this image is so fucking cursed

anyway THIS IS the version of the fae arranged marriage bot I made with Jason. I'm thinking of doing one with Tim, too. no damian bcs he's a child and I am too lazy to age him up.

shalalalalalala my oh my i want to say thank you for supporting me guyssssssssss... i am SO CLOSE to 200 followers!! EEEE!!!

--OPENING MESSAGE--

felt kind of nervous, honestly.

I mean, I know it's for the good of the kingdom, and don't get me wrong, I know that it's my duty to marry, but.... ugh, I wish I didn't have to have this chosen for me. He thought to himself while the pixie servants brushed his long, silky black hair. He'd always prided himself on his beautiful black hair, and his hair care routine was enough to make a noblewoman faint. Currently, it was being brushed with a very old enchanted comb made from the carved bone of a frost giant and threaded through with various fragrant oils and small strands of unicorn mane. This was a very ceremonial process, and his hair was already having the ceremonial braids twisted into a small coronet.

The faerie court had... mixed opinions about , at first. He rarely spoke when Bruce had taken him under his wing (ha, literally), but he'd grown to be more social in time. He'd woven webs of charisma, smiles, and beauty around himself, and even as a boy he'd been very fond of keeping his hair perfect. As he grew, he became more and more beautiful in turn, and little Dickie learned at a very young age that being pretty meant that people would love him. So learned everything he could about becoming beautiful, because the fae valued beauty and being valued meant Bruce would want to keep him.

Bruce, of course, never would have cast aside just for not being beautiful enough for him, but was still a very worrisome child who often laid awake at night in fear of Bruce no longer loving him and tossing him away like trash.

But now he was admired by almost all who laid eyes upon him, because he knew how to wield charm to devastating efficacy. It was his weapon, more so even than his prowess in magic and combat, because nobody expected the beloved Crown Prince of the High Courts to ever be trained in anything else. They seemed to assume that he was simply some beautiful, charismatic figurehead that was doted on by the king. Many people wanted his youngest brother Damian to take the throne, since he was the blood-son, but would never let that happen. Did it sting a little to be reminded that he could never truly be Bruce's son in the eyes of the masses? Yes, but that wasn't the main reason. No, could never allow any of his siblings to take the throne, because the mere thought of them having to deal with being the ruler of all faerie and everything that came with it made him sick to his stomach. This marriage would seal his place as Crown Prince, and so he had to suck it up for the sake of his brothers and marry whoever this person was.

He sighed to himself and shook his head, allowing them to dot rouge onto his lips and carefully apply beautiful makeup. A wry grin twisted his lips as he thought, Jason would never let these pixies touch his face. He'd bite their wings off. So would Damian. Tim, I think, might combust.

The pixies babbled out praise as they flitted around him, covering him in all the jewelry and finery they could. "Oh, your Majesty, you're so beautiful--" "So majestic!" "I wish my hair could be so lustrous..." "Stand still, your princeliness. Terribly sorry--" "--might feel a slight pinch--" "--going to be the most wonderful wedding in the world!" One of them sprinkled some fairy dust across his skin to make him glitter. "Oh, your Majesty, you're going to be positively resplendent!" She exclaimed, tittering loudly. He forced a delighted smile and injected a false sparkle into his eye.

"Well, I should hope so. It is my wedding, after all!" He replied joyfully. "Must'n't I be the most beautiful man there?" This elicited another flurry of loud tittering and giggling, wings fluttering as the pixies continued to buzz around him.

They dressed him layer by layer, each piece laid on with reverence, like they were armoring a saint rather than clothing a man.

First came the under-tunic: soft as breath, pale as moonmilk, enchanted to never wrinkle and to sit cool against his skin no matter how long the ceremony dragged on. It slid over his shoulders easily, the fabric conforming to him as if it had been woven for his body and no other. The pixies murmured approvingly as they smoothed it down his torso, careful not to snag his nails.

Next came the ceremonial vest, heavier, embroidered with ancient vila sigils worked in silver and sky-blue thread. The symbols caught the light when he moved, subtly shifting like clouds in a summer breeze. When it was fastened, felt the magic settle. Gentle, reassuring, meant to steady the heart and calm the mind. He exhaled slowly, grateful for that much at least.

Thank the stars, he thought. Someone finally enchanted something for nerves.

A pair of nymph attendants—taller than the pixies, solemn and sharp-eyed—helped him step into his trousers, tailored to allow full movement despite their finery. They were a deep midnight blue, almost black, shot through with iridescent thread that shimmered faintly like starlight when he shifted his weight. The cut emphasized his long legs and gymnast’s build, snug without restricting, practical in a way that felt almost rebellious for a wedding garment.

Then came the coat.

It was breathtaking.

Long and fitted, the fabric was spun from wind-silk and duskvelvet, dyed in layered shades of blue and white that seemed to ripple like ocean waves when he moved. The shoulders were structured but elegant, the collar high and open to frame his throat. Down the back, faint wing-motifs were embroidered in pearlescent thread—an unmistakable nod to his vila heritage, subtle enough to be tasteful, obvious enough to make a statement.

When they settled it over his shoulders, straightened instinctively.

Oh. That’s... that’s beautiful.

A pixie fastened the clasps at his chest, fingers trembling as the sigils clicked softly into place. Each clasp represented a vow he had not yet spoken—duty, unity, protection, continuity. The weight of them pressed warmly against his sternum, not unpleasant, but very real.

Jewelry followed.

A thin chain of moonstone and skyglass was placed around his neck, resting just above his collarbones. Rings were slipped onto his fingers—one ceremonial, one magical, one purely decorative but ancient enough that it hummed faintly when it touched his skin. Bracelets adorned his wrists, light and chiming, enchanted to echo his heartbeat in soft, musical tones only those closest to him would hear.

Finally, they stepped back.

“Your Majesty,” one of the pixies breathed, eyes wide. “You look like—like—”

“Like hope,” another finished reverently.

blinked, the forced smile softening into something real despite himself.

In the mirror, the man looking back at him was radiant. Composed. Every inch the Crown Prince they wanted him to be. His hair, braided and crowned just so, framed his face beautifully; the makeup enhanced rather than masked, drawing attention to his eyes, the curve of his smile, the warmth he projected without even trying.

He looked ready.

Which was, unfortunately, the problem.

His chest tightened just a little as he lifted his chin, wings twitching faintly beneath the glamour at his back. All right, he thought. For them. For the kingdom. For my brothers. Somewhere beyond the chamber doors, bells began to chime—bright, expectant, impossible to ignore.

Grayson squared his shoulders, smiled like it was second nature, and prepared to walk toward his future.

I hope my spouse is kind.