silas-222

[silas-222]

Batkids finding out that batmom was a model, a famous one

FASHION FASHION ( bruce wayne!)

summary: Your kids are bored and discover your secret past, and a somewhat strange secret from their father.

pairing: Bruce wayne x fem! model reader

note: the characters don't really stick to the personality they have, but I liked how it turned out so, sorry I'm not sorry

open request - dc masterlist

It all started as a harmless search.

The kids were bored. A night with no missions, no emergencies, no chaos. Just the rain pounding against the windows of Wayne Manor and an awkward silence that none of them wanted to fill with real questions. So when Dick suggested going up to the attic, they all agreed with childish enthusiasm.

"Alfred said not to go up," Tim muttered, holding the flashlight.

“Alfred says that about everything funny,” Jason replied, already perched on some crates.

"What are you looking for, exactly?" Damian asked, arms crossed. "Dirt?"

"Something interesting," Dick replied, with a mischievous smile as he opened a dusty old trunk. "And probably some of Bruce's dark secrets."

The others gravitated toward it like magnets. The boxes had no labels, but were sealed with a leather strap cracked by age. Tim carefully opened one, as if it were a fragile relic, and inside they found… papers, envelopes, folders, and something even more striking: old magazines.

"What the...?" Steph muttered, taking one of them.

It was a Vogue Paris cover. The issue featured a striking young woman with familiar eyes, shining with a power that pierced the page. She wore a dark dress, her hair pulled back, and her expression was one of absolute elegance.

Damian silently flipped through an album until he stopped on a particular page. His eyebrows furrowed. "What is this?" causing everyone to stop what they were doing.

It was from a different box. More personal, there were letters, printed articles, old photos. The most striking one was one of Bruce and Batman's wedding, both young, you younger than him, but he looked at you almost dazzled. And beneath the photo was a note in Alfred's handwriting: "You always had a soft spot for her, even before you met her. It was only a matter of time."

Everyone fell silent. Even Jason, who muttered, "What the hell?"

Tim cleared his throat, smoothing out the crumpled paper before beginning to read. The page had yellowed edges, as if it had been stored away for years. The title at the top was from an old celebrity magazine, one of those tabloids Bruce would now despise but had clearly, once upon a time, collected.

—“The tastes of Gotham’s heir: who is the model stealing young Wayne’s attention?” Tim read aloud.

The boys looked at each other, confused.

"Model?" Damian asked. "Who are they talking about?"

Tim looked down. His eyes widened at a photo. It was Batmom, young, walking down a runway in a scarlet evening gown, elegant, unstoppable. Beside her, another photo of Bruce, even younger, smiling as he got out of a car, with that rich boy smile that bore no resemblance to the man they knew now.

—“Sources claim that the Wayne heir has a fixation with the model of the moment. He's been seen on more than one occasion with magazines where she appears on the cover, and some insiders claim he has a photo of her in his office. Obsession or admiration? Time will tell if Gotham's most eligible bachelor will dare to approach the icon who has him fascinated.”

Jason let out an incredulous laugh. “Mom was Bruce’s celebrity crush!?”

"For God's sake, Mom was a model" Dick said, still surprised.

And there it was: a photo of Batmom walking the red carpet at Cannes. And another of Bruce, maybe twentyfour years old, leaving the company with a fashion magazine folded under his arm, and the magazine showed a close up of the cover showing your face.

“Oh. My. God,” Steph said.

—This is like... when someone marries their celebrity crush... Only he did it —said Tim

“Bruce was in love with Mom… before he met her,” Dick said, as if that reshaped his entire family history.

"That's cute��" Steph murmured as she looked through all the magazines.

"He seems more like a freak to me" Jason added, though he seemed secretly impressed.

Just then, the sound of soft, steady footsteps interrupted the silence. Alfred appeared in the attic entrance, his calm, unmistakable demeanor.

And as if fate had known it, Alfred's firm footsteps were heard ascending the attic stairs. "I knew curiosity would win" he said, without raising his voice too much. "Although I expected it to be a few years ago, all detectives were quite slow to see..."

"So you knew? That Mom was Bruce's teenage fantasy?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow, picking up a magazine from the floor with two fingers as if it were a crystal goblet. "I prefer the term 'admiration.' Although... yes, I knew it. I knew it from the first day he walked in with a copy of Harper's Bazaar under his arm, feigning interest in an article about Swiss watches."

"That's beyond pathetic," Damian said, a little disappointed in his father.

Then Bruce's firm, heavy footsteps were heard on the wood of the staircase.

Everyone froze.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low but firm, seeing the chaos of magazines, clippings, and letters.

"So you had an obsession with Mom?" Tim shot back, not missing a beat.

"A whole collection of magazines?" Steph continued, holding one up. "Bruce, this is teen crush level."

"How did we not know this before?" Dick looked somewhere between fascinated and disappointed in himself.

Damian, still in his sour tone, crossed his arms. "I thought you were pathetic in other ways. This is new."

Bruce sighed, closing his eyes for a second. "Why were you rummaging through private things?"

"We were bored. It's Dick's fault," Jason said quickly.

"Alfred knew it," Steph accused, pointing to the butler, who had just calmly brought up a tray of teacups as if it were all part of the service.

Alfred didn't even flinch. "Of course I knew. Master Bruce had a poster of her hidden away. I discovered it once when I went to get the laundry."

"Alfred!" Bruce growled in disbelief.

"im sorry master Bruce"

"A poster?" Jason asked, raising his eyebrows with a mischievous grin. "I don't want to know what you were doing with that."

"Jason!" several people shouted at the same time, between laughs and groans.

"It was a different time" Bruce tried to defend himself, though he knew it was useless. "i didn't do anything. I had it because i admired her work. End of story."

"Sure, sure," Tim murmured. "The art. The talent. The... four foot ten legs."

"TIM!" they all shouted at once.

"So Mom was your celebrity crush?" Tim said, amused. "And you married her? That's legendary."

"It wasn't exactly like that," Bruce began, but broke off when your silhouette appeared in the doorway.

"What are you doing with my magazines?" you asked, a mixture of amusement and resignation.

The kids turned around as if they had been caught stealing.

“Investigating your hidden past” Jason said, waving a magazine like it was classified evidence.

"Confirming theories," Tim added, still holding a photo. "Like, Dad was completely in love with you before he even met you."

"And that he had a hidden poster," Damian added, his voice dry. "Disgusting."

"I didn't want to know that, by the way," Steph continued, raising a hand. "But now it's etched in my mind forever."

Bruce put a hand to his forehead, muttering something unintelligible.

"And you found this, Alfred?" you asked with a smile, looking at the butler, who was still holding an untouched cup of tea.

"I was just providing some historical context," Alfred replied, unperturbed. "And perhaps I remembered certain... details."

Bruce looked at you with a silent intensity. The same as always. As if he still couldn't believe that that woman from the magazines was standing in front of him, every day, in a bathrobe, drinking coffee and scolding her children for not setting the table.

"Come on. I'll show you something better than magazine clippings."

You led them downstairs to the main room. You opened a small, decorative-looking wooden box. From it, you took out an old flash drive. "I thought this would get lost over time," you said, plugging it into the TV.

You led them into the living room. You connected an old external hard drive to the TV screen. You didn't explain anything. You just pressed "play."

And there you were.

A young you. Walking down a runway in Milan. The camera followed you as if you were the only person in the world. Fashion shows, interviews, covers. The music, the flashes, the unstoppable aura. A version of you your kids had never seen.

Not as a mother, not as Bruce Wayne's wife. But as yourself. Strong, brilliant, and unforgettable.

[silas-222]

I have a grandchid?

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?”

[silas-222]

NOT WITHOUT APPROVAL

Pairing: Kyle Rayner x Reader ft. Batfam

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 2.8k synopsis: Kyle Rayner gets interrogated by your overprotective bat brothers. a/n: This was my first time writing Kyle, so go easy on me if he feels a little off—I was also running on zero sleep while doing it 💀

You knew this day would come.

It was inevitable, really. No matter how much you tried to fly under the radar—normal dates, low-key outings, minimal PDA—the moment Kyle Rayner became a regular in your life, your brothers soon found out after that.

Jason was the first to notice. Of course he was.

You weren’t even with Kyle at the time. Just texting him during patrol, your face lit faintly by your comm screen. You hadn’t even realized you were smiling until Jason’s voice cut through the silence.

“Who the hell keeps making you smile like that?” he asked, eyes still scanning the rooftop across the alley.

You blinked. “No one.”

He slowly turned to look at you unimpressed. “That’s a lie. You only smile like that when you’re watching dog videos or texting someone who shouldn’t be texting you.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, tucking your phone away.

He told the others that night.

Which is why, a week later, Kyle found himself in the deeply unfortunate position of walking into a coffee shop and realizing—with the slowness of a man watching his life flash before his eyes—that your four uninvited brothers were there and you weren’t.

Dick was the first to spot him, his smile a little too bright to be genuine. “Kyle, buddy! Glad you could make it. Sit. Want anything? Coffee? A muffin?” His tone was sweet. His eyes were not.

Tim had an iPad in his hands, his usually sleepy gaze sharp and hard for once. “Just a few questions. Basic background check. You know, standard sibling procedure.”

Jason sat across from them, arms folded, expression carved from stone. He didn’t say a word.

Neither did Damian, who lounged beside him, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled like a villain as his emerald green eyes narrowed into the infamous bat glare.

Kyle hesitated in the doorway, scanning the table as if gauging whether to run. But it was already too late. He walked toward them with the same reluctant grace of a man stepping into a den of wolves wearing bacon-scented cologne. His usual confident smile twitched, faltered, then gave up entirely as he looked from face to face—each one offering a different variation of the we will end you look.

“So…” Kyle offered, his voice pitching higher than usual, “does this count as a family brunch, or…?”

“Just sit,” Jason said flatly.

He cleared his throat and did just that. 

You arrived late. The bell above the café door chimed softly, but the scene that greeted you brought you to an abrupt stop.

Kyle sat in the centre of the corner booth, hunched between your brothers who flanked him on either side, like a panel of parole officers.

Your eyes narrowed. “You ambushed him?!”

Dick was the first to respond, flashing a grin that was far too wide, far too cheerful to be genuine. “Hey, baby bat. We were just getting to know your… friend.”

Jason leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Boyfriend,” he corrected. “She told Steph and Cass he was her boyfriend.”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “You little eavesdropper!”

Turning to Kyle, your tone softened with exasperation. “You should’ve just left.”

Kyle gave a sheepish laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Sorry. I should’ve texted you. But I walked in and they were already here, and honestly?” He glanced toward Damian with a grimace. “I was afraid if I ran, Damian would chase me.”

Damian scoffed, clearly offended. “As if I would lower myself to such a humiliating display.”

You turned your glare on each of your brothers in slow succession, the kind of look that said try me. Your finger jabbed toward Jason. “I swear to God, if you threatened him—”

“I haven’t even pulled out my gun,” Jason replied with mock innocence. Then, after a beat, added, “Yet.”

Tim, seated across from Kyle with a tablet in his hands, cleared his throat. “Kyle Rayner. Green Lantern. Former graphic designer. Lives in Metropolis. Mild arrest record for trespassing—art-related. Consistent League presence, decent intergalactic diplomacy score.” He paused and looked up at Kyle with narrowed eyes, “So far, not bad.”  

You shut your eyes and exhaled slowly. “…You ran a background check?”

Tim didn’t even glance up. “I cross-referenced League records, public databases, and pulled his social media footprint. It’s hardly invasive.”

Kyle shifted in his seat, as he sheepishly said with a nervous laugh. “It sort of is invasive.”

Dick leaned forward then, arms resting on the table, hands loosely clasped. He wore that trademark easygoing smile—and despite looking the friendliest, he was probably the scariest. “Look, kid. We’re not here to scare you. We just want to be sure our sister isn’t wasting her time with someone who can’t handle… well… us.”

“That’s rich coming from the guy who cried when she dated that paramedic,” Jason muttered. 

“He had a moustache like Commissioner Gordon!” Dick snapped. “It was weird!”

Your mouth dropped open. “He did not!”

“It was curling,” Dick insisted. “He looked like he should be directing traffic outside GCPD!”

Before you could respond with the scathing remark forming on your tongue, Damian cut in, his voice calm and infuriatingly cold. “I still have a few questions.”

You blinked, already feeling your temper rise. “Absolutely not. My relationship is none of your business—especially not yours, Damian. You’re twelve!”

“Incorrect,” he said, completely unbothered. “With Father off-world on League business, the responsibility of vetting potential suitors falls upon us. And as the only competent one in the room, it defaults to me.”

A chorus of protests erupted immediately from the others that Damian ignored. His gaze flicked to Kyle with practiced disdain, like he was gum stuck to the bottom of his combat boot. “What exactly makes you worthy of my sister, subhuman?”

Kyle blinked, visibly thrown off, still debating whether or not he should take offence to being called subhuman. 

He frozen in place. His mouth opened, then closed. “Uh…” he began, uncertain, the word trailing off as he tried to form a coherent sentence.

Apparently, the hesitation was answer enough.

Damian’s eyes narrowed into sharp green slits. “Drake,” he said, voice clipped, “what else have you found?”

“Continuing with my findings,” he said, voice casual, “Kyle’s record is mostly clean, aside from the minor trespassing incident involving an unauthorized mural I mentioned earlier. Risk level: moderate. Noted to have a saviour complex. And he also cries during Pixar movies.”

Kyle straightened abruptly, scandalized. “I do not cry at—okay, Up doesn’t count,” he admitted, then looked around in disbelief. “How the hell did you even find that out?!”

“Don’t humour him,” you muttered under your breath, shooting Kyle a warning glance before turning your full attention back to the pint-sized menace sitting across from you. “Again—you are twelve, Damian. What the hell makes you an expert on relationship vetting?”

“I’ve read three psychology textbooks,” Damian began coolly, lifting his hand to tick the points off with deliberate precision, “studied the behavioural profiles of over twenty romantic serial offenders—one of which includes Grayson.”

Dick jolted upright, visibly affronted. “Excuse me?”

“Your pattern of failed relationships is both statistically and psychologically alarming,” Damian continued, undeterred. “I’ve even made charts.”

You and the rest of your siblings snorted in unison. Across from you, Kyle gave a small, nervous laugh—the kind of sound a man makes when he’s not entirely sure whether he’s in on the joke or about to be murdered for blinking wrong.

Dick’s voice shot up. “What charts?!”

“And,” Damian went on, ignoring him entirely, “I once successfully diffused a volatile courtship between two League assassins with conflicting kill orders.”

You opened your mouth to speak—possibly to tell him how utterly deranged that sounded, how Leagueassassins should not be part of any romantic case study, much less one led by a twelve-year-old—but he wasn’t finished.

“Your track record, on the other hand, includes crying over someone who ghosted you for a week and then posted a thirst trap.”

Whatever amusement you’d had vanished in an instant. Your jaw dropped, your face flushed. “That was one time!” you snapped, your voice pitching higher than you intended, voice cracked halfway between defensive outrage and and sheer mortification.

“To be fair,” Jason grumbled from his seat, voice laced with judgment and absolutely no sympathy, “she only dated him because—and I quote—‘he had killer abs.’”

Your head snapped toward him so fast it was a miracle you didn’t pull something. “Jason!”

He shrugged. “Don’t look at me. You did say it.”

Tim nodded in agreement.

“Will you idiots please stop listening in on my conversations with Steph and Cass—” you began, only to be immediately cut off.

“Exactly!” Damian exclaimed cutting you off, throwing up a hand. “We cannot afford another lapse in judgment,” he declared, gesturing toward Kyle like he were Exhibit A in a courtroom trial, “simply because this new lover happens to look marginally appealing in low lighting and owns a sketchbook.”

Kyle blinked, the sentence hitting him a beat too late. He processed the insult, then the strange half-praise buried beneath it.

“…Was that a compliment?” he asked, genuinely unsure.

“No!” four voices of your brothers barked in unison. 

The sheer force of the response made him flinch slightly, hands rising halfway in surrender. You sighed, long and loud, dragging a hand down your face in exhausted disbelief. 

Damian’s full attention had returned to your boyfriend now, gaze cold and assessing.

“So,” he said, tone chillingly level, “let me repeat—what makes you worthy of my sister?”

Kyle swallowed, shoulders tensing under the weight of every glare trained on him. He cleared his throat, trying to will some confidence into his voice.

“Uh… right. Well. I guess… I care about her?” he offered.

Damian’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You guess?”

“No—I do! I do care,” Kyle corrected quickly, sitting forward with more conviction. “She’s smart. Amazing. She’s—she’s brave. She makes things feel… clearer. Like I know who I want to be when I’m around her. She makes me better.”

Jason leaned back in his chair with a groan. “Jesus. That was such a Hallmark line that I think I got a cavity.”

“Do you value your kneecaps?” Damian asked flatly, not even bothering to blink.

That was your cue.

You stepped in at last, exasperated beyond belief, you planted your hands firmly on the worn surface and levelled a withering glare at your brothers. “Okay, this—whatever this is—is over.”

“We’re just doing our due diligence as your brothers,” Tim said, completely unapologetic as he tapped something casually into his tablet.

“No,” you hissed, voice low and livid. “You’re not. You’re all insane. I swear, Duke is the only normal one left in this family.”

Jason shrugged, unfazed. “Your boy toy is still alive. That’s considered restraint.”

Kyle, to his credit, only subtly shift a few inches away from Jason at the his statement.

“I bought him a muffin,” Dick chimed in, as if that excused the interrogation he and the others forced Kyle under.

Kyle nodded quickly, hoping he could help diffuse the tension. “It’s true. He did buy me a muffin.”

You turned to your boyfriend with narrowed eyes. “Stop trying to make light of this. For all you know, these idiots poisoned it.”

The colour drained from Kyle’s face. He looked down at the now-empty muffin wrapper with dawning horror, then slowly turned his head toward Dick, who merely grinned wider and winked—completely refusing to confirm or deny the accusation.

Damian, meanwhile, was still watching Kyle with unnerving focus, arms folded, lips pressed into a thin line. Then, finally, he spoke again, “If you hurt her,” he said, voice firm and cold, “the Green Lantern ring won’t save you from me.”

You let out a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. “This is insane. I’m not fifteen. I’m not sneaking out to meet a boy behind your backs. Kyle and I are seeing each other. End of story. You do not get a vote.”

Jason leaned back, arms crossed, expression smug. “Actually, we get four.”

“For fuck’s sake,” you muttered, rubbing your temples.

Across the table, Kyle had gone still. Damian’s words had clearly hit their mark. But rather than shrink away, he reached for you.

His hand found yours hesitantly, fingers brushing your skin like the simple act of touching you might trigger a full-on brawl with the others. His gaze flicked to your brothers—who had suddenly gone quiet, watching with interaction with sharp, unreadable expressions—and then settled back on you.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Really. I get it. If I had a sister like you… I’d be worried too.”

You froze and softened at the fact he wasn’t completely bothered by your family.

Kyle turned back to your brothers, squaring his shoulders as he looked between them one by one. Then his eyes found Damian again. He held Damian’s glare, steady and unflinching.

Then, with a slow nod, he spoke—his voice calm, steady, and utterly sincere.

“Okay,” he said. “Like I said—I get it. I respect it. But I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not going to hurt her.” He let the words hang there, heavy and unflinching, and then added—more quietly, but somehow more resolutely, “You don’t have to like me. Hell, you can threaten me all you want. I’m not here to fight you. I’m here because I really do care about her deeply.”

There was a long silence. Then Jason sighed like it physically hurt him. ““Well… he’s not the worst you’ve done.”

“I still don’t like him,” Damian added swiftly, as if he needed to get it on the record before anyone mistook him for soft. “But… I suppose if he hurts you, we’ll just make him disappear.”

Kyle blinked. “Wait, does this mean you all approve?”

All of them snorted at the question.

“Don’t push it, buddy,” Dick said, rising from his seat. Tim followed suit, both of them stepping aside to let Kyle escape the booth

You didn’t bother replying. Instead, you grabbed Kyle’s arm and tugged him up with more force than necessary, already heading toward the door with determined steps.

“Okay. We’re leaving,” you announced, throwing one last glare over your shoulder. “Next time, we’ll do dinner off-planet.”

Tim blinked. “You know we can just hack the satellites.”

You only flipped your brothers the bird. Kyle turned to you as you stepped outside, the door swinging shut behind you with the soft jingle of the bell. His expression was a mix of awe and mild terror.

“…You know,” he said slowly, “I suddenly understand why you have trust issues.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in a little closer, voice dipping into a whisper like he thought your brothers might still be listening. “Just so I know… are there more of them?”

You sighed, the sound long-suffering but laced with something almost—almost—fond.

“Technically?” you said, casting Kyle a sideways glance. “Barbara’s neutral. Cass and Steph like you—so far. Duke too. But he also told me to pass along a message.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“If you break my heart,” you continued sweetly, “he’ll ruin your credit score.”

Kyle blinked, visibly thrown. “That’s… a very specific threat.”

You only smirked, slipping your hand around his arm and tugging him gently forward. “Welcome to my family.” There was a beat of silence before you added, far too casually, “Oh, and remember—you still haven’t officially met my dad yet.”

Kyle stopped cold in his tracks.

You felt the sudden halt in his step and turned just in time to watch all the colour drain from his face.

“Wait. What?” he said, voice a little higher than usual. “I thought… I just survived the Four Horsemen of Gotham. Can’t they just pass along a message or something?”

You turned to face him, your expression amused. “They were the warm-up.”

Kyle blinked. “The warm-up?”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, nodding. “Bruce prefers one-on-one conversations. Private. Controlled. Somewhere quiet, and… less likely to leave evidence.”

Kyle ran a hand down his face, visibly distressed. “I’ve fought aliens. I’ve stared down gods. I’ve survived being trapped in a black hole with Guy Gardner. But this…” He trailed off, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

And yet—he didn’t step back. He didn’t run. He just stood there, eyes wide, shoulders tight. Then, with a sharp breath, he straightened, lifted his chin, and gave a shaky nod.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. I can do this. I’ve got this. Probably.”

You grinned, looping your arm through his. “That’s the spirit.”

From the café window behind you, a small figure stood watching—arms crossed, green eyes narrowed, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Fool,” Damian murmured, his breath fogging faintly against the glass.

Jason, standing beside him and sipping what was left of his coffee, let out a low chuckle.

“Dead man walking.”

[silas-222]

NO ONE NOTICED 2 ❀ damian wayne

CW: suicide

“No one tried— to read my eyes. no one but you… wish it weren't true”

it starts with unanswered texts. then missed calls. voicemail after voicemail where his voice grows more tense, more hollow. “beloved, please call me back.” he thinks maybe youre upset with him. maybe he left too quickly the last time, maybe you caught the bitterness in his tone before patrol. he meant to make it up to you. he always meant to make it up to you. but the silence stretches. longer and longer. and suddenly hes not irritated— hes afraid.

he tries to track your phone, but its off. tries your apartment, but its empty— clean, untouched, like no ones been home in days. your keys are gone. your coat is still there. damians hands shake when he reaches out to your friends, people he vaguely remembers from nights you dragged him out to “touch grass” or smile. they dont know where you are. they havent known.

“we havent seen her in forever, damian.”

“we tried texting, but she just kinda… stopped replying.”

“we thought maybe you two were busy…” and then someone says it. “she quit therapy, didnt she?”

his heart stops. its a simple sentence. quiet. almost casual. like it doesnt just unravel everything inside him. you quit therapy. almost a year ago. he doesnt remember you telling him. he remembers you starting therapy, how hopeful he felt. how proud. he remembers holding you after your first session, when your hands were shaking but your voice was steady. he remembers thinking— maybe this will save her. but he stopped asking. he let the days pile up. he got busy. you always said you were fine. and he believed you, because believing anything else felt like failure. how foolish he was, he was a detective yet he couldnt see you were suffering? he was beating himself up about it.

and now— hes realizing how much he missed. you hadnt seen your friends in months. you werent sleeping. or sleeping too much. you smiled less. you stopped humming when you cooked. you stopped touching him in the middle of the night, when your anxiety used to wake you in tears. you stopped needing him— or maybe you didnt, and he just wasnt there. he plays the last voicemail you ever sent him. its short. just your voice, soft, tired. “hey. um… love you. thats all.” thats all. he listens to it on repeat until his ears ring.

it was raining the day the call came. alfred answered first— then handed the phone to damian with a look hed never seen before. not anger. not disappointment. just… devastation.

“a body,” the officer said over the line. “found by hikers early this morning. young woman. the location matches the coordinates you flagged last week. the cliff overlooking gotham.” damian didn’t breathe. they asked if he could come in. to identify. to confirm. he already knew. the ride over was a blur. the car, the escort, the endless traffic— none of it touched him. all he could see was you. standing at that cliff months ago, wind in your hair, laughing as he tried to name constellations wrong just to hear you correct him.

he remembered the way you held his hand. the way you always clung a little tighter when you were quiet. he thought it was love. it was love. but it was also something else— something he never really tried to understand. the coroners tent was set up a few feet from the edge. damp grass, police tape flapping in the wind. “we’re sorry to ask this,” someone said, “but we need confirmation.” they unzipped the bag slowly. damian didnt move for a long time. it was you.

your face bloodied, split down the side where the rocks caught you. your expression still, peaceful in a way that didnt belong to the living. he stood there, silent, a statue in the storm. someone asked if he was okay. he didnt answer. he didnt cry. not then. not on the ride back. but when he got home— it started in his chest—tight, suffocating. like he couldnt get air no matter how hard he tried. he stumbled through the hallway, past the kitchen, into your room, where everything still smelled like you. looked like you.

your sweater was still hanging on the back of your chair. your mug— half full— sat beside the stack of books you never finished. your bed was made in that half-hearted way you always did when you were tired but wanted to try. you tried so hard. and he hadn’t seen it. he stood in the middle of the room, trembling. fists clenched. jaw tight. and then he broke.

he dropped to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut. a sound left his throat— low, choked, desperate. he gasped for air that wouldn’t come. “why didnt you tell me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “why didnt you just— why didnt i see it?” his hands shook as he reached for your pillow, clutching it to his chest like it could bring you back. all he could think about was the last time he saw you. how tired you looked. how he didnt ask why. you said you loved him, and he said it back, and then he left.

he always left.

his thoughts spiraled, wild and cruel— you needed me. you needed me and i wasnt there. you were drowning and i didnt even notice. the images wouldnt stop. you at the cliff. you standing there alone. you closing your eyes. you letting go. the wind. the silence. the fall. your body on the rocks. his stomach lurched. he crawled to the bathroom and threw up. when it was over, he collapsed against the tile, fingers in his hair, sobbing so hard his ribs ached. you were supposed to be okay. you promised youd be okay. you always said you were fine. and he believed you. because it was easier. because he wanted to believe love was enough. because he didn’t want to see the truth. now it was too late. no goodbye. no scream. just a silent i’m sorry that haunts him every time he closes his eyes. he collapsed to the floor.

and he sobbed. gut-wrenching, soul-tearing sobs that ripped out of his chest like theyd been waiting years to break free. he cried for the calls you never answered. for the therapy appointments you never went back to. for the messages you deleted before you sent. he cried because you had been hurting— had always been hurting— and he hadnt seen it. you were right there. slipping through his fingers. and he didnt even notice. and now it was too late.

no one noticed. not even him.

[silas-222]

SUPERSTAR!

ˋ°•*⁀➷ PAIR: dick grayson x fem!popstar reader

ˋ°•*⁀➷ WC: 1.9k+

ˋ°•*⁀➷ CONTAINS: fem!reader, angst, some fluff, dick being hurt, jealous dick, mentions of blood & cuts, & purposeful omission of tags to avoid spoilers.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ AUTHOR'S NOTE: hey... tbh this was the fastest thing i've written in a while, so, go me lmao also, if enough people want, i would totally be down to do a part two. also, also, shoutout to @delusionsofgrandeur13 for chatting with me about this concept and screaming with me hehe hopefully you all enjoy this!

Dick won't give up his crime fighting ways...

The gray clouds hung heavily over Gotham, dark and ominous, as rain poured down and thunder rumbled across the city, leaving behind a haze of humid dew.

In the blink of an eye, the previous sunny day had turned cold and rainy.

You are perched on your couch in your apartment, a soft blanket wrapped around you, providing warmth against the chill outside.

From your sofa, you glance out the window at the people scurrying beneath awnings and huddling in doorways, their jackets pulled tightly against the sudden cold. 

The streets, usually alive with the sounds of conversations and city life, felt muted, the typical hustle and bustle subdued by the relentless downpour.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, its piercing sound cutting through the comforting ambiance—a grim reminder that trouble often lurked in the shadows of the city, even on the coziest of days.

You find yourself sinking into the couch, fully immersed in the movie you had popped on. Your eyes threaten to shut close as your head lulls back and forth softly.

Pulling the blanket tighter against you, you inhale a deep breath, leaning against the back of the couch, already lightly snoring before you hear it.

Just as you start to relax, a sudden thud from your fire escape outside jolts you back to full alertness. Your head whips around, your lips pressed together in a tense line as you strain to catch any further sounds.

When none come, you force yourself to settle back on the sofa, trying to push the unsettling noise out of your mind. 

You close your eyes yet again, drifting off as soon as you lay your head back down. Your soft snores fill the room until you hear another noise, making you spring awake, your heart pounding in your chest.

You stand, agitated, ready for whatever comes next.  

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The series of taps continues, with only a few seconds separating each one. You walk over to the window, reaching for a knife that you've left on the counter for slicing fruit.

Gripping it tightly, you round the corner of the island and stretch your neck to look outside, only to find your boyfriend lying on the cold, wet metal of the fire escape.

In a rush, you toss the knife into the sink; speed walk to the window, unlock it, and pull it open quickly. "Dick?" you call out, your eyes scanning the fresh cuts on his face, which are smeared with blood.

He lifts his head slightly, a lopsided grin appearing on his face. "Hey, baby," he replies hoarsely before dropping his head back down.

"Shit," you say roughly, quickly gripping him tightly and helping him through the window into the warmth of your apartment. You manage to get him inside and gently set him down on the vinyl floor.

"Did I wake you?" he rasps, wincing as he sits up.

"You always do," you reply, watching him reach for the first aid kit under the sink. "What the hell happened?" Your voice carries a hint of irritation.

"Ah, you know," he prompts, as if the answer were obvious. "Work."

You roll your eyes and let out a deep sigh as you carry the kit over to where he sits hunched over. "What happened this time? A knife fight? A toxin blast?" you ask, sounding tired as you soak some gauze in saline solution.

He gives a dry laugh. "It's nothing you need to worry about."

"Mhm," you respond, swiping the gauze across his cheek and making him wince slightly.

His eyebrows furrow in thought. "I know you're upset," he shrugs.

You nod in agreement while continuing to tend to his cut.

"Bruce needed me. Jason was being a hard-ass, and Tim was in Queens," he continued, his wide eyes focused on you as you tended to him. "I was the only one left." 

"Okay," you nodded, applying a band-aid to his clean skin.

He let out a shallow breath, sagging his shoulders. "Gotham… she needed me."

"I need you," you said, your voice louder than intended as you tossed the used gauze on the ground, locking your eyes with Dick's surprised gaze. "And I don't mean Nightwing. I mean Dick Grayson—the real you. The only you I want." You tilted your head back, shaking it slightly.

His mouth hangs open. "I'm here now, sweetheart."

You shake your head, holding back a sniffle. "No. I want you to be here always, at least in the ways you can control. I want you to stay alive, Dick," you say, your love for him evident in every word.

"Baby, I'm okay. You fixed me," his voice begins to fill with desperation.

You huff, biting your tongue. "Gotham always takes you from me and spits you back up at my doorstep, bloodied and bruised," you start, glancing at his cheek. "What if next time you bleed out? What if you get too comfortable and slip up?" you continue, reaching to slide his suit off his shoulders to tend to his side. "What if you don't make it home next time?" Tears well in your eyes as you carefully sanitize the wound.

He doesn't even flinch at the sting, unable to comprehend what he's hearing. "I love you."

"You love Gotham more," you murmur, your voice tinged with a hint of hope as you patch up his wound. "I gave you an ultimatum, me or Gotham," you remind him, tears rolling down your cheeks. "And you chose, so I shouldn't be sad. But I had hoped…" Your eyes, brimming with tears, meet his, and his heart feels the weight of your unspoken words. "You would choose me."

His stomach drops at the sight of you, but he can't help feeling a surge of irritation. "Is this about someone else?" he almost spits, confused by this sudden wave of emotion.

Your eyes widen in surprise as you pull away from him. "What are you talking about?"

He licks his lips, his expression flat as he hesitates for a moment. Then he sniffs and reaches for his phone, wincing as he swipes it open. Turning the phone toward you, he shows you a tabloid from Gotham Times with an image of you at one of Gotham's high-end restaurants accompanied by an article that reads:

"Gotham's Elite in the Spotlight: Sources report that the acclaimed pop singer, a prominent figure in Gotham's social scene, has ended her relationship with Gotham's own Dick Grayson.

This news comes after she was spotted enjoying brunch at the upscale Tavern on the Green with up-and-coming actor Luke Fox, the son of Lucius Fox, a close friend of billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne and CEO of Wayne Enterprises." 

You had grown accustomed to the constant scrutiny and speculation surrounding you, with keen eyes evaluating your every move, criticizing and amplifying every action.

What caught you off guard was Dick actually taking the tabloids seriously, let alone believing in their hypocrisies.

"Do you really think I would cheat on you?" you asked, looking up at him, your voice cracking with disbelief and hurt.

His narrowed eyes softened as he realized how ridiculous and unfair he was being. "I don't… I don't know why I said that," he admitted, turning his phone to look at its screen. "I…" he started, glancing back at your now tense expression.

"I was never with him, Dick. We had just met for brunch, which his publicist arranged, and the article failed to mention the other three people at the table. His agent thought it would be good for him to expand his horizons. Not that it matters, but we only talked about superficial shit," you sighed, clearly frustrated.

"Superficial shit?" he echoed your words.

"Yes!" you affirmed roughly, your anger simmering beneath the surface. "I thought you didn't give a shit about these tabloids!"

"I don't!" he insists, trying to convince you. "I just…" he trails off, shaking his head as he searches for the right words. "Sometimes they get to me," he admits, looking at you with pure honesty in his eyes. "I hate it, but… it's true." He takes a sharp breath.

You can't help but find his honesty refreshing. "I understand, Dick, but this is my life," you mumble. "There will always be some ridiculous article trying to portray me as some sleaze," you continue, shaking your head. "That's just how it is."

He nods in agreement, his disappointment evident. "Yeah, I guess it is," he says, the tension in the air thick.

You sink onto the cool floor, finding it grounding. Your mind briefly wanders as you stare at it, lost in thought.

"Can we just have one more night?" Dick mumbles, his bright blue eyes now a soft gray.

You look up at him. "Dick…"

"Just… please?" he pleads, his voice sincere. "One more night of normal? Then, I promise I'll let you do your pop-star thing and tour the world," he adds a hint of humor in his tone that makes you laugh.

"I'm not even on a world tour," you correct him, wiping a stray tear from your cheek as you chuckle.

"You will be," he assures you with his signature smile. "And I'll be cheering you on."

You sniffle, biting your lip. "You're a good guy, Dick."

"Would that opinion change if I kissed you?" he teases with a lopsided grin. 

You let out a laugh before leaning in closer, pressing a kiss to his lips; the warmth of his touch spreads down your spine, sending shivers down your skin. 

You pull away only slightly. "We should get some sleep."

"Not yet," he peers into your eyes, lips brushing against yours. "Let me soak you in."

The next morning, Dick wakes up before dawn breaks. He looks down and sees his arms wrapped around your waist as you snuggle into his chest. He smiles, but beneath that smile, a pang of disappointment lingers.

The night has long since ended, as has the normalcy he had come to rely on.

Thinking it would be easier for you, he decides to leave before you wake up. He gently eases his arms from around your waist and slips out of bed.

He tiptoes across the floor, careful not to wake you, and places a soft kiss on your forehead before putting on a spare white shirt he keeps in his drawer. He leaves the extra shirts behind for you.

He also leaves behind several of his sweatshirts and hoodies in your closet, just in case you get cold.

Stepping out quietly, he walks home through the cold Gotham air, the slight dew hanging heavy over the city, leaving him with a bittersweet feeling in his heart.

When he arrives at the Batcave, he finds Tim and Jason huddled around the Batcomputer. They both turn their heads to look at him as they hear his footsteps approaching.

Tim shakes his head, gesturing toward the computer. "Well, if it isn't Gotham's own charming socialite in the flesh, the Dick Grayson," he teases, nudging Jason, who laughs in response.

Dick lets out an irritated sigh and moves closer to see what's on the screen. There, a news article is blown up, and its headline reads:

"Gotham's hero, Nightwing, was seen sneaking into the pop star's apartment just days after her split with charming socialite and Wayne Enterprises executive Dick Grayson, amidst rumors of a blossoming relationship with actor Luke Fox, son of wealthy Wayne Enterprises CEO Lucius Fox."

Dick snapped his attention to the amused Tim and a serious Jason. "Don't worry about that," Dick muttered. "It won't be an issue anymore."

MINI AUTHOR'S NOTE: how are we feeling? feigning for more?

[silas-222]

thinking about teen gojo who’s still learning how to control his powers… and just starts floating every time you kiss him.

you just started dating after he won your heart some time around your first year as jujutsu high students, and there’s not really a difference from when you were friends compared to when you’re now together but—

there are the closer cuddles during movie nights and the spotanenous hangouts now established as dates amongst other things, and of course, the kisses.

funnily enough, it was you who intiated the first kiss, even after his oh so bold and confident claims that he’d be the best boyfriend and kisser, despite never having been in a relationship before.

some might consider that your first kiss with gojo wasn’t so special, but it’s special to you.

it had been a convenience store run he had dragged you out on during the ungodly am hours. satoru rummaging for his newly bought sweets in the grocery bag, his tongue poking out of his mouth. his expression had lit up when he pulled out his candy, eyes flitting to yours and then-

you leaned in to press a quick, chaste kiss to his lips.

his snowy eyelashes fluttered in shock, staring at you like you had just strung up the stars in the current night sky overhead. the dim light from the convenience store casts a glow over your facial features, and it takes him a moment to realize that the curvature of your lips had just been on his. that you had kissed him.

and then he started floating.

you couldn't help but laugh and pull him back down and in for yet another kiss.

and it keeps happening every time you kiss him now. it doesn’t matter what he was doing before, as soon as your lips leave his, his feet leave the floor too — quite literally.

you’d think that he’s doing it on purpose, but he swears that he isn’t! it’s not his fault that his technique goes haywire whenever you bless him with a kiss!

it’s to the point where you’ve decided not question it now, and even the others don’t too.

“suguru and i are going off for our mission!” and suguru watches his best friend lean down expectantly towards you, tapping his lips with a finger, “can i have a good luck kiss, sweetheart?”

and you oblige sweetly with a hum, “have fun, you two. be safe!”

suguru’s hand is already outstretched to tug satoru down to the earth by his jacket once he starts drifting upwards. “c’mon, satoru.”

hell, he’s been half-asleep, still drowsy as you give him a kiss while leaving his dorm early in the morning before you’re caught by yaga, and gojo starts hovering off the mattress like an exorcism is taking place, the thin blanket slipping off his legs.

(“i guess you can say that you really sweep me off my fee- ow!”)

and while it’s ridiculous, you also find that it’s rather endearing.

but god forbid you start making out with him though. you’re not quite sure on what might happen whenever that comes around..

[silas-222]

hiiii could you do yumi w a clingy partner hc ?

i gotchu anon

• despite yumi not being clingy himself, he LOVES having a clingy partner

• if he’s in the kitchen cooking, you’re sitting on the counter and talking

• if he’s on the couch, you bet you’re right next to him or directly on top of him

•his favorite thing you do is when he’s editing at his desk, you’ll come up behind him and wrap your arms around him

• he’ll lean into your touch and close his eyes with the biggest smile on his face, sit there too long and he might fall asleep

• if he feels like he’s been too busy and you want his attention, he’ll fix that quick

• he’ll be at his computer, you on his couch or his bed, just sitting there. you might be on your phone or watching tv, but your mind is solely on your boyfriend sitting at the desk beside you

• it’s like he reads your mind. he’ll scoot his chair back slightly and turn to you, “c’mere baby,”

• that’s all it takes and you’re practically RUNNING over to him

• he’ll grab you by the waist and sit you on his lap, you wrap your arms around him and lay there while he continues his work on his computer

• one of his hands breaks away from the keyboard occasionally to play with your hair or rub your back

• he loves when you hold his hand too! in the car, walking around the streets or the mall together, even just lying next to each other and you take his hand in his, he gets so happy

another kinda short one AAAAA my bad man, i hope you enjoyed anon :)))

[silas-222]

🦇🦇🦇🦇

[silas-222]

BRO THIS IS SO ME ALWAYS??? Anyone else????

Found on a post by @fic-dumpster

[silas-222]

me everytime Nai gets out of his slump and posts 😛

OUUUU let’s get jason’s reaction to reader kissing his scars randomly

Mhm mhm, I think about this very much so this is going to be tooth rotting sweet. I had so much fun writing this so everyone thank my girlie🙏🏽

⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱⋰

Jason laid in bed beside, body aching for the hellish day he had. Somehow he got to the babysitter of the day for the three hellions Cass, Duke, and Damian. And damn did they tire him. He was getting older and every time he was around them he definitely felt it cause sometimes he didn't know what the fuck they were talking about. Then deciding to go out and fuck with criminals and ruin their night definitely wasn't a great idea.

His body ached. His scars were fucking throbbing. From time to time they caused him some pain but when he over did it then they were pretty damn painful.

Your eyes ran over your boyfriends sun kissed tan skin. He was completely knocked out laying on his back, heavy snores filling the air, his wavy hair now a complete mess. If only he could see the way your eyes softened as you looked at him. Feel the way your heart started to beat slower, feeling so ease with your lover home with you.

With your hand gently pushing his hair back his body shivered. The dark scar that went across his face catching your eye. Eyes watching him like a hawk looking at each and every mark or bruise that littered his perfect face. One small kiss turned to two. Two turned to three. After three you stopped counting.

Jason awoke with a groan, feeling of being touched was not what he was expecting. Even less was he expecting for his lover to be covering him in kisses. More specifically his stars. He thought he was dreaming at first. He knew how in love his body you were but he wasn't expecting this. It seemed you hadn't even noticed he awoke. Slowly making your way down from his face all the way to your favorite one that laid right across his chest.

"What are you doin', doll?" Your eyes, slowly moving up to meet his with that pretty smile on his face and he swears his heart stops. "Hi Jaycie." With adoration that laced your voice as you finally spoke to your lover made him groan. It was like he died and went to heaven. His hand made his way to the back of your head while yours moved to his chest.

"S'pposed to be sleeping doll. Come lay down." His words went in one ear and out the other as you went back to kissed the scar the trailed up his neck till you got to his cheek. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you on top of him. "Starting to think you're obsessed with me, sweet thing." A smirk playing on his lips as the words came out. "Mm how can I not be? I have the most worlds prettiest boyfriend."

He couldn't help but scoff a little bit. The idea of him being pretty? Something he found ridiculous. "Grown ass man, nothing pretty bout me." You shook your head at the ridiculous statement. He just couldn't see what you did. Your hands rested against his chest, chin laying on them while staring at your boyfriend as if he was some celebrity.

Ending the night with one final kiss. Right against his lips, a place better than any scar.

"I think you're pretty. You're like my own action figure. You're so big. And your lips are like a dolls with your cupid bow. And your lashes are something girls envy." He didn't know just how lucky how he could be with someone so gentle with him as you after being so horrible in life. He could barely control his temper at times. Choosing to hide his emotions instead of embracing them because that's what he knew after coming back. All he knew was being deliberate with how he hurt people. Wanting to make them hurt like he did.

And yet you would never see that side of him. He couldn't allow that. Anyone but you. You didn't deserve it no matter what you two argued about, or how angry he got at you. Because of things like this, moments like this. Waking up to you kissing the most vulnerable part of him all because you were in love with him.

Feeling you drag your nail across his cheek, following the curve of his cheekbone. Wrapping his hand in your he couldn't help but smile.

⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱⋰

@silas-222

[silas-222]

seeing my man with his canonical love interest 💔💔💔💔

[silas-222]

Me when y/n is acting like a little fucking child for male validation

[silas-222]

The bedroom down the hall

Warning: Super angsty, like next level angst, it made @sirkekselord​ cry Word count: ~1.6k Summary: After Jason’s death you know it’s time to pack up the things in his room, but will you be able to cope with all the memories and the fact that your son is really dead? (Inspired by “In the bedroom down the hall” from ‘dear Evan Hansen’)

Requested by the lovely @hubblill: Hey!Love you fics! I wonderd if I could request a super angsty batfam (batmom) story, inspirerad by the song “In the beadroom down the hall” (dear evan hansen) where batmom is packning up Jasons things after he dies and remember all the good and bad times they had. Ending with some fluff please.

The manor was cold with the absence of the little boy you’d grown to love in the last five years. You had grown to see as your son, your youngest after Dick. You weren’t able to really blame Bruce, he was your husband after all, but at the same time, you weren’t able to look into his eyes, let alone sleep in the same bed with him. It just hurt too much. It had been two months now and you still expected Jay to come through the door and fall into your arms after school. But he never did. He would never again. “Mistress Wayne,” Alfred’s voice made you look up from the book you had thoughtlessly picked up, not realizing what it was, only to recognize the cover of the book you had always read to Jason when he couldn’t sleep when he was younger when you tried to put it back on the shelf, “I think it’s time, I’ve already placed the boxes in front of the door.” He didn’t need to say explicitly what he meant, you already knew, you already dreaded it. Jason’s room had been closed, left the way it was, ever since the night you found out he died. Back then you had spent the whole night kneeling at his bed, crying for all the days he’d never have, all the experiences he would never make. Bruce tried to get you out, but you couldn’t even bear to be in the same room as him and, even though he was hurting too, he loved you too much to intervene, instead deciding to give you space and time to grieve. The next morning you locked the door and put the key around your neck, you couldn’t stand the thought of changing it, even though you knew, deep inside, that it wouldn’t be used again. You had played with the thought of letting it just stay closed, gather dust until you were ready to face the fact that you had lost your son, but Alfred made you try to understand that you’d never get to that point if you’d literally lock your feelings away. So you just nodded, eyes void of emotions after days and nights that you spent crying, and turned around to go to the place that became the center of everything you had hoped would never happen. You stood in front of his bedroom quicker than you had expected. It was the very last room in the hallway that had been dedicated to your children, Dick’s room that was also long left empty only a few doors away. A pained smile made its way onto your face when your eyes landed on the lettering that Jason had carved into it when he finally felt home ’Jason’s room! Keep out!’ and a bit smaller under it stood ’Except mom!’ that he had added when your mother-son bond got as strong as it had been for the rest of the five years you had together. Only five years… You swallowed the lump in your throat and closed your eyes for a second, trying to keep the tears from streaming just a little bit longer, before picking up one of the boxes and opening the door, before you could change your mind. 

You tried to ignore your surrounding as best as you could, knowing that if you’d focus too much on anything you’d break down again, and made your way over to the closet that stood beside his bed and slowly opened it. The beginning was easy. It was shirts that he wore every day that laid perfectly folded in their place, they made you smile a bit, thinking about how they all seemed to be the same shirt in different colours and with sometimes a pattern on it. But then your hands landed on a deep grey crocheted sweater. You remembered like yesterday how you started to try your hand at crocheting when the stress of Dick leaving and the new cute kid going out fighting with your husband got a bit too much. The sweater was the first thing you made that you dared to show anyone and when it turned out to somewhat be the size of Jason you couldn’t help but give it to him. He always complained about it, saying that the fabric was just a horrible choice and that the arms got tighter at the end. You just shrugged and laughed that maybe crocheting wasn’t your strong suit after all and that he could feel free to throw it away whenever he wanted. You were sure that he’d thrown it into the trash the same day, but here it was. In your hands. He had kept it. The first tears started welling up in your eyes and you couldn’t help but pressing it to your body as if Jason was still in it… but it was just a thought, the ghost of a hope that you started to lose. You finally looked around the room. Your eyes were drawn to the superman nightlight that was plugged into the wall beside the door, you had bought it for him as a joke, but somehow he never wanted to take it off again. You only found out that he wasn’t too fond of being alone in the dark when the lightbulb inside it broke and he made his way to your and Bruce’s bedroom, asking you if you could fix it. You had promised he would never see it break again, but you had never known that it would be because of such a gruesome circumstance. Then your gaze landed on his bedside table and you were like in a trance when you sat down on the bad and opened its drawer, your breath hitching when you saw the broken picture frame laying inside it. It was a picture of you, him and Bruce on his birthday. You looked so happy, but it seemed like a distant memory now, something from a place that was destroyed by a blizzard of change. You traced the cracks in the frame and of the fragments of glass and you couldn’t stop your brain from wandering to the evening when it was broken like that. You couldn’t quite remember why, but you had forbidden him from joining patrol that night and he was enraged by that. He screamed at you, shouted that he heated you and that you weren’t his real mother, but instead of sitting him down and explaining that you were just worried for him and that you knew he didn’t mean it, you screamed back… You’ll regret saying that… One day I might not be here to care about you anymore, what’s then?… Stop acting so childish… Then he threw the picture at the wall and you left the room, telling him that if he thought he knew everything so much better than you that he should make is own decisions… You weren’t sure when you started crying and sobbing, you hadn’t even noticed your finger getting pierced by the shards of glass and blood dripping onto the picture beside your tears. The hairs on your neck began raising and your hearts started beating when you thought that it was Jason who stood in the doorway, but when you looked up it was Bruce who looked at you worried, with tears of his own welling up in his eyes.   You started to break down and, you didn’t know how, but soon you were clutching onto Bruce, crying into his chest. “I-I can’t do this,” you sobbed, “I’m sorry, I just can-can’t.” Your voice was broken and cracked and you felt like there was just a heavy brick of ice where your heart had been. “It’s okay,” Bruce whispered into your hair, but you could hear that he was crying too, “We don’t have to..”

Your head was arching at the screaming match that was happening in your living room between Bruce and Tim, a useless fight that both would have forgotten by tomorrow, and you decided that it wasn’t worth your evening. You were walking towards your room when something caught your eye in the corridor that you hadn’t entered for years. You couldn’t believe your eyes. Jason’s door was wide open, even though the key was still hanging around your neck, never having left its place. Whatever took over you at that moment was something that you couldn’t explain, but instead of calling for your husband to investigate, your blood rushed through your ears as you warily walked over to the room. When you stood in the door your gaze landed on the figure that was standing in front of the commode that was decorated with pictures of your late son and the rest of your family (mainly you, Alfred and Bruce). The person, seemingly a man, was towering at around the same height as Bruce. “Who are you?” you breathed out in a whisper, something about the man was off. He turned to you in surprise, but even though he was taller, more muscular, older and now had a white streak in his black hair, you’d recognize these blue eyes everywhere. “Jason?” you whispered with tears in your eyes as you walked closer to him, while he just stood there like a statue. “Is it really you?” You raised your hand to his cheek and stroked over it. You weren’t quite sure if the look in his eyes was one of anger or one of sadness, but you didn’t know if you cared. As soon as your heart was sure that it was really your little Jason, you embraced him as tight as you could, feeling like he could disappear any second again. Sobs were shaking your body, but soon you felt his arms around you, hugging you just as tight. “It’s me mommy, I’m back. It’s really me…”

[silas-222]

Through the Fire

Jason Todd x batmom!reader

Jason’s death broke you almost beyond repair, sending you into a dark pit that you struggled to claw yourself from. But what about your baby boy? What about what happened to him? And could you ever save him like you should have done years ago?

Warnings: ANGST, lots about Jason’s death, kidnapping, Jason needs a hug, references to Damian’s conception, I repeat shit tons of angst, reader wants to die for a while, swearing, descriptions of scars, insults thrown at reader, references to murder

WC: 1.7k

A/N: I realise I took this in a different direction than what the request actually was but I hope you still like it!

Minors DNI

You didn’t think being a mother was ever in your life plan, it wasn’t like you didn’t want children, you just never expected it to happen. Then, a little bird named Dick trotted into your life, bringing along with him a man who you knew was your soulmate. And a few years later, things got even better.

A boy, barely 11 years-old, tried to steal the tires off of the bat-mobile. And less than 24 hours later, he became a Wayne. Life was good, for a while. You did your best to provide your boys with as normal a life as possible given the circumstances and they seemed to flourish. That is until Jason was a month shy of his 14th birthday.

You remember that night in vivid detail like a horrible nightmare you couldn’t escape. Bruce had been silent on the coms after the explosion making a deep sense of unease settle in your gut. You remember little Jason’s bright yellow cape saturated with red, the fabric wrapped tightly around your son’s body, shielding you from the horror.

Bruce made eye-contact with you and you knew, you knew your little jay-bird had been ripped from you before his life could even really begin. The scream that echoed through the cave as you fell to your knees still haunts Alfred and Bruce to this day. The utter despair and rage of a mother who lost their baby rattling their bones.

For a long time, you blamed Bruce. Once Jason had been buried beneath his favourite tree on the grounds, you stopped speaking to your husband. You moved to the other side of the manor, refusing to eat or even sleep. You wanted so badly to be with your boy again and you wished every day that you had been the one who died, not him.

The appearance of Tim saved you. That smart little boy who wouldn’t take no for an answer wormed his way into your heart. He helped gather the pieces of your heart and stick them back together, even if there were a few shards that lay with your Jason.

Bruce welcomed you home with open arms and you both were finally able to grieve together. You became a united front once more, able to face any situation with the knowledge that you weren’t alone.

But nothing could have prepared you for this.

With a pained groan, your mind emerged from the darkness of unconsciousness. Your eyelids felt heavier than normal as you struggled to open them but eventually, you were successful. As far as you could tell from the dim light streaming through the windows, you were in an abandoned apartment. It stank of stale urine and cigarettes.

You huffed and glanced down to find that you had been tied to an old dining chair. Your gaze lifted to the door which was only a few feet in front of you. If you could bounce on the seat with enough force, you might be able to shatter the old wood and make a run for it.

“Don’t even fucking think about it.” The deep voice that spoke from the darkness further into the apartment startled you but you regained your composure quickly, after all this wasn’t your first rodeo.

“What do you want? Money? Leverage?” The man chuckled and you saw the shadow of his figure move. From what you could tell, he was huge.

“No, we just need to have a little conversation without Mr Wayne meddling.” Your stomach dropped. Who the fuck was this guy? But before you could retort, he stepped from the shadows.

The red of his helmet was what struck you first. The metal was smooth save for the white slits for his eyes, even to you who had faced the Joker head on, it was incredibly intimidating. Then emerged the maroon bat on his chest so like the symbol your husband sported. Then the two guns strapped to his thighs.

Anger rushed through your veins before you could stop it. “Red Hood.” You spat. 

“Very good!” He replied sarcastically. “I’m glad I made an impression.” He walked casually over to you, his goliath body towering over you. The old floorboards creaked under his weight as he moved with the grace of a man who had spent his whole life being a soldier.

Your face remained stern as he approached, not showing even a lick of emotion. Your husband’s words echoed through your mind. “Do not show your fear, give them nothing.”

“You’ve already killed more than 20 people in Gotham, I don’t think that’s a great impression to give.” 

“20 people that you know of.” He snarked, a thick Gothomite accent slipping through his carefully crafted facade. “It isn’t like your beloved husband is doing much to clean up the streets.”

He walked casually behind where you were bound and tugged on your restraints. You flinched as the rope dug into your plush stomach. “I mean he couldn’t even kill the son of a bitch that murdered your precious ‘baby bird’.” He hissed, voice full of raw hatred.

Ice ran through your veins. You couldn’t answer him, too shocked that he knew of Bruce’s double life. “I mean what kind of a man replaces his son less than a year after he was beaten to death with a crowbar! And you know what makes it even worse?” His face was now right beside yours, his mask pressed against your ear as he whispered his next words. “You let him.”

“You have no clue what you’re talking about!” You crumbled, you couldn’t help it. The pain of Jason’s death was all-too-present in your lives. “I died the same day he did.” 

“And yet you’re still breathing.” He moved away, turning his back to you. “And I know why, it’s because you weren’t really his mother. You just took him in as a little pet project because you were a bored housewife with no one to nag since your Brucie was out fucking other women. If you were really my mother, you would have killed yourself a long time ago.”

A gloved hand reached up and undid the hidden clasp in his helmet. The metal fell away easily, revealing a mop of pitch black hair that covered the back of his pale neck. “Poor Mrs Wayne, stuck in that big house all alone with so much love to give but no one to give it to. Jesus Christ, no wonder Dick left, you are so stifling.”

He huffed through his nose as if this whole thing was one big cosmic joke before Red Hood finally turned to face you once more. “Well mommy, how does it feel to know that your jay-bird is a murderer?” 

“Oh god.” You whimpered as you took him in. Jason’s face was covered with the silvery lines of old scars, including a large one that curled up from the corner of his lip all the way up his cheek, giving him a snarled smile. His eyes were no longer the soft hazel that they once were but now an almost supernatural green. A slash of white cut through his dark hair.

He was so different but he was still Jason. “My baby.” Tears quickly rolled down your full cheeks. “You’re alive.” You didn’t fight against your bonds anymore, you couldn’t. It felt like your body was shutting down as shock set it. 

Jason scoffed at your tears. “Oh so now you wanna start crying? Fucking pathetic.” He rolled his eyes.

“My boy, my boy.” You cried. He was alive, all this time he was alive and you hadn’t found him. Guilt settled heavily in your gut and suddenly it was like it was 5 years ago. “I’m so sorry.” 

“You’re just sorry that now you have to face the consequences of your actions.” You shook your head. “Or are you sorry that you weren’t a better mommy?” He asked mockingly. 

“I’m so sorry Jason. I’m sorry. I love you so much.” You were in near hysterics now. “I love you.”

But evidently, that was the wrong thing to say because with an explosive amount of power, Jason threw his helmet at the far wall. The metal dented upon impact, shattering the cheap drywall. “No you don’t! You never did!” He blazed with an anger you had never seen before.

“I do. You were the best thing to happen to me Jason. You’re my baby. I’ll love you forever.” And for a split second, you saw the rage melt away and what was left was that scared little kid who just needed a guiding hand.

“Fuck you! You’re just a fucking trophy wife who can’t even keep her husband in her own bed!” He screamed into your face but you did not flinch.

“I love you.” You repeated, your tone unwavering.

“You aren’t even my real mother!” His face was red with emotion, just the same way it used to when he was upset or frustrated.

“I love you.”

“I don’t love you!” He shouted back but his eyes could no longer meet yours and his hands were shaking.

“I love you.” Your voice was soft now, just barely a whisper but you knew he heard you. He shot forward, slipping a knife from some hidden pocket into his palm. The ropes that held you fell away just as he collapsed into your arms.

You did not hesitate, you wrapped him up as tightly as you could, Jason’s head falling to the crook of your neck as your fingers tangled in his hair. “I love you my Jason.” Tears soaked through your shirt as he sobbed, his huge chest heaving with his pain.

“I was so scared. I just wanted you and you weren’t there. There was so much fire and blood.” Thick arms wound around your waist, squeezing you harshly. “I wanted my mommy.”

“I’m here now. I’m never letting you go again, never.”

He nuzzled further into you and you almost didn’t catch his quiet “I love you momma.” 

“I love you more.”

And that’s where Dick found you hours later, kneeling on the dirty floor of a condemned building, Red Hood asleep in your arms as you sang him a lullaby.

Anon request: 3.The boys did something wrong and she punish them by (whatever you want to do) and one of the replies, “you’re not My Mom!”

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[silas-222]

I think it must be such a bittersweet thing for Batmom to have Jason back. Because on one hand you are so glad he's back from the dead. You can hold him again and kiss your sweet baby boy. But also he came back so different than when you last saw him.

Not only physically, but he's obviously taller and more muscular than when you last saw him. The small boy who would curl into your lap after arguments with Bruce. His once all brown hair that you would run your finger through to soothe him now has a white streak in the front, his blue eyes now green.

But his personality changed too, and you missed the transitional period, and to be fair so did he. He went from such a sweet boy, the light of Gotham. The young boy who curled into bed with you when Bruce was out to tell you about the book he was reading. He's no longer the boy who craved your attention and love, who would try and do everything to please you even though you loved him freely. Now he's cold, refusing to come home for long periods, snapping at you whenever you're near. Occasionally you find him curled up in the library on his favorite couch, where he used to fall asleep in your lap after a hard patrol.

Just the immense grief of having your son back, but he's not your little boy. It's not the same feeling as with Dick, you got to watch the slow change from the small boy he was to the adult he is today. Jason just came back completely different, with an older body and a different personality. But every now and then you get a glimpse of that happy little boy who said being Robin gave him magic and you have to swallow the lump in your throat so you don't cry in front of him and ruin his peace.

[silas-222]

batman, half concious with a concussion, see invincible: dick is that you...?

Invincible: do i look like???

[silas-222]

Losing your favorite fanfic feels more painful than going through a breakup😭🥀