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Dating Damian Wayne Includes… Living Rent Free In His Head
Daddy, You Dummy — VII
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“Mommy’s the coolest,” Gia nodded proudly, as if that were the most obvious truth in the world. “She’s got, like, a billion fans. She writes songs and yells at the camera people when they take pictures of me.” (Daddy, You Dummy! — II)
For Gia, cameras that weren’t held by Mommy and Daddy didn’t come with warm voices telling her how pretty she is.
They came with noise. With shouts. With bright flashes that felt like lightning but without the storm to make it make sense.
Gia was only a few months old. Someone had followed them—her and [Y/N]—down the street, steps too quick and too close. She had been in the stroller, snug in her blanket, blissfully unaware of the way her Mommy’s grip tightened on the handle.
[Y/N]’s head stayed down, oversized sunglasses hiding her eyes. She didn’t stop when they called out. She didn’t look back. She just pushed faster, heels clicking against the pavement.
But then the flashes came.
Sharp bursts of white light, popping like fireworks, each one punctuated by voices—her name, her Mommy’s name, questions that weren’t questions at all, just noise.
Gia stirred and started to cry, the sound too small to fight through the chaos.
[Y/N] bent low, her hand cradling her baby’s head, whispering apologies through clenched teeth as she maneuvered down the block like it was a battlefield.
She kept walking, faster, almost running, until the voices faded and the clicks stopped. The stroller rattled against uneven pavement, her knuckles white on the handle.
Gia didn’t remember any of it, but [Y/N] did. Tim, too—he’d found out later, when she told him through clenched teeth and shaky hands
After that, [Y/N] and Tim were vigilant—always scanning sidewalks, always taking the long way around if they spotted a camera lens glinting in the crowd.
Gia grew up with their warnings braided into her earliest lessons, right alongside say please and look both ways before crossing.
Stay close. Stay where we can see you. And if you see the camera people—don’t talk to them. Don’t go near them.
Mommy said it like a secret code, whispered low while buckling her into her car seat. Daddy said it like a mission, crouched in front of her with that serious look that made her feel important, like she had a part to play in something big.
“They don’t know you,” Mommy told her once, brushing her hair out of her face. “And they don’t need to. But if they take a picture, they’ll act like they do and I don’t ever want them to.”
Daddy’s version was sharper, “People who want something from you don’t always ask nicely,” he said, tucking Red Robin into her arms. “If you see them—walk away. Find me. Or Mommy.”
Gia didn’t really understand all of it. She just knew Mommy hated it when the camera people shouted questions that made her voice go tight. And Daddy hated it when they tried to follow the car. And both of them hated it when the pictures ended up online with words that sounded nothing like their family. Headlines that made Mommy look sad when she wasn’t, or made Daddy sound angry when he’d only been tired.
So Gia stayed away from the camera people. Because Mommy said so. Because Daddy told her to.
Because Mommy and Daddy weren’t scared of a lot of things—but they were scared of this.
And if it scared them, then Gia knew it must be something big.
Omg for the Damian x Deadpool reader what if they are on a mission and she won’t stop talking, but they are close to being caught so he kisses her to get her to shut up?
how many kisses does this make? 🤨
They were running. Boots hammering against broken concrete, gunfire sparking too close behind them.
Damian’s breath came steady and controlled, but he could hear her behind him—laughing like this was a game.
He yanked her around a corner, pulling her into the narrow shadow of a collapsed wall. The guards thundered past, shouts bouncing off the warehouse walls.
Y/N pressed in close beside him, still grinning despite the danger, chest heaving from the sprint.
“…and I’m just saying, if this all goes sideways, dibs on the guy with the machete, because you know he’s compensating for—”
“Y/N.” Damian’s hiss was sharp, urgent. “Shut up.”
But she rolled her eyes, voice dropping to a harsh whisper that was definitely still too loud. “Oh, please. Like you get to bark orders when I’m the one who dragged your ass out of that ambush. My leg’s still bleeding, my shoulder’s shot, and these boots? Never running in these again—seriously, I’m never wearing anything with heels again.”
The sound of a boot scraping against concrete came too close.
Damian’s pulse spiked as a shadow stretched across the cracked wall they were pressed against. One more word from her and they were finished.
“And of course it had to be your plan we followed,” she went on, muttering under her breath. “Next time I’m voting for literally anyone else’s—”
He didn’t let her finish.
He grabbed her by the collar, yanked her flush against him, and crashed his mouth onto hers.
For one perfect, stunned heartbeat, she went still. Blessedly silent.
Then she melted into it, lips curving into a smile against his. She kissed him back, shameless and hungry, like this had been her plan all along.
The footsteps receded. The silence stretched.
Damian finally pulled back, glaring at her, though his ears burned red under the domino mask.
SYNOPSIS: One moment, Wayne Manor is calm. The next, there’s a toddler standing in the dining room with a Red Robin plush, and a very familiar pair of blue eyes
None of Bruce’s sons have children. Only one of them is even in a relationship
And that is most definitely not Timothy Jackson Drake
PAIRINGS: Tim Drake x Fem! Reader
TAGS: Time Travel, Slow burn, Strangers to Lovers, Original Female Character
🜼 :: this one took so long to edit and post cause i was busy these past few days on the start of term and my org work
🜼 :: this one is a bit tame cause the chaos is gonna be in the next part 👀
The night hadn’t ended just because the sun went down.
Not for Red Robin.
The wind bit at him as he perched on the edge of a rusted fire escape, overlooking a warehouse in the Narrows. From up here, the streets moved in slow motion—headlights slicing through the dark, neon signs flickering against brick and rain-slick asphalt.
There’d been a string of tech robberies in the last two weeks, all with the same signature. Oracle had pinged a possible drop point, and this one had all the signs: silence thick enough to notice, motion sensors cut with clean lines, and an unmarked van idling just far enough from the streetlight to be invisible unless you knew where to look.
This was his normal when he’s on the field.
Get in, hit hard, vanish before anyone could ask questions.
It should have been easy to focus.
Except his mind wasn’t here.
The comms in his ear crackled. “Red Robin,” Dick’s voice nudged, clipped but tinged with concern. “You’ve been in position for ten minutes. What’s the holdup?”
Tim didn’t answer right away. He watched a figure move behind the warehouse’s frosted glass windows, then he crouched lower to avoid detection.
Every instinct said now.
Move. Take them down and be done with it.
But his heart wasn’t in it.
Not when the image in his mind wasn’t of a target—it was of a small girl it was of a small girl curled up in someone’s arms.
It had been hours since—[Y/N]’s steady, careful steps up the staircase, the weight of Gia in her arms, her voice low and gentle as she coaxed the girl into bed. Even after tucking her to bed, Gia’s tiny hand had still been clutching at [Y/N]’s shirt, like letting go would mean losing something.
And then there’d been that look—when [Y/N] finally turned to leave. She’d met his gaze only once before walking away—brief, searching—and whatever she found there had made her lips press into the kind of line that said I won’t ask.
The ache that settled in his chest now felt heavier than his utility belt.
They’d pulled up to the manor in silence, headlights sweeping over the gravel drive. Tim rounded the hood before she could open her own door, already reaching for Gia.
“I’ve got her,” he murmured, careful not to wake her.
But as soon as his hands brushed the girl’s side, her small fingers curled tighter into [Y/N]’s shirt. Even asleep, she tucked herself closer, as if she knew the difference.
“Hey,” Tim tried again, softer this time, his hand hovering at Gia’s back. “It’s just me.”
The only answer was the faintest whimper, muffled against [Y/N]’s shoulder.
Tim exhaled, somewhere between apologetic and exasperated. “…Sorry. Guess I thought she’d—”
“She’s fine,” [Y/N] cut in gently, adjusting her grip on Gia without looking at him. “Let her stay like this.”
Tim stepped back, his hands falling to his sides, watching the way [Y/N] shifted her hold like she’d done it a hundred times before.
“I can… take her up?” she asked after a pause, her voice lower now, hesitant in a way that suggested she wasn’t sure if she was overstepping. “If… that’s alright.”
Tim’s answer came without hesitation. “…Yeah. That’s fine.”
So they walked in together, Gia still in her arms. The manor’s front doors opened with their familiar weight, hinges groaning softly in the quiet. They crossed the foyer, the sound of their steps echoing, before climbing the sweeping staircase. Past the dim hallway lamps, into Tim’s bedroom where Gia slept.
It was strange—bizarre, even—seeing her here. In his home. In his room.
Somewhere in a time neither of them had lived yet, she was the mother of the little girl curled against her.
That truth sat in his chest like something fragile and impossible all at once
When they reached his room, the door swung open to the familiar scent of cedarwood and the faint trace of coffee—his space, lived-in and private.
The sight of her stepping across the threshold felt like something he should stop, like she was crossing an invisible line.
But he didn’t.
There was something grounding about her being here, knowing she was also Gia’s parent—even if she didn't know that yet.
Tim found himself holding his breath, as if any sudden movement might shatter the scene.
The contrast was stark—her presence soft against the sharp edges of his life, the kind that didn’t belong in a place like this, yet somehow fit too well.
For the most part, [Y/N] ignored everything else in the room—the shelves lined with cased files, the scattered tools and gadgets on his desk, the quiet hum of monitors casting faint light into the dark. Her eyes flicked to none of it.
She moved straight toward the bed, steps steady, all her focus on the little girl in her arms.
Tim followed a half step behind, his hands hovering uselessly for a moment before he moved past her to the bedside.
He pulled the covers back, and [Y/N] bent to lay Gia down.
The girl stirred, her tiny hand still tangled in fabric.
She hesitated—then simply sat on the edge of the bed until Gia’s breathing evened out again.
Tim, hands in his pockets, watched the shape of them against the lamplight—the curve of [Y/N]’s spine, Gia curled into her side. Something about it twisted in his chest, sharp and unnameable.
When [Y/N] finally rose, she brushed Gia’s hair from her face and stepped past him—her gaze catching his for the briefest moment. There was a quiet searching in it, something unspoken, before she looked away.
He’d walked her to the front doors, the manor hushed around them, offering to have one of the drivers take her back to her hotel. She’d nodded, a polite thank you on her lips, and disappeared into the night without another word.
The silence she left behind followed him upstairs.
The whole day sat heavy in his mind—a blur of impossible coincidences and fleeting moments that already felt like they belonged to someone else’s life.
Later, he told himself. You can deal with it later.
“…Red Robin’s on-site,” he finally muttered. “Moving in.”
The grapple line hissed, the hook catching on cold steel, and he vaulted into the dark—letting momentum pull him away from the thoughts he couldn’t shake.
The keycard made a soft electronic chirp before the door swung open. She stepped inside, letting it fall shut behind her with a quiet click.
[Y/N] dropped the keycard onto the nearest table and stood in the dark for a moment.
The hotel room wasn’t unfamiliar, she’d been in dozens like it—clean, minimal, a little too cold, and smelling faintly of bleach and recycled air.
In the bathroom, her phone clinked lightly against the counter, its black screen catching her reflection—tired eyes, smudged eyeliner.
The woman staring back didn’t look any different than she had that morning, as if the day hadn’t happened at all.
But it had.
She’d met Tim Drake before.
Twice, maybe three times. Always in the polite, forgettable orbit of industry events—handshakes, neutral smiles, small talk destined to evaporate the moment they turned away. She knew he was smart. Well-mannered.
Not someone who made waves in her world.
And yet she’d spent the better part of a day caring for his daughter. Comforting her. Promising things she hadn’t thought twice about until later.
Her fingers curled against the counter, the cool surface anchoring her to reality.
She told herself it was nothing—that anyone would have done the same.
She exhaled through her nose, rubbing a hand over her face.
What the hell was today?
And why did it feel like it was going to follow her into tomorrow?
The sunlight in her hotel room was thin and pale, spilling across the foot of the bed.
She’d been awake for a while, not moving, half-distracted by the book she’d brought to finish on this trip, letting the hum of the city outside fill the quiet.
When her phone buzzed against the nightstand, she reached for it without much thought—only to freeze at the unfamiliar number.
Hey, this is Tim. Gia’s asking if you’ll come with us today?
Beneath it, a photo—Gia in an oversized sleep shirt, clutching the Red Robin plush like a lifeline, grinning wide and toothy.
Her brows pulled together.
She didn’t remember giving Tim her number. Was it passed through a mutual contact? Dug out of some event registry?
Did he think yesterday was… what, a new arrangement? A thing they were just going to keep doing now?
The logical response would be a polite no, an excuse about work, and moving on with her day.
Instead, she was still lying there ten minutes later, phone in hand, staring at the little bubble with his message.
Tim woke to the thud of small feet against the floor and the sharp tug of his blanket.
“Daddy,” Gia’s voice was breathless, high with urgency. She scrambled up beside him, still in her sleep shirt, cheeks warm from running. “Where’s Mommy? I can’t find her.”
The fog of too little sleep and too much night work clung stubbornly to him.
He blinked at her, still groggy, the details of her words piercing through the fog in pieces. “Gia…”
Her lower lip trembled before she tried again, “Did she leave already? Did she kiss me bye bye before she left?”
And there it was again—that gut-punch reminder of what she believed, of what's true to her.
Gia, their baby, who had no idea she’d been pulled from a time that hadn’t happened yet. Who still looked at him like he’d always been her dad. Who still reached for [Y/N] with the absolute certainty that she was her mom.
Which, in some strange, inevitable way… they were. Just not yet.
Tim’s throat went tight. He sat up, brushing a hand through her messy hair. “She has a very important job to do today, sweetheart. She had to leave early.”
“Is it because I went near the camera people? Did Mommy have to go and yell at them again because of me?” Her small fingers twisted in the blanket, eyes round and anxious.
The hit landed low in his chest—because no, she hadn’t done anything wrong.
But how do you explain to a child that her mom wasn’t here in the way she thought? That [Y/N] hadn’t been yelling at anyone for her, hadn’t been protecting her from something she remembered in a life they hadn’t lived yet?
“Can you call her? Please? I’ll say sorry.”
“You didn’t—” He stopped himself.
She wouldn’t understand she didn’t do anything, not when she was convinced her actions had consequences this big.
“Please, Daddy.” Her lower lip wobbled, that dangerous stubbornness that was so very much like his making it impossible to refuse.
He sighed, the kind of surrender that wasn’t really defeat so much as love in disguise, and reached for his phone on the nightstand.
If one text could make her this happy, then… he’d send it.
Hey, this is Tim. Gia’s asking if you’ll come with us today?
Gia crawled into his lap while he snapped a photo—her with a big, wobbly smile, clutching the Red Robin plush to her chest like it might make her wish come true faster.
He didn’t know if she’d say yes.
He only knew that Gia’s eyes lit up at the thought—and he wasn’t ready to dim that light yet.
And tried not to think about how much it would hurt Gia if the answer was no.
He let out a quiet sigh, giving her hair a ruffle.
“Alright, c’mon,” he murmured, voice still rough from sleep. “Let’s go get some breakfast before we both starve.”
The message stayed open on her phone while she went about her morning.
She’d set it face-down on the nightstand when she went downstairs for breakfast, the hotel café’s coffee doing little to clear the tangle in her head. Even in the shower, steam curling around her, it lingered—an itch at the back of her mind that no amount of hot water could rinse away.
By the time she was toweling her hair dry and stepping into the clothes she’d set out for rehearsal, the notification still glowed on the screen—unread in the technical sense, but very much read in the ways that mattered.
It would’ve been easy to reply.
Easier still to ignore it entirely.
She’s halfway out the hotel room door when she stops, sighs, and types something back—short, maybe a little guarded, but a yes.
I can’t see her today. But if it’ll make things better for Gia, I can call her later
She hovered for a beat before hitting send, the little whoosh of delivery sounding louder than it should.
Tim read the message twice, thumb hovering over the screen like a pilot debating whether to abort or commit to the landing.
It wasn’t a no, exactly. But it was far from a yes.
He finally set the phone beside his plate.
Gia sat across from him, feet swinging under the table in that distracted, impatient way, a plate of scrambled eggs and toast untouched in front of her.
“Eat while it’s warm,” Tim said, nudging the plate a little closer.
Gia didn’t move at first, her lips pressing together like she was weighing whether ignoring him would be worth the inevitable lecture.
Before she could, a chair scraped across the floor and Jason dropped into it, coffee mug in hand. He didn’t bother with a plate. Just took a long sip of coffee and gave the two of them a slow, deliberate once-over.
“Morning,” he muttered, eyes flicking to Gia’s sulking posture. “What’s got the gremlin all pouty?”
“Is Mommy coming?” she asked, ignoring his jab.
“Not today,” Tim said.
Her frown deepened, the kind of expression that pulled her whole face down with it. “But you texted her.”
“I did.” Tim reached for his own coffee, buying a few seconds before he added, “She can’t see us today. She’s busy, but we’ll make sure you get to talk to her.”
Gia's nose wrinkled, the fork in her hand shifting from a utensil to a weapon in the war she was apparently waging against her eggs. She stabbed them once. Twice. Like maybe the faster she demolished breakfast, the faster the day would bend to her will.
Jason arched a brow at the display, smirking over the rim of his mug. “You met her mother already? Damn, you move quick.”
Tim shot him a flat look. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure,” Jason said, the word drawn out just long enough to make it clear he didn’t believe a word of it. He stole a piece of toast from the serving tray, leaning back in his chair as if settling in to watch the show.
Tim resisted the urge to sigh.
“It’s complicated,” Tim started, then stopped—because complicated was exactly the kind of answer Jason lived to pick apart.
Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, clearly unwilling to let the comment drop. “So, what’s the deal? She’s supposed to be the mother of your kid someday, but right now she’s probably not even your friend and you’re texting her like you’re—”
“Jason.” The warning in Tim’s voice was enough to make Gia glance between them, sensing the subtle shift in temperature.
Jason raised his hands in mock surrender but didn’t look particularly repentant. “Hey, I’m just saying. Kinda looks like you skipped a few chapters here.”
Tim decided silence was the better option and turned his focus back to Gia.
“After breakfast,” he said, keeping his tone light, “I thought we could go to the park.”
Gia didn’t look up, just mumbled, “With Mommy?” around a mouthful of egg.
Tim’s throat tightened. “…No, just us.”
The pause that followed was longer than it should’ve been for such a short answer. Then Gia set down her fork, leaning her cheek into her palm with the air of someone carrying the weight of the world. “It’s not the same.”
Tim’s chest ached at the sight. She was too little to look that resigned, too small to know what it was to feel let down.
He hated that he couldn’t fix it, hated that she didn’t understand the impossible situation, hated most of all that he almost wanted to make promises he couldn’t keep.
“I know it’s not,” he said quietly. “But I think we can still make it a good day.”
Jason, never one to leave silence alone, leaned back in his chair and tilted his head toward Gia. “What’s the big deal, kid? Didn’t you say your mom’s got concerts? Doesn’t that mean she’s away a lot? Shouldn’t you be used to it by now?”
Gia’s head snapped up, affront written clear across her little face. “Yeah, but Mommy always calls me and Daddy,” she said stubbornly, voice wobbling as she clutched the edge of the table. “Always.”
Tim felt his throat pinch tight.
Jason, undeterred, gave a shrug like he was offering the simplest solution in the world. “Then maybe if you asked your parents for some siblings, you wouldn’t be so lonely when your mom’s busy.”
Tim’s foot connected sharply with Jason’s shin under the table, sharp enough to make Jason grunt and nearly slosh his coffee over the rim of his mug.
Jason swore under his breath, the mug nearly sloshing coffee over the rim as he jerked in his seat. “Ow—dammit, Tim!” He shot him a glare, rubbing at his leg.
Tim leveled him with a look that promised he’d pay for it later. Jason only smirked into his drink, as if the risk was worth the entertainment.
Gia finished most of her food, though the toast went largely untouched.
When Alfred passed briefly through the room, he glanced at the scene with the kind of mild, knowing patience that came from decades of managing far more volatile Bat-family dynamics.
“Master Timothy,” he said with a faint tilt of his head, “your phone is vibrating.”
Gia, perked up instantly. “Is that Mommy? What did she say?”
Tim glanced over at where he’d left it. His eyes flicked to Gia, then back to the phone.
Tell Gia I said hi
Jason noticed. “She’s texting you first? Careful, next thing you know, you’ll be buying matching mugs and arguing over Netflix shows.”
Tim hesitated, then let the smallest smile soften his face. “She says hi.”
Gia’s grin spread wide, bright enough to cut straight through the overcast mood that had settled earlier. “Hi back!” she said, leaning toward the phone like she could make her voice travel through the text.
Jason snorted into his coffee, but this time Tim didn’t bother kicking him.Instead, he typed back exactly what Gia had said— Gia says Hi back!—before sliding the phone into his pocket.
Hi, I really love your Damian x Deadpool reader!!! I was wondering if you could write them on an undercover mission as a couple with a lot of tension(sexual or angsty )🫣
i was never going to make them angsty
The cruise was disgustingly opulent.
Champagne fountains. String quartets. Wealth dripping from every corner—right down to the guests’ practiced, hollow laughs.
Every inch of the ship whispered excess—too polished, too bright, like it was trying to hide the rot underneath.
Everywhere she looked was decadence and she fit in like a devil in silk—dangling from Damian’s arm like she’d been born to do it, sipping her drink with lazy grace as she leaned into his side.
“You’re doing so good, baby,” she cooed, voice sticky with affection. “Smile. You’re supposed to be in love with me, remember?”
“Your definition of ‘love’ is suspiciously hands-on,” he muttered.
Damian adjusted his grip on her waist. He’d been trying very hard not to touch her more than necessary.
The mission was simple: blend in, observe, report.
But she had a talent for forcing contact. Casual. Constant. Intimate in ways that weren’t quite necessary.
Like how she kept leaning in to whisper in his ear.
Or threading her fingers with his.
Or adjusting his collar like she had any business being that close.
Damian catalogued every point of contact: shoulder to shoulder, fingers skimming his collar, the occasional brush of her chest against his arm.
None of it was technically inappropriate.
All of it was excessive.
“You’re too comfortable,” he muttered.
“I’m committed to the role.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying you.”
Damian’s pulse stuttered.
He was dangerously aware of the warmth of her hip against his. The smell of her perfume—jasmine, muddled with something artificial—clung to the air. It was heady, disorienting.
The warmth of her body beside him, the way she smiled up at him like he hung stars for her amusement—it chipped at the discipline he'd spent years perfecting.
His training told him to create distance. Her gravity made it impossible.
i’ve been having a rough time with mentality and feeling like i’m not making a difference in peoples lives/needed and was wondering if you could write a comfort fic with dick grayson or jason todd just being kind and reassuring.
when i get really hung up in my thoughts i don’t respond to people and im not active on social media so maybe one of them notices and checks in after patrol?
anyways, thank you for everything
i'm glad that you've been loving my fics. i made them specifically for me, to make me feel better. this one, i wrote for you. i hope this one can make you feel better—even a little bit
THE WAY ONLY SOMEONE WHO LOVES YOU CAN BE
SYNOPSIS: After weeks of emotional exhaustion and silence, [Y/N] finds herself unraveling quietly in the apartment she shares with Jason Todd
PAIRINGS: Jason Todd x Reader
TAGS: Slight Angst, Hurt/Comfort
WARNING !! This fic features heavy themes like emotional burnout and self-worth struggles. While the story ultimately leans toward comfort and reassurance, readers who are currently in a vulnerable mental state may want to proceed with care
It was late. The kind where streetlights flicker like ghosts and the sky stretches wide, dimmed behind city haze, daring anyone to look too long.
Jason was on the balcony again. He leaned against the railing like he belonged to the skyline, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, mask off, profile carved in silver and shadow.
He looked like peace.
[Y/N] watched him through the glass doors, tucked just inside the apartment.
The wind carried in the scent of salt and jasmine from the neighbor’s windowsill garden.
She’d been quiet all week. Muted. Like someone had turned the volume down on her and left her stranded in the quiet. She hadn’t posted anything. Barely answered texts. Conversations felt like walking on stilts, balancing above something she couldn’t name.
But watching him now—backlit by moonlight, calm in a way she hadn’t felt in days—it struck her just how easy he made it look. Existing. Breathing. Belonging.
And her chest tightened with a cruel, familiar thought
He’s everything. And I’m just… here.
And it broke her.
Something about it—about him, about the moment, about her—fractured. A faultline cracking open so slow it was almost silent. The kind of ache that doesn’t scream at first. Just… trembles.
Her breath hitched before she even knew why.
He hadn’t noticed yet.
Jason was staring out at the city like it had something to tell him. Like it was easier to read than people were. His hair was wind-tousled, a little damp from earlier rain. He looked so real.
And she felt so not.
She curled tighter on the couch, trying not to unravel, but it rose anyway—the feeling, the hollowness. The weight behind the ribs that pressed like hands around her lungs.
I’m not going to cry.
I’m not—
But then she was.
It started quiet. A breath caught in her throat. Then it climbed like a tide no one could hold back, and suddenly her face was buried in your hands, knees pulled to the chest, shoulders shuddering as she folded into herself like maybe—maybe—she could disappear.
He was inside in an instant. She didn’t even hear the door open and close.
“Tell me,” Jason said, voice low, urgent, already kneeling on the rug in front of her.
She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t meet those storm-blue eyes that always saw too much.
If I look at him, I’ll fall apart.
Because he’s good, and kind, and trying.
And she was just tired. Bone-deep tired in a way sleep didn’t fix.
And what if he saw that?
What if he finally sees the truth—that she didn’t bring anything to the table but baggage and apologies and silence?
Jason’s voice softened. “Hey, look at me.”
When she didn’t, he shifted closer, hands gentle on her knees.
“You don’t have to explain everything. Just talk to me. Just give me something.”
“I don’t know what I give you.” Her voice cracked under the words. “I don’t—fuck, I don’t know what I do for anyone anymore.”
Jason went very still.
She pushed on. The words were tumbling now, desperate and raw and ugly.
“I feel like I’m just… background noise. Like everyone’s living real lives and I’m just tagging along like I’m hoping no one notices I don’t actually belong here. I’ve done everything I know how to do—” She gasped around the tightness in her chest, voice shaking. “And it still feels like I’m borrowing a life instead of being part of it. Like I’m just playing dress-up in something beautiful that doesn’t belong to me.”
It’s pathetic. Exhausting. Empty.
Jason didn’t move for a second. Then—
His hand came up and gently tugged hers from her face.
She tried to hide. I don’t want him to see. Her eyes were red, cheeks wet, whole body hunched over like it was trying to fold into nothing.
“Hey.” His voice was quiet, but anchored. Like it could bring you back if he tried hard enough. “Look at me.”
She only shook her head.
“Please.” He leaned closer. “Just for a second.”
And she did.
His expression was devastating. Not angry. Not confused. He wasn’t looking at her like she were a burden. Or broken. He was looking at her like he was hurting too, just from watching her break.
Wrecked in the way only someone who loves you can be, when they didn’t know you’d been bleeding under your skin this whole time.
“I need you to know,” he said, “that this world—you, in it—it’s not an act. It’s not some movie scene. It’s not fake. You belong. With me. With everyone who gives a damn.”
She wanted to believe him. But the words felt like silk draped over gun wounds—beautiful, comforting, and impossible to hold onto without bleeding.
Because even if he meant them, even if he said them like he needed her to believe it… how could she, when all she saw in herself were the cracks?
“I disappear sometimes,” she whispered. “When it gets like this. I stop texting back. I fall off the radar. I know it pisses people off. I know it makes you worry. I just… I don’t know how to be around people when I feel like I’m dragging everything down.”
Her next breath barely made it out.
“I didn’t want to be a burden.”
Jason didn’t interrupt. He just listened.
Somehow, that made it worse and better at the same time.
Because when someone really listens—sees you, stripped of all the armor and pretense—it gets harder to pretend you’re fine. But it also meant something. Meant everything.
Because in a world that rarely made space for silence, here she was—being allowed to unravel without being rushed to knit herself back together.
“It’s like… like I’m trying so hard to be a version of myself that people will still want around. But it’s not me. It’s this tired, filtered thing. And I hate it. But if I stop trying, then what if there’s nothing left anyone actually wants?” Her voice broke again.
“What if I’ve already been fading, and no one said anything because letting go is easier than dragging me along?”
He immediately pulled her into his arms.
There was no hesitation. No question. Just warmth, and safety, and the faint scent of aftershave and salt from the wind in his jacket.
She had his heartbeat in one ear, and his voice in the other.
“You’re not a fucking burden,” he murmured fiercely, voice rough against her hair. “You’re my person. You don’t owe anyone performance or updates or pretending to be okay. Least of all me.”
“You say you don’t know what you give me?” he said, pulling back just enough to look at her. “You give me this. Right here. The fact that you’re still here. That you let me see you like this. That you trust me with it.”
Her lip trembled.
She hated crying in front of people. Hated the way it made her feel exposed, small, unsteady—like grief with skin on.
But this is Jason.
He never looked at her like she was fragile. He looked at her like she was real.
He tucked a hand under her chin, lifting her face gently. “You ground me. You’re the only thing that makes all this chaos feel worth it.”
“But I’m always falling apart.”
“So am I.”
He smiled—just a little. Sad, but real. “You think I’ve got my shit together? Babe, I built my life from scraps. From ash. The only thing that makes it feel like it means anything is when I come home and you’re here. Doesn’t matter if we talk. Doesn’t matter if you’re curled up in silence or laughing or yelling at me for leaving the toilet seat up. Just you, here, with me.”
“I’m not some rock, babe,” he said quietly. “I’m not some indestructible thing you have to be strong for. I’ve fallen apart more times than I can count. I still do. But when I do I think of you. Of coming home to you. And it makes me want to keep going.”
He brought her hand to his chest, pressing it flat against his heartbeat.
“You hear that?”
She nodded faintly.
“That’s yours. I don’t hand that over to people easy. But you have it.”
She choked on a sob and collapsed into his chest, trembling. He held her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he whispered. “You don’t have to be useful. You don’t have to give anyone anything. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Just breathe.”
By the time everything settled—the shaking in her hands, the tightness in her chest, the storm behind her eyes—a good amount of time had passed. The city had shifted into stillness, and so had she.
The ache hadn’t disappeared, but it had softened. Made room for breath again. For him.
Not fixed. Not whole. But heard.
She exhaled slowly and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For... choosing to be here when it would’ve been easier not to.”
Jason gave her a half-smile, head tilted just slightly, like he was letting her in on a secret.
“Aren’t I pretty amazing?” he said, brushing his thumb over her hand. “I mean—come on. Ex-crime lord turned vigilante, motorcycle enthusiast, dead guy come back hotter, emotionally available and in therapy…”
A breath of laughter slipped from her, wet and shaky, but real.
He leaned in, eyes steady on hers.
“And aren’t you pretty amazing yourself—for being loved by someone like me?”
She didn’t answer right away. Didn’t need to.
Because in the space between them—held in his hands, in his voice, in the warmth of him simply staying—was something louder than belief.
“Because I don’t just hand my heart over,” he added, voice quiet but sure. “But you’ve had it from the start. So maybe—just maybe—that means there’s something extraordinary about you, too.”
“Girls want a Superman, but they walk past a Clark Kent every day”
You fuckin CLOWNS think you’re a CLARK KENT? Not on my fuckin watch. You dumb, headass motherfuckers are barely a Guy Gardner and you think you’re a CLARK KENT? The amount of disrespect is unreal.
Listen here, wannabes: My boi Clark is 240 lbs of PURE KANSAS BEEF trained from a young age by Ma Kent to Love and Respect women as the Intelligent, Independent beings they are. He is shy rambling about tractors and casually moving the copy machine when my pen falls behind it and he would NEVER demand I be sexually or romantically interested just because he’s nice.
Bruce and being like attractive and his kids not liking it- except with children. With babies.
Babies who stop crying when Bruce holds them
Children who run up to him and tug on his pant legs and beg him to give them piggy back rides
Little girls who shyly offer him flowers and giggle and blush when he tucks it behind his ear and compliments their dresses
Little boys who proudly show him a cool rock they found, or even the bolder ones who display their little siblings like trophies and who beam when Bruce makes a grand show of inspecting it and approving it
Bruce who is so good with children and who can calm them with a touch, enamours them with a glance, who has endless patience and nowhere else to be- ("Yes yes, cancel all my plans for today Madison. I had a meeting with the President? He'll understand, thank you." )
Bruce who talks to children gently and softly but who stills treats them like adults.
Children and Babies who are obsessed with him. And it's not even that they have a crush on him. (Some of them do) It's just that he's.... Bruce
And the worst part is it happens with Batman to.
And the batkids cannot stand it.
Nightwing saves a little girl from a burning building, lungs seared with smoke but it's worth it for the beaming smile she gives him- until she spots Batman over his shoulder, talking seriously with the firefighters, and then Nightwing fades into the background as Batman carries her around the rest of the night.
Red Hood who stops a trafficking scheme and saves a whole bunch of little boys and they're all trying on his hood and jacket and hes smiling at them, until they notice Batman, standing nearby, next to the traffickers his expression stormy, and then Red Hood is chopped liver as they play with Batarangs and gush over Batman's cool suit.
Spoiler rescues a baby from getting kidnapped. The baby screams when she smiles. It coos when Batman takes it.
Signal who snatches a cat from a tree and hands it to the little girl who thanks him and then turns around and shows it to a graffiti of Batman. ("He's not even awake right now!")
The only one who doesn't mind are Cass and Damian. Cass because she thinks its cute and doesn't really want that much attention, and Damian because he doesn't know how to deal with kids. He does slowly start getting jealous/upset like his other siblings though, when he finally saves someone without Bruce there, and they look at him like he shits solid gold. From that moment he always scowls when Bruce appears, because then they look at him like he's the goldshitter.
In my mind, I can be the perfect match with all the fictional characters I'm obsessed in love with (even if they're already romantically paired) and be the soulmate of all of them at the same time. that's it.
as much as i would love to post fics, i don't really have much free time to write because (a) i'm in pre med and (b) i'm an executive officer in my org which means i am really fucking busy most of the time :((
but i am trying to write little by little and i should have some free time next week to finish and post at least 2 fics : daddy, you dummy — vii and dating damian wayne includes... living rent free in his head
brown - wolfstar - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 349
“I have proof!” Lily said excitedly, stumbling up the stairs of the boys’ dorms and bursting into Remus’s room without so much as a knock.
“Lils, what the–?” Remus, who had been half-dozing over the cover of his book, sat up with a start.
“I have proof, Remus, c’mon!” Lily yelled, quite past caring about waking the other boy up.
“Proof of what?” he demanded, already sliding from his bed.
“That Sirius Black fancies you! Let’s go!”
He paused. “Lily, I don’t think–”
She crossed her arms and gave him such a terrifying death glare that his heart skipped a beat.
Ruefully, he followed without another word. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he found Sirius and Marlene at a table in the Common Room, Marlene with a whole array of bottles of nail varnish laid out in front of her, Sirius chattering away while Marlene painted his nails black.
“Sirius!” Lily called, striding up to him. “What color is this?”
Sirius stopped mid-sentence and looked to the bottle she was referring to. “Erm. Blue?” he answered, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
“Right. And this one?” She picked up another one, a very different shade but still blue.
He frowned. “Also blue.”
“Hm. Right. And what color are Potter’s eyes?” she asked.
Sirius frowned again, clearly trying to remember. “Brown? No–is it called hazel? Like that brownish color.”
“And my hair?”
“Red. Evans, what–”
“Lust one more. What color are Remus’s eyes?” she asked, throwing Remus a ‘wait-for-it’ glance.
Instantly, Sirius lit up. “Oh! This shade of almost chocolate color. But it really depends, you know? When he’s tired, they get darker, and when he’s happy, they get lighter, almost molten. And sometimes, when he’s laughing, they sparkle. In the sun, they turn molten.” He grinned, cheeks a bit pink.
Something funny happened to Remus’s stomach, like it was making a feeble attempt to exit his body through his throat.
Lily just nodded, obviously holding back a laugh. “Thanks, Sirius!”
It was only as they walked away that she hissed to Remus, “Told you so!”
Batman's utility belt is like Mary Poppins' infinite space bag, but for his children's snacks. Could be a whole ass roticery chicken in there, who knows. On a hot night, all the robins have to say is "Bruce, pop." And he will pull out a fully frozen popsicle from his hip holster like he's some sort of goddamn magical ice cream man.
Bruce makes comments wistfully about something Alfred used to do when he was younger, or mentions to Jason/Dick or someone how he’s sorry he didn't realize getting adopted meant so much to them, Alfred never adopted him and they’re family or wtv, and the batkids realize…. Alfred kinda a shit dad. Sure, he’s their grandfather, he’s their Alfred, but… he’s also Bruce’s Alfred. Bruce and Dad are interchangeable for them. Alfred and Dad are… not.
-Idk I just want Bruce to casually mention something offhandedly to his children and act like that’s normal and the kids to realize that Alfred was a shitty father and Bruce is actually a really good dad all things considered.
