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jellyfishsthings · 4 days ago

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WARNINGS: The final part (it took waayyy too long to write), if you saw this first on Wattpad -no you didn't, this is a bit funnier, maybe more angsty, definitely more romantic, character and friendship development (shock), Sirius' meddling (again), Sirius being a babysitter (scary)

not proofread!!!

part 1, part 2, navigation

The Lake – August 1980

You weren't hiding.

(You told yourself that enough times it almost sounded true.)

You sat at the edge of the Black Lake, robes half-off, boots abandoned in the grass. The hem of your trousers was damp from where you'd stepped in too deep, pretending the chill didn’t bite.

Behind you, the war sharpened its teeth. Another owl this morning. Another coded message. Another friend missing.

But today wasn’t about them.

Today was your last day at Hogwarts.

She was always in motion, even when she sat still.

That morning by the lake, Remus told himself he was just walking—just clearing his head. But his feet carried him straight to her, like they always did when everything else fell apart.

She didn’t look up when he approached. Just kept staring out over the Black Lake, hair pulled back, boots off, socks mismatched. He noticed the frayed hem of her trousers. The slight tremble in her hands, the way she gripped her wand even at rest.

"You missed breakfast," said Remus, appearing like he always did—soft-footed and uninvited.

"You're late," you replied, not looking up.

"I brought toast." He dropped two slices onto a napkin between you. Slightly burnt. Still warm.

You said nothing. He didn’t leave.

"You're avoiding the staff breakfast," Remus said, sitting without waiting for an invitation.

"I'm avoiding Trelawney's toast," you replied. "She keeps saying I have ‘ominous romantic clouds’ in my near future."

"She told me I'd die surrounded by parchment." He shrugged. "Probably not wrong."

You both went quiet. Not the heavy silences from before. This one felt... earned.

For a long while, the only sound was the lazy lap of water against the stones, the occasional shriek of a distant first-year trying to pack.

"They offered me a full-time position," you said eventually.

"You said no."

A beat.

"I didn’t say anything yet."

He sat beside you, close but not touching. The grass bent under his weight.

"You should stay," he said quietly.

"I got a letter from the Order," he said eventually. “Deployment details. It’s starting.”

You nodded. Of course it was. There had never been a question.

“I’m going with you,” you said simply.

He turned to you, eyebrows raised. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” You leaned back against the tree. “But I’m done watching from towers. “ You shook your head. "I can’t. Not while the Order’s stretched thin. Not while Sirius is half-dead every other mission. Not while Lily keeps pretending she’s not terrified."

"And if it kills you?"

You turned to him, finally. Met his eyes.

"Then I die doing something that matters."

He flinched like you'd hexed him.

You leaned back, arms braced behind you. The wind tugged your sleeves. The hem of your robes fluttered like they were trying to lift you into flight.

"You still think you're not built for peace," he said.

You laughed. Bitter, brief. "Peace doesn’t want people like me. We’re too sharp at the edges. Too much memory, not enough forgiveness."

He looked down. Picked a blade of grass. Twisted it. Untwisted it. Said nothing.

"Did you mean it?" you asked, too quietly.

He frowned. "Mean what?"

"The Hogsmeade offer."

Remus was very still. For a second, you thought he might pretend he didn’t remember. That it had just been another volley in your years-long war of nerves.

But then—

"I meant it," he said. "Every word."

You looked at him, searching for something in his expression that wasn’t fear or guilt or grief.

What you found was worse.

Hope.

"You’ll get yourself killed," you said softly.

"So will you."

The silence swelled between you, terrible and true.

Then he reached for your hand. Just once. Just enough.

His fingers skimmed yours—barely brushing. A question he wasn’t brave enough to ask.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let the contact sit there, small and shaking and real.

The words sat between you like a pact. Then, without looking at him, you added, “When this war ends… if it ends… I don’t want us to be a tragedy.”

Remus was quiet for a long time. Then he reached into his satchel and pulled out a folded scrap of parchment.

Your third-year essay.

You blinked. “You kept that?”

“Evidence,” he said solemnly. “Of your inferior conjugation technique.”

When you finally pulled away, it wasn’t rejection. It was preservation.

He understood.

He always had.

You stood, brushing grass from your robes.

"You’re still wrong about shield charm harmonics," you called over your shoulder.

Remus looked up, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Prove it."

And for once, you didn’t snap back. You just walked away.

Because you would.

You’d prove it with every breath you had left.

Safehouse Briefing – Two Weeks Later

The Order's safehouse smelled like dust, firewhiskey, and burned parchment.

Moody barked orders. Lily paced, wand in hand. James leaned against a wall, exhausted, but still listening.

You and Remus were across the table from each other. You avoided eye contact. So did he.

There was a map between you, covered in ink and coded runes. You were arguing over defensive perimeter placements, but no one else in the room cared. They'd seen this before.

"You want the decoys to hold for ten minutes?" you snapped.

"It's enough time to evacuate—"

"Enough time to get people killed."

"You're always assuming the worst."

"And you're not planning for it."

Your voices were sharp. Familiar. The others didn’t even flinch.

But beneath the fury, something else churned. Desperation. Fear.

You stared at each other. Not moving. Not blinking.

Lily cleared her throat, loudly. "Why don’t you two just snog and get it over with?"

You both turned slowly. Blinking. Horrified.

Lily raised her eyebrows. James gave a low whistle. Sirius looked like Christmas had come early.

You and Remus said, in perfect unison, "Shut up."

The Quiet Hour - Safehouse Rooftop, 1981

It was 3 a.m.

Everyone else was asleep—or pretending to be.

You sat on the rooftop wrapped in an old blanket, the night air crisp but not cruel. Below, the city barely hummed.

Remus found you there. Sat beside you without a word.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Then, he asked, “If this all ended tomorrow, what would you do?”

You thought about it. About normal jobs. About having a house that didn’t come with escape routes.

“Sleep in. Go outside. Learn to bake. Maybe teach.”

He nodded. “What would you want?”

You glanced at him. “This. But without the fear.”

He reached for your hand, and this time, there was no hesitation.

Infirmary – A Week Later

Remus got hit during the last raid. You didn’t see it happen.

You only saw the aftermath.

He was unconscious when you found him—curled in a blood-soaked cloak, wand still clenched in one hand.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t panic.

You got him to the safehouse and fixed it.

You used dittany. You whispered counter-curses. You stayed up all night pressing your palm to his chest just to feel it rise.

When he woke the next morning, hoarse and blinking, you exhaled for the first time in hours.

"You stayed," he rasped.

You didn’t look at him. Just adjusted his blanket.

"I always stay," you whispered.

He reached for your hand.

This time, you let him take it.

The Room with the Blue Curtains

The mission went wrong. Not in the everyone-dies way. Just in the too-much-waiting, too-much-thinking way.

You and Remus got stuck in a borrowed flat with blue curtains, a broken heater, and one bed.

Neither of you mentioned it.

You sat on opposite sides of the room, pretending to read. The only light came from a battered projector crystal—a leftover from a movie night you'd shared weeks ago at the safehouse. That night had been full of stifled laughter and elbow jabs in the dark. This one was quieter. Heavier. Waiting.

Eventually, you gave up and flopped onto the bed, sprawled like you owned it. "If you snore, I’ll hex you."

Remus smiled faintly. "If you steal the blanket again, I’ll bite."

You raised an eyebrow. "Is that a werewolf joke?"

He shrugged. "Is it working?"

You turned your head to look at him.

And there it was. That silence again. Buzzing. Fragile. Waiting.

He moved first.

He sat beside you, careful, uncertain.

You reached for his collar. Fisted it.

And pulled him in.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was years of missed chances, sarcasm-as-flirting, battlefield bandages, burned letters, and every unsent apology.

When it finally broke, your forehead rested against his.

"You’re still wrong about shield harmonics," you whispered.

He smiled against your skin. "I know."

Morning, Eventually

The sun leaked through the torn curtain like it was embarrassed to be there.

You stirred first, still fully clothed, still tangled in blankets and regret. The room smelled like dust, burnt candlewax, and Remus.

His arm was slung over your hip. Heavy. Warm. Real.

You could have hexed it off.

You didn’t.

Instead, you stared at the water-stained ceiling and counted the cracks. There were seven. Eight, if you counted the one shaped like a lightning bolt. You didn’t.

Behind you, Remus shifted. Made a soft, half-sighing noise.

"I know you’re awake," he mumbled, voice rasped with sleep.

"I know your elbow’s in my rib," you replied.

He didn’t move. "If we never get another morning like this—"

"Don’t."

"I just want to say—"

"No."

He fell silent.

You turned then, propping yourself up on one elbow to face him. His eyes were open. Watching. Soft in a way that made you ache.

"We don’t talk about endings before they happen," you said. "That’s bad luck."

Remus nodded slowly. "Alright."

A long beat passed. Then you added, "But... if we did... I’d want to say this wasn’t a mistake."

That silence hit differently.

"I’d say the same," he said quietly.

Then, after a pause: "You drool in your sleep."

You hit him with a pillow.

He caught your wrist mid-swing and grinned. That slow, infuriating grin that had once made you want to duel him at dawn.

You kissed him again instead.

Movie Night

It started as a distraction. Just another night in the war with too little sleep and too much fear.

Sirius found an old enchanted projector crystal, and someone conjured a screen in the safehouse parlor. You and Remus sat side by side, pretending the brush of your knees was accidental.

Lily brought popcorn. James brought sarcasm. Peter brought blankets and tripped over half of them.

The movie was Muggle and absurd—something about time travel and skateboards. But you laughed. You leaned into Remus without thinking. He didn’t move away.

And later, when everyone had gone to bed, you and he stayed behind to rewind the crystal and watch it again.

"This part’s your favorite," he murmured.

"No, it’s yours."

He looked at you.

And you knew.

That memory became a cornerstone—the first time the war paused, just long enough to let you hope.

First I Love You

It wasn’t a grand moment. Not a battle. Not a near-death confession. Just dishes.

You were elbow-deep in suds, muttering about Sirius’ inability to rinse a cup, when Remus dropped a plate. It clattered, intact, to the floor.

"Sorry," he said quickly, bending to pick it up.

"Careful, you’ll hex yourself next," you teased.

He paused. Straightened. Looked at you with an expression that rooted you in place.

"I love you," he said.

You blinked.

"That was... out of nowhere."

He smiled. "It wasn’t."

You dried your hands. Walked over. Touched his face.

"I love you, too," you whispered.

Then kissed him, slow and certain, the plate forgotten on the floor between you.

The next day it was warm. The kind of warmth that made you forget you ever fought for anything. You and Remus had dragged the mattress out into the sun, tossed every blanket you owned onto it, and let the wind do what it liked with your hair.

He was reading. You were pretending to. Mostly watching him.

“You know,” you murmured, “we could just not go back.”

“Back where?”

“To all of it.”

He looked over the top of the book, brow raised. “You’re suggesting we abscond?”

“I’m suggesting we fake our deaths and open a bakery.”

He set the book aside. “You’d burn the dough.”

“You’d correct my measuring.”

“We’d poison the whole town.”

You smiled. “Together.”

He leaned over and kissed your cheek.

The garden buzzed with bees and maybe hope.

For one golden hour, it was enough.

A Letter from Lily

You found it in an old drawer at Grimmauld Place, weeks later.

The parchment was brittle. The ink smudged. But Lily’s handwriting was unmistakable.

If you're reading this, it means I’m gone. And you’re not. Which means you damn well better be happy.

I saw it. Before any of you did. The way you looked at Remus like he was the last page of your favorite book.

Tell him the next time he doubts himself: he’s the reason I ever believed in gentle men.

And tell Sirius I still want my record player back. Yes, even from the afterlife.

You folded the letter. Held it to your chest.

Then went to find Remus and tell him exactly what Lily had said.

Because she was right.

And some truths deserve to be spoken out loud.

Right after that, you called her and screamed down that line that if she dared to die, you would bring her back to life and kill her yourself.

The Marauder Pub Night – March 1980

The Hog’s Head was technically closed. Which meant nothing to James Potter and even less to Sirius Black.

With a few discreet charms (and a small bribe), the four Marauders had the place to themselves. The lights were dim. The fire was loud. The drinks were stronger than they had any right to be.

James was singing something off-key, propped up on a barstool with Lily’s scarf around his neck like a trophy.

Remus was leaning against the wall, glass in hand, half-smiling at nothing.

Sirius was dancing. Alone. Badly.

And Peter was asleep in the booth, mouth open, a half-eaten shepherd’s pie on his lap.

You arrived late. They erupted like a pack of wolves at the sight of you.

“There she is!” Sirius yelled, knocking over a chair. You sat. You drank. You laughed so hard your ribs hurt. At one point, Sirius tried to arm-wrestle a ghost. You transfigured James’ pint into a bouquet. Remus quoted obscure poetry and pretended it wasn’t on purpose.

By the end of the night, you were lying on the floor beside them, watching the enchanted ceiling stutter with stars.

“If we don’t survive this,” Sirius whispered, “promise you’ll tell the world we were stupid and brilliant.”

You squeezed his hand. “Only if you promise to survive it anyway.”

He grinned, eyes glassy. “Deal.”

The Final Letter

A week later, you found it folded inside your rucksack. Slipped between old maps and hexed parchment.

Remus’ handwriting. Neat. Tidy. Unmistakable.

If anything happens to me— Burn this. Laugh at it. Hate me for it. But read it.

You were right about shield harmonics. You were wrong about being unlovable. I’ve known since third year. You hexed my nose, and I knew.

If I never get to say it, I loved you. I love you. And I hope someday you’ll teach again. The world needs more girls who make the library dangerous.

You didn’t cry.

You just folded it.

And tucked it into your boot, next to your wand.

The Garden Outside Grimmauld Place

The Order had gone quiet. A rare pause. A half-day without death.

You sat on the stone bench outside your childhood home, staring at the dead hedges Walburga once cursed to bite stray cats.

Sirius wandered out and slumped beside you.

"Tell me we’re not the only ones left with brain cells," you said.

Sirius handed you a half-eaten apple. "I’ve got half a plan and one good sock. That’s it."

You leaned your head on his shoulder. He let you.

"You’re still angry I kissed Remus."

"I’m furious you waited that long."

You blinked.

He nudged you. "I wanted you both to have something. Even if the world burns down around it."

"...Thanks."

"You’re still not babysitting if I ever have kids."

"Noted. And for the record, I’m never babysitting yours either. Babies are terrifying."

You laughed. "I’ll remember that when ours is screaming at two in the morning."

He gave you a wary side-eye. "No. Absolutely not. I refuse. I will hex myself unconscious before I’m left alone with a baby."

You grinned. "Duly noted, Padfoot. Can’t wait to test that promise."

The Godfather Agreement

James slid the parchment across the table. Sirius stared at it.

“You’re joking.”

“We’re not,” Lily said calmly. “You’re the only choice.”

“Have you met me?”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Tragically, yes.”

You added, “But you’d protect them. That’s all that matters.”

Sirius swallowed hard. “Bloody hell.”

He signed it.

You and Lily exchanged a smile.

Later, you found him in the nursery, sitting cross-legged on the floor, Harry giggling in his lap.

He looked up. “You’re still mad you lost the coin toss, aren’t you?”

You grinned. “Only a little.”

Then Sirius held up a rattle like it was a wand. “You hear that, kid? You’ve got me. Poor thing.”

Harry giggled again and smacked him in the face with a plush Hippogriff.

You and Remus watched from the doorway, leaning on each other.

“They made the right call,” Remus murmured.

And for once, no one disagreed.

Later that night, you came back to check on them and found Sirius asleep on the floor, Harry snuggled into his chest. He’d transfigured his jacket into a blanket and muttered something about dragons and pudding in his sleep.

You pulled the blanket higher and kissed Harry’s head. “You’ll always have someone,” you whispered. “Even if it’s this idiot.”

Sirius snorted softly in his sleep. “Heard that.”

The Hogwarts Rooftop – Full Moon

The world tilted sideways the night before your next mission.

You found Remus on the roof above the Divination tower, legs swinging over the edge, face silvered in moonlight.

He didn’t look at you when you sat beside him.

"I’m not scared of what you are," you said.

He exhaled.

"You should be."

You touched his hand. Scarred fingers. Knotted knuckles.

"I’ve seen what you are in the worst moments. And you’re still the person I’d trust to watch my back. That’s enough."

He looked at you then.

Not with fear.

With hope.

Victory Night - Diagon Alley, 1981

The war didn’t end with a funeral.

It ended with fireworks.

All of Diagon Alley lit up. The Leaky Cauldron ran out of firewhiskey by sundown. Even Madam Malkin danced in the street. Florean Fortescue gave away free ice cream until he passed out from exhaustion. Someone bewitched broomsticks to perform synchronized loops overhead, spelling out words like “PEACE” and “ALIVE.”

You found yourself pressed between Remus and Sirius, both slightly drunk and absolutely glowing.

“Tell me this is real,” you whispered.

Remus didn’t answer. He just kissed you.

Sirius whooped behind you. “Oi! Get a flat, you two!”

You turned and pulled him into a hug. “Don’t tempt me.”

He buried his face in your shoulder for just a second longer than expected.

Because it was over. You’d won.

And for the first time, the world belonged to all of you again.

Later, you danced with Lily under fairy lights someone had strung between lampposts. James twirled Harry in his arms. Remus laughed like it didn’t hurt. Sirius cried and pretended it was just allergies. Peter tried to propose to a bartender and got denied three times. Someone—probably Fabian—set off an entire crate of enchanted fireworks, nearly singeing your hair.

You and Remus sat on the curb eating fish and chips from a conjured basket, elbows touching, watching everyone sing.

“This feels borrowed,” you murmured.

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s ours. We fought for it.”

And for once, you let yourself believe it.

The Safehouse Garden – Spring 1981

The war didn’t end with a bang. Just exhaustion. Silence. Names carved into the memorial stone.

But you and Remus survived it.

Together.

There was silence, but not the peaceful kind.

The kind that presses against your ears like a storm held back by sheer force of will.

Remus stood in the garden, watching her dig her hands into the soil like it owed her something. The war was over, but the ghosts weren’t gone. Not for either of them.

Now you were in a crooked little cottage on the edge of somewhere green, knee-deep in unruly flowerbeds and cursed weeds.

Remus handed you a cup of tea, still in his pajamas.

"Don’t say it," you warned.

"You look like you murdered the hydrangeas."

"I did."

He kissed your temple. Soft. Familiar. Home.

She didn’t flinch. Not in the way she used to.

They stood in the dirt and silence and ruined hedgerows, and somewhere between the weeds and cracked teacups, they learned how to breathe again.

Because sometimes survival meant relearning the ordinary.

And for once, he wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"You still think shield harmonics matter more than momentum."

"And you still leave your socks in the sink."

The morning wind stirred the leaves. Peace had teeth, but you’d tamed it.

You leaned into his side and said, "We’re still here."

He smiled.

"For now. And for always."

A Modest Wedding – Two Weeks After the Fall

They didn’t send invitations. Didn’t have a guest list. Just a handful of friends, a weather-worn garden, and a borrowed ring from Lily’s jewelry box.

You wore your favorite jumper. Remus wore a smile that wouldn’t quit.

Sirius officiated with the solemnity of a prank in progress. James cried before you did. Peter tripped over the vows, trying to hand over the rings.

You and Remus said "I do" under a patch of sunlight and a canopy of spring leaves.

No fireworks. No prophecy. Just vows whispered between the ruins of war, promising that whatever came next, you’d meet it side by side.

Afterward, you sat on the front steps with Remus, sharing a slice of lemon cake and watching the light fade over the hills.

"Still think you’re not the marrying type?" he asked.

You leaned your head on his shoulder. "Maybe just your type."

He smiled. "Lucky me."

And that night, in the quiet of your crooked little cottage, you lit another projector crystal. A movie night, just the two of you this time—feet tangled, popcorn in a chipped bowl, laughter tucked safely between the lines of old dialogue.

Because some rituals are worth repeating.

Breakfast at the Cottage

The toast was burnt. The tea was too strong. The eggs were suspiciously orange.

But Remus stood barefoot in the kitchen, hair a mess, humming something low and content.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’re using the wrong pan.”

He didn’t turn. “I’m using the pan that’s clean.”

“That pan’s cursed.”

“It adds flavor.”

You snorted and walked over, stealing a piece of toast. He nudged your hip with his. And for a moment, it wasn’t about the war, or the scars, or the history. It was just morning. And you were home.

The Daily Prophet was folded on the table, untouched. Somewhere outside, birds chirped like they hadn’t heard about the war. You sat on the counter, one leg tucked under you, watching Remus fumble with the kettle like it had offended him.

“Are we sure you fought a war?” you asked.

He turned, covered in flour somehow. “I’ve fought trolls and lived in caves. I’m not afraid of breakfast.”

“Should be. Those eggs are still blinking.”

He rolled his eyes and handed you a chipped mug. “Drink. Criticize later.”

The sun filtered through the cracked window above the sink, catching in the strands of his hair. You sipped the tea. Burnt. Perfect. The quiet stretched, not awkward, just full. Like the house itself was holding its breath in contentment.

“Let’s never fight again,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ll break that in a week.”

You grinned. “Two, if you behave.”

He leaned in and kissed your temple. “Deal.”

You watched him move around the kitchen, barefoot and free.

“What would we have done if we hadn’t won?” you asked suddenly.

He looked up. “Kept fighting.”

You nodded. “But I’m glad we didn’t have to.”

“Me too.”

“We’re going to be alright, aren’t we?” you said softly.

Remus paused. Wiped his hands on a dishrag. Walked over.

“We already are,” he said. “As long as you’re here.”

You leaned forward and kissed him, right there next to the cursed eggs. Then he brought you a forkful of egg. You bit it. You immediately regretted it.

“That’s definitely cursed,” you said, mouth full, trying not to laugh.

Remus smirked. “Adds character.”

Babysitting with Sirius

It was supposed to be a quick mission. In and out. No complications.

He wasn’t built for children.

Sirius Black had faced down Death Eaters, Ministry interrogators, and the worst detention McGonagall ever invented—but nothing prepared him for a baby with a wand in one hand and drool on the other.

Which is how Sirius Black ended up alone in a cottage with a teething, wand-curious, six-month-old baby, a diaper bag, a grim determination not to be bested by a child, and absolutely no idea what he was doing.

Ten minutes in: crying.

Twenty minutes in: spit-up.

Thirty minutes in: a flying toy broom ricocheted off the ceiling.

"Alright, little menace," he said, eyeing the bundle currently gnawing on the hem of his leather jacket. "Rule one: No biting. Rule two: No accidental transfiguration. Rule three... I don't know, stop looking at me like that."

The baby blew a spit bubble.

Sirius sighed and dropped onto the couch, baby balanced precariously on his hip. "I swear, your mum cursed me the day she said I'd never babysit. Now look at us."

A crash echoed from the kitchen.

He froze. "Was that the kettle? Please tell me that wasn’t the kettle."

She’d warned him. Of course she had. With a wicked grin and a pointed finger. “If you let the kettle explode again, I’m leaving you at the next safehouse.”

He didn’t let it explode.

He just… forgot the baby could levitate things.

It was the kettle.

Sirius ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. New plan. We survive until your parents get back. No fires. No mysterious howling. And no telling them I let you taste treacle tart."

The baby giggled, as if in on the joke.

Later, when Remus and you arrived home—muddy, exhausted, and slightly scorched—you found Sirius asleep on the couch with the baby curled on his chest, both snoring.

You exchanged a glance with Remus.

"Still think we shouldn’t have let him babysit?" he whispered.

You smiled. "No. But I am getting the memory on crystal."

Sirius cracked one eye open. "Don’t you dare."

Remus grinned. "Told you he’d be brilliant."

You nudged Sirius with your foot. "Still think you’ll hex yourself unconscious next time?"

Sirius groaned. "Next time, I’m faking my own death."

You just laughed.

The First Christmas

The tree was crooked. The spells kept slipping, and someone (Sirius) had charmed all the ornaments to sing when touched. Loudly. Off-key.

But it was Christmas.

You were bundled in an old jumper of Remus’s, holding a teacup you didn’t remember filling, watching Lily and James dance clumsily to a wireless carol while Sirius tried to teach Peter to juggle chocolate frogs.

“Remind me,” you muttered, “why we let him be in charge of decorations?”

Remus, curled beside you on the rug, smiled without looking away from the fire. “Because he threatened to put mistletoe over every doorway if we didn’t.”

“He still did that.”

“Exactly.”

Sirius yelled something about festive chaos and launched a frog directly into the fireplace.

You looked around. The peeling wallpaper. The scorch marks. The laughter.

It wasn’t perfect.

But for the first time in months, it felt like breathing.

A Classroom Reclaimed

Years later, you stood before a blackboard again—chalk in hand, a roomful of eager young faces looking up at you.

There were plants in the windows. A photo of Remus holding your baby girl on your desk. The classroom hummed with warmth and curiosity.

A young girl in the front row raised her hand. "What’s the most important spell for a duel?"

You smiled. "The one you cast second. That way you surprise them."

And as laughter trickled through the room, you thought, This is what comes after.

#remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus x reader #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin oneshot #remus lupin imagine #remus angst #remus lupin angst

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jellyfishsthings · 5 days ago

Text

The Things You Say

navigation , dc navigation

Summary: Jason yearning for a nerdy girl who constantly talks about her new books or new science inventions, he doesn't understand shit and they have to look stuff up constantly trying to keep up with her

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Jason knew pain. He knew the taste of blood and the sound of a heart flatlining. He knew what it was like to dig his way out of a grave with his bare hands, lungs full of dirt and rage. He knew war. Loss. Fire.

But none of that prepared him for the experience of falling for someone like you.

He also knew two things for certain:

One: he was not, and never would be, a science guy.

Two: he was completely, helplessly in love with the weird girl who never stopped talking about subatomic particles like they were fairy tales.

He met her in a bookstore, because of course he did. Gotham’s oldest secondhand shop, tucked between a closed-down deli and a tattoo parlor. She was in the nonfiction aisle, holding a hardcover titled Quantum Entanglement and the Fabric of the Cosmos, murmuring to herself while frowning at the margins.

Jason should’ve walked away. Should’ve grabbed his Hemingway and gone.

But instead he found himself saying, “Is that English?”

She looked up.

Big glasses. Hair half-up, half-falling. A tiny scowl, like he’d just insulted her childhood dog. “It’s physics.”

He blinked. “I gathered. Still looks like math’s evil cousin.”

That got a laugh. Or something like it. A half-smile, crooked and unsure, like she didn’t laugh often and wasn’t sure she should now.

Jason tilted his head. “You work with this stuff?”

“I study it.” She pushed the book against her chest. “I’m trying to understand quantum coherence in biological systems. Mostly theoretical. I bore people.”

“I don’t mind theory,” Jason said, which was a lie, but a nice one.

She stared at him for a long second. “You’re trying to flirt with me.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “How am I doing?”

“Terribly.”

He grinned. “You want coffee?”

She hesitated.

“Not a date,” he added quickly. “Just... if you want someone to listen while you explain quantum thingies.”

“Quantum thingies,” she repeated. “Tempting.”

It was supposed to be one coffee. It turned into four. Then dinner. Then late-night texts, where she sent him screenshots of new studies and he replied with bad memes and pictures of books she’d made him read.

Jason wasn’t used to this—whatever this was. There was no game here. No dramatics. Just this girl with a constellation of freckles and a mouth that moved too fast when she got excited.

She’d sit cross-legged on his couch, hair up, socks mismatched, spouting things like:

“Did you know cephalopods can edit their own RNA in real time?”

Jason, who was halfway through re-reading The Count of Monte Cristo, would look up and go, “Cepha-what?”

“Octopus brains. They’re insane.”

He had a notes app. No joke. It read:

Quarks (ask which one is the cute one)

Octopus RNA = science magic

Don’t say atoms are tiny planets—she hates that

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to understand. He did. Desperately. Because her eyes lit up like stars when she talked, and Jason wanted to know what it was like to hold a universe like that in his head.

Because you talked about neutrinos over coffee. Neutrinos. Subatomic particles. And you said it with a smile like it was common small talk, like most people spent Sunday mornings curled up reading quantum mechanics papers instead of the funnies.

Jason pretended to get it. He even nodded sagely.

He did not get it.

"They're fascinating," you said once, feet tucked under you on his old beat-up couch, eyes lit like they held galaxies. "Like these ghosts of matter. They pass through everything, almost impossible to catch. It's like trying to bottle a secret."

"Uh-huh," Jason said, staring at your lips. Not because he was being disrespectful. But because they moved when you talked, and sometimes he understood those more than your words.

He googled them later. Spent two hours falling down a scientific rabbit hole so steep he got a headache, just so he could maybe ask the right question next time. So he could deserve to be in the same room as your mind.

You never made him feel stupid.

You never made him feel like he had to prove himself. But Jason was built of sharp edges and pride. He came from alleys, from blood-streaked streets and textbooks that were ten years too late. You were made of stardust and curiosity, of words that leapt like fire from your tongue.

He wanted to meet you there.

So he read. And re-read. Fell asleep listening to science podcasts he barely understood. Texted Tim questions like, “What the hell is a muon?” and got responses like, “Why are you asking me this at 2AM?”

You were working on something new. Something about microfluidics, which sounded made-up but wasn't. Your whiteboard was filled with squiggles and Greek letters, and Jason stood behind you one afternoon just... watching.

"You know," he said finally, leaning a shoulder against your wall, "I'm starting to think you might be the smart one in this relationship."

You turned, brow quirked. "Only just starting?"

Jason laughed. It cracked something open in him. "You know what I mean."

"I do," you said, crossing to him. You had ink on your fingers. Pen behind your ear. Your shirt was inside out. Jason thought you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "But I'm not in love with me. You are."

He blinked.

You kissed his cheek, then went back to your board, humming. As if you hadn't just sent his soul straight out of his body.

Jason spent that night learning about laminar flow.

Sometimes, you talked so fast you forgot to breathe. You’d get this wild look in your eyes, like the whole universe was cracking open and only you could see it.

Jason lived for that look.

You told him about CRISPR once, gesturing wildly with a fork in a shitty diner, eggs going cold.

"It’s gene editing," you said. "Like molecular scissors! You can cut DNA—literally edit life. Isn’t that insane?"

Jason chewed his toast. Nodded. Took a mental note to google "molecular scissors" the second you hit the bathroom.

He didn’t get it. Not really.

But he loved how your face lit up. Like discovering was your religion and you were halfway to ascension.

He wanted to believe in something like that.

The problem, of course, was that he kept falling harder.

It hit him slow at first—like rain soaking into the collar of your coat. He’d look up in the middle of a lecture she didn’t know she was giving and realize he hadn’t heard a word.

Because she was smiling. Because she was alive in that moment in a way that made the world blur.

And then one night it hit him all at once.

They were on his fire escape, watching the sky turn blue-black over Gotham. She had her legs pulled up to her chest, hoodie sleeves covering her hands, talking about something called CRISPR and how gene editing could eventually reverse certain degenerative conditions.

Jason lit a cigarette. Didn’t smoke it. Just let it sit in his hand.

“You ever wonder,” he said, “how you ended up where you are?”

She blinked. “All the time.”

“I used to think I was supposed to be something. Like... some big cosmic screw-up happened and I got turned into this.” He gestured vaguely. “A walking wreckage.”

“You’re not a wreck.”

Jason didn’t answer. Just watched her through the smoke.

“You read the books I send,” she whispered. “You ask questions. You try. That’s more than most.”

He looked away. “You make me want to try.”

She leaned into his shoulder, quiet.

That night he dreamed she was stardust and he was gravity. Always falling toward her.

Jason didn’t call it love. He didn’t know if he deserved to.

But he was the one who brought her soup when she got sick, even if he burned the rice.

He was the one who asked her to explain particle spin six times and still got it wrong.

He was the one who, during one of her meltdowns about failing a grant application, cupped her face and said, “You’re brilliant. If the world can’t see it, that’s not your fault.”

She cried into his shoulder for an hour.

One night, you fell asleep with your notes scattered across his bed. Jason gathered them carefully, reading snatches as he did.

"Theoretical modeling of fluid behavior in low-gravity environments..."

He smiled.

You’d joked once that you were building something for NASA. He wasn’t sure if you were actually joking.

He sat beside you, brushing hair from your forehead. You sighed in your sleep.

Jason Todd, child of Gotham's gutters, held your research like it was sacred.

He didn’t understand the math. But he understood what it meant to love something so fiercely you stayed up nights chasing it.

He understood what it meant to chase you.

It wasn’t easy.

You didn’t always get his silences. His scars. The way he sometimes drifted mid-conversation, haunted by a past he couldn’t shut up.

But you waited.

You asked.

You never made him feel like a puzzle to be solved. Just a story worth reading slowly.

One day he caught you reading War and Peace. Not for class. Not for work. Just... because.

"You know that’s, like, a thousand pages, right?"

"Only 1,225," you replied without looking up. "You should try it."

Jason chuckled. "You trying to turn me into a nerd, sweetheart?"

You looked at him then, all sharp eyes and soft affection. "You already are. You just don’t know it yet."

When you said "I love you," it was after explaining something about black holes.

Jason had no idea how you got from "gravitational collapse" to "I love you," but he wasn’t complaining.

He’d spent so long being angry. Being alone. Being something sharp and armored.

You cracked through it all with equations and post-it notes, with quiet mornings and whispered facts about tardigrades.

You made him laugh. Think. Google shit.

You made him feel.

He didn’t always understand what you said. He never fully grasped string theory.

But he learned her favorite coffee order, and the way she curled her toes when she was focused, and how to tell when her anxiety was starting to spiral.

He learned how to love her without needing to understand every atom.

Because she made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a cosmic mistake after all.

He was just a man. With a girl. And a heart that beat a little faster every time she said, “Hey Jay, guess what I learned today?”

And that?

That he understood perfectly.

And that was enough.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #jason todd x you #jason todd imagine #jason todd one shot #jason todd fanfiction #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood fluff #jason todd fluff #dc comics #dc comics x reader #dc comics x you

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jellyfishsthings · 8 days ago

Text

Endless Conversations at 3 A.M.

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Summary: Tim yearning for a nerdy girl who constantly talks about her new books or new science inventions and they constantly talk for hours about stuff while snacking in the kitchen, falling asleep at 5 in the morning

The story takes place in a boarding school

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Tim Drake didn’t need anyone to tell him he was smart. He knew it. It was in the way he could analyze the most obscure pieces of data in a split second, how he could solve crimes before anyone had a chance to even start thinking about them. His mind was like a finely tuned machine, a network of connections firing off constantly. It was something he’d grown up with—his mind working faster than anyone could keep up with. He wasn’t used to distractions, not of the kind that made his chest ache like this. He had his routine. Work. Training. Late-night study sessions. A mind like his, sharp and constantly processing, didn’t have the time for anything that could derail it.

And then there was you.

Something different about you.

It started innocently enough, as most things did. You were the quiet girl who sat in the corner of the library, your nose buried in books Tim had never heard of, your fingers scribbling through the margins like you were finding answers nobody else could. You’d walk past him in the halls, brief glances exchanged. Nothing special. But then one afternoon, it happened. He’d found himself in the middle of one of those impossibly late-night snack sessions in the kitchen, eyes barely open as he rummaged for something to keep him awake long enough to finish his latest round of equations.

He was in the kitchen. Late night. Gotham asleep, with only the faintest hum of the city stretching into the silence of the manor. Tim had a habit of coming down to the kitchen late, especially when his mind was racing with some unsolved puzzle, some unsent email, some unanswered question. He often wandered into the kitchen without thinking, grabbed a snack, and stared into the night—letting the dark and quiet cool his thoughts.

You’d walked in, all energy and calm, with a pile of half-open notebooks tucked under your arm. A girl who, to Tim, was an enigma wrapped in thoughts too complicated for anyone but herself to understand. You looked at him, that half-smile you always wore curling your lips.

"Is it just me, or does the kitchen at 2 A.M. always feel like a secret club?"

Tim had almost dropped the spoon he’d been holding, unsure if he was supposed to feel embarrassed or if he should have said something cooler in response. "Guess we’re the only ones left awake," was all he could muster, his words just a little too casual, as if he hadn’t noticed how breathtakingly out of place you were in the middle of his late-night routine.

You didn’t seem to mind. You sat across from him, dropping your notebooks on the table like they were nothing. And in the next few hours, he learned more about you than he could have ever expected.

“Tim?” You’d looked up, catching him mid-step. “Can you help me with this?”

Tim blinked. You were the smart girl at school—one who was always absorbed in a book, always two steps ahead. But this? This wasn’t something he could solve in a blink. He knew that much.

“What is it?” he asked, leaning over, his curiosity piqued.

You pointed to an equation, half-finished, a series of symbols and numbers that had Tim doing a double-take. He’d never seen anything quite like it before.

“That’s—” he started, feeling the familiar rush of his brain kicking into overdrive. The puzzle was fascinating, but it was also wildly complex. Not even Tim Drake, with his natural intelligence and years of experience solving some of Gotham’s most dangerous riddles, could immediately decipher it.

“What are you working on?” he asked, his voice careful.

You didn’t seem to notice the way his mind was already trying to dissect it. Instead, you simply launched into an explanation, as casual as if you were talking about the weather.

“Just a little something on applied mathematics for motion systems. The kind of calculations for things like weather balloons, or even drones. It's about optimization—how to minimize error in the systems under the influence of wind currents.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You lost me at drones.”

You laughed. “I tend to do that. I’ll break it down for you—it's about minimizing trajectory error when accounting for random variables. A lot of variables, really. Wind, angle of release, external disturbances.”

Tim was smart enough to keep up with you. He was more than capable of handling advanced physics, calculus, and cryptography. But hearing it from you, seeing the way you lit up when you talked about it, made him feel like he was stepping into a world he hadn’t yet explored. It was almost like watching someone conjure magic from thin air, weaving a spell with nothing but numbers and formulas.

“So…” Tim said slowly, trying to catch up, “It’s like predicting the movement of a batarang?”

Your smile was so wide it lit up the kitchen, and Tim’s heart beat just a little faster than usual. He hated how it was so easy for you to distract him, even when his brain was running at full speed.

“Exactly,” you said, leaning closer, eyes sparkling. “But with drones, the error margins are a lot more unpredictable. It’s fascinating because if you tweak the variables just slightly, you can make it so the drone compensates for the wind before it even feels it.”

Tim let that sink in for a moment, then nodded, impressed. He had a sharp mind, no doubt about it, but hearing you talk about these things—he felt like an amateur again. Like there were so many layers of the world that he hadn’t even begun to peel back. And yet, you made it sound so... easy. It was that which made his chest tighten.

You were in a world of your own, and somehow, it felt like he wasn’t invited. Like he wasn’t quite smart enough for you. And that thought gnawed at him, because, if there was one thing Tim Drake hated, it was feeling like he wasn’t enough.

The next hour passed in a blur. You’d pulled out books Tim could barely pronounce the names of, showing him your newest discoveries. Some were about math, others about biology, and a few were a mix of historical facts and theories Tim couldn’t even wrap his brain around.

By the time dawn was breaking, the kitchen light flickering in time with your laughs and animated explanations, Tim felt a gnawing ache in his chest that he couldn’t shake. He’d lost track of time. You’d lost track of time. Your eyes sparkled as you spoke, your hand absently playing with your pencil, and Tim found himself simply... listening.

When the clock struck 5 A.M., and you stood up to leave, exhausted yet satisfied, it hit him—this wasn’t just an intellectual curiosity. This wasn’t about math equations or theories that defied logic. It was about you. And him. And the way you made him feel like the world was full of wonder again.

The weeks that followed felt like an endless cycle of late-night sessions in the kitchen, your voice filling the silence like some endless tide. You would talk about everything—science, history, psychology—your brain a repository of fascinating facts that made Tim’s own mental library feel incomplete.

He tried his best to keep up, but more often than not, he’d be left staring at you, trying to catch his breath while your words rushed past him, faster than his mind could follow.

One night, you’d been talking for hours about string theory, gesturing wildly with your hands as if the entire universe were contained in those movements. Tim couldn’t help but stare at the way your fingers moved, the way you became so engrossed in the theories, as if they were pieces of a puzzle only you could see.

“…and what’s even crazier,” you said, dropping another scientific bombshell, “is that if string theory is true, then theoretically, every fundamental particle in the universe is just a manifestation of these tiny vibrating strings. It’s mind-blowing, don’t you think?”

Tim swallowed hard, realizing he had absolutely no idea what you were talking about. He smiled awkwardly, trying to mask his confusion. “Yeah, totally. Just... uh, yeah. That’s... mind-blowing.”

You grinned at him. “You look lost. Want me to explain it again?”

And that’s when it hit him. He wasn’t just out of his depth intellectually—he was out of his depth emotionally, too. He liked you. No, he really liked you. But it wasn’t just your intelligence. It was how you made the world feel like a bigger place than it actually was. You weren’t just talking to him—you were showing him a whole new universe, and Tim couldn’t help but be entranced by that.

You never asked for him to be there. You never seemed to expect him to show up with his tired eyes and his quiet smile. But you didn’t mind when he did, and that’s what made it feel like some unspoken bond.

"Did you ever wonder," you asked one night, halfway through a book about quantum mechanics, "if the universe could actually be a series of dimensions stacked on top of each other, like a never-ending accordion? Like... time could be folded in on itself, and we wouldn’t even know?"

Tim paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Yeah. Sometimes. But... the whole idea of alternate realities always trips me up. Like, how would we ever even know they exist?”

"Exactly!" You waved your hands as if the answer was just around the corner. "It’s this weird thing about perception and reality. What if, in another reality, we're having this exact conversation, but everything’s slightly different? Like, you’re left-handed, or I’m talking about the different types of black holes instead of quantum stuff?"

Tim tried to keep up, but the words you were saying were floating just beyond his reach. He didn’t care. He just wanted to listen.

“I think,” he said, finding his voice again after a beat, “that it’s kind of beautiful. The idea that everything’s connected, but also... so separate. So, so separate, in a way that makes everything more precious.”

Your eyes met his, sharp and knowing, and for a moment, it felt like the universe had paused.

"Yeah," you whispered. "I think so too."

The next few weeks passed in a haze of equations, theories, and late-night talks. Tim found himself looking forward to those kitchen sessions more than he cared to admit. It wasn’t just that you challenged him mentally—it was that you made him feel something he wasn’t used to feeling: a longing for something more.

You would talk about books, or inventions you were working on, or your plans for the future. Tim would listen, sometimes offering his own insights, sometimes just letting the sound of your voice fill the empty space between them. And, more often than not, he found himself staring at you, trying to memorize the way your eyes would sparkle when you were passionate, how you made even the most abstract concepts sound like something real, something worth fighting for.

But it wasn’t until one particularly late night—around 4 A.M., with the two of you sitting in the kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of half-empty mugs and snack wrappers—that Tim realized just how deep his feelings for you had grown.

“You’re not tired yet?” he asked, watching as you scribbled another complicated equation on the back of a napkin.

“Not yet. I’m on a roll,” you said, your voice bright, the familiar fire in your eyes still burning strong. “Do you ever get like that? Like you’re so focused on something, you don’t even notice how much time passes?”

Tim paused for a moment, his eyes lingering on you, not just because of how brilliant you were, but because there was something about you that made him feel seen. "Yeah. I think I do," he said softly.

The silence stretched out between you two, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a quiet understanding, a space where you both were just… there. Tim realized, in that moment, that he didn’t need to keep up with you all the time. He didn’t need to understand everything you said. He just needed to be in the same room as you, listening. Just listening.

And maybe, that was enough.

But the truth was: Tim was falling for you. Hard.

It wasn’t just about the way you made complicated things sound simple or how you made the most mundane theories seem like pieces of art. It wasn’t just your kindness or your intelligence or the way you always made him feel like there was no one else more important in the world than him.

It was the way you talked. The way your eyes lit up with excitement, your hands gesturing wildly, your mind constantly racing with thoughts too big for the world around you to keep up with. Tim realized that, in those moments, he didn’t feel like he was just keeping pace with your words—he was trying to keep up with your soul.

One night, as you debated whether or not time travel was theoretically possible through a wormhole, Tim’s heart nearly cracked under the weight of his emotions. His breath caught, and he almost blurted out something reckless. Something about how he loved the way your mind worked, how it felt like he was watching a comet streak across the sky every time you spoke.

But all he said was, “You’re incredible, you know that?”

You blinked, surprised by the sincerity in his voice, but then smiled softly. “Yeah. I get that sometimes. Just... never thought I’d hear it from you.”

Tim felt his pulse spike. His voice was tight. “Why?”

You leaned back, tucking your legs under yourself. “Because you’re always so... distant. You’re quiet, Tim. You think in silence. I thought that’s how you wanted the world to stay.”

He couldn’t think of a way to respond that didn’t sound like an admission of how much he cared. So he just settled for a small smile, one that tugged at his lips but didn’t quite make it to his eyes.

The truth was, he had never been good at showing affection. But with you? With you, it didn’t matter. You already understood the language of his silences.

It was a month later, during another conversation that stretched far past 3 A.M., when you finally asked him, “Tim, do you ever just get tired of all the noise in your head? The pressure, the constant thinking?”

Tim stared at the empty coffee cup in front of him, his chest heavy. It was one of those moments where he wished he could express what he was feeling. He wished he could make you understand just how much it meant that he could sit here, in this moment, in this quiet space with you, and just... breathe. No pressure. No questions. No expectations. Just... you.

But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he simply answered, “Yeah. I do. But sometimes... it’s nice to be with someone who makes the world quieter.”

So Tim found himself opening up in ways he hadn’t expected. He no longer felt the need to pretend that he could keep up with you every step of the way. Instead, he let himself just be present in the moment, just enjoying your company and letting your words guide him through this strange, fascinating world you had built.

One night, as you sat there, deep in conversation about the possibility of life on other planets, Tim realized that maybe it wasn’t the equations that fascinated him. Maybe it was you. Your mind, your passion, your voice. You had this way of making everything seem possible, of opening doors to worlds Tim hadn’t even dreamed of.

And in that moment, it felt like you understood, even without the words. You smiled, a soft, knowing smile. And for the first time, Tim felt like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t need to understand everything to know how he felt.

And in that moment, Tim realized something else: he wasn’t just falling for you. He was already in love with you.

#tim drake x reader #tim drake x you #tim drake imagine #tim drake #tim drake oneshot #tim drake fanfiction #red robin #red robin fluff #red robin x reader #red robin x you #dc comics #dc comics x reader #dc comics x you

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jellyfishsthings · 12 days ago

Text

I have a grandchild?

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: none really, just funny banter

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Jason Todd liked to think he wore many masks.

The city knew him as Red Hood. To his brothers, he was the snarky, trigger-happy one. To Bruce, a question mark with a temper. But every Tuesday and Thursday, in a tidy, sun-filled classroom, he was something else entirely:

Mr. Jay.

He taught third grade English Lit. Paperbacks. Book fairs. Glitter-covered essays. Small chairs. Lots of stickers.

And somehow? He loved it.

Jason never expected to find peace in a room full of tiny, chaotic humans, but here he was—"Mister Jay" to twenty-four third-graders at Gotham Academy’s lower school, reading Charlotte’s Web with more expression than he thought humanly possible.

He wore cardigans now. He drank peppermint tea. He even had a bulletin board labeled "Our Word Wall."

And he hadn’t told a soul in his family

Not because he was ashamed—he actually liked it. He liked the simplicity, the structure, the way little Brian Jennings waved at him with both hands every morning and offered him a friendship bracelet made of rainbow rubber bands. He liked the chaos he could understand for once.

“Okay, who can tell me what the monster in Where the Wild Things Are really represents?”

Rory’s hand shot up first—Rory with wild curls, a constant sprinkle of glitter on her cheeks, and a reading level two grades above her age.

Jason grinned. “Hit me, Rory.”

“His FEELINGS. Because Max was MAD and monsters are mad feelings!”

“You nailed it.” Jason gave her a fist bump. “A plus level insight. Someone write that down.”

Rory beamed like she’d just won an Oscar.

It started during the fall parent-teacher conference, when you arrived ten minutes late, breathless and apologetic, your daughter’s glitter-covered backpack slung over your shoulder.

Jason took one look at you—coffee-stained shirt, wild bun, tired eyes and soft voice—and immediately short-circuited.

“Sorry—my car wouldn’t start, and then I had to stop Rory from feeding goldfish crackers to a raccoon.”

Jason blinked. Smiled. “Sounds like a Tuesday.”

“Sorry again,” you huffed, taking a seat. “I’ve had a long day.”

He blinked. “No problem. Uh, Rory’s doing great.”

You sighed in relief. “She talks about you all the time. Mr. Jay says this, Mr. Jay says that. I was starting to think she liked you more than me.”

Jason laughed—and it was a real one, the kind that crept into his ribs and stayed. “Don’t worry, she just likes that I let them write haikus about dragons.”

“Haikus?”

“Very serious educational practice.”

You smiled. Something clicked into place.

It started slow. A cup of coffee after conferences. A chat outside after school pickup. Then, one Saturday, he ran into you and Rory at the Gotham public library. Rory sprinted into his legs, squealing “MISTER JAY!!!” loud enough to startle nearby birds.

That day ended with the three of you at a bakery. Rory passed out with a cookie in her hand. You gave him a look—surprised, amused, softened—and said, “She’s never warmed up to someone like this.”

Jason didn’t say anything. Just wrapped Rory’s scarf tighter and said, “She’s a good kid.”

What he meant was: I’d do anything to keep her happy.

Jason fell hard. Harder than he’d fallen in years. He kept it quiet at first, didn’t want to spook you with his baggage, didn’t want Bruce to send a drone overhead and “investigate” why his second-oldest son was skipping crime fighting for PTA meetings.

He just wanted this one thing for himself.

And somehow, it worked.

You dated quietly. Rory loved him instantly. He helped her with spelling words and listened to her detailed theories about dragons living in Gotham’s sewer systems. He fixed your heater when it broke and always remembered your favorite snacks.

By the time spring rolled around, he was yours, completely.

Jason was...gone. Just absolutely a goner. He’d found a rhythm in the chaos—dinner with you, homework with Rory, bedtime stories, and night patrol. It was weird and messy and full of glitter.

And it was home.

He was there when Rory lost her first tooth. When she scraped her knee on the playground and insisted only Mister Jay could clean it. When she had a nightmare and called him, not you, because "Daddy Jay fights monsters."

He didn’t correct her. Not once.

You saw it—how she clung to him, how he always bent to her level, how she crawled into his lap like it was the safest place on earth.

You asked him once, “You sure you’re okay with this?”

Jason kissed your forehead. “She’s my kid, too. Blood or not.”

So when you had an emergency work trip and your usual babysitter canceled, you didn’t even hesitate.

“You sure you don’t mind watching her overnight?” you asked, handing him a list of instructions and emergency contacts longer than a novel.

“Go save the world, I have this covered.”

You kissed his cheek, hugged Rory tight, and left.

“Alright,” Jason turned to her. “Movie or fort?”

Rory’s eyes sparkled. “BOTH.”

Jason kissed your cheek. “She’s my favorite kid. We’re going to build a pillow fort and eat suspicious amounts of mac and cheese. Go save the day.”

What neither of you accounted for... was Bruce Wayne.

Two hours later, the living room was a pillow apocalypse. Jason wore a glitter crown and had his nails painted purple. Rory was asleep, snuggled in his hoodie, soft snores muffled under a blanket castle.

It started at 6:37 p.m., when Bruce—who was supposed to be on a League mission—showed up at Jason’s apartment.

The door creaked open.

Jason glanced up.

And froze.

Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway.

“I need to talk to you about the armory in Blüdhaven,” Bruce said, standing in the doorway like the world’s most dramatic bat.

“Uh.” Jason didn’t move. “Hey.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked to the bright pink tiara sitting crookedly on his hair. The glitter smearing his cheeks. The empty sippy cup peeking out of his pocket.

Jason, his Jason, was wearing a pink apron that said “Kiss the Cook” and holding a bowl of glitter slime, staring at him dumbfounded. “Now?”

Then Rory ran into the room with a towel-cape tied around her shoulders. “JAY. THE UNICORN IS UNDER ATTACK.”

She froze when she saw Bruce.

Bruce froze when he saw her.

There was a long, loaded silence.

Jason opened his mouth.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “...Is there something you want to tell me?”

Rory looked up at Jason and whispered, “Is that Batman?”

Jason sighed. “Yeah, that’s Batman.”

“COOL,” she whispered loudly.

“She looks like you,” Bruce said.

“WHAT?!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you WHAT?!”

“That you have a child.”

“She’s not—! I mean—! I’m babysitting!”

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“I’m serious! She’s not mine!”

A pause. Then a tiny voice mumbled, “Daddy Jay?”

Jason died.

Bruce looked like he had transcended.

“She calls you—”

“She’s SIX and I READ TO HER. It’s a TITLE OF AFFECTION, not a PATERNITY CLAIM!”

“She has your nose.”

Jason screamed, his arms wildly flailing. “She has a BUTTON NOSE!”

Bruce just stated “I expect pictures at Christmas.”

Rory interrupted cheerfully, “He’s dating my mom!”

Bruce looked like he aged ten years in one second.

“...You’re dating a civilian... with a child… and didn’t tell me?”

“She’s not mine!” Jason repeated, clutching the slime bowl like a lifeline. “I’m just babysitting!”

Rory handed Bruce a plastic tiara. “Do you want to be the princess or the dragon?”

Bruce stared at it. Then at Jason.

Jason shrugged helplessly.

Bruce sighed. “Dragon.”

When you came back the next morning, you were greeted by a sight you would never forget:

Jason, asleep on the couch, Rory curled up beside him like a cat. The apartment was a war zone of glitter, tiaras, and cookie crumbs.

And Bruce Wayne, sitting in a tiny plastic chair at Rory’s tea table, wearing a paper crown and reading a bedtime story.

He looked up at you. “She made me tea.”

You blinked. “Is it real tea?”

“No. It’s glue and glitter water.”

“Ah.”

“She named me Sparkle Dragon.”

You smiled. “Fitting. What happened?”

“Your kid called me Daddy Jay. In front of Bruce.”

You blinked. “Okay. And?”

“He thinks she’s my biological daughter.”

“... Did you correct him?”

Jason stared at you. “She said I have her nose. Bruce believed her.”

You covered your mouth to hide your laugh. “Well... she has told people you’re her ‘real’ dad since February.”

Jason groaned into his hands.

You kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay. Honestly... I don’t mind. You are kind of her dad.”

Jason looked up.

You met his eyes. “You show up. You care. You paint her nails and make dragon haikus and fight the blender when she wants smoothies. That’s more than biology.”

Jason’s chest tightened. Then softened.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Love you more”

Jason opened one eye. “Tell me you brought coffee.”

You laughed. “Only if you tell me why Batman is babysitting my child.”

Jason sighed into the pillow. “Long story.”

Bruce stood. “She’s a good kid.”

“She’s a menace,” Jason mumbled fondly.

Rory woke up and shouted, “GLITTER PANCAKES?”

#jason todd x you #jason todd fluff #jason todd x reader #jason todd #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood fluff #dc comics #dc comics x reader #dc comics x you

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jellyfishsthings · 15 days ago

Text

Family Chaos

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WARNINGS: funny miscommunication (not really)

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

It started with a tweet.

@GothamTeaSpill: “BREAKING: Dick Grayson spotted with mystery woman near Blüdhaven docks. 👀 Trouble in paradise?”

Steph saw it first. She gasped so loudly, she dropped her cereal spoon into her mug of tea. “OH MY GOD.”

Tim peered over her shoulder. “Wait, isn’t that Dick’s old patrol partner from like... two years ago?”

“EXACTLY,” she hissed. “That’s not HER. Which means—”

“Scandal,” Cass finished, appearing behind them like a ghost with excellent eyeliner.

Within ten minutes, the photo had been blown up, analyzed, run through facial recognition software, and fed into a group chat titled 💔 EMOTIONAL DAMAGE CHAT 💔.

Jason was the first to react. “If he cheated, I’m keying the Batmobile. His Batmobile.”

Damian, with all the fire of a boy betrayed: “I will strike him from my mental family tree.”

Dick walked into the kitchen, blinking sleepily and wearing your oversized robe. “Morning. Why is everyone staring at me like I ran over Alfred?”

Silence.

You strolled in behind him, still brushing your teeth, glanced at the phone being waved at you, and blinked.

“Oh, yeah. That’s Ivy. She used to work with his department. She’s married. Nice girl.” You shrugged and walked away.

Everyone blinked at you.

Tim whispered “Why is she so calm?”

Jason answered “Denial. It’s the first stage.”

What they didn’t know—and what you absolutely were not going to tell them—was that Dick had already shown you the photo the night before. Ivy had waved him down to ask about security for her niece’s art gallery. You trusted him. 100%.

But the theatrics were just too juicy.

So, naturally, you grabbed your phone and typed into the group chat: “We need to talk.”

Pandemonium.

Phase One: Interrogation

Dick sat on the couch with a confused frown while the rest of the family assembled around him like a very emotional jury.

“Dick,” Steph said solemnly, “is there something you need to tell us?”

“Did I eat someone’s leftovers?”

Cass turned on a lamp dramatically.

Tim held up a whiteboard titled: Timeline of Lies.

Jason handed him a stress ball shaped like a broken heart.

“Wait,” Dick said slowly, “Is this... is this about that photo?”

Steph gasped. “So you admit there’s a photo?!”

“There’s a photo of me talking to someone, yeah. Her name is Ivy. She’s married. My angel has met her before. We literally helped her move last year.”

"The betrayal" Tim gasped from somewhere.

“I remember her,” you said sweetly from the corner. “She made lemon squares.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Then why the secrecy?”

“There was no secrecy!”

You sighed. Loudly. “It’s not like he’s ever done something to break my trust... until now.”

Dick’s head snapped toward you. “Babe?!”

You didn’t answer.

Cass handed you a blanket like it was a courtroom shawl of mourning.

Jason muttered, “Say the word and I’ll help you disappear him.”

You wiped a fake tear. “I just don’t know who I am dating anymore.”

Dick looked like he was rapidly losing his mind. “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING.”

“Tell it to the group chat,” Tim said coldly.

Phase Two: Emotional Damage

Later that night, you found Dick sitting alone in the Batcave, holding the same photo.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked, miserable.

You sat beside him, took the photo, and gently kissed his cheek. “No, baby. I knew it was nothing the whole time.”

He turned to you, eyes wide. “Wait—what?”

You smiled. “I saw the photo last night. You told me. But they didn’t know that. And honestly, watching them stage an emotional intervention with a slideshow? Comedy gold.”

Dick buried his face in his hands. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

He sighed, then laughed. “Tim used the phrase ‘emotional infidelity arc.’”

You giggled. “Jason tried to teach me how to key your car.”

“Which one?”

“Alright it was the motorcycle.”

He gasped. “That’s even worst.”

You looped your arm through his. “Don’t worry. I’d never let them touch the Nightcycle.”

He beamed. “You do love me.”

Group Chat Fallout - Bonus Scene

Steph: “Wait. YOU KNEW?!”

Cass: “She played us like a fiddle.”

Jason: “I am somehow both furious and impressed.”

Tim: “Next time I’m running background checks.”

Damian: “You are all clowns.”

You sent one final message to the chat:

Plot twist: I’m the mastermind. 🃏

Dick added: And I’m the himbo.

Everyone agreed. Even Alfred.

#dick grayson x you #dick grayson imagine #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson fluff #dick grayson #nightwing x you #nightwing fluff #nightwing imagine #nightwing x reader #nightwing #batfam x you #batfam x reader #batfam #dc comics #dc comics x reader #dc comics x you

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jellyfishsthings · 19 days ago

Text

Spa Days

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WARNINGS: none really, just funny banter

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

inspired from this fic by @yeoniverseee

Jason Todd, the brooding, gun-toting vigilante known as the Red Hood, isn't exactly the first person you'd picture slathered in a cucumber face mask. Yet, here we are, face-deep in a concoction of avocado and honey, with a fluffy pink headband perched precariously on his dark hair. This is your spa day, a rare moment of domestic bliss carved out from the chaos of Gotham, and honestly, it's been surprisingly…relaxing.

"Seriously? This is what you're doing?" Jason grumbled, his voice echoing in the vast cavern. He surveyed the scene with narrowed eyes: a blanket spread on the floor, laden with an arsenal of brightly colored nail polishes, facemasks that looked suspiciously like something Frankenstein's monster would wear, fluffy headbands, and a bowl of steaming water infused with essential oils that smelled suspiciously like lavender.

Jason scoffed. "De-stressing involves firing rounds at targets, not... whatever this is."

"Humor me," You pleaded, employing my best puppy-dog eyes. Jason, despite his gruff exterior, had a soft spot for those. After a moment of internal debate that was visible in the tic in his jaw, he sighed. "Fine. But if anyone sees this, you're dead."

Your relationship, a clandestine affair built on stolen moments and whispered promises, is often a tightrope walk between my civilian life and his dangerous world. Dates usually involve rooftop picnics offering a breathtaking view of the city, or quiet nights in his surprisingly cozy (and heavily fortified) apartment. But today, you decided we needed something lighter, something…normal. You'd envisioned a day dedicated to pampering, a chance to unwind and reconnect amidst the constant pressure of his double life.

First came the headbands. Wrestling one onto Jason’s stubborn, perpetually tousled hair was a feat in itself, but eventually, you managed to secure the fuzzy pink band. He looked, to put it kindly, ridiculous. You snorted with laughter, earning a glare that could curdle milk.

Next, the nail polish. You convinced him to let me paint just one finger, arguing that it was "research" to see which color best suited his… unique personality. He chose a matte black, which, honestly, wasn’t surprising. You opted for a vibrant turquoise, and you painstakingly applied layer after layer, trying to avoid getting it all over your fingers. Jason quickly realized that painting nails was far more difficult than disarming a bomb. The frustration was palpable.

"This is a waste of time," he muttered, his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on his single, gothic-chic fingernail.

"Relax," You chirped, gently buffing away a smudge on his pinky. "Enjoy the process. Embrace the… manicure."

Then came the facemasks. This was where things truly devolved into chaos. You had chosen a particularly gooey, green clay mask, promising it would "draw out impurities" and leave your skin "glowing." The application was messy, to say the least. Jason smeared the mask with the grace of a toddler finger-painting, getting it in his hair, on his clothes, and even managing to flick some onto the Batmobile.

You both looked like swamp monsters, but you couldn’t help but laugh. Jason, however, was not amused.

"This is the dumbest thing I've ever done," he declared, his voice muffled by the drying clay. "You know, I've faced down Scarecrow hopped up on Fear Toxin, and this is still the most terrifying thing I've done all week."

You giggled, gently smoothing the mask around his jawline. "Oh, relax, Jay. It's supposed to be soothing. Besides, you look…kinda cute."

He grumbled something unintelligible, but you saw the corners of his lips twitch. Progress. The whole process started with a bit of reluctant participation. You'd lured him in with the promise of quality time and the persuasive argument that a little self-care was essential, even for hardened vigilantes. I’d prepped everything beforehand. Soft, fluffy towels, essential oils diffusing lavender and chamomile, and a meticulously curated selection of face masks, nail polishes, and bath bombs.

The atmosphere was surprisingly comfortable. We talked, not about the gritty realities of Gotham’s underbelly, but about mundane things: favorite movies, childhood memories, even his surprisingly discerning taste in music. For a few precious hours, you were just two people enjoying each other’s company, a welcome respite from the ever-present threat looming over our lives.

That's when disaster struck.

It started with a knock. A hesitant, almost sheepish knock that I immediately recognized.

"That'll be Tim and Damian," Jason sighed, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "What do they want?"

You shrugged. "Probably just checking in. Don't worry, I'll handle it."

You opened the door to find Tim Drake, the ever-logical Red Robin, and Damian Wayne, the fiercely competitive Robin, standing awkwardly on the doorstep. The scene that greeted them was, you imagine, rather unexpected. Two figures covered in green goo, one sporting a pink headband and a single black fingernail, surrounded by an array of brightly colored beauty products.

Tim's jaw dropped. Damian, on the other hand, simply raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"What," Damian said, his voice dripping with disdain, "is the meaning of this… unspeakable horror?"

Jason, seizing the opportunity, immediately threw me under the bus. "It's all her fault!" he exclaimed, gesturing wildly in my direction with his goo-covered hands. "She forced me into this ridiculous charade!"

"Uh…we were just…wondering if everything was alright?" Tim stammered, his voice betraying his surprise. "We saw the light on and…well…"

Before you could formulate a coherent explanation, Jason emerged from the living room, face mask still firmly in place. The sight of the Red Hood, notorious for his lethal methods, looking like a pampered spa enthusiast was clearly too much for them to process.

Tim’s jaw dropped. Damian, however, simply raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Todd," Damian said, his voice laced with thinly veiled mockery. "What exactly is going on here?"

Jason, never one to back down from a challenge, crossed his arms, a defiant glint in his eyes. "It's a spa day. What's it to you?"

"A spa day?" Tim repeated, his voice cracking slightly. "You? Really?"

"Yeah, really," Jason retorted. "Got a problem with that, Replacement?"

The tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. You could see this quickly escalating into a full-blown argument, complete with hurled insults and possibly even a few Batarangs. You decided to intervene.

"Guys, chill out," You said, stepping between them. "It's just a little relaxation. Why don't you come in? We've got plenty of face masks to go around."

Tim, recovering from his initial shock, started to chuckle. "Are those… facemasks?" he asked, gesturing to your green faces.

"Indeed," Damian replied, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "It appears our elder brother has succumbed to the allure of… self-care."

"Don't even start," Jason growled, but a faint smile played on his lips.

You expected resistance, perhaps even outright refusal. But to your surprise, Tim and Damian exchanged a hesitant glance. The allure of pampered relaxation, it seemed, was stronger than sibling rivalry.

And then, the unthinkable happened.

"Actually," Tim said, his voice thoughtful, "I could use a facial. All-nighters take a toll on your skin."

Damian, ever the competitive one, wasn't about to be outdone. "If Drake is participating in this… frivolous activity, then I shall as well. One must maintain a flawless complexion, even while fighting crime."

Suddenly, Operation Spa Day expanded.

Convincing Tim and Damian to participate was surprisingly easy. Getting them to relax, however, was another story. Damian insisted on analyzing the ingredients of the facemask for potential toxins, while Tim meticulously researched the benefits of each nail polish color. Jason, surprisingly, seemed to be enjoying himself, albeit in a begrudging sort of way.

You ended up painting Damian's nails a subtle, sophisticated grey, while Tim opted for a bright, almost neon green. Jason, emboldened by the presence of his brothers, demanded you paint his other nails black as well.

Of course, your newfound zen was short-lived. As you were rinsing off your facemasks, a deep voice boomed from the shadows.

"What," Batman said, his voice laced with disbelief, "is going on here?"

The sight that greeted him was even more absurd than what Tim and Damian had stumbled upon. Four figures, faces still slightly green, sporting various shades of nail polish, surrounded by a chaotic mess of beauty products.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stared at you, his cowl casting his face in shadow. Then, a very faint, almost imperceptible twitch appeared at the corner of his lips.

“Did you… paint your nails?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Jason, never one to miss an opportunity, grinned. “Yeah, Batsy. You’re next.”

Batman simply shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and amusement in his eyes. He surveyed the scene one last time, then turned and walked away, muttering something about needing a stronger cup of coffee.

You all exchanged glances, then burst out laughing. Even Damian, surprisingly, cracked a small smile.

#jason todd x you #jason todd fluff #jason todd x reader #jason todd #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood fluff #red hood #dc comics #dc comics x reader #dc comics x you

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jellyfishsthings · 22 days ago

Text

The Equation of Distraction

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WARNINGS: none really

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Dick Grayson wasn’t used to competing for attention. Not in the way that actually mattered.

Sure, in the field, he competed with Bruce for control. With Jason, for who could kick in a door with more dramatic flair. With Damian, for sheer stubbornness. But when it came to relationships—real ones, ones with something soft and sacred curled at the center—he had always been attentive. Loving. Present.

So how the hell did he find himself third-wheeling to his own girlfriend, Tim, and a whiteboard full of integrals?

"Okay, stop. Stop right there," you said, stepping between Tim and the tangle of numbers he’d just scrawled. You were wearing one of Dick’s old hoodies, hair twisted into a bun, marker ink on your fingertips.

Tim leaned forward, eyebrows furrowed behind his glasses. "What? That’s the limit of the function as x approaches negative infinity."

"It should be," you said, tapping the board, "but this entire partial fraction decomposition is botched. You factored wrong."

Tim blinked. “I did?”

Dick, sprawled on the living room couch and pretending to read a book, smirked to himself. “Rookie mistake.”

You didn’t look away from the whiteboard. “Grayson, don’t snipe from the peanut gallery unless you want to solve this integral by hand.”

Dick shut his mouth.

Tim looked victorious. Dick glared.

The first time you met the family, you accidentally corrected Bruce on a quantum theory reference.

He had blinked at you.

You had flushed.

Alfred had smiled very faintly into his tea.

Dick, meanwhile, had fallen in love a little harder.

You were brilliant. Not just brilliant, but terrifyingly multidisciplinary brilliant. You knew literature and physics and evolutionary biology, and spoke with the unshakeable confidence of someone who had once gotten into an argument with a professor and emerged victorious.

You didn’t brag. You were just curious. A sponge for information. You asked questions and listened to the answers. And somehow, in a household full of detective minds and vigilante instincts, you were still the smartest person in the room.

So when Tim, swamped with his joint MIT-Gotham U coursework, mentioned offhandedly that he was struggling with differential equations, you offered to help.

Dick hadn’t realized what a tactical error that would be.

Then came Damian.

The kid walked in on one tutoring session, glanced at the diagrams you were sketching, and said, “That’s wrong.”

You turned, brow arched. “Excuse me?”

"The mitosis illustration. You’re using a generalized mammalian model. That isn’t accurate for marsupial chromosomes."

You blinked once. Slowly. “Are you studying marsupial mitosis in school right now?”

Damian scowled. "No. I already completed the human unit. I'm reading ahead."

Tim didn’t even look up. “He’s trying to skip grades again.”

You tapped your pen against the diagram, thinking. Then you shifted a few lines, adjusted a chromatid angle, and said, “There. Better?”

Damian squinted. “Acceptable.”

And that was that.

He joined the study sessions.

Suddenly, Dick’s evenings with you turned into academic triage.

Tim asked about imaginary numbers. Damian demanded enzyme pathways. You, looking entirely unbothered, juggled both while sipping lukewarm tea and wearing your glasses slightly crooked.

It was like watching a goddess of learning hold court.

And Dick? Dick got to sit there, watching you solve everyone else’s problems, while his half-written texts and longing stares went unanswered.

He tried not to pout.

It didn’t work.

The next Friday, Dick walked into the manor living room with takeout and three movies tucked under his arm. He had plans. Cozy night. Cuddles. Maybe make-out session #437.

Instead?

He found you, Tim, and Damian on the floor, surrounded by papers. You had a biology model of a nephron drawn across two pieces of poster board.

Dick stared.

You looked up. "Hey, love. You want to quiz Damian on the loop of Henle while I explain countercurrent multiplication?"

He dropped the takeout. "Absolutely not."

You blinked.

Tim smirked. Damian looked smug.

Dick folded his arms. “Babe, I love you. But I am not quizzing a fourteen-year-old on renal function on a Friday night.”

"Fifteen," Damian muttered.

You smiled sweetly. "We’ll be done soon. I promise."

Dick sulked off into the kitchen.

Alfred found him twenty minutes later, brooding into a cup of tea.

"Something the matter, Master Richard?"

Dick sighed. "She's supposed to be my girlfriend, not the tutor of every prodigy in this house."

Alfred didn’t flinch. "You are, perhaps, experiencing what Master Timothy and Master Damian have often felt about you."

Dick blinked. "What?"

"You have a history of... commanding attention."

Dick opened his mouth. Closed it. "Damn it."

Alfred handed him a second cup. "Jealousy, in moderation, is a sign of attachment. I suggest you redirect it.”

Dick took a breath. Sipped. Nodded.

Then promptly marched back into the living room.

"Alright, nerds. Move over."

You glanced up, amused. "Joining us after all?"

He plopped down beside you, tugging you into his lap. “No, I’m kidnapping my girlfriend."

Tim: “Rude.”

Damian: “Good riddance.”

Dick ignored them. Nuzzled into your neck. "Tell the mitochondria to wait."

You laughed. Warm and real. "That was biology. We're doing organ systems now."

"Whatever it is, it can survive without you for one hour."

You looked at him, eyes soft. "Are you jealous, Nightwing?"

"Me? Jealous? Never. Just asserting my dibs."

Tim made a gagging noise. Damian threw a pen.

You kissed him.

The study session ended shortly after.

And if Dick helped grade practice tests with glitter pens the next day just to feel useful? Well. No one had the heart to mention it.

Not even Tim.

(Okay, Tim did take a picture. But he sent it only to Kon, and Dick pretended not to notice.)

Eventually, things settled.

Tutoring became once a week. You started leaving time just for Dick. You told him how much you loved his patience, how good he was with his family, how your favorite part of the week was still movie night with him.

You even let him teach you something, once—acrobatics, on the mats in the cave. You fell on your ass laughing, legs tangled with his, and kissed him like you didn’t need textbooks to understand what you had.

And for once, Dick Grayson didn’t mind not being the smartest person in the room.

Not when he got to be yours.

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jellyfishsthings · 26 days ago

Text

Miscommunication is key

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WARNINGS: funny miscommunication, the kids love you (maybe a bit too much)

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

It started, as all catastrophes in the Manor did, with eavesdropping.

Tim was in the hallway, allegedly “cleaning the thermostat” (read: tweaking the heat setting so Steph would stop stealing his hoodies), when he heard voices coming from Bruce’s office. Your voice. And Bruce’s.

Tim had no idea what the argument was actually about. Something about boundaries? Trust? Printer ink? But the tension in your tone made his stomach clench. When Bruce said, “Maybe we need to take a step back,” Tim’s heart dropped.

He called an emergency family meeting in the Batcave.

“Dad and Mom are getting divorced.”

Jason looked up from his sandwich. “They’re not even married.”

“Details!” Tim cried, pacing like a war general. “We could still be split up! This is how it starts. A little coldness, a few missed dinners, then boom—visitation schedules and emotional trauma.”

Dick blinked. “Do we... get split up?”

“Technically, no,” Damian said. “We’re all legally tied to Father. Except for Jason and Stephanie.”

“What happens to us?!”

“Don’t panic,” Steph said, reading from her tablet. “Worst case scenario, we stage a legal rebellion and declare the manor a sovereign child-state.”

“Or,” Tim said, eyes wide, “we get adopted. By Mom.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

“She’d never say no to me,” Dick said confidently.

“I’ll bribe her with cookies,” Jason offered.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “I call emotional manipulation.”

Cass held up a whiteboard: Why not all of us?

So it was decided: Operation Adoption began at dawn.

They convened in the attic. Because the Batcave was under Bruce’s territory, and this was neutral ground.

Dick paced.

Damian sharpened a pencil aggressively.

Cass ate grapes and watched everyone like she was waiting for someone to cry.

Stephanie had already made t-shirts. “Team Mom 4 Lyfe.”

"We need a plan," Tim said, eyes red from Googling "how to stop a divorce you caused by being a messy adult child."

Jason held up a sheet of paper. “What if we ask her to adopt us?”

Dead silence.

Damian blinked. “You mean legally abandon Father?”

Jason shrugged. “It’s called strategic custody realignment.”

Phase One: Woo the Parent

You found your morning coffee already made.

By lunch, your office had been vacuumed, your planner color-coded, and a tray of Damian’s surprisingly excellent macarons appeared on your desk. Something was clearly up.

Dick followed you around like a golden retriever. “You look radiant today. New serum? Or just naturally ageless?”

“You want something,” you said flatly.

“Who, me?” he asked, wounded. “I’m just basking in the presence of my favorite future legal guardian.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jason appeared in the doorway. “Can I interest you in... a bribe?” He held up an embarrassing baby photo of Bruce in a sailor outfit.

“Jason—”

“Don’t make us pick sides in the fake divorce!”

“What fake divorce?!”

“Mom” Steph said, slipping in dramatically, “we’re prepared to make a case. Visitation is a nightmare, and you make the best pancakes. We’ve chosen you. Please accept custody of all emotionally damaged gremlins present.”

You stared at the room of hopeful, slightly unhinged faces.

“Did Bruce put you up to this?”

“Not unless he’s also asking for custody of Alfred,” Tim muttered.

Then Tim slid to you a small note, like they did in those spy movies he liked, that said "Meet us in the living room in five"

Phase Two: The Pitch

The moment you entered the living room, the lights dimmed.

“Hello?”

Dick dropped from the ceiling.

Literally.

“Hi,” he said cheerfully, landing in a perfect split. “Can we talk?”

All five of them appeared like spirits of guilt, blocking your path to the kitchen. You sat them all down. “Okay. Walk me through your logic.”

Tim pulled out a graph titled Projected Emotional Outcomes Based on Custodial Assignment.

Jason had prepared a PowerPoint. “Slide one: Why Mom is the Superior Parent.”

Slide two: A chart comparing your hugs to Bruce’s handshake-head-pat combo.

Slide three: An animated pie labeled “Pancakes.”

Damian presented a legal document signed in crayon: WE THE CHILDREN CHOOSE THE COOLER PARENT.

“Steph notarized it,” he added.

“She forged my signature,” You whispered.

Steph held up a PowerPoint remote. The TV flashed on. First slide: "Why You Should Keep Us In The Event Of Inevitable Divorce."

You blinked. “Excuse me—what?”

Tim cleared his throat. “We’ve noticed rising tensions in your domestic interactions.”

Cass handed you a binder titled Custody Proposal: Draft 1.

Dick pointed at a bar graph. “Notice that under your influence, emotional stability in the household has increased by 46%. And we’ve had fewer vigilante-related injuries. Except Jason. But he’s a wild card.”

Jason saluted with a juice box.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You think Bruce and I are getting divorced because we argued?”

Damian crossed his arms. “Historically, that is how war begins. ”

Cass stood.

She held up flashcards. One had a stick figure with a cape hugging a heart. Another said ‘We Love You.’

Then she did the unthinkable.

She signed: Please don’t leave us.

Stephanie wiped away a tear. “It’s not manipulation if it’s true.”

Then Cass handed you a video montage she’d edited titled “Adoption: A Love Story,” scored with sweeping instrumental music and slow-mo scenes of you handing out snacks.

Damian climbed onto your lap. “You’re warm and you smell like cinnamon. That’s mom stuff.”

Your heart cracked, then melted.

“I’m not leaving Bruce,” you said gently. “We were arguing about printer ink.”

Silence.

“...Printer ink?” Tim asked weakly.

“He keeps buying magenta in bulk! Who uses that much magenta?!”

The kids slowly looked at one another.

“Abort mission,” Dick said.

“Too late,” Cass signed. “I already filed the motion with the fake Batkid Court.”

“Look,” you said, softening, “you don’t need to panic. Even if Bruce and I ever did break up, you’re not losing me.”

“Promise?” Tim whispered.

You cupped his face. “Swear it.”

Jason sat beside you on the couch. “I get it if you ever want to get a divorce. Bruce is...Bruce. But you? You’re the only one who remembers to buy snacks we actually like. You’re the one who puts notes in my lunch that say, ‘Don’t stab anyone, even if they deserve it.’ That’s love.”

Dick: “And you help Bruce. Even if he’s being a Bat-Butt.”

Damian knelt. “Legally, I am already a Wayne. But if you filed paperwork, I would accept a hyphen.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Pause.

“So you’re saying we wasted $40 on matching ‘Adopt Me’ t-shirts?”

Later that night, you walked into Bruce’s study and flopped dramatically onto the couch.

“Your children tried to get me to adopt them today.”

He looked up from his paperwork. “Just today?”

“They had charts.”

He nodded. “Ah. The charts phase. Comes right before the emotional blackmail.”

You stared. “This has happened before?”

“Oh, absolutely. You’re the third person they’ve tried it with.”

You gasped. “Who was the second?”

“Alfred.”

You considered this. “They have good taste.”

Bruce smiled faintly. “They love you. That’s all this was. A weird, mildly terrifying love letter.”

You leaned back. “I almost said yes.”

“You still can. We’ll co-parent.”

“Until the magenta ink breaks us.”

He chuckled, kissed your forehead, and added, “Alfred already drafted the adoption paperwork. Just in case.”

Outside the study, eight Batkids listened through the door, celebrating silently.

“See?” Dick whispered. “Still a family.”

Jason wiped away a fake tear. “Group hug?”

“No,” Damian said. “But I will allow a high-five.”

Cass gave him one. It was perfect.

And the family stayed very much intact.

#bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne fluff #dad bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne #batfam x you #batman x you #batfam x reader #batman x reader #batfam #batman #batman fluff

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jellyfishsthings · 29 days ago

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Say It Again and I’ll Kill You

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WARNINGS: funny miscommunication, Damian's pride, AGED UP! Damian

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

The air in the study crackled with a tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Outside, the Gotham drizzle mirrored the tempest brewing within its oak-paneled walls. He stood by the window, a silhouette etched against the grey sky, his posture rigid, his jaw a hard line. You leaned against the overflowing bookshelf, arms crossed, trying to project an air of calm that felt increasingly fraudulent.

We were, as was becoming tragically routine, locked in a battle of wills. The subject, as always, was your well-being, specifically your insistence on handling a particularly delicate matter involving a rather unsavory character who believed threats were a valid form of negotiation. His argument, delivered with the icy precision he often employed, was that . You were jeopardizing myself unnecessarily and that, as someone who cared (the word was always laced with a barely-concealed reluctance), he felt obliged to intervene.

Your argument, which you considered infinitely more reasonable, was that you were perfectly capable of handling myself. You weren't some simpering damsel in distress. You were a grown woman, a woman who had navigated treacherous boardrooms and outmaneuvered seasoned con artists. You were, in short, not in need of his paternalistic protection.

He simply couldn't seem to grasp it.

"It's reckless," he finally said, his voice a low rumble that barely registered above the drumming of the rain. "You're courting danger for the sake of… what? Proving a point?"

"I'm not courting danger," You retorted, your voice sharper than you intended. "I'm handling a situation. And for the last time, darling, I can take care of myself."

The words hung in the air, a grenade tossed into the already volatile atmosphere. He went utterly still. It was the kind of stillness that precedes a storm, the calm before the deluge. He didn't react, didn't twitch, didn't even seem to breathe. He simply stood there, a statue carved from granite, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the rain-streaked window.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that only amplified the tension, he turned. His eyes, usually a cool, calculating grey, were suddenly dark, almost black.

"What did you just call me?"

The question was deceptively soft, a silken thread woven with steel. He wasn't yelling, wasn't raising his voice, but the sheer intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down your spine.

A reckless impulse, a perverse desire to poke the sleeping bear, surged through me. You knew you should apologize, should backtrack, should pretend you hadn't said it. But the defiant part of me, the part that bristled under his constant, albeit well-intentioned, supervision, refused to yield.

You forced a smirk, a calculatedly provocative expression. "I said darling. What, can't take a pet name, princeling?"

The silence that followed was deafening. He stared at me, his expression unreadable, a mask of carefully controlled displeasure. You could practically see the gears turning in his brilliant, infuriating mind, calculating, analyzing, plotting his next move.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked out. The door closed behind him with a soft, deliberate click, leaving you alone in the echoing silence of the study.

A wave of guilt, quickly followed by a stubborn sense of defiance, washed over me. He was being ridiculous. He was being overprotective. He was being… well, Damian.

The next day passed in a state of uneasy truce. He was present at the office, but he was distant, aloof, treating you with a detached politeness that was far more unnerving than any argument. He spoke to you only when necessary, his voice devoid of any warmth or inflection. It was as if you had been demoted from a… a something to a mere colleague, a face in the crowd.

You spent the day alternately regretting your impulsive words and stubbornly refusing to apologize. He was the one being unreasonable, wasn't he? He was the one turning a simple phrase into a personal affront.

By evening, you were a mess of frayed nerves and conflicting emotions. You were halfway through a glass of wine, wrestling with a particularly thorny paragraph in a report, when a shadow fell across your desk.

You looked up to find him standing there, his expression as inscrutable as ever. In his hands, he held a small, elaborately wrapped package. It wasn't for me. You knew that instinctively.

He placed the package silently on your desk, close to the sleeping form of Mr. Fluffernutter, your perpetually grumpy Persian cat, who clearly saw Damian's presence as an unbearable intrusion.

"If you insist on calling me such things," he finally said, his voice low and clipped, "at least be consistent. I am not fragile."

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.

You stared at the package, then at Mr. Fluffernutter, who blinked at you with an expression of profound disinterest. You carefully unwrapped the gift. It was a ridiculously extravagant cat toy, a miniature throne of intricately carved wood, complete with a tiny velvet cushion and a feather-tipped scepter.

It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was utterly, undeniably… Damian.

A grin spread across your face.

He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was, without a doubt, the most complicated, exasperating, and undeniably compelling man You had ever known.

The following day, you found him in the library, surrounded by stacks of books, his brow furrowed in concentration. You approached him cautiously, a playful glint in your eyes.

"Morning, darling," You said, your voice deliberately sweet.

He didn't look up. "Good morning."

"Enjoying your reading?"

"Yes," he replied curtly.

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a whisper. "You know, for someone who claims to be impervious to pet names, you seem awfully preoccupied with them."

He finally looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I am merely attempting to understand the… the logic behind your… your…" he trailed off, clearly struggling with the word.

"Affection?" You supplied helpfully.

He rolled his eyes. "Let us not exaggerate."

You grinned. "No, you're just my darling pain in the ass."

He paused, considering your words, his expression softening ever so slightly. For a moment, You thought he might actually smile.

He didn’t disagree. Instead, he simply returned to his book, a faint hint of color rising in his cheeks.

The truce, it seemed, was holding. But you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that this was just the beginning. The battle of wills, the playful jabs, the underlying, unspoken affection – it was all part of our dance, a complex, intricate tango that we would continue to perform, each of us determined to lead, neither of us willing to truly surrender. And perhaps, that was exactly the way it was supposed to be. After all, what was life without a little darling dilemma?

#damian wayne #damian al ghul #damian wayne x reader #damain wayne x you #damian wayne fluff #damian wayne fanfiction #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne oneshot #robin x reader #robin x you #robin fluff #dc comics #dc comics x reader #dc comics x you

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jellyfishsthings · 1 month ago

Text

Debugging My Heart

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WARNINGS: Tim's and reader's awkwardness

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

The hum of the server room was a constant lullaby, a white noise symphony that usually soothed me. But tonight, it was grating. Thirty-eight hours. Thirty-eight hours since Tim had last closed his eyes, a feat of endurance that bordered on the superhuman, even for him. He was hunched over his monitors, a battlefield of code illuminated on his face, battling a WayneTech database breach like a digital knight errant.

Your mission was simple: caffeine delivery. You approached cautiously, two steaming mugs in hand, the aroma of dark roast cutting through the sterile air. He didn't acknowledge me, his focus so laser-sharp it felt tangible. You placed one mug within his reach, the ceramic clinking softly against the metal desk.

"Here," You murmured, settling into the chair beside him. "You look like you could use a jumpstart."

He grunted, eyes still glued to the screen. Without looking, he reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he took the mug. Then, still engrossed in his work, he extended a flash drive towards me. "Be careful with that." His voice was raspy, edged with exhaustion.

"Got it, baby genius," You replied absentmindedly, already turning to plug the drive into your own laptop.

The world seemed to stop.

Tim froze. Every line of his posture, usually a study in controlled tension, became rigid. He turned, agonizingly slowly, his head pivoting as if it weighed a ton. The glow of the monitor painted his face in stark relief, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes and the sudden, almost comical, bewilderment etched on his features.

"Did you just call me—?" The question hung in the air, thick with a mixture of disbelief and, dare you say, hope?

Your internal monologue screeched to a halt. Your brain, usually a whirring engine of witty comebacks and strategic planning, stalled. Panic bloomed in your chest, a sudden, unwelcome flower. You were doomed.

"I—uh—" Your tongue felt thick and clumsy. Think, you stupid girl, think! "I was talking to the driver."

The lie was pathetic. So transparent, it was practically see-through. You winced inwardly. You imagined the flash drive, a humble repository of data, suddenly imbued with sentience and demanding to be addressed with terms of endearment. It was ridiculous.

He stared. Just stared. Those intense blue eyes, usually so focused and sharp, were wide with incredulity, bordering on amusement. You could practically hear the gears turning in his brilliant mind, dissecting your utterly unconvincing excuse.

Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. A faint blush crept up his neck, staining his pale skin a delicate pink. It was a beautiful, unexpected, and utterly disarming sight.

"You're the worst liar I've ever met," he finally said, his voice a low murmur, laced with something You couldn't quite decipher. Was that… fondness?

Your cheeks burned. You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole. You wanted to rewind time and censor the offending words before they ever escaped your lips. But it was too late. The damage was done.

"Sorry," You mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

He didn't reply, turning back to his monitors. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You busied myself with the task at hand, transferring the data from the flash drive, your fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. Every now and then, You risked a glance at Tim. He remained absorbed in his work, but the blush lingered, a subtle testament to the awkward, adorable moment we had just shared.

The next week was… interesting. You tried to act normal, to pretend that the "baby genius" incident had never happened. But the memory lingered, a persistent hum in the back of your mind, a constant reminder of your verbal slip-up and Tim's unexpected reaction.

He, surprisingly, didn't bring it up. He was polite, professional, and infuriatingly normal. You started to wonder if you had imagined the blush, the flicker of surprise in his eyes. Maybe you had simply projected your own… feelings… onto the situation. The thought was both disappointing and relieving.

Then, one day, you arrived at your desk to find a new addition to your workspace. A ceramic mug. Standard issue WayneTech, except for one crucial detail. Scrawled across the front, in Tim's unmistakable handwriting, were two words: "Baby Genius's Assistant."

Your heart skipped a beat. He remembered. He hadn't forgotten. He had, in his own quiet, awkward way, acknowledged the moment, embraced the absurdity.

You picked up the mug, tracing the letters with your fingertip. A smile bloomed on your face, involuntary and genuine.

"Cute," You murmured, turning to find him hovering nearby, a stack of files in his arms.

He avoided eye contact, his ears turning a telltale shade of pink. "Just… thought you might want a designated mug."

"Oh, I do," You replied, your voice laced with amusement. "Thank you… baby genius."

He froze, just like before. The blush returned, even more vibrant this time. He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. He just shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips, and hurried away.

That was it. The beginning of our inside joke. A shared secret, born from an accidental endearment and a moment of pure, unadulterated awkwardness.

And every time you said it, every time you saw that blush creep up his neck, you knew. This was more than just a shared joke. This was the slow, hesitant blossoming of something more. Something soft, something sweet, something… us. And you couldn't wait to see where it would lead. Even if it meant enduring a few more awkward silences and stolen glances along the way. After all, the best things are worth waiting for, right? Especially when they involve a baby genius with a penchant for blushing.

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jellyfishsthings · 1 month ago

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Don’t Look at Me Like That

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WARNINGS: injuries, Jason's stubborness

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

The scent of antiseptic and stale gunpowder hung heavy in the air, a familiar perfume in our little corner of Gotham's underbelly. Jason sat perched on the edge of the metal table, a grim gargoyle cast in the dim glow of the single bare bulb overhead. Another night, another brawl, another set of wounds screaming for your attention.

He was a mess, as usual. A split lip, a blossoming bruise blooming on his cheekbone, and a nasty gash tearing through the muscle of his bicep. He reeked of cheap whiskey and desperation, a volatile cocktail that often led to nights like these. He was tense, coiled tight as a spring ready to snap.

"Hold still, will you?" you snapped, your voice rough around the edges, mirroring the environment we occupied. He flinched at the touch of the alcohol swab, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "Don't need your help," he muttered, the words slurred just enough to betray the pain he was trying so hard to mask.

"Oh, really? Because last I checked, you were bleeding out faster than you could throw a punch," you retorted, your tone sharper than you intended. You hated this dance, the one where he pretended to be invincible and you pretended it didn't hurt to see him like this.

He scoffed, turning his head away. "I could handle it."

"Sure you could. You could also bleed all over your floor and then I'd have to clean it up. So, humor me," You said, picking up the curved needle and threading it with sterile thread. The metallic click seemed deafening in the small space.

He flinched again as the needle pierced his skin. His muscles tightened beneath your fingers. "Easy," You murmured, more to calm myself than him. You concentrated on the task at hand, meticulously drawing the edges of the wound together, each stitch a tiny act of defiance against the chaos that perpetually chased us.

His constant shifting was making the job harder. "Stop being a baby, babe," You muttered, the words slipping out before you could catch them. It was a term of endearment you rarely used, a small, fragile thing you usually kept locked away, hidden beneath layers of cynicism and shared trauma.

The silence that followed was deafening, thick and heavy like the Gotham fog. The only sound was the faint hum of the electricity and the frantic beat of your own heart.

He pulled away slightly, his eyes narrowing, the blue flame in them burning brighter than ever. "Say that again."

Your fingers fumbled with the thread, the delicate strand slipping through your grasp. You pretended not to notice the intensity of his gaze, the way his jaw clenched, the barely suppressed tension radiating from him. "What?" You asked, your voice deliberately casual, struggling to maintain the facade.

"Say it again." The words were a low growl, laced with a raw vulnerability that sent a shiver down your spine. It was a challenge, a dare, and a desperate plea all rolled into one.

You looked up at him, your heart thudding against your ribs like a trapped bird. Our eyes locked, and in that moment, the years of shared experience, the unspoken feelings, the constant push and pull, all hung suspended between us.

You took a breath, the air catching in your throat. "Babe," You repeated, the word a fragile offering, a glimpse beneath the hardened exterior you usually presented.

He stared at me, his expression unreadable. You could see the internal battle raging within him, the conflict between the need for connection and the fear of vulnerability. He looked like he was deciding whether to kiss you senseless or run as far away as possible.

Finally, a slow, shaky grin spread across his face, softening the harsh lines etched there by years of pain. It was a genuine smile, not the sardonic smirk he usually wore like armor. "Dangerous game you're playing," he said, his voice rough, a little breathless.

Your own smile crept out, a hesitant mirror of his. "Then stop losing."

The tension hadn’t completely dissipated, but the air had shifted. The space between us felt charged, electric. The simple act of stitching up a wound had somehow become something else entirely, a precarious dance on the edge of something real, something terrifying, something… maybe beautiful.

You finished the last stitch, snipped the thread, and applied a bandage. "All done," You said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

He didn't move, didn't break eye contact. He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch was gentle, hesitant, a stark contrast to the roughness of his usual demeanor.

"Thank you," he whispered, the words barely audible.

It wasn't just for the stitches. It was for everything. For the nights you stayed up waiting for him to come home. For the lies you told to cover his tracks. For the way you held him together, piece by piece, every time he threatened to shatter.

"Anytime, Jay," you said, your voice softer than you thought possible.

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. "Maybe… maybe next time, we skip the fight and go straight to the 'babe' part?"

You laughed, the sound a little shaky. "Maybe. But where's the fun in that?"

He grinned again, the devilish glint returning to his eyes. "You think patching me up is fun?"

"Let's just say it's… rewarding," You replied, your gaze dropping to his lips.

He didn't need any more encouragement. His hand moved from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. The kiss was rough, desperate, a collision of pain and need and a longing that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

It wasn't a fairytale ending. It wasn't a perfect, sanitized moment. It was raw, messy, and real, just like us. And in that moment, surrounded by the scent of antiseptic and the ghosts of battles fought and lost, it was everything you ever wanted.

We were both damaged, both broken, both teetering on the edge of oblivion. But maybe, just maybe, we could find solace in each other's chaos, a shared understanding in the darkness that threatened to consume us both. Maybe the dangerous game was worth playing, after all. Maybe, together, we could finally stop losing.

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jellyfishsthings · 1 month ago

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Sunshine Suits You

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WARNINGS: none really... just Dick teasing you

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

The air in the Batcave's training room hung thick with the scent of sweat, determination, and the faintest undercurrent of ozone. Dick, as usual, was showing off. He was a whirlwind of controlled chaos, a graceful acrobat with a punch that could knock you into next week. Every flip, every twist, was executed with a theatrical flourish that bordered on the ridiculous.

"Okay, show-off," you muttered, rolling your eyes more out of affection than annoyance. "Calm down, sweetheart."

The words slipped out before you could catch them, a verbal stumble on the well-worn path of our usual sparring banter. We'd been training together for years, trading jabs, both literal and figurative, always pushing each other to be better. "Sweetheart" was… new. Untested territory.

The effect was immediate and unexpectedly dramatic. Dick froze mid-flip, a gravity-defying pose suddenly transformed into an awkward, off-balance stumble. He landed on the mats with a soft thud, his usual easy confidence momentarily shattered. He blinked, a rare look of genuine surprise flickering across his usually jovial face.

"Sweetheart?" he asked, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his lips. "Is that what we're doing now?"

Heat flooded your cheeks. You cursed your loose tongue and the way your heart seemed to skip a beat at the sight of him, even when he was being insufferable.

"It was a slip of the tongue," You mumbled, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Don't get any ideas."

But Dick, being Dick, wasn't about to let it go that easily. The grin widened, morphing into something bordering on predatory. He knew he had you flustered, and frankly, he was enjoying it far too much.

And so began the reign of pet names.

For days, the "sweetheart" incident was the gift that kept on giving. Every training session, every mission debrief, every chance encounter in the Batcave was punctuated by Dick's infuriatingly charming barrage of endearments.

"Darling, are you sure you're ready for this patrol?" he'd ask, his voice dripping with mock concern.

"Babe, you're looking a little tired. Maybe you should sit this one out," he'd suggest, a playful nudge accompanying his words.

"Honeybun, could you pass me that Batarang?" he'd say, a completely unnecessary request delivered with a wink.

Each saccharine syllable was designed to elicit a reaction, to break down your carefully constructed walls of professionalism and unveil the blush that threatened to perpetually stain your cheeks. He was relentless, a master of psychological warfare wielding pet names as weapons.

Eventually, you snapped.

"If you call me 'honeybun' one more time," you growled, your voice dangerously low, "I swear, I will punch you so hard you'll be tasting concrete for a week."

He just laughed, that infuriatingly handsome, heart-stopping laugh that always managed to disarm me, even when you were trying to strangle him.

The pet names stopped, but the tension remained, a low hum beneath the surface of our usual interactions. Dick was different. He watched you more intently, his eyes lingering a moment too long, his smile carrying a weight it hadn't before. He was playing a different game now, one with higher stakes and far more complicated rules.

Then came the gym incident. You were alone, working on your strength training, trying to channel your pent-up frustration into physical exertion. The rhythmic clang of the weights was the only sound in the vast room, a steady counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of your heart.

You didn't hear him approach. One moment you were focused on the burn in your muscles, the next he was there, standing just behind me, his presence radiating a heat that had nothing to do with physical activity.

"You're avoiding me," he murmured, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down your spine.

You tried to ignore him, to focus on the weight in your hands, but his proximity was too distracting.

"I'm busy," You said, your voice tight.

"You're always busy," he countered, stepping closer. You could feel his breath on the back of your neck. "But you're particularly busy avoiding me."

You set the weight down with a clang and turned to face him, your arms crossed defensively. "What do you want, Dick?"

He leaned against the weight rack, his posture deceptively casual. The playful glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by something deeper, something You couldn't quite decipher.

"I liked it better when it was your voice saying it," he said, the words barely a whisper.

The air crackled between us, thick with unspoken desires and unacknowledged truths. The confession hung in the silence, a fragile truth exposed to the harsh light of reality. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat urging you to run, to hide, to protect myself from the vulnerability that threatened to engulf me.

But you didn't run. You couldn't. The pull was too strong, the connection too undeniable.

Taking a deep breath, you closed the distance between us. You looked up at him, your gaze unwavering, and said, "Okay, darling, what do you want me to do?"

A slow smile spread across his face, a smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners, a smile that promised mischief and mayhem and maybe, just maybe, something more.

And so you tried it again. This time, on purpose.

"Come on, babe," you said, your voice soft but steady. "Let's see what you've got."

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through me. "Oh, you have no idea," he whispered, and then he lunged, not with a punch, but with a kiss, a kiss that tasted of sweat and adrenaline and the intoxicating possibility of something real.

The sparring match took on a whole new meaning that day. The punches and kicks were still there, the sweat still dripped, but now, underneath it all, was a flirty, playful energy, a budding romance that threatened to blossom in the most unexpected of places. It was a dance of attraction and denial, a game of chicken with our hearts on the line.

And as we danced, as we sparred, as we flirted with disaster, you knew one thing for sure: this accidental sweetheart was in way over her head. But for the first time in a long time, you didn't mind drowning.

#dick grayson x you #dick grayson imagine #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson fluff #dick grayson #dick grayson oneshot #dick grayson fanfiction #nightwing x you #nightwing fluff #nightwing x reader #nightwing imagine #nightwing #dc comics #dc comics x you #dc comics x reader

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jellyfishsthings · 1 month ago

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Yours, If You’ll Have Me

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WARNINGS: injuries

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

The cave was a cathedral of shadows and muted sounds. The steady drip of water, the hum of the servers, the rhythmic beeping of medical equipment – a symphony of solitude that usually calmed your frayed nerves. Tonight, however, the silence felt heavy, laden with the unspoken. Tonight, the air crackled with a tension so thick, you could taste it.

You knelt beside him, the cool metal of the medical tray digging into your knees. Bruce was a landscape of pain tonight. A roadmap of bruises painted across his skin, a testament to the brutal ballet he danced in the city's underbelly. He sat on the makeshift cot, his jaw clenched, his breath coming in shallow, controlled bursts. Every movement seemed to radiate a silent agony that mirrored your own.

He rarely spoke. He didn't need to. His eyes, those deep, haunted pools, told a story more eloquent than any words could convey. A story of loss, of duty, of a burden carried on shoulders far too broad. A story that resonated with a part of you usually kept buried, locked away in the deepest recesses of your heart.

You unwound the bandage roll, the sterile white a stark contrast against his bruised skin. Your hands, usually steady and efficient, trembled slightly. It wasn't the pressure of the task; You had tended to far worse wounds in far more precarious circumstances. It was him. It was always him.

The tension between us had been a low hum for years, a constant undercurrent beneath the surface of our shared existence. Respect, admiration, a deep and abiding friendship – these were the foundations on which our relationship was built. But beneath those solid pillars, something else simmered, a fragile, flickering flame that we both carefully guarded, afraid to let it burn too bright, afraid of what it might consume.

You began to wind the bandage around his ribs, each layer a silent promise of protection, of care. He winced as the pressure increased, his muscles tightening. You paused, your fingers hovering over his skin.

"Hang on, love," You murmured, the words escaping before you could censor them. It was a slip, a moment of unguarded tenderness, a phrase you used instinctively with those you held dear. You hadn't meant anything by it, not really. It was just… comfort.

But the effect was instantaneous, seismic.

The air in the cave seemed to thicken, to solidify around us. The sounds of the cave faded into a distant echo. He froze, his body rigid, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that stole your breath. It was as if you had struck him, not physically, but with the force of a truth long denied.

His eyes, usually veiled in a mask of carefully constructed stoicism, were now wide, vulnerable, searching. He looked at you as if he was seeing you for the first time, as if you had suddenly revealed a secret part of myself he never knew existed.

The silence stretched, taut and heavy with unspoken questions. The weight of years of suppressed emotions hung between us, tangible and suffocating. You felt the heat creep up your neck, your cheeks flushing under the intensity of his gaze. You wanted to look away, to break the connection, to pretend the words hadn't been uttered. But you couldn't. You were trapped, caught in the web of your own accidental honesty.

You finished bandaging him, your movements clumsy and uncertain. Each touch felt amplified, charged with a new and terrifying awareness. You secured the end of the bandage, your fingers brushing against his warm skin. You quickly recoiled, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Without a word, you gathered your supplies, your hands shaking so badly You nearly dropped the antiseptic bottle. You needed to escape, to put distance between us, to regain some semblance of control.

You turned to leave, your back to him, your hand reaching for the cold, unforgiving metal of the cave door. You could feel his eyes on me, burning into your skin, holding you captive even as you tried to flee.

"Wait."

The single word, spoken in a low, gravelly voice, stopped you in your tracks. You froze, your breath caught in your throat. You knew what was coming. You had known it for years, deep down. And now, the moment of reckoning had arrived.

You slowly turned back to face him, your heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. He was still sitting on the cot, his eyes fixed on yours , his expression unreadable.

"Do you mean it?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Or was it just something you say?"

The question hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. It was a plea, a desperate hope disguised as nonchalance. It was the question you had dreaded, the question you had secretly longed to hear.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dried. You met his gaze, your own eyes reflecting the turmoil raging within me. You searched for the right words, the words that would convey the depth of your feelings without exposing too much, without shattering the delicate balance we had maintained for so long.

But there were no perfect words. There was only the truth.

"I don't say that to just anyone," You said, your voice barely above a whisper.

The silence returned, but this time it was different. It was softer, less charged, filled with a fragile hope. You watched as a flicker of something – relief? Joy? – crossed his face, quickly masked but not entirely hidden.

He exhaled, a long, slow release of tension. He looked away for a moment, gathering his thoughts, composing himself. Then, he looked back at me, his eyes filled with a quiet intensity that made your knees weak.

"Then… I hope you'll keep saying it. To me."

The words were simple, unassuming, yet they carried the weight of a thousand unspoken desires, a thousand shared moments of quiet understanding. They were a hesitant invitation, a cautious step towards something new, something profound.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your heart was too full, your emotions too raw. You simply nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement. But it was enough.

You turned and left the cave, leaving him alone with his pain, his demons, and the fragile hope that had just been ignited between us. As you walked away, you could still feel his gaze on your back, a silent promise, a shared secret.

The night was still dark, the city still plagued by shadows. But for the first time in a long time, a sliver of light had pierced the darkness, a tiny spark of hope in the long, lonely night. And you knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within your soul, that things would never be quite the same again. The weight of unspoken words had finally been lifted, replaced by the fragile promise of a future yet to be written, a future where perhaps, just perhaps, we could finally allow ourselves to say the things we had kept hidden for so long, to embrace the love that had always been there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the moment to finally ignite. And maybe, just maybe, find solace and strength in each other's arms.

#bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne #bruce wayne fluff #bruce wayne oneshot #bruce wayne fanfiction #bruce wayne imagine #batman x you #batman #batman x reader #batman imagine #batman fluff #dc comics #dc comics x reader #dc comics x you

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jellyfishsthings · 2 months ago

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Wayne Diaries

WARNINGS: this came to me in a dream, geniually a crack fic, for the general plot it follows the story of the reader, who finds out is the child of Bruce and Diana, a drunken one night stand that resulted in her and now she tries to be a part of the family, also Bruce and Selina have twins named Amanda and Martha, two three year olds who run the monor like mafia bosses, also the episodes where they mention their alter egos wouldn't be posted .... that's pretty much it, hope you enjoy it because it is the first fic I have written for them and there will be more in the future hopefully

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You hadn’t known what to expect when Diana led you up the steps of Wayne Manor. You’d met Bruce once—formally. Stiff handshake, brief glance, and the quiet kind of gravity that pulled every room into his orbit. You didn’t know how to look him in the eye for too long without feeling like you were being x-rayed. It had been too hard already to show vulnerability to Diana, the mother you just met two months ago.

Now he was your father, your biological father.

Now you were living in his house. The gates of Wayne Manor loomed ahead, all ornate iron and mystery, as if the building itself had opinions—and none of them were welcoming. You took a breath, squared your shoulders, and reminded yourself: you deserve to be here.

You held your overnight bag like a lifeline as Alfred opened the massive front doors.

"If it helps," he said with a soft, knowing smile, "the rest of them felt this way too."

"Terrified?" you asked.

He inclined his head. "More like quietly bracing for impact."

As he led you through the halls—each one more intimidating than the last—you heard a crash, followed by a shout.

"Damn it, Dick, that was antique!"

"Then it shouldn’t have been in the middle of the cartwheel zone!"

You turned the corner and saw what could only be described as a chaotic gymnastics battle royale. Dick Grayson was mid-flip, Donna Troy held up a scorecard that read “9.2,” and Damian Wayne stood beside her, giving half-hearted commentary into a foam mic with “Wayne Diary” painted on it.

"You’ll want to go slow on the introductions," Alfred said lightly, as if he wasn’t leading you directly into a war zone. “The family can be... enthusiastic.”

"Stick the landing, Donna!" Dick Grayson shouted, standing barefoot on the coffee table.

Donna Troy, who was apparently not above flipping through midair in the middle of a mansion, did a near-perfect roundoff back handspring, skidding to a halt in front of the fireplace. She looked smug.

“Ten out of ten,” Damian said, holding up a cardboard sign scrawled in red Sharpie.

“That’s not even laminated,” Steph complained from behind a tripod.

Tim, seated beside her and carefully adjusting a microphone, looked up and waved a little. “New subject in the frame. Confirming visual. Steph, start rolling again.”

You stood frozen. Damian turned.

“You're new.”

You nodded slowly.

He turned to Steph. “She’s new.”

“I know, I invited her to star in today’s episode.” Steph grinned wickedly and waved her phone like it was a magic wand. "Smile for the first ever crossover of Wayne Diary: Myth Meets Mayhem."

You were still processing that when Jason burst into the room wearing a trench coat, sunglasses, and what you sincerely hoped was a fake mustache. He collapsed onto the couch.

“Abort. Abort the public polling segment. Gotham is unwell.”

“Did you ask the question?” Tim asked.

Jason nodded solemnly. “I asked thirty people if they’d date Bruce Wayne. The answers ranged from ‘absolutely, that man screams damaged billionaire’ to ‘only if he keeps the eyeliner.’”

You turned slowly. “Why would—does he wear eyeliner?”

Cass silently slid past the camera, holding up a makeup palette.

You rubbed your temples. Steph trained the camera on your face.

“On a scale of one to accidentally drinking glitter glue, how overwhelmed are you?”

You sighed. “Somewhere between ‘this is a sitcom’ and ‘I should’ve stayed on the orphanage.’”

Stephanie returned to her position which was being perched on the arm of a couch like a gargoyle, after a solemn nod and warm smile. Tim sat beside her with a headset on and a laptop open, whispering things like, “Okay, if she survives the intro, I say we move to confessionals by lunch.”

You just blinked.

“Welcome to Wayne Diary,” Steph said brightly. “You’re officially part of the content pipeline now.”

“Content—what?”

Before you could protest, you were handed a mug that said “I Survived Wayne Brunch,” shoved onto a beanbag, and positioned under soft lighting.

“Alright,” Steph said. “Question one: are you more terrified of Bruce, Diana, or group dinners?”

You stared at the camera, at the siblings surrounding you, and muttered, “Yes.”

The first official week in the manor was like living in a reality show that refused to tell you the rules.

Your room was larger than any apartment you’d ever seen, but the noise bled through every wall. Somewhere, someone was always arguing, laughing, or accidentally blowing something up in the name of "science" (read: Tim).

You had developed a theory—chaos levels increased exponentially in this household based on the number of Wayne's awake at any given time.

Cass appeared in your doorway silently one morning, handed you a mug that said “World’s Okayest Sister,” and pointed to the living room. You followed.

Cass and Steph had set up an interview corner. They’d hung a soft curtain as a backdrop, adjusted the lighting just so, and were prepping cue cards while Tim fiddled with the sound system.

🎥 Episode Title: "Meet the Myth Baby"

Shot: Close-up of you in front of the fireplace, bundled in a hoodie five sizes too big—possibly Dick’s—looking equal parts tired and overwhelmed.

You: “I don’t even know where they get some of this stuff. Tim asked me how I felt about vengeance. Like, on a scale from ‘meek librarian’ to ‘season two anti-hero.’ I’m just trying to figure out how to turn on the shower without it talking back.”

🎥 Cut to: Jason sipping coffee.

Jason: “She’s cool. A little shell shocked. She has that look I had when I first moved in, like someone switched my blood with espresso and said, ‘Run.’”

🎥 Back to you, wide-eyed.

You: “Someone put a batarang in the cereal box.”

🎥 Steph (off-camera): “That’s Bruce’s love language.”

🎥 Clip: Damian sprints through the hall, your book in hand.

You (chasing him): “Damian, give it back or I swear on God I’ll put Nair in your shampoo!”

It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

You were curled in the library, reading quietly, sunlight pooling over the pages of a rare Themysciran text. Then the air shifted.

Damian appeared in the doorway like a cat with malicious intent.

“I’m borrowing that,” he declared.

“No, you’re not.”

He lunged.

You shrieked and took off after him, shouting colorful curses. He darted past Alfred, who sighed but did not intervene. Past Jason, who immediately started filming.

"Ten bucks says she tackles him before the koi pond."

Tim: “Already betting on chapter titles: ‘Library Larceny Ends in Near Drowning.’”

You finally tackled Damian mid-hallway. The book flew. Cass caught it one-handed.

Donna looked up from her coffee. “Do you all do this daily?”

Cassie: “Hourly.”

🎥 Cut to the twins, Amanda and Martha, in their own ‘segment’ holding juice boxes.

Amanda: “We saw her chase Dami with a sandal.”

Martha: “She said a bad word. Two of them.”

🎥 Back to you in confessional, face in hands.

You: “I’m not a fighter. I’m a reader. I wanted a library card, not a grappling hook.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Operation: Parental Recon”

Cass had stolen Bruce’s calendar.

“Why is that... concerning?” you had asked.

“Because it says ‘dinner with C,’” Tim replied, whispering like you were in a spy movie.

Jason, holding binoculars and wearing a fake mustache, explained: “That’s obviously Selina. Which means they’re on a date. And it is our civic duty to observe and gather intel.”

Cue the worst stakeout in Wayne history. All of you in terrible disguises—Jason wore a neon tracksuit, Cass had a fake baby doll strapped to her chest, Steph tried to pass you off as a foreign exchange student named “Philippa,” and Damian wore a fedora and trench coat two sizes too big.

🎥 Cut to: the group huddled in a car, parked awkwardly across from the restaurant.

Dick: “Do you think she’s gonna propose?”

Cass (writing on a notepad): ‘Selina looked at Bruce and laughed. Record: 2 laughs, 1 almost-smile.’

Steph: “Their server is named Dante. That’s a date name.”

You: “This is absurd.”

🎥 Cut to: Amanda and Martha in the backseat with their faces pressed to the window.

Amanda: “They kissed! Blegh!”

Martha: “Nuh uh. He just did the bat-glare.”

Back at the manor, everyone sat around the dining table watching the raw footage.

Selina: “You filmed my date?”

Jason: “In fairness, you’ve done worse to us.”

Selina: “True. Carry on.”

🎥 Episode Title: “From Mascara to Manor: Is This Real Life?”

You sat in front of the camera, fingers knotted together.

“I didn’t grow up with this. With any of this.” You laughed awkwardly, pushing hair out of your face. “Sometimes I feel like I’m dreaming. Like if I blink too fast, I’ll wake up in a dorm room or something.”

You exhaled slowly.

“I don’t know if I fit. They’re all so loud. So connected. They move around each other like magnets and mess and muscle memory.”

You paused, eyes flickering off-camera.

“But... sometimes I catch them watching me. Not in a creepy way. Just like... they’re waiting. Like they’re trying to make space without saying it out loud.”

You smiled, just a little.

“Maybe I’ll find my place in the noise.”

🎥 Comment pinned by WayneDiaryOfficial: “You already have.”

Dinner was never normal, but tonight was... special.

Yara (off camera): Here we see two very stubborn people trying to parent their long lost child

Dick (also off camera): In this battle of wits who would win as they desperately try to make up for the long lost time

🎥 Shooting like it’s a wild animal documentary

Bruce sat stiffly at the head of the table. Diana sat beside him, her posture regal and her expression unreadable. Amanda and Martha were smearing mashed potatoes on each other.

“I think she needs more structure,” Bruce muttered, glancing at you.

“She has discipline,” Diana replied. “What she needs is freedom. And more protein.”

“I allow freedom.”

“You installed tracking in her shoes.”

Bruce blinked. “Safety protocol.”

Selina sipped her wine across from them. “You’re both wrong. She needs a punching bag, a decent therapist, and a new pair of boots.”

Steph: “That’s a blog title if I’ve ever heard one.”

Amanda threw a pea. It hit Tim square in the forehead.

“Why do they have better aim than me?” he whispered.

Selina deadpanned: “Genetics, honey.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Vigilante Thirst Traps & Fishbowl Dares”

One morning you woke up to find Steph and Tim knocking urgently.

“Emergency filming. No time to explain.”

You were half-dragged downstairs where a table had been set up. In the center: a fishbowl filled with folded papers.

“Wayne Diary: Lightning Round,” Steph announced. “Each paper is a challenge. You read it, you do it.”

You pulled the first one: “Dramatically re-enact Alfred scolding Bruce in Shakespearean style.”

You stood tall. “Master Wayne, wherefore dost thou insist on brooding in shadows, clad in cape and consequence?!”

Cass clapped. Tim cried actual tears.

Jason pulled: “Ask strangers what they’d name Bruce’s next child.”

Twenty minutes later, you were all in the park.

“Sir,” Jason asked, “if Bruce Wayne had yet another child, what should their name be?”

The man answered, deadpan, “Regret.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Jason Todd vs. The Streets of Gotham (and Loses)”

“Okay,” Steph said, pressing record, her grin borderline villainous. “New episode. Jason goes undercover to ask Gotham citizens the real questions. Since you all liked the last one so much, we simply had to deliver.”

Jason adjusted his oversized trench coat and dollar-store sunglasses. “I feel like I’m about to get arrested and develop trust issues.”

“Lean into the chaos,” Tim said from behind the camera. “Now go ask strangers if they’d date our dad.”

Jason blinked. “This family needs therapy.”

🎬 Cut to: Jason approaching a woman outside a bakery.

Jason: “Excuse me, would you date Bruce Wayne?”

The woman looked him up and down. “If he came with a dog.”

Jason perked up. “Like Ace?”

She shook her head. “No, like a golden retriever. Something emotionally available.”

🎬 Cut to: Jason interviewing a guy holding a skateboard.

Jason: “Bruce Wayne. Date or ditch?”

The guy smirked. “Ditch. Too broody. I’d date Nightwing, though. Have you seen those glutes?”

Jason stared into the camera like it had betrayed him.

🎬 Cut to: a goth teen with black lipstick.

Jason: “Thoughts on Bruce Wayne?”

Goth teen: “He looks like he eats cold steak for breakfast and listens to Gregorian chants in the shower.”

Jason: “He does.”

🎬 Jason to an old man in a park.

Old Man: “Bruce Wayne? I thought he was a vampire. Still looks 35.”

Jason: (sighs) “You’re not wrong.”

🎬 Cut to: Jason trudging home, trench coat flapping dramatically, narration playing over the footage.

Jason (V.O.): “Today I learned Gotham has opinions. And those opinions are brutal.”

🎬 Back at the manor. Everyone is gathered around the couch, watching the footage on the big screen.

You’re half-sprawled across the couch with a bowl of popcorn. Amanda and Martha are using Damian’s head as a footrest. He’s too distracted laughing to protest.

Bruce, standing with arms crossed, watches silently.

Jason groans. “I have been emotionally destroyed by ten strangers, a senior citizen, and a goth with better eyeliner than me.”

“Speaking of eyeliner,” Bruce mutters, eyes narrowing. “Why am I always wearing it in these clips?”

Cass held up a sparkly eyeshadow palette triumphantly. “Aesthetic.”

Tim chimed in, “Technically it’s ‘Wayne Diary Visual Cohesion Protocol #3: Everyone Looks Hot, Even Dad.’”

Selina, sipping wine, leaned back with a smug grin. “It’s called branding, darling. You're lucky Cass didn't give you highlighter too.”

Bruce turned slowly to Cass.

Cass blinked innocently.

Jason waved toward the screen. “The Nightwing glutes guy will haunt me for life.”

Dick, casually flexing beside the fridge: “I mean, he’s not wrong.”

Stephanie cackled. “You’re never recovering from this, Jay.”

“I want a refund on this family,” Jason said dramatically. “Where’s the customer service number?”

You threw a pillow at his head. “It's the Bat-Signal.”

🎥 Bonus Segment: Watching Vigilante Thirst Traps

The idea had seemed innocent enough. Maybe even fun.

You, Tim, and Steph were reviewing video ideas when the concept came up: Reacting to vigilante thirst traps. It was framed as satire. Analysis. Research.

It was a disaster.

Cassie Sandsmark had joined for this one, parked beside you with popcorn while Donna stood behind the couch laughing uncontrollably.

"Okay, first up," Steph said, playing the first clip. “Nightwing.”

Dick swung through the rain, shirtless, backlit by the Gotham skyline. Dramatic orchestral music swelled.

“Artistic!” Dick shouted from across the room.

Cass wrote something in a little notebook and showed it to you. It read: 9/10. Rain adds dramatic tension.

Next came Red Hood, slow-motion walking through an explosion.

Jason: “Hell yeah.”

Cass: 8.5/10. No helmet = more face time.

Selina strolled by, picked up a cracker, and said, “You’re lucky. Your mom would never let me do this with Diana’s footage.”

Donna: “You tried?”

Selina: “She caught me. Lassoed me. Long story.”

Bruce (walking by): “You’re all grounded.”

🎥 Five minutes later (Spongebob meme voice)

“You guys,” he said. “You GUYS. I just found something… cursed.”

Tim squinted. “Worse than that ‘Gotham’s Got Talent’ clip of Dick trying to backflip while holding a mic?”

“Worse,” Jason said gravely, casting the video to the big screen.

The title alone made your stomach twist: “BatDaddy Energy | Gotham’s Dark Snack 💦🦇🔥”

Steph: “No. No. No—”

Too late. The video played.

It was a 30-second fan edit. Batman landing dramatically on a rooftop. Slow-motion cape billows. Close-ups of his jawline under moody lighting. That one shot where rain streamed down his cowl, making him look like a shampoo commercial for trauma.

Set to some deeply questionable music—low bass, breathy vocals, and moans in the background.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, clutching a pillow to your face.

Cass actually recoiled.

Damian made a strangled sound. “Whoever made this belongs in Arkham.”

Dick walked in just as the beat dropped and a slow zoom on Bruce’s rear filled the screen.

“Why do I hear boss music—oh GOD,” he gagged.

Martha toddled in with Amanda behind her. They stopped mid-run.

Amanda blinked. “Is that... Daddy?”

Martha frowned. “Why is he sad-sexy?”

The room fell into pure chaos.

Steph dropped her phone like it burned her. “I’m getting bleach. For my eyes.”

Tim stood, dramatically unplugging the screen. “Society is broken. There is no redemption.”

Jason was on the floor wheezing. “Dark snack! Who let them say that?!”

Cass, blinking slowly, held up her notepad: ‘Therapy. Gotham needs therapy.’

You, clutching your stomach from laughter and horror, managed: “The comments are worse. Someone said they wanted to be ‘grappled like a criminal.’”

Dick flinched. “No. Absolutely not. I'm done. I’m moving to Blüdhaven and changing my name.”

In the corner, Damian was furiously typing on his tablet. “I am tracking the IP address of this monstrosity and reporting them for war crimes.”

Selina peeked into the room, coffee in hand. “Did you find the video?”

Jason pointed at her. “YOU KNEW?!”

She shrugged, sipping. “I have fan edits too. Way better lighting.”

Bruce walked in just then, perfectly timing his dramatic entrances as always. “Why is the living room in an uproar?”

Everyone fell silent.

Martha, very seriously, turned to him. “Daddy... are you a snack?”

Bruce stared at her. Then on the screen. Then to all of you.

He turned around and walked out without a word.

Jason fell over laughing again. “HE SAID NOTHING. NOTHING. HE ACCEPTED IT.”

Steph, red-faced from laughing, muttered, “This better go in the Wayne Diary: Trauma Dump Edition.”

🎥 Episode Title: “What Do You MEAN You Used to Be a Spy?!”

It started like any normal Thursday—if normal Thursdays involved balancing a toddler on your hip while Steph tried to teach the twins how to do a TikTok dance and Tim muttered about shadowbanning.

Then Alfred walked in with tea.

“Alfred,” you said sweetly, “how do you stay so calm?”

He poured tea into your cup. “Well, I once disarmed a nuclear warhead using only a bobby pin and a dead man’s watch, so your sibling drama rarely registers.”

You blinked. “You what?”

Jason froze mid-dance. “Repeat that.”

“Oh, yes. That was in Budapest. Or was it Marseilles?”

Cassie leaned over. “You disarmed a bomb?”

“Not just a bomb,” Alfred corrected. “A diplomatic incident. Also a tiger. Long story.”

Everyone stared.

Dick: “You’re telling me you’ve had more near-death experiences than Bruce?”

Alfred smiled kindly. “Child, I trained him.”

Steph whispered, “He’s cooler than all of us.”

Amanda clapped. “Alfie is a ninja!”

“Please,” Alfred said, exiting the room. “I was MI-6. Ninjas have better PR.”

You looked into the camera, stunned. “We need a spin-off.”

🎥 Cut to: a logo idea sketched by the twins that read: ‘Alfred: Gentleman of Shadows.’

The camera turned on mid-commotion.

Steph was holding the mic upside down, Tim was adjusting the lighting with scientific intensity, and you were on the couch nursing a mug of tea Alfred had brought in ten minutes ago.

“Alright,” Jason said, sitting backwards in a chair like a troubled substitute teacher. “Today’s theme: Alfred tells us something wild and pretends it’s normal.”

You blinked. “That’s... a theme?”

“It’s a lifestyle,” Dick said, entering with a tray of cookies. “Alfred has lore, and it’s terrifying.”

Tim raised a finger. “Remember when he casually said he used to fence with royalty in his youth, and none of us questioned it?”

“Or when he mentioned being shot in the leg in 1974 but still baked a soufflé?”

You looked toward the kitchen, where Alfred was calmly dusting powdered sugar on pastries.

“Wait, we’re filming this without asking him?”

“Oh, he knows,” Cass said from her perch on the back of the couch. “He always knows.”

And then, like a storm in a tuxedo, Alfred entered the room with a fresh pot of tea.

“Ah,” he said, “the children have gathered to procrastinate productively.”

Steph turned the camera toward him. “Alfred, what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

He didn’t blink. “Define ‘craziest.’”

“You pick,” Jason said, crossing his arms.

Alfred poured tea with perfect calm. “Well. There was the time I impersonated a dead Russian diplomat to smuggle classified information out of Geneva.”

You choked on your tea. “I’m sorry—what?!”

“Oh yes,” he continued. “Quite the mess. Had to fake a limp and everything.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “You’ve never told me this.”

Alfred offered him a cookie. “Because, Master Damian, I knew you would attempt to recreate it for sport.”

Tim had stopped breathing.

Jason leaned forward. “Please. What else.”

“Well, there was also the time Master Bruce disappeared in the Himalayas, and I had to arm-wrestle a monk to retrieve him.”

Bruce—who had just walked into the room unnoticed—froze mid-step.

“That never happened,” Bruce said stiffly.

Alfred sipped his tea. “Then where did I get the bruise, Master Wayne?”

Steph was vibrating with excitement. “We need flashbacks. Can we do flashbacks? Dramatic re-enactments?”

Cass raised a hand, deadpan. “I’ll be the monk.”

Amanda peeked in from behind the doorway. “What’s a Himalaya?”

Martha followed. “Is it where Daddy gets sad and disappears?”

Bruce turned to leave.

“Again.” Jason snorted.

But Alfred wasn’t done.

“Oh, and then there was the time I buried a safe house in Prague beneath a fake antique shop. Very convincing work. I believe Interpol is still baffled.”

Tim finally broke. “YOU BUILT A WHAT?”

“I was bored. And the wine cellar was lacking.”

You couldn’t breathe. “Alfred. Have you considered writing a memoir?”

“I have,” he replied. “But I fear it would be classified as fantasy fiction.”

Steph clutched the camera. “This is the best episode we’ve ever done. I’m naming it Alfred: The Lore Files.”

Jason turned toward you. “Okay. Top ten facts. Go.”

You raised a finger. “One, Alfred could kill us all and no one would suspect him.”

Cass: “Two, he’s probably already done that. Temporarily.”

Tim: “Three, he casually manipulated the stock market once.”

Alfred looked mildly pleased. “That was a good quarter.”

Dick: “Four, he’s the only person who can yell at Bruce and survive.”

Bruce sighed loudly in the hallway.

“Five,” Steph added, “he has royal tea gossip and refuses to spill it unless we’re bleeding.”

Jason nodded solemnly. “Six, he once stared a hitman into changing careers.”

“Seven,” you whispered, “he never trips over Legos. Ever.”

Martha walked in with a crayon drawing. “Uncle Alfie’s magic.”

“Indeed,” he said, taking it gently. “And magically immune to nonsense. Now go draw the Manor without adding a disco ball.”

Everyone watched him leave in awe.

“Was that—” Tim whispered. “Was that... the best episode ever?”

Steph hit stop on the recording. “We’re putting this one behind a paywall. Alfred content is premium.”

You stared at the now-empty hallway.

“I’m scared to ask what he did before becoming a butler.”

Jason grinned. “A menace. Clearly.”

And as the episode faded to black, Cass held up a sign she’d written in bold Sharpie:

“THE BATFAMILY FEARS ONE MAN — AND HE SERVES THEM SCONES.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Who Gets the Rose? (And the Batmobile)”

The living room no longer resembled a place for human habitation. Furniture had been shoved to the walls. Fairy lights tangled with batarangs dangled from the ceiling. The fireplace blazed, illuminating a very suspicious red carpet rolled out across the floor.

“Tell me again why this is happening?” you asked, leaning over the kitchen island, munching an apple with a vague sense of dread.

“Because Bruce hasn’t emotionally engaged with a woman onscreen in years,” Steph replied, clapping a headset onto her ears as she adjusted the tripod. “We’re doing the world a service.”

“Also because Jason has a tux and no shame,” added Tim, already wiring a mic into Jason’s lapel.

Jason grinned at the camera and struck a pose. “Tonight on Bat-Bachelor, we take Gotham’s most emotionally unavailable billionaire and pair him with the city’s most dramatic disasters. Who will win the key to his armored heart?”

From stage left (aka the hallway), Dick entered in a synthetic wig that belonged in a dumpster fire, tottering in heels he absolutely couldn’t walk in.

“I’m Veronica Steele,” he purred, striking a pose. “I’m mysterious, emotionally guarded, and I bake. Brownies that could kill a man.”

“I want her to win,” Steph whispered, almost reverently. Donna and Cassie provide color commentary: “He looked at her once in 2006. That’s basically marriage.”

Next came Cass, gliding in like a silent knife in the dark. She said nothing. Simply placed a single dagger on the coffee table, stared at Jason for ten seconds, then vanished behind the curtain again.

“Her name is Knife Girl,” Tim narrated. “Her love language is smoke bombs.”

You nearly choked on your apple.

“Next up,” Jason continued, “we have Charles Charming.”

Tim, dressed like a trust-fund magician, walked in with a cat plushie and winked. “I bring quiet nights, shared secrets, and a strict skincare routine.”

Donna entered last in a long gold dress and combat boots. “I’m not here to win. I’m here to make them all lose.”

The final rose ceremony began, with Jason dramatically holding up a plastic flower.

“Bachelor Bruce,” he intoned. “Who will you choose?”

That’s when Bruce walked into the room.

He blinked. He stared.

Dick was mid-wink, one heel kicked off. Tim was holding up the cat plush like it was Simba. Cass was halfway through rappelling down the stairwell for dramatic effect. Jason had just declared, “Tonight, we choose love... or vengeance.”

Bruce took in the scene, exhaled slowly, and asked, “Why is Dick in a wig and heels?”

Cass, from above, whispered: “Commitment.”

Without another word, Bruce turned and walked out.

Steph yelled, “ROLL CREDITS!”

🎥 Episode Title: “Hero or Himbo: The Identity Crisis Special”

The rules were simple. Steph held up a cue card that read: “Rate the vigilante footage: Hero or Himbo?”

You sat with Donna and Tim, each holding a red buzzer. A screen flickered behind you with clips queued by Alfred (unwillingly, but efficiently).

First clip: Nightwing mid-backflip in low lighting, slow-mo sparkles added by Steph.

“Hero,” Tim said immediately.

“Himbo,” you countered.

“Himbo,” Donna agreed. “That’s a showboater’s flip.”

Clip two: Red Hood leaning on his bike, helmet off, hair tousled like a shampoo commercial.

Cass buzzed in: “Hero.”

Jason appeared behind the couch. “Why is this in here?!”

Steph: “Because it got 200k views in 3 hours.”

Jason: “I was posing for intimidation.”

Steph: “Intimidating... to your fan club.”

Clip three: Wonder Woman in full armor, sword catching sunlight, walking out of flames like an apocalypse made pretty.

The room fell silent.

You slowly reached over and turned off your buzzer. “...That’s my mom.”

“New category,” Steph said, typing it on screen. “INTIMIDATING GODDESS.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Cat Class 101”

“Today’s challenge,” Selina announced, looking regal in black satin and diamond-studded earrings, “is theft.”

Everyone turned to look at her.

You raised an eyebrow. “Of what?”

She smiled. “Bruce’s favorite pen.”

“The silver one?” Damian asked.

“The one he locks in a drawer with a retinal scanner.”

The entire room collectively groaned.

“Why does he even have that?” you muttered.

Steph: “We don’t ask questions here.”

Cue training montage:

You’re all in cat ears.

Jason tiptoeing in socks.

Tim building a laser map on a tablet.

You, crawling across a marble floor whispering, “This is beneath me.”

“That pen is locked behind a biometric scanner and a drawer with titanium alloy.”

“Exactly,” Selina said, tossing you velvet gloves. “Class is in session.”

Jason tried crawling through an air vent and got stuck.

Cass knocked out three motion sensors with hairpins.

Tim hacked the scanner. “He added a heartbeat verification system?!”

Meanwhile, you baited Bruce with a fake ‘Gotham Times’ article about a stolen WayneTech prototype. As he read, Amanda walked in with her crayon drawing.

“Look, Daddy! Mommy’s punching an alien!”

He smiled faintly. That was your cue.

You slid beneath the desk, retrieved the pen, and replaced it with a carrot.

Later that night, Bruce stared at the carrot in silence.

Selina, sipping wine nearby, said, “She’s good, isn’t she?”

He didn’t respond. Just reached into a drawer behind a hidden panel.

“New pen,” he muttered. “More lasers.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Law & Disorder”

“Court is now in session!” Steph yelled, slamming a spoon against a mixing bowl before dramatically swinging a robe over her shoulders..

Cass stood silently by a projector screen with one message typed out: ‘Someone deleted my dance video. Vengeance shall be mine.’

“Objection!” Jason shouted.

“You don’t know what that means,” Tim replied.

“You don’t know me.”

Donna: “Why are you the judge?”

“Because I have the best robe.”

Cass wrote on a whiteboard: ‘It was my best routine.’

Everyone gasped.

Dick : “It was such a good routine!”

Alfred brought in tea. “Should I also bring the polygraph?”

“I can rig one!” Tim offered.

You brought out the evidence: a screenshot of the deletion time. 3:04 a.m.

Jason waved a chili-stained oven mitt. “I was cooking. Google ‘exploding crockpot fix.’”

“I did,” you said. “It was the next tab over from ‘how to delete cloud videos.’”

Dick cracked and collapsed dramatically. “IT WAS ME! I was trying to make a remix and deleted the master file! I FAILED CASS!”

Cass walked over, gave him a silent hug.

Then she turned and wrote on the board: ‘Retribution postponed.’

Steph banged her spoon again. “Court dismissed. But I’ll see you all next week for the case of Damian vs. The Lego Fire.’”

🎥 Episode Title: “Rated T for Therapy”

The camera zoomed in on Steph, who was sitting in the Batcave with a gleam in her eyes, and Tim, who looked just as evil but with a knowing, mischievous smirk.

"Alright, Batkids," Steph said, flipping through a thick binder labeled ‘Fanfic That Haunts Us’, “Tonight’s episode is about to get real uncomfortable. We're diving into the depths of the internet’s most dramatic, absurd, and confusing fanfiction.”

Steph dumped a stack of printed fanfiction on the table.

Jason: “Absolutely not.”

You picked one up and read aloud. “’Red Hood smirked, pulling her into his arms. ‘I kill for you,’ he growled.’”

Tim whispered, “Oh my god.”

Dick nodded solemnly. “I’ve read that one. It gets worse. There's a musical number.”

“Where did you even find these?” Jason asked suspiciously, sitting in the corner, clearly bracing himself for whatever horror was coming his way.

Tim tapped his tablet with exaggerated smugness. “Don’t worry, Red Hood. I made sure to find ones specifically about each of you.”

Jason paled. “Please tell me you didn’t—”

“Too late!” Steph announced dramatically. “We’re starting with you, Jay.”

Jason shot to his feet. “No. No way. I’m not doing this.”

Steph grinned. “You’re reading it aloud. Deal with it.”

She handed him a sheet of paper, and the camera zoomed in on the title: "The Vampire Barista’s Dark Brew." Jason immediately buried his face in his hands.

“I can’t… I can’t believe this exists,” he muttered.

Steph read aloud the opening line in a mocking voice: “‘The dimly lit café smelled of espresso and danger, but no one knew that the barista behind the counter was more than just a coffee expert. He was a creature of the night. A vampire, with an addiction to both blood and caffeine.’”

Jason was absolutely mortified. “I’m not doing this.”

“Too bad,” Tim said. “You’re up.”

Jason sighed dramatically, snatched the paper, and began reading, his voice dropping into the deep, brooding tone of someone who could only be described as trying too hard:

"‘The vampire barista wiped his hands on his apron, his fangs gleaming as he leaned forward. ‘Do you want the usual, or something... darker?’ he asked, his voice a low, delicious growl. The woman at the counter shivered, but not from the cold. ‘I’ll have the blood latte,’ she whispered, her voice barely audible over the steam of the espresso machine.’”

Everyone burst out laughing. Even Bruce cracked a smile behind his stoic mask.

Jason, red-faced, pushed through the increasingly ridiculous lines, each one more cringeworthy than the last. Finally, he dropped the paper with a loud sigh. “I’m done. Someone else take over.”

Steph threw her head back in laughter. “Next!”

Dick and Donna sat together, looking incredibly uncomfortable. "Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this?" Dick asked, eyeing the fanfic Steph handed him with suspicion.

“Oh, you will,” Tim said, tapping the tablet like a villain plotting doom.

The title read: “The Forbidden Circus Romance: Night of the Highwire Lovers.”

Dick read the first line aloud with dramatic flair, immediately sounding like he was taking himself way too seriously: “‘The circus was in town again, and with it, the air was thick with both magic and danger. The acrobat and the ringmaster locked eyes from across the tent, the chemistry undeniable, but forbidden. They were from two worlds that could never collide. Or could they?’”

Donna snorted. “Oh no.”

Dick continued, dramatically flipping through the pages. “'Their forbidden love burned like a firecracker in the night sky, hot, fast, and dangerously beautiful. The crowd roared, but the acrobat’s heart beat only for him—the daring ringmaster who had promised to teach her to fly... and never let her fall.'”

Donna bit her lip to stop from laughing. “Is this… is this a romance or a trapeze act gone wrong?”

Dick, trying to maintain his dignity, read another excerpt: “‘As the acrobat twirled high above the audience, the ringmaster watched with a longing that could never be fulfilled. He knew that if she fell, he would never be able to catch her... but that didn’t stop him from reaching for her anyway.’”

Donna and Dick locked eyes. “I’m regretting everything,” Dick said under his breath. “But also, that’s kind of beautiful?”

“It’s definitely dramatic,” Donna replied.

The group erupted into laughter, and even Dick couldn’t help but chuckle. “I swear, if anyone ever writes this about me in real life, I’ll leave Gotham.”

Bruce was up next. He wasn’t thrilled to be part of this, but Steph gave him a look that said, ‘You’re reading this, and you’re doing it dramatically.’

He cleared his throat and adjusted the paper. Everyone leaned forward in anticipation.

The title was unassuming. “Alfred’s Perfect Day: The Fluff Chronicles.”

Steph squinted. “This is… is this even fanfiction?”

Tim shook his head. “Apparently, Bruce has a softer side.”

Bruce stared at the first line, his voice barely above a whisper. “‘It was a quiet Sunday afternoon in Wayne Manor, the only sounds the occasional hum of the grandfather clock and the soft rustle of pages turning. Alfred was at peace, sipping tea in his favorite armchair, when a familiar voice broke the silence. ‘You seem content, Alfred,’ Bruce Wayne said, stepping into the room.’”

Everyone was staring at Bruce. “Uh… is this… is this your ideal Sunday?” you asked, genuinely curious.

Bruce didn’t even respond, continuing with the story. “‘Alfred smiled, his eyes twinkling behind the rim of his glasses. ‘I am, Master Bruce. There is nothing quite like a quiet afternoon with good tea and company.’”

“I didn’t write this,” Bruce muttered.

“Of course you didn’t,” Steph said, stifling a laugh. “But the family fluff is strong in this one.”

Bruce read on. “‘Master Bruce took a seat next to him, the warmth of the sun from the windows casting a soft glow over both men. ‘I’ve been meaning to thank you, Alfred,’ Bruce said quietly. ‘For everything you’ve done for this family.’”

You blinked. “Oh no. Wait. Everyone’s going to cry, aren’t we?”

And they did. By the time Bruce finished the story, everyone had something in their eye. Even Damian was wiping a stray tear from his cheek, trying to pretend it wasn’t happening.

“That was…” Donna started, voice cracking slightly. “Beautiful.”

Jason sniffed. “Are we going to do something about this vampire barista situation, though?”

“You can never unhear that,” Tim said, shaking his head.

Steph hit the button to stop the recording. “Best. Episode. Ever.”

Bruce set the paper down with a quiet sigh. “I’m still questioning my life choices.”

Alfred, who had walked in quietly, overheard and gave a knowing smile.

“You’re not the only one, Master Bruce,” he said, voice rich with amusement. “You’re certainly not the only one.”

Your eyes scanned another. “Why am I described as ‘a storm in silk and steel, doomed to ruin mortal men’?”

Steph: “Because the author gets you.”

Cass held up one tagged: ‘Enemies to Lovers—Nightwing x Reader x Red Hood.’

Jason: “WE’RE RELATED.”

Then Diana walked in.

She read one paragraph, paused, and calmly took the laptop.

“I’ll be speaking to their mother.”

Steph screamed: “NOOOOOOOOO!”

Everyone dived after her as Diana left the room.

🎥 Episode Title: “Can’t Stand the Heat”

The challenge: make Alfred eat your food without judging you aloud.

You were paired with Tim. Five minutes in, he set a pasta pot on fire.

“WHY IS IT ON FIRE?” you screamed.

“I DON’T KNOW, IT’S WATER.”

Jason and Steph went full spicy. Jason added a hot sauce labeled ‘Lazarus Heat.’

Damian and Cass made perfect dumplings, quietly plating them with precision. You suspected witchcraft.

Amanda and Martha made a cake with so much frosting it was a structural hazard. Shaped like the Bat-Signal. With gummy bats.

Bruce tried one bite of each. His expression didn’t change. You thought maybe he died mid-taste test.

Alfred took one bite of Cass and Damian’s dish.

“Acceptable,” he said.

Cheers erupted. Cass bowed. Damian nodded like a samurai who’d just won a duel.

You and Tim looked at your charred noodles.

“We tried,” you said.

“No, we didn’t,” Tim replied.

🎥 Episode Title: “Ghost Protocol”

It started as a prank. Tim uploaded spooky ghost sounds into the Manor’s speaker system. Steph set up glowing sheets to fall from chandeliers at random intervals.

“I give it two hours before someone cries,” Jason said, sipping cocoa.

Cass, face painted like a skeleton, hid behind curtains whispering “Join usssss.”

You set up a ‘mysterious’ shadow to walk by Bruce’s study. Amanda and Martha insisted the manor was haunted by a cat ghost named Meowsephine.

Selina fully committed: black candles, ouija board, and a crystal cat figurine.

Bruce finally snapped the breaker.

“Go to bed.”

Then the suit of armor moved.

Amanda screamed. “GHOST!”

Alfred appeared behind you. “Oh, that’s Gregory.”

Everyone: “...Gregory?”

“He’s haunted. But very polite.”

No one slept that night.

🎥 Episode Title: “The Breakdown Round”

Steph turned to the camera. “Welcome to sixty seconds of vulnerability. You’re not allowed to make fun of anyone until after the cookies.”

Tim went first. “I haven’t slept properly since I was 15. Sometimes I pretend to nap just so people stop asking.”

Jason: “I once ate an entire cheesecake alone on the roof. Blamed it on Tim. Felt no guilt.”

Cass held up a sign: ‘I don’t talk much because people fill silence with their worst thoughts. I like to leave them room to surprise me.’

Dick danced across the floor "I would have been the world's greatest gymnast, I just know it."

Damian: “I’m not cute. I am FEARSOME.”

You hesitated. Then, “Sometimes... I miss not knowing. I miss being just a girl. I didn’t grow up with all of this, and some days, I wish I could go back. But then I see all of you, and... I wouldn’t trade it. Not even for a quiet life.”

Silence fell.

Alfred entered with cookies and tea. “Your parents love you. Even when you’re insufferable.”

Everyone got up and hugged him.

Even Damian. Especially Damian.

And the camera caught it all.

Fade to black.

Your room was a mess of lighting cables, half-drunk tea, and a dry-erase board covered in blog ideas. Amanda and Martha had colored a “Wayne Diary” logo on your wall with crayons.

You stared at your reflection.

You didn’t look like her yet. Like the daughter of legends.

But when you walked into the chaos of the manor—past Jason play-wrestling with Damian, past Tim frantically uploading a new episode, past Dick teaching flips to the twins while Donna rated his form—you didn’t feel invisible anymore.Somewhere between sword fights in the foyer and Cass teaching Amanda and Martha how to somersault through laser traps, you realized you weren’t surviving this family. You were becoming part of it.

One night, Martha climbed into your lap holding a glittery card that said, in shaky marker: “You are our hero.”

You felt real.

You helped Steph and Tim edit Wayne Diary episodes. You designed a logo. You started answering fan comments anonymously—sometimes with your own memes.

And when you sat on the couch, mug in hand, and smiled for the camera as Steph said, “Welcome back to Wayne Diary,” you believed it.

Even in the madness.

Especially in the madness.

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