Revie-worldy - Tumblr Blog

Okay, so I've read the Spider-man: Across the Spider-verse artbook, and there is this fantastic passage on Earth-42 that gives context to the dimension, Miles G., Uncle Aaron and the Sinister Six.

“Miles comes face to face with a parallel world version of his own in Earth-42 – an alternate reality where he never gained superpowers and where his Uncle Aaron is still alive. “We wanted to craft this moment where Miles encounters this powerful figure in his life that he loved so much and he lost," says director Justin K. Thompson. “That's when he realizes that he is not really in his own dimension, as well as the gravity of what he has lost. In this reality, Aaron has had to shake off his life of crime and became a surrogate father figure to Miles.”

The artists changed Uncle Aaron's outward appearance to reflect this new reality and convey how he has changed. The Uncle Aaron of Earth-42 has a little gray in his beard. His clothing still has the old “cool streetwear” vibe, but he has a more sophisticated and older look. In this alternate reality, the Sinister Six have been able to flourish and take over the world. “We wanted to create a world where it felt like Aaron and Miles G. Morales [this reality counterpart to Miles Morales] are the only heroes.”

It's a much darker version of Miles' original home. So, we looked at comic book artists who epitomized that sort of noirish world - artists like Frank Miller, Sean Gordon Murphy, John Polygon, where there is heavy use of black and colors sort of recede behind the dark shadows. The powerless version of Miles is still capable and efficient and has great acrobatic and physical prowess. We also needed Miles to feel trapped in this dark world. We wanted to leave the audience with the burning question: ‘How is he going to get home?’ It was just exciting to see the development of this world to underscore all of these narrative choices we were making.”

I forgot to post this here. Some ASTV comic I did a while ago!!!

Some fun with mama Rio

Need Help Somewhere in the Head.

Miles wishes he could change his bad habits.

There's too much going on in his head all night and all day for him to function properly. He goes over this with himself all the time, but knows there's nothing he can do about it. It's his job to keep his work done. To keep people out the streets and to fix his city straight again. And again and again.

Too often has he found himself with bloody knuckles, shoving his hot and sweaty hands back into his jacket with searing pain to take his unreleased anger out on a random nigga he just didn't like from school. Too often has he found himself disturbing everyone surrounding him just from sitting there, brooding silently, his energy tainting the room.

Too often has he found himself taking mission after mission, coming back home at 4 in the morning and wounded. Just to try and forget everything. Forget his missing assignments, forget his judgmental teachers who jump to conclusions, forget his grief and everything else.

Too often has he found himself perched on your fire escape.

.....his mind is silent when you're right there.

It doesn't matter if it's late and no one's outside. It doesn't matter if he can't hear you. Can't smell your sweet perfume. Just as long as you're safe in bed, asleep. Every single night. He couldn't stop when he first started.

Out of all of the things that destroy him, steal his mind and his time, you're the one replenishing what's been torn away from him.

You've never spoken to each other before, never locked eyes, never took the same class, yet he knows all about you. He takes great care of all of the people that fuck around with you. He found where you lived only a few hours after he first saw you. From then, he knew he would become more of a problem in the worst way possible. And he doesn't know what to do.

He hopes that he doesn't treat you like everyone else. Hopes he doesn't push you away, gives you the silent treatment to make you leave him alone. He hopes that with you, he won't abuse his power over you like he does to every boy you talk to. He hopes he won't lie and threaten you like he does to his enemies at night when his mind is the most foggy. He hopes to stop depending on you to give him this high.

Just thinking about how shitty he is. How shitty he could be to you makes his hands tremble. His heart beats too fast for his liking, he can't control it and he feels like a mouse in a big ass room, alone and vulnerable. And when he looks through your dark window, seeing your back facing him, your chest rising and falling slightly with your breaths, it resets him entirely like a fresh drink of water, he doesn't fucking get it.

Why are you so perfect? Why can't he love you like a regular boy? Should he let himself have this singular pleasure in his life? Just this once?

I will forever miss these two... I have such a soft spot for the Young Justice versions of Jason and Damian sobs

(((when will you return to me I need some level of conclusion some closure

still old robin sketches

Was anyone going to tell me that Talia's real name is Tal-Yahe and it means "Tears of Gods" bc I'm going insane

Was anyone going to tell me that Talia's real name is Tal-Yahe and it means "Tears of Gods" bc I'm going insane

Age-reversed Damian, Tim, Jason, Dick.

fan art

here's a quick doodle of Respawn smiling. I am reminded of how few my fanarts are for him, so there.

He's canonically half brother of Damian. And he still has no human name! Been waiting for Deathstroke to give him one, but I guess he has to earn it?

I just HC his name as Rhys al Ghul Wilson (nickname for Respawn) for now.

Robin (2021) #13

Seer reader: "Today is gonna be totally normal."

Approximately thirty seconds later—

Yandere Aegon: "Which one of us is more likely to marry you?" Deep breath "Is it me or Aemond? Is it me or Aemond?"

—

Yandere Rhaenyra: "It is good to have you here. You will surely aid us in the war."

Seer reader: "H-How did I get all the way back here?"

Yandere Daemon smugly standing in the corner after he kicked a child and stole you back from Team Green.

—

Yandere Criston Cole: "I will protect you with every bone in my body."

Seer reader: "You can't protect me from the horrors."

Yandere TB & TG: "We're the horrors."

—

Yandere Aemond: "Mine."

Seer reader: "I am a bastard, my prince."

Yandere Aemond: "That just means you will have to marry me and have my children to be considered legitimate."

—

Yandere TB & TG: "Whose side are you on?"

Seer reader: "The side of my freedom." Eyes the map and looks at Essos.

—

Yandere Helaena: "You're very pretty."

Seer reader: "Thank you."

Yandere Helaena: "Did you know the copulation process is exceptionally long among ladybugs? It can last more than two hours. Is that how your visions work? Are they induced by your hormones? If my husband were to couple with you, do you think you would end up getting a vision in the middle of it?"

Seer reader: "I—uh."

Yandere Helaena: "If we were to entwine limbs do you think our process would be close to that of a ladybug? We were both given divine gifts. It would make sense if it took that long for us."

Seer reader: whispering "Daemon, Rhaenyra, Jacaerys, save me."

—

Viserys: Gets down on one knee

Seer reader: "Oh my gods, it’s finally happening."

Viserys: Dies.

Seer reader: "The poison kicked in."

—

Yandere Daemon: "Three words. Say them and I'm yours."

Seer reader: "Three words."

Yandere Daemon: "A win is a win. A win is a win."

—

Seer reader: Running around the castle panicked, blind, and with a bloody nose.

Yandere Daemon: "What did you see, my dear?"

Seer reader: "Nobody died. I promise."

Yandere Rhaenyra's mother senses kicking in: "WHAT KIND OF ANSWER IS THAT?!"

—

Yandere Alicent & Yandere Ser Criston worrying over Seer reader and the fact Yandere TB will try to kidnap them again.

Seer reader: "Don’t worry, I have a few knives up my sleeve."

Yandere Alicent: "I think you mean cards."

Seer reader, pulling knives out of their sleeves: "No, I do not."

Both yanderes silently questioning how you got those knives.

—

Random noble: "Do you have a spouse?"

Seer reader: "Emotionally, or legally?"

—

Yandere Helaena: "Treat spiders the way you want to be treated."

Seer reader: "Killed without hesitation."

Yandere Helaena: "No!"

—

Seer reader: "What time is it?"

Yandere Aegon: "I don’t know. Scream and we’ll find out."

Seer reader: Screams.

Yandere Criston COLE: "WHO THE FUCK IS HURTING SEER READER AT TWO IN THE MORNING!?"

Yandere Aegon: "It’s 2 am."

—

Seer reader: Looks at draft. "That is way too long."

Author: "I'm making it longer."

Of Course a Prince Needs a Princess

Characters: Yandere Prince x Female (Y/N) In which you reincarnate into a fairytale where Yan!Prince wants his happy ending too

𝑃̲𝑟̲𝑜̲𝑙̲𝑜̲𝑔̲𝑢̲𝑒̲

Having a second chance at life in exchange for the death of your previous one came with a crash. You weren't sure how it happened, but you luckily retained your memories and your wit.

It didn't take long to find out you were in a world akin to Cinderella's story--from the stepmothers to the talking mice to the royalty the citizens praised. Unfortunately, you weren't looking to live in a grand castle. Or maybe you were, but not with being married to a man you don't have feelings for. The original couple got together so quick, yet they barely knew each other. That story was definitely as it was: a work of fiction

Your new plan? Put up with the stepsisters, find a job elsewhere, and make enough bank to live comfortably in the village away from your family. You've never heard of laws in Cinderella's fairytale, but you were certain that the kingdom couldn't possibly force citizens to live with toxic family members.

𝑇̲ℎ̲𝑒̲ 𝐵̲𝑎̲𝑙̲𝑙̲

After spending a few months doing chores and odd jobs around the village (the latter for some extra cash), your family finally received news of the fated ball.

You initially didn't plan on going, but you deserved a break. You didn't bother asking for permission to go; your stepmother definitely wouldn't allow it. The main problem was summoning Fairy Godmother.

Luckily, she couldn't tell the difference between fake tears and real ones. You behaved as close to the actual Cinderella as you could recall, and POOF!

With your new attire and coach, you made your way to the most gorgeous castle your eyes have ever fell upon.

It didn't take long for the prince to notice you, but this is where you drew the line at this fairytale life. You rejected his proposal to dance, shocking the other guests. You had to resist a smirk at your step-family's reaction.

Flabbergasted, the prince left you swiftly and moved onto another fair maiden. You indulged yourself in the catering happily, but after your stomach was filled, the stares of passerby began to discomfort you. The prince was occupied with another dance, so you wasted no time leaving the palace early (much to the confusion of the knights who stood guard).

The spell broke while at home with no evidence of your night out, not even the glass slippers. When your stepfamily returned, they bragged about their time and briefly talked about you (luckily not knowing you were the one who was "stuffing their face like a pig starved."). After that day, life returned to normal.

Or at least what you thought was going to be normal.

𝘙͜𝘶͜𝘯͜𝘢͜𝘸͜𝘢͜𝘺͜ 𝘊͜𝘪͜𝘯͜𝘥͜𝘦͜𝘳͜𝘦͜𝘭͜𝘭͜𝘢͜

Beginning that night, Yan!Prince thought about you often. He never imagined a young lady would ever reject his proposal to dance, though he didn't hold it against you. It was just a shocker.

Despite that, you appeared in his mind before bed and after he woke up, while he ate and while sharpening his combat skills. Even if he told himself that that one incident was nothing more than a brief interaction with a citizen of his kingdom, he couldn't forget the color of your hair, your pretty face, and how you paid oh so much attention to the food his family prepared just for that ball.

Upon overhearing the chefs gush about their gratefulness towards their food being appreciated so much, he made up a personality for you: kind but forward, honest, valuing true intentions and love over gold and high status.

Too bad for him, gold was your highest priority. While he began going on strolls into the village in search of you under the impression of catching up with the townsfolk, you continued job-hunting and tending to the house. You even decided to cater to your stepfamily as best as possible--subtle enough so they wouldn't think you were trying to suck up to them.

Surprisingly, your relationship with them improved just a bit. But it was what you needed to get permission to work at a bakery in the village.

Once you discovered he was visiting the village often, you did your best to avoid the bakery window while working and hurry home once your shift ended.

Unfortunately, you both ran into each other just as you closed up shop. In a small panic, you inquired about him for the sake of courtesy. While you two spoke, he couldn't help but notice a striking resemblance between you and the lady who turned him down at the ball. You could tell from his facial expression he was piecing things together, so you abruptly bid farewell and ran away.

He would visit you a lot. After replying to his inquiry that you weren't the girl at the ball, he'd joke about it a lot (there was no other gal in the village like you). It didn't take long for rumors to spread amongst the kingdom that the prince had taken a fancy to you. You hated it. He didn't mind it. In fact, it no longer mattered whether you were the girl at the ball. Something about you pulled him in like a hook. Perhaps it was the determination he observed through the window. Perhaps it was the way you handled children while taking a breather outside as he ate inside. Perhaps it was destiny.

As time passed, you grew more tolerant of him. While you didn't want him to be your romantic partner, you guessed you were okay with being his friend. As time passed, he grew more frustrated you weren't his. His father took note of his unusual agitated self, but he waved it off as stress when thinking of a future bride.

"What about that lady the people are saying you like?"

"Oh, her? She has....a way with herself. It seems that she's not interested in me."

"Perhaps you both need a bit of a push."

Since then, the King made a few visits to the bakery to chat--no marriage mentioned. He wanted to see what you were like. Although you were a kind girl, he confronted Yan!Prince with the truth that he probably wouldn't have a spouse who didn't want him. It broke his heart to hear, but he wasn't ready to let go yet.

You were already preparing your escape long before the ball, but the pace of your plan sped up now that the prince was on your trail. You found out about the closest kingdom from acquaintances and saved up funds to use on your journey.

When the prince discovered you had quit your job via a disappearance, he visited your home. Your stepfamily was in shambles (literally. The place was filthy.) and shared that you had disappeared overnight with your belongings. There was no mistake in it: you had abandoned him.

Framing your escape as a possible kidnapping, he ordered guards and encouraged the rest of the kingdom to search for you. All of his efforts was on the search.

Photography didn't exist, so you were fortunate that the description he gave out about your appearance was vague. Somehow, you made it to the nearest kingdom with a plea to the guards that you made your way there in search of a better life. The Queen was kind and sponsored a place for you to stay for the first five months while you adjusted to your new life in exchange for you finding a job. It didn't take long to do so with your desperation.

In no time, you were living a much happier life in your home, with your new friends, and even someone who kept catching your eye. Talk of the nearby kingdom's drama was entertaining, even more so with the subject amongst them.

Meanwhile, the prince's mental and physical wellbeing deteriorated. Some say the search took a lot out of him. Some say he was so heartbroken, he had no will to live. Maids in the castle whispered about the prince being locked in his room from the outside because he grew violent--so out of character! Disturbed, the King confided in only those closest to him about his woes. Whatever did that woman do to infatuate his son so much! No one could approach him anymore. He ate and drank only when he needed to. His room became a mess. How did such a sorrow fall on the family of royal blood when there was so much potential for happiness to look forward to?

Anyone could guess that were was no point in a happy ending for romantic fairytale if there was no romance to begin with.

The Legend of the Prefect of NRC

Legend has it there was once a Prefect at NRC.

The Prefect appeared one day with chaos at their heels.

Not much is known about them as an individual, but they are known for their achievements.

They stopped great calamities that befell the Island of Sage.

At times, even stopped Twisted Wonderland from unraveling.

Not much is known about what happened to them.

Some say they returned from whence they came.

Some say they chose to stay.

Some say they even found romance or traveled the world.

But there is one aspect everyone agrees on.

They were cherished by all who knew them.

And they, in return, loved them just as much.

It is no wonder the Great Seven became the Great Eight in homage to the Prefect and those who lived in Ramshackle Dorm.

A statue of three ghosts, a chimera, and a hooded figure made of marble commemorates the newly established dorm at the Main Street of NRC.

Now you may wonder, what does this dorm represent?

It is based on the spirit of the Prefect of Legend, the one known to tame even the mightiest.

The Ramshackle Dorm is for those who do not belong. Those who have the potential for greatness beyond any normal means.

Now take the hand before you, for you have been chosen.

The Ramshackle Dorm welcomes you.

Can we get a scenario where MC touches Malleus' horns for the first time?

Malleus Draconia:

The teasing comment of ‘be gentle’, along with his smirk as he leaned down to give you better access, was enough to have your heart ready to burst from your chest. His horns were truly beautiful, a compliment meant just for yourself but that you realized was uttered out loud when he thanks you for your kindness. You’re almost too nervous to touch them despite his express permission, and he patiently waited for you to take the opportunity many others would kill for.

Malleus was in for a surprise himself. His horns had been touched a handful of times in his life and it was never an issue; taking care of his hair had caused a brush to hit them many times, or a curious child who was bold enough to ask prodding at them with a pudgy finger. But you were something entirely different. A shiver shot straight down his spine from the first touch, your finger gliding from ring to ring with the touch of a feather.

He doesn’t know where these emotions are coming from. Perhaps they were just born from his feelings for you and the intimacy of the situation, but he quickly found his face growing hot the more you seemed to fondle his horns. You didn’t quite tug but your hands wrapped firmly around them, enjoying the texture on your hand and finding they were slightly warm. You pulled away just as Malleus started to fidget, an odd sight when it came to him which had you worried you had pushed a boundary. When you asked he just reassured you he was fine with you touching his horns, having to bite his tongue to stop from asking you to touch them again.  

The Cannibal bonded with a bastard targarian reader ...

This is heavily inspired by @mangled-parasite writings on their yandere hotd stuff. I wanted to go more in depth about the relationship a bastard princess reader would have with the cannibal, because the dynamics could be so diverse and interesting. The cannibal is a really interesting dragon to me as well, he's not been tames nor shows any interest in it, so I always wonder what he'd be like with a rider!

(fem! Bastard princess reader X the cannibal)

. If you are bonded to him, he would be ruthlessly protective over you. He can feel every flicker of distress and discomfort from you, and he bares his teeth like a guard dog at whoever draws too close. Once he had decided that you were his, and he was yours, his fury when it comes to protecting you rivals hellfire. You will never have to feel fear again, nothing can even dream of touching you- lest they want to experience the nightmarish wrath of the Cannibal. It matters little to him if this threat is human, or dragon. In fact he almost welcomes it. He loves the rush of destroying whatever threatens you, the pride that fills him when he charres their remains and feasts upon them In front you- because look princess. Look how mighty he is, look how well he can fight and protect you. After his gory feast, he'll lower himself close to your little form for his praise- purring till your blood fizzles as he enjoys your pets and attention.

. Cannibal has never been a tame or passive dragon, but around you, he'll make an effort to behave. He'll stave away his urges to salivate when he captures glimpses of the smaller dragons, if it makes you happy. He'll heed your voice, your words, if only to amuse you and keep you content. However, he still has a temper- and although he may not engulf everything with wildfire, he will surely growl and roar to make people bend their knee in your presence. His bond to you is tightly knitted, so he can pick up those who are irking you or upsetting you. He shares your hatred for your father, often bearing his frightening jagged teeth at the pale man who can only endure the monstrosity of his daughter's dragon. It'll take only your word to engulf him in burning emerald flames, so for once, your father will hold his tongue.

. He is not an obedient dog, more like a feral alley cat who's taken a warming to you. There's not a force in heaven or hell that can convince him to confide anywhere near the dragon pits, not to mention his monstrous size cannot even imagine squeezing itself into that little ditch. He'll take to sleeping upon the beach, preferably away from vhager, if he wants to remain close to you. However he is known to fly off and disappear for days on end, returning when you least expect it. He is a wild dragon at heart.

. He may not melt into a big passive puppy, but he will surely let you know he likes the attention you give him. He'll croon with his snarling scarred grin, his eyes glinting as you speak to him and stay close. The attitude he has around you is stark like night and day- with others he glares ferociously and mean, but with you, he's bound by your heels.

When you approach him upon the sand of the tide, he'll lower his head to gaze upon you. he'll feel content as he looks you over, appearing docile and calm in your presence.

Your family find it terrifyingly odd whenever you approach him with so much casualty, and he simply looks at you so fondly. The dragon who has devoured oh so many wannabe dragon tamers is now treating you like a precious little treasure, and it's both awe-inspiring, and frightening. His striking emerald green eyes focus on you as you speak sweetly and softly to him, his purrs can be heard from the dragonstone gates.

. The cannibal is an ancient dragon with many years of experience, so to him, you are little more than a child in his eyes. His child.

If anything, he is more of a loving father to you than Daemon could ever be.

It's puzzling to him, at first. He has never possessed a single maternal bone in his body, having no objection to devouring unhatched eggs and even young hatched dragons to satiate his hunger- but perhaps he sees a part of him in you. That wildness to stray, the desperation to free yourself from the thorns of the targarians that dig deep into you. You may be a little gentle weepy thing, but the fact still stands. You want to be free. He can grant that.

As you claim him as a child, he'll watch you grow. Watch your face and hands become weary from the anxiety and ache of constantly being caged. You'll gradually become more and more beautiful, dripping in gems and jewellery and ornate gowns, but the sadness in your eyes hasn't changed since you were a tearful little child. He sees what they are doing- trying to keep you satiated with material desires, but he understands you deep down that nothing of that matters. You want to be anywhere else but here...

. He is an old dragon, and has a temper to him. His hunger for flesh and fire has not made him weary, and although he is scarred and withered, he is still towering in all his obsideon scaled glory. Emerald flames engulfing the sky as you ride upon his back, soaring above the clouds as pride and glory consumes him. He always despises the idea of being 'claimed' and ridden like some show pony, but he finds himself enjoying the company of his little human experiencing the rush of gliding through the heavens. He can feel your thundering heart, the flutter of butterflies in your stomach as he dips and soars between terrific heights, and he can't help but grin a scarred and twisted smile, egged on by your delight of the views and freedom. Yes! This is freedom, my little princess. Let us not be chained by those targarians, this is what living is!

He certainly likes challenging you, obviously not to the point he puts you in any danger of course- but he'll dive at gut churning speeds to see what'll make you shriek. It's almost like He finds amusement out of it, perhaps getting a little kick out of challenging his rider. Once he has landed however with you safely back on the ground, he'll look at you with his gnarled smirk and expect just a little push from you. Don't take it to heart though, his princess. You'll get gently prodded and nudged by his snout to check on you to make sure you're alright. He is still protective over you, after all. His cruelty will not extend to your pain. Besides, you are more often than not riding him bareback, so he would never fly so recklessly that you'd get bucked off. Most of the time he's holding back, really.

. That is not to say that each time you climb upon his back that you will endure terror, because that is surely not the case. He loves flying with you, loves feeling your awe and wonder. It fills him with unbridled pride and ego. You can both feel freedom, and freedom is all he wants for himself and his rider alike.

. As his rider, you have a good chance of escaping the talons of your family. Who is to stop you? The mad prince, Daemon, and his blood wyrm? Cannibal could laugh at the mere thought of this deranged man challenging him with his little red pest. Even the one eyed prince and his ancient she-dragon, Vhagar, will be a welcomed challenge. When it comes to you, he'd do anything.

More Cannibal thoughts...

~ Cannibal is an ancient creature, yet he is far from brittle. He may ache and groan when he rises from slumber, but the way he carries his tremendous weight with those powerful wings that envelope the sky you could barely tell.

He's old, but not tired.

He's as full with fire as the day he hatched alone in his nest. With the temperament of a wild ferocious dog who's tail does not wag, hes full of pride. How can he not be? He has outlived many dragons. He survived the doom. He was here before the targarian blood came and imprisoned the remaining dragons to impairment.

He's survived off the blood and flesh and bone of his own kin, there is no softness to him. The countless tales of wannabe dragon tamers who have found their deaths awaiting in his stomach, or the nest of bones he resides in are far from fiction. He's untouchable, something he prides and revels in.

But then you came along...

~ Considering he's such a large dragon and refuses to wear a saddle, you'll probably have to pull a Daenarys targarian and ride bareback. A large part of this however is also a reflection of your bond. You keep him free of reigns and confining straps, and he keeps you safe and out of harms way whenever you ride with him. It displays the strength of your mutual trust, and how he isn't a tool to you. You are so close, scales to skin, that you are almost one. It may be terrifying to your family, but you'll never be safer. He has a thick spine of large pointy spikes and scales to hang onto. I also like to imagine that you somehow find a way to create some 'handles' that are tied to a few of his spikes for you to hang onto. It's not as constricting as reigns, and it's about the only thing he'll endure. For you, he supposes he can cope.

. He's a territorial dragon, and is such a grump about it. If another dragon even appears on your line of sight, he's all growls and bared teeth- letting this other dragon know you are off limits. He may even disappear like a disgruntled cat if he picks up a scent belonging to another dragon on you. (This does not stop Syrax from snuggling her snout into your hair, or Ceraxes from huffing his dragon breath all over you like a panting dog).

He'll press his scarred nuzzle to your hair, huffing and sniffing loudly like a dog- before the inevitable deep displeased rumble thunders from his throat. It never fails to make you laugh, such a giant dragon huffing gently over such a small human and then having a strop. You'll pat tenderly against black scales and exposed teeth to appease him- which usually works. As long as you sing his praises in the sky later. The chip in his scaly armour is you, after all.

~ He won't be confined to the dragon Pitts, he'll let you learn right away. Besides- it'd be too tempting not to grab a snack or two if he were to somehow squeeze his behemoth size into the little stone dungeons. He'll probably have to be kept on an entirely separate island near DragonStone, and even then he'll come and go. Do not fret though, he'll never dream of leaving you for long. He also has this way of telling when you're in trouble, and he'll come barreling back through the skies back to you- no matter the weather. You're his, after all. His human. No-one gets to hurt you under his claim and watch.

~ speaking about being under his watch, oh boy are you. There's never a moment in his presence where his eyes are off you. Since he probably bonded himself to you when you were young, he cannot help but see you as a fragile little child in his eyes. If his gaze isn't glued to you like a hovering parent, then he always somehow knows if you're in trouble or not. The bond between you two can be the only reasonable explanation. And there's nothing he adores more than seeing humans tremble and fall still like rigid corpses at the sight of him. Either it be his dark form encompassing the sky like a storm, his shadow forming a dreadful shape above their heads- a promise of dragonfire burning in his throat. Or perhaps his black scaly body descending from a rocky hillside, traversing down with his behemoth claws that piece rock. His eyes never off them as he slinks closer like a snake. A predator. You swear you can see him smirk when he does this, ever so the sadistic show off.

~ you'll find the word that leaves your lips the most often, is 'be calm'. Because oh, this dragon is the most aggressive of them all. He knows no chill, he wants problems. Always.

Either it be a soft mumbled word to soothe his hostile growls towards your father, or a firm yet calm demand before he decides to torch a group of knights who are only there to escort you somewhere, then best believe you'll have your work cut out for you keeping this monster at peace. You are quite literally the only thing keeping him at bay from devouring the guards and dragons around you.

~ I'll also touch upon the effect that riders have upon the relationships of dragons, because it's so beautifully complex. We all saw how Ceraxes sang at the sight of Syrax in season 1, so it's no surprise that the bonds between riders have an effect on the feelings amongst dragons.

So safe to say, Cannibal and Ceraxes are the most at each other's throats (figuratively... At least for now). They growl at each other, Ceraxes slinking his lithe neck back like a coiling serpent, hissing, as your Cannibal glowers and thunder rumbles in his throat. It's a game of who can hold back the most. So far, they're both winning. For now.

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 :)

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 :)

pls I desperately wanna be bsfs with damian this isn't okay

here’s some crumbs/mini facts then for u anon !!

reader and damian have a handshake that ends with a salute

most of the music damian listens to are recommendations from you — he normally listens to lofi tunes, classical, instrumentals and silence

they’re both lowk enablers to each other but not in a bad way, but in a way where if it’s unhinged enough, they’ll support each other; ex. drinking 5 caprisuns at once, the chubby bunny challenge, etc.

if your hair is on the longer side, damian keeps hair ties on his wrist in case you don’t have one handy or claw clips, whichever you prefer

damian doesn’t plan on telling you about his vigilante life, like genuinely. he plans on taking it to his grave.

most of what you know about damian’s “personal life” is just a carefully fragmented illusion of deceptive lies to keep you as far away from the life that’s been hidden from the public for decades

why he’s so skilled at random things? his mom

how he’s so proficient and fast at completing tasks? his mom

his mom? overprotective and strict are the only things he’s letting himself slip out

he says to himself that it’s all for your safety and that he doesn’t care that much about you, but sometimes in the classes he doesn’t share with you, he rubs his thumb against the beads of the friendship bracelet you gifted him

he doesn’t care that much about you, but he picks up on your own mannerisms himself whenever his opponent says something dumb that he doesn’t get, he slowly tilts his head to the side, looking them up and down

he doesn’t care that much about you, because he shouldn’t

getting attached that much to regular citizens would only drag them into vigilante shenanigans and cause them to only be a hindrance, and he doesn’t want that for you

bsf!damian just can’t afford to indirectly be a threat to you

elaboration here / pt.2

yk I was hoping for fun silly bsf Damian right?? NOT WHATEVER THAT WAS 😭😭

(I would 100% love another post elaborating on this if you want to make one. I eat up bsf Damian content)

WHITE LIES — headcanons, damian w.

well i mean since you asked— here’s some elaboration on my small facts and crumbs of my bsf!damian saga, series, whatever

contains: bsf!damian x gn!reader, angst, definitely not fluff, mentions of murder/sacrifice but in a symbolic way

a/n: this goes against my own rules for this blog, but who the fucks gonna stop me? n e ways pls read the ending a/n 🫶

there isn’t much you know about bsf!damian’s parents relationship except that his dads a whore

what he has told you is that his mom raised him abroad which was why bruce seemed practically unaware or unknowing of his existence before then, which seems to check out since he only came into the public eye only 2 years ago

due to both of his parents living in separate countries with different laws and with him being a minor, it’s hard to deduce when and where he’s gonna be at times

bsf!damian told you that the agreement his parents settled upon was that his dad gets to keep him for the majority of the school year but goes to stay with his mom for the majority of the summer

however, his mom is allowed to spontaneously pick him up only a few times during his school year which doesn’t seem quite right on your part but apparently his moms also loaded and his dad can’t really do anything about it

of course, it’s merely a cover up whenever he has to go on missions that take longer than just a free weekend

it's a hard lie to keep up, but as time goes on it gets easier to keep up and even harder for you to try and decipher anything that could potentially be wrong with bsf!damian’s stories

it'll be worth it in the end, won't it?

he tries his best to not listen to you when you talk about yourself, the less he knows about you the easier it is deceive you and eventually cut you off

but he listens

it's middle school, why should he take anything that happens here seriously? that includes you, bsf!damian doesn't see himself continuing to talk to you three years from now and he highly doubts that possibility

so what if he secretly wants to know you for eternity and onwards? despite his life being full of wealth bsf!damian still can’t afford being able to keep you in it for long

bsf!damian could barely scrape by deceiving you with an overly elaborate tapestry of all of the lies he’s ever fed you, but it’s for the better

it’ll be worth it in the end, won’t it?

his wants weren’t needs, and both as an assassin and robin that rule applied — except this time around he placed the average civilian’s life over his own

the universe never seemed to allow bsf!damian enjoy things for long, for you were merely a civilian he wanted to be by his side, wanting for your lack of expectations on how to present himself, but he didn’t need it

but it was for the better, for your safety and everyone else’s so you would be away from all the danger and destruction bsf!damian never failed to bring with him

it’ll be worth it in the end, won’t it?

it has to be

it has to be worth something, anything, for bsf!damian’s time being by your side to be cut short by his own hands, because if it isn’t then he just wasted his only semblance as a normal teenager, a child, away

you had bsf!damian and bsf!damian had you, if he let go of that without your safety from the countless revenge plots and villains that had it out for him ensured then he didn’t make a sacrifice, he committed a murder

and that was something damian had sworn off

a/n: no, this wasn’t made out of the multiple asks and comments asking for more bsf!damian content, i had already had this in the works when i made my last post about holding off on updates so for the month this may be my last actual post on bsf!damian, for the month.

cw. aggression, bruises, dubcon, implies noncon, power dynamics (?), sexual themes, top yandere x bottom reader, violence, yandere themes

his body is built like a machine. being a hardcore player for rugby/football, if he isn’t throwing out his frustration and energy in the game, then the job falls onto you letting him release it.

huge and intimidating, he is an everyday jock. with a few twists. he’s got the cocky, arrogant, confident side, but he also has the deep drive of hoisting you into the air and claiming you as his in front of the stands. although he seems like the typical jock, he is actually politically correct towards people. if he sees discrimination, he isn’t one to laugh at the scene or walk by. if he doesn’t like something, he’ll make sure everyone knows, and people follow him. he’s a star, he’s looked up to by other students and admired by the teachers. they see a strong man who doesn’t bully and torture others, he may not have all the intelligence but he isn’t compared to the other unbearable jocks and those portrayed in the media.

he demands to carry your books, he’ll purposely knock them from your hands or have somebody do it just so he can help. he likes to show off his skill and strength to you, kind of like a peacock but will always deny it if you point it out. if you do not come to his every game that he has, even training, he will immediately stop what he is doing and find you. it won’t be hard, he’s popular and can ask almost everyone if they’ve seen you, and someone will know where you are. he always expects for you to cheer his name during his games, yet even if you don’t, he always points to you right before scoring a goal as of to say this is for you. the way he treats you behind closed doors really depends on how the game(s) and/or training.

he has to fuck you almost six times a day on the weekends just to be satisfied for the week. and that is only if he has had a good week. say if he had a terrible day at practice or had lost a game, he’s full of frustration that he absolutely needs sessions that goes on for hours. within those hours you will experience constant praising and body worshipping. it can also range to hardcore pounding filled with fury but even doing that, he tells you how much he adores you and how he will break the bones of anyone who touches you and will fuck you until your brain dead if you ever leave him.

one thing to note is the marks he will always leave on your body. it almost shocks him, mainly because at times where the sex is gentle and slow, you’ll still come out with a mark placed. it further establishes the power he has in strength. not that he minds though, he’ll rip any clothes that cover the marks, forcing you to wear revealing clothes that show them. also forced to wear his jacket, his name and number making a claim on you, to ward off all the other weaklings who hover around you.

whether aggressive or loving, he will always praise you, it’s always a different thing he compliments about you. he can be pinning you to the wall, thrusting into you like you’re a piece of meat, not caring about your legs collapsing, he’ll be holding you up anyways, and all the while he will be leaning against your ear groaning and praising you, saying how fucking sexy your body is. how you’re his and only his. fuck does he love forcing you to say he’s yours.

out of most my yandere’s, he’s one of the top of most violent. this man is capable of punching through a person’s chest so hard, his fist can break through the skin. not that he has done that, but he is capable. a fearsome person to have on your bad side, not only does he have the strengths and speed, but will consistently be supported by large groups of people. you won’t get to him that easy, nor run away from him as well.

That Which is Dead May Never Die

   Inspired by @childotkw ruination au. I decided to write the idea right after I sent it.                                         

                                                     ──── •✧• ────

They say you lose something when you die, though not many people can say what is it exactly.

The faithful claim it is the soul, and maybe they are right because there is something different about the Lucerys that the Red Priestess brought back from the dead. Everyone can see it, the small folk whispers it.

This is not the Lucerys Velaryon who perished in the waters of Shipbreaker’s bay.

This is someone else

Something else

The Lucerys that died was a kindhearted boy with soft brown eyes and lush curls; the sweetest of his mother’s children, a boy with no taste for violence.

Pale like a corpse is the Lucerys Velaryon that rose from the dead, eyes darker than the blackwater bay and curls streaked with white. ‘Too much time spent with the stranger’ they whisper. Maybe that is why the Cannibal came for the boy, could smell the death on him, and claimed him as his rider. 

The news comes to King’s Landing slowly of a foreign priestess, dark magic, and a dead prince no longer dead. The Greens don’t believe the whispers, they refuse to. Lucerys Velaryon died that day in the skies above Shipbreaker’s bay. 

But dead boys don’t ride ancient dragons into battle, burning entire armies with green dragon fire hot enough to melt stone.

Dead boys don’t destroy entire fleets.

Dead boys don’t kill Lords and laugh as they are eaten, threatening to make Harrenhals of their castles if they don’t pledge loyalty.

The blood of the Green’s small council had run cold when the news had come of Lucerys riding unchained on the back of the Cannibal, burning their armies and leaving nothing but fire and blood behind him. Of lords and prisoners being fed to his dragon if they refuse to swear loyalty to the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

Death takes something away when you die.

Aemond watches as his brother, his king, and his dragon are devoured above Rook’s Rest, blood raining down on a battlefield covered in green flames, and he wonders..

What did Lucerys lose when he died?

❛ 𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌'𝐒 𝐄𝐍𝐃 , lucerys velaryon ❜

⌗ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 , that fateful day at storms end the velaryon boy indeed had someone watching over him but not in the skys above but the waters below

⌗ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 , lucerys velaryon x fem! siren! reader

⌗ 𝐬𝐨𝐥'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 , okie so, this is my first hotd fic and omg I'm so excited!! hope you guys like it cuz ngl kinda obsessed with this concept cuz justice for bbg luke ya'll </3

house of the dragon masterlist

⌗ it's was another stormy day in storm's end. but there was something lingering in the air. a certain air of uncertainty that left you on edge for whatever reason. as if you were waiting for something to happen. though this didn't bother you much as being a siren was full of uncertainty from hunters to being spotted by humans.

⌗ though this didn't mean you weren't careful. as you were always ready to make you escape if you were under threat. though storm's end had become a haven for you. a place shrouded in stormy weather and dark mist with no shortage of food whether it be fish or human. with massive cliff faces that spanned as far as the eye could see and a vast labyrinth of underground sea tunnels. it was truly paradise to you.

⌗ and besides borros baratheon being an oaf and the odd few sailors who would drunkenly sing love songs which sounded eerily similar to a dying duck in an attempt to woo 'the siren of storm's end' life was peaceful. that was until the dragons came.

⌗ you had never seen a dragon before. you had heard of them of course and the house that wielded them. it was hard not to as sailors talked about them almost as much as they talked about sirens. but the fear of dragons was far more real to them. as no sane siren would let a human see them and live to tell the tale.

⌗ now normally in an instance like this you would have dived into deep water or slipped into one of the underwater caves until the incident blew. but something compiled you to watch. and you did with piqued interest. as you watched the smaller dragon flea from the behemoth that stalked him from above. it was clear the two dragons were far from friends.

⌗ and you held your breath as you watched the larger dragon rip the smaller in half with ease. sending both the dragon and his rider plummeting into the water below with nothing to break their fall. as the remains of the chewed-up dragon began to sink so too did his barely conscious rider.

⌗ he looked like an angel. with a halo of dark hair pale skin big dark eyes and a painfully innocent face. as he sank deeper and deeper into the depths of the sea. you couldn't help but admire him for a brief moment. and debated if he should be your dinner or not. though you ultimately decided against it.

⌗ quickly springing into action. you swam towards him. tail slicing through the water creating ripples in the process. grabbing his hand you dragged him to the surface of the water. holding him securely in your arms you couldn't help but silently hope that he wasn't coherent enough to know what was going on. as if he did you would definitely have to kill him.

⌗ as you pulled him to the rocky shore. you lay him on his back as you place your ear to his chest to hear his heartbeat. thank god he wasn't dead. but now you were unsure of what to do. should you just leave him here? or?

⌗ and just as you were debating with yourself about what to do. the boy began to violently cough up sea water. as he lurched forward with arms clasped around his stomach. before looking directly at you before speaking in what felt like a mixture of a tired mumble and a plea for help he said.

⌗ "I want my muña" and with that he passed out again out of his exhaustion. now from those few words he spoke you could deduce a few things. one he was either a targaryen or velaryon as they were the only house that spoke high valyrian. and two he wanted his mother and you would do your damnedest to help him get back to her.

⌗ as you sat next to the sleeping boy you though of your next plan of action. as you weren't too familiar with all of the house of the realm and where they resided. but you decided it would be easier to leave him at dragonstone. as it was the closest to you and was also the castle of house targaryen.

⌗ and with that you set off with the boy in your grasp. as you raced though the water under the cover of night. reaching dragonstone as the first peeps of the sun made it's way over the horizon. as you lay the boy on the shore in a place where he could be easily found.

⌗ as you turned to leave you felt a hand gently grab yours and a soft voice ask. "will I see you again?". and all you could do was softly smile at the boy who struggled to keep his eyes open as sleep threatened to envelop him as you waited for his eyes to close again before slipping out of his grip and disappearing into the water of the dark sea.

⌗ when lucerys velaryon woke from his slumber he was on the shores of dragonstone. he was confused about how he got here. his mind was a blurry mess. and then he remembered. aemond. vahgar. drowning. the girl who saved him. so many questions and yet no answers. as he sat next to the water all he could seem to remember were her piercing eyes and....a tail.

⌗ fast forward till this day long after the coronation of his mother the queen rhaenyra. and still till this day the lord of driftmark still tells everyone a siren saved him that fateful day at storm's end. and every sunrise he waits by the water. waiting for a chance to say thank you to the girl he owed his life to.