Im So Inlove W This Guy. Hes Funny, Generally Effortlessly Funny Too, Hes Got A Devil Fruit, AND He Can

i need more batboys x reader fics. if only i’m good at writing and english then i would’ve already made a fanfic 💔💔

fun fact, i haven’t read their comics not even a peek at them and i’ve already real oneshots, headcanons, and x reader fanfics w them. guilty 💔

Boyfriend texts with Tim please cause your writing is literally perf!

TIM DRAKE + BOYFRIEND TEXTS.

note : hope this lives up to what you were hoping !!! i have a lot of fun with these but at the same time it's so tricky trying to come up with scenarios 💀💀

➤ find something worth saving (it's all for the taking) CHAPTER LIST

✓ COMPLETED

← back to main masterlist

official playlist!

You find yourself suddenly thrown into a universe where the silly characters in the comics you read are real, living people. Now, you have to find a way back home, so try not to get distracted by all the characters you had a crush on growing up, or the fact that you know far too much about pretty much everybody. (And definitely don't think about how this means your life is probably a comic book in another universe.)

(jon kent x gn!reader x damian wayne, reader is a spider-man variant, read it on ao3)

1. we're not in kansas anymore

2. spidey luck (good or bad? you'll never know) 

3. debut 

4. way down we go 

5. good old-fashioned lover boy

6. make out fake out

7. inhibition (or lack there of)

8. connections

9. warmth

10. never wound what you can't kill

11. down came the rain and washed the spider out

12. picture perfect

13. back to our regularly schedule programming

14. please please please (let me get what i want)

15. and the world kept spinning

16. long awaited

17. home

18. the talk(s)

19. intertwined, sewn together

EPILOGUE: saturn

GHOST OR BAT?

pairing. batfam + ghostmaker x ghostbat!reader

summary. reader is a dna mix of ghostmaker and batman.

warnings. ghostbat drama, Minhkhoa Khan, I’m confused, cursing, canon typical violence.

a/n. I am bored out of my mind, might become a mini series. That I just randomly add stuff to. The mask referred to is kinda like Jason’s from red hood and the outlaw just minus the eye cover.

wc. 0.8k (not proofread)

You kept to your spot beside Talia, staying alert to the people in front of you. Batman and his children, plus Ghostmaker. You remembered reading up on each of them, studying all of them.

You eyes were focused on the oldest of the Batkids, Dick Grayson. He’d be your biggest problem, the man was severely underestimated but in Talia’s eyes he’d be the most capable assassin if he wanted to.

Cassandra Cain, you knew her. You fought her, you looked different then though, and by her stance you assumed she hadn’t connected the dots but she remained watching you.

Jason Todd, you helped train him. Never with your mask off, and you never spoke. Only ever instructed to fight him till he learnt.

Tim Drake. Held in high regard among the league, with smarts to match that of Batman’s. But not much of a problem, you’d have no problem with him.

Your eyes glided over to the youngest of the bunch, Damian. You’d die before letting your blade touch him, and he’d hesitate before raising his against you. He didn’t know you truely, you didn’t even know yourself truely. But he knew you’ve protected him.

Behind your mask you glared at the tallest two in the room. But your hands kept the same elegant hold on your swords, like Talia taught you.

Batman, Bruce Wayne. The world’s greatest detective. Truthfully you’ve always wanted to fight him, see how long you’d last, see if you could take him down. But that wasn’t going to happen unless he attacked, and he wouldn’t. He was smarter than that.

You glanced at the man in white, face masked so his expression remained covered. Minhkhoa Khan, the Ghostmaker. Not much was known about him, but the League of Assassins or anyone for that matter. He’d be the most unpredictable, you think.

“Mother,” Damian addressed the woman beside you. You remained stationary as she walked towards her son, brow raised in slight alarm as you stepped closer hesitantly, watching the others.

Damian moved through the crowd of his siblings to step before his mother, they greeted before he nodded to you, acknowledging your presence.

“Dear,” Talia called to you, she’d never used your name, saying that it was your secret to reveal so she only ever called you ‘dear’.

“You may speak,” she sighed softly, a strange softness in her voice. But you ignored it and nodded in response, she turned to the crowd of vigilantes.

“I suggest your other children leave,” Talia says. “The matter I’ve come to discuss is… personal. In a sense.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes at the assassin woman before nodding, earning a groan from each of his children, who begrudgingly walked away towards the stairs that lead back to the manor.

“Damian stay,” Talia ordered, the boy halted his movements and stepped to his father’s side.

Now the room remained with five people in it. Ghostmaker, Batman, Damian, Talia and you.

“I have some rather—“

“Disturbing,” you offered, voice distorted due to your mask. Khoa raised a brow at the robotic voice, good way to keep yourself hidden.

“Yes,” she nodded. “This child,” she motioned to you. “Happens to be a mix of the two of you.” She then motioned to Bruce and Khoa. Both of whom stared at you in response.

“Disturbing, all right.” Khoa murmured to himself, watching you, analysing you. Though he couldn’t be too surprised, considering Damian Wayne.

Bruce glared at you, “you’re lying.”

“I wish,” you scoffed, glaring back at him. Your eyes shadowed by your hood, and voice distorted by the mask that only covered the lower half of your face.

—

The three of you stood in silence after Damian and Talia left the room, neither of you looking at each other.

“You’re sick,” Bruce mutters, glaring at Talia before pointing at you.

“The child is a wonder of science, if anything i did you both a favour.” Talia shrugs, Bruce raising a brow in response.

“Enlighten me.”

“Think, a child with both your skills. The perfect weapon,” Talia replies. Khoa nods slightly, thinking it through, the perfect weapon.

“So, how many kills, kid?” Khoa speaks up, causing you to shift your gaze to Talia who nods.

“I don’t count them, they’re insignificant to me.” You mutter, detached, Bruce thinks, just like Khoa.

The Ghostmaker nods in understanding, as if he were impressed with the answer. “Smart girl.”

“Why did you come here? I doubt you were doing anyone a favour by exposing your secret.” Bruce asks Talia.

“I need you to look after her, i will be gone for a while. And i don’t trust my father with her, and i don’t trust her not to try and kill him again. She’ll be here also to watch over Damian.”

“Why?” Bruce presses, and Talia doesn’t bother answering as she’s already gone

All eyes turn to you, watching you as intently as you watched each of them. Now what?

© e-nonsense. do no copy/steal/translate. do it and I’ll bite your toes off

†  this damn city : various.

♦ request: yes "I know this whole damn city thinks it needs you But not as much as I do" ♦ a/n: i am fucking exhausted, half dead at this desk. i will post a soft thing after this and then i will crash.

𝐃𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 —

the fight starts the way they always do; small, sharp, a slow burn before the explosion.

it’s late. too late. gotham is still awake but the manor is quiet, the kind of silence that feels too heavy, too charged. dick had come home long enough to shower, long enough to breathe, but not long enough to stay.

because he never stays. because gotham always calls. because the city is bleeding and there are people who need him and there is always another crisis, another fight, another broken piece of this city that needs fixing-

and you’re tired. god, you’re so tired.

“you don’t have to go back out,” you say, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching him pull on his suit again, watching him disappear by degrees.

dick exhales, running a hand through still-damp hair before grabbing his mask from the table. his voice is even, calm, practiced. "there’s something going down in the east end. i won’t be long."

you scoff. you’ve heard that before.

you watch him move, the ease in which he shifts between roles, between the man you know and the mask he wears for the world. it’s seamless now, second nature. like the line between dick grayson and nightwing doesn’t exist anymore. like there is no space left for you.

“you weren’t even supposed to be patrolling tonight,” you say, the exhaustion creeping into your voice, into your bones. “but you just can’t help yourself, can you?”

dick pauses, barely. a flicker of hesitation, a fraction of a second where his shoulders tense before he straightens, rolling it off like it doesn’t matter. like it shouldn’t.

“you know how this works,” he says, too careful, too measured.

it sends something sharp through you, something raw.

“yeah,” you breathe, shaking your head. “i do.”

and that’s the problem. that’s the damn problem.

because you know how this ends.

you know that this city will always come first, that there will always be something that drags him away, something bigger, something louder, something that makes him think you’ll understand.

and you always have.

until now.

“dick,” you say, softer this time, pleading, stepping forward before he can reach for the door. “i know this whole damn city thinks it needs you. i know that.” you swallow hard, forcing yourself to breathe through the ache building in your chest, through the weight of every moment spent waiting for him to come home. “but not as much as i do.”

that stops him.

not fully, not enough to make him turn around, but enough that you see it. the shift in his stance, the hesitation, the way his fingers tighten just slightly against his mask. like maybe, just maybe, you’re reaching something that gotham never could.

you step closer, your voice quieter now, raw, aching. “i don’t want to be second to a city that will never love you back.”

dick sucks in a breath. it’s sharp, nearly invisible, the kind of inhale that only someone who knows him as well as you do would catch.

and then he turns. slowly. finally.

his eyes meet yours, stormy, unreadable, conflicted in a way that makes your stomach twist.

because for the first time, you don’t know what he’s going to say. because for the first time, you don’t know if you’re going to win this fight.

and god, that scares you more than anything.

𝐓𝐢𝐦 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞 —

you should have seen this coming.

it’s a pattern, a cycle, a never-ending loop of exhaustion and distance and the kind of silence that feels thick and suffocating instead of comfortable. tim doesn’t argue. he doesn’t fight. he just lets the space between you stretch further and further until one of you breaks.

tonight, it’s you.

"did you even sleep last night?" your voice is quieter than you intend, controlled but lined with something sharper, something raw.

tim doesn’t look up from the screen. that’s how you know he’s deflecting. his fingers move over the keyboard, eyes flickering between lines of text, cross-referencing case files, tracking patterns, searching for answers to questions that will never run out.

"i caught a couple hours," he says absently.

liar.

you inhale slowly through your nose, trying to swallow the frustration that’s been pressing against your ribs all day. "when?"

he hesitates. just slightly. just long enough that the truth slips through the cracks of his carefully rehearsed indifference.

your arms cross, your weight shifting where you stand. "that’s what i thought."

tim sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before finally glancing up at you. “what do you want me to say?”

the question knocks the breath out of you. not because it’s sharp, not because it’s cutting, but because he says it like he’s already given up. like you’re asking for something he doesn’t know how to give you.

your throat tightens. “i want you to tell me why you keep doing this to yourself.”

tim exhales slowly, turning in his chair so he can actually face you, his hands clasped between his knees, fingers locking together in that careful, calculated way of his. like he’s bracing for impact.

"this case is important," he says carefully, cautiously, the way you’d approach a bomb with only seconds left on the timer. "you know that."

you do. of course you do.

but that’s not the problem. that’s never been the problem.

the problem is that tim drake doesn’t know how to stop. the problem is that he’s spent so much time fixing gotham that he doesn’t know how to let someone take care of him. the problem is you’re trying. and he isn't.

your arms tighten around yourself, trying to hold in the weight of everything you want to say, everything you’re afraid to say. “i know this whole damn city thinks it needs you,” you whisper, quieter now, more exhausted than angry. “but not as much as i do.”

that gets him.

his whole body goes still.

the words land heavy, sinking into the spaces where all his doubts and guilt and misplaced responsibilities live. you see the shift, the barely-there hitch in his breath, the way his fingers tighten, curling into his palms.

you’ve never said it like this before.

tim swallows. his jaw locks for half a second like he’s forcing himself to stay steady. he looks at you—really looks at you. and for the first time in a long time, he sees it. the weight. the exhaustion. the way loving him is starting to hurt.

his voice comes softer this time, but somehow it still manages to shatter you. "you don’t get it," he murmurs. "i don’t have a choice."

"yes, you do." your voice wavers. "you do, tim. and you keep choosing everything else first."

silence.

it stretches. thick, heavy, suffocating.

then, quietly - "that’s not fair."

your chest tightens, something sharp pressing behind your ribs, because maybe it’s not fair, but that doesn’t make it untrue.

tim doesn’t look away. he holds your gaze, blue eyes shadowed with exhaustion, with something else you can’t quite name. because maybe - just maybe - he knows you’re right.

and if he lets himself believe that?

he might have to change.

𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝 —

fights with jason always start loud. there’s no slow burn, no gradual climb; it’s an explosion, a wildfire, something all-consuming and violent from the start.

tonight is no different.

"you’re really going back out there?" your voice is sharp, clipped, barely concealing the frustration clawing its way up your throat.

jason, standing by the door, already in his gear, his helmet hanging loosely in one hand, doesn’t even flinch. he just exhales, like he expected this, like he’s already bracing himself for the argument that’s about to unfold.

“yeah,” he says, flat, steady, unreadable.

you stare at him, your arms crossed so tightly it hurts. “for what, jason? what are you even trying to prove at this point?”

his jaw locks. just slightly. but you know him well enough to catch it, to see the way his fingers tighten around the helmet, knuckles whitening.

“you know what i do,” jason says, voice low, firm, as if he’s daring you to push him.

and oh, you push.

"yeah?" your laugh is bitter, sharp, like glass in your throat. "i know exactly what you do, jason. i just don’t understand why."

he finally looks at you, finally meets your gaze - blue eyes burning, lined with something dangerous, something that looks a hell of a lot like hurt. "you want me to spell it out for you?" his voice is rough, a growl buried under layers of exhaustion and something darker, something sharper. “this city needs someone who’s willing to do what has to be done.”

you scoff, taking a step closer, challenging. “this city doesn’t give a damn about you, jason. it never did.”

that lands. hard.

jason’s whole body goes rigid, like you just sunk a knife between his ribs. the air between you shifts, charged, electric, dangerous.

you should stop. you should stop before you say something you can’t take back.

but he’s pushing you away again, choosing gotham over you again, and you can’t-

"you died for this city once," you bite out, stepping closer, anger and heartbreak twisting together in your chest, making your breath uneven. "and it barely even mourned you."

silence.

deep, cutting, the kind that makes your stomach drop.

jason’s breath hitches - so quick, so quiet you almost miss it. his grip tightens around his helmet, the muscles in his arms tensing like he’s trying to hold himself together. and then, slowly, carefully, dangerously, he exhales.

"that’s low," he says, and his voice is steady, but you know him too well. there’s something under it. something broken.

your hands shake, but you don’t back down. “yeah? well, i’m tired of pretending like i’m okay with this, jason.”

his head tilts slightly, gaze locking onto yours. he’s reading you. picking you apart. searching for a reason to stay.

and then, in a voice quieter than you’ve ever heard from him - “then why are you still here?”

it knocks the breath from your lungs.

why are you still here?

because you love him.

because you love him so much it hurts, and he keeps making it harder.

your throat tightens, the weight of it pressing into your ribs. “i know this whole damn city thinks it needs you.” the words shake, not with anger this time, but with something softer. something wounded. “but not as much as i do.”

jason flinches. actually flinches.

his shoulders rise, then fall, like he’s forcing himself to breathe, like he’s fighting every instinct telling him to run, to disappear, to make this easier for both of you.

but he doesn’t move.

not toward the door.

not toward you.

just stands there, stuck between the life he’s built and the love he’s afraid to believe in.

and for the first time, you don’t know if he’s going to pick you.

𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 —

fights with damian are never quiet.

they are sharp, brutal, an exchange of words wielded like weapons, precision-cut to hurt just enough to leave wounds that don’t easily heal.

but tonight? tonight is different. tonight, you aren’t sure if there’s a way to fix this.

“i do not understand why you insist on making this an issue,” damian says, his tone clipped, measured, controlled but his eyes betray him. they always do.

it’s late, the clock’s hands crawling past midnight, the soft glow of the moon casting long shadows across the polished floor of the manor. damian stands near the window, arms crossed, his posture rigid, defensive. he should have already left. he should have been gone an hour ago.

but he’s still here. still standing in the thick of this fight, even though neither of you know if it has an ending.

“oh, i’m sorry,” you snap, voice lined with exhaustion, with something breaking at the edges. “i didn’t realize being upset about my boyfriend constantly choosing gotham over me was such a ridiculous concept.”

damian’s jaw tightens. his fingers flex against his arms, nails pressing faint crescents into his skin as he exhales sharply through his nose.

“i am not ‘choosing gotham,’” he says, enunciating each word like he’s daring you to challenge him. like he actually believes what he’s saying. “i have a duty to uphold.”

you laugh. a short, bitter thing, void of amusement.

“there it is,” you say, shaking your head. “the duty. the legacy. the all-important, world-ending responsibility you have to this city.. this city that barely knew you.”

damian’s lips part slightly, like he wants to argue, but for once, he doesn’t.

so you push.

because if you don’t say this now, you never will.

“you act like you owe gotham something,” you breathe, taking a step closer, challenging. “like you are bound to it in a way that no one else could possibly understand.” your chest rises and falls with each word, with each painful, cutting truth that you’ve swallowed down for too long. “but you’re not, damian. and you never were.”

his breath catches.

it’s subtle. almost imperceptible. but you catch it. you see the way his fingers twitch slightly, the way his throat bobs as he swallows down the words he wants to say - or maybe the ones he’s afraid to say.

he doesn’t respond, so you keep going.

you exhale, shaking your head. “i know this whole damn city thinks it needs you.” the words are softer now. quieter. wounded. “but not as much as i do.”

damian goes still.

completely, utterly still.

like something inside him fractured.

like something inside him is fighting to understand how someone could need him in a way gotham never could.

your throat tightens. “and you keep proving to me, every single time, that i don’t come first.”

damian doesn’t know how to lose. he doesn’t know how to fight without the goal of victory.

but this?

this feels like a fight where winning means losing you.

silence fills the space between you. it’s thick, suffocating, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on both of you like a gravity neither of you can escape.

then, in a voice so low you almost miss it; “that is not true.”

your breath catches.

damian’s jaw is locked so tight it looks like it hurts, his whole body taut, rigid, something visibly shaking beneath the surface.

“you think i do not care,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper now, but filled with something raw. “you think i do not-”

he stops.

and in that moment, you see it.

the war inside him.

the battle between who he is and who he was raised to be. between the boy who loves you and the warrior who was trained to believe love was a weakness.

damian wayne does not yield.

he does not beg.

but in this moment?

he looks at you like he’s never been more afraid of losing a fight in his life.

this request ! fem ! reader , reader has bpd , self harm mention

when you told katsuki about your bpd, his first reaction was to learn as much as possible about it in order to help you. katsuki, despite his brash and loud persona, never once judged you for who you were, and he wanted to be by your side through everything, especially things in which he could help you.

during your mood fluctuations, katsuki never once lost patience with you, as he knew that you couldnt help it. he stayed right next to you, but also listened and complied when you said that you needed some space. he never wanted to overwhelm you, and he always did his best to accommodate how you were feeling.

katsuki understood that people with bpd had a fear of abandonment and that this fear can lead to anger due to the struggle of regulating emotions. thats why katsuki wanted you to know that he was never leaving you, and that he would stay by your side for as long as you want him to.

one thing that does frighten katsuki is the fact that people with bpd often display reckless and endangering behaviours, and that self harm tended to be an outlet. although he knew that you couldnt help it, the thought of you intentionally hurting yourself made his heart hurt and his head spin. katsuki never wanted you to be in pain, and he did his best to provide you with a healthy release of emotions and pent up anger through therapy sessions that he would happily attend alongside you if you need him there.

despite all of the ups and downs within your relationship, katsuki was always there to help you cope with your bpd, and was willing to spend hours watching over you if you want him there. although he hated to admit it, looking after you made katsuki feel as though he was needed and that you appreciated his efforts, even if he will never truly understand the condition, no matter how hard he tried. katsuki's seemingly unlimited patience helped you to seek his help more often, and to find him whenever the symptoms worsened. having him by your side made it all just a bit easier to bear.

Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling???? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.

—LO۷ESTⱤUCK F𐌀N

contents damian wayne x fem!reader, youtuber!reader au, fluff, 2k+ wc. synopsis now that you've started accepting fan mail, damian jumps at the chance to send you something (though, honestly, he’d send himself if he could). pt 2 of "unexpected crush!?" (@liabiamiakiawia hope you like it 🫶🏻)

No. Freaking. Way.

Was this a dream? A hallucination? Some cruel trick of the mind?

There was no way she actually posted her address. But as he blinked at the screen, rereading the words for the hundredth time, the reality hit him like a Batarang to the chest:

"Accepting fan gifts/letters! Address & city number: xxxxx. Can't wait to see what my luvies gift me :)"

His heart stopped. Then restarted at double the speed.

He. Was. Ecstatic.

Well—ecstatic in a very Damian Wayne, son of an assassin and the Dark Knight, kind of way.

A normal person might be pacing, grinning, maybe even screaming into a pillow. But Damian? He just sat there, staring at the screen, his grip tightening on his phone as his brain raced a thousand miles per second.

This was huge. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The only chance he’d ever have to send her something, something meaningful—something that would make her smile.

Immediately, he started skimming through her videos, mind buzzing with possibilities. What did she like? What did she need? What could he give her that would stand out from the rest?

Something perfect. It had to be perfect.

After intense (possibly obsessive) research, he finally settled on three things:

1. A Beauty of Joseon skincare set—not that a face as flawless as hers needed skincare. If anything, the skincare needed her.

2. A cute hairclip set—he remembered her gushing over some in a video. Hers were old, but she hated overconsumption, always mindful of her brand collaborations (another thing about her that made his heart do weird things: her caringness for the planet).

3. Some top-tier Chinese makeup—only the best for her.

His lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he saw the total.Just a casual $1K. Nothing much for a Wayne.

Then again… if she asked, he'd get her the moon and stars. Nothing was ever too much for her. Ever.

By the time he finalized his list, it was nearly noon. And by the time he finished hunting everything down in-store, it was noon.

Now, back in his room, Damian sat cross-legged on his floor, staring at the disaster zone of wrapping paper around him.

He exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling up as he crumpled yet another piece of pink wrapping paper—now a casualty of way too much tape—and chucked it aside.

This was so new to him. He barely ever gave gifts, and even when he did, Alfred was the one who wrapped them.

With a sigh, Damian pulled out his phone and searched, How to wrap gifts (EASY and pretty).

Following the tutorial with painstaking precision, his thoughts started to wander.

It wasn’t like he was an idiot. After a full week of stubborn denial, he’d finally accepted it—he had a crush. A real, actual crush on a girl he’d never even met.

And honestly? That annoyed him. Apparently, there was some illness where people obsessed over their favorite celebrities or internet personalities.

But he wasn’t sick! Sure, there were plenty of things wrong with him—a packaged deal that came with being the son of his parents—but this? This wasn’t an obsession. And he was definitely not a stalker.

He just... really liked this girl.

Pausing mid-task, he set down the half-wrapped package and reached for a pen and paper.

"Dear ___,My name is Damian Wayne. I'm a teen from Gotham..."

Hours passed—writing, re-writing, crumpling papers, fixing the bow on the package that would soon be crossing oceans.

Finally, Damian collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He sighed.

Please let this work.

Sitting up, he picked up the now perfectly wrapped gift box, his fingers absentmindedly tracing along the frilly bow.

And then, without thinking, he brought the box to his lips, pressing a light kiss against it.

Oh. Oh.

A wave of déjà vu hit him— reminding him of the air-kiss he tried to catch through his laptop screen a week prior.

For a second, he just sat there, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips before he scoffed softly at himself.

Damian Wayne had officially lost. He liked her. Like liked her.

And now, all he could do was hope—pray—that this box, this dumb little package of gifts, would somehow, someway, connect them.

Maybe. Just maybe. Something real would come out of this stupid crush.

"Tch… emotions suck."

He laughed under his breath, though there was no real bite to his words.

Setting the package on his bedside table, he turned off the light and crawled into bed.

Tomorrow, he’d send it.

And then? He’d wait.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

© — ggυɱi '25

likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated

ദ്ദി ≽^⎚˕⎚^≼ .ᐟ

dating dick grayson would include

• dick loves physical affection so whenever he sees you be prepared for some form of touch— pda is not really an issue for him.

• forehead kisses, nose kisses, neck kisses, just so many. he aims to kiss you at least twice a day, it's become a type of ritual that he lives for. sweet kisses, long sensual kisses, make out sessions— just so many.

• damian LOVES you, you're basically a mother figure to him and he will happily challenge grayson for your attention.

• he comes over randomly and sometimes stays the night after patrol because he thinks so highly of you.

• dick is so happy you get along with his family, especially damian, but on some occasions when his little brother stays the night he's a little frustrated since he wanted some personal one on one time with you.

• he puts so much effort into your dates, he's hardly around long enough for you to go on regular ones so when you both have the time you can bet he'll go all out in an attempt to make up for what he's missed.

• if he gets called away for a mission on dates dick is really upset about it. like he'll answer the phone and his face will just drop, you can tell by his expression that's he's got to leave before he even tells you.

• when he gets back he'll do anything for you, make you breakfast in bed, cuddle, kiss you or any other fun suggestions he can think of. <33

• when his is on a mission, he will drop everything he is doing to make sure you’re okay.

• one time, he left jason to fight off a mob alone just because you called to say you stubbed your toe. jason still isn’t over that.

• brags about you quite often, his friends know exactly who you are and totally willing to look out for your safety.

• he buys you a bunch of nightwing merch. nightwing pajamas, nightwing bedsheets, nightwing purses. everything nightwing. sometimes robin.

• he really likes when you wear them, it makes him SOO proud.

• dick LIVES to hear you laugh. there is no joke too dirty, no expression too silly, no story too embarrassing. he will do and say whatever it takes to get you rolling, no matter how foul your mood.

• he loves to be fussed over. when you baby his injuries, neaten his hair/clothes, or barrage him with daily text updates and check-ins, he feels valued. it’s not about clingyness or ego, it’s about feeling prioritized. <33

• so long as you’re not being condescending, every little thoughtful thing you do or say is cataloged and recalled with affection.

• dick would be that kind of boyfriend who would gladly go shopping with you, he would excitedly run through the shop looking for the perfect outfits for you. he would patiently wait until you try on the clothes he chose for you (the whole store) and he would pay for everything.

• he loves if you read to him before bed, you tell him he is such a kid but he just enjoys listening to your voice. if he hears your voice before sleeping he has the sweetest dreams.

• he shows you his acrobatic moves all the time just to impress you.

• like you can’t reach the top of the shelf and instead of just helping you grab the item you need he jumps in the air does like three flips and lands with whatever you need in his hands. he definitely bows after doing this.

• he loves you so much he can't even explain it, but he constantly tries to. <33

Could you write an imagine about Clark Kent x reader where it’s in an outsider pov where the reader is a mean popular cheerleader who’s dating her opposite who’s nerdy Clark.

notes: i tried to make it kinda general if you want a more specific one please send it!! hope you like it!

the first time anyone saw you with clark kent, they thought it was a mistake. a glitch in the universe. something so fundamentally wrong that the world itself should’ve paused and done a double take.

you, the queen bee of smallville high, the girl who walked down the halls with a squad of cheerleaders at your heels, a smirk on your glossy lips and the scent of designer perfume in your wake. you were untouchable, intimidating, the kind of girl who could destroy someone’s social life with a single whisper into the right ear. the head cheerleader, the reigning champion of every pep rally, the girl everyone either wanted or wanted to be. and then there was clark.

clark kent. the nerd. the farm boy with flannel shirts and an easy smile. the one who always had his nose buried in a book, who spoke in quiet, polite tones and never quite met anyone’s eyes for too long. he was soft, awkward, everything you weren’t. but more importantly, he was different. something about him had a quiet gravity, a presence that didn’t need arrogance to demand attention. but no one could understand why you, of all people, had fallen for him.

so when you stormed into the cafeteria one friday, hair perfect and uniform pristine, and plopped yourself right next to clark, the entire school turned to watch. jaws dropped. conversations died. even chloe, ever the investigator, nearly dropped her coffee, her journalist instincts already buzzing with curiosity.

“hey, baby,” you chirped, like it was the most natural thing in the world. and then you pressed a kiss to his cheek.

clark turned as red as his beat-up backpack, fumbling with his tray as he blinked up at you in surprise. “uh—hi?”

whispers exploded like wildfire. people nudged each other, eyes wide with shock, whispering theories about what sort of sick joke this was. lana raised an eyebrow from her seat across the room, not quite believing her eyes. but then clark, bless his heart, smiled. soft and sweet, like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real. and suddenly, it was real.

you were dating clark kent.

and the world didn’t know what to do with that information.

at first, they waited for the catch. maybe you lost a bet. maybe you were planning some cruel prank, the kind that would leave clark humiliated in front of the entire school. lex himself might’ve wagered on it, intrigued by the sheer absurdity of the pairing. but weeks passed, and you were still with him. walking him to class, stealing his flannel shirts, holding his hand in the hallways like it was the easiest thing in the world.

and the worst part? you seemed happy. like, genuinely happy.

your friends didn’t get it. “babe, you could have literally anyone. why him?” they’d ask, flipping their hair and wrinkling their noses at clark like he was some tragic charity case.

but you’d just shrug, twirling a strand of hair around your manicured finger. “he’s sweet.”

and he was. clark was the kind of boyfriend who carried your books without being asked, who wrote you little notes in his loopy handwriting, who looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky. he blushed when you kissed him, stammered when you flirted, held your hand like it was something delicate and precious.

but there was more to it.

sometimes, you caught glimpses of something...more. the way clark could dodge things impossibly fast, how he always seemed to be right where he needed to be. the way he could lift the heavy gym equipment like it was made of paper. sometimes, his hands lingered on yours just a second too long, warmth radiating from him like a human furnace. sometimes, his gaze turned distant, like he was listening to something far away. and sometimes, you wondered if there was more to clark kent than met the eye.

one afternoon, beneath the bleachers after practice, you pressed up on your toes and kissed him. not a peck on the cheek, not something chaste and innocent, but a real kiss. slow, warm, and lingering. clark froze at first, breath hitching, before his hands found your waist, fingers curling around the fabric of your uniform like he was anchoring himself to the moment. his lips moved against yours hesitantly, then with a little more confidence, as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening.

it didn’t make sense. it shouldn’t have worked. but it did.

taglist: @legalmente-loca @soangelbaby