Damian Wayne Headcanons

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Reposting my old fancomic of Solar tryna find a way to sleep better. Still a personal favorite and i wish i had more ideas to make shorts like these again ueueue

Fusillade (Wanderer/f!Reader)

written for @illusory-torrent ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡ – ✧)

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It was a favor for a friend to let the Wanderer find himself while meandering with you. Two sets of eyes are better than one, and what's lost isn't so difficult to locate if you know where to look.

AO3 Link

Wanderer/f!Reader(not the Traveler) 4,954 Words - NSFW Vaginal sex, mild breast-play, mild dacryphilia, unrequited(?) love confession, sharin' a bed-ish.

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When first meeting the Traveler, they’d been fresh-faced and ready to face the world. Learning their story had been a shock, but not one that you weren’t welcoming toward. Mondstadt was as good a jumping-off point as any, and after a few days together you wished them luck in all their future endeavors as you parted ways. 

In Liyue, they’d been a little more harrowed, a little more hardened. “A lot of things have happened since we’ve met up!” Paimon had explained in lieu of the Traveler’s own words, and you provided a sympathetic shoulder for the two to lean on as you made camp together in the countryside of the Land of Geo. And if they looked a little happier after spending some time talking and laughing with you, then that works just fine, you think. 

Unfortunately, in Inazuma, the two of you were only able to cross paths briefly. With the removal of the Sakoku Decree, it meant you were allowed into the country, and they were allowed out. There’s a certain air about the two - less so Paimon - that leaves you wondering exactly what happened behind the closed borders of Inazuma. 

You find out, much to your chagrin. 

It isn’t until a few months have passed and you’ve meandered your way to Sumeru that you once more meet your good friends - ones you’ve sorely missed. Of course, another catastrophe was narrowly avoided thanks to their intervention, and Paimon was more than pleased to fill in the gaps while you shared a lunch with the two of them at some cafe you can’t quite pronounce the name of. 

In the middle of laughter at something Paimon has said, a shadow casts over the table - similar to an umbrella blocking out the sun. It’s not quite so, rather the wide brim of an ornate hat as a figure approaches the three of you with a carefully neutral expression. First he looks at the Traveler, then briefly at Paimon, before looking to you. 

Before you can even think about introducing yourself, his interest turns back to the Traveler. “Lesser Lord Kusanali sent me to fetch you. Something has come up.”

“Is it urgent?” You know the Traveler is asking only because this means the two of you will part ways once again. Violet eyes dart to you, tensing for just a moment as a thought seems to cross his mind. The neutrality cracks only a little, and he almost looks interested in your presence. It must be an enigma, that you’d be important enough for the Traveler to put off meeting with the Dendro Archon for a little while longer. 

The male moves, placing one hand on his hip as he gives the Traveler an slightly admonishing look. “Maybe I should have been more specific. Something’s come up about that important information you’ve been wandering all over for? Surely that’s not something you want to put off more than necessary. Even for a… friend.”

With a jerk of his chin, he emphasizes that you are the Traveler’s friend in question. Obvious enough, but if he feels the need to make things clear, then who are you to tell him it’s unnecessary?

After a moment of deliberation, and an apologetic expression toward you, the Traveler drops enough mora for all three meals onto the table. “Sorry, this really is important, then. Will you be around the city for a little longer? I’d like to catch up some more.”

“I’m heading out tomorrow morning, but I’ll be around the country - I’m sure you could hunt me down if you really wanted. It’s not like I hide from you.” You lean on your elbows with a grin, pleased at both the prospect of meeting your friends once more, as well as having your meal so graciously paid for. 

The Traveler and Paimon leave with a wave, and the newcomer only gives you an unreadable look over his shoulder as they leave. Only when they round a corner do those eyes finally give you some peace.

---

You do end up leaving before the Traveler can seek you out again. A trip down to Port Ormos takes a few days thanks to a love of meandering, and how easily distracted you are by every little sight and sound of Sumeru. It’s a beautiful country, and you find yourself quickly enamored with it, despite the persistent heat and humidity. 

After you get your fill of Port Ormos, your trip back up to the city proper is a little longer. It’s nearly a month after your first meeting with the Traveler in Sumeru that the second one comes around. Paimon is with someone named Collei, apparently, leaving you and the Traveler to sit in the grassy hilltops surrounding the city with boxes of takeout settled between you. 

The conversation is easy at first, and then almost as if the entire purpose of this meeting was for something a little more heavy, the subject changes as quickly as you can blink. The Traveler has poor skills in segueing topics from one to another, it seems. 

Picking at the biryani in their lap, golden eyes don’t lift to meet yours as they ask, “Do you remember that guy from last time? With the big hat?”

“He’s not easy to forget, that’s for sure. What about him?”

And then it comes tumbling out. Who he is, what he is, and the biggest puzzle piece of all - why the Traveler is bringing any of this up. “You’re staying in the country for a while longer, aren’t you? Do you think it would be possible to have him tag along with you for a while?”

And there it is. Really, you have no reason to say no, beyond simply not knowing who this guy is. But the Traveler seems to trust him, and you trust the Traveler, so logically you can trust him, right? It’s not the most sound conclusion, but it’s the only one that makes sense, so you bob your head in a nod and laugh at the way the Traveler’s shoulders seem to sag in relief. 

The Traveler is leaving for the desert on an extended trip soon, and the Wanderer - Traveler’s name for him, and yours now, too - was staunchly against the idea of traipsing about in the desert despite being largely unaffected by the traits that make it harsh. 

“I’d rather take a dip in a volcano,” is what he apparently told the Traveler. And while the Wanderer was interested in taking some time for himself, away from the Dendro Archon and away from all the reminders of things you haven’t been made privy to, he doesn’t want to do so in a place he hates. That’s understandable - you plan on steering clear of the desert, yourself. 

And all of these situations are what lead you to this - following a well-worn road North out of Sumeru City, a silent Wanderer at your side as your steps fall into an odd sort of synchronization. Whether he is matching your stride on purpose, or if it’s a subconscious thing, you almost find it comforting. 

From the Traveler’s descriptions, you expect him to be sharp and barbed, but he’s been… oddly polite, if not just a little standoffish. When you explain that you have no destination in mind, he doesn’t seem put off, and when you fall into old habits of becoming distracted, he doesn’t complain when those distractions take you off the path. 

At least, at first. 

Eventually, as the day wears on, it seems as if he grows more comfortable. As you push through the afternoon, his voice grabs your attention. “You should take a break, you know.”

“Hm?” Your steps falter a little as you’re brought out of your wandering thoughts. Absently you answer him, more focused on pulling the lenses from your face to rub a smudge off on your shirt - sweat doesn’t cooperate with glasses, unfortunately. “I don’t really need one.”

“The issue with fatigue in humans is once you start feeling it, it’s difficult to stop. Take a break before you’re tired, so you don’t injure yourself,” Wanderer explains. Just like one would explain that the sky is blue, or that Dendro Visions are green, or that there are a multitude of subtleties that differentiate the two of you when it comes to physical composition. 

The Wanderer isn’t human, but he looks an awful lot like one, and you’ve forgotten until now about that important fact. Beyond that, there isn’t much you know about him, and it’s with a bit of slyness that you try to strike a deal. “I’ll take a break on one condition. Every fifteen minutes of break time, you answer a question of mine.”

And he laughs. It isn’t necessarily cheerful, but it does pull his lips up into a smile that seems unpracticed. Or, perhaps it is practiced, but never in this sort of context. Despite lingering cynicism, he answers, “You could have asked without a break - it’s not like I’m hiding anything. But I’ll accept. Now sit down.”

Once you’re settled in the grass, just off the road and out of the way of any other travelers that might come along, the Wanderer sits next to you with his legs crossed, elbow on his knee, cheek on his palm. “Ask away.”

“Oh, no.” Immediately you deny, stretching your legs out in front of you as you lean back onto your hands. “I’m saving those for while we walk. You dictate the length of the break based on how many questions you feel like answering. I think that’s pretty fair.”

A huff of air leaves him, making his shoulders jolt. It could’ve been amusement, disbelief, or maybe even both, judging by his tone. “That’s how it’s going to be, huh? Fine.”

The sun above is warm on your skin, despite the sweat that just won’t wick away thanks to the humidity. You turn your face skywards, observing the clouds and completely missing the way his head tilts just enough to look at you out of the corner of his eye, calculating and quiet. At least, at first you miss it, but the sensation of eyes on you is impossible to ignore after enough time. 

“Something on my face?”

“Sunburn, if you’re not careful.” Sharp words, but softened by the actual meaning.

With an airy wave toward your bag sitting in the grass, you explain, “I picked up a recipe in Liyue for some balm that helps protect against the sun. I’ll be just fine, don’t worry so much.”

“I’m not worried.” Wanderer responds so quickly that it completely defeats the purpose of his denial. His mouth sets in a line as his brows furrow in irritation that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It would just be annoying to listen to you complaining about your face hurting.”

“Mhm.” Is your response as your eyes close and you wait for him to decide that break time is over. It takes longer than you expect for him to get to his feet, and then almost as an afterthought, reach his hand out to help you up. When he looks surprised that you accept it, you don’t remark on that. 

Maybe the astonishment will wear off with your time together. 

---

“I don’t need to sleep.” Wanderer tells you one day, as the two of you are setting up your tent for the night. When you brought up that he sleeps outside rather than in said tent, he gives you that answer quite easily. “But I can, if I wanted.”

“Don’t you want to? Sounds awfully boring to never dream.” You ask, using the heel of your booted foot to push the last stake into the ground, securing the rain cover to ensure you stay dry in the storm that’s rolling in rather quickly.

There’s no fire to be set up, not while it’s about to rain, so once the shelter is pitched you climb inside and hold the flap open. As he turns around, he starts to speak but then trails off. “That’s two ques..tions…”

Wanderer hesitates. In his eyes, it must be odd - an enclosed room, with someone he likely doesn’t quite trust. But then he looks at you from beneath the brim of his hat, conflicted for only a moment before pulling it off his head and stepping into the tent you offered him. 

It doesn’t take long for the raindrops to begin falling, rolling off the waxed canvas and leaving the two of you safe and dry. Not necessarily warm, but you wrap up in your bedroll’s blanket as soon as the two of you settle in the small tent.  

There’s no extra bedding - he hadn’t brought any, and you’re not about to offer your own when he doesn’t seem to care. As you lay down for the night, he sits with his back to you, cross-legged and leaning back on his hands as he stares at the darkening forest through the mesh of the tent’s doorway. 

That’s the sight you drift off to as you carefully set your glasses to the side and out of the way. A smudge of deep blue and white, the gentle chiming of his vision as he mindlessly runs his fingers along the ornament and feather. It’s almost like a lullaby.

And that lullaby is a stark difference to the smacking of raindrops hitting harder against the tent cover, the thunder rolling above, and the surprising chill in the air thanks to the change in temperature combined with high humidity. You hadn’t realized you were shivering until you woke up to the rustling of your blanket being carefully untucked. 

Immediately, you ask, “What’re you doin’?”

“That’s a third question.” Wanderer murmurs, voice low as if he doesn’t want to wake you further. “You’re shivering so hard you’re going to attract a tiger - they’ll think you’re a wounded animal.”

“M’not-”

“Yeah you are. A wounded animal would make less noise. Just go back to sleep.”

The blanket shifts, and your seal from the chilled air is broken just long enough for another body to fill the small amount of space behind you. Squinting into the dark over your shoulder, you're met with violet eyes telling you silently not to say a word. But so far, you've never really been bothered by any of his threats, and you're not planning on starting now. 

If he's going to give an inch, you're going to try and take a mile. So you shift back, aligning your spine with the way the front of his body curves. It's deceptively easy to slot your back to his chest and glean some of the little warmth he gives off. 

Wanderer's chest expands as if he's going to say something, then he holds it back. Rain drowns out the sound of your quiet breaths, your muscles tensed in anticipation for what his next move might be. It's the one you expect the least, but should be most logical. 

Tentatively, his arm snakes around your waist in a quiet acceptance of how his little idea has unfolded. It's thin, but strong enough that he holds you to him with minimal effort. And despite how obviously nervous he is about it all, it doesn't lessen the effect of comfort and warmth he's providing. 

"Thank you, Wanderer."

"Please don't make this weird." His answer is blunt. "I'm not doing this for you."

"It's not like there's anyone else here." Your voice is thickened by your interrupted sleep, and your eyes turn wearily to the dim roof of the tent, occasionally lit by lightning. Wanderer's breath hits the back of your neck as he makes a huff of amusement. 

"I just don't want to drag your body back when you attract some stray crocodile to eat you with all your shivering. The Traveler would never forgive me. And their floating companion would be unbearable."

"Mhm… you're cuddling me because it makes your life easier then? Why didn't you say so?"

The arm around your waist tightens. Wanderer stammers for a moment before letting out an outraged tsk. "That's not-!...You know what? Fine, believe what you want."

And silence falls. Your eyelids droop, your thoughts slow, and you try to ignore the way you're still cold at the front, despite Wanderer's warmth at your back. The sluggish notion barely crosses your mind before he picks up on it and the flat of his hand presses against your stomach. Through the thin material of your shirt, the warmth from his palm seeps through. 

Despite telling you pointedly to go to sleep, he seems almost hellbent on causing problems for you each time you nudge at the threshold of your dreams. When your breathing slows, his thumb starts to slowly move back and forth, just beneath your ribs. And when you get used to that, his whole hand moves instead, caressing circles against your skin that finally have you asking once more, "What are you doing?"

"I don't know." And he means that - he'd hardly admit to ignorance, especially over his own actions. "Want me to stop?"

And what a loaded question that is. Because you certainly don't want him to, but you also don't know where this is going. It's hardly appropriate when his hand raises a little higher, growing dangerously close to the unspoken line about to be crossed. 

Almost as if on autopilot, your brain making the decision subconsciously when your mouth takes a little too long, you say, "No. I don't."

The sensation doesn't register in your mind for a split second. It's only after he lingers do you realize that he's lifted his hand further and cupped one of your breasts in his palm with a tentative squeeze. The two of you pause; you in stunned silence, him in quiet anticipation for what you'll do. 

As your tension starts to release, he gives another experimental squeeze, dragging his palm just enough to rub the fabric against your hardening nipple. A little laugh leaves him, high and breathy, and he murmurs, "You like this, don't you?"

"Don't sound surprised-!" You cut off as his fingers pinch and roll, your voice cracking before you can rein it in. With a spark of annoyance, you rock your hips back and find satisfaction in how he falters. "Ngh-... it's not as if you're not enjoying it, too."

Wanderer's arousal digs into your backside, growing more persistent as you repeat that movement with precision. In return, you get a sharp pinch that makes you whine under your breath. It feels like you've given him a victory, and he gives your chest one more squeeze before taking the prize he feels he's won. 

"On your back." He directs, pulling away enough for you to follow his direction. With both hands, he shoves your shirt to your collarbone, your breasts falling free for only a moment before his mouth catches one, his hand on the other. 

Instinctively, your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close enough that he couldn't pull away even if he wanted to. With a sharp suck, he takes your nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue over it in rhythmic motions that match the movement of his fingers on the other. He’s barely even breathing, but rather working himself up into a fervency where maintaining the illusion of being human is pushed away in favor of single-minded desire.

When he gets too rough, you tug his hair, and he lessens the pressure. If he’s lingering too long on one side, a subtle push of his head moves him easily to the other. And all the while, his hips slot against yours, grinding messily as if friction between the two of you is an afterthought compared to how the taste of your skin is making his eyes flutter shut so prettily. His eyelashes brush against high cheekbones, and you fight the urge to sweep your thumb across to see if they’re as soft as they look. 

Instead, you card your fingers through his hair and wonder how it stays so smooth despite how careless you’ve been with it up to this point. In spite of how nice this all feels, it just isn’t enough. And if he’s going to go this far, you’d rather he just go all the way and be done with playing around. 

With a sharp tug, you pull him away from your skin and he looks ruined. Eyes glassy despite his laser-focus on your face, lips swollen, wetness across his lips from how reckless he’d been so far. Before he can question you, your voice comes out - a lower pitch than usual, breathless but still demanding. “I need more, Wanderer.”

Simple enough to fulfill, you think, but his lips twist into a smile that’s almost wry as he answers, “If you hadn’t interrupted me-”

“You know what I mean.” Any annoyance that might have been effective is lessened by the way he’s warmed your cheeks and slickened your skin with his saliva, his fingers still rolling one of your nipples idly. Like he’s not interested in it, like he hadn’t been nipping and sucking and biting you with the sort of abandon belonging to a man starved. 

Starved for attention, affection, simple contact… You’re not quite sure. Maybe it doesn’t matter, in the long run - any of those would be solved if he just stopped fooling around. 

Wanderer does know what you mean, and his tongue darts out to sweep the lingering wetness from his lips before he lifts off you, shrugging enough of the blankets away that there’s room to rather neatly roll yourself once more. From below you, he looks just as pretty as above. Hair against the pillow you’d just been leaning against, skin lit up by the occasional flash of lightning through the trees above, hands digging into the outsides of your thighs as you straddle his lap.

Inhaling sharply, as if he just remembered that perhaps unnatural stillness of a being that doesn’t need oxygen might be unsettling, he takes in the sight of you in the same manner of admiration you’d been giving him. It’ll make more sense in the morning, when the storm has passed and the cover of darkness isn’t enough to hide rational thought. 

Pressing his fingers against your plush skin, leaving little oval marks of red in his yearning, he murmurs, “Take it, then. If you want more, make me give it to you.”

And oh, does that do something inside of you. Setting your stomach afire with a need you don’t bother to control, Wanderer’s challenge is met with your hands on his shoulders, and a slow roll of your hips that wipes the attitude off his face in one smooth movement. 

Arching himself to meet you halfway, he chases the feeling of your heat against his hardness greedily. For someone that wants you to take, he seems awfully eager to give.

But he demanded that you take what you want, that you make him give it to you, so you leverage yourself away to shimmy out of your shorts as quickly as you can. Depriving yourself of his body heat for such a short time shouldn’t feel as desolate as it does, but by the time you return it feels as if those few seconds were the equivalent of a lifetime. 

Despite your partial nudity, you really only give enough effort to reach between your bodies and pull him free. While he’s attempted to seem detached - both in this tent and outside, where the world exists despite feeling as if it’s been reduced to only these four canvas walls - Wanderer’s eyes positively glow with a saccharine sort of longing that threatens to pull you in if you stare at it a little too long, a little too willing.

The first stretch of his cock brings you pause. It’s been too long, certainly for you, maybe for him with how his fingertips grab as your thighs all over again, as if he were searching for something to ground himself in this exact moment. You don’t blame him, gripping his shoulders just as hard; bracing yourself against him, pushing him down into the mess of a blanket at his back. 

“Y-you’re so-!” Spitefully, you cut off his words by sinking just a little further, taking a little more inside. Wanderer learns his lesson, relegating the use of his voice to what could only be considered a whine as you move at your pace, not his. Little by little, agonizingly slow until he has nothing more to give and you’re seated fully on his cock. 

You’re far from unaffected, but a need to maintain the upper hand keeps your face tuned to amusement as you watch the emotions flicker across his face. A great many of them you’re unfamiliar with, but perhaps he’ll give you a chance to learn them after this encounter. Maybe this won’t be the last. 

Finally, he looks at you through cracked eyelids, desperation coloring his voice as he pleads for you to take him. Wanderer tries to spin it as an order, but there can be no authority when he sounds so ruined from simply being inside you - no movement beyond the subconscious way you tighten around him for your own pleasure. 

Taking the smallest amount of pity - and growing impatient with your own teasing - you rock your hips forward, then back, and take note of how his head falls back enough to show the pretty line of his unmarred throat, usually so hidden by the high collar of his clothing. With a shaking exhale, pleased by both the sight beneath you and the sensations inside, you ask, “Does it feel good? You look overwhelmed…”

“I-I’m not, it’s just-...” Wanderer trails off, face twisting in a grimace as you repeat your movements, setting a slow and rhythmic pace that could be enough if either of you had the patience to maintain it. The smallest whine precedes his words, “You feel so good, I don’t think I can… I can’t-”

“You can.” You urge, reaching for his hand on your thigh to pry it loose, bringing it to the apex of your thighs with a purpose he clumsily realizes. Just the thought of having him - normally so composed and closed-off - completely pulled to pieces like this has you thrilled in ways you haven’t managed to feel before. 

That, paired with the obscene feeling of being perfectly filled by him, has you close enough that even if he’s a bit too overwhelmed to be precise with the movements of his fingers, you’re inching closer and closer to what feels like a monolith on the horizon. Swallowing around a moan threatening to tumble free, you turn it into words, “I’m so close, j-just a little more. You’re so good, so good, so-”

“Please,” his begging is hoarse as he tries to match your movements, tries to match the pleasure you’re giving him with offerings of his own, “let me feel you, please.”

Another inhale from him, like something is just on the tip of his tongue, but it dies as you tilt back a little. The change is what you need, the last bit to complement the succession of feelings in every sense of the word, and Wanderer gets exactly what he begs for as you find your release at his behest. 

Your hands lessen their grip on his shoulders as you abandon pinning him in favor of prolonging what you’ve found, and like the snapping of a leash he abandons any sense of submitting to you in favor of gripping your hips and jerking himself sharply upward into you. The sound of surprise you make is undignified at best, downright lewd at its most basic, and that only seems to spur him on as he takes on a short-lived viciousness stemming from unresolved desperation. 

One hand snatches yours, bringing it to his mouth to press a sloppy kiss to your palm - a sudden intimacy just before he takes your fingers past his lips and onto his tongue. A wrecked sound tears from his throat as his tongue twists between your fingers and his teeth graze at your knuckles before biting down with enough force to almost be painful.

By the time you’re coming down, he’s taken your place - pistoning with long, sharp thrusts that are short-lived. The two of you danced on the edge as it was, and he’s freely able to throw himself off of it with reckless abandon and his back arching in such a beautiful curve. His tongue stills, but you’ve gained enough faculties back to drag the pads of your fingers along his taste buds, dangerously close to the back of his tongue where it would make him gag. 

In that moment, his eyes open enough to look at you as he murmurs around your fingers that he loves you. 

Maybe he does, at that moment when the entirety of existence loses its deeper meaning, perhaps Wanderer does feel something strong enough that it could be confused for love. But as you pull your fingers from his mouth and fall to his side, head over his chest where no heart beats, you wonder how he’d justify it if you brought it up in the morning. 

You won’t - and he won’t either, even though he says it the next time, and the one following, each growing more frantic as if he were desperate for you to return the favor. If you do, it won’t be in the throes of passion - you want to mean it. It’ll be said in the sunlight, maybe even spoken with a nonchalance he doesn’t expect. 

His expression of surprise would be rather pretty, you think.

not a weapon but a person—capable of loving and being loved.

SYNOPSIS: You get kidnapped and Damian snaps. TAGS: Graphic Depictions Of Violence! Genderneutral! Blood, Hurt/Comfort, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Kidnapping, Childhood Trauma, My Mother is the Worst Woman Alive and I'm her Favorite Son, Damian is Eighteen.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

A heavy thud. Ragged breaths. Then the sound of footsteps.

The same hands that had ruthlessly beat your kidnappers to a pulp—the ones that had pulverized flesh with blood splattered across his knuckles, the ones that had heard the crack of bones beneath his grip, the ones that bore the scars of countless cuts and stabs—now traced your cheek with a featherlight touch.

"Beloved."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

YOUR PALMS WERE PRESSED tightly against your eyes, wrists raw and burning from the rope that had bound them just minutes ago. Sobs slipped from your lips, eyes bloodshot, and mouth parched dry.

The rotting smell of the warehouse was an assault on your senses—an acrid mix of trash, harsh chemicals, and the faint tang of gunfire that lingered in the air.

There was a hushing in your ear as you leaned against a cloaked figure—Batman. Bruce. 

His hand rubbed at your back, firm and steady, a grounding presence amid the chaos. His cape, dark and imposing, wrapped around you like a shield, blocking out the violence unfolding just in front of you.

Shadows danced erratically on the walls as Robin moved with lethal precision. Bodies fell unconscious, thudding heavily against the concrete floor. Blood splattered. Screams echoed. Each punch landed with a sickening crunch, bones breaking. Crates and debris were scattered haphazardly, wood and concrete slamming onto the floor. 

Damian couldn't see anything but red.

His vision was tunneled, focused solely on the next target, the next blow, the next scream. 

A swift roundhouse kick sent one assailant crashing into a stack of crates, the wood splintering under the impact. One punch connected with a jaw, the sickening crunch of bone breaking echoing through the air. Blood sprayed on his fist. Another one rushed toward him, brandishing a knife, but he disarmed the man with a swift twist of the wrist, jamming the blade into the attacker's palm. The man screamed, clutching his arm as red streaked his skin.

Damian's eyes flickered with a dark satisfaction as he watched the thug stumble backward, clutching at the wound.

One last man remained. One who had lunged at him from behind, grappling onto his back. Damian scowled and surged backward, driving both himself and his attacker into the wall with bone-crushing force. The man's grip loosened, a pained gasp escaping his lips as the air was knocked out of him.

"Fool," Damian spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?"

The thug whimpered, trying to scramble away, but Damian was relentless. He twisted sharply, dislodging the assailant and slamming an elbow into his ribs. The man crumpled against the wall, clutching his side, his eyes wide with fear and pain.

"You think you can touch those I care for and get away with it?" Damian growled. He didn't give the thug a moment to recover. He swung a powerful fist into the guy's face, the impact sending a spray of blood and teeth into the air. 

"F-Fuck you, man!" The man yanked a gun from his waistband, but before he could even line up a shot, Damian’s foot kicked out, sending the weapon flying through the air. The gun clattered against the concrete with a deafening clang. With a snarl, Damian lunged forward, grabbing the thug by the collar and slamming him into the ground.

"H-Hey! Mercy! Mercy! I'm a-already down!" the assailant wailed, his hands clawing at Robin's uniform in a desperate plea. "The Bat don’t kill! You—you ain't gonna kill me!"

Damian's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as his voice dropped to a low, menacing growl.

"I'm not Batman," he spat, the tone amplified and darkened by the modulator. "Every breath you take is a mercy I choose to grant. By the time I'm finished, you'll be begging for death."

He raised his fist, the tension in his muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. The thug’s eyes widened in terror, his pleas growing frantic as he braced for the blow. However, just as Damian’s fist was about to land, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, grabbing onto his hand with a vice-like grip. Before he could react, Batman—Bruce—had tackled him, pinning him firmly against his chest. 

“Robin,” Batman’s voice was firm, concern barely concealed. “That’s enough.”

Damian's struggle was fierce, his body thrashing under his father’s strength as he roared in fury.

“Let me go!” he screamed, his voice raw with anger. “I’m going to kill him for what he did to them!”

The anger engulfed Damian like a stormy ocean, dragging him beneath its violent waves. Visions of his mother’s face, his grandfather’s form, and accusing shadows surged from the depths, all condemning him. Damian’s cries erupted into a raw, guttural scream, gradually dissolving into ragged gasps as he battled the relentless tide.

Though Bruce had shaped him into a hero, a beacon of justice, and his family had offered him a fragile semblance of belonging, Damian was still his mother’s son.

The violence and anger roiling within him were like roots twisted deep within his soul. There was not a thing that could purge the primal rage and pain that had taken root before his first breath.

When he finally broke through the surface, baptized in blood and weighed down by sins that clung to him like chains, he sought you out with an urgent, almost desperate need.

A heavy thud. Ragged breaths. Then the sound of footsteps.

The same hands that had ruthlessly beat your kidnappers to a pulp—the ones that had pulverized flesh with blood splattered across his knuckles, the ones that had heard the crack of bones beneath his grip, the ones that bore the scars of countless cuts and stabs—now traced your cheek with a featherlight touch.

"Beloved."

Your hands were carefully peeled away from your eyes, and you met soft emerald eyes through a veil of tears. His hands moved to unlatch his cape, the soft fabric pooling around your form. His lips, speaking in his mother tongue, murmured a soothing litany of comfort, Arabic endearments flowing like silk. He pressed your head against his chest and you found refuge in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. 

Bruce watched the scene with a pensive look. His son's body had dwarfed you, broad shoulders and strong muscles enveloping your form like a shield. His head was tucked into your hair, his hands raking all over your tense and sweaty skin.

Damian had momentarily shed the hardened exterior he so often wore—a soldier with a heart that, despite its armor, occasionally revealed cracks. This was a side of him that often surprised people.

Because Damian Wayne was the farthest thing from soft.

He was all sharp edges. Poisonous, scalding words that could sear through the thickest armor of patience. Rough, nearly violent in his touch, like a blade pressed against skin. There was no gentleness in his movements, no softness in his gestures, only the relentless precision of a trained killer.

From the earliest moments he could walk, his life was an unending series of tests, each more grueling than the last. Each cut and bruise was a lesson. Failure was met with harsh punishment, success with silent approval. Affection and praise were as rare as mercy. 

The League’s doctrine was ingrained in him: emotions were vulnerabilities, attachments were liabilities, and loyalty was owed only to the mission and the League. His purpose in the League of Assassins was clear—to be the perfect instrument of their will, a living embodiment of their principles. 

Emotion was his enemy, a weakness to be purged.  He was taught to suppress his feelings, to turn them off like a switch. Pain was an illusion, fear a phantom to be banished. He learned to compartmentalize his thoughts, locking away his humanity in the deepest recesses of his mind. 

By the time he reached ten, he was a finely honed instrument of death.

A living weapon in a world that knew no peace.

It had taken Bruce eight grueling years to begin undoing the damage. And even then, he had barely scratched the surface.

Then there was you.

The trembling, warm-faced student Damian had introduced during his senior year—his partner for a science project, he said. 

At first, the interactions were subtle—a fleeting glance here, a hesitant smile there. But as time went on, it became impossible to ignore the way your presence began to soften the sharp edges of Damian's demeanor.

Bruce had seen you both fall for each other over the months. And he saw hope. 

You were the opposite of every lesson Damian has ever been taught.

To him, you were soft, in every sense. Soft movements, soft features, soft voice. Everything about you exuded comfort.

You made something he had always pushed down and shut away come to the surface.

You made him feel things—things he should not.

When you touched him with your soft hands, everything in him burned. The gentle brush of your fingers against his skin ignited a searing heat, a raw and unfamiliar longing that clawed violently at the walls he had worked so hard to maintain. Each touch chipped away at the concrete barriers of his training, breaking them down and leaving him exposed, aching for something he couldn’t quite name.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

Mania. Drake had called it, a wild obsession of his that could consume and devour.

Damian's arms encircled you like a lifeline, holding you close as though he feared you might slip away. His lips brushed against your temple, warm and tender, while his biceps pressed firmly under your chest, anchoring you in his embrace. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, blood, and the lingering residue of fear. 

And yet, amidst these odors, there was an underlying, almost imperceptible hint of Damian’s cologne—Arabian oudh. It was rich and smoky, with notes of aged wood, a faint earthy sweetness, and subtle undertones of leather and spice.

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, the fabric of his suit brushing against your cheek.

A Crush. Todd had chalked it up to puppy love, something that would eventually fade with time.

He lifted you effortlessly from the floor, his strength evident in his smooth, controlled movements. The way he adjusted his hold with such care to ensure your comfort spoke louder than any words could.

Warmth enveloped you—Damian had always run hotter, like a human furnace. On sweltering days, his clinginess (no matter how much he denied it) had been a nuisance, his heat making you feel as if your skin might melt off. But now, that same warmth was a comforting embrace, a welcome shield.

Infatuation. Grayson had suggested, thinking it was just a fleeting, intense passion. But there was something deeper in the way he looked at you, something that felt permanent and unshakeable.

“I am here. I am here, beloved," he spoke to you lowly. "It's alright now."

Love. His father called it.

In an instant, everything seemed to collapse around you. Tears welled up and streamed down your cheeks as you sobbed into his chest, each shudder of your body sending waves of anguish through him. Damian’s heart twisted painfully at the sight of you. 

He has seen suffering—he has inflicted suffering. But this was different. Your pain was a torment he was helpless to alleviate. 

Face twisted in guilt, he pulled you tighter against him, as though he could hold the world’s pain at bay if he just held you close enough.

A hand tapped at his shoulder, and he flinched, turning to see his father.

“The Batmobile is just by the docks. We can—”

“They're in shock,” Damian scowled. the fire back in his eyes. “Do you honestly believe they're in any state to be moved at this moment?”

Bruce’s gaze was firm. “Damian, we don’t have time to—”

“They need to be stabilized first,” Damian cut in sharply, his tone brooking no argument. He turned abruptly, striding towards the exit. “If you want them to survive this, we need to take care of them properly, not rush them into a car. I shall be outside.”

Without waiting for a response, Damian moved swiftly, the clatter of his boots echoing as he stepped into the cool night air with you. Once the warehouse door closed behind him, he turned his full attention back to you, his hand gently brushing your tear-streaked face. 

He moved to press his forehead gently against yours, the warmth of his skin meeting yours in a tender connection. He could offer no verbal comfort anymore; words seemed woefully inadequate. Your cries gradually subsided as you drew comfort from his presence.

Love.

He lifted his hand to the side of his face, pressing a button. As his mask retracted, his eyes met yours. Damian knew that more than anything else, you loved his eyes.

Time and again, you found yourself drawn to them, unable to tear your gaze away. They were hypnotic—an exquisite blend of emerald green, green as vibrant as the leather cover of his sketchbook, flecked with gold and streaked with brown paint.

His eyes were windows to his soul, offering the only genuine glimpse into the depths of his emotions. In them, you could see his anger burning like a stormy sea, joy dancing like sunlight on rippling water, embarrassment flitting like a shadow, and pain etched as deep as his scars.

At times, his eyes grew gentle, revealing something much softer—something that made your heart swell and your knees feel weak. A love so pure and unexpected that it could melt the coldest of hearts.

Damian Wayne was the farthest thing from soft.

But in these soft, fragile moments he shared with you, where his heart beat in sync with yours, Damian found an unexpected calm. It was in these rare interludes, away from the brutality and darkness that defined his world, that he could truly be himself.

Here, he was not a weapon but a person—capable of loving and being loved.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

ao3: yenwayne

NOTE: I want to delve into the line I wrote: 'Damian is still his mother’s son.'

It's just to show his trauma, I despise Talia with all my guts.

Talia's control over Damian is a textbook example of manipulative conditioning at its most extreme. In psychological development, early experiences and parental influence are crucial in shaping one's self-concept. From his earliest days, Damian was deprived of a normal childhood. His personality, thoughts, and desires have all been sculpted by the League of Assassins from day one.

His anger, protectiveness, and sense of duty are manifestations of this—a child raised to be a killer, now struggling with the fragments of a humanity that was never fully allowed to blossom.

I'm not saying he hasn't changed!!! He has turned into so much more than the weapon they intended him to be. He is genuinely good. But the impact of such deep-seated trauma cannot be easily overlooked or resolved. It’s not something that can simply be swept under the rug or fixed overnight.

So, this was my attempt at capturing his character! I’m very open to constructive criticism since I’m new to the fandom. Please be kind and gentle with your feedback :)

my idol : masterlist

synopsis: kunikuzushi was your loving boyfriend. while others saw a loser striving for something useless which was his dream of becoming an idol, you saw his beautiful passion in it. it wasn't long before he dropped out of school and went to pursue that passion. with his looks and talent, he quickly became one of the most famous idols under the stage name scaramouche and the idol group 6WIRL. but the climb to fame made him cut you off now that his ego grew bigger, only to regret his choice later on. what happens when he catches you on a casual walk outside when he's in an attempt to escape paparazzi?

pairing: idol!scaramouche x gn!reader

contains: modern au, idol au, angst, fluff, mentions of infidelity, lovers to exes to?

status: ongoing [started on wed.22.mar.]

taglist will always be open!

ACT l : LET'S DO SOME CATCHING UP

OO1: yearning for you

OO2: they have a what!?

OO3: scara's gossip aunties

OO4: takes one to know one

tba...

⸻ ღ ❝ THE NIGHT THEY WAITED ❞

synopsis. wind breaker boys and their reaction when they realized you hadn't come home

ft. ren kaji, hajime umemiya, haruka sakura, jo togame, choji tomiyama x gn. reader (separate)

contents. fluff, angst/comfort, established relationship

REN KAJI ─ ✦.° ✩

KAJI is all but distracted with his own thoughts until he realized that hours passed, and yet, you still had not returned. That alone was enough to worry him, pulling out the lollipop in his mouth and trashing it. Not even the sweet taste of the candy could mask the sour taste pooling in his mouth at the thought that you might be in danger.

He debated back and forth in his own mind whether he should find you and ensure that you are safe, or trust that you are capable and able to handle yourself. Even pacing back and forth in the comfort of his own home with an expression of distaste and blatant cuss words being thrown like clockwork.

Kaji is very easily overstimulated by loud noises (though the ear-piercing rock music he plays on his headphones begs to differ), so the second you return with a wide grin and a voice of steel, he immediately tenses, greeting you with a nod. His eyes, however, betrayed his calm exterior, showing just how much he missed you.

“Sorry for being late, Kaji!” you called out, taking off your shoes and entering the living room where Kaji sat. “Did I worry you?”

Clearly awaiting your presence, he shook his head, but his eyes told a different story, and you saw it.

"It's alright," he murmured.

You sighed, looking a bit sheepish. "I’m sorry if I worried you. I just got caught up helping Mrs. Tanaka with her groceries. Her cart tipped over in the market, and I couldn’t just leave her to clean it all up by herself. Then she insisted on making me tea as a thank you, and, well, you know how chatty she can get."

Kaji’s expression softened. From all the causes he had concocted to himself prior about your odd absence about what could’ve happened to you, he was just relieved that you were here, at this moment, here, with your attention solely on him. “Tch...” he said quietly, reaching out to gently squeeze your hand. “I just missed you, that’s all,” he said softly, his voice barely audible, like he was embarrassed that he had worried so much over nothing. It was so unlike him to be this vulnerable.

Kaji ran his fingers through the middle part of his hair. 'Shit...' He reached out to take your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

You smiled, squeezing his hand back. "I missed you too, Kaji. Let's have a quiet evening together, just the two of us! You know, there was a movie that Ms. Tanaka reckoned to watch with amazing music! Wanna try?”

His shoulders relaxed, and he gave you a small, genuine smile. "That sounds perfect."

HAJIME UMEMIYA ─ ✦.° ✩

The second UMEMIYA realized that you weren’t there to visit him at Furin at the exact time, moment, and second that you always did with a bright smile and cheerful greeting, he felt a sense of unease digging into his gut. At first, he brushed it off from you not having enough time and merely forgetting to tell him. But when Umemiya came home that evening, his heart already pounding with worry, only to see an empty apartment, it only augmented his anxiety that something might’ve been wrong. Still, he remained positive. But hours would go by, and still was no sight of the person Umemiya now utterly craved to see.

Anyone who dared to piss the leader of Furin that day would face his utter wrath, but when it came to you, his anger melted into pure elation and relief, as the moment you stepped through the door, his eyes widened, taking one step another the other to embrace you right into his arms. He couldn’t keep his hands to himself to save his own life. In truth, it was never a question that Umemiya was very physically affectionate, but his reaction tonight was on a whole new level that caught even you off guard.

Before you knew it, you were led to the couch, where Umemiya began to grill you, jumping straight into your lap and nearly knocking you over from the unexpected force. That is, if the couch didn't cushion your landing.

“Where have you been?! What have you been doing! And without me?! I-I was worried sick…”

You sheepishly met his gaze with a grimace, apologizing for not telling him that had plans that day with friends, and saying that you were just caught up in a conversation with the nearby shop owner and helped him to close shop that day, as he was rather on the older side and wanted to spend some extra time chatting.

"Ugh, you always do this! Do you know how worried I was? I thought something happened to you," Umemiya whined, his arms wrapping tightly around you. "You can't just disappear like that..."

He wouldn’t let you go, he can’t let you go. 

With a sigh, you steadied yourself on the couch as he straddled your legs, his face falling next to your hips as he smothered you with his weight. “Ume....” you murmured, running your fingers through his hair. “You know that’s never going to happen.” 

Umemiya’s worried aura was quick to disperse as a small pout tugged at his lips. Every inch of him seemed to revel in the joy of having you back. Umemiya’s hands roamed your back, your arms, and burying his neck in your neck, as if to reassure himself that you were really there. He locked his arms around your waist when you attempted to make an escape from the ticklish feeling of his messy, visibly unwashed white hair brushing against the skin of your collarbone. 

“Ume! That tickles.”

“Too bad, you’re not getting away that easily.”

You smiled. During times like these, he really did look like a puppy.

HARUKA SAKURA ─ ✦.° ✩

The very second his heightened senses kicked in, SAKURA tried to keep calm. Key word, he tried. However, his actions would beg to differ once anyone would see him pacing back and forth, waiting for a certain person to come through that door. The worry that you hadn’t returned yet, even when the sun was past its peak, worried him to no end. What if you were confronted? What if you got hurt? What if… you left him?

His foot tapped against the floor in a rhythmic sound, keeping his arms crossed. Sakura tried to play it cool, but the second you walked through the door, he couldn’t hide the relief in his eyes. You looked to be fine, but what if something happened and he wasn’t aware…? Was there something he—

“Sakura,” your voice broke through the corridors of his mind. “I’m sorry about today, my friends wanted—“

“About time you showed up,” he clicked his tongue with a roll of his eyes.

But you noticed the softening of his gaze, the slight tremor in his voice. He stood there, arms crossed, attempting to maintain his usual aloof demeanor, but the faint tremble in his lips gave him all away. And as you walked closer, you saw the unfurling of his arms, his hands itching to reach out to you. Finally, unable to hold back any longer, Sakura pulled you into a tight hug, his face buried in your hair. His long arms circled you, making their way around your back.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. 

He pulled you closer to his chest and you could feel his heartbeat slowly accelerate. But that wasn’t enough for Sakura to let go. You hugged him back just as tightly, feeling the tension in his body slowly melt away. "I missed you too, Sakura. I’m sorry I worried you."

The second those very words exited your mouth, Sakura pulled back slightly to look into your eyes, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Tch, you can go wherever the hell you want. Just next time, just promise me you’ll let me know, okay? I can’t stand not knowing where you are or if you’re safe.”

You nodded, touched by his unusual sense of concern for you. “I promise!"

"Hah... The hell are you smiling like that for...?" For a moment, you could see Sakura breathe a sigh of relief. 

“If you even know how to text me, that is.”

Sakura’s face exploded. “Y-YOU!!! I know how to use a phone!!”

"Really? Then why don’t you ever reply to my messages?"?"

"HUH??"

Safe to say, he wasn’t very impressed.

JO TOGAME ─ ✦.° ✩

There was a moment of worry when you didn’t show up on time. At first, TOGAME tried to keep himself busy, to focus on anything other than the gnawing concern that something might have happened to you. But the moment you stepped through the door, Togame felt as though a weight was lifted off his shoulders—quite literally. 

You looked to be okay, he thought, and without thinking, he pulled you into a bone-crushing hug, his arms wrapped tightly around you. No questions asked, just pure, unfiltered affection. And a rather unexpected welcome home that you were hardly expecting. 

You took a moment to process the actions, eyes darting around restlessly before landing back on the man standing before you. “Well…” you began with a sheepish smile, “I was walking here, and I saw this new food stall that I’ve never seen before. So I went to check it out! Guess I lost track of time, aha...”

When you peered up, your eyes met the pupils of the man who, earlier, felt as though he had almost lost everything. 

“I’m sorry, Jo,” you murmured, bowing your head. “I should’ve texted you when I had the chance. I’m seriously so sorry for worrying you—”

“No… no, you shouldn't be sorry,” he shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is my fault,” he muttered to himself, unbeknownst to you. Something that, deep down, he truly felt that way.

You heard his voice crack like fragile shards, the lump in his throat betraying his true emotions that were so contrary to the aloof facade he puts on in front of others, with his embrace tightening, as if ensuring to himself that you were really there. Togame was so distracted that when he finally let go after what felt like an actual eternity, he saw the bag that you were holding in your hand.

“I- What’s that? I-In your hand.”

“Huh? Oh, this? It's something I brought just for you! I thought of you immediately. They had all sorts of interesting treats, and I remembered how you love trying new things. So, I wanted to get something special just for you.” You laughed nervously, holding up the bag as if to emphasize your point. “I knew that you liked matcha, so I got a portion just for you—”

He hugged you again, not even allowing you a chance to finish speaking. This time, you entirely relaxed your muscles, a smile slowly making its way onto your face as you melted into his embrace, rubbing softly at his lower back.

He cleared his throat, finally pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, reluctantly letting you go. Just for a moment. With a yearning expression, he gazed at you from top to bottom. But it wasn’t so much an expression of worry, but one of pure gratitude. You always thought of him first, and he did the same. As if ignoring all the outside noises, Togame placed his hands gently on the sides of your face, his eyes met yours and shared a smile.

“Welcome home, my love,” he repeated with a tenderness that made you feel truly at home.

CHOJI TOMIYAMA ─ ✦.° ✩

“Choji! I’m back! Oh? Guess he’s not here…” You arrived at your home, but everywhere you looked, appeared to be empty. That is, until a certain someone came up from behind you and snaked his hands around your waist, his breath tickling your ear.

“Well, well!? Did I surprise you?!” CHOJI exclaimed with his signature carefree attitude.

You turned to face him with an exasperated look. “Choji…”

Choji burst into a fit of giggles, but his grin instantly faltered when he saw the tears welling up in your eyes and dripping to the once pristine flooring. “W-Wha— w-why are you crying?!” he exclaimed, his hands fluttering around you in a panicked attempt to comfort you, not like that would work.

Feeling overwhelmed, you lightly shoved him away, “You scared me half to death, Choji!” But that wasn’t enough to push him away, as he curled back right into your arms, locking his arms around your waist to ensure that you weren’t going to escape.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were going to take so long to come back home…” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear.

“H-Huh?”

“I’m sorry, really. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I just... I wanted to surprise you. I missed you so much… because you didn’t come back, and I couldn’t wait to see you. It's been too quiet around here without you."

"Choji..."

You could see the genuine concern in his eyes. The hearts and stars in his pupils were replaced with worry, so far removed from the usual carefree manner and joy he carried himself with. You didn’t expect Choji to be so worried about you coming home a bit later, but that was an assumption that you never should’ve made. Why wouldn't Choji assume the worst after all the crap he’s been through?

You nestled into his arms, "I missed you too, Choji. It feels good to be home." You took a deep breath, calming yourself as you looked at him. The sincerity in his pupils—the trademark puppy eyes—melted away your initial shock, and you sighed. “It’s okay, Choji. I’m happy to see you. I’ve missed you too. I’m sorry about not telling you earlier.”

Choji’s eyes that were so bright widened with guilt, his hands still hovering as if unsure whether to reach out again. His expression softened, and a grin from ear to ear spread across his face. “I promise, no more sneaking up on you,” he said, a hint of his playful nature returning. “I just wanted to make your homecoming special.”

You smiled, reaching out to take his hand. “Well, it definitely was something different.”

He pulled you into another hug, this time more gentle, and you could feel the tension melting away from both of you. “Welcome back,” he whispered, his voice filled with warmth and love. “I’m so glad you’re here. But don’t ever disappear without telling me next time, please~!”

You could hear him pouting, making you laugh. And as his arms spread wide, welcoming you in, you lightly scoffed at Choji’s antics before immediately entering them.

You threaded your fingers through his soft, curly locks of hair, brushing his bangs out of his eyes as he smiled contentedly.

“Yes, yes, I promise.”

©hxnbi. comments, reblogs, and likes are always appreciated ♡

Words cannot explain how perfect this man is

I love you, my darling. Why can’t you see it?

pairing. mitsuya x gender neutral! reader

cw. none, fluff, sweet, hurt/comfort, reader kinda goes through a panic attack. lil suggestive at end, so 16+ are free to interact!

summary. you never feel enough for him. (mitsuya disagrees because he thinks the both of you are like puzzle pieces that have been missing for too long, have stayed too far from each other for too long. he likes how you fit in to his life, snug as a glove).

wc. 1.7k

notes. something i wrote for @kodzucafe’s “a safe space” collab! i had fun writing, solace beloved! and i really did put myself in reader’s shoes and wrote down what i wanted to hear while i was going through a breakdown, which is funny to me bc i originally planned for at least 500 words of fluff, yet here we are. i could not shut up for the life of me and it just kept going on and on. but to anyone who’s been feeling down and undeserving lately, you don’t know how precious you are, do you? me and mitsuya are coming for your hearts with this one. hope you enjoy!

tagging. @festive - this precious bby beta read this mess! @rindove - i hope you enjoy avon bc i wrote this w/ one of our unfortunate flaws in mind and i think you’d get it bestie <3

It’s a little dark out.

The sun peeks just beyond the horizon, lighting up the sky in dark orange hues that make the clouds stand out in their ripples and waves.

The last strands of light hit Mitsuya perfectly, painting him in this fuzzy orange-red tint that makes him glow, highlighting his finer features like his cheekbones, the slim slope of his nose, the almost sleepy tilt of his droopy eyes, and the soft, whispy lines of his eyelashes that kiss the gentle curve of his cheeks.

You have to rub your eyes to make sure the halo around his head isn’t real.

Mitsuya’s sketching something in his designer notebook, crumpled pages of discarded designs litter his desk, the cup of tea you made a few hours ago long forgotten and cold. “Don’t move too much, can’t draw you that way.” Mitsuya mumbles, looking up from time to time as his pencil darts all over the page.

You pause in the position you’re lounging in, stopping yourself from crossing your legs. A book rests face-down on your lap, and you settle for leaving your legs outstretched.

Everything in this moment is beautiful and domestic, Mitsuya’s studio paints a pretty picture as the both of you bask in the remaining hour of sunlight, as the both of you revel in each other’s presence.

Well, at least on Mitsuya’s part, he looks peaceful, but you on the other hand are anything but relaxed or content.

(Because insecurities linger in your head like a pesky tumor.)

Mitsuya’s so pretty, you think. From his kind eyes to his silver-black hair and his caring, nurturing habits. It almost makes you think that you don’t deserve him. Surely someone more attractive, interesting and stable can keep him happy and in love.

Something that you don’t have—you’re always lacking in some way, never complete.

And it’s so apparent at this moment. When he’s working, for something he dearly loves, and you’re over here sulking and thinking and procrastinating, deadlines and work sneaking up on you.

(God, why can’t you ever finish things. Why do they always pile up and multiply, leaving you as the pathetic failure that you are.)

Your mind runs and turns, doing backflips and gymnastics. It leaves you hanging when you need it most for simple, simple instructions, and it always pauses, stuck in an infinite loop that never ends and never moves on. It’s like your brain doesn’t comprehend skipping over the bump in the road to continue on to more important matters and it’s just so fucking—

“Breathe for me, baby.”

Ugly heaving sounds are filling the room, and it takes you a second to realize that it’s coming from you.

It takes you a second more to realize that you can’t breathe.

Mitsuya is by your side rubbing tiny circles into the hunch of your back, trying to straighten it out, trying to stop it from compressing into itself, trying to get you to breathe. Calm down. It’s not that serious. Just breathe. Can you not even do something as simple as that?

When your breathing doesn’t slow down and evolves into gasping sobs, fat droplets of salty tears sliding down your swelling cheeks, he hugs you, tears soaking unfortunately into the shoulder of his sweater. It’s silent as Mitsuya strokes your back, the calm, rhythmic thump thump thumps of his heart guiding yours into matching his.

You take deep breaths to try and calm yourself down, for the most part it worked—however little hiccups still remained. “Do you feel better now?” A stroke of your back and a hum. “You wanna tell me why you’re crying, love?” Mitsuya pulls back with a small smile, wiping your tears away with his thumb.

You take a moment to organize your thoughts.

The feeling of incompetence, the slow build up of your work, the procrastination you set yourself up to all the time, the insecurities of not being good enough for Mitsuya, who never rushes you and waits, still good to you, always good to you, even now.

But the feeling of not being enough is what rushes the floodgates of your tears again.

“I feel useless and like I don’t deserve you.” That’s what ends up leaving your lips in a small whisper, bouts of hiccups echoing in the small space between you, but he still feels so far away.

Mitsuya’s smile starts to fade.

“I’m forgetful, and so stupid sometimes, and you have to repeat yourself for me all the time, and I never do anything right—I never do you right.” You’re huffing by the time you’re done, breathing that all out in one go.

“Is that it?” You take a second to think over everything that’s been plaguing your mind for the past few hours you’ve been cooped up in here with him, you nod your head. “Good, now it’s my turn.”

Mitsuya’s grip on you tightens just a little, never enough to hurt you—never, he wouldn’t dare dream of it either—but just enough to let you know that he’s serious, and that he won’t allow you to brush anything off because he means all of it.

“You’re not stupid, baby. You just need a bit more time to process things, and that’s okay. Because I’d gladly give you all of my time, so take your time when you talk. I wanna hear everything your pretty head has to say.” He kisses your forehead, then a peck on the lips to seal the deal.

“I don’t mind that you’re forgetful. Doesn’t matter if I sound like a broken record sometimes because I’d rather you be peaceful and eased, even if some things slip through the cracks of your beautiful mind.” He murmurs above your head, chin resting on the lovely bundle of nerves and cells, your hair soft to the touch on his jaw.

“And don’t say you feel incompetent or enough for me because you’re all I’ve imagined wanting and more, perfect and mine, and don’t you even think that you’re not pretty.” Mitsuya pulls back again, walking over to his desk to grab his sketchbook.

He takes a moment looking over the sketch with fond eyes that swivel around, before pausing and walking back to you.

“Can someone not beautiful and stunning—can someone that’s not you, you—get me to make a design like this?” Mitsuya turns the book around, and his eyes shine when he says, “This is all you. I made this with you in mind.”

Rough strokes of a body donning a sleek, baggy coat, beige pants, and a shiny pair of black shoes lie on the page. Sewed roses and little decorative pins stick out of the coat, a pink bow tied at the collar, a pretty beret resting comfortably at the head, and dangly silver earrings with rose quartz stones that sit prettily next to a pair of jaws similar to your own.

In fact, everything in the outfit are colors that Mitsuya’s told you would look good on you, would make your appearance pop, if you wore them. Expensive and cozy and stylish, this outfit is divine. It’s right up your alley.

“So tell me again that you’re not beautiful. Tell me again that I deserve someone better because I don’t. I already have the best, wouldn't want anyone else.” Mitsuya softly strokes your cheek, the love in his eyes so bright, so caring—almost as if he was handling fragile glass that could shatter at any moment—you break out into tears a third time, burying your head in the concave of his chest, arms wrapping around you like a warm, fuzzy blanket.

(You’ve never been so loved before. Your heart almost hurts with how much Mitsuya gives you.)

“It’s messy in here, feel stuffy just looking at everything. Maybe we should call it a day and clean up, and when we’re done, we can cook dinner. With some candles and nice music in the back. And we can eat while watching those ghibli movies you love.” Mitsuya’s soft rumble of a voice purrs in his chest, right where you rest your head, the beat of his heart, the smell of your shared detergent and freshener mixed with his crisp cologne is something that finally, once and for all, calms you down.

You’re home, after all—Mitsuya is your home.

Mitsuya loves you so much that he feels a little sick sometimes.

When you’re away, he’s distraught that you’re not with him, and even in the same room, within the same space, he wants you closer, close enough that you fill the empty space beside him, hoping it’s never empty again. He likes how you slot into his side like a missing puzzle piece, your face snug in his neck, your body molding into his, and his arms hooking perfectly into your waist.

He also likes how he fills in missing pieces of yourself, so much that it’s perfect. You’re perfect for him, he doesn’t understand why you can’t see it. He doesn’t understand how you don’t see the way he smiles whenever you’re in sight, how hugging you heals his tired, aching bones from days of hard work, how you don’t feel his heart beating so loud sometimes or how it slows down into content happiness, how you don’t feel the sparks of electricity when you kiss, when you touch.

You and him fall into each other easily, hand in hand, side by side, heart to heart, and like two hands grabbing for each other until they’re finally intertwined.

why can’t you see that?

He doesn’t mind that you’re forgetful or a little air-headed sometimes, like you always worry about, because he reminds you anyways, all the time. You don’t ever need to worry about anything again, now that he’s in your life—and he intends to stay.

He’ll fight tooth and nail if he has to, he’ll keep fighting even when you give up, if he has to.

So how can he not love you? When all of these tiny things about you make his heart fill with so much love he feels it’ll explode?

How can he not, when you complete him? Seeping into the crevices of his flaws and weaknesses like a half-full glass finally being filled.

(But it’s fine. He’ll remind you again and again through each caress of your body that he commits to memory. He’ll tell you over and over again as he kisses your bare skin, mumbling and grunting his praises, worshiping you like a follower to a god, following after you like a bee to sweet nectar. He’ll do all that if he has to because you are worth it.)

cw//‼️spoilers from Loki the Series‼️curse words ahead‼️ grammatical errors (English is not my first language, I apologize)‼️

Just finished watching Loki episode 1. Yeeyy.. honestly, I am exhausted. Just from the first few minutes, I was already reading up because of all the clips I've watched. I knew for a fact that something angsty was gonna come blowing sand at in my eyes.

And I was right.

Seeing Loki just so, oh God how do I describe this? Uh, confused? Torn? Idk honestly, but that expression alone made me cry. When he kept asking what kind of place was TVA, I felt a little heartache. And when he saw how his mother died–FUCK. I couldn't stop myself from sobbing my heart out. He was in pain. And it fucking hurts through the screen.

I just wanna know; what's so important about the titles as a 'hero' and as a 'villain'. What made people think, that if you save someone then you're automatically a hero. I just don't understand really. I wanna know how these titles were created and what makes these two words so different. In fact, in my opinion they're not that different at all.

Remember the saying: "A villain is just a victim whose story hasn't been told."? I wholeheartedly believe that. I can't find myself to immediately dislike someone who is labelled as a 'villain'. And I also can't find myself to like someone labelled as a 'hero'. At least, not until their stories have been told. Everyone has their stories. Whether they're unfinished, scattered, hidden, ending or just starting.

I absolutely love your writing style and choice of words😭😭 whenever you write scara or do a a character study he sounds like a loser lmao (in a good way-)

Thank you, dear anon! Your kind message inspired me to write a proper response (I haven’t done this in ages), so do forgive me for wasting your time on reading it! ❤️🙏

I think “loser” is a pretty accurate word to describe Scaramouche. He never gets what he wants, being either robbed of something he had spilled his own blood and tears to finally seize or prescribed to experience the underwhelming and unsatisfying results of his seemingly “successful” goals. In my humble opinion, it’s the latter that makes Scaramouche such a tragic character. In the end, he wasn’t even allowed to escape from the painful reality of living with the fact that he had spent almost five centuries believing in absolute lies and subjecting himself to blatant manipulations. He was denied the right to commit what the game essentially implied to be a suicide in the name of “correcting his mistakes”, and to someone as wilful yet fragile in terms of ego as he, having to continue existing in Teyvat and actually face the consequences of his actions instead of “quitting in a quick and beautiful fashion” is the cruelest but sobering punishment one could invent and execute against already broken and humiliated individual whose unyielding convictions were shattered by the sudden revelation.

In short, Scaramouche is a complete failure of a person (and deep down he knows it). It’s only natural that you, the “Reader” character, won’t be happy with his pre!Wanderer version — after all, you are the prisoner of his flawed mentality. His imperfections (hidden self-hatred and prejudices included) are too sharp to be smoothed, let alone to be rid of. They leave no room for improvements to be made to the cage you are placed in, depriving him of the pleasure of hearing you sing for him. A bird without a voice is a pathetic sight to behold, and there is nothing he can do about it other than activating his usual defense mechanisms and blaming you for not succumbing to his childish whims. He will be inclined to think that you deserve to have your wings clipped because... there certainly must be an urgent justification for making you miserable, right?

But he won’t be happy either with the outcome. Despite a certain amount of sadistic glee produced, your suffering won’t be considered a victory on his part. It doesn’t matter what kind of feelings you harbor towards Scaramouche — you may desire or loathe him, whatever. It’s he who is the sole problem here; to be precise, it’s his tendency to constantly contradict himself that really dooms your already unhealthy relationship. After all, you are no mind reader, so how would you know that Lord Scaramouche’s disdain for you was born out of his bizarre interpretation of how love works? How would you know that The Balladeer’s despicable demeanor has a complex layer to it? How would you deduce the discarded puppet hurts you because his guts twist at the thought of him — of all people — behaving in a genuinely nice manner?

He wants you to love him, truly, for even failed tools can long for the taste of intimacy. But he also has a burning hatred for seeing the sincere joy of another, himself included. As such, those mutually exclusive feelings constantly clash with each other — if he can’t just dream of that sweet fairy-tale nonsense without a feeling of revulsion, then he is not worthy of it at all. By this logic, the fault is yours alone (for causing him to malfunction, of course) and you are not worthy, too.

Scaramouche is being difficult because there is no other option for him to take – he simply can’t see alternatives. His preferred method of coping with the trauma is lashing out at those few pleasant things in his life and destroying them, therefore prematurely declaring his defeat. It’s as if he aims for it on purpose... or is in strong denial of his neglected need to be loved, thus unconsciously choosing the most crooked and thorny path.

Predictably, this path will lead him to an impasse. As long as he keeps refusing to admit he still has the capacity to feel himself human, he will never win. He is the creation of Eternity, the puppet made by the hands of the embodiment of everlasting stagnation; enthralled by false beliefs, he won’t reconsider them at his current state of being. Your humanity, on the other hand, gifts you the ability to endure, adapt, change, and ultimately prevail – a feat not eligible to his infinitely tolerant body. You have the advantage of possessing a spirit free of the constraints of an artificial creature and a mindset of agile properties – in other words, all roads are open for you to explore to your heart’s content.

Scaramouche, however, has only one. He shall remain a dedicated worshipper of the stale idée fixe until enough force – a force of source almost divine – is applied to his stubborn self. You don’t hold such power, but at least you will always find a way to escape the horror of cohabitating with him. Yet he… He will haunt the same repeated trail in a vain attempt to prove to the world and everyone living in it that his decision to torment you (and himself) was never wrong. Only time shall eventually show him the downsides of the narrative he has been obsessing over and point out the obvious inconsistencies, and until then…

Until then, he will never ever beat you. But will you still be here to laugh at him once he realizes that he never had the slightest chance of putting your king in checkmate from the very beginning?

It is a question you must resolve yourself. By then, his intervening whisper won’t entice you anymore; by then…

You will be the one to pull on the unlucky doll’s strings.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ we're just friends! (or are we?) w/ the wind breaker boys ✧⋆⭒˚｡

✿ featuring: hajime umemiya, jo togame, haruka sakura, hayato suo, ren kaji ✿ fluff, mutual pining, hidden feelings (aaaa), suggestive for suo, a lil angst (with comfort) for kaji ✿ a/n: i guess by now everyone can tell that i’m very into the friends to lovers trope ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა~♡ it’s def my fav!!! and these wb bois are all perfect friend material, and ofc boyfriend material too! enjoy, cuties! ✿ wc: 2.3k

— you have a closely intimate friendship to the point that everyone around you thinks you two are dating, though you know you're not lovers (yet), but are definitely more than just friends.

ʚɞ umemiya 

— sharing hello and goodbye kisses with each other.

ꕤ you and umemiya are the definition of 'affectionate', as your love languages both consist of physical touch. but maybe with each other, a little bit too much for just friends.

ꕤ the word "boundaries" did not exist to the both of you once you were within arm's reach of each other. you and umemiya give each other hello and goodbye hugs, sometimes cheek and forehead kisses, as a greeting, right? to be friendly. though he doesn't seem to do that as often to other people, or at all, even. just to you. only to you. 

ꕤ he also loves cuddling up to you whenever he takes a nap on the rooftop, inviting you to join him in picking out some veggies that you two could make a meal together with.

ꕤ while you two were cooking together, you definitely gave off a 'married couple' vibe with the way you held the ladle up for umemiya to taste, the way he had pressed his palm to your back whenever he needed to pass through, the way he fed you with his own spoon and giggling while complimenting how delicious your cooking was, the way he wrapped his arms around you and hummed while he helped you wash the dishes. anyone who saw would have immediately bid their congratulations and would think you two are newlyweds.

ꕤ hiragi took one look at the both of you appearing all lovey-dovey, and the confusion of whether you two were dating or not made his stomach scrunch up in pain. 

ꕤ umemiya calls you such adorable names when referring to you in conversation, too. his tiny bean, his ray of sunshine, his cherry blossom, it was always "his", as if you belonged to him. he was openly affectionate with you and was not afraid to show it.

ꕤ many guys also took a liking to you, but never attempted to even make a move or confess, because they were already under the assumption that you were umemiya's, seeing you two playing with each other's fingers and comparing hand sizes like you were made for each other. but how could that be, you and umemiya were just friends, weren't you?

ʚɞ suo 

— you get a special seat (on his lap).

ꕤ suo just can't seem to keep his eyes and his hands off of you. you always have to be within his vicinity, or he's not sure how he'll be able to stand it. 

ꕤ he sees you at the corner of his eye, after you have made your way back from the restroom. you and the other bofurin first years were at an izakaya, and the moment you returned, all of their eyes were glued to you and suo, as if they already knew something was going to ensue. you two have been friends for a long time, but the way you acted towards each other felt like you two have been lovers for a long time.

ꕤ suo was always up in your space, whether its pulling random pranks on you, inviting you to go out then paying for everything even though you tried to stop him (nothing can stop suo), visiting your home and leaving an endless supply of tea enough to last you a whole year - his excuse being it's there for whenever he comes over, and multiple instances which all prove that suo was no doubt a very clingy friend. not that you minded, anyway. you were used to suo and his antics.

ꕤ he had his ways of persuading you too (he is the master of negotiation, after all), and you just couldn't resist him, as you loved being around suo just as much. 

ꕤ this time, he took advantage of your short absence and made himself comfortable in your chair, and wouldn't even move an inch. "hayato, that's my seat!" you exclaimed. "hm?" suo tilts his head. "you can just sit on my lap, then." he smiles, with that damn mischievous smile you know all too well. you tried to get him to move by gently pushing him back and forth but suo seemed to not have a care in the world. 

ꕤ you can't tell whether suo is serious or joking sometimes, but nirei and sakura seems to have their doubts that you two are "just friends" as you both claim.  "are you sure the two of you aren't dating?" nirei asks you. sakura blushes and lets you know his thoughts, too. "y-yeah...! you two are unusually close!" you always reply to them with an astounding "no!" but suo just laughs and does not affirm nor deny any of their claims. 

ꕤ suo pulls you in close, making you sit on his lap regardless of your little outburst, and you weren't sure if it was hot in the izakaya, or if it's just you, but you certainly felt warmth overcome your body while it was pressed flush against his, his arms wrapped around your waist nonchalantly. "hayato!" you protested, trying to squirm your way out of his grasp, and pushing away all intrusive thoughts about his and your bottom halves being so close together, only separated by thin pieces of clothing.

ꕤ nirei, the most observant of the bunch (next to suo), points out that you even call suo by his first name, and that's another one of the reasons why you two seem like you're dating. 

ꕤ with suo, everything seems to be a mystery. but in suo's perspective, it's all clear. he loves you, whether it's as a friend or as a lover, that's for him to know and for you to find out. 

ʚɞ togame 

— leaves everyone on read except you.

ꕤ togame just doesn't understand why people need to type out what they want to say, aren't calls more personalized? he didn't understand at all, until he met you.

ꕤ you were, to put it directly, a chatterbox in all forms. you loved to talk, regardless if it's chats, calls, or in person, you just yapped your heart out to him everytime, and he lives for it. he wouldn't miss a second of you opening your mouth and giving him a taste of your innermost thoughts. he absolutely adored talking to you, because it was you, and you were special to him.

ꕤ the shishitoren guys thought it was so funny and adorable whenever togame picks up his phone so quickly because he thought it was you calling, then scowls when he realizes it isn't, and immediately silences it and shoves it back in his pocket. this caused him to set a different ringtone just for you, so he could pick up on the very first ring.

ꕤ you were also the first reply he ever sent via sms, a simple "ok" to your long message talking about how you thought it was amazing that he won the town's annual eating contest for many consecutive years in a row and that you were totally ready to challenge him next year by stuffing your face with okonomiyaki and invited togame to join you and have some with you so you could keep an eye on the competition. he found your personality totally amusing, his face immediately lighting up with a gentle smile whenever you sent him messages.

ꕤ anyone who sees how happy he is while he rereads your texts over and over would interpret that as togame being totally, irrevocably, head over heels in love with you.

ꕤ he doesn't actually reply to anyone at all ever, but he wanted to share all his firsts with you, he just couldn't help it. you were captivating, witty in your words, and very very charismatic, bombarding him with the cutest and funniest messages everyday. of course, he doesn't mind at all and is always looking forward to them.

ꕤ you two stay on calls for longer than eight hours at a time talking about how each other's day went, and yet you wonder why people always think you two are dating. normal friends don't stay up until the break of dawn chattering for hours on end, expressing all the things they like about each other, do they? at least togame knows he wouldn't do it with anyone that wasn't you, as he valued his precious sleep time dearly, but as time went on, you became more precious and more dear to him than his sleep time ever could.

ʚɞ kaji 

— play fighting like an old married couple.

ꕤ kaji is the type to never go down without a fight. needless to say, that also applies to you. but your fights with him were different, more banter adjacent, more affectionate and playful. only lasting for a few minutes.

ꕤ kaji had a huge soft spot for you, as even though you did irritate the heck out of him sometimes, somehow he still could not stay angry or annoyed at you for more than one second. he just couldn't resist the way you crossed your arms and huffed with your cute little frown. he thought you were the most adorable angry little thing he's ever seen and wanted to pinch your cheeks out of cuteness aggression and frustration, but he would never say it to your face.

ꕤ one time, you two had a heated argument because he said he could hear you just fine but wouldn't bother to take off his headphones. you argued that it was impolite and that you won't talk to him at all anymore if he does that again, and you two were at each other's throats, giving one another a piece of your mind, until kaji mutters a 'sorry', and you began to sob uncontrollably and let him hold you in his arms while he stroked your hair to comfort you because you two couldn't stand the intensity and tension of being angry at each other for long.

ꕤ you had your less serious fights too, like when you made him a bento box for lunch and you two had a picnic together with his vice captains. you fed him the food with your chopsticks, kaji teasing you by saying "it's bland." and you reasoning out that kaji was 'as salty as his tastebuds'. kaji then asked you if you wanted to have 'a taste of his fists', which ended up with kusumi and enomoto snickering in the background wishing that the both of you would just date each other already.

ꕤ whenever you two argued, your faces were so close to one another's that you were just a few centimeters shy from kissing, the tip of your noses touching. kaji had to hold himself back, a lot. like an insane amount. friends didn't want to kiss and make out with their friends, right? but kaji did. and you did too.

ꕤ his way of apologizing is by suddenly leaving a lollipop with you. he puts them in your bag, or places them in your pocket while you weren't looking. it was his little peace offering, one that you treasured and collected, accumulating dozens of them by your bedside table. kaji would gladly give up his last lollipop for you, and no one could argue otherwise.

ʚɞ sakura 

— blushing wildly whenever you two are around each other.

ꕤ you and sakura always looked like you two were having a blushing competition. the littlest touches and the most minimal contact had both of your cheeks heating up in response.

ꕤ it was like sakura's blushing was contagious. ever since you two became good friends (if you could call it that, though it seemed to be more than that at times), being around him triggered a whole bunch of embarrassing and hilarious but sweet situations.

ꕤ you once dragged sakura off to his very first cherry blossom viewing in the park, and needless to say, with both of you being a chaotic (but cute) duo, it kind of felt like you were on a wild rollercoaster ride with him. 

ꕤ you took a stolen photo of sakura while he was mesmerized by the falling pink petals. you thought he looked adorable, but sakura thought otherwise. he was a blushing mess and told you to delete them, but you said they were cute and that you were going to make it your wallpaper. 

ꕤ sakura chased after you, and tripped over a stray cherry blossom branch, leaving you two in quite a suggestive position, sakura on top of you, pinning your wrist down with his hand. your cheeks were as pink as the cherry blossoms, and tried as you might, you couldn't keep your eyes off his lips. friends don't observe their friends with wanting eyes, do they? 

ꕤ suo and nirei instantly noticed how huge of a klutz you were around sakura. they also noticed how curious sakura was about you, always (not so subtly) asking nirei how much he knew about you, or your likes and dislikes, then asked him not to tell you that he asked about you. but suo told you instead, because they were your biggest supporters and cheerleaders (and biggest shippers, of course) after all. 

ꕤ on sakura's birthday, they made you hold the cake and surprise him, which was a huge mistake, because before it could even reach him, you slipped and fell over him. luckily, sakura had good reflexes and was able to catch you before you completely toppled over. some of the smushed cake ended up on his and your face, which you tried to wipe off as you apologized, but sakura dipped his finger onto the icing that got on your cheek and licked his finger. "t-the cake's not bad, i guess..." he looked away from your smiling face as you greeted him happy birthday in a sing-song tune.

ꕤ suo, being a menace, greeted sakura happy birthday as well as gave him a 'best wishes to the happy couple' greeting card, that sakura threw back at him like it had a virus on it. 

ꕤ sakura definitely had a memorable birthday that year, but now that he thought about it, all of his memories that were memorable to him had one thing in common: you were in all of them. you, the greatest gift he could ever ask for on any and every occasion. 

© kajibunny 2024 / all rights reserved

Banished

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason misses his girlfriend

warnings: extremely mild angst, he’s just mopey (he’s fine)

Jason sits slumped over the kitchen island, head lying in his crossed arms. His now soggy cereal disregarded after barely a few bites.

Dick’s been rummaging through the cabinets for the better part of twenty minutes while Tim has sat atop of the nook table shoving donuts in his mouth for the better part of thirty.

Damian trudges into the room, past them and onto the nook bench, taking out a knife and beginning to whittle away at a block of wood.

He glances at Jason with a scowl. “If you’re going to be so miserable, can’t you do it in your own home?”

Jason just grunts.

He wishes. You and Bruce had conspired to trap him at the mansion for the week so he could heal from injuries sustained during the last mission without risk of him suiting up and sneaking away from you in the middle of the night.

But it’s not even the fact that he’s basically being babysat that’s got him so disgruntled. He secretly wouldn’t really mind it at all if you were here too. But you were dead set that the manor was too far out of your way for work, so you’d stayed behind. A lose-lose for Jason.

“He’s just mad his girlfriend kicked him out,” Dick teases, swiping through the fridge.

Tim snorts from the doorway, “Me too. He’s a lot more depressing on his own.”

Jason keeps his head down as he blindly reaches for the spoon in his cereal and chucks it at Tim’s head.

Tim catches it without thought, continuing, “A lot more irritable, at least. Why isn’t she here?”

“She’s gotta work,” Dick says, scanning through the pantry.

Damian peeps his head up from his project. “But Todd has a rather large supply of less than legally obtained money, does he not?”

“Yeah, but she said she wants to pay her own rent, I think,” Dicks hums, finally giving up on his quest for a snack.

Damian pauses.

“So she wants to live in a tiny apartment?” He asks, a mixture of confused and horrified.

“Watch your mouth,” Jason mumbles.

“It was a genuine question!” Damian protests, face screwed up.

Jason finally lifts his head up, turning to his little brother with a raised brows. “And I’m genuinely going to break your nose.”

It’s an empty threat, maybe. But it was enough to shut Damian up anyways. Jason turns back to his cereal and swishes the bowl around.

Dick rests his arms on the counter across from Jason and speaks lowly. “You know, it is just a few days. She’s coming back.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Jason was never one for showing his feelings—let alone talking about them.

He misses you, plain and simple. Dick could see that much clearly, though the longing looked unfamiliar on Jason.

Bruce lingers in the hallway, just past the island, listening.

He’ll admit (to himself) that he’s worried about Jason. It’s been three days and Jason has yet to show a crack in this demeanor. And while it’s not uncommon for him to stow himself away, there is something quite wrong with the way he hasn’t countered his brother’s jabs at him or teased them.

And while he could do without the blatant threats, he’s proud to hear his son defending his girlfriend, even over trivial things. It’s one of the few moments where he feels like he did right by him as a father.

And now here’s his son, caring about someone else more than he cares about himself. Someone who’s a good person, no less. It had been your idea to trick Jason into staying at the manor, you were scared that he would push his body past its limit when you couldn’t do anything to help.

Bruce knew you didn’t feel great about basically banishing him for the week but he could see that you just wanted what was best for Jason. He could see it so clearly. Maybe Bruce could never have been a perfect father, could never have given his son everything he needed despite having more money than he could ever use. Maybe he couldn’t help him, even now.

But you could.

Bruce peers around the corner, leaning up against the doorframe.

He watches Damian give up on carving at his block and start into the leg of the table.

He watches the bickering that broke out after Tim grab the last glazed donut, which was apparently the only thing Dick could possibly fathom eating.

And he watches Jason.

As Jason’s phone lights up on the counter next to him. He glances down at it with a frown before his face absolutely lights up.

He scrambles to pick the phone up and starts typing away. A quiet action that catches the attention of all of his brothers.

He types and types, waits for ten seconds for a response and types and types again—smile on his face.

The Waynes didn’t need to be the greatest detectives in the world to know who he was texting.

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