everything feel ten times worse… and Simon is in the corner, his legs spread, elbows on his thighs, and scrolling on his phone like he’s in a dentist’s waiting room.

Not one once of shame. You shoot him a look. He doesn’t even reciprocate it but just mutters, "Told you t’ put it on the calendar."

Before you can hiss back at him, the door opens.

Your gynecologist steps in, a nice, polite, middle-aged woman, all business and just stops dead.

Her eyes flick from you and your very exposed situation, then to Simon. The six-foot-something wall of tattoos and muscle, who by the way is generally not in the room. Then back to you.

“Oh!” the doctor says, pleasantly startled. “I… wasn’t expecting a guest today.”

Simon finally looks up. Nods once. “Ma’am.”

Just ma’am. Like he’s greeting a cashier.

You wish the earth would open and swallow you whole.

The doctor put on her gloves with that clinical snap that somehow made this even worse.

You stare at the ceiling like it owes you something. Simon goes right back to scrolling.

The paper under you crinkles as you shift, cheeks hot. The doctor sits on her stool, rolling close between your legs.

“Just going to take a look,” she says. “Any pain lately? Discomfort? Irregular bleeding?”

You open your mouth to say 'no, everything’s fine' but then she hums.

A concerned hum.

You freeze.

“Not alarming,” she assures, too quickly, “Just… some residual bruising on the cervix.”

Your soul leaves your body. “Bruising?” you croak.

Simon’s thumb stops mid-scroll.

The doctor nods. “Yes. Fair amount of tenderness and discoloration.” She pauses, then looks at you knowingly. The doctor hums again, then says the absolute worst possible thing.

"It’s nothing dangerous, but I’d recommend you avoid prolonged, intense activity for a day or two. Especially with something…" She paused. Looked directly at Simon. "…that big."

She does not say big casually. She emphasizes it. Bold. Italic. Underline. Triple-sized font.

BIG.

The room goes silent and the air stops moving for a moment. Even the HVAC system seems to hesitate.

Simon slowly sits back in his chair, like someone just handed him an award.

A slow smirk creeps onto his face, subtle but smug as hell. He doesn’t even pretend humility. Doesn’t cough. Doesn’t deflect. He just stays, quiet and cocky.

You want to die.

The doctor keeps talking, clinically unbothered. “If your partner has a… larger anatomy, you need to take breaks, communicate, maybe use positions with less depth. Going too long can cause bruising or strain.”

The doctor continues, completely unaware of the war happening between you two.

“I’d recommend abstaining for a few days—”

Simon snorts.

You whip your head toward him. “Do you mind ?!” You are going to punch him.

Right here. Feet in the stirrups. Gown open and you’re going to assault this man.

Awhile after, the doctor gently removes her gloves. “All done. You can get dressed.”

As she stands, she looks at Simon again, still uncertain why he’s here at all.

“You’re welcome to wait in the lobby next time,” she offers kindly.

But Simon just stands, stretches, and says “Nah. ’m her support.”

Support.

Support.

As if he didn’t break open your insides twelve hours ago.

You slide off the table, teeth clenched, grabbing your clothes.

The doctor exits politely.

You round on Simon the moment the door shuts. “Next time you’re keeping your ass home”

He shrugs casually, taking your purse for you like the smug bastard he is. “Not my fault the doc praised my dick.”

“She did not praise your dick—”

“She said big.” He leans down, voice low in your ear “Emphasized it too.”

Simon’s eyebrows lift. “Larger anatomy,” he repeats under his breath like he’s tasting the words.

You point a murderous stare at him.

You shove his chest. He catches your wrist. Presses a kiss to your temple.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Get dressed. I’ll take y’ home. You can be mad in the car.”

You mutter, “God I hate you so much right now .”

Somehow, you made it out practically unscathed but by the grotesque way your car is bent and wrangled, no one would have guessed at first sight. The fear paralyzes him when he arrives, he knows he’s moving but he feels stagnant. The seconds it takes him to reach you feels like a millennia, he can’t get there fast enough. And the uncertainty of your condition is unlike any fear he’s ever known- he thinks he’ll just about die a second time.

But the relief that washes over him from seeing you alive shakes him so violently, his body reacts before he fully digests the sight. The sight of you wrapped delicately in the back of an ambulance, his girl. Safe, unharmed.

His body fights to crawl to you, to smother you in his worries until you’re sick of him. But the sobs that pierce through him are so unforgiving, he can’t move. You hear him before you see him. You’ve heard his cries before. Nights spent locked behind closed doors- the soft sound of choked sobs bleeding from just under. That sick habit of hiding himself away, not wanting to be seen. Or the quiet sniffles towards the end of a movie with no happy ending. Quick to wipe his tears before the lights come up. But this is different. He doesn’t have it within himself to hide away. His biggest fear almost came true tonight- the grief of almost losing you ruins him completely. Jason knows he should pull himself together. He knows he needs to be strong for you but tonight, he’s inconsolable.

Just short of a few feet away, grasping at anything around him, stands your sweet boy. Clutching his chest, trying to ground himself. Jay doesn’t know what to do in this moment. He’s more shaken up than you are. But the relief of being given a second chance is what gets him.

From the day Jason was left for dead, he decided miracles weren’t for him. Rarely had he been shown grace, and what kindness was extended to him was just as quickly ripped away. He’d become compliant to the seclusion that found its way into his life. Isolated behind closed doors and shadows, thinking he’s doing everyone a favor. But the ease at which you made your way into his life had thrown him off course. Patient and kind, honeyed words melting him to mush- he stood no chance against you. Before he knew it, he found home within his very own miracle.

PAIRING: Jason Todd x Reader

SYNOPSIS: Ragebating Jason. That's literally it. Enjoy.

MASTERLIST

"I have a question." She says, hopping onto the kitchen counter, a knowing grin on her face. "So hypothetically-"

"No." Jason says immediately. The fork he's holding clatters to the ground and chair scrapes loudly as he practically jumps to his feet. "Nah I'm not doing this."

"No, listen!" She calls, laughter bubbling in her throat. Quickly, she moves around the table to reach him before he bolts. "Jason!"

"You're not putting me through this again!" He calls over his shoulder, and the way his socks slip a little as he tries to get away farther into the house makes her chest hurt from holding back a laugh. "No way!"

"Come back!" She giggles, running after him, just barely making it through the bedroom door before he shuts it in her face. "I just have a question!" Her boyfriend eyes her warily, arms crossed as he stands near the bed, looking like he's genuinely debating slipping out of the window in his pajamas in the middle of winter.

"I know what this is." He accuses. "You're gonna ask me something I can't win at, then sulk for three hours like last time."

"I wouldn't!" She coos, and to Jason's credit he doesn't make a run for it again as she closes in, stopping right in front of him and reaching up to wind her arms around his shoulders. Pushing herself on her tiptoes, she gives him a kiss, smiling when he reciprocates with a grumble.

And then she shoves him back on the bed, climbs on top of him and sits herself right down on his chest.

"So, hear me out." She starts, mirth lighting her eyes.

Jason looks all but defeated, staring up at her with a resignation that can only be trained into someone. He finally hums in question, hands sliding up her thighs to rest on her waist, waiting for the inevitable.

"Theoretically," She starts, picking at the front of his t-shirt. "If you had to change one thing about me, would you change my personality, or my looks?"

She tries her best to keep a straight face when Jason looks up at her in disbelief. "What?"

"Theoretically if-"

"No, I heard you I'm just-...not answering that?"

"You have to!"

"I'm not."

"Pretend there's a gun to your head."

"I've had a gun to my head before, it's not nearly as scary as whatever this is." He mumbles under his breath, and it's endearing, the way she can't basically see him trying to formulate a way out of this.

"Tough. I'm not moving till I get my answer." She shrugs.

"You're literally asking to get your feeling's hurt." Jason tries to argue, pinching the side of her waist lightly.

"Oh so you do have an answer? And it'll hurt my feelings?"

"This is hell." He tosses his head back, biting back a sigh. "There's no right answer."

"But I still want to know yours." She leans down to peck him on the cheek.

For a moment, Jason is quiet, thinking with a furrow in his brow, until he finally seems to decide to get it over with and rip the band-aid off. "Fine, your looks. I love you for you, not because of the way you look. Happy?"

It's a good answer for what it's worth, a great roundabout attempt to wriggle out of the little trap. She's just not in the mood to make things easy right now.

"So you think I'm ugly?" She says immediately, barely a beat later, looking a little too gleeful and pulling his leg.

"You know I didn't say that."

"No, no, I get it. You love me enough to look past this ugly, disgusting, gross outer layer. That's so sweet of you." She sighs, lowers herself down to lie on top of him. His arms pull her close, looping around her and she feels more than hears him snort into her neck.

"If you're ugly, I'm hideous, angel. Look at you. Set the standard too high." Abruptly, he rolls them over, hovers over her with an exasperated, fond look in his eye.

"We can live under a bridge together?" She offers, smiling up at him as Jason huffs out a small laugh. He nuzzle against her jaw affectionately, lips pressing behind her ear. Warmth blooms in her chest, cozy, loving and safe. "In a swamp somewhere. Charge people a toll to get over or something." Her nails scratch up and down his arm gently.

"Just a couple of bridge trolls." She stills, and after a moment, Jason does too, pulling away a little to peer down at her curiously.

A beat of silence.

"So you think I'm a troll, then." She declares.

"Fuck's sake." Jason shakes his head, biting back an incredulous sounds. All at once, he quits holding himself up and flops down on her with his entire body weight, grinning at the way it takes the wind out of her. He buries his face in her neck and lays there, soaking her in.

"Jason!" She wheezes, slapping him on the back. He's heavy, like a compressed weighted blanket that smells faintly of leather. "You're heavy!"

"You calling me fat?"

He snickers into her neck, and she can't help but laugh along with him.

Reblog, Like and Comment! Ask box is open!

Didn’t hate them – he just didn’t get them. Didn’t get how people melted over something that screamed, drooled, and stared at him like he was a nightmare in human form.

Kids always screamed when they saw him in his balaclava.

He took it off?

Worse. Way worse.

That was why he never showed at team dinners. Soap’s kids, Price’s kids – he didn’t want to be the reason they cried. Didn’t want to see that look again.

He’d seen it once before.

A kid on the street had stared at him too long and blurted out,“Mum, he’s uglier than a monster.”

The woman had grabbed her son and practically run, fear all over her face.

Ugly. Monster. Scarred. Scary.

So when it came to his baby girl, Simon was fucking terrified.

“No,” he said flatly the first time you suggested it.

You’d barely finished your sentence.

“She’s our daughter, Si,” you said gently. “She should see your face. Her father's face.”

“She doesn’t need to,” he snapped. “Mask stays on. End of it.”

He’d sit with her for hours, mask firmly in place, huge gloved hands impossibly gentle as he played with her. And she adored him —giggled every time he spoke, squealed when he leaned close.

“Yeah, you’re proper hard, you are,” he muttered one afternoon, bouncing her lightly. “Big strong girl. Gonna knock yer old man out one day, eh?”

She babbled back, fingers grabbing his crooked nose through the fabric.

You smiled from the doorway.“She thinks you’re pretty, Si.”

He scoffed. “Don’t talk shite.”

“I’m serious.”

“She’s a baby,” he muttered. “Give it a second. Soon as this comes off, she’ll scream her head off. I’m not doin’ that to her.”

Days later.

Steam still clung to the bathroom door when Simon stepped out, towel slung low around his hips, one hand scrubbing roughly at his face. Bare. Exposed.

You froze.

Then grinned.

“Oh no,” he muttered immediately. “Don’t you dare.”

Too late.

You stepped right into his path, your baby balanced on your hip. “Hi, love.”

“Absolutely not,” Simon barked, panic sharp in his voice. “Now’s not the time. Move.”

“Simon.”

He turned toward the wall, shoulders tight. “I said no. I’m not lettin’ her see me like this.”

“She deserves—”

“She’ll cry,” he snapped. “And I’m not havin’ that. So fuck off and let me get dressed.”

You reached for the towel. He tightened it instantly. It was heartbreaking seeing such a well trained soldier and more than capable man hiding himself out of fear of hurting his baby girl. Making her scared of him...

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t push me.”

Silence stretched - thick, painful. You didn't like this side of him. The side that hates himself so much he ends up hurting you.

Then–

The loudest giggle you’d ever heard.

Your baby shrieked with laughter, burying her face into your neck, shaking with it.

Simon froze.

“What…?” He turned slowly, confused.

She peeked out.

And saw him.

Her smile vanished for half a second–tiny brow furrowing, eyes studying his scars, his broken nose, the harsh lines of his face. Who was this man...huh...

Simon swallowed hard. “Sweetheart…” His voice cracked despite himself. “It’s me.”

That was it.

Recognition hit her like lightning. Her whole face lit up, mouth opening in a toothless grin as she squealed and reached for him.

“No! wait!!” Simon protested, panic flaring again.

You didn’t hesitate. You placed her straight into his arms.

He went completely still. Every muscle locked. Braced for rejection. A scream, a cry.

Instead—

She laughed harder.

Her chubby hands smacked against his scarred cheeks, fingers exploring every line, tugging his nose like it was her favourite toy. She pressed her mouth to his cheek and slobbered happily.

Simon let out a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Oh...fuck,” he whispered.

Tears welled, spilling freely as he smiled, really smiled, for the first time in years.

You crossed your arms, smug through your own tears.“Told you.”

She babbled at him, patting his face like she was soothing him now. Little chubby hands awkwardly patting his cheeks and eyes.

He kissed the top of her head, breathing her in like she was air. Then he pulled you into his side with one arm.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured thickly. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. Thought I’d scare her. Thought I weren’t good enough.”

You leaned into him. “She loves you, Simon. Mask or no mask.”

He spends days afterwards apologizing, doing everything he could to make you happy. But you already were the happiest seeing your daughter shriek with laughter as her daddy makes funny faces to feed her.

And begs you to make little skull patterned mittens for her. To match of course.

Simon Riley’s baby loved him more without the mask.

She grew up thinking she looked just like her dad. And that made her proud.

MASTERLIST 🍎

A/N: Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated. Luv u all 🍓

"Wayne's secret lover turns out to be...A nobody?!"

"Billionaire Damian Wayne's girlfriend works at Bat Burger?"

"Is Damian Wayne's "girlfriend" blackmailing him?"

"Damian Wayne's girlfriend fails drivers test again!"

While he read these and thought of the most efficient way to end Vicky Vale's career, you cut them out and glued them in a scrapbook.

Much to his dismay, you even incorporated this into your daily life, sending him texts that read,

"Damian Wayne's girlfriend needs a lift because she still doesn't have her driver's license!"

"Damian Wayne's girlfriend has a tummy ache and needs a hug!"

"Damian Wayne's girlfriend gave herself a haircut and it looks baaaad!"

And it's just a part of your vocabulary now. Like when you tried to surprise him one morning by making him breakfast and he woke up to the sound of your smoke alarm. He runs into your tiny kitchen, only to see you fanning smoke out the window, whatever you had on the pan now a black crisp.

You turn to him and say, without pause,

"Damian Wayne's girlfriend can't cook an omelette. Almost burns down apartment!"

summary: getting a list of everything damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that list—and try to fix that, not knowing that you’re damian’s only exception.

pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader

content: fluffff, pre-established relationship, tim drake uses the wrong words and ensues a chaotic week.

“You want to know what Damian hates?”

Your inquisitive nature has become a known trait to Damian's family, and if anything, it fits you right in. Damian credits your 'detective work', he terms affectionately, as a perfect fit to his own.

Tim’s busy digging through another case, but your question surprises him enough to pause, an incredulous look crossing his tired features. “You know that doesn’t apply to you at all, right?”

“You’re the only person available to ask.” You plead. “It's a little awkward to storm right up to him with a ‘Good morning! Do you secretly hate me and I should jump off the face of the Earth?’”

“Define available.” Tim mutters, before snorting softly. “And Damian hating you? That’ll be impossible.”

His big hand would be splayed across your lower back, his thumb would brush against your small S.R. tattoo you got for his birthday. You're wearing his shirt because you were doing candle painting earlier, there's still crayon wax on his your socks.

Everything about it is so warm and just a fuzzy feeling and it's not sticky and messy and gross and he'd never tell you to

"take it like a slut"

He'd rather be hung by his ribs again than tell his girl she's a slut. He's kiss the back of your neck and you'd giggled at his warm breath and he'd laugh too.

Not everything with him has to be sexy, he's okay with hairy legs, he's okay when you moaned, not from his cock but when he accidentally moved too fast and popped your lower back.

"Yes, oh Sssimon, wait baby, push right tnere-"

Soft breathy moans interrupted by a chiropractic snap.

"Oh my god was that it?"

"Dude you just totally fixed my back, wait pull out."

"Can you touch your toes now?"