Jessica Jones wasn’t exactly the poster child for ethics. She knew right from wrong, and she tried to do the right thing most of the time, but morality wasn’t always black and white. There was often a grey area that involved questionable choices for the greater good. That was essentially the basis of her whole career. Being a private investigator sometimes involved bending the rules, breaking the law, or just straight up ignoring the societal standard for what was considered “bad”.
But then again, if you didn’t want anyone to watch you masturbate, why the fuck did you leave your curtains open?
That was the rationale Jessica justified in her head as she zoomed in her camera lens. She’d been hired to watch you, and that’s what she was doing. She’d had a lot of clients hire her to get proof of an unfaithful partner, and usually when she caught people with their pants down, literally, it was two people doing something they shouldn’t be doing thinking no one was watching.
But you were alone.
She could’ve looked away. Jessica had been sitting on the fire escape across from your building, looking right into the window across the street that gave her a perfect view of your living room, all afternoon. She watched you come home. She watched you get comfortable on the couch. She watched you lay back with your head against the green pillow, slip your jeans and your panties down your legs, and spread them.
She should have looked away. You were alone, there was no partner in infidelity joining you, and therefore nothing for her to document. But your couch was vertical to the window, and the way you were laying back with your legs spread gave her a perfect view of your pussy, and she couldn’t look away. She watched you slip a cute little purple toy between your legs and start to swirl it around your clit, moving your wrist in slow lazy circles.
Jessica could hear the buzzing of the toy and your sinful moans from here. Instead of looking away, she lifted her camera to her eye and zoomed in, watching as you spread yourself open with two fingers before slipping the toy inside yourself, fucking yourself slowly, your cunt glistening in the afternoon sun. She lifted the camera lens half an inch to see your face, and watched as you sank your top teeth into your bottom lip before your mouth fell open and your eyes fluttered shut.
You were taking your time, fucking yourself slowly, and Jessica’s leather jacket suddenly made her feel like she was sweltering. A bead of sweat formed at the base of her skull, trickling down languidly, straightening her spine like an icy raindrop. Her own breathing became heavy in her ears, and she unconsciously licked her lips before swallowing thickly. Heat scorched between her own thighs, and as she zoomed in on your face, she accidentally gripped too hard, and the camera crumpled in her hands like a coke can, the crunch of metal and glass snapping her out of her lust induced trance.
Diverting her attention to what was a camera two seconds ago in her hands, her dark brows furrowed and she muttered under her breath.
“Shit.”
It wasn’t the first camera she’d broken, and it wouldn’t be the last, but when she looked up and saw you sitting up on the couch, the purple toy discarded on the cushion, she swore again in frustration.
“Goddamnit.”
She’d missed it. She hadn’t gotten to watch you come. As angry as she was with herself for her own fuck up, Jessica suddenly remembered that she was being paid to watch you, and she hadn’t gotten what she needed, which meant she’d have to come back.
And she would definitely be back.
we have to start running a massive PSA campaign to young gay people so everyone understands there is a difference between being a dom and being a top and between being a sub and being a bottom. and also that sometimes you are neither a sub nor a bottom and you're just like shy. we need to be handing out flyers we need ads at every train station spreading the word
content : the tiktok trend where gfs record their bfs being all clingy without them knowing , pro-hero bakugo caught lacking , domestic fluff , one use of y/n
katsuki bakugo was not the affectionate type. at least that's what everyone thinks. so when mina tells you about a harmless tiktok trend that came up on her fyp, one where girls record their unknowing boyfriends being clingy, you couldn't resist trying it.
the apartment was quiet, it was late and the city lights bled softy between the curtains, all while the hum of traffic was somewhere far below.
you were both in bed. well, technically, bakugo was on top of you--thankfully not too heavy, just close. one arm was around your waist, the other was tucked under your back, all while his face was buried in the crook of your neck. his breath was warm against your skin and you could only assume his eyes were closed, he was relaxed in such a way that made it seem like he had no intention of moving for the next decade. these were the nights you loved, when he was free from patrol and all his hero duties.
it was rare to have this kind of stillness and you were sure many, many people would be baffled that the number five, pro-hero dynamight could exist like this.
"you're warm," he muttered into your neck, voice rough and sleepy from the long day.
you smiled while your fingers brushed lazily through his untamed hair.
and, if it was even possible, he pressed closer.
it was such a sweet, simple moment that you almost felt bad about the phone that you held above him. it had been recording for a few seconds now.
it was just for a trend mina had shown you earlier (and, of course, you have absolutely no intention of sharing it to anyone), but it was something stupidly cute to torture him with.
"he doesn't know when you're recording." she'd said. "that's the whole point."
you laughed lightly, "seems kind of mean."
well, bakugo definitely didn't know.
he shifted slightly and lovingly tightened his hold on you. then, his voiced dropped a little and he drawled out the words, "don't move."
"i'm not moving," you whispered in return, amused.
"good."
there was a pause. you almost didn't want him to see the camera and ruin the moment.
his hand flexed slightly at your waist as if he was checking that the moment was real, that you were real.
"stay here." he mumbled into your neck.
"you're clingy." you teased gently. even after all this time, he still gave you butterflies.
"shut up." he said, though there was no bite to it, only comfort.
his head sank deeper into your neck again and, for a moment, you thought he'd fallen asleep like that. his breath was so quiet and steady and the weight of him felt so familiar now, it made your heart ache a little.
then he murmured a little absentmindedly, "love you.." it was so soft that you almost missed it. your fingers paused in his hair, all the while the other hand kept the phone steady.
you had a small, more-than-content smile. "yeah, i know."
he hummed like that answer satisfied him.
then, bakugo shifted his head upward a little and pressed a soft kiss to your jaw.
that's when his sleepy, crimson eyes caught the dim light from the corner of his eye.
"what is that..." he muttered sleepily.
you stared at the ceiling when he shifted his head slightly, just enough to look up... just enough to see your phone... still recording.
the second bakugo fully registered what he was seeing, his eyes locked onto the camera and he jolted.
honestly, jolted is a bit of an understatement. the blond practically jumped back off of you so fast that the blanket shifted, then his hand snapped up instinctively like he was about to detonate the room out of pure reflex.
"WHAT THE HELL-"
he was already halfway from falling off the bed, glaring up at the phone then back to you like you had betrayed him more than anybody ever had.
you could already hear denki's stupid voice saying, "good one y/n, it could get, like, twelve million views."
"the hell is this!?"
you wheezed a little, "it's just a trend-"
"A TREND?"
"yes!"
"I'LL CREMATE YOU." at that, you lost it. you fell back onto your pillow and laughed, all the while he just sat there with messy hair and looking at your phone like it was the worst villain he'd come across. "DELETE IT NOW."
"i was gonna-" you tried to speak, still laughing, "i was literally gonna-"
"I'M NOT BEING RECORDED IN MY OWN DAMN HOUSE." he barked out and turned his head away, acting like he could escape embarrassment that way.
from somewhere deep in your laughter, you managed to speak, "you were being cute."
at that, he whipped his head back. "DON'T CALL IT THAT!"
"you're ashamed of love, katsu." you teased as your hand went out to pull him back into bed, the other hand putting your phone down.
despite his yelling, he leaned into your touch without fight. though before he could lay down, he leaned across you and grabbed your phone and threw it onto his side of the bed. you had to restrain yourself from calling your boyfriend dramatic.
then, he grabbed the blanket and yanked it up over the both of you. it looked like he was trying to erase the entire incident from reality.
"...whoever gave you this idea is dead." he muttered.
you were still smiling into his shoulder when he finally settled back down. he was a little grumpy and flushed, refusing to look directly at you now. but his hand still found your waist again anyway.
i just want to say how thankful i am for all the likes, comments, and reblogs. i just started this blog and it truly is so exciting and means a lot! also, if you send in a request, i got it but it might just take me a moment! (i'm graduating in 3 weeks and then i'm all yours) <3
tag list : @paleepeaches (lmk if you'd like to be added!)
Jessica Jones wasn’t exactly the poster child for ethics. She knew right from wrong, and she tried to do the right thing most of the time, but morality wasn’t always black and white. There was often a grey area that involved questionable choices for the greater good. That was essentially the basis of her whole career. Being a private investigator sometimes involved bending the rules, breaking the law, or just straight up ignoring the societal standard for what was considered “bad”.
But then again, if you didn’t want anyone to watch you masturbate, why the fuck did you leave your curtains open?
That was the rationale Jessica justified in her head as she zoomed in her camera lens. She’d been hired to watch you, and that’s what she was doing. She’d had a lot of clients hire her to get proof of an unfaithful partner, and usually when she caught people with their pants down, literally, it was two people doing something they shouldn’t be doing thinking no one was watching.
But you were alone.
She could’ve looked away. Jessica had been sitting on the fire escape across from your building, looking right into the window across the street that gave her a perfect view of your living room, all afternoon. She watched you come home. She watched you get comfortable on the couch. She watched you lay back with your head against the green pillow, slip your jeans and your panties down your legs, and spread them.
She should have looked away. You were alone, there was no partner in infidelity joining you, and therefore nothing for her to document. But your couch was vertical to the window, and the way you were laying back with your legs spread gave her a perfect view of your pussy, and she couldn’t look away. She watched you slip a cute little purple toy between your legs and start to swirl it around your clit, moving your wrist in slow lazy circles.
Jessica could hear the buzzing of the toy and your sinful moans from here. Instead of looking away, she lifted her camera to her eye and zoomed in, watching as you spread yourself open with two fingers before slipping the toy inside yourself, fucking yourself slowly, your cunt glistening in the afternoon sun. She lifted the camera lens half an inch to see your face, and watched as you sank your top teeth into your bottom lip before your mouth fell open and your eyes fluttered shut.
You were taking your time, fucking yourself slowly, and Jessica’s leather jacket suddenly made her feel like she was sweltering. A bead of sweat formed at the base of her skull, trickling down languidly, straightening her spine like an icy raindrop. Her own breathing became heavy in her ears, and she unconsciously licked her lips before swallowing thickly. Heat scorched between her own thighs, and as she zoomed in on your face, she accidentally gripped too hard, and the camera crumpled in her hands like a coke can, the crunch of metal and glass snapping her out of her lust induced trance.
Diverting her attention to what was a camera two seconds ago in her hands, her dark brows furrowed and she muttered under her breath.
“Shit.”
It wasn’t the first camera she’d broken, and it wouldn’t be the last, but when she looked up and saw you sitting up on the couch, the purple toy discarded on the cushion, she swore again in frustration.
“Goddamnit.”
She’d missed it. She hadn’t gotten to watch you come. As angry as she was with herself for her own fuck up, Jessica suddenly remembered that she was being paid to watch you, and she hadn’t gotten what she needed, which meant she’d have to come back.
And she would definitely be back.
Y'all I found this on YT and I'm honestly loving it for one, and 2... this is in response to what to do with haters... I feel like this should be in a book somewhere... Anyone else thinking that or is it just me?
btw, I never unfollow mutuals. oh? you moved on from the fandom we had in common? psh. we don't interact anymore? whatever. you completely forgot about me? irrelevant. I still love you.
it's always so fascinating and heartbreaking when a character in a story is simultaneously idolized and abused. a chosen prophet destined for martyrdom. a child prodigy forced to grow up too fast. a powerful warrior raised as nothing but a weapon. there's just something so uniquely messed up about singing someone's praises whilst destroying them.
As I’ve gotten older I rarely like ships that aren’t protagonist x antagonist, like I’m sorry it’s just so boring if they aren’t enemies or rivals at one point. I CRAVE the tension and fighting/bickering with my entire soul.
Summary: The days leading up to your birthday, you move through a world that feels rather gentle. Your family however, don't know they're counting down to the last moments they'll ever have with you.
CW: ANGST, you die bro rest in pieces. death, sustained injuries, description of blood and bodily harm, mention of suicide, grieving, nausea, vomit, swearing, tears (the whole shabang) If any of these tags are triggering, please click off for your own wellbeing.
WC: 6.3k (my longest fic to date)
READ PART 2 HERE - READ PART 2.5
The manor is warm in that quiet, lived-in way it only gets late at night.
Someone left a mug in the sink.
Damian’s boots are by the stairs, kicked off without care.
Tim’s PC hums faintly somewhere it shouldn’t be.
Titus is chewing on someone's bowtie, probably your fathers, instead of his toys.
Alfred has turned down most of the lights, leaving pools of gold along the hallways.
You’re in your room, standing in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands over the fabric of the dress again.
White. Soft. Elegant.
Something you don’t usually pick—but it made Dick’s eyes widen when you stepped out earlier, made Steph whistle, made Cass tilt her head and smile in approval.
Bruce had looked up from the Batcomputer when you’d come downstairs, mid-briefing, and stopped talking entirely.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” he’d asked.
“For my birthday,” you’d said, turning once. “Is it too much?”
He’d shaken his head slowly. “It’s perfect.”
You remember that now, as you leave the dress folded neatly on your bed instead of putting it away. You’d tried it on again after everyone went to bed, just to make sure. Just to feel excited.
Your birthday is coming up, precisely 23 days. There’s a party. You don’t know the details, but you know something’s being planned. You can feel it.
You hum to yourself as you change, utterly unaware of how fragile the moment is.
Bruce doesn’t know either.
The Batcave hums like a living thing.
Screens flicker to life one by one, bathing the stone walls in cold blue light. The air smells faintly of ozone and oil, familiar enough to be comforting—if not for the tension threaded through it. You’re already in suit, cowl down, standing near the Batmobile with your arms folded, weight shifted to one hip. The rest of your family wait for the instructions.
Babs’s voice cuts in before anyone else can speak.
“Alright,” she says, calm but sharp, the way she gets when the stakes are ugly. “Listen up.”
Every screen syncs to her feed. A schematic blossoms across the displays—an industrial complex sprawled beneath Gotham’s east docks, layered with red warning markers like open wounds.
“This isn’t a smash-and-grab,” she continues. “This is a pressure cooker.”
She highlights the lower levels.
Power grids. Structural supports. Something pulsing faintly at the centre.
“That core?” she says. “
Experimental energy converter. If it destabilises, we’re not talking a building-level blast. We’re talking a radius. People live three blocks out.”
Jason swears under his breath.
Tim leans closer to the screen, eyes scanning. “They’re running it hot.”
“They’re running it desperate,” Babs replies. “Someone wants it activated tonight. Whether it’s finished or not.”
Dick crosses his arms. “So we shut it down.”
“Yes,” Babs says. “But not cleanly.”
The map shifts again—automated turrets, drone patrols, reinforced bulkheads.
“Security is layered,” she explains.
“Mechanised response systems tied to motion and heat. Cass, Steph—you’re crowd control topside. Duke, you’re cutting exterior power relays. Jason, Dick—goons and internal lockdowns. Tim, you’re with me on system overrides.”
Her cursor pauses.
“Nightingale,” Babs says, and your name in her mouth feels heavier than usual. “You’re the linchpin.”
You straighten slightly.
“You’ll breach the lower level,” Barbara continues. “
Manual access only. The failsafe is old tech—analog switches buried behind the core housing. You’ll have to get close.”
“How close?” Damian asks, sharp.
She exhales. “Close enough that if the converter surges before shutdown… you won’t have time to clear the blast zone.”
Silence.
You don’t move.
Don’t flinch.
You just nod once.
“I can do it,” you say.
Not bravado.
Not arrogance.
Just certainty.
Bruce’s gaze snaps to you. “We’ll find another way.”
“There isn’t one,” Babs cuts in gently but firmly. “I checked. Thrice.”
The screens dim slightly, as if the cave itself is holding its breath.
“The window is narrow,” she continues. “If Nightingale doesn’t flip the failsafe, the blast hits residential zones. Hospitals. Schools.”
She pauses.
“This mission succeeds,” she says quietly, “or people die.”
Your fingers curl into a fist at your side.
“Then we succeed,” you say.
Bruce’s jaw tightens. “Everyone moves fast. No heroics.”
You glance at him, softening just a fraction. “Always do.”
Babs's voice lowers, more human now. “Comms will be open the entire time. I’m with you every step.”
You look up at the screens.
At the red markers.
At the stakes laid bare in light and lines.
“Let’s go,” you say.
The cave roars to life.
And somewhere deep in your chest, something tightens—quiet, unnameable—as the mission begins to move toward you.
Gotham’s industrial quarter is alive with danger—steel skeletons of half-built towers, conveyor belts still humming, floodlights cutting harsh white lines through the dark.
This isn’t a smash-and-grab.
It’s coordinated.
Compartmentalised.
Everyone has a role.
Everyone moves at once.
Dick is already airborne, flipping down a corridor, cracking jokes he doesn’t quite believe. Jason tears through goons with this brutal efficiency, rage tightly leashed. Tim’s fingers fly over a portable console, muttering something under his breath. Steph and Cass move like ghosts, silent, lethal. Duke’s light cuts through darkness as he takes out turret after turret.
You’re everywhere at once—covering Damian, flanking Bruce, moving where you’re needed most.
The stakes are high.
Hostages on-site.
You get it.
The drive is heavy in your hand when you pull it free.
Mission accomplished. The relief is sharp, fleeting.
That’s when the floor shudders.
Not from the main charges.
This is deeper.
Hidden.
A failsafe.
“Oracle—” Bruce starts.
“I didn’t see that—oh god—delayed detonation, structural—Nightingale, MOVE—”
You shove Damian hard, sending him sprawling behind cover.
The explosion tears through the building like it’s made of paper.
You don’t feel pain at first.
Just impact.
Weightlessness.
Then the ground slams into you, breath ripped from your lungs as something punches through your side.
Your suit absorbs some of it. Not enough.
You don’t scream.
You force yourself up.
The building is collapsing in sections, alarms screaming, fire licking at broken beams. You stagger away from the blast zone on pure instinct, every step slower than the last.
Your vision blurs.
Your leg drags.
Something inside you is wrong—wet, hot, spilling.
“Nightingale, respond!” Oracle’s voice cracks for the first time.
He’s there almost immediately, cowl off, dropping to his knees in front of you. His breath leaves him in a sharp, broken sound when he sees you.
“No,” he says. “No, no, no.”
He presses his hands to your wound, tries to apply pressure, tries to be Batman about it—but it’s slipping through his fingers.
There’s too much blood.
Your skin is already going cold.
“You finished the mission,” he says desperately. “You did it. Help is coming.”
You look at him, really look at him.
Your dad. The man who’s always saved everyone.
Your thoughts then return to the state of your body.
You’re so tired.
The world feels distant, almost like you’re underwater.
You think, fleetingly, about Jason—about how he died scared and alone, about whether this is how it felt.
You reach for your father, arms weak, wrapping around his neck the way you did when you were little.
Childlike. Instinctive.
He pulls you closer immediately, a hand behind your head, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
Your breathing stutters.
Your heart flutters, then slows.
Bruce rocks you slightly, forehead pressed to yours, tears streaming unchecked.
“I’m here,” he sobs. “I’ve got you.
You manage the ghost of a smile
Fear crashes into you then, raw and haunting. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” he whispers, breaking. “Stay with me.”
“Daddy,” you breathe, the word slipping out like a prayer.
“Am I gonna die?”
The comms are silent.
Everyone hears it.
“No,” he says, lying badly.
“Promise?”
He doesn't answer
You smile faintly. “I did it though, right?”
“You saved them,” he chokes. “You saved everyone.”
“That’s good,” you whisper. Your breath rattles. “That’s… really good.”
Damian skids in, dropping beside you, hands shaking as he grabs your arm.
“Do not leave,” he says fiercely, his voice breaking, trying to remain stoic but the sight of you bleeding out makes a rare breed of horror blossom in his chest.
“I forbid it.”
You look at him.
Your little brother.
So angry.
So scared.
You gaze at his face a little while longer, he glares back.
“You’re… so strong,” you murmur. “You’re gonna be better than all of us.”
“Say it later,” he pleads, he was getting desperate. He held your gloved hand in his.
“Say it when we’re home.”
You try to breathe again.
You can’t.
Your chest tightens, a string of wheezes comes out of you. Your vision starts to go dark at the edges. You give Damian's hand one last squeeze.
“I love you,” you say—to all of them. “Hey, uh tell, tell Alfred I—”
Your heart stutters.
Once.
Twice.
Then stops.
A sigh escapes your lips, followed by your eyes closing, your grip loosening on Damian's hand.
Bruce feels it happen in his arms.
“No,” he whispers. “No—no—baby please—”
Your body goes limp.
The first thing they see is the blood.
Your blood.
It’s dark against the concrete, soaking into the cracks of the floor, smeared across Bruce’s gloves, streaked along the edge of your suit. It doesn’t look real at first—too much, too still.
Bruce is on his knees, cowl off, hunched over you like a shield, your body folded against his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin the way it used to be when you fell asleep on long flights.
For one suspended, awful second, no one moves.
Dick is the first to arrive—and the first to understand.
He skids to a stop a few feet away, boots scraping against debris, escrima sticks dropping to the ground, breath leaving him in a broken sound that doesn’t quite qualify as a word. His eyes track slowly, unwillingly, from Bruce’s face down to your limp arm hanging at an unnatural angle, fingers slack, utterly unresponsive.
“Oh,” he whispers. “No. No, no—Y/” He couldn't bring himself to speak your whole name. Babs tears are heard over the comms, not loud, but there.
Jason comes in hard behind him, ready for violence, already braced for another fight. The rage drains from his face in an instant. He freezes mid-step, dropping his gun, helmet tilting as if his brain can’t process what his eyes are telling him.
Bruce looks up.
His face is wrecked—blood, tears, something raw and unrecognisable carved into his expression.
He doesn’t say anything.
Because he doesn’t have to.
Jason’s breath punches out of him. “Bruce…?” His voice is hoarse, disbelieving, his helmets in-built voice modulator doing little to hide his heartbreak. “Why isn't—why—what happened?”
Tim arrives next and stops so abruptly he nearly trips over himself. His gaze snaps to the ground first—always the details—a crimson pattern, blast residue, the sickening scent of gunpowder, the way Bruce’s arms are locked around you too tightly, too desperately.
He turns away suddenly, hands braced on his knees, his chest heaves as his body betrays him. The sound of him getting sick, his retches, echoes too loud in the ruined space, obscene in its normalcy. The sight of your lifeless body was nauseating, that combined with the smell of iron in the air made something churn in his stomach.
Stephanie stumbles in, already breathless from running.
She sees Dick on his knees.
Jason frozen.
Tim retching.
Then she sees you.
Her hands fly to her mouth.
“Oh my god,” she gasps, the words fracturing into a sob. “Oh my god, no—no—”
Her breathing goes erratic, shallow and fast, chest hitching as panic sets in. Cass is there immediately, silent and steady, gripping Steph’s wrists to ground her, forehead pressed briefly to her temple. Cass’s own face is pale, eyes dark and glassy, fixed on the way your head lolls against Bruce’s shoulder, lifeless.
Duke arrives last, light flickering uselessly across the devastation.
He takes one look and goes very, very still.
“She was just—” he starts, then stops.
Swallows.
“She was just talking.”
Damian makes a noise from beside you.
“Father,” he says, voice cracking. “Why is she not responding?”
Asking even though he knows the answer.
After all, Damian is rather accustomed to death.
Just not when it's someone he loves.
Bruce finally moves then—just enough to adjust you in his arms, to tuck you closer like he can still protect you from the world if he holds on tight enough.
“She saved the mission,” Bruce says, hollow. “She saved everyone.”
The silence is foreboding, so suffocating, that everyone can hear a couple drops of your blood hit the pool already on the floor as Bruce stands.
Damian shakes his head sharply, denial flashing hot and violent across his face. “That is not an answer.”
No one has one.
The sirens in the distance fade.
The fire dies down.
Gotham keeps breathing.
You however, don’t.
The Batcave has never felt so big.
Every footstep echoes too loudly as Bruce carries you down the platform, your weight slack against his chest. Alfred stands at the base of the stairs, posture perfect out of sheer habit, but his hands tremble violently at his sides.
He takes one look at you and his composure shatters.
“Oh,” Alfred breathes, stepping forward despite himself.
His voice breaks completely. “My dear child…”
Bruce doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t look at anyone.
He lays you down on the central platform with a care so reverent it hurts to watch.
Your cowl is removed. Your hair spills loose. You look peaceful in a way that feels wrong—like a lie, it looks like you'll wake up at any second.
Everyone stands around you in a loose, broken circle.
Tim sinks down against a console, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Steph paces in tight circles, muttering under her breath, eyes wild, trying not to scream. Duke leans against the Batmobile, staring at the floor like if he looks up, something inside him will fracture permanently. Cass stands closest to you, silent tears sliding down her face, fingers curled into fists at her sides.
Jason doesn’t move at all. He stands in the shadows, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard it might crack.
His eyes never leave your face.
Dick finally rises, unsteady, and steps closer. He reaches out like he’s going to touch your shoulder—then stops himself. His hand falls uselessly back to his side.
“I was supposed to get there faster,” he says softly. “I should’ve—”
Bruce lets out a sound that is barely human.
Alfred places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, gentle, devastating.
“Master Bruce,” he murmurs. “You may let her rest now.”
Bruce doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t move.
He just stares at you, eyes hollow, arms empty for the first time since he carried you out of the ruins—like if he looks away, the truth might finally sink in.
And none of them are ready for that.
Damian does not collapse when it happens.
Not in the tunnel.
Not in the Cave.
Not when Alfred’s voice breaks.
Not when Bruce doesn’t move.
He stands beside the platform where your body lies, blood cleaned away, hands clenched so tightly his gloves creak. He watches Bruce like he’s waiting for him to fix it. To undo it. To do something impossible, because Batman always does. But tonight, he's just Bruce Wayne, a father.
When no one does—when no one can—Damian simply turns and leaves.
No one stops him.
He opens the door to your room.
It still smells like you.
It’s subtle—fabric softener, shampoo, something sweet he can’t place, the inviting scent of your perfume. Damian closes the door behind him and stands very still, like the air might shatter if he moves too fast.
Your dog, Elizabeth Taylor lifts up her little head from her luxury velvet dog bed you insisted on getting her, expecting you, but looking rather dejected at the sight of Damian, regardless, she trots over to him in a sleepy state and demands to be held.
Damian holds her to his heart reverently.
Your bed is made.
Too neatly.
Alfred must have done it.
The dress is gone.
He notices that immediately.
For a split second, irrational hope flares—you’re wearing it. Then reality crashes back in, merciless.
Damian walks to your vanity, putting Elizabeth on your bed. Your things are still there: lip gloss, a hair tie, the stupid pen you stole from him and never gave back. He opens the drawer without thinking.
That’s when he sees it.
The Polaroid.
It’s crooked, half-slid under a soothing face mask.
He pulls it free with shaking fingers.
It’s the two of you, squeezed into the frame. You’re perched on the edge of the vanity, grinning like you’ve just gotten away with something. Damian is scowling, arms crossed, but his shoulder is pressed into yours. He remembers this—remember you laughing because he “looked like a pissed-off cat.”
His breath stutters.
He sits down hard on the floor, back against the vanity, Polaroid clutched to his chest like it might burn a hole through him.
“You promised,” he whispers.
His voice cracks on the second word.
The sound that comes out of him next is raw and small and nothing like Robin. It echoes in the room, swallowed by silk curtains and expensive furniture that suddenly feels obscene.
Damian Wayne cries alone on his older sister’s bedroom floor, forehead pressed to his knees, the Polaroid trembling in his hands.
Damian Wayne was accustomed to death.
But not to grief.
The world doesn’t find out right away.
For thirty-two hours at least, everything stays contained in the cave—sealed behind stone, firewalls, and the kind of silence only grief can produce.
Bruce doesn’t release a statement.
Wayne Enterprises goes dark.
The Watchtower runs on autopilot.
Dick is unreachable.
Phones ring and ring and ring until they stop.
In those thirty-two hours, the city keeps moving.
People go to work.
Kids go to school.
News cycles churn through politics and markets and weather.
Your name doesn’t exist on the ticker.
Yet.
And then, suddenly, it does.
The screen fades in from black to the familiar set of the Central City Citizen Evening News broadcast.
The television is already on when it happens.
Dinah isn’t really watching it—just background noise while she wipes down the kitchen counter, humming softly to herself. Ollie’s voice drifts in from the living room, sharp and animated as he argues with someone from Queen Industries on the phone about patrol rotations, about coverage, about things that still assume the world is intact.
The anchor changes.
Dinah glances up without thinking.
It’s Iris.
She’s dressed in black.
Something cold drops straight through Dinah’s chest before a single word is spoken.
Iris’s hands are folded on the desk, fingers interlaced too tightly, her engagement ring gleaming, knuckles pale under the studio lights. Her expression—usually warm, composed, unshakeable—is fractured.
There’s a pause.
Too long.
Long enough for dread to bloom and take root.
“It is with a heavy heart,” Iris begins, and her voice is already unsteady, “that I inform you all that one of America’s most beloved young women—”
Dinah’s hand stills on the counter.
“—daughter of Bruce Wayne, philanthropist, women's rights activist, and humanitarian, Y/N Wayne—”
The room tilts.
The cloth slips from Dinah’s fingers and hits the floor soundlessly.
“—has tragically passed away.”
Dinah stares at the screen.
The words don’t make sense.
They slide past her, wrong and unreal, like a language she doesn’t speak. Her ears ring, a high, thin sound drowning out everything else.
Iris swallows hard, eyes shining.
“According to officials,” she continues, slower now, careful, “Her death has been ruled a suicide. She was found dead in her bedroom approximately thirty-two hours ago. Authorities have stated there is no evidence of foul play at this time.”
Suicide.
The word lands like a gunshot.
Dinah’s breath leaves her all at once. “No,” she whispers, the denial automatic, instinctive. “No, that’s not—”
Iris presses on, voice trembling but determined.
“Y/N Wayne was more than a public figure,” she says. “She was… she was a light. A young woman who used her platform not for vanity, but for service. For change.”
Her voice breaks on the last word.
Dinah’s knees buckle.
She reaches for the counter and misses, sinking down onto the kitchen floor as if gravity has suddenly doubled. Her back hits the cabinet, the impact sharp but distant. Her chest aches, tight and hollow at the same time.
Iris looks down at her notes, then back up—and she’s crying now.
She doesn’t hide it.
Tears spill freely, tracking down her face as she struggles to breathe evenly.
“Those of us who knew her personally,” Iris says, choking, “knew her kindness. Her humor. Her unwavering belief in the good of people—especially heroes who never thought of themselves that way.”
“I loved her,” Iris admits, voice barely holding together. “She loved my family. And today—today the world is quieter without her.”
Iris lifts a hand to her mouth as the tears finally overwhelm her. The camera lingers—not cruelly, but honestly. A nation watching a woman grieve in real time.
The broadcast fades to footage of you.
Photos.
Videos.
You laughing at a gala.
You and Cassandra in your father's arms .
You standing between Dinah and Ollie, grinning wide, arms slung around them like you belonged there—because you did.
Dinah makes a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
Ollie is there suddenly, phone forgotten, kneeling in front of her. His face is white, eyes fixed on the screen behind her.
“That’s—” His voice cracks. “Dinah, that’s not real. That’s not—”
She shakes her head, tears streaming unchecked. “She was here,” Dinah whispers. “Ollie, she was here two nights ago.”
Ollie freezes.
The memory hits them both at once.
You sprawled across their couch, feet kicked up on Ollie’s lap despite his protests. Dinah braiding your hair absentmindedly while you gossiped about nothing and everything. You laughing when one of your AirPods slipped out and vanished into the cushions.
I’ll grab them after a mission, you’d said, waving it off because your father called you home to get ready for Damian's piano recital. Promise.
Dinah’s gaze snaps to the side table.
The AirPods case sits there.
Exactly where you left it.
“Oh my god,” Dinah sobs, clutching it to her chest like it might shatter. “She was coming back.”
Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.
Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.
“She was supposed to come back.”
The television keeps playing in the background—other anchors now, other networks, all saying your name, all using the same words: tragic, shocking, suicide, beloved.
The world keeps turning.
But in the penthouse, time stops.
The Watchtower meeting room is stalled.
Not delayed—stalled.
Bruce’s chair is empty, again.
At first it’s irritation.
Subtle, restrained, but there. Hal keeps glancing at the chrono on the wall. Guy’s already leaned back, arms crossed, foot tapping, irritation buzzing off him like static.
“We can’t keep waiting,” Guy mutters. “The agenda’s stacked, and Bats doesn’t own the clock.”
“He owns this room,” Hal replies automatically—then stops. Because even he doesn’t fully believe that right now.
Something feels wrong.
Clark has been uneasy since he arrived. He hasn’t said it out loud, because saying it would make it real, but his hands haven’t stopped clenching and unclenching at his sides. His hearing keeps drifting, involuntarily, searching for a sound that should exist.
A heartbeat.
A familiar one.
It stopped a day and a bit ago.
Abruptly.
Completely.
While he was in his sleep.
He told himself it was interference.
Space does weird things to sound.
Magic does worse.
He told himself anything except the truth clawing at the base of his throat.
J’onn feels it before the screen turns on.
The emotional temperature of the room drops—sharp, sudden, like oxygen being sucked out.
Fear, confusion, dread. A collective intake of breath that never quite releases.
The broadcast flickers to life.
Iris West.
Black dress.
Hands folded too tightly.
The shock is deafening.
Every single one of them locks in.
Barry is already on his feet. “Why is Iris—”
The name hits.
The ruling hits harder.
Suicide.
No one moves.
No one breathes.
It’s like every sound has been sucked out of the Watchtower at once.
Hal’s boots hit the floor with a sharp clang. “That’s—no. That’s not—” He drags a hand down his face. “Oh God, that’s Bruce’s kid.”
Arthur mutters a curse under his breath, ancient and furious. Diana’s eyes widen—not in disbelief, but in something far worse: recognition.
Clark staggers back half a step.
He doesn’t speak at first.
Then, quietly—devastatingly—
“I felt it.”
Every head snaps toward him.
Superman's voice shakes. “I didn’t know what it was at first. Just… silence. Like something vanished from the world.”
His hands curl into fists. “Her heart stopped. I heard it. And I couldn’t get there in time.”
Barry swallows hard. “Clark…”
Diana finally speaks, a hand on her heart, voice low and steady and cracked straight through the middle.
“This world does not spare the gentle.” She says solemnly.
No one argues.
They all look, again, at Bruce’s empty seat.
“That’s why,” Hal says hoarsely. “That’s why he hasn’t answered. That’s why Dick vanished.”
Diana closes her eyes. “He has lost a child.”
The Watchtower remains silent.
No Bats.
No Batman.
Only the echo of something irreplaceable gone.
At Titans Tower, the mood curdles into something heavy and sick when they get a glimpse of the TV.
Before that though, the Titans’ tower felt wrong.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Like the air’s gone bad.
Dick hasn’t answered in days.
That alone has everyone on edge.
Wally’s pacing, too fast even for him. Kori stands near the window, staring out into the night sky like she’s waiting for it to explain itself. Roy’s sitting on the arm of the couch, bouncing his knee. Garth hasn’t moved in ten minutes.
Donna’s phone buzzes.
Once.
She glances down without thinking.
And then she gasps—sharp, loud, visceral.
“What?” Roy asks immediately.
Donna doesn’t answer. Her face drains of colour as she stares at the screen, fingers trembling.
“Oh no…no, no, no, no” she whispers.
They’re on their feet before she even says it.
She turns the phone so they can see.
Y/N WAYNE DEAD.
GOTHAM HEIRESS COMMITTED SUICIDE
BRUCE WAYNE LOSES A DAUGHTER
Someone turns on the TV. It doesn’t matter who.
Every channel.
Every headline.
Every word is unbearable.
The understand now why Dick went off the grid.
His sister was dead.
Lois is already crying when Jon walks into the room.
The volume is low, but it doesn’t matter. He sees Iris. He sees the black. He sees your picture on the screen.
“No,” Jon says immediately. “No, that’s not—”
Lois pulls him into her arms as the words land.
His big sister.
Gone.
“She wouldn’t,” he sobs. “She wouldn’t leave. Mom that's not fair.”
Lois’s voice breaks. “I know, sweetheart.”
“They said she did it to herself,” Jon cries, devastated, angry, confused. “Why would she do that? Why didn’t she tell us?”
Lois holds him tighter, tears soaking into his hair. “Sometimes people hurt in ways they don’t know how to explain.” She couldn't tell him what all the other heroes knew, what Clark had called her to tell.
You died in combat.
Jon looks back at the screen, chest heaving. “She was my big sister,” he whispers. “She was supposed to be there.”
Lois can’t answer that.
No one can.
The day of your funeral, the city feels muted the moment people begin to arrive.
Not quiet—muted.
Like someone turned the saturation down on the world and left only grey behind. Gotham’s skyline looms in the distance, blurred beneath swollen, low-hanging clouds that threaten rain but never quite deliver.
Outside the funeral hall, black cars line the street in perfect, somber symmetry. Drivers wait with hands folded over steering wheels. Security stands still, eyes forward, expressions carefully neutral.
Inside, the air is heavy enough to press against the lungs.
Every step echoes too loudly.
Every whisper feels like an intrusion.
The hall itself is vast, elegant, suffocating in its stillness.
Black drapery cascades from the ceiling, broken only by soft white light trained on the front of the room. Your casket rests there—closed, polished, devastating. White lilies and roses surround it in excess, their scent thick and cloying, curling into throats until breathing feels like work.
A slideshow plays silently on a massive screen behind the podium.
You as a child, perched on Bruce’s shoulders, laughing.
You with Dick, missing teeth and scraped knees.
You between Steph and Cass, arms slung around their waists.
You holding Damian when he was younger, his scowl already perfected.
You sprawled on the floor of the library with Tim and Jason, surrounded by books.
You holding Elizabeth Taylor the day you got her.
You at galas.
You with your family.
You alive.
Steph sits in the front row, clutching Elizabeth Taylor to her chest. Your dog is wrapped in a warm blanket, donning small black ribbons at her ears, her body trembling slightly as she whines under her breath, confused by the absence she doesn’t understand. Steph’s jaw is clenched tight, tears streaking silently down her face as she buries her nose briefly into the soft fur.
Cass sits beside her, rigid, eyes locked on the casket like if she looks away, something worse might happen. Duke’s hand grips hers so tightly his knuckles have gone white. Tim sits just beyond them with his friends, shoulders slumped, gaze unfocused, like he’s only halfway present in his own body.
Jason stands behind Dick, close enough that his presence is felt even when neither of them speaks. Dick hasn’t stopped shaking since he walked in.
The Justice League fills row after row—Clark, Lois, and Jon seated together. Jon’s face is blotchy and red, eyes fixed on the floor, fists clenched in the fabric of his suit pants. Diana sits tall and unmoving, grief carved into the stillness of her posture, Steve mirroring that. Barry’s leg bounces uncontrollably; Iris keeps one hand wrapped around his wrist like an anchor. Hal stares straight ahead, jaw tight. Arthur’s massive hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing slowly, Mera's face hasn't changed from one of sorrow. J’onn sits quietly, his presence heavy with emotion he cannot shut out. Zatanna and John, Shayerah, Ted and Michael, all grieving in their own ways.
The Titans occupy an entire section—Donna’s expression is carved from stone, Wally’s leg jittering as he presses his palms together, Kori’s eyes glowing faintly with restrained grief, Roy’s jaw set hard, Kyle staring blankly at the slideshow as if he’s afraid to blink.
Members of the GCPD, Commissioner Gordon and Babs, WE Board members, Luke and Lucius, all present.
When Bruce enters, the room changes.
He walks slowly, deliberately, dressed in black so severe it feels ceremonial.
He holds Damian’s hand, his grip firm, grounding. Damian walks beside him, spine straight, chin lifted, his green eyes glassy but unblinking. The room rises instinctively, respect and grief pulling them to their feet.
Bruce does not look at anyone.
He looks at you.
At the casket.
At the photos.
At the life he is being asked to survive.
He and Damian take their places in the front row.
Bruce does not let go of his son’s hand.
The service begins.
Words are spoken—formal, respectful, distant.
Achievements are listed.
Foundations named.
Your kindness, your generosity, your advocacy spoken of like a legacy carved in stone.
But it’s the slideshow that breaks people.
Photo after photo of you woven between speeches, proof that you were here. That you mattered.
Dick is the first to stand.
He makes it three steps before he stops, hand braced on the podium like he needs it to stay upright. He looks out at the room, at the heroes, the family, the people who loved you. His mouth opens. Closes.
“Y/N was my sister,” he says, voice already splintering. “My baby sister.”
A photo flashes behind him—Dick at eight years old, grinning proudly with you balanced on Bruce’s arm, two years old and giggling.
“I was supposed to protect her,” Dick continues, tears spilling freely now. “That was my job. I thought— I really thought I’d always be there in time.”
His shoulders collapse inward.
“She was everything good,” he sobs. “Everything bright. And I couldn’t— I couldn’t save her.”
He can’t finish.
Wally and Roy are beside him instantly, arms around his shoulders, guiding him gently away as Dick clings to them like he’s drowning.
Tim stands next.
He hesitates before speaking, eyes flicking briefly to the casket, then away.
“In the beginning,” Tim says quietly, “me and Y/N didn’t actually get along that well.”
“I thought she was too stuck up,” he continues, voice shaking. “She thought I was trying too hard to impress Dad.”
A few sad, breathless laughs ripple through the room.
He swallows.
“I’m happy to say we don’t think like that anymore.”
His fingers grip the edge of the podium. He stumbles over his next words.
“Y/N wa—” He stops. He couldn't bring himself to say 'was'
Breath hitching.
“Is— is, Y/N is the greatest of all time.”
A photo flashes—Tim and you sprawled on the Batcave floor, surrounded by schematics and snacks.
“She isn’t just my sister,” Tim says, tears slipping down unchecked now, “she’s my friend. And I think her presence in my life is one of the greatest blessings I’ve ever had. I think I’m so privileged to have known her personally.”
His voice breaks completely.
“I think— I think losing someone you love this much,” Tim continues, “it’s like losing a tooth. At first there’s blood. Panic. Pain. But after it fades, there’s just… this empty space.”
He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek unconsciously.
“And you feel it every time you move. Every time you breathe, every time you eat. And it hurts. A lot.”
The slideshow changes—your handwriting on a sticky note, a book left unfinished on the coffee table, a pair of Crocs abandoned by Tim’s bedroom door, your sweater draped over a chair.
“I see her everywhere,” Tim whispers. “In the pictures on the walls. In the book she didn’t finish reading. In the sweater she left on my chair. I tried to play Minecraft to get away from it… but all I could think about was the world we built together.”
He steps away, shoulders shaking.
Damian follows.
He stands stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward.
“This morning,” Damian says, voice quiet but razor-sharp with control, “I walked into my ukhti’s room expecting her to be there.”
A photo appears—Damian sitting on your bed, scowling while you grin at the camera.
“I went there instinctually,” he continues. “I thought I would hear her say, ‘Damian, what do you want?’”
His throat tightens.
“But there was nothing.”
His eyes flick briefly to Bruce.
“Her room is next to mine,” Damian says. “Normally in the evenings, I hear her closet shuffling. Her telling Elizabeth off for… defiling couture and chewing on her shoes. Or the girls causing chaos.”
Silence stretches.
“I heard nothing.”
Bruce stands last.
The room feels like it caves inward.
“My daughter,” he begins.
The word lands like a blow.
“I buried my parents,” Bruce continues, voice steady but frayed at the edges. “And now I am burying my child.”
The room breaks.
Quiet sobs. Hands to mouths. Iris presses her face into Barry’s shoulder.
“She made this world better,” Bruce says. “And I will live every day knowing it no longer has her in it.”
The burial at Wayne Manor is quieter.
Smaller.
More devastating.
The casket is lowered beside Thomas and Martha Wayne. Damian steps forward and places something small atop it. Bruce remains standing long after everyone else steps back.
Alfred approaches him, eyes red, hands trembling.
“I am so very sorry, Master Bruce,” he says softly.
Bruce exhales, shoulders sagging.
“I wasn’t supposed to outlive her,” he whispers.
Alfred bows his head.
Damian stares at the grave, silent, shattered.
The world moves on.
But something essential has ended.
And nothing will ever recover from it.
A/N: got yo ass heheheheh nah but i feel like i did rlly well on this one, super happy with how it came out. lmk what you guys think! i have this feeling im gonna gate death threats in my inbox idk. ill get back to my 2k event trust. give me ideas for part 2 guys.
omg, I don't know if you've seen the 'I saw a bird today' trend on tiktok 👀 how do you think the guys would react to their partner doing this trend on them? lol
Sing Sweet Nightingale…
batboys x reader
Clark Kent x Reader
Conner Kent x Reader
Includes: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Conner Kent, Tim Drake, and Damian Wayne
A/N: ANON, this was so much fun!!! I’ve been saving this one for when I was ready to dive back in and this was just the kick start I needed. I hope it brings you as much joy as it brings me.
Bruce Wayne:
The kids are the ones who come to you with the idea.
“Come on! It’ll be cute. WE hasn’t posted any domestic stuff with you two in ages. This is the perfect opportunity.”
Eventually you yield on the pretense that you're warning Bruce about it.
Not when, where or how.
Just sometime today.
Which is how you find yourself sitting in one of your favorite spots.
The grand staircase floor.
Bruce has offered deluxe furniture, carpeting, rugs, and you have turned them all down.
Something about the cold tile is so grounding that you do not want it touched.
You hear his sigh before anything else, “Darling, is there any way I can convince you to use our very nice furniture.”
You shake your head, “Nope. But, I do have something to tell you.”
He squats down next to you, “Anything, my love.”
“I… saw a bird today”
He nods barely containing his smile at your comment, “Was it as gorgeous as you are?”
Your eyes widen at the random flirtations.
Giving him the perfect opportunity to drag you onto your feet.
You are aware that he likely noticed the small camera the moment he walked in, but it still takes you a few moments to adjust to him slightly swaying with you in his arms.
An unexpected part of your relationship is Bruce's love to dance with you.
Late at night, just you and him swaying in the lamp light room.
He whispers just loud enough to be picked up on by the camera, “You never answered my question.”
You fully lean up against him now regaining your rhythm, “Hmm?”
“Was the bird you saw today… as gorgeous as you are right now?” He tucks a hair behind your ear.
“I don’t give a damn about the bird.” and you kiss him around his startled laughter.
Clark Kent:
The Daily Planet has a tiktok now… and Vicki Vale is making it everyones fucking problem.
“Come on… it's just one!”
You roll your eyes and try to walk away from the blonde.
You stop as she grabs onto your elbow, “Will you stop asking if we do this one right now?”
She nods enthusiastically and props up her camera.
You quickly turn to Clark, “Hey, hun!”
He swirls around in his chair to face you with his bright farm boy smile, “yes?”
You soften just a bit in response to his earnest nature on full display, “I saw a bird today.”
His eyebrows furrow, “A bird? Was it that one you were talking about the other day? That goose over by the fountain on main street?”
You shake your head, “No, we helped the town move her nest remember.”
He gestures to his forehead, “I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached . Well then tell me about this bird, dear.”
You walk over and steal Jimmy's chair not even noticing Vicki zoom in on the two of you, “You know how Steve always buys like three coffees from BigBelly Burger?”
Clark nods.
“This seagull swooped down and grabbed one of the cups! I’ve never seen a more agile bird. It was like he planned it-” You retell the story laughing between every few words.
Clark hums along at all the right moments, but his eyes never leave your face, tracking every smile like it’s the real story.
After about three minutes, Vicki ends the video and walks away. She may not have many successful relationships under her belt, but she knows your wholesome dynamic is exactly what the new tiktok channel needs.
And if she has to keep bugging you both to capitalize on it… she just might.
Dick Grayson:
“I saw a bird today.” You say walking into your apartment carrying a bag of groceries on your arm.
Dick looks up from a case file at the sound of your voice, “In Bludhaven? A bird? Chaos. Have you reported it to the authorities?”
You place the bags down on the countertop, “Well I was trying to.”
Dick stiffens up and picks up a random napkin, “Oh, my apologies. Is this the first time you have seen this bird?”
You nod, “Yes, officer.”
You watch his eyebrow pop up at his title.
He stands up and hovers over your shoulder, “Was the bird acting…” he hums, “menacing?”
You continue laying your groceries out on the table, “I wouldn’t say menacing… more conspiratory.”
He hums again just a little closer, “I’m afraid I can’t arrest pigeons with a conspiracy.”
You huff and throw your arms up in the air before turning around to face him, “Typical cop. Assuming the problem instead of waiting for the full story. It was a seagull thank you.”
“Oh?” He pulls you in tightly, “Well it being a seagull changes everything.”
You nod and boop his nose, “I told you full stories matter.”
“If you don’t mind me asking… What was this seagull conspiring? These matters are extremely important to the BPD.” He says keeping his attempt at a serious face in the assault of your boop.
“World domination of course.” You say, “And he flew into the window at my office. He shook the walls.”
His serious expression cracks: first at the corner of his mouth, then all at once, “Well if that's the case, I think justice was already served.”
You sigh, “I suppose I agree. The splat he made truly was a sight to behold as well as his flying away after.”
“Another happy civilian.” Dick mumbles tracing your nose lightly with his own.
“I’m always happy with you.”
Jason Todd:
Jason is used to your constant murmuring.
Never having been much of a talker even before his unfortunate demise, Jason has always found comfort in noise.
Specifically a few things could lull him into a state resembling ‘relaxed’
The sounds of Gotham streets
A box fan
And you talking about your favorite things.
He never told you this, but… he was pretty sure you knew.
You did not.
So next time at work you talk to a friend of yours hoping for a sense of comfort.
“You think he listens to you? All the time? My dear, I tune you out like an hour into our shift.” Your work friend catches the sight of your fallen smile, “It's not a knock on you or on him. Just the way life is.”
The thought sits in your mind for the rest of your day.
Is… Jason just tolerating you?
Which is just the moment when a black bird with red spots on its wings flies over your head on the walk home.
It’s just a dumb trend, but it will at least mellow your concerns
You put on a bright smile as you walk into your shared apartment, “Hey, Jaybird!”
He looks up from his work, “You’re back late tonight.”
You shrug walking over to embrace him for a moment.
You stand there together long enough that Jason picks up on your mood.
“You alright?”
You nod before pulling away to grab something from the fridge.
“I saw a bird today.”
Jason’s head tilts at the sudden change in topic as well as your avoidance of the question, “Okay?
You feel your shoulders slouch as he doesn’t respond further.
You hear his feet make a full turn and walk back over to you before wrapping his arms around your shoulders.
He kisses your forehead and mumbles, “You can’t leave me hanging there doll. What’s up with this bird of yours.”
He catches you perking back up immediately.
“Well!” You smile and turn into his arms, “It was this black bird with a red spot. I know you always get compared to a robin and a bat, but I saw this bird and I was like… THAT IS JASON TODD-”
He snorts, arms tightening just a little around you.
…Yeah. That’s enough.
Tim Drake:
The sun rises on another Gotham day, despite both of your wishes Tim and your sleep schedules are not matched up.
But… today is Saturday.
You wake up in his arms.
Tim had firmly wrapped his arms around your waist, successfully keeping you pinned to his chest.
You likely could sneak out if you needed to, but you lack any motivation to do so.
You lightly run your finger over his intertwined hands.
His calloused knuckles jolt at the touch before tightening around you ever so slightly tighter.
He grumbles, “It's Saturday.”
You hum in agreement repeating the previous motion.
He groans, “I’m not getting up-” you giggle lightly at his blunt statement.
Before he dramatically flips the pair of you over now keeping you firmly pinned to the mattress beneath his body weight, “- and neither are you.”
You break out in laughter at that, “Oh I see how it is. We can add kidnapping to your list of crimes.”
“No judge would convict me.” He mumbles into your hair.
You decide to try one more thing since you have been relegated to cuddly buddy for the day, “I saw a bird yesterday.”
His head tips up.
His bedhead is awful and he looks into your eyes like you were put on this earth to test his patience. , “Yeah… I think I saw that one too. ”
You lean back a bit in surprise, “Really what did you see?”
He returns to his previous position, his head laying against your chest, “Yep, a sleep deprived Robin.”
“That wasn’t-”
He pulls the blanket up over both of your heads, “yes it was. Now… sleep”
Conner Kent (reader wears rings):
“You know… I saw a bird today.” You say standing at the entrance of the Kent family farm.
“A bird you say? Quite common in Kansas" Conner responds easily by throwing a hay bale into the loft.
“But… there was something different about this one.” You announce as you meet him in the barn.
“There are many different kinds of birds in Kansas.” Conner says with amusement in his voice.
You attempt to catch his smirk, but he turns before you can catch it.
“Well this is a different bird, but what the bird had on it. A familiar red cape? And a small ring with a note on one of its legs?”
Conner whirls around with a look of baffled innocence on his face, “Who would do such a thing? What did the note say?”
“Even you can’t turn down a gift from a super pigeon. Your Superboy. With a little heart” You hold the note and the ring out in front of you.
The ring being the exact one you refused to let Con buy you a few weeks ago.
Conner claps his hands together, “You cannot possibly turn down a gift from the sky?”
He walks over and slides it onto your finger.
“You trained a pigeon for me?” you say pulling him into a hug.
He coughs, “I just kinda… threw it in the right direction.”
“CONNER”
“He’s okay! I made sure to remove the cape after.”
Damian Al-Ghul-Wayne(aged up):
There are many ways this could go with Damian, so one day you just decided to go for it.
“Hey Dami, I saw a bird today.”
His eyes flick up from his textbook to lock eyes with you, “A bird?”
You nod and continue avoiding your notes by doodling a small robin in the margins, “A bird.”
“Tt-” Damian closes the textbook, “Was there a meaning for the mentioning of this or where you are attempting to get me to stop studying… again.”
You glance up.
This is a fair accusation you have been trying to distract him.
“I would never!” You cover your hand over your heart in mock offense, “I simply was letting you know that I helped an injured bird on my walk back from University Hall today-”
He sits up straight and leans forward, “The bird was injured?”
You nod again going back to your mostly unsuccessful doodlings.
“Are they okay? What happened? How did you-”
This was supposed to be a feel good story not one that gives Damian a heart attack, “Love… I made sure my hands were clean and safe, picked up the baby bird, placed it back in its nest, and waited till the mother returned to make sure she didn’t throw it back out. She did not and she welcomed him back with open arms.”
He grabs your hands to briefly look them over, “Good, birds rarely abandon their young due to human scent. You were not injured in the process? Birds are not always the most… friendly of beings.”
You smile and fold your hands into his, “I am just fine and so is the bird.”
He nods, “Good… that's acceptable.”
He turns back up to you and sees the warm smile on your face, “What?”
“You care so deeply. So much more than you are willing to share.”
He rears back a bit and a light flush grazes his cheek, “You are looking too deeply into the situation. I was simply ensuring the safety of you both.” He opens his textbook back to the previous page with little other fanfare.
never related to authors being like "childhood is such a blessed innocent time", catch me with that jane eyre shit like "such dread as children only can feel" and "I then sat with my doll on my knee til the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room"
"Adults can change their circumstances; children cannot. Children are powerless, and in difficult situations they are the victims of every sorrow and mischance and rage around them, for children feel all of these things but without any of the ability that adults have to change them. Whatever can take a child beyond such circumstances, therefore, is an alleviation and a blessing."
I find this passage from the Mary Oliver essay "Staying Alive" very poignant and true.
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