tags: violence, death, harassment (not from dex), toxic relationship dynamics, obsession, reader is a bit of a freak, dex being soggy and pathetic
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“If I knew you’d look so good in that quarter-zip, I would have you brought you out here ages ago.”
Dex flusters at your compliment, a pink stain rising to his cheeks. Your reward from him is a shy smile, small and lopsided. His fingers tug at the zipper of the aforementioned quarter-zip, a simple black thing that hugs his chest and the broad line of his shoulders.
“Thank you,” he says. Months of dating still haven’t acclimated him to the warmth of your attention, and his bashfulness is still as charming as it was in the beginning. You lean back on your elbows, grass tickling your skin, and let the sun warm you with its fading light. This park has been a favorite escape of yours. Just outside the city and tucked up against the riverbank, it’s offered you a quiet refuge for as long as you’ve lived here, and now you’ve shared this little piece of yourself with Dex. A quiet place for both of you to enjoy — together.
“You look pretty,” Dex says, and you know before you even turn to him that he’s been staring at you this whole time. “The sun is on your face. You — you’re glowing.”
“Thank you, baby,” you say, twining your fingers with his. You turn your attention to the river and the sun dipping below the skyline of the city beyond. By the bank, a man walks with his dog. The air is cool and quiet until the bright ring of a phone cuts through the silence.
Dex tugs his hand away from yours and seizes the phone from his pocket, eyebrows scrunching as he glares at the screen.
“Shit,” he says. “It’s work.” His thumb hesitates over the answer button.
“It’s ok, Agent Poindexter. I’ll wait here while you do your FBI thing.” You give him a reassuring smile and he returns it, squeezing your hand one last time before climbing to his feet. The low tone of his voice fades as he moves out of earshot, and you’re left alone in the grass.
Minutes pass, and a glance over your shoulder reveals Dex with arms crossed and shoulders tight as he speaks into the phone. Something stressful has come up, or a last-minute call into work, perhaps. You climb to your feet and wander closer to the bank. Whatever it is, you’re sure to get the run down when he’s finished.
You hear it before you see it — gravel crunching under heavy feet from beyond the crop of trees to your left. A man emerges from the tree line, walking along the path that hugs the bank. He catches you assessing him, eyes locking with yours, and a weight settles deep in your gut. The man is moving towards you.
“Out here alone?” he asks.
You offer a tight-lipped smile. “No,” you say. “I’m just waiting for my boyfriend.”
“Don’t see no boyfriend,” the man says. He stops at a too-close distance, and you cross your arms over your chest, turning your body away from his.
“He’ll be here in a minute,” you say shortly. “I’m just waiting for him.”
The man takes another step toward you. You take a step back.
“So you can’t talk to nobody?” he says. “Or are you just too pretty to talk to me?”
You turn to walk away from him, to find Dex yourself, but the man steps in front of you in one smooth motion, cutting off your path of escape.
“Hey, nothing wrong here,” he says, advancing into your space again. “I’m just trying to get your number.”
He’s too close, and moving closer. He raises a hand like he’s going to grab at you, and you take a sharp breath, you’re going to yell —
Thunk. The man freezes. His mouth parts stupidly and his hand — the hand that was reaching for you — moves, trembling, to his temple, where a pen has lodged into his skull. His fingers fumble around it, as if in disbelief, as if he doesn’t understand what’s just happened, and in your shock you haven’t quite grasped it either. Blood sprays down his pale face. He collapses into the soft grass.
His mouth opens and closes, opens and closes, breaths short and ragged. His body twitches once, twice, muscles locking up in a violent spasm, and then he stills. Eyes open. Afraid. Dark blood and clear fluid pool around that soft, green grass, and the man’s chest does not rise again.
He’s dead. You watched him die. Your heartbeat is a pounding thud in your ears, and you turn, dazed, to the man you know is waiting there.
Behind you, Dex stands like a wild animal. His wide eyes are not on the body, but on you. You stare at each other in taut silence. For one delirious moment, you think you could laugh. Dex — your Dex — launched a pen like a bullet through that man’s skull. Dex killed him. Killed him, and in his eyes, you see fear. He raises his hands slowly. Placatingly. Like one sudden movement will spook you and send you running to the road. He says your name.
“The body,” you blurt out. “The river. Put it in the river.”
All at once, your senses come back to you. You’re in the park. A public park. You glance frantically around for anyone nearby, anyone who could have seen it happen. The man with the dog. The walking paths. Did anyone see? Are there cameras here? You rush to the body and the bright patch of red soaking the dirt. Dex is still staring at you as you crouch beside it.
“Now, Dex,” you snap, voice low and hoarse. He’s just looking at you. Just standing there and looking at you with fear in his face.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah. Ok. The river.”
The two of you haul the body down to the riverbank, behind the crop of trees, over stones and brush out of sight from the path. You dump it clumsily into the water and it sinks into the murky depths, disappearing in the current as if it was never there at all. In days or weeks it will float back up to surface, bloated with gas and rot. But by then the two of will be long gone. You scrub your hands in river water until they’re pink and stinging and clean of his blood.
Beside you, the pen rests on a mossy rock. Dark blood clings to its bottom half, wrenched free from its victim with a wet squelch. Federal Bureau of Investigation, it reads, letters engraved into the silver. You offer it to Dex, who has said nothing since the two of you began the disposal. That animal-panic is still in his eyes, and his eyes are still trained on you.
“Throw it,” you say softly. “As far as you can.” He takes the pen from your fingers and hurls it into the water.
——
The sky is dark on the drive back into the city. Dex’s hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, and when the car finally rolls to a stop, you look up to see that he’s brought you back to his apartment. The entryway is dark and quiet when he lets you in, and the sterile world of his home feels almost like a different reality from the dark waters you’ve just left behind. You move like a ghost to his room, on legs that seem to carry you with a will of their own. Your bag thugs to the ground and your jacket follows it, before a dark silhouette blots out the light cast from the open door.
Dex stands in the doorway. He is a shadow illuminated by the hall light behind him, his face hazy and obscured. He says your name again, strained.
“I couldn’t let him hurt you. He was - he reached for you, he was scaring you, and I couldn’t let him touch you.” His fingers flex and open, a nervous tick. The room is cold silent. Not even the rush of traffic outside.
“I know, Dex,” you reply. The silence drags only for a moment as Dex realizes you’re not going to say anything else. He takes a step toward you, out of the harsh backlight of the hallway and into the dimly lit room.
“I was protecting you,” he says. “I’ll always, always protect you. Nothing else matters. You’re the only thing that matters, you’re the only person I love, your the only person who loves - who loves me, and I can’t - I had to -“ his breaths become shakey, rapid. He stops an arms-length away as if he’s afraid to come closer. In the space between you he raises a hand, palm up in request of your own. He wants you to touch him. To slot your fingers between his and tell him that everything will be all right. You don’t offer it to him.
“I know, Dex,” you say again. “I’m not mad. I just . . . I just want to sleep. I want to shower and go to bed.”
His hand falls to his side and his face crumples for a moment, desperate and close to tears. “Ok,” he says. “I can do that. We can shower.” He follows you to the bathroom and starts the shower as you strip in silence. The small space is tighter still with two bodies huddled inside of it, steam clinging to the tiles and water just hot enough to make you squirm. You don’t bother asking him to lower it. Dex’s eyes follow every move you make.
The familiar scent of his laundry detergent wraps around you as you curl into his sheets, and before you can shy away his body is sliding into bed behind yours. His chest is firm against your back. His arm snakes around your waist and presses you flush against him. Legs tangling, fingers curling into the worn fabric of your sleep shirt. You feel his breath stall against the bare skin of your neck, as if he’s going to speak.
“Don’t,” you say softly. “I don’t want to talk. Not right now. We can do it in the morning.”
Calloused hands clutch at the fat of your waist. He presses himself further, further into you.
“Ok,” he rasps. “In the morning.”
You fall asleep in the vise of his arms.
——
You wake with his limbs twisted up in yours. Bodies tangled in a sweaty knot, his breath warm against your neck. You are one half-turn away from slipping off the mattress, as if you shifted away from him in sleep and he chased you to the edge. His breath catches and you know he’s woken up, too. Dex always wakes when you do. A sixth sense that you used to joke about. You shift in his arms and he jolts up to rest on his elbow, his other hand worrying the sleeve of your shirt.
Somewhere in the river there’s a body, cold and bloodless. You swing your legs over the bed and Dex follows close behind. He’s a shadow at your back as you slink into the bathroom to splash your face with cool water. His anxiety is a dark cloud in the room, buzzing, clawing energy that surrounds you even without looking at his reflection in the mirror as you squeeze toothpaste onto a brush. He’s waiting for you to say something. But speaking about it makes it real, makes the man hovering behind you into someone you no longer know as well as you thought you did. A hidden facet of him has been revealed to you. Soon you will have to decide what you’ll do about it.
You make it into the kitchen before he cracks.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” he asks, weakly. “Are you mad at me?”
You force yourself to meet his stare. A fitful and sleepless night has carved lines under his eyes and made his skin blotchy red. He looks young and fearful. He looks like he could be sick.
“I’m not mad,” you answer. “I’m just . . . thinking.”
Dex sniffles. “I did it for you,” he says, voice wobbly. “To protect you. I would do anything for you. Anything. I need you so much it—it hurts.” He shuffles towards you with his palms up and open. You realize, not for the first time, that Dex is big. Tall. Broad shouldered. Intimidating.
But he’d never felt intimidating to you. Shouldn’t it have been obvious? Dex is a sniper with the FBI. He’s paid to kill. And he’s already confessed to you, between tears and wracking sobs, the truth of his violent childhood and the source of the shame that permeates his every waking moment. Of course he was capable of this. Of course. What were you thinking? That he was better? Changed? That he wouldn’t hurt anyone anymore — that he wouldn’t hurt you?
No. No, Dex would never. He loves you. He’s fiercely protective of you. He’s never, ever made you feel unsafe, not until . . . until now. Until last night.
The length of your silence must have been a few breaths too long, because Dex presses on, tears rolling down his red cheeks.
“I’m not good,” he says. “I’m not good like you are. I want to be, fuck, I’m trying to be, but I don’t care what I have to do to keep you safe.” He’s shuffled into your space again, his body a furnace next to yours. His fingers grip the fabric of your t-shirt.
“Please, please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Just please don’t leave me.”
It strikes you then. The truth of what Dex is feeling. All of the nerves, all of the shaking, the crying . . . Dex isn’t afraid of being caught. He’s not worried about the police or even shaken by the fact that not 10 hours ago, he took a human life. Dex is afraid that you’re going to leave him.
. . . Would you? You think of the body in the grass. Gasping. Twitching. He didn’t have to die. Dex could have scared him, or fought him, or just taken you away, but he put a pen through the man’s skull without a moment of hesitation, and apparently, without any remorse. It’s not the first time he’s done it. It may not be the last. What happens the next time he sees someone harassing you? What happens if he meets any of the people who’ve wronged you, the former friends, the exes? He’s violent. He’s dangerous. He’s . . .
He’s crying into your shoulder. Pitiful, gasping sobs that shake his big body as it’s folded over to curl into your warmth. A wet patch clings to your skin, tears and snot soaking the cotton of your shirt. When your hands rise to cup his face and lift his head to look at you, the movement is all muscle memory. Comforting him is second nature now, engrained in you like instinct. This is Dex. This is your baby.
“Oh, honey,” you coo. “It’s ok. Shhh, it’s ok. I’m not going anywhere.” You wipe the tears from his eyes, even as they’re immediately replaced by more.
He chokes on a sob, an attempt to gather himself enough to speak. “Y-yeah? Really?”
“I promise, baby. You know I would never leave you.”
Dex sighs then, a long exhale of relief, and takes the first full breath you’ve heard from him yet. “Thank you,” he says, sniffling. “Thank you, thank you,” each thanks punctuated with a kiss pressed to your face. He continues down your neck, mouth hungry over your skin, like he could swallow you whole. A wet trail follows the path of his lips. You run your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. Let him take what he needs.
No one saw. No one knows what happened. And when the news eventually reaches you — “did you hear? A body was found in the river” — you’re not going to watch Dex go to prison over the life of some creep. It was a mistake; one that no one needs to know about. He wants to be good. He’s trying. He just needs patience and love, and you’ll give it to him. The rest will sort itself out.
When he’s cried himself dry, you lead him to the table, sit him down in a chair and set a glass of cold water in front of him. You’ll make breakfast, go out on a run together. Get him back into his routine. Get him stable again. He takes a long sip of water, his breath evening out at last.
“I love you,” he says, eyes wide and rimmed with red.
“I love you, too,” you say and press a kiss into his hair. “So, so much.”
Dex has a life to get back to and a future with so much left to learn.
Me behind the screen smiling deviously as I read a fic where the reader is called ‘clingy’ or ‘needy’ and in response the reader stops being ‘clingy’ and now the character I’m reading about is left with regret (the little girl who was always afraid of being too much and was no matter what she did feels loved):
me when im on "x reader tag" looking for fics at 3 am BUT all i find is memes and all the funny posts under the world EXCEPT the fics abt the character :
Summary: You prepare for a long-awaited date, only for him never to show, leaving you heartbroken and humiliated. At the Watchtower, you realise your father was behind it all, shattering your trust in your only parent. You explode in fury and sorrow, fleeing to allies for comfort while your siblings confront Bruce about the betrayal.
CW: ANGST, broken trust, verbal confrontation, terms of endearment, use of Y/N
WC: 5.3k
You’re standing in front of your mirror with your phone propped up against a stack of books, Dinah Lance’s face filling the screen, and Bruce, your father, sitting on the edge of your bed like he’s diffusing a bomb.
“Okay,” Dinah says, squinting. “Tilt the phone down. I need the full look.”
You angle it. The white dress catches the light immediately—clean lines, soft fabric, deceptively simple. It hugs where it should, flows where it needs to. Bruce picked it after twenty minutes of staring at your wardrobe like it was a crime scene.
“That one,” he’d said finally. “It’s… you.”
Dinah lets out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a battle cry. “AWWW.”
You grin despite yourself. “Right?”
Bruce clears his throat. “It’s appropriate. Comfortable. Not—” he pauses, searching for the word, “—restrictive.”
Dinah laughs. “Bruce Wayne, fashion icon.”
He ignores that.
You smooth the dress down again, nerves buzzing just under your skin. “Do I look like I’m trying too hard?”
Dinah immediately goes serious. “No. You look like someone who deserves a good night.”
That lands deeper than you expect.
Bruce watches you quietly. You can feel it—his gaze steady, assessing, protective. Not in the suffocating way. In the dad watching his kid do something vulnerable way.
“You’re allowed to be excited,” he says softly, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.
You swallow. “I know.”
Dinah claps once. “Okay! Hair.”
You move to the vanity, fingers slightly shaky as you unplug your straightener. Your hair is already half-done, you’d spent way too long on it, but Dinah had talked you through every step like this was a mission briefing.
“Remember,” Dinah says, “if he doesn’t lose his mind when he sees you, that’s a him problem.”
Bruce hums in agreement. “Reasonable.”
You laugh, tension easing. “Why are you both acting like this is a high-risk operation?”
Dinah smirks. “Because it is. Emotional stakes are sky-high.”
Bruce adds, deadpan, “And Gotham traffic.”
You clip in the last section, step back, and finally really look at yourself.
You don’t look like Nightingale.
You look like a girl going on a date.
That thought makes your chest ache in a way you can’t quite name.
And better yet, you're going on a date with Tony. The son of a gotham restauranteur and businessman, and personally, you believe he is far better than the other rich boys in Gotham that can't see past themselves
“Okay,” Dinah says, voice warm now. “Jewellery.”
You reach for the Van Cleef set, fingers brushing the cool metal. Bruce watches your hands, like he’s memorising the moment. You put the necklace on first, then the bracelet, then the earrings.
Dinah sighs happily. “Perfect!!”
Bruce stands. “I’ll give you a minute. Call if you need anything.”
You glance at him. “Thanks for… helping. With the dress.”
He hesitates, then smiles—small, real. “Of course darling.”
He leaves quietly, door clicking shut behind him.
Dinah lowers her voice. “He’s proud of you, you know.”
You blink. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says firmly. “I can tell.”
You breathe out slowly.
“Okay,” you say, grabbing your bag. “I should go show everyone before Damian declares war.”
You take the stairs two at a time, almost tripping because your heels still feel unfamiliar.
“I’m coming down,” you announce loudly, “and if anyone says anything weird I will retreat forever.”
You hit the bottom step and immediately—
“WOAH.”
“HELLO??”
“Yeah, okay, he’s done.”
You laugh, hand flying to your chest. Tim is half off the couch, Steph’s mouth is actually open, Duke looks impressed, Cass’s eyes soften, and Jason straight-up whistles.
Damian scoffs. “Tt. You’re late. The movie already started.”
On the TV, Madagascar is paused mid-frame. Alex the Lion’s face is frozen in existential distress. (personal hc Damian loves the Madagascar movies)
“Damian picked it,” Tim explains, like he’s been held hostage.
“It is a classic,” Damian snaps. “You all lack taste.”
You spin once, skirt flaring slightly. “Too much?”
Steph rushes over. “Are you kidding? You look insane. Like, unfair.”
Jason grins. “Tony’s not surviving this.”
Tim nods solemnly. “He fumbled and the date hasn’t even happened yet.”
Bruce steps into the room then, having clearly heard everything.
He stops.
Just like earlier.
For a second, no Batman. No billionaire. Just a dad watching his kid glow.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
You beam. “You picked it.”
“I know,” he replies, fond.
Your phone buzzes. Dinah again.
You answer immediately. “I’m downstairs. They’re being insane.”
Dinah’s voice fills the room. “As they should be. Put me on speaker.”
You do.
“DINAH,” Steph says. “She looks ridiculous.”
“I KNOW,” Dinah crows. “I helped.”
Bruce shakes his head, amused. “She’s going to be late.”
“I am NOT,” you protest. “I just— has anyone seen my gum?”
Immediate chaos.
“Why is that an emergency?” Tim asks.
“Because I need gum,” you say, frantic. “I always need gum.”
Jason opens a drawer. “Check here.”
Steph checks another. “Why do we have seventeen types of batteries but no gum?”
Damian stands. “Father. You confiscated it.”
Bruce blinks. “I did?”
“Yes. You said it was ‘excessive.’”
Bruce sighs, reaches into his pocket, and hands you the gum like it’s contraband.
“Thank you,” you say sincerely.
You grab your bag, phone, keys.
You hesitate in the doorway.
Everyone looks at you.
“Wish me luck?” you ask.
Jason nods. “Always.”
Tim adds, “Text us when you get there.”
Cass steps forward and squeezes your hand gently.
Bruce meets your eyes. “Be safe. Have fun.”
You smile. “I will.”
You leave with your heart full, unaware that this is the last moment everything feels whole.
You arrive ten minutes early.
Of course you do.
The restaurant glows warm against the Gotham night, all amber lights and soft music and the low murmur of people already halfway into their evenings. It’s the kind of place people come to celebrate things—anniversaries, promotions, first dates they hope will turn into something more. The latter is what you were here for.
You smooth your dress as you step inside, heels clicking softly against the floor. The host smiles, checks the reservation, leads you toward a small table near the window.
Perfect.
Bruce would approve. Clear sightlines. Minimal foot traffic. Easy exit.
You push the thought away.
Tonight isn’t about that.
You sit, place your Louis gently on the floor beside you, and fold your hands in your lap. The candle flickers. Your jewellery catches the light when you move, little sparks of gold and green.
Your phone buzzes.
7:00 pm exactly.
You straighten instinctively.
Any second now.
You imagine the door opening. Tony scanning the room, spotting you, his face lighting up in that way that always makes your chest feel warm and stupid and hopeful. You imagine him saying your name like it’s something he’s happy to have found.
You check your reflection in the window.
Your hair’s still perfect. Makeup intact. Lip gloss untouched.
You look like someone who hasn’t been waiting yet.
7:03.
You tell yourself he’s parking.
7:07.
You tell yourself Gotham traffic is a nightmare.
7:10.
You reach for your phone, hesitate, then don’t.
You don’t want to be that person.
You don’t want to seem anxious, even though your knee has started bouncing under the table.
The waiter comes by with water. “Would you like to order a drink while you wait?”
You smile. “Just water’s fine, thank you.”
While you wait.
The words echo.
7:15.
The door opens. You look up.
Not him.
You force yourself to breathe normally, to relax your shoulders.
You remind yourself that this is normal.
People are late. Things happen.
You text him anyway.
Hey! I’m here :)
Delivered.
Seen.
No reply.
Your stomach drops a fraction of an inch.
7:22.
The candle burns lower.
You pick at your cuticles, then stop when you notice.
You fold your hands again. You count your breaths. In. Out. In. Out.
You think about earlier—about how Bruce had paused in the hallway after you left, watching the door longer than usual.
About how Jason had told you to text when you got there. About how everyone had been… excited.
You don’t want to let them down.
7:30.
The waiter passes again, slower this time. His eyes linger just long enough for you to know he knows.
You hate that.
You nod politely, even though nothing is wrong yet.
You tell yourself nothing is wrong yet.
7:38.
Another couple sits at the table across from you.
They’re laughing. He reaches for her hand. She leans into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You look away.
Your phone stays silent.
You refresh the chat like it might magically change.
Nothing.
7:45.
Your excitement has fully drained now, replaced by something heavier. Embarrassment seeps in first, hot and humiliating. You imagine what you look like from the outside: a girl dressed up too nicely, sitting alone, pretending she’s not counting the minutes.
Your chest tightens.
You don’t cry. You refuse to.
You’ve bled on rooftops. You’ve taken hits that should’ve broken bones. You will not cry in a restaurant over a boy.
7:52.
You text Jason.
Are you busy?
Three dots appear immediately.
Where are you.
I’ll explain later. Can you pick me up?
On my way.
Relief hits so hard it almost hurts.
8:00.
You ask for the check for the water you barely touched. The waiter gives you a look full of quiet sympathy and waves it off.
“Take care,” he says gently.
You nod, throat too tight to speak, and leave before the tears can spill.
Jason doesn’t ask questions when you get in the car, he borrowed, more like stole, Bruce's aston.
He just hands you his jacket and starts driving.
The city blurs past the windows, lights streaking into nothing. You stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, hands fisted in the sleeves of his jacket.
“I feel stupid,” you say finally, voice barely above a whisper.
Jason’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Don’t.”
“I got dressed up. I told everyone. I thought—” Your voice breaks despite your best efforts. “I thought he liked me.”
“He does,” Jason says immediately. “Or he’s an idiot.”
You huff out a weak, humourless laugh. “That’s not comforting.”
“It’s accurate.”
Silence settles again, heavy but not suffocating. Jason lets you sit in it, lets you feel it, doesn’t try to fix it.
The manor comes into view too quickly.
The lights are on.
Everyone’s still awake.
That makes it worse.
You walk like your on autopilot, past the foyer, past the endless paintings of your family and distant relatives, into the small lounge across the billiard room.
Tim's the first to notice, his brow furrows. “You’re back early.”
He sees your face.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “Oh.”
Jason doesn’t announce anything. He just puts a hand on your shoulder and steers you gently forward.
Steph stands. “What happened?”
You shake your head, the motion small. “He didn’t come.”
The room deflates.
“Seriously?” Tim mutters. “He fumbled.”
Cass is suddenly in front of you, hands light but grounding, eyes searching your face.
Bruce steps closer, concern etched deep into his expression. “Hey.”
You try to hold it together. You really do.
But the second his hand settles on your back, the dam breaks.
“I don’t understand,” you whisper into his chest. “He texted me this morning. He said he was excited.”
Bruce wraps his arms around you, solid and familiar and safe. You cling to your father like you’re twelve again and scraped your knee for the first time.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I know that hurt.”
You nod against him, tears soaking into his shirt. “I just wanted one normal night.”
He holds you tighter.
Guilt flickers somewhere deep in his chest.
He doesn’t know yet.
The gala is a blur of lights and noise and people who don’t matter. Damian begged you to come because he refused to go to galas without his favourite sibling. You sat at your vanity, remembering the same way you did so a couple nights prior.
You’re on Bruce’s arm, posture perfect, expression neutral. The dress is different tonight—black, sleeker, sharper. Armour disguised as silk.
You spot Tony near the bar.
Your heart stutters.
"Is that Tony?" You turn to ask Tim, rather flummoxed.
"Don't even get me started, it is him." Tim shot him a look of disgust.
You hesitate only a second before approaching, departing from your fathers arms.
“Hey, uh Tony,” you say gently. “Can we—can we talk for a minute?”
He turns.
And there’s nothing.
No recognition.
No warmth.
Just polite confusion.
“I’m sorry,” he says, kind and genuine. “Do I... do I know you?”
The floor drops out from under you.
You manage a small, breathless laugh. “Yeah. We— we had plans. The other night, you uhm, you picked the restaurant.”
He frowns apologetically. “I don’t think so. I would've remember.”
You nod, even though your head is spinning. “Right. Sorry. My mistake.”
You walk away on autopilot.
Bruce notices immediately.
“Are you alright?” he asks quietly.
You swallow. “He pretended not to even know me, he looked at me like he doesn't know who I am."
Bruce freezes.
Just for half a second.
Enough.
Enough for something cold and sharp to slide into place in your mind.
You space out for the rest of the night.
You're quiet on the ride home from the gala.
At home, you tell them everything.
You don’t accuse.
You just say, “Something’s wrong.”
And somewhere deep in your chest, a horrible, dawning suspicion begins to take shape.
The Watchtower hums quietly. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over polished floors, the quiet whir of machinery and computers filling the spaces between the voices.
You sit at the far edge of the conference table, next to your brother Dick, hands folded over your tablet. The room smells faintly of ozone and coffee, credits to your Uncle Barry. Outside the windows, Earth’s curvature glints under the setting sun.
Bruce is at the head of the table, cowl off, blue eyes sharper than the room allows. Martian Manhunter stands nearby, his tall frame impossibly calm. Other members of the League filter into the room: Wonder Woman, Superman, Green Lantern, Hawkman. All discussing details of a mission you had been central to.
You’ve been quiet all meeting. Every word of the briefing scrapes against your nerves like fingernails. You nod mechanically, scribble notes you don’t really need, because your mind keeps returning to the gala. To Tony.
“You were essential in neutralising the psychic weapon,” Wonder Woman says. “Without your recon, we would’ve lost multiple hostages.”
Your chest tightens. You’d been the one to infiltrate, to gather the intel, to take the calculated risks no one else could. And yet, here, your mind keeps drifting.
Bruce shifts in his seat. “The only complication,” he says, tone clipped, “was ensuring civilians involved in the extraction would not recall classified elements. Martian Manhunter, your procedure?”
J’onn nods, voice deep and measured. “Memory suppression was applied selectively. Congressional witnesses will recall only neutral details.”
Your stomach knots.
Something clicks. The words reverberate.
Memory suppression. Selective. Only neutral details.
Slowly, methodically, your detective brain starts piecing the puzzle together.
Bruce had called him about the dinner. About Tony. He thought… he thought J’onn was only erasing memories of your hero identity.
But the phrasing… “selectively”…
Your heart hammers. You shift in your chair, trying to hide the storm building inside. Every detail from the last few nights spins through your mind: the restaurant, the text, that blankness in Tony’s eyes, the gala…
You feel the blood drain from your face.
“Batman,” you say softly at first.
He looks at you. “Yes?”
Something freezes you.
You can’t speak.
The room continues around you. Wonder Woman adjusts her vambraces. Superman folds his arms. Flash taps impatiently at his fingers.
Everything slows.
The door at the restaurant.The empty table.Tony standing there, not seeing you.Your call with Dinah.The gala confrontation.
And then it clicks. Horribly. Oh no. Oh no. No. No.
The words form in your throat but don’t come out yet. The room feels distant.
Bruce shifts. “Is something wrong?”
You lock eyes with him.
“That’s how Tony forgot about me.” Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s sharp enough to pierce the hum of the Watchtower.
He leans forward, concerned. “What are you—”
“YOU GOT UNCLE JON TO ERASE TONY’S MIND.”
The words explode out of you, slow, controlled in their hysteria. The room goes silent. Even J’onn straightens.
“What are you saying?” Bruce asks, calm faltering.
“You—” you choke on the words. “You… you let him… you—how could you—”
Bruce opens his mouth. “I—I thought—”
“You thought?!” The first tears slip down your cheeks, unnoticed. “You thought it was okay to… to do this... to me? To take… to erase everything I was to him? Do you know what that feels like?!”
The chair screeches back as you stand. “Do you?!”
“You’ve betrayed me,” you spit, voice cracking. “You’re the only parent I have. I trusted you!”
Dick moves closer, hand on your shoulder. “Hey. Breathe—”
“I don’t want to breathe!” You shove his hand away gently but firmly. The world narrows to Bruce’s face. “You have no right! None! You watched me get ready for my date knowing damn well Tony wasn't coming… because you had his mind erased! Do you know how humiliating that was?!”
The League members glance between each other. Wonder Woman raises an eyebrow. Superman frowns. Flash glances at the door.
Bruce stands, silent, helpless, cowl off, hands spread slightly. “I was trying to protect you—”
“Does this look like protection?” You scream, voice shaking with fury and heartbreak. “You knew he would come, you knew he would smile, you knew I would wait, and you… you decided I needed to be shielded from… what? A human mistake? A human connection?!”
You pivot and storm toward the door. The Watchtower feels smaller, tighter, suffocating, every step amplifying your pulse.
“Wait, honey—” Bruce calls.
But you don’t stop.
You burst into the cafeteria. The room in it's entirety goes quiet. The clatter of trays and the hum of conversation vanish, silenced like someone hit mute on reality. Every face turns to you speed-walking away from your father. You see Tim and his friends among the crowd, Damian screwing around with Jon and Wally stuffing his face, but all that fades into obscurity the second you turn around to your father.
You pace, fists curled. “You—”
Bruce follows, desperate. “Y/N, you have to understand—”
“Understand what?!” you scream. “That my father—my only parent—decided that I wasn’t allowed to have my own life? That my feelings, my choices and my trust, mean nothing to you?!”
“You could’ve asked me!” You exclaimed, trembling. “You could’ve come to me, said… anything. But you just… did it!”
Bruce moves closer slightly to meet your level. “I thought I was—”
“You thought you were protecting me,” you repeat bitterly. “But what you did… it wasn’t protection. It was control. And I trusted you!”
You see the others watching, shocked at your usual calm and collected self being anything but that, some trying to intervene, but they stay back.
“I—” Bruce begins, voice low. “I didn’t anticipate—”
“You didn’t anticipate?!” You slam a fist on the table. “You erased me entirely from Tony's mind and you didn’t anticipate I’d find out?! How stupid do you think I am?”
Dick finally steps closer, hand on your shoulder again, more insistently this time. “Hey. Let’s just—breathe.”
You shake off his hand. “I can’t—don’t touch me. Not yet. Not until I decide if I can even look at you again.”
Bruce swallows. Silence stretches between you, weighted and suffocating.
“You—” you begin again, tears streaking your cheeks, voice breakinh “You betrayed me. The only person I’ve ever trusted with everything. Everything! And Tony… Tony doesn’t even know who I am because of you. Do you understand? Do you? I can't believe you would do that to me.”
The room holds its breath. You stand, staggering slightly, every step away from him another declaration.
“You don’t get to dictate anymore of my decisions.”
With that, you push through the cafeteria doors and escape, leaving Bruce, and the rest of your family frozen, the room silent but for the faint hum of the machinery outside, and the distant voices of the League murmuring amongst themselves.
You keep walking. Fast. Desperate. Angry. Heartbroken.
The betrayal isn’t about Tony anymore.
It’s about your father.
You don’t look back.
The Watchtower fades behind you like a bad dream.
And, as though it is deep within the genetics of Wayne children, you pack a bag and screw off to buttfuck nowhere, ultimately leading you to Star City train station. Every step feels heavier than the last, every breath jagged and impossible to steady. You don’t know where you’re going, just that it has to be somewhere Bruce won’t follow. Somewhere safe. Somewhere… normal.
You call Dinah.
"Hey babe what's going on?"
"Dinah, can you pick me up, I'm at the train station."
"Sure honey, Ollie'll be there ten minutes tops."
Because the universe hates you, it just had to start raining.
Ollie’s voice, however, finds you first. “Y/N!”
You whirl around, chest tight. There he is—running from his car towards you.
Your tears threaten to spill again, you let him engulf you in a hug.
"C'mon baby let's get you someplace warm"
As you enter the car, he gives you the dad look, probably practiced over years
“God, what did he do?” Ollie asks instantly, voice low, urgent.
You don’t answer. You just sit there, letting your tears finally slip freely down your cheeks.
When you pull up to their penthouse building, Dinah steps in front, blocking you gently. “You have to breathe, hon. Look at me.”
You stop, shaking, lungs heaving. Your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out.
“He… he…” You collapse into a chair at the small kitchen table in their penthouse. Your hands clutch your face. “He… my dad… he… he erased him. My Tony. My date. And… he… he… he—”
Dinah kneels beside you, hands gripping your arms. “Hey, hey, calm. You’re okay. You’re here. You’re safe. You’re alive. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Ollie sits opposite you, voice calm but sharp. “Y/N, I want you to listen. What Bruce did… it’s wrong. Absolutely. But he did it thinking he was protecting you. Doesn’t make it okay. But—”
You laugh bitterly, harsh and broken. “Protecting me?! By stealing my choices? By making him not remember me? By watching me wait for him like a fool?!”
Dinah squeezes your shoulder. “He’s an idiot. But you… you’re not a fool. You’re allowed to feel everything you feel.”
Ollie leans forward, voice firm. “Your trust was violated. That’s huge. That’s massive. And I get it—this is your father, your anchor. Doesn’t make it any easier. But we’ve got you. Both of us. Dinah, me—we’ve got you.”
You bow your head, chest heaving. “I… I don’t know how to face him. Or anyone. I can’t… I can’t…”
“You don’t have to face him yet,” Ollie says softly. “Not tonight. You get to be mad. You get to be heartbroken. You get to yell. You get to cry. And we’ll sit right here with you.”
Dinah smirks lightly despite the tears in her eyes. “Yeah. I’ve got the tissues. And maybe a bottle of wine if you want. Or, like… we could binge RomComs? Purely emotional damage. Your call.”
You laugh weakly. “RomComs?”
“You need something soft,” Ollie says, tone completely deadpan. “No high-octane superhero nonsense for at least… five hours.”
You sniff, eyes red, voice muffled. “I can’t believe he did this. My father. My father.”
Dinah and Ollie exchange a glance. “Yeah,” Ollie mutters. “I know. That one hurts. But it’s okay to feel it. You’re allowed to hurt. And we’re allowed to hate him a little.”
You bow your head again, letting yourself finally lean into them, into the warmth of a family that isn’t defined by fear or duty. You sob quietly. Every gasp feels like part of the betrayal leaving your body.
“You thought we’d be different,” you whisper. “That I’d never have to… be like Dick and Jason, hating you, or being angry for a while… and now…”
Dinah wraps you tighter. “We’ll get through this. And you’re not alone. Not ever.”
Hours pass. Soft talk. Quiet laughter. Occasional groans of disbelief from Ollie at Bruce’s absolute audacity. By the time you decide to move, it’s dark outside.
And that’s when it hits you—he will try to find you. The thought turns your stomach. You can’t go back. Not yet. Not while the wound is raw.
“I need to go somewhere Bruce won’t check,” you murmur.
Dinah frowns. “Titans Tower?”
You nod. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll explain when I get there.”
Ollie nods. “Be safe. Text us. Call us. If you need anything, anything, you call us first.”
You leave with a small bag, hugs that linger too briefly, promises whispered between sobs.
The Titans Tower is chaotic. Pizza boxes litter the floor, the tv flickers with a half-finished movie, Wally and Roy teasing each other, Kyle sprawled on the couch, Donna lounging nearby. Garth is quietly scrolling, probably muttering insults at some villain online.
You step in, hesitant, and immediately Dick is up, arms wide. “Hey, hey, come here.”
You collapse into his arms, shivering. His chest is warm, solid, grounding. He holds you in his arms like he’s holding the world together. You sob into his shoulder, the last of your Watchtower terror spilling out.
“Dick… he… he…” you stutter. “Bruce… he erased Tony’s memory. My dad… he…”
Dick squeezes tighter. “Shh. I know. I know. It’s okay. You’re okay now.”
Kyle speaks softly from the side. “Did Tony… make you happy?”
You pull back slightly, eyes red and glistening. “Tony didn’t make me cry.”
Donna shakes her head gently. “He’s the only parent i have,” you whisper fiercely. “I’m his daughter. He can’t do that to me.”
"Y/N, you'll be fine, I know it doesn't seem like it but you will be, we'll all be right eventually, it happened to me, it happened to Jason, it'll happen to you" Your older brother says, as his cuddle tightens.
Text buzzes on your phone. Tim. Duke. Steph. Cass. Messages of support, anger, FaceTimes popping up.
Wayne Kidz GC
Dookie 💛: bruh why'd he do that to begin with
Steph: Right i don't think anybody actually gaf about our identities
Timmy 🐀 : that was so dog
Timmy 🐀: dw y/n we got u
Dami 💚: sister please come home
Dami 💚: I understand you don't want to see him but father is worried. and I miss you quite dearly
Cass : 🤜🦇
Steph: Wayne kid canon event who
Dookie 💛: Straight facts Timbo are you next
Jay ⁉️: Gang let's all jump B
Jay ⁉️: He can't take all of us
Cass: ⬆️⬆️⬆️
Even Alfred. Petty little thumbs-up emoji, followed by “I concur with all parties’ emotional assessments. Well done, madam.”
Dick buries his face in your hair.
"I promise Y/N he won't do that again, I'll make sure of it."
And for the first time in hours, you believe it.
The Batcave is colder than usual.
Not physically—Bruce barely registers that anymore—but emotionally. The air is heavy, stagnant, thick with something unsaid. The waterfall roars like it always does, but tonight it feels accusatory. The T-Rex fossil casts long shadows across the platforms, turning the Cave into something harsher, more unforgiving.
Bruce lands first.
Boots hit concrete. Cape settles. He removes the cowl slowly, deliberately, like ritual will steady him. It doesn’t.
The mission had gone fine.
Textbook. Clean. Efficient.
But none of it matters.
He knows before he even turns around that he’s not alone.
Tim stands near the Batcomputer, arms crossed, posture rigid in a way Bruce recognises immediately—controlled anger, carefully leashed. Steph is pacing behind him, fingers tapping restlessly against her thigh. Duke leans against a support beam, jaw tight, eyes dark. Cass stands silently at the edge of the light, unreadable but furious in the way only she can be. Damian sits on the railing above, perched like a gargoyle, watching Bruce with sharp, unblinking focus.
Jason steps out of the shadows last.
Bruce exhales. “If this is about earlier—”
Tim cuts him off immediately. “Don’t.”
The single word lands harder than any punch.
Bruce stiffens. “Tim—”
“No,” Tim repeats, voice shaking now despite his best effort. “You don’t get to do that. Not tonight. Not after what you did.”
Bruce sets the cowl down carefully. Too carefully. “I’m aware that emotions are high, but this should be handled rationally.”
Jason laughs.
It’s short. Sharp. Bitter.
“Holy shit,” Jason says. “You really don’t hear yourself, do you?”
Bruce turns to him. “Jason—”
“You erased someone’s memory,” Jason snaps. “Someone she cared about. It doesn't matter that she's only known him for a year or two. Without her consent. Without telling her. And you’re talking about rational?”
“It was a mistake,” Bruce says tightly. “J’onn was meant to remove knowledge of her vigilante identity only. The scope exceeded—”
Steph whirls on him. “Do you hear how clinical that sounds Bruce?!”
Her eyes are bright. Wet. Angry.
“She trusted you,” Steph continues. “She trusted you. She came home crying because she thought she wasn’t good enough. Because she thought she’d been stood up. And you let her believe that.”
Bruce’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t know that would happen.”
Tim slams his hand down on the Batcomputer console.
“That’s the problem,” he says. His voice cracks despite himself. “You didn’t know—and you didn’t ask. You didn’t even consider that maybe, just maybe, she deserved a say in her own life.”
Silence stretches.
Cass finally steps forward.
“You hurt her,” she says simply.
Three words. No embellishment. No argument.
Bruce swallows.
“I was trying to keep her safe.”
Duke pushes off the beam. “From what?”
Bruce hesitates.
“From living?” Duke presses. “From dating? From being human? Because last I checked, that’s not a threat vector.”
Damian scoffs from above. “Tt. You allowed emotional vulnerability to be classified as a liability.”
Bruce looks up sharply. “Damian—”
“You watched her prepare for her date,” Damian continues coolly, almost cruelly precise. “You observed her emotional investment. And you allowed the erasure to proceed regardless. That is not protection. That is manipulation.”
Jason steps closer now, each footstep deliberate.
“You know what the worst part is?” he says quietly. “This isn’t new.”
Bruce’s gaze flickers.
“You did it to me,” Jason continues. “Different methods. Same logic. You decided you knew best. That my pain was acceptable collateral.”
Tim nods. “Dick too.”
Steph adds, “And now her.”
Bruce’s shoulders sag—just a fraction.
“She’s your daughter,” Tim says, voice breaking fully now. “Not a mission. Not a variable. Not something to optimise.”
“I know that,” Bruce says hoarsely.
“No,” Jason snaps. “You say that. But every time it matters, you choose control.”
The words hit. Hard. True.
Bruce looks away.
“She’s not upset about the boy,” Steph says, softer now, angrier for it. “She’s devastated because you did this to her. You—the one person she never questioned.”
Cass tilts her head. “She believed you.”
That’s the one that breaks him.
Bruce closes his eyes.
Images flood his mind unbidden—
You on the stairs, smiling nervously.
You asking where your gum was.
You laughing while Dinah hyped you up.
You waiting.
You crying in his arms.
“I failed her,” he admits quietly.
Jason’s voice drops. “Yeah. You did.”
Bruce opens his eyes. “I don’t know how to fix it.”
Tim steps forward, resolute. “Then you start by not fixing it for her.”
Bruce looks at him.
“You apologise,” Tim continues. “Without justification. Without strategy. You tell her the full truth. And you let her decide what happens next.”
“And if she never forgives me?” Bruce asks.
Steph crosses her arms. “Then you live with that.”
Damian speaks last. “Trust, once broken, must be rebuilt at the pace of the injured party. Anything else is further violation.”
Bruce nods slowly.
“I understand.”
Jason watches him for a long moment. “For her sake,” he says finally, “I hope you do.”
They don’t stay.
One by one, they leave the Cave, boots echoing, anger still burning but boundaries firmly drawn.
Bruce is left alone.
For the first time in a long time, the Cave feels exactly like what it is.
A place built for someone who believed control could replace trust.
A/N: Genny writing angst??? unheard of, gangalang please send me ideas for a potential part 2 or otherwise this will stay a oneshot. i swear this marinated in mt drafts for farrrr too long.
Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!
goodness gracious this was an amazing read i would love to read a second part if it’s written but omgggg even tho there was angst i was lowkey hyped the whole time reading this i like the idea of ollie and dinah serving the role of cool uncle and aunt
what if reader is really trying to go somewhere but dex wants them so stay, so they do and a little later if dex is asleep or distracted, they leave and spend a little too long at the place they're at. and when reader finally comes home dex is SPIRALLING and almost in tears because he thinks he's a problem for reader... my clingy man
𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄. 𝜗𝜚 dex.
r e q u e s t e d ♡
What was meant to be only a quick trip stretches into hours, and when you finally return home you find your boyfriend unraveling, panic and shame spilling out as he’s convinced your absence means you’re slipping away from him.
It wasn’t supposed to stretch like this.
A couple of hours, that’s all you’d promised, a birthday drink, a handful of hellos, maybe a toast or two before slipping back out into the night. That was how you’d rationalized it when you pulled on your jacket and stepped out, leaving your phone behind on the counter like a deliberate act of rebellion. Freedom in the shape of silence.
The apartment you walked out of had felt controlled and still; the place you’ve landed now feels like the opposite. Bass ripples up through the floorboards, the kind that sticks to your ribs and makes your blood beat in time with the music. Your friend’s laughter rings out somewhere behind you, the sound splintered by the press of bodies and chatter.
You’ve lost track of how many drinks you’ve accepted, only that the glass in your hand keeps changing shape, a highball here, a coupe there, always refilled before you’ve even realized it’s empty. Time moves soft and blurry, gold and warm and careless. You know the city outside has slipped into late night, but you’re still tucked in this pocket of noise and neon, thinking vaguely about slipping away but not yet making the move.
Before this, your boyfriend had spent the whole evening trying to anchor you with him. Dex had a way of making even soft words feel like weight; stay, don’t go, just stay here with me tonight. You’d nodded at first, the way you always did when his gaze went glassy with panic. Yes, you’d stay. Yes, it could wait. Yes, you were his.
But later, when his attention had snagged on something else, you slipped out. You didn’t even risk shoes with laces, just slid into your boots, jacket half-zipped, and let the door click softly behind you. He would wake up if you waited for sleep to take him. He always did, as if your absence was some low-frequency sound only he could hear.
The city air had felt electric after that, like it knew you were running from something. This party wasn’t even special, but you couldn’t bring yourself to bail. Your friend’s birthday, the invite you’d said yes to months ago, you told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That Dex would settle, that he’d calm down, that you’d only be gone a couple hours.
Now the hours have stacked up. The bar’s energy has dulled. Laughter thinning, glasses half-empty, people pulling on coats, calling cabs, ducking out into the cold. And suddenly the thought of Dex is there, unignorable, coiling low in your stomach; not just him, but the way his eyes would track you when you slipped your keys into your bag, the way his hand would find yours like a question he couldn’t stop asking.
You glance toward the door, the night feels heavier now. It’s late enough that he’s probably awake, pacing, thinking. You should probably go. You’re sure of it in the same way you’re sure of the bitter taste on your tongue, the ache in your temples, the smear of sweat at your collarbone.
You weave through the last cluster of friends, a soft smile and a clumsy goodbye hug for the birthday girl. “Happy birthday,” you smile, and she laughs, oblivious to the weight in your chest. Outside, the air hits you like a splash of cold water, sharp against flushed cheeks and the remnants of a drink too many.
You call a cab with unsteady fingers. Every step toward the waiting vehicle pulls at your stomach, a low, constant twist. Dex. Dex at home. Dex pacing the apartment, voice muffled through walls that aren’t really walls when your mind can hear him in every creak, every sigh.
You left your phone deliberately, and it presses at the back of your skull: no tracking, no calls, no “where are you, what’s happening?” It was the only way you could leave, the only way to breathe outside of his orbit for a few hours. But now that distance curls around your chest, a gnawing panic, because you can’t know how much he’s twisting in the apartment, what loops he’s running through in your absence.
The cab door shuts. Rain has started, spitting in ribbons across the windshield, and the driver hums low music you barely hear. You slump back into the seat, the warmth of the car a small, temporary reprieve, but the dread coils tighter as the city lights blur past. Every red glow, every flicker in the rearview mirror, whispers he’s awake, he’s awake, he’s thinking of you, he’s spiraling.
Even as the cab drifts forward, carrying you closer to him, closer to the moment you’ll see the fallout of your absence, you can’t shake the tight knot in your stomach that’s been growing since you stepped into the night. The storm isn’t outside, it’s waiting for you at home.
The cab tires hiss as it slows to a stop. You step out, a little unsteady, the alcohol in your system tugging at your balance and nudging your chest into a faster rhythm. Each step toward your building feels heavier than the last, every footfall dragging your stomach down with it.
By the time you reach the door, your palms are slick, heart hammering as if it already knows what’s waiting behind it. You pause, take a long, deep breath, letting it shiver out of you slowly, and then push the door open.
Dex is already there, blocking the threshold before you’ve even taken a full step inside. His chest is tight, shoulders coiled, jaw clenched so hard you can see the line of it under his skin. “Where the hell were you?” His voice is almost shaking with emotion, and then it cracks, the kind of anger that comes from fear and betrayal rolled into one.
Your stomach drops. He’s mad. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers curled like he wants to reach out and grip you, but something in him tells him not to, that he can’t risk hurting you.
You open your mouth, start to explain, but he slams the door fully shut behind you with enough force to rattle the frame. The sound echoes, a punctuation to all the dread you’d been carrying in the cab. “You said you’d stay,” he snaps. “You fucking said! And you left! You lied!”
His eyes flicker over you, wide and frantic, pupils blown, as if searching for the version of you that promised him safety; the version he feels like he lost. His chest heaves, shallow, ragged, like he’s trying to suck in air. You can see it in the glossy sheen of his eyes, that shimmer that teeters on the edge of tears, and the way his hands shake, loose at his sides, twitching, like he’s trying to catch something that’s already gone.
“How could you do this to me?” His words are jagged, tearing themselves out of his throat before he can soften them. “You said you’d stay. You told me you’d stay. You fucking liar.” It’s more than just being gone. It’s betrayal. It’s the feeling that the person he relies on, the person he trusts, isn’t really there, that you had to lie just to get away from him. You watch him reel, fists curling and unclenching like he can’t hold onto anything, not even himself.
You can see the thought-process behind those eyes: I’m too much. I always ruin things. I’m a problem. They’re leaving me because I’m broken. You weren’t gone that long. You weren’t trying to hurt him. But his mind doesn’t measure in minutes; it measures in stakes, in safety, in the impossibility of holding onto someone who disappears, even briefly.
You open your mouth, his name, an explanation, you’re not even sure what, but he cuts you off before you can form it.
“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t start with excuses. You left your phone here on purpose.” His eyes flick to the table where your phone still sits, screen black. “So I couldn’t reach you. So I couldn’t stop you from…” He swallows hard. “…from leaving me.”
The apartment is a mess, papers half-crumpled on the floor, a chair knocked over, a glass on its side. Dex, who alphabetizes his cereal boxes, whose entire morning ritual is a clockwork loop of order and repetition, standing in the middle of chaos like a man in a wrecked boat.
His voice cracks on the next sentence. “Am I too much? Is that it? Am I—” He gestures vaguely at himself, a broken, jerky motion — “—a problem? Did you need to get away from me that bad?” He laughs then, but it’s a hollow, brittle thing. “You had to sneak out. Like I’m some - - some monster you have to tiptoe around.”
The words spill out faster, overlapping, the way panic does when it’s been caged too long. He doesn’t pause for you to answer. He doesn’t seem like he could. His thoughts are too loud; you can see it in the twitch of his hands, the rapid dart of his eyes, the way his shoulders hunch as if bracing for a blow.
“You can’t just… vanish,” His voice rises as if he’s running out of air and words at the same time. “I thought —- I thought I could .. I thought you—” He stops, biting his lip, shaking his head. His eyes flick to the floor, then back up at you, glossy, frantic. “Do you even want me here?”
“Of course I do,” you say immediately, trying to slip beneath the roar in his head. You step closer, slow enough not to spook him, and your hands find his wrists, warm palms closing gently over skin. “Hey—Dex. Look at me. Right here. Breathe with me.”
He jerks once under your touch, as if he wants to pull back, but doesn’t. His chest rises fast, shuddering, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching like he’s chewing on the panic. You slide one hand up his arm, to his shoulder, thumb moving in small, grounding circles. “In and out. That’s all. Just in… and out…”
“I—” His breath catches. “You lied to me. You promised. And then you were gone. I was—” his voice cracks, and the rest dissolves into a half‑choked sound. His hands twitch toward you, then stop, then twitch again like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to hold on.
“I know,” you whisper, leaning in until your forehead almost touches his, until he can’t escape the calm you’re building. “I’m so sorry, Dex. I messed up. I shouldn’t have left like that. That’s on me.” Your thumbs press lightly into his pulse points. “You’re not too much. You’re not a problem. I love you. I’m here.”
He inhales sharply, but this time it’s softer, like something cracking open instead of tightening. You guide his hands up, pressing them against your chest so he can feel your heartbeat under his palms. “Here. Feel that? I’m not going anywhere. Just breathe with me. In…”
His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, clutching, still shaking but following the rhythm you’re giving him. “…out,” you murmur, keeping your voice a tether. You repeat it until his breath starts to stutter less, until his eyes flicker shut and the glossy panic gives way to something smaller. You stay right there, touch and voice both steady, holding him while he shakes, whispering over and over, “I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.”
His eyes open, and a scowl comes like a flash of lightning. “You smell like alcohol,” he observes, half‑hoarse, half‑accusation. The words aren’t loud, but they cut, riding on the tail end of his panic.
You let out the smallest, unsteady laugh, not mocking but soft, “Yeah,” you admit gently, brushing your thumb across his temple. “I had a couple. Birthday party, remember? But I’m here now. With you.”
His jaw works, trying to hang onto anger but slipping back toward panic, his shoulders rising high, high, high. You guide him with your hands, coaxing him toward the couch, not pushing, just a steady pressure backwards until he sits. He goes down stiffly, still clutching your shirt, but he’s sitting.
You kneel in front of him, one hand still at his wrist, the other moving up to cup his face, palm warm against his cheek. His skin is fever‑warm, and your thumb strokes the corner of his mouth where his scowl trembles. “Stay with me.” you inhale slowly, exaggerated, so he can see the rise of your chest and mimic it.
He tries to copy you. There’s a flicker, anger dissolving into hurt, hurt dissolving into fear. “Don’t—” he starts, voice breaking, “don’t do that again.”
His voice cracks on the word “again.” His breath still comes too fast, shoulders rising and falling under a weight you can’t see. “If I’m—” he starts again, but the words knot, break, tumble out anyway. “If I’m too much, just—just say it. Don’t sneak out. Don’t lie. Don’t make me think—” He pauses like coming to terms with a harsh truth. “You wanted to get away from me. You did want to get away from me, didn’t you?”
You press your palm firmer to his cheek, thumb stroking a slow circle over his skin. “I didn’t leave because of you. I wanted to be there for a friend. That’s all.” You keep your eyes on his, not letting him slip away into the gaps of his own thinking. “I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m here now.”
He swallows, his expression flickering between anger and desperation. “Promise?” It’s a child’s question asked in an adult’s voice.
“I promise.” You brush his hair back from his face.
He clings tighter, then tighter still, a low sound caught in his throat, following your hands when you shift. You start moving through the apartment because it gives you something to do, because you can feel the mess pressing on him as much as his panic presses on you. A glass tipped over on the counter. Papers scattered, pens knocked to the floor. It’s all out of character for him, and you know it’s feeding the spiral.
You pick up a bottle. A book. A pillow from the floor. He follows you, magnetized, hands brushing at your elbow, your back, as though he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loses contact. “I just…” he mutters behind you, “…don’t want to lose you. I can’t.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you say softly, stacking dishes, tossing stray wrappers, your motions slow so he can watch. “I’m cleaning up. We’re resetting. Breathe with me while I do this.”
He nods, a jerky little movement, shadowing you step for step. He’s still angry, you can feel it, but underneath the anger there’s only fear. Fear that if he looks away from you, you’ll dissolve.
“Kiss?” The word is small and uncertain between you. It’s not a demand, not even a question in the usual sense; it’s a plea, soft and childlike, the shape of a need he can’t dress in anything tougher. His fingers hover at your sleeve, not tugging, just waiting.
You lean in and brush your mouth over his. His hands loosen a little at your sides, then clutch again, like he’s checking that you’re real. “I love you,” you affirm against his lips, and then another kiss, until you feel his shaking start to ebb.
When you finally move to finish tidying the last bits of the room, he trails after you, eyes never leaving your movements. The apartment quiets as you set things back in place, and then you turn to him, palm out. “Come on,” you say softly. “Let’s get you changed.”
He follows you back to the bedroom without a word. You help him peel off the sweat-damp shirt, the fabric clinging to his back. He doesn’t look away, even when you’re focused on buttons and zippers, as though a blink would risk losing you. You find him a soft tee, clean shorts; he lets you guide his arms through the sleeves, his movements pliant but shaky.
The sheets are cool when you lay him down. He immediately reaches for you, palms sliding to your hips, pulling you down with him before you can straighten. His eyes are locked to yours. “Stay,” he whines, the word half a breath, half a command.
You settle beside him, threading your fingers through his hair. “I’m staying.”
He presses his forehead to your collarbone, arms cinched tight around your waist, his heartbeat thudding against your ribs. You feel the tremor still inside him, the way he fights closing his eyes, lids fluttering but never dropping all the way. His gaze keeps darting up at your face, worried you’ll sneak out again.
“Sleep,” you coax, brushing his temple with your thumb. “It’s okay.”
He shakes his head minutely, nose brushing your skin. “If I close my eyes, you’ll leave.”
You don’t try to argue. You’ve already learned what that does, words against a storm only scatter into noise. He won’t believe you right now anyway. Instead you exhale slowly, the sound soft against his hair, and let your palms slide beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers finding the heat of his back. Skin to skin. He inhales sharply, not in surprise but in relief, muscles shuddering under your hands as if you’d just turned on a light in a locked room.
His breathing stays uneven. Yours isn’t much better. The alcohol still fuzzes the edges of everything, and closing your eyes makes the ceiling tilt, but you do it anyway, palms splayed over the plane of his spine. Neither of you speaks. He holds you as if that will keep you from dissolving. You hold him as if that will keep him from breaking.
You don’t tell him it’s okay. You don’t tell him you’ll stay. You just stay.
reader that isn’t a bimbo? Reader that is put together and likes dressing up? Reader that’s older than 18-20? Reader that’s not white-coded??? Reader who doesn’t have daddy issues? Reader who does have daddy issues in a “man hater” way? Reader who’s taller than 4’11-5’0?? Reader who’s quiet and reserved and not in a robotic way or stuttering way? Reader who’s Tina Belcher coded? Reader who gives off the vibe of a creepy barn owl but somehow it’s endearing? Reader who’s charismatic and charming? Reader who’s-
What the hell is up with the batfam fandoms obsession with a neglected reader? Like is there no other archetype? Cause at some point people have to be getting bored of it. Please guys there has to be a better backstory than “oh no my family doesn’t look at me” or “they only realize I’m gone after I left”, how about a reader who is an active participant in the family but decides to leave? How about a reader who was a villain but turns to an antihero? How about a normal person as the reader and enjoys being normal? Like genuinely I will take anything else instead of neglecting because it is genuinely starting to become boring and overdone. Also what the hell is with them becoming yanderes? Like fuck can’t they just be good people who love and care about their family?
Pairing: Kyle Rayner x Batsis!Reader, Batfam x Batsis!Reader
Summary: You’re Gotham’s most eligible bachelorette—untouchable, uninterested, and immune to rich boys with trust funds. To stop the endless matchmaking attempts, you bring Kyle Rayner to a Wayne gala. One dress and one red carpet later… the internet loses its mind, and Kyle realises he’s in deep, but it's not like it bothers him.
CW: Swearing, nonchalantness, daddy is used as a parental term, terms of endearment, maybe OOC Bruce but idc hes a girl dad fight me
word count: 1.3k
Everyone knew it.
Wayne galas, charity balls, benefit dinners—whatever name they slapped on them—always came with the same unspoken truth: you never brought a date.
Not once.
You attended alone, with your family, gliding through marble halls and flashbulbs like you’d been born into spotlight and shadows alike. Polite, distant, devastating. Men tried—Gotham heirs, foreign princes, tech prodigies, oil magnates—but they bounced right off you. You smiled, excused yourself, and disappeared back into the crowd like smoke.
Bruce called it selective standards.
Dick called it icon behaviour.
Jason called it funny as hell.
Which was exactly why, at dinner one night, when Alfred made some insanely delicious Bouillabaisse, your father, Bruce cleared his throat like he was about to announce a merger.
“So, sweetheart, you know,” he said carefully, folding his napkin, “you do have… many suitors.”
You didn’t look up from your food. “Tragic isn't it, Daddy.”
“They’re respectable families,” Alfred added diplomatically.
“Even worse.”
Dick snorted. Jason choked on his drink, garnering a snicker from Tim and Damian.
Bruce continued, unfazed.
“Some high society couples have discussed with me, sweetie, they have been asking if you’d be open to being introduced to their sons, so you can get to know them, and perhaps that will blossom into something lovely.”
That finally got your attention. You blinked. Slowly. “Daddy.”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“If you attempt to auction me off like Wayne Enterprises stock, I will fake my death.”
Steph cackled. “She’s so real for that.”
Your father sighed as though he'd seen it coming. "I understand baby, all I want for you is to find a nice boy who treats you appropriately."
"I know and I appreciate it dad but for eighteen years of my life you never let me date anyone, and it really wasn't fair considering Dick, Jason and Tim had girlfriends way before I was allowed to date, and now look, it's coming to bite you back in the ass because all those parents have boys that don't know how to treat girls right." You said cooly.
It earned a giggle from your sister, and a snicker from the rest of the family.
"Would you rather take someone you already know to the gala this weekend? I would hate for you to go alone." Your father said exasperatedly.
"How 'bout Conner? He's grounded this week and really needs reprieve." Tim chimes in.
"No thanks." You responded.
"Wally? or Roy?" said Steph.
"What the fuck why them?" Jason asked in confusion, dropping his fork on his dinner.
"Language Jason."
Dick, however, tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Y’know… you could always take Kyle.”
The table went silent.
You turned. “Kyle Rayner?”
"Oh yeah Kyle's cool." Tim agreed.
“The Green Lantern Kyle Rayner,” Dick said innocently. “Single. Hot. Not a weirdo. Already around the family.”
Jason nodded. “Also would absolutely panic the old money crowd.”
You leaned back, considering. Then smiled—slow, dangerous, delighted.
“…Get me his number.”
Kyle Rayner almost dropped his sketchbook when you showed up at his apartment.
You didn’t knock. You never knocked.
He opened the door to find you leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed, looking unfairly put together for a Tuesday afternoon.
“Hey, Kyle,” you said. “You free this weekend?”
His brain blue-screened. “Wh-why??” he cringed to himself at how stupid he sounded.
“There's a gala I need a date for.” You tilted your head. “Black tie. Paparazzi. Extremely judgmental billionaires.”
“…Oh.” He looked rather dumbfounded, you found it quite endearing.
"Wait is there not some high-society rich boy ready to jump at the chance to take you out? Why are you asking me?" He questioned.
"For the exact reason you said, they're high-society rich boys that don't know how to treat me right, I'm sure you do though."
Kyle didn't know how to respond.
You smiled sweetly. “I’ll buy the suit if you'll be my fake date.”
You batted your eyelashes and that action alone had him weak in the knees.
He said yes before you started the next sentence.
Suit shopping was his downfall.
You picked him up outside his apartment in your sleek Range Rover Velar your father bought you for graduation.
You were ruthless—in the best way. Critiquing lapels, adjusting cuffs, fixing his tie with hands that lingered just a second too long. Kyle watched you move around him like an artist refining a masterpiece, completely unaware you were the most dangerous thing in the room.
“This one,” you said, smoothing the fabric over his shoulder. “Green accents. Subtle.”
He swallowed. “You did that on purpose.”
You glanced up. “What?”
“The green.”
You shrugged. “Branding.”
The night of the gala, Kyle arrived at Wayne Manor with flowers like he was meeting royalty.
Which, honestly, he wasn't far off from it.
His heart was beating violently in his chest as he walked up the step stones to the double doors of your fucking fortress of a house.
When he entered, he was welcomed by the butler.
What was his name again?? Kyle thought to himself. Andrew? Alfredo? Charles? Henry? Whatever. Kyle was too afraid to ask.
Bruce shook his hand with a look that said hurt her and I end you. Alfred accepted the bouquet approvingly. Jason muttered, “He’s brave, I’ll give him that.”
Then the room went quiet.
You appeared at the top of the grand staircase with Cass at your side.
The dress—goodness, the dress—was emerald green satin, cut to perfection. Smooth and liquid against your body, hugging your waist before flowing down into a sleek, floor-length skirt that caught the light with every step. Thin straps crossed delicately over your shoulders, the back open just enough to be lethal. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
It was power. Elegance. Control.
Kyle forgot how to breathe.
Cass squeezed your hand. You squeezed back.
Damian spawned beside Kyle in his mini suit, looking like a tiny version of Bruce, eyes sharp. “If you embarrass her, I will get you.”
Kyle nodded immediately. “Understood.”
The gala was chaos. Kyle was tense the entire limo ride over and your siblings filming tiktoks did nothing to calm his nerves.
Flashbulbs exploded the moment you stepped onto the red carpet, Kyle’s hand firm at your back. You leaned in when he stiffened, your Baccarat perfume flooding his senses making him feel dizzy, murmuring, “Breathe Kyle. I’ve got you.”
“Do you always do this?” he whispered.
You smiled for the cameras. “Only when I want to ruin people’s expectations.”
TikTok had already lost its mind.
WAYNE HEIRESS STEPS OUT WITH WHO???
EXCUSE ME WHO IS HE
WAIT SHE’S SMILING??
Kyle relaxed as the night went on, realising you never left his side. You introduced him with ease, shut down uncomfortable conversations effortlessly, and laughed—actually laughed—when he made a dumb joke under his breath. You fingers intertwined with his underneath the table when the two of you were sat next to each other, and when you were standing his fingers remained latched onto your waist, caressing your satin-clad midriff.
At one point, tucked away from the crowd, he glanced at you. “You okay?”
You met his eyes.
Soft.
Real.
“Yeah. I am.”
When the night finally ended, you squeezed his hand once more.
“You should be my date more often Kyle.” you said casually.
"Really?" Kyle asked genuinely.
"Yeah." You turned to face him.
"We look good together.
BONUS:
By morning, the edits were everywhere.
Slow-motion red carpet walks.
Zoom-ins on his hand at your waist.
You laughing, him staring like he’d won the lottery.
Captioned: “Gotham’s most untouchable bachelorette has been taken?”
Bruce watched one video in silence, sighed, and turned his phone off.
Dick sent Kyle a thumbs-up emoji.
Jason sent: Don’t mess this up, lantern boy.
And you?
You saved one edit.
Just one.
Because for the first time, bringing a date didn’t feel like armor.
It felt like a choice.
A/N: I love kyle omg
Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!
Pairing: Damian Wayne x Batsis!Reader, Jon Kent x Batsis!Reader
Summary: You’re Damian's favourite person in the entire world. Unfortunately for him, Jonathan Kent exists—and he adores you just as much. A series of very soft, very petty jealousy moments follow, ending with reassurance, family love, and Damian learning (slowly) that sharing doesn’t mean losing you
CW: jealousy but thats it
Word count: 1.5k
Wayne Enterprises Tower gleamed in the late afternoon sun, all glass and steel and money. Damian sat in the passenger seat of your matte black Range Rover Velar, caressing your dog, Elizabeth Taylor Wayne, a fine bred cavalier wearing a sweater, his scowl firmly in place as if daring the world to comment on his seatbelt being properly fastened.
You, on the other hand, were unbothered. One hand rested casually on the steering wheel, the other tapping along to the low jazz playing through the speakers. You were dressed immaculately—tailored trousers, a soft knit top, your coat draped just right. Old money without trying. Damian matched you without even realizing it: crisp button-up, perfectly fitted jacket. You always did that. Coordinated without asking.
“There,” Damian muttered, spotting them first.
Outside the tower, Clark Kent stood talking quietly with Bruce, Lois beside him, one hand resting on Jonathan’s shoulder. Jon was bouncing on the balls of his feet, clearly impatient, craning his neck the second your car pulled to the curb.
You parked smoothly and stepped out, Lizzy Tay from Damian and putting her on the ground attached to her leash, and Damian, who followed, straightening instinctively, because appearances mattered—even now.
“Y/N!” Jon yelled.
Before you could even fully close the car door, Jonathan Kent launched himself at you like a small missile.
You laughed, the sound warm and bright, and caught him easily, arms wrapping around him as he clung to your neck. “Hey, superstar,” you said, spinning him once before setting him against your hip. “Miss me?”
“Yes,” he said instantly, burying his face into your shoulder like he hadn’t seen you in years instead of a week. He then proceeded to love all over Lizzy Tay.
Damian’s jaw tightened.
You adjusted your grip on Jon, then turned toward the adults with that easy grace that made people forget you were Gotham’s princess and remember you were just… you.
“Auntie Lois,” you said, stepping forward to hug her carefully around Jon. Lois laughed and hugged you back, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek.
“Sweetheart,” she said fondly. “You look gorgeous. As always.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” you replied, grinning.
You shifted Jon just enough to lean in and hug Clark too, your arms wrapping around him with familiarity, your forehead briefly resting against his chest. “Hi, Uncle Clark.”
Clark smiled down at you, warm and gentle. “Hi, kiddo.”
Then—because you always did this—you turned to Bruce.
“Hey, Dad.”
Bruce opened his arms without hesitation, pulling you into a brief but solid hug. Protective. Grounding. Damian watched closely, as he always did, reassured by the fact that you still fit perfectly there.
You pulled back, took in the whole scene with a soft smile, then looked down at the two boys.
“Alright,” you said brightly. “Field trip.”
Jon beamed. Damian blinked.
You reached down and took both of their hands—Jon’s small and warm in your left, Damian’s firm and tense in your right.
That’s when Damian really felt it.
You started walking, leading them down the street toward the car, the city humming around you. Jon chattered immediately, talking a mile a minute about school and a science project and something about dinosaurs.
Damian said nothing.
But his hand tightened around yours.
You noticed, of course. You always did.
Without looking at him, you squeezed back—gentle, reassuring. I’m still here.
Damian’s scowl softened, just barely.
Behind you, Lois watched with a fond, knowing smile. Clark nudged Bruce lightly. “They really love her.”
Bruce exhaled, something proud and quiet in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “They do.”
Ahead, you laughed at something Jon said, the sound ringing bright through the street, pulling both boys along behind you—your boys, in different ways, both convinced they had a rightful claim to your attention.
And Damian, walking at your side, decided something very important right then:
His best friend was getting a little too comfortable.
The Watchtower was unusually warm that day.
Not temperature-wise—space was still space—but in the way laughter lingered longer in the corridors and people didn’t rush quite as fast between missions. Your birthday had a way of doing that, you had been handing out invites left, right and centre (guys give me ideas for batsis' birthday pls) Someone—probably Wally—had announced it over comms hours earlier, and now every hero within a five-mile radius was finding excuses to “just pass by.”
You were leaned against one of the common room tables, talking animatedly with Donna and Kori, hands moving as you laughed. Kyle was perched on the back of a chair nearby, absolutely gone, watching you like you hung the stars outside the viewport yourself.
Damian stood a little to your left, arms folded, chin lifted, pretending not to care while very obviously caring.
Jon hovered a few steps away.
He’d been fidgeting for ten straight minutes.
Clark noticed first, of course. He always did. He leaned down slightly, murmuring something soft and encouraging, then Clark nudged Jon gently with his knee, whispering, “Go on, son.”
Jon inhaled like he was about to face Darkseid.
Then he marched forward.
“Y/N?” His voice cracked just a little.
You turned instantly, smile lighting your whole face. “Hey, sunshine.”
That did not help his nerves.
He held out the rose with both hands. It was red, freshly cut, carefully wrapped at the stem so he wouldn’t prick himself. He’d clearly put thought into it—this wasn’t grabbed from a Watchtower planter last minute.
“I—I got you this,” he said. “For your birthday. Mom helped me pick it. Dad said roses are… um… respectful.”
Wally audibly melted.
Roy pressed a hand to his chest like he’d been shot.
Donna whispered, “Oh my god,” like a prayer.
You froze for half a second.
Then your expression softened so much it physically hurt to watch.
“Oh, Jon,” you breathed.
You crouched immediately so you were eye-level with him, carefully taking the rose. “This is beautiful. Thank you.”
His grin was instant and blinding.
Before anyone could blink, you scooped him up under the arms and lifted him into a hug, spinning him just slightly off the ground.
Damian stiffened.
Not because he was mad.
Because he was jealous.
Jon giggled, arms looping around your neck like it was the most natural thing in the world. You pressed a kiss to his temple, laughing softly.
“You are the sweetest boy on the planet,” you told him. “I’m keeping this forever.”
Clark looked like he might cry.
Damian cleared his throat.
Loudly.
You glanced over, still holding Jon, and immediately clocked it—the rigid posture, the way his jaw was set just a little too tight.
“Dami,” you said gently.
He huffed. “I fail to see why he is being carried.”
You smiled.
Uh-oh.
You shifted Jon onto one hip and extended your free arm. “Come here, then.”
The room went silent.
Damian hesitated. For exactly one second.
Then he stepped forward and allowed you to pull him in, tucking him against your side with Jon like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Damian did not smile—but he leaned in.
Just a little.
Wally covered his mouth. “I can’t—this is too much.”
Roy snapped a picture. “For the archives.”
Kori clasped her hands together. “This is the purest thing I have witnessed today.”
Jon beamed up at Damian. “We match now!”
“We do not,” Damian said stiffly.
But he didn’t pull away.
You pressed a kiss into Damian’s hair, quick and familiar. “You okay?”
He swallowed. “…Yes.”
Clark cleared his throat, trying—and failing—to sound stern. “So, uh. Jon. You didn’t mention the hug was part of the gift.”
Jon shrugged happily. “I just wanted to.”
Later that week—
You were in the Batcave, mid-debrief, when Alfred handed you a vase.
Inside it: a full bouquet. Deep reds, whites, carefully arranged. Expensive.
A small card sat tucked between the stems.
Damian stood a few steps away, pretending very hard to examine a monitor.
You read the card.
For my sister.
Happy Birthday.
—D.
Your heart imploded. (a very clear attempt from your brother to one-up his best friend.)
You crossed the space in three steps and wrapped him up immediately. “Damian Wayne,” you whispered, “you absolute menace. You’re going to kill me with affection.”
He tried to be nonchalant but his face warmed up. “It was… statistically appropriate.”
You laughed, warm and bright, and kissed his forehead again.
When Jon's birthday rolls around, the gifts are.... excessive.
Books. Games. A telescope. A custom jacket.
Lois laughs helplessly. “Y/N, honey, we adore you but he’s going to expect this forever.”
Clark smiles warmly. “We’re grateful. Truly.”
Jon hugs you tight. “Best sister ever.”
Damian clears his throat loudly.
That night, Damian knocks on your door.
“You are not replacing me,” he says.
You smile softly. “Never.”
He hesitates. “…You can have more than one little brother.”
You pull him into a hug.
He allows it.
Barely.
Later that night, he corners you in the hallway.
“…You like him,” he says quietly.
“I love him,” you correct gently. “Like family.”
He looks down. “…Am I still your favourite?”
Your heart breaks in half.
You kneel, cupping his face. “Damian. You don’t lose a place in my heart because I love other people.”
He swallows.
“You’re my little brother,” you continue. “That doesn’t change.”
He leans into your touch.
“…Good.”
A/N: this was so cute to write omg God bless the anon that requested this
Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!
the joker gets what he deserves, even if it is too little too late
The warehouse looms, large and imposing in its stature before you. It's quiet, oddly so, removed from Gotham's city centre as it is. There's no traffic, no ambient gunshots, or drunken arguments to disturb the eerie silence.
It's as if Gotham herself has gone to sleep, turning a blind eye toward the actions you plan to take tonight. You take it as permission, approval. There'll be no witnesses, no Batman, to prevent you from finally undertaking the task you've longed for years to achieve, not until it's too late.
You suppose it's poetic, in a way, that you'd find him here — in a warehouse — not unlike the one your brother had died in.
"Joker." Your voice is curt, sounding faraway to your ears as the madman beams widely at you, face splitting unnaturally to accommodate his grin.
"What's this? A baby bat? I find it hard to believe Daddy Bats would leave you alone with little ol me," he giggles, "not after what happened to the last bird."
He's trying to provoke you, to pick at the scabbed-over wound barely concealing the ball of rage and grief that's consumed your being in the years since your little brother's death.
Unfortunately for the Joker, you're not here to take him back to Arkham tonight; you never will again.
"Nothing to say—" No sooner are the words out of his mouth than you are pulling the gun, stolen from a lax GCPD officer and firing four swift shots that echo loudly.
Although you share Bruce's disdain for the weapon, you're still an excellent shot. Left then right wrists, disabling his hands, followed by both kneecaps, and it's with more than a flicker of satisfaction that you watch the man crumple to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
Slowly, you stalk toward your prey, face remaining impassive as he squirms across the filthy concrete. Planting a foot on his chest, you easily prevent his futile movements.
You hadn't allowed yourself to put too much thought into it, what it would feel like to have the Joker like this, completely at your mercy. Satisfaction? Triumph? Relief?
Maybe once upon a time you would have, when the wound of Jason's death was still fresh, raw, aching. Now, though, all you can bring yourself to feel is cold indifference.
Reaching up, you catch a brief flicker of surprise flash across Joker's face before he hides it just as you fully slip the mask off. You want him to see you. This isn't the act of one of Gotham's resident vigilantes, but of a grieving sister.
You see his eyes widen in understanding; he won't live to tell anyone, as you utter your final words, "You killed my brother," barely a whisper over the Joker's cackles.
Throwing the gun carelessly to the side, too impersonal, and reach for the sturdy metal crowbar hooked in your belt.
The mad clown's laughter just gets louder, grating on your ears as you swing back the weapon with a yell, a sickening crunch sounding at the impact with his skull.
Somehow, he just keeps laughing, even as you hit him again and again and again. A scream rips from your throat, loud enough to drown out the squelching noises emanating from the Joker's still body with every impact of the crowbar.
He's long since stopped laughing, reduced to nothing but a lifeless corpse at your feet, but still, you can't stop swinging.
Your arms burn, throat raw and hoarse from screaming, and your eyes sting with the onset of endless tears that stream down your cheeks, blurring your vision.
It should be a little terrifying how easy it is, how satisfying that first crunch of bone beneath your strike was. But you can't find it in yourself to dwell on that. The beast in you is hungry, demanding more and more and more until the Joker’s nothing but an unrecognisable pile of gore at your feet.
The crowbar clatters to the ground, unheard over the sudden ringing in your ears as you stumble away from the Joker's corpse. Liquid crimson stains your hands and drips from your costume, but you barely notice.
You don't even notice the rapidly cooling splatter of viscera across your unmasked face as you aimlessly wander out of the warehouse and into the dark night.
At some point, it had started to rain, not uncommon for your home city, not that it bothered you. Closing your eyes, you tilt your head back for a few seconds, allowing the cool rain to slide over your face before you once again embark on your mindless trek. Dispassionately, you watch as the water at your feet runs red, cleansing you of the evidence of what you've done.
Aimlessly, you wander the city in a haze, instinctively sticking to the shadows as the rain-borne mist shrouds your figure from any prying eyes.
It's not until your fingers clasp the rusted cemetery gate, pushing the protesting metal open with an eerie creaking noise, that you realise where you are.
You don’t recall how you got here, but your legs continue their journey almost without your permission, following a well-worn route you could complete in your sleep.
The familiar headstone is barely visible through the now near torrential rain and the sudden slew of your own tears, but you recognise it nevertheless, trembling legs finally giving way as you collapse before Jason's grave.
"I did it," You croak, voice a drowned-out whisper in the wind as your fingers curl in the grass and mud, "I killed him."
Something between a sob and a laugh bursts from your throat as you lean your forehead against the grey stone, confessing your sins to an audience that can't hear. "He'll never hurt anyone ever again. I killed him and —" it was easy.
The realisation should horrify you, but these days, you find yourself hard-pressed to feel anything through the all-consuming well of grief and apathy that's swallowed you whole and dragged you down into its depths.
"I killed him, but what does it matter? It won't bring you back."
Unconcerned with the rain, the mud, the blood, of anything, your body curls up in a ball, soaked cape covering your shivering form as one of your palms splays across the headstone, the closest you'll ever get to holding your little brother again.
At some point, your eyes close, countless sleepless nights, and mental exhaustion taking their toll on your body.
You dream of him, your little brother, of hugging him close and never letting go. He whispers reassurances in your ear, cradling you close as he apologises for leaving you behind. You want to scream, tell him it's not his fault, but he shushes you gently, rubbing circles on your back.
For some reason, he's bigger than you remember, wearing a leather jacket with only a splash of red across his chest, far from the brightly coloured Robin suit he'd died in. It's wrong, but even in your dreams, you'll take whatever scraps of Jason you can get.
The next morning, you wake in your bed, miserable and aching, as you recall the feel of Jason's lips pressing a tender kiss to your forehead and the smell of him as you buried your nose in his neck.
It's a cruel reality to wake and find the sensation had been nothing more than a dream. Still, you find your heart feels just a tad lighter because, as silly as it seemed, it almost felt as if Jason had really been there.
Pairing: Damian Wayne x Batsis!Reader, Batfam x Batsis!Reader
CW: fluff, sibling behaviour
@fromrory
• Damian refuses to admit it out loud, but you’re literally the only person he’d die for unprovoked.
Like Alfred will ask him to do dishes and he’ll be like “tt,” but you go,
“Dami, can you pass me the charger?”
and bro is MOVING like he’s on a stealth mission for the UN.
• He 1000% sits on your counters like a cat while you’re getting ready. Zero thoughts. Just swinging his legs, judging your eyeliner technique with love.
• He absolutely copies your slang.
He acts like he hates it but then someone annoys him in patrol and he’s muttering,
“Be fr… your incompetence is astronomical.”
Dick almost falls off a roof laughing.
• When he naps in your room he tries to wake up before you notice, but you ALWAYS catch him. And you always carry him out despite him weakly grumbling “I can walk…” while not lifting a single limb.
• The Titans think you’re the Damian Whisperer.
Gar: “He just threatened to stab me because I ate his tofu jerky—can you… talk to him?”
You: “Damian, apologise.”
Damian, immediately: “Very well. I am… moderately remorseful.”
• You bring him Starbucks on school mornings and he pretends it’s beneath him.
But he sips it.
All of it.
Every time.
• Your Urus is basically the unofficial Teen Titan Uber.
Damian sits in the front seat like he’s your tiny little passenger prince while Duke and Dick’s friends sit in the back filming TikToks
• You two have a shared playlist.
It’s:
– 70% your songs
– 20% classical pieces
– 10% questionable songs that snuck onto the playlist somehow
• When he steals your clothes, he always picks the most expensive ones.
You’re like,
“BRO THAT WAS LIMITED EDITION.”
And he goes,
“I look better in it. Accept reality.”
• You’re his legal emotional support human at Wayne Galas. He gets all stiff and annoyed until you hold his hand.
• He sneakily paints portraits of you and hides them around the manor. You’ll open a random cabinet and boom—masterpiece.
Alfred finds one in the fridge once.
• You help him with skincare and he pretends it’s a training ritual.
THIS IS SO CUTE!!! i’m arab so i gotchu, sister would be أخت which is pronounced ukht but if you wanna say “my sister” you’d say أختي which is pronounced ukhti
My Batsis!Reader headcanons!
Inspired by @/navyhaze !! I figured I should do a post about my batsis!! This is so self induglent but wtv!!
Batsis!Reader who is older than Tim but younger than Jason
Batsis!Reader who is SO close with Damian that people think you two are twins. He follows you around like an angry cat, but God forbid anyone else speak to you with even a hint of disrespect.
Batsis!Reader who got a Urus as her first car
Batsis!Reader who is Uncle Ollie’s favourite niece. He spoils you like he’s trying to win a custody battle that isn’t happening.
Batsis!Reader who calls Aunt Lois “mama” sometimes, and Clark literally MELTS every time. Man goes soft like fresh bread. Doesn't make it better that a rose was gifted by Jon on Valentine's Day
Batsis!Reader who has a room so big everyone hangs out in it by default.
Dick: “Where we meeting?”
Jason: “Y/N’s room.”
Tim: “Obviously.”
Even Damian does his homework on your couch.
Batsis!Reader who has a Hollywood-style vanity, over 200 shoes, racks of handbags, walls of makeup, AND STILL says “I have nothing to wear.”
Batsis!Reader who roasts Bruce without hesitation.
“You getting another kid, daddy?”
“Sweetheart—”
“What’re you naming this one? Dumb Fuck? Daddy Stupid?—OH LEMME GUESS 'Who's my mommy?'”
Cue your family wheezing
Batsis!Reader who has the BEST father–daughter bond with Bruce. He calls you “princess,” “sweetheart,” “little bat,” and hugs you every chance he gets. You two literally cook together every Christmas like a Hallmark movie family, think Stormi and Kylie.
Batsis!Reader who calls Garfield "Shrek"
Batsis!Reader who is a lethal flirt by accident. You bat your eyelashes at Kyle Rayner ONCE and he tripped over a chair.
Batsis!Reader who is treated like royalty by Alfred because he loves all the kids, but you are Alfred’s “little star.”
Batsis!Reader who is nonchalant and mysterious around other people, but a dumbass around her friends and family
A/N: got yo ass
Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!
Sources! -
Dividers - @enchanthings
Icon Header - pinterest
Property of suigenerisisadiva, do not repost my work pls & ty
She was a bit younger than him but that didn’t matter. Twenty three year old was just fine with almost thirty.
It all started when you moved in about six months ago, last year of college and your first master degree.
Small Hellos or other simple greetings as “Evening”, “Morning”, “How are you?” turned into slightly longer and longer conversations in the hallway. His nerves jumping up and down inside his body as if trying to rip through him every time he talked to you.
It was hard. Really hard for him.
You were a quiet person, despite his own living room aligned with yours, only separated by the wall, he never heard anything much from in there. From time to time he’d hear laughter or some kind of music but that was it.
Eventually he’d call you over to his place one evening, slightly reluctant but you agreed.
Only to come to an awfully clean apartment which smelled like the dinner he mixed up, and some kind of sanitizer.
He didn’t drink due to already taking various medication that he openly admitted to you.
He also admitted being an FBI agent, and that his line of work was dirty and required lethal hands.
The atmosphere was gray. White walls and some kind of wooden floors and gray furniture completely surrounded you, fitting him so well.
Making sure you were comfortable every five minutes, on the inside he was terrified. You’d get scared, You’d hate him, You’d think he’s a fool, not good enough, ugly, scary, mean, creepy..That was everything that went through his head. He wanted you there with him, he needed you around despite being fully aware how bad it was to rely on someone else for all emotional support and regulation. His job already agitated him enough, and men he worked for were so close into sending him into a spiral.
But you kept him there, you were the hand that kept his chin out the water while he gasped for air.
He’s never felt this way before. Never wanted to hold someone close for forever, wrap his arms around someone so tight that they’d merge into him and become one being.
❥
Today was just like any other day. You were walking home from your usual classes that had you just slightly excited about their nearing end. It was night
The streetlights shined in a yellowish hue while cars passed by from time to time. An oddly quiet air filled the path both ahead of you and behind you.
You paid enough attention. Yes. Enough to notice a manly figure following behind you at the same pace that you took your own steps. The faster you went, the faster he got. You had about half an hour time of walking to get to your apartment building, and this wasn’t the first damn time this happened.
A man following you home at night, despite all the cars passing by and the birds screeching from above you, you were hyper aware of the mans footsteps behind you. It scared you.. Made your heart race, and made you want to run and hide in the nearest hole you could find.
Until you arrived to your building door and heard him start to practically sprint towards.
Quick hands opened the doors and ran upstairs, holding onto the bag that was slung over your shoulder while you saw the first door on your floor, Dex’s door.
You knew he was home since he always complained about hating going out and loving staying in.
Your hands curled up in fists, banged against the wooden doors as you could hear the fast shuffling of shoes against the stairs get closer and closer. He was gonna get you, and you knew his intentions weren’t clear because why follow someone a few times all the way for no reason or motive behind it.
Dex swung the door open the moment he saw your scared face through the peep hole, his gruff voice asking. “What- What’s going on? What happened?” His hands grabbing over your upper arms.
“There’s a man, a man following me Ben.. He-He’s coming up,” You stuttered out shakily, before he looked up and made eye contact with the man that followed you up here.
His face completely contorted into something else the moment he saw him.
“Who the fuck are you?” He simply asked, while the man repeated his question back at him.
Dex was seething at the simple thought of this man thinking he had absolutely any right to even breath the same air as you, let alone follow you home constantly, bother you and plan to do god knows what to you if he catches up.
How dare he? You were everything to him.
He grabbed your forearm and pulled you inside, shoving you into his apartment while he took a step forward.
His back widened and the hair on his nape stood up.
The man tried to play it off with some kind of smugness, saying he “won’t do it again” and putting his hands up as if to gaslight Dex that he was overreacting.
He wasn’t. This guy has been bothering you for weeks. And up until now, Dex didn’t see his face. Though now that he knew what he looked like, he was sure he’d teach him never to do it again.
You looked at the two, Dex looked like he was about to punch the guy, but you put a hand onto his shoulder. Muttering.
“Ben stop.. He’s not worth it, just let- let him go.”
His shoulders deflated at your touch, looking back at you and then to the man, Muttering a small “I’ll kill you” before nodding and going inside with you.
❥
About a week later, which you spent over at Dex’s apartment , nothing happened. He absolutely insisted that you’d stay over and how he doesn’t mind sleeping on the couch or cooking, or giving you the safety you needed. Stopping to attend your evening classes, morning it was.
He wanted to be that safety for you.
He was walking home from the store, as the previous few days he did some basic research over that guy, and the name you told him which he introduced himself as to you.
An FBI agent, he could find him even without the damn name. Recognize his ugly face anywhere. So one evening he simply told you he’d go get some groceries, and he did.
Making a small stop to wait out any other people and to hopefully see those familiar features.
Footsteps even quieter than a stalkers, he followed him into an alley.
The beating that followed was so bad that the people passing by simply sped up by the entryway of the alley, not even looking in the direction of the sounds.
He debated whether to kill him, but he let him be.
Not even wearing a mask, since he wanted the man to remember who he was and why he was doing this.
“If you come hear my girl again, i’ll pull your spine out your nose.” He said through his teeth, and the man nodded. His face wasn’t even visible from all the red and purple.
When Dex came back to his place, he hung his jacket near the door, calling your name. “___? Come here..”
Your quiet footsteps echoed in his ears as you gave him a small smile and took the bag from his hand, noticing the bruised up knuckles.
“Hey- What happened? Are you okay?“ He smiled a bit and said.
“No, no.. I’m just fine, Lets just say that, that man won’t bother you again.”
You simply paused. Looking at him dumbfounded as your hands still held onto the bag. Knowing what he probably did, you felt an odd sense of care and thankfulness. Never having someone beat a man half to death because he were bothering you.
“Jesus Ben..You’ll get yourself in trouble like this..”
“I won’t get in trouble, I’m fine.” He answered more sternly in a way. Not liking that you were worrying yourself.
“But you can still stay here yeah?” He blurted out. Realizing now that the man was gone, so was the threat. And you could..leave.
“Why would i stay here Ben? I don’t wanna bother you after everything. Its been days..”
“You’re not bothering me, no. You can stay as long as you want.. I mean..” Trailing off, he gave you a second hopeful look.
“Well then i guess i just might.. Let me see what you got.” You gave him a small kiss on the cheek and went over to the counter to see what he bought, wanting to simply act like he did nothing and put all this behind you.
That night he didn’t need to break his back on the couch.
𝓐 = affection (how do they show affection? how affectionate are they?)
not the kind of man who spills out sweet words, he shows love by having you, by making sure the world knows you belong somewhere, and that somewhere is him. he touches constantly, a hand on your lower back guiding you through a crowd, his thumb brushing your jaw when you talk, a palm at your thigh under the table. he’s generous, too. money, gifts, luxuries he frames as nothing but convenience. he likes knowing you’re draped in the things he’s chosen. jewels, clothes, cars, dinners that cost too much, billy’s brand of care is built from excess, from making sure you never have to want.
𝓑 = best friend (what are they like as a best friend? how would a friendship with them start?)
a handful in the most infuriatingly magnetic way. the type who never shuts up, always got something slick to say, always toeing that line between charming and unbearable. he teases you constantly, flirts for sport, makes jokes at your expense, and somehow gets away with things no one else could because that smirk of his makes it impossible to stay mad. friendship with him probably starts with banter, he pokes, you push back, and before you know it he’s showing up in your life like he’s always belonged there. the kind of friend who drags you into expensive places “just to look,” buys your drink before you can argue, and talks through movies even though he swears he’s paying attention.
𝓒 = cuddles (do they enjoy cuddling? what are they like during cuddles, and how long can they stand it?)
likes it way more than he’ll ever admit. he’ll act like it’s no big deal, like he’s just getting comfortable, but he’s always the one who pulls you in first. he likes having you close. it calms him down in a way he can’t put into words. he’s not fidgety or restless; he can stay there for hours if you let him. he’s protective about it too, if you move away he’ll make some dry comment and his arm will find its way around you again. if you’re within reach he has to be touching you somehow. it’s a need he doesn’t bother disguising once he’s got you close.
𝓓 = domestic (how do they handle chores, cooking, cleaning, and everyday living?)
makes domestic life look effortless, like he just happens to know how to do everything. cooking, cleaning, fixing things around the house, it’s all casual, almost second nature. he never makes a show of it but he’s always the one doing it before you can even think to ask. he likes the control it gives him. if he’s cooking, he’ll wave you off when you try to help, telling you to “sit, relax,” while he handles it. if something breaks, he’s already calling a guy. it’s not just about being capable, it’s about being needed. he likes knowing you rely on him for the small things. he builds himself into your routines piece by piece until you can’t tell where yours ends and his begins.
𝓔 = ending (if they had to break up, how would they handle it emotionally and practically?)
if billy had to break up with someone, he’d do it clean. no drawn-out explanations, no raised voice, no tears. just that calm, practiced tone that makes it feel like he’s done this a hundred times before (because he probably has). he’s noncommittal by nature; endings don’t rattle him. it’s just another door closing. he’d do it in person though. not out of respect, he wants to read your reaction, wants to know how much you’ll miss him. he won’t say much beyond “it’s not working” or “you deserve something else.” emotionally, he compartmentalizes fast. maybe there’s a flicker of something later when he sees your toothbrush still by the sink or a photo he forgot to delete, but he won’t let it show. practically? he’s efficient. your things get boxed up neatly, no drama. his place looks the same by the next day. he’ll move on fast because he refuses to sit in it. endings don’t undo him, they just confirm what he already believes: nothing lasts, and he’s better off not pretending it does.
𝓕 = family (do they want a family? kids?)
hell no, he’s not the “family man” type, not even close. the idea of having kids feels like a trap to him: too permanent, too heavy, too real. he’s selfish with his time, his space, his freedom, and especially with your attention. he’d hate the thought of having to share you with anyone, even your own kids. he’d get jealous, not in a joking way either, like, genuinely resentful that something else gets more of you than he does. he doesn’t want that kind of responsibility; he doesn’t want to be needed like that, it’s too much pressure. he’s the kind of man who thrives in the moment, not in the long-term picture. ironically, he’s great with kids when he has to be. not because he’s trying, he just treats them like people. he’ll talk to them the same way he talks to adults, which makes them like him more. next thing you know he’s arguing with a six-year-old about who’s stronger, or bribing them with twenty bucks to take his side in something stupid. he’ll never want kids, but damn if he doesn’t end up being the one they all run to anyway.
𝓖 = gentle (how soft are they physically and emotionally? how careful are they with people’s feelings?)
soft when it suits him. when he wants something from you, or when he’s reeling you back in after pushing too far, his voice drops, his touch gets light, his smile turns careful. he knows exactly how to make “gentle” feel like a luxury, like something he’s gifting you, but it’s not real softness; it’s control. he’s good at reading people, especially you, and he knows where the weak spots are. if he wants to hurt you, he’ll hit dead center without hesitation. he’ll say the one thing he knows will repeat in your head for weeks, because he’s that precise.
𝓗 = hugs (do they like hugs? how do they hug, and how often do they give them?)
gives hugs the way he gives everything else, instinctively, like it’s second nature. he’s not sentimental about them or the type to crave constant touch, but he knows how to do it right, something he’s learned looks and feels like comfort. he’s used to giving hugs that mean nothing, but when it’s you, they start to mean something anyway. he doesn’t really notice when that shift happens. if you’re upset, he won’t ask questions; he’ll just tug you in without saying a word until you breathe normally again. he’s not the type to need hugs, but he gets used to the way you do, and eventually he finds himself giving them just because he can.
𝓘 = i love you (how soon and how often do they say it? do they mean it seriously or casually?)
love isn’t something he says; it’s something he avoids, sidesteps, dodges with a joke or a kiss or a smirk that changes the subject before you even realize he’s done it. it’s not that he doesn’t feel it, he doesn’t trust it. to him, saying i love you is handing someone a loaded gun and hoping they won’t pull the trigger. he feels it early, much earlier than he’ll admit, but he doesn’t let it leave his chest. he tells himself it’s just habit, comfort, proximity, anything but that. it takes him months, sometimes years, and even then the first time it slips out, it’s accidental. probably late, maybe half-drunk. he won’t make eye contact; he’ll just say it into your skin like he hopes you won’t hear. the second he realizes you did hear, he tenses, regret flickering behind his eyes, because now it’s real, and real things scare him. he doesn’t say it often after that, either. he’ll say it only when he’s certain you won’t use it against him, when he’s drunk or tired or looking at you in a way that makes him feel too human. sometimes, when you say it first, he won’t say it back, just hums, kisses the side of your face, like yeah, i know. for him, i love you is never casual. it’s rare. it means he’s stopped running, at least for a moment.
𝓙 = jealousy (how easily do they get jealous? how do they act when jealous?)
not the type to get jealous easily, he knows he looks good, he knows he’s charming, and he knows that anyone would be lucky to have his attention. that ego carries him far… until something hits the wrong nerve. he’ll play it off at first, using sarcasm and dry remarks. “he’s funny, huh?” said with that too-smooth grin and a raised brow, like he’s daring you to say yes. he pretends it’s nothing, but his hands tighten a little when they’re on you, a little more possessive, a little hungrier. he won’t start fights or demand explanations; he’ll just start reminding you who you belong to in all the ways that don’t need words. expensive dinners, new jewelry, clothes he picks himself (“you’d look good in this for me”). he gets touchier too, fingers on your throat, his palm at your hip, his lips on yours. every gesture turns into a way of reestablishing territory. and god, when he’s jealous, he’s bitchy. not angry, not sulking, just snide, dismissive, the kind of attitude that makes you roll your eyes because you both know what it’s about. he’ll get sarcastic, dramatic, complain about anything and everything. he’ll make sure you feel it until you pull him close again and remind him he’s still the only one. he just doesn’t want to lose what’s finally his.
𝓚 = kisses (what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss and be kissed?)
exactly what you’d expect, confident, practiced, and dangerously good. he’s had more than enough experience to know what he’s doing, and it shows. every kiss feels like he’s reading your reactions in real time and adjusting to get exactly what he wants from you. he’s not rushed about it either; he kisses like a man who knows he has all the time in the world and that you’ll give it to him. he likes control, so he always leads. a hand on your jaw, at the back of your neck, fingers in your hair; he guides the pace, the angle, the depth. his kisses are designed to leave you a little dazed after. he loves kissing your lips, obviously, that’s his favorite, where he can feel you melt under him, but he’s obsessed with your neck. he loves leaving marks there, making sure people see them and know you’re his. he’s smug about it, because of course he is. he’ll smirk when you notice them later in the mirror. he doesn’t really care where you kiss him as long as it’s genuine, but he’s got a soft spot for when you kiss his jaw or his cheek, unguarded spots that make him feel wanted rather than worshipped. not that he’ll ever admit it. for a second he forgets to keep up that perfect composure.
𝓛 = lying (how good are they at lying? do they lie to you, and how can you tell?)
come on, that’s his brand. he’s terrifyingly good at it, lying is second nature, practically muscle memory at this point. it’s not even a conscious thing anymore; it rolls off his tongue laced with that charm that makes you believe him. he’s built his entire life off of it, the perfect performance of sincerity and warmth, a smile that sells trust even as he’s holding the knife behind his back. he knows how to make people believe what he wants them to, and you’ll never catch him. girl, he had homeland security fooled. he’s too good at reading people, too fast at adapting, too calm under pressure. he could tell you the sky’s green and by the time he’s done explaining it, you’d be squinting at the clouds like maybe it was. that’s the danger of billy russo, he lies with steady eye contact and a voice that feels like truth. you start to question yourself before you ever question him. does he lie to you? sometimes. not always to hurt you, sometimes it’s to protect the image he wants you to have of him, or because he doesn’t want you to see what’s underneath all that polish. he compartmentalizes. keeps parts of himself walled off and calls it “protecting you,” when really it’s protecting him. if you ever think you’ve caught him in a lie, he’ll talk circles around it until you’re doubting your own memory, laughing softly, brushing it off with a hand on your jaw and a, “you really think i’d lie to you?”
𝓜 = mornings (what are they like when they wake up? slow, chirpy, groggy, or chaotic?)
mornings with him are slow, lazy, and warm. the kind that blur somewhere between half-asleep affection and the start of the day. he’s groggy when he first stirs, always reluctant to get up, and his first instinct is to pull you closer, bury his face in your neck, breathe you in like you’re the only thing worth waking up for. he’s not talkative yet, the morning almost always starts with touch, his hands roaming, his mouth finding your skin, the kind of half-conscious need that turns into a quickie before you’ve even opened your eyes. afterward, he slips back into routine mode. showers, skincare, coffee, breakfast. he’ll make breakfast for both of you sometimes, move around the kitchen in that smooth, unhurried way of his, shirt half-buttoned, wristwatch gleaming, coffee steaming on the counter.
𝓝 = nights (how do they spend their evenings with you? bedtime routines, night talks, night habits?)
he hates sleeping alone, so you’ll almost always end up in his bed no matter how the day went. the nights start with him winding down with a drink, jazz or old soul music in the background, city lights spilling through the window, his shirt half unbuttoned as he scrolls through emails or finishes a call he didn’t want to take. he’ll pull you against him on the couch while pretending to watch a movie, hand resting on your thigh, thumb tracing circles against your skin. if it’s been a long day, he’s quiet, not withdrawn, just contained. sex happens everyday. afterward, he’s surprisingly gentle. he’ll clean up, get back into bed, maybe read something or go over tomorrow’s schedule while you’re curled up beside him. by the time the lights go out he’s warm and heavy beside you, always keeping his arms wrapped around you. he sleeps lightly.
𝓞 = openness (how much do they reveal about themselves? do they open up quickly or in pieces?)
tells you stories like he’s dropping breadcrumbs, just enough to keep you following, never enough to show you where they lead. openness, for him, is a strategy, not sincerity. he’ll share pieces of himself when it benefits him, something about his childhood, a detail about a scar, a confession that sounds sad but is perfectly timed to make you feel closer to him. he knows how to play vulnerability, every word shaped to make you trust him more, love him harder, forgive him faster. the real truth, his ugliest thoughts, his guilt, the cold machinery behind the charm, he’ll never give that away. not because he doesn’t want to, because he can’t. he’s spent too long curating himself into an image that works, that wins, so even when he loves you there’s always a part of him just out of reach. he’ll convince you he’s being honest, and maybe he even believes it in the moment, but billy russo only ever shows what he wants to be seen.
𝓟 = patience (how easily do they get irritated or upset? how do they show it?)
he’s got that unnerving kind of patience, he can sit through hours of bullshit with a smooth, unreadable face, smiling like he’s in control of every variable in the room (and usually, he is). it’s one of the things that makes him so good at what he does, he knows that losing his temper is losing leverage, and he doesn’t hand over control that easily. but irritation shows in the small fractures. his voice gets clipped, he stops joking, his movements go sharp, the way he shuts a door, adjusts his cufflinks, or exhales through his nose instead of speaking. if he’s dealing with someone he doesn’t respect he’ll toy with them, push buttons just to watch them crack first. it’s almost a game to him, turning his irritation into a weapon. with people he actually cares about, though, it’s different. he won’t lash out, but the air shifts. he goes cold. his words lose warmth, replaced by that commanding tone that doesn’t invite argument. “fine,” “whatever,” “we’ll talk later” — and mean none of it. still, it takes a lot to get him there. he’s learned how to bide his time, how to wait for the perfect moment to strike or let something pass entirely if it’s not worth the energy. once he’s genuinely pissed the patience evaporates. orders replace charm, control replaces composure, and everyone around him knows instantly that he’s done pretending.
𝓠 = quirks (unique habits, little oddities, or distinctive mannerisms that make them them?)
checks his reflection in anything, windows, silverware, car mirrors, not even out of vanity (though that’s part of it), but because he needs to know how he’s being seen as looking good at all times. weirdly neat about his surroundings but messy about his own comfort, will fold his suit jacket perfectly over a chair but leave his tie half undone for hours.
𝓡 = remembering (how well do they recall details about you? what’s their favorite memory of you?)
his memory works in flashes, he remembers the details that hit him. he won’t recall every text you sent or every fact exactly, but he can recall a very good amount. he cherishes the in-between moments just as much as the extravagant ones. like that time you both wanted burgers at 2 a.m., and half the diners were closed, so he drove across town just so you two could be “normal” for one night. he also remembers the luxurious nights, a fancy dinner, a trip, an event where everything went perfect.
𝓢 = security (how protective are they of you physically, emotionally, or socially?)
very protective. you’re his, and that fact alone rewires the way he moves through the world. his first instinct is always to assess, to calculate risk: where you’re standing, who’s looking, whether the person talking to you is worth letting live. he always takes the side closest to the door, always carries a weapon even at dinner, always has someone watching from a distance if he can’t. he doesn’t ask before putting security in place; he just does it. background checks, shadow detail, a car waiting at every exit, things you don’t notice until you realize you’re never really alone, making sure no one gets near what’s his unless he allows it. emotionally if someone hurts you, he doesn’t comfort first, he dismantles. he’ll tell you exactly why that person wasn’t worth your time, why trusting people is a mistake, why you should’ve listened to him. he frames it as care, but it’s also about tightening the circle, making sure your faith belongs to him alone.
𝓣 = trust (how easily do they trust others? do they test loyalty or just believe instantly?)
trust just isn’t in his vocabulary. it’s not something he ever gives. he’s learned that people always want something, money, status, favor, and he’s spent too long being the one who gives it to ever believe anyone could want him for free. so no, he doesn’t trust. not you, not his friends (if he even calls them that), not the mirror staring back at him some mornings. he plays the part, acts open, confident, even disarmingly sincere, but it’s all surface. underneath, everything’s calculation: what do they want, what can they take, how soon will they turn. he’s too smart, too paranoid, too scarred to ever hand anyone the blade willingly. even if you get close, really close, he still keeps one part locked away, the last unburned piece of himself. trust means vulnerability, and vulnerability gets you killed or used, so he keeps the upper hand. always.
𝓤 = unflattering habits (what are some bad habits, annoying traits, or pet peeves they have?)
impossibly aware of how he looks and wields it to his benefit, every look, every interaction, every casual lean is designed to get a reaction. he accidentally flirts with other people sometimes half because it’s instinct, half because he enjoys the chase, and you’ll spend an unhealthy amount of your relationship fending off other bitches attention. he lies effortlessly and he doesn’t feel guilt for it. his ego is colossal, he believes he’s the smartest, most charming, most desirable person in any room. the narcissism isn’t just surface-deep either, it colors how he interacts with everyone, including you, and sometimes it bleeds into the relationship in ways that are exhausting. sometimes you wonder if the person you love is real or just the version of him that exists to captivate you.
𝓥 = vanity (how concerned are they with their appearance, style, or image?)
image is everything. it’s not just how he looks, it’s who he is. he built his entire life, career, reputation on appearance, the suit, the smile, the handshake, the thousand-dollar watch that catches the light just right. he knows the effect he has, the impression of a well-cut jacket, the way people’s eyes linger when he walks into a room. he’s vain, mirror-obsessed, methodical, calculated. he wakes up early to shave, moisturize, style his hair just so. every detail is perfected. his scent is always expensive, the kind of smell that lingers on your pillow after he leaves. he’d rather die than be caught in something wrinkled. it’s deeper than just ego, it’s survival. the right image gets him in doors, earns him trust, keeps people underestimating what’s underneath. he knows how to shift it too, rugged and casual when he wants to seem approachable, tailored and untouchable when he wants power. when it comes to you he notices everything. if your hair’s out of place, he fixes it. if you wear something new, he comments before you can even ask.
𝓦 = weird (quirky behaviors or odd little things they do that make them unique?)
if someone asks him something he doesn’t actually know, he’ll invent a story on the spot, telling it with full confidence and insane, convincing detail, you almost believe him even when it’s obviously nonsense. he’ll add little touches, gestures, facial expressions, like he’s performing it just for you. and then there’s his bathroom routine — oh god, the routine. it’s like a full-on ritual: imported serums lined up perfectly, creams layered in a specific order, a mirror that lights just right, scented oils, warm towels, double cleanses, masks that take twenty minutes, lotions applied with exacting precision.
𝓧 = xtra (fun fact? something unique or specific about them)
effortless party-boy charm, the kind of guy who can down half a bottle and still act like he’s in control. has a really high liquor tolerance. alcohol is part of his day, a glass of whiskey after work, something stronger when he’s restless, champagne when he’s showing off. he tells himself it’s just to unwind, but the truth is he hates the stillness that comes when he’s sober too long. early on in your relationship he’s out a lot, expensive bars, private rooms, clubbing. but over time, it slows. you become his favorite distraction, his new way to come down. even then, there’s always a drink within reach, something amber and burning. when he’s drunk he’s looser, sloppier, easier to read. he’ll laugh more, touch you more, say things he’d normally hide.
𝓨 = youthfulness (how playful, spontaneous, or silly are they? do they keep a youthful energy?)
youthful energy that never really goes away, no matter how polished or put-together he tries to act. he loves to mess with people, push buttons, make jokes that walk the line between funny and infuriating. he’s spontaneous to his core. if he gets an idea, he’ll act on it, no overthinking, no hesitation. he’ll decide on a whim to take you out somewhere, drag you into something stupidly fun, or just stir up trouble for his own amusement. even when he’s being serious that youthful streak is always there in the way he smiles, the glint in his eyes when he’s getting away with something. he might not be a kid anymore, but he’ll always have that energy, that restless, cocky spark that makes him feel alive.
𝓩 = zzz (sleep patterns, how do they sleep, do they snore or toss and turn?)
sleeps like someone who’s made peace with every part of himself, which is ironic because he hasn’t. but somehow, when he’s out, it’s like all that tension just drains from him. he’s perfectly still, barely moves, doesn’t snore, doesn’t drool, just lies there like he was sculpted into the mattress. his breathing is even, slow, controlled, and he looks infuriatingly perfect while he does it. his hair falls just right, jaw unclenched, lashes resting against his cheekbones like something out of a dream. there’s this strange calm about him in sleep, no walls up, no mask, no performance, like all the weight he carries during the day slips off for a few hours. sometimes he’ll shift once or twice in the night, but never enough to wake you. if you’re beside him his arm automatically finds you. light sleeper.
