WEIRD QUIRKS BATBOYS HAVE IN A RELATIONSHIP ── .✦

†  pebbling : various.

♦ request: not really, just fighting burnout ♦ beta’d: nope ♦ a/n: someone on here reminded me of this draft i had

𝐃𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 —

dick immediately lights up, his blue eyes brightening with surprise and delight as he takes the tiny pebble from your outstretched palm. he laughs softly, warmth blooming in his chest as he gently brushes a thumb over its smooth surface. "this for me?" he teases softly, but his eyes soften instantly when you nod. he carefully slips the pebble into his pocket, patting it fondly. from that day onward, he keeps it close - sometimes spinning it thoughtfully between his fingers, always smiling warmly when someone asks him why he carries around "just a rock."

𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝 —

jason stares at the small pebble in your hand, momentarily bewildered. “you giving me rocks now?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, though the softness in your expression quickly clues him in. his playful smirk fades into something gentler, a quiet realization settling over him. carefully, he takes it, feeling oddly touched. jason might not immediately admit how much he appreciates it, but from that moment onward, he keeps the pebble safely hidden in a small compartment in his gear; an unexpected token of affection he secretly treasures.

𝐓𝐢𝐦 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞 —

tim initially blinks, confused, clearly trying to analyze exactly why you're handing him a tiny pebble. but when you quietly explain its meaning, his eyes widen, cheeks dusting pink with warmth. he takes it from you carefully, studying it as if memorizing every line, every curve. tim quietly places the pebble beside his computer, right in view - an ever-present reminder of you. every so often, when he’s stressed or stuck in thought, you catch him absently running his thumb over the stone, grounding himself in the gentle reminder of your love.

𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 —

damian pauses, staring at the pebble resting in your palm with quiet intensity. his expression is unreadable at first, carefully guarded as always - but then something in his eyes softens, revealing the quiet awe he feels at your small gesture. wordlessly, he accepts the pebble with unusual gentleness, closing his fingers protectively around it. later, you'll notice it carefully placed in his room among his most treasured possessions. he'll never say a word about it, but it's always there, a silent acknowledgment of the fact that you chose him and that he chooses you right back.

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 —

steph immediately squeals in delight, practically bouncing with excitement as she takes the pebble. "oh my god, we’re penguins now!" she exclaims, grinning widely. without hesitation, she finds you the brightest, cutest pebble she can locate in return, excitedly presenting it to you as her own heartfelt response. it quickly becomes a tradition between you two - exchanging pebbles regularly, filling a small jar together as a gentle, joyful symbol of your love.

𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐧 —

cass accepts the pebble with quiet reverence, her dark eyes wide and filled with curiosity and warmth. she doesn’t say anything, simply turns it carefully in her hands, studying it with focused intent. but soon afterward, you notice she carries it everywhere - kept safely hidden but always close, held protectively whenever she needs comfort. to cass, the pebble is more than just a symbol; it's proof that love can be quiet, gentle, and unconditional.

𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐆𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐧 —

barbara’s smile softens instantly, warmth radiating from her as she carefully takes the pebble from your palm. she immediately understands the meaning, eyes sparkling with gentle affection as she says softly, "it's perfect. thank you." barbara places it carefully on her desk beside her computers, a silent companion through long nights of work. it becomes her touchstone; an unspoken reminder of you and the quiet, comforting love you share.

𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 —

bruce pauses for a long moment, genuinely caught off guard, before gently taking the pebble from your outstretched hand. his fingers close around it protectively, his usually guarded expression melting into something deeply vulnerable and grateful. he doesn't speak immediately, instead carefully placing the pebble in a pocket close to his heart. later, you find the pebble placed reverently on his bedside table - a private acknowledgment of how deeply you've touched him.

dark chocolate cherry

i want to bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. i want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

or; your boyfriend shows up when you just want some alone time [3.2k]

jason todd x fem!reader; reader gets her period and describes painful symptoms; just fluff; jason "words don't come easy so here's acts of service" todd this is supposed to be earlier in the relationship which is why he's still a little shy but i think she knows he's red hood? idk man. i was just going with it; can you guess what inspired this? (everything is awful) and this is like…not that good

The day started at 2 AM when you woke to shooting pains in your abdomen and blood everywhere. It continued until 2:45 while you cleaned yourself, changed clothes, put on a fresh pad, took some painkillers, and changed the sheets. It paused for about an hour until you woke up again at 4:00, courtesy of Gotham’s patented night-life that had taught you to completely tune out the sound of police sirens. Tonight, however, they weren’t tuning out.

The sirens quieted at 4:10, by which angry tears collected in the corners of your eyes as you flopped around in bed in an attempt to get comfortable. No matter what you did, there was always something wrong; the pillow was too hard, the blanket was too scratchy, the position hurt your arm.

From 4:11 to 4:12, you screamed into your pillow.

By 4:15 you had settled in front of the TV with a bowl of dry cereal (it took everything in you not to cry over the lack of milk in your fridge), a heating pad, and your favorite comfort show queued up.

At 8 AM you managed to drag yourself to work, where you half-assed the day’s tasks, took a 15-minute break to cry in your car, then dipped out a half-hour early.

Now, at 5 PM on a Friday evening, you’re curled into the fetal position in front of your TV with your comfort show resumed and your trusty heating pad cranked to the highest setting. Prepared to spend the entire night here, you already changed into pajamas and kept a couple blankets within reach. Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, and you stretch to reach it, careful not to lose your comfortable position or roll off the couch.

Jason About to leave Be there in 20

You groan out loud. You want to throw your phone across the room, but decide against it because no amount of hormones from hell are worth six hundred dollars. You’re still angry, though, for being so stupid as to forget about the date you had planned for tonight. Scrolling up to earlier messages, you see another text from today wishing you a good morning and telling you he was excited to see you tonight. But, too down to bother checking any messages today, you had missed it.

You I can’t tonight anymore I’m sorry I don’t feel great

After hitting send, you place your phone on the ground, not even having the energy to reach for the coffee table again. Or the energy to lift your arm back up, apparently, given how it hangs limply over the edge of the couch. You feel guilty about cancelling, but you are in no state to go out tonight. You’re used to the symptoms of your period hitting so hard. As much as you and Jason care about each other, you’re not sure you’re ready for him to see you like this. You’ve managed to plan your relationship around your hormone cycle so far, but today it came early.

Your phone’s buzzing is muffled by the rug, and you almost don’t hear it. Jason’s photo is displayed on the screen.

Your hanging hand clicks ‘answer’ and puts it on speaker so you can take the call without moving from how you're curled up.

“Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine, I just don’t feel up for going out tonight. I’d rather stay home.”

“Did something happen?”

“No, I just got my period so I’m not really in the mood.”

“Okay, we can stay in tonight. What do you feel like eating? I can pick something up.”

“No, Jason…I want to stay home alone tonight.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line.

“Okay…did I do something?” His voice comes out a little smaller.

“No, you’re fine, I promise. I just don’t feel like seeing anyone right now.”

“…Not even me?”

Your hand presses against your temples to soothe the building tension headache. The self-doubt in his tone brings the anguish of the entire day bubbling up your throat. You feel like the worst person in the world. Exactly how you don’t want him to see you.

“Jason…it’s not you. I just…I feel like shit right now, honestly. Everything hurts, I’m miserable and sad and angry at everything, I’m breaking out all over.” You feel yourself welling up at all these little stresses coming out. “I’m craving everything but feel too sick to eat anything…I feel pretty disgusting right now, and frankly, I don’t want you to see me like this.” You finish your rant with a sniffle. You wipe your nose, trying to hold back the sob that’s threatening to break through. But at his silence, your worst, most improbable fears claw their way to the surface: he hates you now. You scared him away. You exhale heavily into your sleeve as more tears spill.

The phone is quiet for a long moment.  Then; “I could never find you disgusting,” he says, gently. “But if that’s what you want, then we’ll reschedule.”

“Thank you. And sorry.”

He speaks with a tone you can’t quite parse. “Don’t apologize. Just feel better.”

-

-

-

It’s one hour after your phone call, and at the first knock, you know who it is. Who else could it be? With that soft, somewhat hesitant, one-knuckle rap on the door. Only one person knocks on your door like that.

“Jason, I told you not to come here,” you say a little more cutting than you intend to, but your back and shoulders feel like they’re about to snap under a phantom pressure and the frustration of your request being outright ignored leaves a burning bitterness that channels itself into a violent wrenching open of the door.

He jumps a little at the abruptness of your greeting. One look at your face and he visibly deflates.

“I’m sorry…I know you said not to come, but…” his gaze casts downward to his hands. You follow; he’s clutching a reusable grocery bag. Peeking out of the top is a gallon of Neapolitan ice cream. The ice cream carton’s condensation seeped through a small patch of the cloth bag and dripped onto the other items; a bushel of greens, among some other fruits and vegetables, as well as a parcel of brown paper that was fastened closed with a twine string. You return your gaze to his face.

“I think—” he cuts himself off, free hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. Then he drops his hand and sighs. “I’m sorry. This was a bad idea. You told me not to come here and I ignored you, but I thought…” he trails off, probably hoping you’ll say something so he can gauge your reaction.

You just stare at him.

He shifts his weight back and forth. His hand twitches.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll—”

Then, you burst into tears.

Jason’s eyes widen. He reaches out to touch you, then stops himself. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, this was stupid. Please stop crying, I’m so sorry—” He’s panicked, trying to calm you down with apologies and soothing assurances that he will leave immediately and never go against your wishes again. All the while you stand in the doorway, blubbering like a toddler with a skinned knee, new tears forming faster than you can wipe the old ones away.

He once again raises a hand towards you, before it stutters, then clenches into a fist as if it takes all his strength to fight against the instinct to be close to you, fighting against the string that tethers him to you. He drags his hand down his face, then it falls back to his side.

“Okay, I—I’m leaving now. I’m leaving. Do you…want this?” He holds the bag out to you.

With it now in front of you, its further contents are visible. You manage to tamp down your tears enough to get a few words out.

“Did you—hic—buy me groceries?”

“Yeah…” There’s a wince in his tone, as if he’s only now realizing that his gesture is not translating as he intended.

You look back up at him with pursed lips and knitted brows, sniffling. Sure, the ice cream you can understand, but…you have no idea what to make of the rest.

The bag drops back to his side. “I figured…it’s just— it’s the stuff that you’re supposed to—” He strokes his palm over his mouth, eyes screwing shut for a moment. He huffs at himself, then continues. “I mean I’m sure you already know all of this, so maybe you already have all these things, and now I’m realizing how unnecessary all this was, and I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“Jason,” you say. Your upset has since been overshadowed by something else, though you can’t tell what it is. And your crying has stopped, but its lingering effects have you feeling congested and a little foggy. You’re half expecting this to be a fever dream that you’re moments away from waking up from in a cold sweat.

“—because obviously you know what helps you feel better much more than I do—”

“Jason.”

“And you— yeah?” His eyes are a little harried when they find yours again. But off your tired and still-confused look, he gets the message and collects himself.

“Right, yeah, I just thought that…maybe I could bring you some of the stuff with all those minerals that are supposed to help women when they’re…menstruating.” He briefly breaks eye contact at the end of his sentence, red rouge creeping up his neck.

You can’t help it; you start to giggle. You can’t remember the last time you heard a man use the term ‘menstruating’ in a non-medical context. And the fact that he’s so shy about it— upset as you may be (though not at him), there’s no denying how adorable your boyfriend is. His head shoots back to you as your laughter intensifies. He blushes harder.

“It’s not that funny,” he mutters.

You step away from the door, finally closing the space between you, and wrap your arms around his torso. Your head nestles into his chest. He gently drops the grocery bag on the ground and reciprocates your hug. He rests his chin on your head, which fits perfectly under his. Like two puzzle pieces clicking into place. You breathe him in.

“Sorry I’m such a mess,” you murmur into his shirt.

He breathes into your hair. “You have nothing to apologize for. And you’re not a mess.”

You look up, chin resting in the space between his collarbones. He looks down at you with a small smile, but some wariness is still etched into his features. Fear of unwittingly upsetting you again. He brings up a hand to push some hair out of your face and tuck it behind your ear. His hand remains there, toying with the hair that falls below your shoulder.

"Thank you for the food,” you whisper. The moment feels too intimate to speak any other way.

“I’m sorry for not listening to you. I just…” He imitates your quietness, like his admission is also too vulnerable to say loudly. “I really wanted to see you. And I hated the idea of you feeling bad about yourself, or being in pain. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Your eyes feel wet again. The first instinct is to hide your face, maybe press it to his chest once more. But, for some reason, you don’t. You want him to see you like this, messy and emotional and upset. You want him to see every part of you, and you want to see every part of him, the good and the bad.

“You didn’t.” A tear slips past the effort to keep it at bay. He shows no reaction to it, eyes never leaving yours, other than a quick swiping away with his thumb. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before. That’s why I was crying. Not because you showed up.”

“That doesn’t seem right. This is nothing. You deserve even more.”

With no words to fully, adequately communicate the blooming in your chest, you stand on your toes, reaching up to him for a kiss. But given his stature, your lips only reach his chin and brush over its underside.

At your quiet whine, he chuckles and leans down to meet you in the middle. The kiss is soft; filled with the innocence of fresh blossoms in the spring, and the sweetness of its borne fruit.

You pull away when a vicious cramp roots you back to the present. Your limps tighten around Jason with a groan.

“I need to go back inside. I’ve been away from my heating pad for too long.”

His shoulders sag when you step away from him. “Oh, um…do you still…want me to leave?”

With a simple exhale of humorous disbelief, you grasp his hand in yours and tug him to your front door. He’s like an excited puppy, eyes brightened and perking up as he grabs the grocery bag and happily trails after you.

He goes straight to the kitchen, pulling out a chair at the counter for you to settle into, then sets the bag on the counter. The ice cream carton has dampened most of the cloth by now, and likely the rest of its contents, but rather than attending to the groceries, his first action is retrieving your heating pad from where it rests on the couch. He unplugs it from the wall outlet and brings it to you. You curl up on the chair with it pressed flat against your lower stomach. It only takes a minute for the pressure in your hips to abate.

Then he moves to the groceries. The ice cream immediately goes in the freezer, and he unloads what’s remaining onto the counter, one by one, and you take note of each item. There’s spinach, carrots, apples, oranges, dark chocolate, some kind of meat wrapped in brown paper, and, strangely enough, an entire block of cheese.

You give him a quizzical look, picking it up to read the label. “You got me…cheddar cheese?”

He retrieves a cutting board and knife from its spot next to the sink, then takes the cheese from you. “Good for certain symptoms.” He slices open the plastic wrapping and cuts out some cubes with skilled efficiency. He does the same with an apple. “They all are,” he says, referring to his entire haul. He completes the makeshift charcuterie board with a couple squares of dark chocolate and slides it across the counter.

You look down at the cutting board, thinking about everything he’s done for you; everything you never even had to ask for. The words sit on your tongue, encaged by your clenched teeth; an admission that coils itself around your spine and squeezes tight, restricts your breathing and pumps your heart at thrice its speed. But you feel yourself welling up again, and the first bout of tears already exhausted you so much that all you can manage is, “I don’t know what to do with all this. I don’t have the energy to make anything good.”

But he just smiles and says, “That’s what I’m here for, honey. Can I make you something?”

You nod. He gets to work. The immediacy of his actions, how he takes no time to decide on a dish or find a recipe, makes you think his previously stated intentions of ‘just dropping this off’ were less genuine than he lead you to believe. Nevertheless, you munch on the snacks he laid out for you and watch him work. The cheese and apples are a surprisingly cohesive combination, the meshing of sweet crispiness and savory creaminess eliciting a contented sigh from you. You try to ignore the way Jason smirks in the corner of your periphery. The chocolate is incredible, yet unfamiliar. You read the label on the packaging: 80% Dark Chocolate with Cherry and Almond Filling. Even if you hadn’t tasted it yet, the quality of the packaging itself would have been enough to let you know that this chocolate is extremely high-quality. Like, special-order-from-Europe quality. Not stop-at-the-grocery-store-on-the-way-home quality.

“Where is this from? Did you buy this today?” You ask him through a mouthful of the rich, melting chocolate.

He doesn’t look up from the carrots he’s dicing. “Uh…no.”

Anyone else would attribute his avoidance of eye-contact to standard kitchen-knife caution. You are not anyone else. You could blindfold him, spin him around ten times, put a sharp knife in his hand, and he could still pull off a perfect julienne. You look closer. His cheeks are dusted with pink.

You let out a laugh. “Jason, you’re not embarrassed about liking fancy chocolate, are you?”

“No! Not at all,” he says, ceasing his chopping. He looks up, but not quite at you.

“Then?”

“‘Then’ what?” He asks.

“Then why are you being so shifty right now?” You try to catch his gaze.

“I’m not!” He defends. “It’s just chocolate! Do you like it? I’ll bring you more.” He’s stealthy with the way he avoids your eyes; you almost can’t notice how hard he’s trying not to make eye contact.

“Jason!” You reach across the counter, having to rise off the chair slightly, and take his face in your hands, making him look at you. When he does, he wears a sheepish smile.

“It’s…” His removes your hands from his face, holding them in his. He mumbles something, turning his head to the side. But you catch the tail end of it, a goading grin already creeping up your face.

“What was that?” You tilt your ear towards him, exaggerating the action.

“It’s Bruce’s.” He, in turn, exaggerates the enunciation, rolling his eyes at your simpering. “I…found it. In his pantry one day. And I liked it, so I took it. And then I…kept taking it. Every time I visited.”

You pout teasingly. “And you’re ashamed to admit that you think he has good taste in something?”

He doesn’t say anything, only hiding his face in his shoulder. You pull on your intertwined hands and he gets the message, skirting around the kitchen counter to come closer.

“You are so adorable, you know that?” You say. You reach up and pinch his cheeks. He swats your hands away, but there’s no mistaking his broad, childish grin for anything but affection.

He breaks off another square from the chocolate bar and holds it to your lips. You bite off a small portion, then push it back to him. He takes the remaining piece in his mouth and his eyes close for a brief moment as he savors the sweet, tart, and nutty flavors. You simply watch, entranced by him. Then, he kisses you. You lean into it, hands sliding up his shirt to grip the fabric and bring him even closer. His hold finds your waist.

He tastes like cherries and dark chocolate.

He breaks the kiss to rest his forehead on yours, and you want to tell him that. That, and so much more. But from the look on his face, the way his eyes find yours and the tips of his ears have a similar heat to the one in your chest, you can tell he already knows.

when it comes to jason's post-pit-repressed-teenager characterization (aka despite being older he's still as inexperienced and confused and insecure about the world outside of vigilantism and w/ women as a 15 y/o would be) (aka my favorite characterization tee hee), i think that he's mature about periods, knows they're normal and not gross or shameful etc, but still gets shy about saying the actual word, for no other reason than the 'shy around women' part always makes me giggle

also bruce is keeping the chocolate stocked specifically because he knows jason likes it and will keep taking it because he loves his son even if his son doesn't love him (he does he's just in his angsty teen 'i hate this family you don't understand me' phase rn)

divider is from here

quote at the beginning is pablo neruda <3

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤA GENTLEMANㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Robin Damian Wayne x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : When he have a puppy crush (obsession).

☆⁠ NOTES : Teenagers in love. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Damian had always been certain of one thing: he was superior to everyone around him. But when it came to you, something shifted in him. He didn’t understand it at first—it was something unfamiliar, something that made his heart race in ways that made him deeply uncomfortable. He would never admit it, of course, but there was no denying the way his eyes lingered on you when you weren’t looking.

From the moment he noticed you in class, you were a source of obsession. Not just because you were incredibly intelligent—far more than most people gave you credit for—but because you were different. You weren’t intimidated by him like everyone else. You didn’t flinch when he looked at you with his piercing eyes, and worst of all, you were kind to him. You smiled at him, genuinely, and asked him how his day was when no one else did.

At first, Damian didn't know how to process it. He hated how much he cared about what you thought. He hated how his chest tightened whenever he saw you laughing with friends or when your eyes briefly met his from across the room. He couldn't help but become... protective. Territorial, even.

His obsession grew, but it wasn’t obvious to you. To you, he was just the enigmatic, brooding boy who sat at the back of the class and barely spoke. To everyone else, he was the unsmiling prodigy who made the rest of Gotham's elite children seem inferior. But to him, you were different. You weren't afraid to speak to him, to challenge him, even when you didn't know his full story.

He’d sneak glances at you when you weren’t paying attention, his gaze lingering for just a second too long. When you walked into a room, his eyes would immediately track your every movement. He didn’t mean for it to happen, but every time you laughed—whether it was at something funny or just something absurd—his heart would pound. Every soft word you spoke, every time you brushed your hair behind your ear, or when you studied so intently in class, it drove him wild. He felt... protective. Possessive, even. But mostly, he felt a desperate need to be the one you relied on, the one you turned to.

He never had a normal crush before. His emotions were all twisted up, almost like he was terrified of it, yet drawn to it. His pride kept him from ever admitting how much he cared, but his actions always betrayed him. If anyone made the mistake of speaking to you for too long, or worse, making you laugh too much, they’d feel the weight of his glare. He didn’t trust anyone around you, didn’t trust that they wouldn’t hurt you, use you, break you like so many others had tried with him.

If you ever had a problem, Damian would be the first to solve it. He didn’t need to be asked. He noticed the little things about you—the way you tapped your pencil when you were nervous, the way you’d tug at your sleeves when you were stressed. He memorized them all, cataloging each detail like an obsessed detective, all while maintaining that cold, stoic expression. But if you ever needed help, even just to ask for notes from a missed class, his voice would become so soft, so eager to please, that it would catch you off guard.

But he was never obvious. If you ever mentioned something in passing, a book you liked or a subject you were interested in, Damian would get it for you. It wasn’t that he thought you needed him—it was that he needed you to need him. He wanted to be the one you thought of when you needed something, even if he didn’t let you know just how far he would go for you.

He’d never say it out loud, but when you laughed at one of his rare jokes or smiled when he helped you with something, it felt like the whole world was aligned. The idea of you wanting him, of you seeing him as something more than just the brooding, serious boy who sat in the back of class, became his driving force. He’d stalk your social media in the dead of night, not to look for anything inappropriate, but just to see you—see your face, your thoughts, the things you liked.

Sometimes he’d catch himself imagining what it would be like to kiss you, to be the one who could make you smile when no one else could. He’d catch himself thinking about how he would protect you—how, in his mind, no one else was worthy of you. You were his. He’d never let anyone else take you from him.

If you ever caught him staring at you—caught him in one of his moments of weakness—he’d look away, almost defensively, as though nothing had ever happened. But deep down, Damian couldn’t hide the feeling that grew every time you were around. A feeling that, for the first time, made him question what it meant to be truly vulnerable.

You were his weakness. But that was something he could never let anyone see.

As time passed, Damian’s obsession with you only deepened, but so did his longing for your attention. His pride and sense of superiority might’ve prevented him from being straightforward, but that didn’t stop him from showing his affection in subtle ways. Every once in a while, when you weren’t looking, he’d steal a quick glance at you, his eyes softening, as if savoring the moments when you were close.

It was the small things that made his heart race—like when you’d accidentally brush his hand as you passed him a pencil or when you’d ask him for help on a particularly difficult assignment. The way your voice sounded when you said his name, the way your eyes sparkled when you were excited about something—Damian didn’t even realize how much it was affecting him until it was too late.

One day, during lunch, you walked up to him at his usual spot by the wall, the one he always sat at, trying to be as unnoticed as possible. “Hey, Damian,” you said, a little shy, “can I borrow your notes from last week’s class?”

Damian looked up at you, and for a moment, his breath caught in his throat. The way your hair fell over your shoulder, the way your eyes sparkled under the soft glow of the cafeteria lights—it was almost too much for him to handle. He had to force himself not to let his emotions show.

Without a word, he handed you his notebook, his fingers brushing against yours for just a second. He didn’t pull away, though—he lingered, just a little longer than necessary. His eyes met yours, and for the first time in ages, a flicker of warmth passed across his usual cold, calculating gaze. He couldn’t help the small, almost imperceptible smile that tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You… You’re welcome,” he muttered, trying to sound aloof. But there was an underlying softness in his tone, something you hadn’t heard before. It was the way he said it—like he was pleased to help you, like you mattered to him more than anyone else in that moment.

You smiled at him, making his heart stutter in his chest. It wasn’t a big smile, just a small, genuine curve of your lips, but to Damian, it was everything. It felt like the world had shifted into place.

“Thanks, Damian. You’re a lifesaver,” you said, eyes lighting up with appreciation.

His chest tightened. “It’s nothing,” he replied quickly, not wanting to sound too eager, but his voice faltered just a bit.

You turned to leave, and as you walked away, you glanced back once, catching his eyes before he quickly looked away, face flushed. The moment he was sure you couldn’t see, he exhaled, the softest, happiest sigh escaping his lips. You’d never know it, but he had a soft spot for you—a part of him that didn’t want to be so cold and distant. A part of him that wanted to just be… normal for once.

From then on, he found himself watching you more than he should. Sometimes, he’d catch you looking at him, and he’d quickly avert his eyes, pretending like he hadn’t been staring. His heart would beat faster in his chest, and it almost made him angry that you could have this effect on him. But then, just as quickly, he’d find himself grinning, not able to help it. It was you—you made him feel things he hadn’t felt before.

It became a little routine: he’d see you in the halls, and sometimes, if you needed help with something, he’d find a way to be there. He’d stand a little too close to you when you talked, but it was never in a way that made you uncomfortable—it was more like he just wanted to be near you. He never told you why, of course.

One afternoon, while you were studying in the library, he walked in, glancing around until he spotted you, sitting by the window, scribbling away in your notebook. His heart skipped a beat when he saw you like that—so focused, so determined. You looked so… cute.

He hesitated for a second before walking up to you, his usual confident stride faltering just slightly. “Do you need any help?” he asked, trying to sound casual, though the nervous energy was palpable in his voice.

You looked up, surprised to see him standing there. “Oh, Damian! Um… yeah, I could use some help with this math problem,” you said, motioning to the page in front of you.

Damian sat down next to you, closer than necessary. His heart pounded as he explained the problem to you, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he pointed to different equations. He tried not to notice how his skin tingled each time it happened, or how every time you smiled and thanked him, it felt like the entire world brightened. He wasn’t used to feeling this way, this vulnerable, but somehow, he didn’t mind it when it was you.

“Got it?” he asked, his voice a little softer than usual as he watched you carefully.

You nodded, a soft smile spreading across your face. “Yeah, I think I do. You make it sound so easy.”

Damian’s eyes softened, and for the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to smile back at you—genuinely, without any pretenses. It was a rare moment for him, but when it came to you, he didn’t feel the need to hide everything.

“Good. I’m glad,” he said, his voice almost tender.

You packed up your things, still smiling. As you stood, you gave him one last look, your eyes meeting his, and for a second, Damian felt like the entire world had come to a stop. There was something in your gaze—something that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to hide how he felt.

“Thanks again, Damian,” you said as you turned to leave, a soft wave following behind you.

And as you walked away, Damian stood there, watching you, a small, secret smile tugging at his lips. Maybe one day he’d tell you how he felt, but for now, he was content with these little moments. He was content with the idea that, for once in his life, someone saw him for who he truly was—not the perfect heir, not the deadly assassin, but the boy who was hopelessly in love with you.

For weeks, Damian wrestled with the idea of asking you out. It wasn’t like he was afraid of rejection—he was Damian Wayne. Fear was beneath him. No, this was different. This was you. The thought of putting his feelings into words, of making himself vulnerable to you, made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t like to acknowledge.

But at the same time… the thought of anyone else asking you out, of anyone else standing beside you, laughing with you, touching you—it was unbearable. The mere idea of it set his blood on fire. He had to make a move. You were his, even if you didn’t know it yet.

So, like everything else in his life, Damian devised a plan. It had to be perfect. He would not fail.

The first thing he did was eliminate all competition. Subtly, of course. Any boy who looked at you for too long? Suddenly, they found themselves tripping over conveniently placed obstacles. Anyone who flirted with you? They’d mysteriously lose their confidence after a single, bone-chilling glare from Damian. He made sure that by the time he approached you, no one else would dare think they had a chance.

Next, he had to find the right moment. Timing was everything. He refused to make a fool of himself by asking you out in a setting that wasn’t optimal. He studied your habits—when you were most relaxed, most receptive. He knew you liked to sit by the windows in the library during study hall. You liked the way the sunlight hit the pages of your books. That would be the perfect place.

The day of, he was completely composed—or at least, that’s what he told himself. He approached your table with his usual confident stride, pulling out the chair across from you without asking, as he often did.

You glanced up, surprised but not unwelcome to his presence. “Oh, hey, Damian.” You smiled at him, and his heart stuttered.

“Hello,” he replied, voice smooth, but slightly more clipped than usual. He was trying to keep his emotions in check. “I require your time this Saturday.”

You blinked. “Uh, what?”

Damian inhaled slowly. He could feel heat rising to his ears. His grip tightened on the book he brought, knuckles white. This was not how it was supposed to go. He had rehearsed this in his head a hundred times, but now, sitting in front of you, he felt like an idiot.

He quickly corrected himself. “What I mean is… I have taken the liberty of arranging a date for us this Saturday. I will pick you up at noon. Wear something suitable for the occasion.”

There. Perfect. No room for rejection. No awkward stammering. Tt. Why was he nervous in the first place?

You blinked again, then tilted your head, processing his words. “A date?”

“Yes,” Damian confirmed, keeping his tone even, as if this was the most logical thing in the world. Because to him, it was.

Your lips parted slightly in surprise, but then—then you smiled. And not just any smile. It was soft, warm, genuine. And it was for him.

“You’re asking me out on a date?” you clarified, amusement lacing your tone.

He bristled slightly at your wording. “Obviously.”

You chuckled, and for a moment, he thought his heart might actually explode. He had never wanted anything more than to be the reason you smiled like that every day.

“Well,” you said, propping your chin on your hand, watching him with something unreadable in your eyes, “you sure don’t waste time with subtlety, huh?”

“Subtlety is for those who lack certainty,” Damian replied smoothly, lifting his chin. “And I am certain.”

Your cheeks warmed, and that small reaction sent a rush of satisfaction through him. “Alright, Damian,” you finally said, “I’d love to go on a date with you.”

For the first time in his life, Damian stopped thinking. He just… felt. A warmth spread through his chest, foreign yet addicting. He nodded once, as if sealing an unspoken pact.

“Good,” he said, voice steady, though his pulse was anything but. “I will text you the details.”

Then, without another word, he stood up and left. Just like that. Because if he stayed a second longer, he knew he would either start grinning like a fool or do something completely irrational, like kiss you right there in the middle of the library.

As soon as he rounded the corner, out of your sight, Damian exhaled, pressing a hand over his chest. His heart was hammering. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

But he didn’t care. Because you said yes.

And he will make sure it was a date you’d never forget.

The day of the date arrived. Damian had meticulously planned every detail, not leaving anything to chance. No, this wouldn’t be a “let’s grab coffee and see where things go” type of outing. This was his date with you.

He arrived at your house right on time. He didn’t need to check his watch—his internal sense of timing was precise, down to the minute. He knocked firmly on your door, his hand steady, even though he had spent the last few hours agonizing over the finer points of the evening in his mind. When you opened the door, his breath caught for a fraction of a second.

You stood there in a simple, yet elegant dress that was both understated and beautiful—just like you. The soft fabric clung to your figure just enough to highlight your natural grace, and the way your hair framed your face made his pulse quicken.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice steady, though his gaze softened as he took in your appearance.

You smiled, your eyes bright, and for a moment, he thought his heart might beat out of his chest. "I’m ready."

As you stepped out of the door and joined him, Damian offered his arm with a small, confident smile that was so different from his usual intense expression. He had plans for this evening, and he was determined to follow them through.

The car ride was smooth, quiet, but not uncomfortable. He drove with precision, each movement calculated and controlled, but there was something different in the air tonight. Something lighter. Every time he glanced over at you, you caught his eye, and he had to resist the urge to smile. It felt almost surreal—this quiet, sweet moment between the two of you. You’d spent time together before, but never like this.

You asked him where you were going, but he only gave you a cryptic smile. “You’ll see,” was all he said. You didn’t push him, curious to see where he had decided to take you.

Eventually, he pulled up to a small, secluded restaurant, one of Gotham’s more refined and hidden gems. It was quaint but elegant, with outdoor seating overlooking a picturesque garden. The soft light of lanterns danced around the patio, giving the place a warm, intimate atmosphere.

He opened the door for you as you stepped out, and offered his hand to you. You took it without hesitation, feeling the warmth of his touch seep through your skin. There was a kind of unspoken respect in the way he treated you. It wasn’t rushed or impatient—just an easy calmness that made you feel like you were the only one in the world to him.

Damian led you to your table, which was set for two, tucked away in a private corner, draped with ivy and soft fairy lights. It was the kind of place where the world around you seemed to fade away. As you sat down, he carefully pulled out your chair, ensuring you were comfortable, before taking his own seat across from you.

There was something so different about Damian tonight—something that made you realize, in that moment, just how special this date really was. He wasn’t like the other boys your age, with their offhand jokes or their self-absorbed chatter. No, Damian Wayne was something entirely different. He had this quiet intensity, but underneath that, a care that he wasn’t always quick to show.

The waiter came and Damian ordered for both of you with an air of confidence, speaking in fluent French, making you chuckle softly at how effortlessly he handled everything. But what made you laugh more was the glint of satisfaction in his eyes when he said, “The wine selection here is impeccable. I trust you’ll enjoy it.” It was like he was proud to share his tastes with you.

As you ate, the conversation flowed naturally. Damian asked about your interests, your thoughts on various books you had been reading, and he listened so intently, as though every word you spoke was a treasure to him. It wasn’t just idle talk—there was genuine curiosity in his voice. And when he did speak, it was always with purpose, never just to fill the silence.

You were beginning to see another side of him. A side that was almost... gentle.

You told him about your love for horses and how you dreamed of riding across the open fields someday. Damian’s eyes softened, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “I can take you to the stables at Wayne Manor sometime,” he said with an easy confidence. “There’s a ranch not far from the estate. You’d like it.”

You blinked, a little surprised. “You have horses?”

“Yes. I do,” he replied, his smile more sincere now, like the idea of sharing something personal with you had softened him further. “Perhaps you could teach me a thing or two. I’ve never been particularly good at it.”

That was the thing about Damian. He wasn’t afraid to show his flaws when it came to you. In fact, he seemed to crave your approval, though he’d never openly admit it. But it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t needy. It was simply him, wanting you to know who he really was.

As the evening wore on, the conversation became more relaxed. You found yourself laughing more freely, your initial nerves completely gone, replaced by an easy comfort that felt like you had known him forever. Damian was still Damian—intense, sharp, but there was a tenderness to him tonight that made him seem... normal. Human. Not just the son of Bruce Wayne, not just the little assassin.

Finally, after dessert, the night began to wind down. Damian stood and offered his hand once more. You placed your hand in his, and together, you walked out into the garden. The soft hum of the night air and the occasional chirp of a cricket filled the silence between you.

As you approached his car, Damian paused. He turned to face you, and for the first time that evening, his expression was serious—not cold, but thoughtful, as if he were gathering his thoughts for something important.

“You’re...” He cleared his throat, looking down at his shoes for just a brief moment before meeting your eyes again. “I have enjoyed tonight... more than I anticipated.”

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile pulling at your lips. “More than you anticipated? So you did expect it to be bad?”

He stiffened for a second, realizing the unintended implication. “No. That is not what I meant.” He hesitated, looking at you for a long, quiet moment. Then, in a voice quieter than before, almost soft, he added, “You’re... different. In a way I didn’t expect.”

You blinked, feeling the weight of his words settle in the air. “Damian…” you started, but before you could finish, he reached out and gently took your hand in his.

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand in a way that felt intimate, but not in a rushed or inappropriate way—more like he was savoring the moment.

“I would like to do this again,” he said, his voice earnest, but not without the usual confidence. “Whenever you’re ready.”

And with that, he took your hand and, with a deep breath, lowered his head and kissed the back of it. The touch of his lips was soft, respectful—gentle, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to blur into the background.

When he pulled back, his gaze remained locked with yours, almost searching, as if to make sure you understood just how much that small gesture meant to him.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” he said quietly, straightening up and offering his arm again, as if nothing had changed—except, of course, that now you both knew something had. Something deeper than either of you had expected when you started this evening.

You smiled, heart fluttering in your chest as you took his arm. “I’d like that.”

From the moment you officially became Damian’s girlfriend, your life changed—not in the dramatic way people might expect when dating the son of Bruce Wayne, but in the way that everything suddenly felt different. Like the world had shifted slightly, aligning perfectly in a way it hadn’t before.

Damian wasn’t like other boys your age. He didn’t do the whole awkward teenage romance thing. He wasn’t overly flirty, nor did he stumble through his words or second-guess himself. If he wanted to hold your hand, he did. If he wanted to tell you he liked the way you looked in a certain outfit, he said it, blunt and without hesitation.

His affection wasn’t loud or showy, but it was constant—always there, woven into everything he did.

Damian is, above all else, a gentleman. He treats you with the kind of respect that most guys your age wouldn’t even think about. Holding doors open for you? Always. Walking on the side of the street closest to traffic to “protect” you? A given.

If you ever carried anything heavier than a book, it was suddenly his burden. He didn’t even ask—he just took it from you with a simple, “Tt. You shouldn’t be straining yourself.”

He makes sure you never have to worry about anything. If you so much as mention feeling cold? His jacket is around your shoulders before you can finish your sentence. If you’re tired? He’s finding the closest place for you to sit, even if it means him physically leading you there by the small of your back.

But most of all, he listens. He pays attention in a way no one else does. If you casually mention something you like—your favorite flowers, a book you’ve been dying to read, a little café you want to try—Damian remembers. And soon enough, you’ll find a bouquet of those flowers waiting in your locker, that book sitting on your desk, or him showing up outside your house on a Saturday morning, saying, “Get in. We’re going to that café you won’t stop talking about.”

Because to Damian, caring means action.

Damian isn’t very verbal with his affection at first. He won’t say sweet, flowery words or write you poetry (even though you swear he has the soul of an old poet somewhere deep inside him). Instead, he shows his love through actions.

He’s always near you. Always. If you’re walking through the halls at school, his hand is resting against your lower back, gently guiding you. If you’re studying together, his knee is touching yours beneath the table. If you’re out somewhere, he positions himself slightly in front of you, instinctively shielding you from the crowd.

And while he doesn’t do PDA in public (besides holding your hand or the occasional brush of his fingers along your arm), when you’re alone? That’s when he lets his guard down.

Soft touches. He’s always touching you in some way—running his fingers over the back of your hand, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, resting a hand on your knee when you sit next to him.

Forehead touches. Whenever he’s feeling particularly soft (which he would never admit out loud), he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. It’s a silent way of saying I’m here. You’re mine. We belong to each other.

Hand kisses. He does this a lot. If you ever feel sad? He takes your hand, kisses your knuckles, and simply says, “You have me.” And that’s enough.

Damian is not someone who tolerates threats to what’s his.

He’s not loud about it, not the type to start fights over jealousy, but his presence alone is enough to keep people in check. If another guy even thinks about flirting with you, Damian is already there, standing a little too close, his green eyes sharp and possessive as he stares the poor guy down.

His hand will tighten on your waist, and his voice will drop an octave as he says something like, “I assume you have nothing important to say. If so, leave.”

And just like that, the threat is gone.

If you ever tease him about being jealous, he just crosses his arms and scoffs, Tt. “I am simply ensuring that no one wastes your time with their nonsense.”

But the way his hand subtly tightens around yours says otherwise.

At first, Damian struggles with vulnerability. He’s used to being the strong one, the one who handles everything without needing help. But with you? You see past that.

There are nights when he sneaks into your room through your window, not as Robin, but just as Damian. Those are the moments when he talks to you about things he’d never say to anyone else.

About his mother. About his father. About the weight of his family name and how, sometimes, he feels like he has to be perfect to live up to it.

And you listen. You always listen. You don’t try to fix him, don’t tell him that he’s wrong for feeling this way. You just hold his hand, stroke his hair, and whisper, “You’re already enough, Damian.”

And those words stay with him longer than he’ll ever admit.

Bruce: At first? He’s skeptical. Protective. But when he sees how much Damian genuinely cares for you—how you make him softer, more grounded—Bruce actually starts to approve.

“You keep him... balanced,” Bruce admits to you one evening. “That’s not an easy thing to do.”

(Which, coming from Bruce Wayne, is probably the highest compliment you’ll ever receive.)

Dick: “Oh my god. Damian has a girlfriend.” He’s so smug about it. Constantly teasing Damian, constantly referring to you as his soft spot.

He also makes sure you know that if Damian ever hurts you (which he won’t), you can definitely call Dick to handle it.

Alfred: Alfred adores you. Treats you like family from the moment he realizes you make Damian happy. Always makes extra tea and snacks whenever you visit Wayne Manor.

“You keep Master Damian in check, Miss. I quite appreciate it.”

Dating Damian isn’t easy. He’s intense, overprotective, sometimes way too serious for his age. But at the same time?

He loves deeply.

Once you’re his, you’re his forever. There’s no in-between, no uncertainty. Damian loves you with the same ferocity that he does everything else in his life.

And one day? When he’s older, stronger, even more sure of himself—he won’t hesitate to tell you:

“You are mine. And I am yours. Always.”

And that is what loving Damian is like.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, repost or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

period madness

featuring - Zoro x F!Reader, Ace x F!Reader, Sanji x F!Reader, Luffy x F!Reader, Kaku x F!Reader, Law x F!Reader, Usopp x F!Reader

summary - it's that time of the month and they have...interesting...ways of dealing with it

warnings - none

a/n - I've done this with the live action Straw Hats so i wanted to do this with their anime versions too, plus the ones who aren't in the LA yet

ZORO

Zoro jerked awake to the sound of pots crashing and clanging in the kitchen. He was unaccustomed to that, because Sanji never let anyone in the kitchen but himself. That and the aggressive sounds were usually only caused by him and then cook during their arguments. So when he got up to investigate, he was not prepared for the sight before him.

You were throwing pots and pans at the cook, who was barely able to dodge your pinpoint accuracy. He was holding his hands up and shaking them, saying, "No, no, no darling!" or slipping into panicked French.

The swordsman found it difficult to hold back his laughter and ended up chortling, catching yours and the cook's attention.

"What are YOU laughing at?" You glared daggers at him, chucking one of the pots at him. It hit him smack in the head, and he glared at you before seeing the look on your face.

He had never been more terrified.

"You're both idiots," you grumbled, rubbing your uterus before storming out of the kitchen. Sanji sighed in relief, before you called out behind you, "I want another one!" He jumped and ran around the kitchen, desperately making something - whatever you'd asked for.

"What's wrong with her?" Zoro gruffly asked the cook.

"She's on her period," Nami walked past, beaming and looking unusually happy.

Zoro vaguely knew what a period was. He didn't quite know how it worked, but he knew that women became oddly aggressive and emotional during their week. He didn't know about the blood, though, until he walked into your room after you and saw red staining your clothes.

"What happened?!"

You jumped and turned around, "Zoro! Don't do that!" Then you groaned, doubling over in pain.

Over the next couple of days, the swordsman learned just what a period entailed. Very drastic, rapid mood changes, intense cravings and debilitating pain. He once claimed you were being dramatic, but that was the last time. He shivered at the memory.

He became more helpful once he fully understood what was going on with you. Threatening Sanji to make whatever you were craving for, bringing it to you, rubbing your uterus. That he could handle. Your mood swings, alas, were his undoing.

"I'm tired. Can I nap now?"

"No one asked you to do my chores," you grumbled.

He glared at you, "A thank you would be nice."

"Mhm."

He grumbled and crossed his arms, muttering something about your attitude.

"What?" Your nostrils flared.

That dangerous look on your face came again, and Zoro froze up.

"Nothing."

"Better be. Remember what happened yesterday?"

He flinched. The swordsman flinched. He didn't want to be reminded of your wrath, much less experience it again. It had been traumatic enough the first time.

Thankfully, you were much more docile when he was cuddling you after you had changed and gotten comfortable.

ACE

You weren't at breakfast one morning. Which was odd, because you were usually always there before him, saving him a spot because he was the one sleeping in.

"Where's (Name)?" He asked the other crewmembers, all of them shrugging because no one actually knew.

This was his sign to check your room. If you hadn't come to greet him and he hadn't seen you all morning, you were most likely still sleeping. Which almost never happened, since you liked to get up early and get a jumpstart on your chores around the ship.

He carefully pushed open the door to your room, and there you were. Curled up in your bed, whimpering and moaning in what sounded like pain. Immediately he grew worried, and rushed over to you.

"What's wrong??" He crouched beside the bed, trying to get you to look at him.

"Cramps," was all that you could say before another bout of pain hit you and had you changing positions. Nothing was comfortable, and you'd tried everything. "Hurts."

He frowned, but knew exactly what to do. Sure, maybe he'd forgotten that you started your period today, but he'd had enough experience with it to know what to do. He climbed onto the bed nd laid behind you, wrapping his strong arms around you. Heating his body just enough to soothe you, his hand settled over your uterus and started rubbing in comforting, slow circles. When he felt your body slowly relax, he knew it was working.

"Mhm," you hummed, sighing in relief, "Much better. Thanks, Ace."

"Anything for you," he grinned, burying his face in your neck. He continued rubbing slowly and soothingly, also enioying the closeness and intimacy that this brought. "I'll get you some chocolate later, okay?"

You managed a small laugh, "You know Thatch is not going to let you into the kitchen. You're practically banned."

"I stole ONE cake, one!" He protested. "And it wasn't even a big one!"

You laughed again, shaking your head in amused dismay, "You know you stole more than that. He knows you sneak in almost every night."

"Is that why the fridge is now locked?"

"Mhmmm," you turned your head slightly, "But it's a sweet offer."

"No, I will get you that chocolate," he insisted, making you laugh. "I will fight Thatch if I have to."

"Or," you started to suggest, "We could stop at the island that's coming up and buy our own?"

"Nah, too late," he nuzzled his face against your neck, "I went to get it for you now."

"You're too sweet to me," you sighed contently, your entire body melting under his touch, the pain dulling to a bearable ache. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"You love me," he murmured into your neck. "That's enough."

When you were sleeping, the second division commander gently disentangled himself from you and snuck off to get your chocolate. The next day, you woke up to the sweet treat on your bedside table, and a note saying that both Thatch and Ace were in the infirmary. Sighing, you got up to go see your idiot boyfriend, but a smile on your face told you that you weren't mad at him.

You could never be. He handled your mood swings like a pro, never once losing his temper. He got you whatever you craved, no complaints. And when you were in pain, he was more than happy to become your personal heater.

Every single period, he treated you with the utmost gentleness, and a patience that no one knew he had.

SANJI

Your cravings are almost impossible to deal with. If he wasn't such a great cook, Sanji might have cracked under the pressure. Every hour was something new, something strange. But whatever you want, you get.

You stumbled into the kitchen a few hours later, wondering where your food was. Only to see your boyfriend trying to fend off your captain who was trying to steal it.

"Give it to him," you grumbled, "I'll just make it myself."

Sanji's eyes widened in panic as he watched you move around the kitchen, starting to prepare the dish. He finally kicked Luffy away and rushed towards.you, dropping onto his knees before you and holding up the dish.

"No, no, no, my love! Here you go!"

You crossed your arms, "Do you think I am incapable of making my own meal?"

"No, not at all!" He shook his head frantically, his panic rising. "I just don't want you to do any unnecessary work while.you're in so much, when I am here to do it for you!"

On any other day, you might have melted and kissed him on the cheek. Today, however, that comment just pissed you off.

"So you think I'm too weak to handle a bit of pain?"

The cook was going to pass out at this rate, "No, no, no! I just don't want-"

"Because I'm a woman, is that it?"

His face kept getting paler and paler, "My love-"

"No, forget it," your mood flipped, tears brimming in your eyes. "I'm not hungry anymore." You turned on your heel and left the kitchen, and Sanji's heart sunk.

If he hated anything more than you crying, it was you crying because of him.

He got to work preparing several of your favourite dishes, mentally cursing the captain for this whole debacle. It didn't take him long, because he was also desperate and panicky, his urge to comfort you growing stronger by the second. The minute he was done he was walking to your room with all the dishes in a tray, and knocking on your door.

"Go away."

"But darling, I have your food-"

The door swung open, and once again your mood had switched and you were smiling at him like nothing had happened. You let him in, peppering his face with kisses as you immediately started to eat, leaving him with hearts in his eyes.

But also a little terrified.

After you had finished eating, he cuddled you and let you fall asleep on him. He was afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing again so he just held you, letting you guide his hand to rub your uterus soothingly.

He was a little panicky, but he always took care of you during this frustrating week.

LUFFY

He's practically immune to your emotional outbursts. He does get them from everyone on the crew almost everyday, after all. So the mood swings he can handle, he just laughs it off and hugs you or cuddles you or offers to give you extra kisses.

It's the cravings part that he has an issue with.

Luffy and food go hand-in-hand, everyone knows this. If he even so much as spots something to eat, he will gobble it down within seconds. That's why Sanji has a lock on the fridge and chains on all the cabinets, because your boyfriend cannot stop himself from eating the ship's entire food supply.

And more often than not, he will end up fighting with you about it whenever you're on your period, because he thinks it's unfair that you get more food.

"Luffy, stop bothering (Name)!" Sanji smacked his hand away from your food.

The captain pouted, "Why does she get more food?"

You glared at your clueless boyfriend, the temptation to smack him growing stronger by the second, "Luffy, you try ble-" The rest of your explanation was muffled by Nami's hand.

Luffy pouted even more as he watched you eat, confused about why you were looking at him like you wanted to eat him.

When you were done, you got up and walked away without even asking him to come with you. This was even more weird for him, and so he followed you on his own.

"(Name), what's wrong?"

"Nothing, just tired," you replied, but he knew you so well that he could tell you were lying as you sat down on your bed.

"Did I do something?" He came to sit down beside you.

You sighed, "Yes and no. Do I look fat to you?"

His eyes widened, "No, why would you say that? Who called you fat?"

"Me."

He frowned at your words, "Why would you call yourself fat?"

"Because you're always complaining about me eating more on my period and it makes me feel like I am!" You snapped, teetering on the edge of a breakdown.

"I'm sorry," he apologised quietly, sincerely. "I didn't mean to make you feel like that."

"I know, but Luffy..." You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, "You have to understand. Women go through a lot on their period, okay? We eat more, we cry more, we snap more, everything we do is increased. So is our pain. It's just something that happens every month."

"You're in pain?" He asked worriedly, "Why didn't you tell me?"

I've told you many, many times, you refrained from saying, instead sighing, "Just...please be a bit more mindful, okay?"

He nodded, wrapping his arms around you, "I promise."

He really did try. The next day he even sat you on his lap just to hold you while you ate, and even though it looked like it was difficult for him, he stopped himself from commenting. He even started bringing you food, doing anything he could to be better and actually help you through your torturous week.

KAKU

He's not stupid. He's been around you and Khalifa long enough to know what to do and what not to and what to say and what not to say during your period.

Though he sometimes has his moments, where he forgets that you're in pain because you're so good at hiding it due to the nature of your job.

You were a day or two into your period so your cramps were really bad. But Spandam was annoying you about an assignment so you ended up snapping at him and accidentally broke his nose. Now you were suspended until further notice - although no one reprimanded you for punching him.

That's how Kaku found you, seething as you stormed through the hallways of the headquarters. He himself got a little nervous when he saw your furious look. Trained assassin or not, when you looked like that he would never dream of crossing you.

LAW

Of course, he did it unintentionally.

"What happened to you?" He asked, stopping you from storming past him.

"What do you think?" You snapped, your cramps becoming unbearably painful. You needed to get out of this interaction as quickly as possible.

"Hey, easy," he took a cautious step closer, "I'm not trying to fight."

You signed, "I know." Then you started walking away, only for him to follow you. "Kaku, not right now." Your voice came out strained, and this worried him.

"Something is wrong," he insisted.

"Wow, thanks, Captain Obvious," you rolled your eyes.

He sighed, "I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong."

"That's the problem!" You whirled around, "You never know what's wrong! This happens every month and you always seem to forget!"

You would later regret snapping at him like that, but your uterus was in the process of killing you so you were more than uncomfortable, and more than miserable.

A look of realisation dawned on him, and he lifted you up into his arms to carry you bridal-style to your room. Once he laid you down on the bed, he had water ready for you to drink and he lay beside you, pulling you close and enveloping you in his warmth as he soothingly rubbed where it hurt. Over the course of the last few months, he'd gotten better at helping you through the pain.

"Thanks," you mumbled, curling up against him. "I punched Spandam, by the way. Got suspended."

He laughed, "That must have been amusing."

"Mhm..."

Before you could word a proper reply, you were drifting off. This was comfortable, and his warm hand rubbing your uterus soothingly was lulling you off to sleep. He smiled softly and continued to hold you and attempt to soothe your pain as best he could.

You woke up later to find your favourite food and drink on your bedside table, and a note saying Spandam had given Kaku your assignment, which made you laugh.

Law saw the signs before you even noticed you were exhibiting them. He was a doctor, after all, but he was also your boyfriend and had memorised each symptom that you showed before getting your period. So he knew exactly when you were getting it, but he wasn't exactly the best at helping you through it.

USOPP

Especially with how angry and emotional you got. He struggled to predict your mood, and in this struggle he found that he didn't know how to properly respond to or act around you. Which led to 97% of your arguments during this time. The other 3% was you picking fights.

"(Name)-ya, you're late," he frowned when you walked into his room after breakfast.

You glared at him, "Oh I'm sorry, I was too busy dying in my bed!"

"Don't be dramatic," he sighed. "You weren't dying."

Your nostrils flared, "Excuse me?"

The look in your eyes was downright murderous. For a scary moment even he was a bit intimidated, but hes stubbornly stood his ground.

"Maybe this month the cramps are worse," you shot back, voice raising with each word. "But you wouldn't understand, you never do!" You turned and stormed out.

"You manage every other month."

He sighed, following, "(Name)-ya, wait."

"No Law," you snarled, "I'm not in the mood. Go away."

He grabbed your wrist, though not enough to hurt you, "I'm sorry."

You rolled your eyes, even more irritated by his lackluster apology, "Okay. Now can I go do my chores?"

He let go a bit awkwardly, frowning, "I can have someone do them for you."

"No, I wouldn't want to be lazy or look like I'm getting favours because I'm your girlfriend," you crossed your arms.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated, "You are in pain, no one is going to hold it against you. Can you please just go back to bed?"

"Is that an order?" You glared at him.

He glared back, "Yes."

You finally relented, storming off to your room and making a show of being irritated. Law sighed behind you, following and making sure you did actually get into bed. Then he made sure you got something hot to press against your uterus, as well as plenty of snacks and drinks to keep you satisfied.

He did come at random points during the day to check on you, which you thought was sweet. He would stand by your side awkwardly and fumble his words, but it was the thought that counted.

And over the next few days, he got better at helping you through it. He let you do your tasks but was a lot more lenient, he accepted your affection even in public, and he was a lot softer than he would usually be. Anything you asked for, you got it - eventually. It might not be right away, but he did get it for you and that was what mattered to you.

But oh, the mood swings were going to be the death of him.

Your period week scared Usopp. He made sure he memorised your cycle so that he knew when you would be a bit more...sensitive, to his words and actions. So he knew when the time came, what he shouldn't say or do around you.

The problem was that he tended to avoid you, hoping that would keep him safe from your mood swings and your violent tendencies. After last time, he was traumatised.

"(Name)?" He knocked on your room door, after hearing from Nami that you weren't up yet and it was late morning already.

"Don't come in!" You wailed, sounding miserable.

He poked his head around the door, curious as to why you didn't want him to come inside. You were rushing around the room in your underwear, making his face turn red. He tried to pull his head out, but knocked it on the door and yelped.

You whipped around, "Usopp!"

But to his surprise, you started crying instead of screaming at him. You sunk onto your bed, dropping your sheets miserably. He quickly came inside, closed the door, and sat beside you.

"What's wrong???" He asked, a bit panicky.

"There's blood everywhere!" You sobbed, "My pants got ruined, my sheets.got ruined, everything got ruined!"

"Oh..." He felt a but flustered, unsure of what to do.

"I know!" You cried, "You probably think it's disgusting." The thought had you sobbing harder, and he panicked even more when you reacted this way.

"No, no, no!" He shook his hands frantically, "You're not disgusting! Never!"

Eventually it dawned on him that he should probably get your things cleaned for you, and when he suggested it he saw you visibly relax and knew it was the right choice.

"Are you sure?" You mumbled, bottom lip trembling.

"I'm sure," he nodded, picking up your things. "Just relax, I'll go get you some (favourite food), and be back just now."

He did just that, ensuring you got into comfortable, warm clothes and then bringing you warm food and warm drinks any time you asked him to. You laid on your bed and asked him to tell you stories, which often succeeded in making you laugh.

He was more than happy to oblige.

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 :)

so.. hot take fix idea..

fire lord zuko would totally try to fuck you anywhere.. i mean, who’d stop him? from the garden balconies to the throne room or even dining room and study.. it’s very evident that he loves you to everyone around and isn’t afraid to let anyone else know it either.

MINORS DNI 18+

"Zuko," you chide under your breath, shying away from ZUKO's lips that brush the sensitive skin of your neck. "Compose yourself." you hushed instruction is paid no heed as he presses himself into your back, pinning you between the railing and his body.

His lowered voice washes warm breath over your ear, sending chills down your spine, "How can I? I can't keep my hands off you." It's in poor taste for the Fire Lord to express such ardent desire so publicly, the balcony overlooking the balcony is hardly the most inconspicuous place to do it. Even through his layers of robing, you can feel a familiar prodding, and you gasp when his teeth bite into your flesh to distract you. "No one's around." he expresses as if it's encouragement instead of a thinly veiled ploy. It's part of the thrill for him.

The official dressings you wear are inaccessible, you're unsure of how he'll proceed without baring you entirely for the world to see. When his hands grab at the fabrics, bunching them up to inch them higher you reach back to catch him. "Zuko!" you whisper indignantly, glancing at him from over your shoulder. He leans in, furthering you over the balcony from his weight as he steals a grinning kiss from you.

"A quick one, my love. If anyone so much as looks in your direction I'll skin them alive." The barbaric threat is entirely to make you dissolve into giggles as a distraction, moving aside the expensive silks so he can get at what he knows is waiting for him underneath.

Winter Series: Day 7 - Mistletoe

Summary: how  the tradition is kept when the two of you stand under the mistletoe that’s hung in front of the Christmas Tree as everyone is in the room to enjoy the Christmas party

Dick:

Duke covers Damian’s eyes, Stephanie covers Cass’, Tim rolls his eyes, and Jason asks who the hell is the culprit. Of course, honorable mentions for Alfred’s unamused expression and Bruce rubbing his forehead out of exasperation. For ten plus hours all he’s been wanting was to kiss you once. Just once. But, no matter how much he tried, it was impossible to even get a quick peck from how busy the two of you were with helping in preparing for the Christmas party in the manor. It gnaws at his mind from listening to your laughter and catching you smiling every time he passes by yet he wasn’t able to steal a quick one, much less be with you. So imagine how he feels when someone genuinely, innocently points out the mistletoe you and him stand under. With the glow of the fire in the fireplace and Christmas lights highlighting your features beautifully, his grin should’ve been obvious to what he plans next. His hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back, all his pent up frustration is released as he pulls and locks you in. There’s not a single drop of shame in him, ignoring your frantic taps on his bicep while taking in your burning face and tightly closed eyes as his fingers stay tangled in your hair. It tempts him to push against rationality and go further, only to not when he realizes you are literally out of air. With that, the kiss breaks and he pulls you up, laughing when you slap his arm while covering your face with a hand. He does complain a bit from the over exaggeration when everyone gets on his case after Alfred’s comment on how unacceptable his behavior was. He still thinks it’s worth it when your hand stays on his arm and he catches your blush remaining in your cheeks from the corner of his eyes.

Jason:

When it comes to traditions, Jason isn’t a stickler about it. As long as things seem Christmas-y and the people he cares for, especially you, are happy, he couldn’t care less. Ugly sweaters? Sure. Elv hats? That’s fine. Cover everything in gold, green, red, and white? Obnoxious, but tolerable. Mistletoe, though, is a whole different issue. He did hear about someone planning to hang mistletoe somewhere in the manor, but he needs to know whose idea it was to have it  hung in front of the Christmas tree of all places. And to make things better, it gets pointed out when everyone’s in the room while he stands under it with you whose arms are wrapped around his tricep. He was initially not going to do it despite all the crap the rest gives (Dick and Tim currently top 2 on his hit list), not wanting to put you in the center of what seems like unwanted attention, only for his brain to freeze when his eyes catch your actions. A hue of pink looking vermillion red in the warm light around your cheeks and tips of your ears, glancing up at him for a second and looking away right after. That does the trick, his mind backing up and taking a sharp detour. Silently sucking in his breath, the back of his hand brushes your face and pushes back some stray hair away before he leans down and captures your lips. It’s gentle, soft, and pure, none of the sappiness to be found as it lasts only for a few seconds. He chuckles when you instantly duck your head into his chest as soon as the two of you part, leading to some of the others to coo from the sight. Wrapping his arms around your form, he chuckles and starts giving crap back, gloating over none of them not winning like he was as he waits for you to recover. 

Tim:

There wasn’t supposed to be mistletoe. Much to Steph and Dick’s chagrin, he even made sure there wouldn’t be any, having gone through long lengths to get it banned from entering the manor and its vicinity this year. So how it got brought in and out of everyone, it was you two standing beneath it, he doesn’t have a clue. Knowing there’s no way out of it, he hasn’t stopped rubbing circles on the back of your hands as a means of keeping his sanity, color continuing to rise to his cheeks. PDA is not his strong suit, him treating intimacy being precious moments for him where he can re-memorize your features to all his heart's content without the worry of prying eyes or judgement. After all, he wants both yours and his days filled with memories of each other making every second count, not wanting a single regret left. That being said, having no contingencies for the unexpected situation, his mind starts to overwork itself to figure out how to deal with this debacle. How to make it brief but still perfect without being humiliating or gross, at what angle and pose to take that’ll be convenient for you and- oh. Eyes are suddenly wide open at first then slowly, fluttering closed. He leans in, tilting his head slightly as he melts from soft against soft, warmth against warmth. Tender yet brief, the two of you look at each other for a moment before ducking down, suddenly finding the grain in the wooden floors interesting. He’s very much aware both his hands are still holding yours. Not like there’s anything he can do about it, steam coming from his head with his blush now passing the base of his neck. He does note those that coos how he’s a “big bird flying on his own now”, swearing to get back at each of them in the most painful way. 

Duke:

It’s been over a minute since someone oh-so-kindly noticed a certain plant hanging over both of you and yet no progress has been made. Sure, some of it was from his rebellious side of not wanting to give into the pressure and the satisfaction. Really though, most of it was from how the two of you were the same red as Jason’s helmet after looking like deer in headlights. He does think credit is deserved for managing to physically face each other despite his eyes and yours avoids making contact. But that’s it. He continues to rub the back of his head and neck while you won’t stop playing with your hair, 0% confidence, 100% awkward and embarrassed from all the attention that’s being given. His mind stays conflicted and hesitant between going for it from how (and he’s pretty he’s hallucinating it) there seems to be gold reflecting off of you from all the lights while not wanting to make you uncomfortable or feel forced. So the plan was to wait for you to show some sort of sign, until he and you get pushed from behind. Initially there’s shock but it quickly disappears, his arms supporting you by the waist with your hands resting over them. The two of you stay in that position and then, slowly back away from what seems like forever when in reality, it wasn’t long in the slightest. Faces covered by one hand while the other slides down to hold the other, he swears he can hear sizzles from how badly you two are burning. It only gets worse when some start cheering, others even expressing how “cute” the scene was. He does appreciate Jason clapping Dick back when the former states something about “young love”, only for the latter to ask if the eldest had finally accepted being old. Bruce didn’t appreciate getting dragged in nor being referred to as ancient. 

Damian:

He refuses to do it. He won’t become entertainment for the family. According to what he found beforehand, it’s not even a tradition required to celebrate Christmas. It’s simply meant to romanticize the holiday and you and him are above romance for needing such a thing. He’s already having it bad where his heart won’t stop fluttering from you wearing the matching ugly sweater he’s wearing. His siblings keep pulling you away from him, curious who it was to have him wrapped around their little finger or so they said, though he fully disagrees that being the case. He tries to keep you near the snacks table so he can finally have you to himself only for it to not last long when your eyes land on the ridiculously large, yet admittingly, beautiful Christmas tree. Which of course, lands him into this situation that he completely faults you for, him having followed you when you suddenly started leaving his side. His scowl deepens when Tim and Steph go on about how it’s confirmed the two of you are really a couple for looking like matching red Christmas ornaments along with the matching sweaters. The rest of the siblings join in to egg on while Bruce and Alfred tries to mediate (Dick acted as if he was also but was obviously not when the corner of his lips kept twitching). Then, while he’s in the middle retorting back, he feels something on his cheek. He goes mute, words dying in his throat, his mind slowly processing what just occurred. Then he turns to you only for him to find your ears completely dyed, fidgeting nonstop and playing with the hem of the sweater. The moments get ruined from laughter but he eventually does your cheek back, telling you it’s his way of getting back at you with a stained pair of his own when no one looks. Or so he thought, which leads to round three of arguing to start. 

Tired Timmy

Pairing: Tim Drake x reader

Warnings: None

Summary: Fluff- When you return from a mission, you realize how tired Tim is and get him to sleep.

Note: Found this in my drafts and idk what it was doing there so here ya go

Word Count: 1598

Tonight, was an especially cold night. Snow fell over the city and blanketed everything in sight. You had just gotten back from a mission in the Amazon and was on break from patrol duty. Aside from getting used to the change in climate from where you were versus where you are now, you were worried about Tim. Of course, he was relieved that you were back safe and sound, he told you as much, but he seemed especially stressed as of lately. It wasn’t uncommon for him to stress about you leaving for a mission without him, but even coming back didn’t seem to stall his emotions. 

            “How’s it going Timmy?” You asked in the comms, watching the surveillance cameras from around the city. 

            “mmm” he grumbled in response 

            “That good huh?” You started snickering at his response, “Only thirty more minutes and then you can come crash.”

            “Good to know.” He said as you watched him haphazardly swing from one building to another, “any leads on the Riddler case?”

            “A few, I’m pretty sure he and Penguin are in cahoots again. I’d say that they’re getting ready for a heist. Give them three weeks tops.” Tim heard paper being tossed around as you combed through the case files regarding your suspicions, “We can go over them when you’re rested.” 

            “I’ll be fine.” Tim said, “We’ll talk about it when I get back.” 

            You weren’t going to argue with him. Tim could be stubborn about working and you didn’t want him angry on patrol, especially when he was this tired. It was a good way of making sure that he came home injured. 

            “Dick, make sure that Tim doesn’t throw himself off a building or something.” You said on a private link.

            “I’m always on it, Y/N/N.” He replied in a chipper tone, “You see it too?” 

            “Yeah,” you leaned back in your chair, watching as the boys ran through the city, “I’ll pick his brain on it when you guys get back. Just make sure he comes back in one piece.”       

            “Will do.”

            You logged into the computer database on Penguin and Riddler’s recent moves, trying to pinpoint connections to them. It was late and you told Alfred to go to sleep so there was only Damian’s pets keeping you company. The first sign of extra life was the sounds of the Batmobile roaring through the underground tunnels. Sometimes, depending on how fast Bruce was going, the walls would vibrate and shake. Dust from the cave’s ceiling would fall onto the floor and in the air as he came flying into the garage. Today it was mundane, and no dust came off the walls. You heard the mechanical sliding of the doors opening and two pairs of heavy footsteps before the sound of two other engines roared through the cave. 

            “How’s the investigation going?” Bruce asked, raking through the papers as Damian picked up Alfred the cat from the chair arm rest.

            “It’s moving along nicely. I think they’re going for the new diamond exhibit downtown. I don’t know why anyone exhibits anything valuable in this city anymore.” 

            Bruce gave a stiff chuckle before patting you on the back, “Good work, turn in for the night, you need rest.” 

            Bruce started walking off as Tim came up and leaned over the side rest.

            “Hey babe.” He tipped your chin to give you a kiss.

            “How was patrol?” You asked, already knowing the answer.

            “It was fine.” He said, pulling up a chair next to you.

            “You seem exhausted.” “Timmy let’s go to bed. We need rest.”

            “Looks aren’t always as they appear Y/N/N.” He mindlessly ran his fingers through your hair and stared at you, “What do you have on the case?”

            You knew there was nothing you could do to get Tim to go to bed at this point. It was time for plan “yapping to death”. Talking fast, you told him everything you had. There was no repeating what you had said, and you started flipping through the papers as fast as possible without raising suspicion. You had the clocks set to look like a later time, making sure that Tim would think it was later than it was. It was obvious when the plan was working since you saw Tim’s unfocused eyes start wandering around the cave. When it got to this point, Tim would finally decide it was time to rest.

            “Does that make sense?” You asked, thumbing over his fingers, “I’ve got the schematics of the-“

            “Y/N/N, it makes sense but, uh, I’m not focusing anymore.” 

            “Do you wanna go to bed?” You asked, searching for any sign of resistance in his eyes, “Come on.”

            You stood up and pulled him out of the chair, he leaned into you and let his weight rest against you.

            “Sorry, you just got back from a mission, you must be sore.” He said, leaning off you.

            “It’s okay Timmy, I’m alright.” You hugged him and led him upstairs, “Come on, I’ll get you to bed.” 

            “M’ not a baby, I can’t get there myself.” He mumbled into your shoulder before pausing, “That came out snappy.”

            “You’re fine Tim. I know you’re tired.” 

            “I’m fine.”

            Again, you didn’t say anything back, but instead led him up the next flight of stairs and into his room. Leaving him to grab his clothes, you walked into the bathroom and started the shower. When the water was warm enough, you opened the door to tell Tim it was ready. He walked in before calling you back in, the softness of his voice showing how tired he was. 

            “Hey um, you haven’t showered yet either have you?” He asked, crossing his arms with a towel wrapped around his waist. 

            “I showered after dinner Tim.” You said, raising a brow.      

            “Oh yea.” There was a silence in the room for a few seconds.

            “But, if you insist, I can’t say no.” This made Tim chuckle a bit before you shut the door and he dropped the towel before he got into the shower himself.

            You quickly undressed and opened the glass door, joining Tim in the hot stream of water. Tim leaned his head against your shoulder and sighed deeply.

            “I’m tired.” He admitted, wrapping his arms around you, relishing in the heat of the water and the closeness of you.

            “I gathered as much.” “You’ve been over working yourself recently. I told Dick to make sure you didn’t run yourself to death before I got back.” 

            “It’s not Dick’s fault.” He said, “I have my ways.”

            “Oh, I know.” You laughed, making Tim laugh with you.

            “I’m glad you’re back. I thought I’d kill someone for the past three weeks.” 

“I’m glad to be back too. Also, glad you didn’t kill anyone, that would be unfortunate.”  You started running shampooed hands through his hair, washing the dirt and grime down the drain.

Tim closed his eyes and let the water run over his head, washing away the soap and eventually the conditioner that you ran through his hair. He began to wash himself, making sure not to run over the bruises on his torso. Tim gave you a quick glance before double taking.                      “What’s this from?” He asked, running a soapy finger over a stitched wound on your stomach, “I haven’t seen it.”

“Got grazed by a blade during the mission.” “One of the assassins got the best of Cassie and I jumped in front of her.” 

“It looks painful.” “I’ve been leaning on you this entire time, are you hurt anywhere else?” He spun you around and started looking for signs of other injuries.

“Besides a few bruises, I’m fine. You’re fine Timmy; I’m not hurt.”

“This doesn’t look fine. Why did you tell me?” He asked 

“I didn’t want to worry you, you’re exhausted.” The rest of the soap ran off the two of you and into the drain, “I didn’t want you stressing yourself out.”

“I’m sorry.” Tim said honestly, “You said to get rest but I totally didn’t.” 

“Tim I’m not upset with you. I know it’s your job and you feel passionately about it, I’m just worried you don’t sleep, it’ll get you hurt on the field.”

“I know you’re right.” 

“Come on, let’s get dress and go to bed. I don’t think I have a change of clothes in here.” You said grabbing two towels from the heated rack.

“I brought you some sweats.” Tim replied with a smirk.

“Oh, so you’re admitting that you planned this all along?” You laughed nudging him jokingly.

“Just the shower.” 

            When you had dried off totally, you walked back into the bedroom and turned the fan on. Walking back to the bed, you saw that Tim was already getting into bed. His eyes were fluttering shut and opening again, over, and over. He turned his head to you and spread out, getting comfortable.

            “I’m tired.” He said softly.      

            “I know love.” You climbed next to him and reached over him to turn the lamp off.

            “That’s a good view babe.” Tim said with a smirk in his voice before you leaned back onto your side.

            “Glad you approve.” 

            You laid down, pulling Tim closer to you. He put his head into the crook of your neck and took a deep breath before wrapping his legs around you. Pushing the covers over his shoulders, you ran your fingers through his hair, watching as his breath evened out and his body relaxed. 

            “I’m exhausted. Can’t sleep without you” he said in a whisper.

            “I know Timmy, but you can sleep now.” 

JUSTICE LEAGUE AS FRAT BOYS.

characters written about in this piece : bruce wayne, clark kent, barry allen, oliver queen, hal jordan

note : sexual content mentioned but by no means smut, and definitely some swearing,, it's just kind of cracky and humorous because rhat's all what we're here for, thanks for requesting ! and hope you enjoy

requested !

BRUCE WAYNE.

probably the most restrained out of everyone, and it has you wondering how he even got in the freaking fraternity. oh you'd be surprised. on the outside he's this calm, sorta brooding, quiet type,, like seeing him with the rest of these guys he totally doesn't fit in. BUT!!!! that IS THE ENTIRE RUSE !!!! it's all an act to get clunge. like you could never admit it, but he purposely goes to the campus library, waits around the romance section and then when he spots a cute girl he goes up with all these lines. "hey, sorry, do you think you could help me locate wuthering heights ?? i haven't been able to find it no matter where i look !!" and then the girl finds it and he's like oh will you go out with me for some coffee and then we all know what really happens. but he's gripping definitely, can get your attention as soon as he walks into a room, so the girl he was plotting on was probably already plotting on him. also unfortunately the type to go after girls all nice when they've just had a breakup,, "i'm so sorry, the guy who did this should die in a hole, want to come by mine tonight and we could watch some movies with takeout ?"

CLARK KENT.

everybody meets clark and can't imagine him being as bad as his frat brothers, and he's not, except he also is worse?? he's your token meathead, brain non existent frat boy, but gets it done just as effectively, if not better than everybody else. when he spends most of the 24 hours in his day at the gym, you'd wonder where he even gets the time to pick up girls, but then you're walking through thr frat house and it sounds like a pig is getting wrangled with those noises,, and then you're walking through the dorms and find one doorhandle with a pair of hot pink lace undies hanging off and you're like ahhh okay it's clark— hang on. because no one's ever actually seen him in action,, chatting up a girl i mean. say everyone's gone out to a club or a sports bar or something, he's with the guys the whole time but somehow by the time they get back to the frat he's rawdogging someone upstairs ??? (i think it's the muscles, they're a magnet) and he's definitely a member of the football team, got there on scholarship because he's a small town baby, and the quarterback or linebacker title is definitely something he flashes from time to time to attract the huzz

BARRY ALLEN.

okay just because i said it just now for clark's one it made me think,,, barry would SO use huzz unironically. like he's texting the gc "k abt 2 go back 2 frat w huzz i found in victoria secret" and yes he also does type like that. want to know what he's doing in victoria's secret ?? oh that's a secret i'll never tell xoxo gossip girl (he hangs out in the mall to locate fine shyt and then discreetly follows them into the stores until he talks to them, and because he's so charming they go back to the frat with him). but it's true, he does have some sort of effortless air about him, more of a boyish charm than the rest, but his tactic is more so blunt flattery than anything else. big a girl's ego nice, by saying how pretty she is — are you sure you're not wearing makeup ? you're so gorgeous i thought you must be born with eyelashes like that — and then let her take you back to her dorm so she can return the favour if you know what i'm getting at 💀

overall actually i think he's quite a nice guy, and not as overly exploitative as the others, but yk still likes to have a go because he wouldn't be in this fraternity for nothing. by no means is he the type to stop his friends from the way they behave, because, like i said, he's not here for nothing, but sometimes might make a comment if he thinks they've taken it too far with a girl (but then he'll just go and cheer her up after wink wink)

OLIVER QUEEN.

more likely to date someone than the rest of the guys, but that doesn't make him any better by far. he might be the worst of them actually, because he makes all these girls think they have a proper chance with this really cool charismatic guy (rizz lol) and then dumps them with that whole "it's not you it's me" after like two months of dating, and just goes on through his college life like that the cunt. he finds cute girls EVERYWHERE like literally everywhere. there was one time he brought a girl home after the first date, and then he went to go make them coffee in the communal kitchen, so everyone was asking where they met, and he deadass says ohh she was doing community service and she ditched it for this dick lol what can i say. if he had normal friends they might say what the fuck ollie, but then everyone asked where it was she was doing it so they can find some of her peers because she "was taking it nice" like lord... but then even she didn't last long, and it was actually her fault not his just getting bored. after a week she accused him of checking out another girl and pulled a hammer to his head, so obviously that was a situation he wanted to leave asap. most of the time ollie just chooses some really strange girls to date (even tho half the point is to just have sex but actually have a label to it), so he considers a lot just having simple one night stands never to see them again, or doing what hal does, but he can't seem to bring himself to have something completely temporary. even though all his relationships are.

HAL JORDAN.

literally THEE fucking fuck boy frat boy literally THEE worst nightmare you could ever think of. it's like hal has been in the game since the womb, like his calling in life was to be a frat boy and nothing more. he's such a cunt, like he knows exactly what to say to any girl to get in their pants you know it all the whole bizz. and he'll say anything. literally pretended for a whole semester to be gay once just to score. but his favourite past time has to be bar crawls on a friday night, except the goal isn't drinks at each bar, it's girls at each bar. literally carries an entire strip of condoms in his jeans pocket to rip one off in a time of need, which could be any time obviously for him. frat boy hal is definitely a fan of public stuff, likes the rush of the possibility of being caught (and oh noooo nooo pls don't find out how good i am in bed, well... in the back of an alley but you get what i meeeeaaaan). i think he's kind of like joey tribbiani, where it's like instead of how you doin he goes up like hey you alright ? to any living breathing thing with boobies, and somehow it always works, because he's got a collection of bras or panties in his drawers, which are like trophies for every body he scores.