"Golden Hour"

Story idea I have based on the John Constantine headcanons I made the other day. It's been living rent free in my brain. I like the drunk trench-coat sad man 😭

And yes, this is based on the headcanons list I made the other day.

Story idea:

You and John Constantine have always had a complicated relationship—equal parts rivalry, reluctant partnership, and something neither of you wants to name. You're a witch, more skilled in magic than him, and that fact infuriates him. But when one of Constantine’s old mistakes comes back to haunt him—a demonic debt that even he can’t wiggle out of—he comes to you for help.

The problem? The demon in question doesn’t just want John’s soul. It wants you.

can u do more alpha jason stuff pls? maybe he nests fem!omega reader? pls n thank u

The fact I'm about to write another fic on a subject I know very little about. My search history is going to be concerning.

Love the idea, it'll probably be posted later tonight since I have nothing else going on.

Well in that case, I'm gonna pick 🐇 :3 And just call me bunny or rabbit if you don't wanna use the emoji all the time <3

And I do actually have something in mind. Though it's not really a scenario, more just a question.

What is the relationship reader's going to have with the individual bats? Like, is it going to be indifference (is that the right word?) with all of them?

It makes sense if it will be, I'm just curious of what you might have in mind! :D

Remember to stay hydrated!!

- 🐇

I'm gonna call you Bunny cause it's adorable!!!

Welcome to the team, Bunny!

This had to make me think for a bit but then I realized, it would be better to give you the before and after relationships between our lovly Duck (the nickname is growing on me ngl) and the batfam.

Before (while still living with them):

Bruce: Dismissive. Barely acknowledged your presence unless something went wrong. Cold authority figure.

Dick: Polite but shallow. Smiled at you, but never took you seriously.

Jason: Indifferent. Didn’t go out of his way to mock you, but never defended you either.

Tim: Competitive and undermining. Frequently took credit for your ideas.

Damian: Openly critical. Saw you as weak and unworthy from day one.

Barbara: Apathetic. Rarely engaged with you or acknowledged your input.

Alfred: Neutral but quietly regretful. Treated you with basic civility, but never intervened.

After (when reader had enough of them and left):

Bruce: Treats you as a dangerous unknown. Frustrated that this new villain is always one step ahead. Doesn’t realize he created you.

Dick: Tries to find a pattern in your moves. Thinks you’re clever, maybe even admirable—still has no idea it's you.

Jason: Thinks you’re hilarious. Doesn’t see you as a threat yet, just someone giving Bruce a hard time.

Tim: Spiraling. This unknown player is disrupting everything. Feels like he's missing something obvious.

Damian: Sees you as a pest with no honor. Thinks you’re trying too hard to impress.

Barbara: Suspicious. The way you move reminds her of someone, but she hasn’t figured it out yet.

Alfred: Observing. Quietly noticing similarities between your actions and the person the family ignored.

Wrapped in Red

Alpha!Jason x Omega!Reader

The apartment was quiet when Jason came in, boots scuffing softly against the floor. His body ached from the night’s patrol — busted ribs, a graze along his shoulder, and more bruises than he cared to count. But none of that mattered when his nose caught your scent, sweet and familiar, pulling him down from the simmering rage still burning under his skin.

You were curled up on the couch, wrapped in one of his hoodies that was way too big on you, the sleeves bunched over your hands. Your breathing was soft, steady, and his Alpha instincts eased at the sound. The sight of you — peaceful, vulnerable, safe — sent a wave of warmth through his chest.

His fingers twitched. He should go shower, clean himself up before crawling into bed. But instead, he found himself moving toward you, drawn in by the pull of You. His Omega.

Jason’s eyes drifted over the room, and something in him itched, restless. The nest wasn’t good enough. You weren’t surrounded by enough of him. The hoodie helped, but the couch was too open, too exposed.

Without really thinking, Jason started moving. He gathered the extra blankets from the bed, his leather jacket from the hook by the door, even the clean laundry he hadn’t put away yet. He didn’t care if it was messy — he wanted you wrapped in him. He needed you to feel safe, to smell him, to know you weren’t alone.

By the time he finished, the couch was buried in a mountain of Jason. Soft cotton, thick comforters, and his leather jacket draped over the top, all of it smelling like him — gunpowder, leather, and that faint, warm spice that was unmistakably Jason.

Satisfied, he carefully scooped you up, mindful not to wake you. You stirred just enough to nuzzle into his neck, your sleepy scent sweetening as you recognized him even half-conscious.

“Jay…” you mumbled, voice muffled against his skin.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough and low. “I’m here.”

He tucked you into the nest, pulling the blankets over you. You made a soft, content sound, fingers curling loosely into his hoodie. Jason exhaled slowly, his body finally starting to relax.

He didn’t mean to join you — he was dirty, battered, and running on fumes. But the second he sat down at the edge of the couch, your hand found his, tugging weakly.

“Stay,” you whispered, half asleep.

Jason sighed, the fight leaving him. “Yeah… alright.”

He slid in beside you, carefully easing you against his chest. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, protectively. You burrowed closer, his scent enveloping you completely, and Jason felt his heart stumble in his chest.

He wasn’t good at this — the soft stuff. He never thought he deserved it. But with you pressed against him, safe in a nest made of him, he didn’t feel so broken. For once, the world could burn, and he wouldn’t care. Not as long as you were here, wrapped up in him.

“Mine,” Jason murmured against your hair, voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t know if you heard him — maybe it didn’t matter.

Because it was true, whether you were awake to hear it or not.

THE BAKERY IS OPEN FOR BUSINESS

HELLO! HELLO! COME ON IN!

Welcome to my little bakery. Most of what I'll 'bake' (write) will relate to whatever hyperfixation I have at the time.

I shall keep my irl name a secret but feel free to call me Insomniac or any nickname you can think off based of that!

I am not a writer but I wanted to get my random thought about stories out of my head and what better place than the internet!? (def won't regret this later)

Feel free to request any pastery (asks) and I'll see what I can make for you!

Lists of what I will and won't write will be made eventually.

Welcome and I hope you all stay awhile!

Masterlists:

The Genre Bakecase (start here)

Current Menu Items

The Making of a Villian

I'm head baker but if you wish be a helper (an emoji-based anon) below are the emojis already taken:

🌃🪼👩🏻‍🍳🐇

Oh I am most definitely implying that they like to cause chaos and trouble!

I read "Villainy, Coffee and other minor inconveniences", and the 'duckmaster of disaster' just made me think of the untitled goose phrase 'its a lovely day in the town, and you are a horrible goose' :D

In terms of nicknames, I'm maybe a bit biased, but I like Duck, or something akin to that. The duckmaster of disaster just stuck with me for some reason

And I'll come back to you with scenario ideas, since I need to get my thoughts in order.

Keep up the great work, and keep yourself hydrated!

First off, I can tell you're gonna be one of my fav anons so feel free to give yourself an emoji to make it easier to know who I'm talking to!

Second, that phase is the embodiment of our lovely Neglected!Villain!Reader. I do like the nickname but if you have any other ideas, tell me!

I also look forward to any ideas you have! It might help come up with ideas to write about as this is not a fully flushed story yet so anything can happen!

Your Name Was Hope

(Shigaraki Tomura x Reader | angst | second person POV)

It happens faster than he can process.

One second, you're standing between him and a hero’s blade — the next, you're bleeding out, crumpling forward.

His body moves before his mind can catch up. He lunges, catches you — but even in his panic, instinct takes over: he only uses four fingers to grab the back of your jacket, his pinky hovering awkwardly in the air. Anything to avoid destroying you. Anything to keep you here.

"Idiot," he chokes out, dragging you against him as he stumbles back, his back hitting on the wall behind him. As he slides down to the ground, places your head on his lap. He looks down at you, his eyes full of fear. His voice is cracked and raw, nothing like the Shigaraki the world fears. "Why... why the hell would you do that?"

You smile. Of all the things you could do — all the things you could say — you smile. Weak. Soft. Like you don't have a single regret.

"You’re not..." You cough, blood staining your teeth. "You're not a monster. Not to me."

His whole body shudders. You shouldn't say that. You shouldn't believe that.

His fingers tremble where they grip your jacket, so tight the fabric might tear — but still, carefully, carefully, he keeps his cursed touch at bay.

You reach up — shaky, struggling — and brush the back of your hand against his cheek. A featherlight touch. No threat of Decay. Only warmth.

"Tomura," you whisper.

The sound of it — his real name, spoken with love — cuts deeper than any wound. It shatters something inside him.

You slump fully against his chest, your breathing slowing, your hand falling away.

"No— no, no, no—" His voice is hoarse, frantic. He’s begging, even though he doesn't know who he's begging anymore. "Don't leave. Don't—"

But you’re already slipping away.

The battlefield goes quiet. And Tomura — villain, destroyer, monster — is left holding the only person who ever looked at him like he was worth saving.

Later, when the smoke clears, no one questions why Shigaraki walks off the battlefield with his fingers digging into a battered, bloodstained bracelet wrapped tightly around his wrist. A simple thing. Frayed, cheap — something you had always worn. It was yours. Now it’s his.

He never lets it decay. No matter how damaged he is, no matter how angry — he always makes sure he touches it with four fingers. Never five. Never enough to destroy it.

Because it’s the only thing left of you.

The only thing reminding him he was once loved. Even if he never deserved it.

I LOVE THIS CONTINUATION! Thank you for adding the girls!

Dadman: Rise of Cringe

Summary: Bruce is benched from Batman duty. Instead of resting, he becomes... too much of a father.

It started with a pulled muscle.

Bruce—Batman, scourge of the Gotham underworld, peak human conditioning, walking myth—had slightly tweaked his back during a rooftop chase and had the audacity to wince in front of Alfred.

Within twenty-four hours, he was grounded by the Justice League, medicated by Leslie Thompkins, and scolded into submission by every member of the Batfamily.

“You need rest,” Dick said, concerned.

“You need to stop whining,” Damian added.

“You need to sit down before you drop dead,” Jason grunted.

Bruce, in his infinite wisdom, nodded.

And then decided to go full dad mode.

The Batcave was reorganized by “chore rotation.”

“Family Dinner Thursdays” became mandatory. If you missed it, he’d send a sad-face emoji. In the group chat. With a Bitmoji of himself wearing a “#1 Dad” hoodie.

Jason was the first to crack.

“Why is he like this?” he whispered at the dinner table, poking his lasagna like it offended him.

“He made me go on a walk this morning,” Tim whispered back. “A brisk walk. Around the Manor. For 'mental clarity.'”

Bruce entered the room in khakis and a tucked-in polo shirt. “Who’s ready for family game night?”

Dick groaned audibly. Damian tried to crawl under the table.

Later that week:

Bruce showed up at Damian’s fencing match in a shirt that read My Son Can Beat Up Your Son.

He cheered. Loudly.

“GO, DAMI! USE THE FOOTWORK WE PRACTICED!”

“You practiced with him?” Dick asked, mortified.

“In the backyard,” Bruce said, beaming. “We bonded.”

Damian scowled. “He made me drink coconut water and called it ‘dad fuel.’”

It only got worse.

Bruce cornered Tim in the kitchen at 8AM with a breakfast burrito and a question sheet titled “How’s College, Champ?” It had bullet points.

He helped Jason change a tire then handed him a handshake coupon for “One Free Hug, No Questions Asked.”

He dragged Dick to a farmer’s market, bought a dozen jams, and told vendors about “my acrobat son.”

Nightwing’s PR was never the same.

The final straw came when Bruce made the family record a TikTok to a trending dance.

He wore socks with sandals.

They all begged Zatanna to curse him.

Two Weeks Later:

Bruce was cleared for field duty. Suit polished. Cape pressed.

But at family dinner that night, he brought out a tray of grilled kabobs.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a smirk. “I’m back. But Dadman’s here to stay.”

Tim dropped his fork.

Jason muttered a prayer.

Damian screamed into a napkin.

Dick, exhausted, lifted his lemonade. “To Dadman.”

Bruce raised his own glass proudly. “To family.”

Alfred, in the background, smiled softly and took a photo for the fridge.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ No one asked for this so why did I write this? Because free will is a thing apparently. Don't ask me what this is or why because I have no idea. I just needed it out of my brain.

Also skull what readers do you write for?

hmm, currently I write Gender Neutral, Female, and Male.

When I have more confidence in my skills, I'll venture out but that it's for now.

Thanks for asking, Hermes!

A Birthday Fit for a Thief

Pairing: Flynn Rider x Reader Genre: Fluff, Romance Summary: Flynn surprises you with an unexpected birthday adventure—though things don’t go exactly as planned.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You weren’t expecting much for your birthday. Living in Corona had its perks—stunning views, lively markets, and, of course, the occasional festival—but you never made a big deal about your own special day. That was, until Flynn Rider got involved.

"You didn’t think I'd let your birthday pass without a little excitement, did you?" Flynn grinned, leaning casually against your doorway, arms crossed over his chest. His signature smirk was firmly in place, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes that immediately put you on high alert.

"Flynn," you sighed, raising a suspicious brow. "What did you do?"

"Do? Me?" He feigned offense, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. "I am a completely innocent, upstanding citizen now, remember?"

You gave him a look.

"Okay, okay," he laughed, pushing off the doorway and taking your hand. "Just trust me. I’ve got something amazing planned."

You let him lead you through the winding streets of Corona, dodging bustling merchants and cheerful townsfolk. Eventually, you reached the docks, where a small boat was tied up, a picnic basket sitting neatly inside.

"A boat ride?" You tilted your head, pleasantly surprised.

"Not just any boat ride," Flynn said, helping you in with a dramatic bow. "A birthday adventure."

With a few skilled movements, he pushed the boat off from the dock and guided it down the river. The sun was beginning to set, casting golden hues across the water. The moment felt peaceful, almost dreamlike.

"You really didn’t have to do all this," you murmured, watching as he pulled out a bottle of sparkling cider and two glasses.

Flynn shrugged. "I wanted to. You deserve something special."

Your heart warmed at his words, but before you could respond, the boat jolted—suddenly and violently. Flynn nearly dropped the glasses as water splashed over the side.

"Uh-oh." His eyes widened as he looked over the edge.

"Flynn, what was that?" you asked, gripping the sides of the boat.

"Funny story," he started, rubbing the back of his neck. "I may or may not have borrowed—fine, fine, stolen—this boat from some less-than-friendly traders, and they may or may not have caught on."

"Flynn!" you groaned.

"Okay, but in my defense, it was just sitting there!"

Before you could argue further, voices shouted from the riverbank. A group of burly men stood there, shaking their fists.

"There he is! Get 'im!"

Flynn flashed you a sheepish grin. "So, how do you feel about swimming on your birthday?"

With a resigned sigh, you kicked off your shoes. "I knew I should’ve stayed in bed."

Hand in hand, you and Flynn leapt overboard, laughing as the cool water enveloped you. The traders' shouts faded as you swam toward the opposite shore, drenched but exhilarated.

When you finally made it to land, Flynn collapsed onto the grass, grinning up at the sky. "Well, that was fun."

"You are the worst birthday planner," you huffed, wringing water from your clothes.

"Maybe," he admitted, rolling onto his side to face you. "But, hey, you have to admit—it was memorable."

You couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, yeah. I guess it was."

Flynn reached into his soaked vest and, to your surprise, pulled out a small but soaked, velvet-wrapped bundle. "Still managed to save this, though."

Curious, you took it from him, unwrapping the fabric to reveal a delicate, golden charm bracelet. Tiny engravings of lanterns, suns, and stars dangled from it, glimmering in the dimming light.

Your breath caught. "Flynn…"

"Happy birthday, (Y/N)," he said softly, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face. "Even if it wasn’t perfect, I hope it was at least… special."

You smiled, slipping the bracelet onto your wrist before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "It was perfect. You’re perfect."

Flynn smirked, clearly pleased with himself. "I do try."

With an exasperated laugh, you flopped back onto the grass beside him, staring up at the night sky. Maybe it hadn’t been the peaceful birthday you imagined, but with Flynn by your side, it was definitely one you’d never forget.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Author's note: So, plot twist, this is a gift for my friend. you know who you are. Did I tell her I was doing this? Nope. Happy Birthday to her.