[missingddeanw]

jin 🍻 he / they

ken doll ,, spn fix ,, dms r open ,, multifandom ,, music

@sweetestsundaykisses my side blog!!!

sorry for da style change, i like this better (hopefully u guys still recognize me)!! anyway, lookin for moots still!! ask 4 my socials!! dc, marvel(specifically mcu) , spn r what im currently into rn!! but im very multifandom trust

© 2026 missingddeanw intro post

[sinounluheart]

🦇 A Vampire Babe?

Warnings: Attempted assult, domestic abuse (Dick knocks you out/ties you up), mention of blood/death, angstish, No pronouns used for reader, established relationship. No use of y/n. I'm brain-dead, so if I miss any, let me know.

Note: I LOST THE ASK FOR THIS. I'M SORRY I'M GOING CRAZY OKAY, I LOVE YOU ALL. BYE.

!!------------------------------------!!

It’s a night in Bludhaven like any other: dark, moody, and beautiful. Truly the sister city to the brooding elegance of Gotham city. It was an especially stormy night where even those of the underbelly found themselves tucked in the warmth of home more appealing than terrorizing the streets. Times like these allow Nightwing to act more the part of a public servant rather than enforcer. Helping the homeless, the lost, and the weary too and from. 

Mostly.

“…seems like some people just thrive on chaos.” Dick sighs to himself, alerted by the sound of trashcans rattling around suddenly. He approaches with swiftly, but with caution. The blood is what he notices first, pooling around the body that the other stranger has pinned, and Dick doesn’t hesitate to act after that.

He uses the alleyway wall as support to kick off of, front flipping into swinging his legs around the offenders neck to twist them off the body. You shriek, feverishly clawing into his thighs to- wait, you?

“[name]?” He gapes, glancing back to the limp body he tore you off of. Dead. Damn it, what the hell is going on? 

You look sickly, not anything resembling the lover he cherishes at home. Red, blood shot eyes, sharp nails, sharp…teeth. Dick struggles to keep you down, it seems that only in the midst of your blood loss were you so easily over powered. Now? He’s definitely sporting some new leg scars.

It hurts to do, it really does, but with no other choice available your boyfriend knocks you square in the temple. A few times, actually. It takes a lot to knock you out. Dick grimaces through it all, but it’s clear that you, or whatever this is, aren’t in the right headspace to hold a civil conversation.

Not that Dick really wants to either, shit. That’s a lot of blood. With most of it drying down your mouth and chin. 

“Hey, Oracle, can you identify the guy I have over here?” Dick tentatively murmurs once he has you secured in wraps. The man is surely mauled, still warm, with his eyes frozen in place. The sign of struggle is apparent, and not just from the chunk bitten into the poor soul's neck. Like Dicks bleeding thighs across the man's shoulders and arms give way to painfully deep marks.

Barbra's ever-friendly yet monotone 'work' voice delivers the news soundly, and Dick isn't sure whether to be relieved or not when the name of a wanted felon is listed instead of an innocent citizen. The charge list is lengthy, full of cruel acts that turn the vigilante's heart off to the suffering you had dished out to him. Okay, better than it could have been, but that doesn't make the attack itself any less concerning.

Did you know that? Were you stalking? Or was this a more fortunate turn of events than what could have been far worse? In the end, both Oracle and Nightwing agree that it would be in everyone's best interest if they gave fellow hero Raven a call.

She confirms his suspicions after Dick manages to haul you back to the apartment. Strapped down and wiped clean. You’re a vampire, and have been for some time, if the maturity of your fangs is anything to go off of. The longer you 'sleep', the further they retract, not perfectly smooth, but then again, what person's teeth truly are? Dick thinks himself stupid for not suspecting as such anyway. He doesn't know what to do with himself.

He doesn't know what to do with you.

You're...great, honestly, you're everything to Dick. The two of you have been dating for so long that your lives are totally intertwined, which makes it all the more horrifying that you've been able to keep something this big right under his nose. Every question he cautiously pesters Rachel with is met with the same boring, unsatisfying answer.

Eating human food? It depends.

Walking perfectly fine in the sunlight? It depends.

Sleeping outside a coffin? You already know what she has to say to that.

The sole comfort she leaves him with is that if you wanted to hurt him, you would have done so by now. It's a somewhat reassuring notion, but that isn't his biggest concern. It's whether or not you're intentionally harming people, criminal or not. The no-kill rule isn't up for debate.

Dick knows why Bruce does it, and he's long established his own reason to hold himself to the same standard. Maybe he isn't a total stickler, but the blood he has shed haunts him, and he'll carry that weight with him until the day he dies.

Die. Did you...Did you die? Did something happen and Dick wasn't there to protect you like he was supposed to? His head is beginning to hurt, but he can't concentrate on much of anything. Dick is just staring now, icing the shiner developing on the part where he had hit you. Vampire, but still human enough for this. Maybe human enough for him too.

"Hey, oh, I know, I know," Dick murmurs when you finally start to stir. He has you strapped down, but he hopes the familiar environment and his sleep clothes make the whole thing feel more 'confessional' and less 'interogation'. "But we need to talk, babe, okay?"

"So," He coughs, straightening himself into a cooler front. This is serious. Dick needs to be serious. "You wanna tell me about what happened the other night? The fangs? The blood? Didn't strike my angel to be a murderer of all things." Okay, starting off stronger than he intended to, but he needs you to understand the corner you're both in. Him a vigilante, you...whatever you are.

It's hard to defend yourself when you're tied up, dizzy, and still starving, but you manage. It was self-defense; the man came at you first, you were just hunting vermin (like you always do, you emphasize). Your hopefully still boyfriend is a tough cookie to crack, but you can tell the crumbs are already falling in your favor. "I just-I just can't believe you would go that far. That you would keep this from me!"

What does he expect you to do? Call him or the police in the moment? You'd be worse off in that case; it's not like either could teleport across the city towards you. "Oh, do not pull that card. Don't you think I know that?" Dick scoffs, standing up from his previously faux-lounging position. He's getting a little flushed, a little red. "I don't even-I can't even figure out what I should even be saying to you right now."

It's not like he told you who he was when you first started dating. It took him a year and a half to let Nightwing slip, and even then, he made you figure it out yourself!

"Those aren't even comparable things! I save people, try my damnest to protect this city, and you-for all I know, baby? You've been killing people behind my back the entire time."

It's not your fault either!

By the time you both wind down, your throats are sore, and your eyes are stinging, and your heart hurts almost as much as your wrists, too, but not quite. After a long stretch of silence, Dick sighed and stood. "Okay, okay. I get it...okay." He stood, undoing your restraints with one hand. He didn't say sorry; Dick really can't bring himself to look at you at all, but you're out. Free, so to speak.

"Just give me a while. I trust you, I do, but I need a minute. I don't wanna argue with you. That guy...I'm putting my trust in you when you say that it was a one-off. That it was a string of bad luck. That you don't normally get like that, because [name]? If you're lying to me," Dick doesn't need to finish his sentence; the look he gives you is message enough.

Some boyfriend he is.

The next month is rough between you two. Your loving boyfriend retreats into his shell just a bit, and the Robin in him peeks out. He monitors your vitals, your sleep patterns, and most importantly, watches you eat. After hiding your nature for so long, being observed so openly is almost scandalous. You try to be open and earnest, but sometimes all you wanna do is drain a fat rat in a dark closet in peace, okay?

Before long, Dick, your sweetheart, returns to you in full. You really don't know what you were afraid of before. You know your boyfriend has seen and dealt with worse, but it's hard to remember that he's the exception to the sea of normalcy that is Bludhaven and beyond. You just...never got around to telling him, and if you were honest, without his horrible timing, you aren't sure that you were ever going to either.

His staring is different too, you begin to notice.

It wanders, his gaze. The heat of his lust is a blanket you're familiar with, but it's different when applied to your vampiric nature. It's always been a parasite you've begrudingly beaten down under your feet. One that you've smothered. It's dirty...and it feels really good to be wanted anyway.

"Does it feel good?" He mumbles one night, absentmindedly dragging his thumb alongside your jaw. "To be bitten, like that. I've heard it's pretty erotic."

You want to ask who, where, why, but he's leaning much too close for your mind to wander. "I don't...wanna push, but I am curious, you know?" Dick smirks softly to himself. "To have a lover like that. I mean, what's the point of having a vampire on your arm if I can't whore myself out a little, huh?"

His eyes flicker down and up, down and up, and then slide close as you meet his plea. Your lips brush tenderly, but it's fleeting as you crane for his neck instead. You know the thin rope restraint tethers quite well. Having spent many days and nights with this thick slab of human meat pressed up alongside you. "I trust you."

He really shouldn't have. Human blood is so much more nutrient-rich than that watered-down bullshit you find on the streets.

[sinounluheart]

I cant believe I missed tims birthday😣 But can we eat tims ass like a birthday cake to apologize😋

🎂 Birthday Cake !!

Warning: Sub/Bottom character, Dom/Top no-pronouned (disinterested) reader, rimjob/handjob, established relationship. No use of (y/n)

Note: Fucking fineeee omg!! Needy and spoiled, back I say! Back! /j

!!------------------------------------!!

”I have a cock that works perfectly well, you know.” Your boyfriend faux sighs, getting comfortable over where you have him bent over on the couch. Tim isn’t a big party person, surprising for a guy who likes to soak up being the center of attention. It just doesn’t feel earned, you know?

No, you don’t. Shut up, you tell him, swatting his lower cheeks softly.

"Hey! It is my birthday, you know."

Again, shut up, you mutter. Finally spreading his cheeks just enough to passively lick into his ass. Tim lets out a strangled grunt when your fingers likewise hook into the flesh of his cheeks. The sensation of being pulled open, combined with the sudden warm wet flick of your tongue, is electrifying. Tim's toes twitch in want, but he fights the urge to curl them.

"Mmmgh...fuck," He breathes out, his forehead dropping down against the plush cushion. Your casualness only adds to it all. He feels more like a toy you're indulging in rather than someone special you're rewarding. It's great.

As you continue licking Tim's hips begin to move instinctively. Slowly grinding in rhythmic circles, both back against your tongue whilst rubbing his cock at the same time. His length is fully erect now, thin and pulsing, slapping wetly against his stomach with every movement. With his ass spread wide open, he's so exposed, yet he's never felt more secure.

"You're so...so mean to me." Tim whimpers playfully, smiling to himself. For once, the arousal in his tone slips through unfiltered. Maybe that's the real present here. Blindly, he reaches back, his hands finding the back of your head to palm for better purchase. Closer, urging more contact. "Ah, but fuck, you're really good at this. Mh...yeah, get all in there, baby."

You hum, closing your eyes, nosing deep between his rim with your tongue. While your reach is deep, your pace is lazy. Teasing. Asshole.

The edge is quick to build, though, with the added sensation of Tim's cock grinding forward. "Keep going...keep going...eat me up, eat me up." He's sort of blubbering to himself, but you pay no mind.

Languidly, one of your hands reaches out to stroke him, though only the tip. Between your forefinger and thumb. Tim shivers at your pinch, his back arching with your touch. The contrast was driving him insane! The deep, wet, heavy pressure of your tongue inside his ass, and then the light, teasing, almost agonizingly careful stroke at the very tip of his cock. Mouth-watering.

"You're doing it on purpose, babe, c'mon, just ah...ah little more, squeeze me? Lick me? Harder." Tim whines. Your eyes roll, and you naturally ignore him. Simply working him over with your tongue and fist. When his load finally shoots out across the towel you've laid over the couch, you tsk. A line of spit connecting your glistening lips and his puckering rim. Gross.

"Mh...happy birthday to me."

[sinounluheart]

Hello! I just wanted to say that I absolutely love your writing and your characterization of the Batfamily, especially Jason. It’s chef’s kiss!

Can I request overstimulation with Jason? Where the reader just can’t get enough of him and keeps saying, “Okay, this is the last round,” only to promise the next round will really be the last. I love Jason, and you do him so much justice. Your characterization of him is amazing 😩

IT BURNS !!! CUT IT OUTTTTTT !!!

Warnings: Sub! Character, Dom! Reader, no pronouns are used for reader, handjob, established relationship. No use of y/n.

Note: Awwww, thank you so much !! Here you go !! (He's a crier, btw.)

!!————————————!!

Jason Todd does not have the largest libido around; actually, he's rather difficult to work up. He's the kind of guy who's satisfied with a little handjob and a kiss on the cheek; what else could someone want?

A lot, apparently.

"Are you done yet? Oh my god," Jason pants, one of his thick arms thrown over his eyes. His cock burns in your clammy hands, almost numb from it. His thighs are spread, with you between them. Sometimes you get handsy, restless, and Jason just lets you do what you want within reason. This feels like far beyond reason, though.

"Fuck!" He groans as you encapture his sensitive length once again. What's so fun about this? Jason doesn't get it. He just feels like his brain and pelvis are going to melt through his body and down into the floor. Lightly, he bats at you. Knees bucking in at your sides, but it's not enough for you to let up.

He hasn't uttered his safe word after all, and he isn't walking away either. So you're free to do what you want.

You've found that Jason rather enjoys being taken apart in your arms. Not dissected, just admired. Held in his entirety. Exposed for you to see. You love him, and Jason knows that. It's why he trusts you even in the midst of his discomfort. And lord, is he squirming.

In one hand, you pump him base to tip. In the other, you palm his balls. Everything's soaked in sweat, spit, pre, and cum. Jason can barely feel the divits of your fingers, only the hot pressure they provide. Your grip is tight, ever constant.

It's so annoying! Jason hates you! He hates you, he hates you! He's- about to cum!

"Hah...hah," He shudders, dragging his heavy limbs across himself. Jason curls, turning away from you. "No more, get off of me, you shit head."

You sigh, fine. But you'll surely have your fun licking him clean first. Yum!

[plumstatic]

A fic with Dick or Jason. Soulmate au with fluff please!!!! I'm not super picky with Soulmate tropes, but first words are always cute!! 🤭🤭💗💗💗

Out the way, dipshit

Summary: Your soulmate's first words appear on your forearm shortly before you meet them. Unfortunately, yours happen to be, "Out the way, dipshit."

Contents: jason todd x gen!reader, soulmate AU, first words trope, fluff, humor, mild swearing by reader, awkward first meetings, reader had a really bad day and is pissed

1.0k

a/n: I'm personally not a fan of soulmate AUs, so I hope this is still what you were looking for:) I feel like it could've used a little more fluff, but my brain just wasn't cooperating. Also, in this AU everything is the same except that your soulmate's first words appear a few days/hours before you meet. I'm simply too lazy for world-building.

Out the way, dipshit

These were the words permanently etched on your fucking forearm. 

You were waiting for the moment that words finally appear there, giving you the certainty that your soulmate wasn't going to make you wait much longer.

But you expected something cuter. Or anything that wasn't a literal insult.

The day was already draining you enough. The weather was shit, work sucked and you got held up by your annoying neighbor downstairs, then these stupid words appeared and - oh god you forgot to buy groceries.

So, you make your way to the nearby grocery store 20 minutes before closing. You get the most important stuff, mainly something to eat for dinner, and go to the checkout.

From inside the brightly lit store you see a guy running down the street, nothing unusual. You just hope it wouldn't inconvenience you.

You step outside again, the cold air hitting your face painfully.

The rain wasn't as harsh anymore, still you wished you brought your umbrella. Whatever. You take a step forward, leaving the protection of the grocery store roof and about to make your way back home when a guy pushed you out the way shouting: "Out the way, dipshit."

What the fuck.

That was Red Hood. You were pretty sure of that. 

No, no no no no. That can't be. That was just your luck.

You were still standing in the rain a minute later, your apparent soulmate long gone. And you had so many problems with this.

Not only the stupid words but also, did your soulmate have to be a guy in a mask fighting crime? 

When you get home, you're completely soaked and just want to sleep. You don´t even bother with dinner, you take a shower and are knocked out in bed in less than a few minutes.

The next day, you get woken up by the sun painting your bedroom in a gentle golden tone. 

You look at your phone. It is 9 am already? 

It takes a moment to remember that today was your day off, so you relax a bit more, enjoying the warmth of your bed.

Throughout the morning, you tell yourself that today was going to be your day. You definitely needed a day full of positivity and rainbows. And if you ever meet the guy again, you would tell him to fuck off. If you had to walk around the word dipshit permanently on your body, he had to live with that. 

No, you were not petty.

Later that afternoon, you decide to go visit the bookstore around the corner. 

It was a cute, small store. Packed with shelves and the shelves overflowing with books. It even had a seating area, inside right in front of the big window that was adorned with the store's name. 

When you arrive and step inside, you notice how empty it was today. Often, when you came here, at least a couple of other people were already browsing the shelves.

Oh, this was going to be a good day. 

You head to your favorite section first, hidden behind a corner. There you see a guy already browsing through the books.

He was huge, the shirt pulling over his back muscles. When he turned a bit you could see his face. He was unfairly attractive. 

The guy noticed your staring and looks up, then down on the book he was holding again.

You've already read the book, just recently for the second time. You gather all your social energy that was left from yesterday.

"It´s good." 

His head shoots up. Eyes narrowing.

"What?" His voice is rough, like he didn't sleep enough.

"The book. It´s good." You fiddle with your hands, suddenly feeling very stupid for saying anything.

He just keeps staring, like he is trying to solve some very hard equation. The equation being you.

"Is everything alright?" He still doesn´t say anything. "Okay, sorry I bothered you." You turn to leave this awkward situation, when he clears his throat.

He looks uncertain. "Not to overstep, but did that not ring a bell?"

"What are you talking about?" You have genuinely no idea what he meant by that.

He tried to discreetly show off his forearm. It was covered by his shirt tho, so no luck there.

He notices your confused look and sighs heavily.

"What are your first words?" 

"That´s none of your business." What a freak.

You must have looked at him like he was being a weirdo because he defensively shoved up his shirt to reveal the words "It´s good" marking his skin. 

You scoff and he looks more confused than before.

"I´m guessing yours match?" He tries a smile but it turned into a frown when you still seemed like you wanted him out of your sight immediately. "I don´t understand what´s wrong."

"What´s wrong? First you shove me out the way and then," you pull up your sleeve, "you call me dipshit? I don´t know, you tell me."

An "oh" is all you got in response. 

But before you could turn away again and leave he catches your arm.

"Sorry. Can I buy you a coffee?"

"No." 

"Lunch?"

"No."

"A book? Anything?"

You hate to admit it, but he looked genuinely apologetic. "I´ll think about it," you say, waiting for him to let you go.

He does, but follows you when you make your way outside.

"Can I at least get your number?"

You take a deep breath, at least he seemed sorry? Still, you were going to make him work for it.

"What´s your name?" you ask.

"Jason. Yours?"

You give him your name. Then ask for his phone. You type in your number.

"Text me when you planned a real date."

Jason blinks.

"A real date?"

"One that makes up for calling me a dipshit."

He actually laughs.

"For the record, I've definitely called people worse."

You point at him. "Not helping."

A couple of hours later, it is already dark outside, you get a text.

Date planned Pick you up in 30  - Jason

[clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm]

“If i want it,i got”

Batboys x Reader;Shopping day

I have a huge shopping addiction, mostly clothes 😭.I feel like i buy a new item of clothing every time i go out.

Bruce Wayne

•Bruce is surprisingly patient to shop with. He’ll follow you from store to store without once asking, “Are we almost done?”

•He becomes the designated bag carrier before you’ve even left the first shop, insisting it’s easier that way.

•If you disappear into a fitting room, he’s waiting outside with honest opinions not just, “It looks nice.” He’ll tell you what genuinely suits you while making it clear that the final choice is yours.

•You occasionally catch him quietly buying something you mentioned liking but decided not to get because it was “too expensive.”

•He reminds you that you are dating Bruce Wayne and money means nothing to him.

⸻

Dick Grayson

•Dick somehow turns shopping into a full-day date.

•Every other store becomes an opportunity to make you laugh by trying on the most ridiculous hats, sunglasses, or jackets he can find.

•He’s your personal hype man inside the fitting rooms.

He peaks his head through the curtain,”Can I have a peak.”

“Absolutely.”

•You are wearing a new outfit.

“Wow.”

“Actually wow, or are you just being nice?”

“Actually wow.”

•He’ll happily hold your purse, your coffee, and every shopping bag at once if it means you can browse comfortably.

•The day always ends with snacks and comparing your favorite purchases.

⸻

Jason Todd

•Jason claims he hates shopping.

•Somehow he’s still there four hours later.

•He pretends to complain every time you say, “One more shop.”

“…That’s what you said three shops ago.”

• Yet he’s already opening the next door for you.

• He has surprisingly good taste and gives straightforward opinions when you ask.

“That one.”

“Why?”

“Because your face lit up when you looked in the mirror.”

•If your feet start hurting, he’ll suggest stopping for food before you even say anything.

•Shopping with him usually ends with both of you carrying far more bags than you intended.

⸻

Tim Drake

•Tim approaches shopping like it’s a mission.

•He looks up store directories, compares prices, and somehow finds discount codes while you’re walking through the mall.

• You’re convinced he has a spreadsheet somewhere.

•He waits patiently outside fitting rooms, usually reading something on his phone until you ask for his opinion.

•His compliments are specific.

“That color makes your eyes stand out.”

“The fit on that jacket looks better than the last one.”

•Halfway through the trip he quietly appears with your favorite drink because he noticed you were getting tired.

⸻

Damian Wayne

•Damian doesn’t particularly enjoy shopping, but he enjoys spending time with you.

•He walks beside you carrying every bag without complaint, refusing to let you carry more than one.

•If you ask his opinion, he answers honestly but respectfully.

“I prefer the first one.”

“Why?”

“Because you appear more comfortable in it.”

•He notices details you don’t, like when you’re starting to get overwhelmed by crowds or have been on your feet for too long.

•Before you even suggest taking a break, he’s already guiding you toward a quieter café, deciding that the shopping can wait because your company is the part he actually came for.

[clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm]

“If i want it,i got”

Batboys x Reader;Shopping day

I have a huge shopping addiction, mostly clothes 😭.I feel like i buy a new item of clothing every time i go out.

Bruce Wayne

•Bruce is surprisingly patient to shop with. He’ll follow you from store to store without once asking, “Are we almost done?”

•He becomes the designated bag carrier before you’ve even left the first shop, insisting it’s easier that way.

•If you disappear into a fitting room, he’s waiting outside with honest opinions not just, “It looks nice.” He’ll tell you what genuinely suits you while making it clear that the final choice is yours.

•You occasionally catch him quietly buying something you mentioned liking but decided not to get because it was “too expensive.”

•He reminds you that you are dating Bruce Wayne and money means nothing to him.

⸻

Dick Grayson

•Dick somehow turns shopping into a full-day date.

•Every other store becomes an opportunity to make you laugh by trying on the most ridiculous hats, sunglasses, or jackets he can find.

•He’s your personal hype man inside the fitting rooms.

He peaks his head through the curtain,”Can I have a peak.”

“Absolutely.”

•You are wearing a new outfit.

“Wow.”

“Actually wow, or are you just being nice?”

“Actually wow.”

•He’ll happily hold your purse, your coffee, and every shopping bag at once if it means you can browse comfortably.

•The day always ends with snacks and comparing your favorite purchases.

⸻

Jason Todd

•Jason claims he hates shopping.

•Somehow he’s still there four hours later.

•He pretends to complain every time you say, “One more shop.”

“…That’s what you said three shops ago.”

• Yet he’s already opening the next door for you.

• He has surprisingly good taste and gives straightforward opinions when you ask.

“That one.”

“Why?”

“Because your face lit up when you looked in the mirror.”

•If your feet start hurting, he’ll suggest stopping for food before you even say anything.

•Shopping with him usually ends with both of you carrying far more bags than you intended.

⸻

Tim Drake

•Tim approaches shopping like it’s a mission.

•He looks up store directories, compares prices, and somehow finds discount codes while you’re walking through the mall.

• You’re convinced he has a spreadsheet somewhere.

•He waits patiently outside fitting rooms, usually reading something on his phone until you ask for his opinion.

•His compliments are specific.

“That color makes your eyes stand out.”

“The fit on that jacket looks better than the last one.”

•Halfway through the trip he quietly appears with your favorite drink because he noticed you were getting tired.

⸻

Damian Wayne

•Damian doesn’t particularly enjoy shopping, but he enjoys spending time with you.

•He walks beside you carrying every bag without complaint, refusing to let you carry more than one.

•If you ask his opinion, he answers honestly but respectfully.

“I prefer the first one.”

“Why?”

“Because you appear more comfortable in it.”

•He notices details you don’t, like when you’re starting to get overwhelmed by crowds or have been on your feet for too long.

•Before you even suggest taking a break, he’s already guiding you toward a quieter café, deciding that the shopping can wait because your company is the part he actually came for.

[jellyfishsthings]

Angsty Request: DC characters(Roll the dice if you wanna do multi or just choose a random) reacting to Reader’s insecurity about being average. Like surrounded by so many people who are amazing at so many things, they don’t have anything that makes them “stand out” or “special”

Ordinary

navigation , dc navigation

PAIRINGS: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Wally West, Clark Kent, Hal Jordan, Roy Harper

requests are open

It starts, like most things do, small.

A comment at a party. Someone saying oh, you're with him? What do you do? And you'd answered, and watched their face do the thing — the polite thing, the oh, that's nice thing — before they turned back to the person next to you who cured diseases or broke land speed records or could benchpress a building.

You don't say anything about it. It's fine. It's always fine.

It's just that fine has been accumulating for a while.

DICK

Dick finds out the way Dick finds out everything, which is by paying attention when you think he isn't.

You're at one of Bruce's Foundation galas, standing slightly to the left of where the conversation is happening, and Dick is watching you from across the room the way he watches things that matter to him — not obviously, not intrusively, just present in the specific way of someone who has made you his business.

He sees the moment. The woman is talking about her research. The colleague is talking about his company. The way you smile and contribute, and then go slightly, barely, quiet when someone asks the table what everyone does.

He's next to you before you've finished your answer.

His hand finds the small of your back. Not drawing attention. Just there.

Later, in the car, he doesn't say anything immediately. Dick knows when to wait.

"I'm boring," you say, to the window. You hadn't planned to say it. It just came out.

"You're not boring," he says.

"I'm not interesting. Not like — not like them. Not like any of you."

Dick is quiet for a moment.

"Can I tell you something?" he says.

"Don't."

"I'm going to anyway." He glances at you. "I grew up performing. Literally. I was on a trapeze before I could read properly. And then I was Robin, and then I was Nightwing, and my whole life has been about being something extraordinary in front of other people." He pauses. "You know what I wanted, for years, more than anything?"

You don't answer.

"Someone who was just there," he says. "Not performing. Not proving something. Just — present. Real." He takes your hand. "You are the only person in my life who makes me feel like I don't have to be anything other than Richard Grayson. Do you understand how rare that is? Do you understand what that's worth?"

You don't say anything.

"You're not boring," Dick says. "You're the only real thing I've got. That's not nothing. That's everything."

JASON

Jason is the wrong person to be subtle with, and you know it, which is why you don't try.

You say it flat, one night, while he's cleaning his helmet and you're sitting on the kitchen counter: "I don't know what I bring to the table. With you. In general."

He stops.

Puts the helmet down.

Turns to look at you with the expression he gets when he's deciding how to handle something he wasn't expecting.

"Where is this coming from," he says. Not a question.

"Everywhere." You look at your hands. "You're — you're you. And everyone around us is extraordinary. And I'm just — I'm here. I'm regular. I have nothing that — "

"Stop," he says.

"Jason — "

"I said stop." He crosses to where you're sitting, and he's close now, and his voice isn't angry, but it's firm in the way that means he means it. "You want to know what you bring to the table?"

You look at him.

"You don't flinch," he says. "You know what I am. You know everything — the pit, the Joker, the kill list, all of it — and you don't flinch. You don't look at me like I'm a problem to be managed or a tragedy to be fixed." His jaw is tight. "Do you have any idea how many people have looked at me like that? Every single person who matters to me. Everyone." He exhales. "Not you. Never you."

'That's just — that's just me not being scared of you — "

"That's not just anything," he says. "That's everything. You being unafraid of me is the thing that let me stop being afraid of myself."

He doesn't say things like that often. When he does, he means them the way buildings mean their foundations.

"You're not average," Jason says. "You're the bravest person I know. You just don't have a costume for it."

TIM

Tim approaches it like Tim approaches everything, which is logically, and initially, this is the wrong approach.

"There's no objective metric for being extraordinary," he says when you tell him. "The concept is relative and largely socially constructed — "

"Tim."

"I'm just saying that the framing of the question is — "

"Tim, I don't want a philosophical deconstruction. I feel like I'm not special. I feel like I don't belong in this world you all live in."

He stops.

He looks at you.

Tim Drake, to his credit, knows when he's made an error and corrects it fast.

"You're right," he says. "I'm sorry. That was — I went analytical because I don't know how to handle thinking about you feeling like that.' He sits down next to you. 'Can I try again?"

"Yeah," you say.

"You are the most perceptive person I have ever met," he says. "And I live with people who solve crimes for fun. You understand people — actually understand them, not just analyze them — in a way I've spent years trying to learn and still can't." He looks at you seriously. "You understood me. In like three weeks. That took Alfred years. That took Dick decades. You did it in three weeks."

"That's just — paying attention — "

"So is detective work," Tim says. "You just use it differently. You use it to make people feel known." He pauses. "I have never felt as known by anyone as I do by you. That is not a small thing. For me specifically, that is the largest possible thing."

You're quiet.

"You belong here," Tim says. "You belong with me. Those are the same thing, and they're both completely true."

DAMIAN

Damian doesn't find out because you tell him.

Damian finds out because he's Damian, and Damian notices everything, and files it, and brings it up at a time of his choosing, which is never the time you'd choose.

It's three weeks after a League of Assassins gala, of all things, where you'd spent an evening surrounded by people who could kill with seventeen different household objects, and you'd smiled and made conversation and felt comprehensively unremarkable.

You've mostly moved on. You think.

"You've been doing the thing," Damian says, out of nowhere, not looking up from his sketchbook.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you're present but you've decided you're not significant."

You stare at him.

He looks up. His expression is its usual composed, unimpressed default, but his eyes are doing something different. Something that, on anyone else, you'd call careful.

"I don't do a — "

"You've done it consistently since the Al-Ghul event," he says. "Which I should have addressed sooner. I was determining the correct approach."

"And what approach did you determine?"

Damian puts down the sketchbook. He turns to face you fully, which means this is serious.

"I was raised to believe that worth is determined by ability," he says. "By skill. By measurable superiority." A pause. "I was raised incorrectly."

You blink.

"You have no combat training. No powers. No particular strategic credentials." He says this without cruelty, just precision. "And yet you are the only person whose opinion I seek. The only person in whose presence I do not feel the need to perform capability." He holds your gaze. "You make me want to be better. Not because you've demanded it. Simply by existing as you are. By being decent, and kind, and entirely without artifice."

"Damian — "

"That is not average," he says. "That is exceptionally rare. I have met very few people who could survive my family's world and emerge kinder for it." He picks the sketchbook back up. "You are not ordinary. You are precisely the kind of person the extraordinary cannot manufacture, no matter how hard they try."

He goes back to sketching.

The subject is closed.

Except: you notice, later, that what he's drawing is you.

WALLY

Wally West has a lot of feelings and very little ability to not immediately express all of them at top volume, which is usually either the best or worst quality in a person, depending on the situation.

In this situation, it's the best.

"Okay, no," he says when you finish talking. "Nope. Absolutely not. We're not doing this."

"Wally — "

"You feel average? You? You feel average?" He is already pacing, which at Wally speed means he's basically vibrating in place. "You know what average looks like? I am surrounded by people who move at the speed of light and punch satellites, and I still think you're the most impressive person in any room you walk into. Do you know why?"

"Because you love me and you're biased — "

"Yes, and also because it's true." He stops pacing. He comes to stand in front of you with that Wally energy that's always slightly too big for indoor spaces, warm and earnest and completely unguarded. "You know what I think about when everything gets too fast? When it's too loud and too much, and the speed is more curse than gift?"

You don't answer.

"You," he says. "The way you move through a room like you've got all the time in the world. The way nothing seems to panic you. The way you slow everything down just by being there." He takes your hands. "I need you to understand that I run at the speed of sound and you are the only thing that makes me want to stop."

You look at him.

"You're not average," he says, serious for once, fully serious, the Barry Allen seriousness underneath all the Wally West noise. "You are the stillness I can't make myself. That's not a small thing. That's the whole thing."

ROY

Roy doesn't do speeches. Roy does honesty, which is sometimes messier but always lands harder.

"Yeah, I get it," he says when you tell him.

Which is not what you expected.

"You get it," you repeat.

"I've spent half my life next to Oliver Queen, who is generationally talented and also happens to be a superhero. And then Ollie's best friend is literally the fastest man alive." He leans back. "I know what it feels like to be the regular one. Trust me, I have a PhD in it."

"Then you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," he says. "And I also know it's wrong." He looks at you levelly. "You know what nobody ever talks about? How hard it is to love people like us. People who disappear at two in the morning. Who comes back banged up and won't explain why. Who carries things they can't put down and take it out sideways?" His voice is even. "Most people leave. They can't handle it. And I don't blame them, it's a lot."

'Roy — "

"You stayed," he says. "That's not average. Staying with someone like me — staying with any of us — takes something most people don't have." He meets your eyes. "You want to know what you bring to the table? You make a life possible. An actual life. Not just a mission. Not just a cover identity." He exhales. "I didn't know I needed that. Turns out it's the only thing I actually needed."

You're quiet for a long time.

"You're not the regular one," Roy says. "You're the one who makes the rest of it worth it. There's a difference."

HAL

Hal Jordan's entire personality is confidence, which he sometimes actually has, which means he knows exactly how it sounds when someone's running low on it.

He hears it in you before you finish the sentence.

"Hey," he says, cutting you off gently. "Come back."

"I'm here."

"You're here, but you're doing the thing where you've already decided something, and you're just telling me the conclusion." He sits down across from you. "Start from the beginning."

So you do. You tell him about the feeling — the accumulation of it, the galas and the team-ups and the moments of standing next to someone extraordinary and being, by comparison, just there.

Hal listens. Hal is better at listening than anyone would guess, given everything else about him.

"You know what I've learned," he says, when you're done, "from having a ring that runs on willpower?"

"What?"

"Will isn't about being extraordinary. It's about deciding something matters and not letting go of that decision." He looks at you. "That's it. That's the whole thing. There's no talent component. There's no special gene. It's just — you decide, and you hold on."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Because you have that," he says simply. "You have it more than most people I know, and I've literally flown through space with some of the most willful beings in the universe." He tilts his head. "You decided this relationship was worth it. You decided to stay in this world, with all of its chaos and its danger and its complete inability to function normally. You decided, and you held on."

"That's not — that's not the same as — "

"It's exactly the same." His voice is quiet and certain in the way that Hal Jordan rarely is, the way underneath all the bravado. "The ring would choose you. I know it would. It picks the ones who don't quit." He reaches over. "You've never quit. Not on me, not on any of us. That's extraordinary. You've just never called it that."

CLARK

Clark is the hardest to tell, because Clark is Clark, and you spend three weeks not saying it.

He notices at week two. He waits until you're ready.

When you finally say it — quietly, sitting on the apartment floor because you'd slid down the wall and hadn't bothered moving — you say: I just don't see what I am to all of this. What I contribute. What makes me matter in a world full of people who change things?

Clark sits down on the floor next to you.

He doesn't say anything immediately.

Clark is the most powerful being on the planet, and he uses that silence like it's something gentle.

"Can I tell you something?" he says, finally.

"If it's about how everyone is valuable in their own way, I'm going to — "

"It's not," he says. "It's about Smallville."

You wait.

"I grew up knowing what I was," he says. "Knowing I was different. And I spent a long time thinking that the power was the point — that what made me matter was what I could do that no one else could." He looks at the middle distance. "And then I got older, and I met people — journalists, farmers, teachers, ordinary people living ordinary lives — who were good in a way that had nothing to do with ability. Who showed up, every day, for the people around them. Who made things better not by being extraordinary but by being decent."

"Clark — "

"Those people changed my life more than the ability ever did," he says. "Being good is not a small thing. Being kind is not a small thing. Being the person who shows up, who stays, who loves without needing to be exceptional — " He looks at you. "That is the hardest thing I have ever encountered. Harder than anything I can lift."

He takes your hand.

"I have never once looked at you and seen someone who doesn't matter," he says. "I have looked at you and seen the kind of person I try to be. The kind of person I'm not sure I've managed yet." A pause. "You are not less than us. You are, in many ways, the thing we're trying to become."

The floor is still the floor. Nothing has changed technically.

But Clark is sitting on it with you, and somehow that makes the distance between ordinary and everything else feel much, much smaller.

You are not a footnote in their stories.

You are the reason some of them still have one.

[hemlockeknights]

Just wanna say since my comments were deleted: on that slop:

Never ever let the hate or critiques or nit picks that clog these tags dissuade you from writing.

That user called it “lazy” to not know the characters to their full extent before writing a fic and they had hella attitude about it- except thats literally fine, personally im just happy to see a new post when i refresh the tag and im sure others agree with me on that.

The REAL lazy people are the ones hating on writers for shitty reasons and yet they dont even write anything themselves. it blows my mind - the entitlement when you’re in a creative space and something isnt made to your exact taste or to the extent of your exact knowledge.

People new to the fandom write here, thats GOOD. Chill.

(sorry for clogging the tags but that shit WORRIES me i hope some little newcomer to the fandom isnt feeling called out by these posts - you are so welcome to write even if you dont know jason todds blood type and batburger order like its fine baby)

like be so fr, get off ur ass and WORK if these fics piss u off so bad

[jellyfishsthings]

Angsty Request: DC characters(Roll the dice if you wanna do multi or just choose a random) reacting to Reader’s insecurity about being average. Like surrounded by so many people who are amazing at so many things, they don’t have anything that makes them “stand out” or “special”

Ordinary

navigation , dc navigation

PAIRINGS: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Wally West, Clark Kent, Hal Jordan, Roy Harper

requests are open

It starts, like most things do, small.

A comment at a party. Someone saying oh, you're with him? What do you do? And you'd answered, and watched their face do the thing — the polite thing, the oh, that's nice thing — before they turned back to the person next to you who cured diseases or broke land speed records or could benchpress a building.

You don't say anything about it. It's fine. It's always fine.

It's just that fine has been accumulating for a while.

DICK

Dick finds out the way Dick finds out everything, which is by paying attention when you think he isn't.

You're at one of Bruce's Foundation galas, standing slightly to the left of where the conversation is happening, and Dick is watching you from across the room the way he watches things that matter to him — not obviously, not intrusively, just present in the specific way of someone who has made you his business.

He sees the moment. The woman is talking about her research. The colleague is talking about his company. The way you smile and contribute, and then go slightly, barely, quiet when someone asks the table what everyone does.

He's next to you before you've finished your answer.

His hand finds the small of your back. Not drawing attention. Just there.

Later, in the car, he doesn't say anything immediately. Dick knows when to wait.

"I'm boring," you say, to the window. You hadn't planned to say it. It just came out.

"You're not boring," he says.

"I'm not interesting. Not like — not like them. Not like any of you."

Dick is quiet for a moment.

"Can I tell you something?" he says.

"Don't."

"I'm going to anyway." He glances at you. "I grew up performing. Literally. I was on a trapeze before I could read properly. And then I was Robin, and then I was Nightwing, and my whole life has been about being something extraordinary in front of other people." He pauses. "You know what I wanted, for years, more than anything?"

You don't answer.

"Someone who was just there," he says. "Not performing. Not proving something. Just — present. Real." He takes your hand. "You are the only person in my life who makes me feel like I don't have to be anything other than Richard Grayson. Do you understand how rare that is? Do you understand what that's worth?"

You don't say anything.

"You're not boring," Dick says. "You're the only real thing I've got. That's not nothing. That's everything."

JASON

Jason is the wrong person to be subtle with, and you know it, which is why you don't try.

You say it flat, one night, while he's cleaning his helmet and you're sitting on the kitchen counter: "I don't know what I bring to the table. With you. In general."

He stops.

Puts the helmet down.

Turns to look at you with the expression he gets when he's deciding how to handle something he wasn't expecting.

"Where is this coming from," he says. Not a question.

"Everywhere." You look at your hands. "You're — you're you. And everyone around us is extraordinary. And I'm just — I'm here. I'm regular. I have nothing that — "

"Stop," he says.

"Jason — "

"I said stop." He crosses to where you're sitting, and he's close now, and his voice isn't angry, but it's firm in the way that means he means it. "You want to know what you bring to the table?"

You look at him.

"You don't flinch," he says. "You know what I am. You know everything — the pit, the Joker, the kill list, all of it — and you don't flinch. You don't look at me like I'm a problem to be managed or a tragedy to be fixed." His jaw is tight. "Do you have any idea how many people have looked at me like that? Every single person who matters to me. Everyone." He exhales. "Not you. Never you."

'That's just — that's just me not being scared of you — "

"That's not just anything," he says. "That's everything. You being unafraid of me is the thing that let me stop being afraid of myself."

He doesn't say things like that often. When he does, he means them the way buildings mean their foundations.

"You're not average," Jason says. "You're the bravest person I know. You just don't have a costume for it."

TIM

Tim approaches it like Tim approaches everything, which is logically, and initially, this is the wrong approach.

"There's no objective metric for being extraordinary," he says when you tell him. "The concept is relative and largely socially constructed — "

"Tim."

"I'm just saying that the framing of the question is — "

"Tim, I don't want a philosophical deconstruction. I feel like I'm not special. I feel like I don't belong in this world you all live in."

He stops.

He looks at you.

Tim Drake, to his credit, knows when he's made an error and corrects it fast.

"You're right," he says. "I'm sorry. That was — I went analytical because I don't know how to handle thinking about you feeling like that.' He sits down next to you. 'Can I try again?"

"Yeah," you say.

"You are the most perceptive person I have ever met," he says. "And I live with people who solve crimes for fun. You understand people — actually understand them, not just analyze them — in a way I've spent years trying to learn and still can't." He looks at you seriously. "You understood me. In like three weeks. That took Alfred years. That took Dick decades. You did it in three weeks."

"That's just — paying attention — "

"So is detective work," Tim says. "You just use it differently. You use it to make people feel known." He pauses. "I have never felt as known by anyone as I do by you. That is not a small thing. For me specifically, that is the largest possible thing."

You're quiet.

"You belong here," Tim says. "You belong with me. Those are the same thing, and they're both completely true."

DAMIAN

Damian doesn't find out because you tell him.

Damian finds out because he's Damian, and Damian notices everything, and files it, and brings it up at a time of his choosing, which is never the time you'd choose.

It's three weeks after a League of Assassins gala, of all things, where you'd spent an evening surrounded by people who could kill with seventeen different household objects, and you'd smiled and made conversation and felt comprehensively unremarkable.

You've mostly moved on. You think.

"You've been doing the thing," Damian says, out of nowhere, not looking up from his sketchbook.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you're present but you've decided you're not significant."

You stare at him.

He looks up. His expression is its usual composed, unimpressed default, but his eyes are doing something different. Something that, on anyone else, you'd call careful.

"I don't do a — "

"You've done it consistently since the Al-Ghul event," he says. "Which I should have addressed sooner. I was determining the correct approach."

"And what approach did you determine?"

Damian puts down the sketchbook. He turns to face you fully, which means this is serious.

"I was raised to believe that worth is determined by ability," he says. "By skill. By measurable superiority." A pause. "I was raised incorrectly."

You blink.

"You have no combat training. No powers. No particular strategic credentials." He says this without cruelty, just precision. "And yet you are the only person whose opinion I seek. The only person in whose presence I do not feel the need to perform capability." He holds your gaze. "You make me want to be better. Not because you've demanded it. Simply by existing as you are. By being decent, and kind, and entirely without artifice."

"Damian — "

"That is not average," he says. "That is exceptionally rare. I have met very few people who could survive my family's world and emerge kinder for it." He picks the sketchbook back up. "You are not ordinary. You are precisely the kind of person the extraordinary cannot manufacture, no matter how hard they try."

He goes back to sketching.

The subject is closed.

Except: you notice, later, that what he's drawing is you.

WALLY

Wally West has a lot of feelings and very little ability to not immediately express all of them at top volume, which is usually either the best or worst quality in a person, depending on the situation.

In this situation, it's the best.

"Okay, no," he says when you finish talking. "Nope. Absolutely not. We're not doing this."

"Wally — "

"You feel average? You? You feel average?" He is already pacing, which at Wally speed means he's basically vibrating in place. "You know what average looks like? I am surrounded by people who move at the speed of light and punch satellites, and I still think you're the most impressive person in any room you walk into. Do you know why?"

"Because you love me and you're biased — "

"Yes, and also because it's true." He stops pacing. He comes to stand in front of you with that Wally energy that's always slightly too big for indoor spaces, warm and earnest and completely unguarded. "You know what I think about when everything gets too fast? When it's too loud and too much, and the speed is more curse than gift?"

You don't answer.

"You," he says. "The way you move through a room like you've got all the time in the world. The way nothing seems to panic you. The way you slow everything down just by being there." He takes your hands. "I need you to understand that I run at the speed of sound and you are the only thing that makes me want to stop."

You look at him.

"You're not average," he says, serious for once, fully serious, the Barry Allen seriousness underneath all the Wally West noise. "You are the stillness I can't make myself. That's not a small thing. That's the whole thing."

ROY

Roy doesn't do speeches. Roy does honesty, which is sometimes messier but always lands harder.

"Yeah, I get it," he says when you tell him.

Which is not what you expected.

"You get it," you repeat.

"I've spent half my life next to Oliver Queen, who is generationally talented and also happens to be a superhero. And then Ollie's best friend is literally the fastest man alive." He leans back. "I know what it feels like to be the regular one. Trust me, I have a PhD in it."

"Then you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," he says. "And I also know it's wrong." He looks at you levelly. "You know what nobody ever talks about? How hard it is to love people like us. People who disappear at two in the morning. Who comes back banged up and won't explain why. Who carries things they can't put down and take it out sideways?" His voice is even. "Most people leave. They can't handle it. And I don't blame them, it's a lot."

'Roy — "

"You stayed," he says. "That's not average. Staying with someone like me — staying with any of us — takes something most people don't have." He meets your eyes. "You want to know what you bring to the table? You make a life possible. An actual life. Not just a mission. Not just a cover identity." He exhales. "I didn't know I needed that. Turns out it's the only thing I actually needed."

You're quiet for a long time.

"You're not the regular one," Roy says. "You're the one who makes the rest of it worth it. There's a difference."

HAL

Hal Jordan's entire personality is confidence, which he sometimes actually has, which means he knows exactly how it sounds when someone's running low on it.

He hears it in you before you finish the sentence.

"Hey," he says, cutting you off gently. "Come back."

"I'm here."

"You're here, but you're doing the thing where you've already decided something, and you're just telling me the conclusion." He sits down across from you. "Start from the beginning."

So you do. You tell him about the feeling — the accumulation of it, the galas and the team-ups and the moments of standing next to someone extraordinary and being, by comparison, just there.

Hal listens. Hal is better at listening than anyone would guess, given everything else about him.

"You know what I've learned," he says, when you're done, "from having a ring that runs on willpower?"

"What?"

"Will isn't about being extraordinary. It's about deciding something matters and not letting go of that decision." He looks at you. "That's it. That's the whole thing. There's no talent component. There's no special gene. It's just — you decide, and you hold on."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Because you have that," he says simply. "You have it more than most people I know, and I've literally flown through space with some of the most willful beings in the universe." He tilts his head. "You decided this relationship was worth it. You decided to stay in this world, with all of its chaos and its danger and its complete inability to function normally. You decided, and you held on."

"That's not — that's not the same as — "

"It's exactly the same." His voice is quiet and certain in the way that Hal Jordan rarely is, the way underneath all the bravado. "The ring would choose you. I know it would. It picks the ones who don't quit." He reaches over. "You've never quit. Not on me, not on any of us. That's extraordinary. You've just never called it that."

CLARK

Clark is the hardest to tell, because Clark is Clark, and you spend three weeks not saying it.

He notices at week two. He waits until you're ready.

When you finally say it — quietly, sitting on the apartment floor because you'd slid down the wall and hadn't bothered moving — you say: I just don't see what I am to all of this. What I contribute. What makes me matter in a world full of people who change things?

Clark sits down on the floor next to you.

He doesn't say anything immediately.

Clark is the most powerful being on the planet, and he uses that silence like it's something gentle.

"Can I tell you something?" he says, finally.

"If it's about how everyone is valuable in their own way, I'm going to — "

"It's not," he says. "It's about Smallville."

You wait.

"I grew up knowing what I was," he says. "Knowing I was different. And I spent a long time thinking that the power was the point — that what made me matter was what I could do that no one else could." He looks at the middle distance. "And then I got older, and I met people — journalists, farmers, teachers, ordinary people living ordinary lives — who were good in a way that had nothing to do with ability. Who showed up, every day, for the people around them. Who made things better not by being extraordinary but by being decent."

"Clark — "

"Those people changed my life more than the ability ever did," he says. "Being good is not a small thing. Being kind is not a small thing. Being the person who shows up, who stays, who loves without needing to be exceptional — " He looks at you. "That is the hardest thing I have ever encountered. Harder than anything I can lift."

He takes your hand.

"I have never once looked at you and seen someone who doesn't matter," he says. "I have looked at you and seen the kind of person I try to be. The kind of person I'm not sure I've managed yet." A pause. "You are not less than us. You are, in many ways, the thing we're trying to become."

The floor is still the floor. Nothing has changed technically.

But Clark is sitting on it with you, and somehow that makes the distance between ordinary and everything else feel much, much smaller.

You are not a footnote in their stories.

You are the reason some of them still have one.

[jellyfishsthings]

Angsty Request: DC characters(Roll the dice if you wanna do multi or just choose a random) reacting to Reader’s insecurity about being average. Like surrounded by so many people who are amazing at so many things, they don’t have anything that makes them “stand out” or “special”

Ordinary

navigation , dc navigation

PAIRINGS: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Wally West, Clark Kent, Hal Jordan, Roy Harper

requests are open

It starts, like most things do, small.

A comment at a party. Someone saying oh, you're with him? What do you do? And you'd answered, and watched their face do the thing — the polite thing, the oh, that's nice thing — before they turned back to the person next to you who cured diseases or broke land speed records or could benchpress a building.

You don't say anything about it. It's fine. It's always fine.

It's just that fine has been accumulating for a while.

DICK

Dick finds out the way Dick finds out everything, which is by paying attention when you think he isn't.

You're at one of Bruce's Foundation galas, standing slightly to the left of where the conversation is happening, and Dick is watching you from across the room the way he watches things that matter to him — not obviously, not intrusively, just present in the specific way of someone who has made you his business.

He sees the moment. The woman is talking about her research. The colleague is talking about his company. The way you smile and contribute, and then go slightly, barely, quiet when someone asks the table what everyone does.

He's next to you before you've finished your answer.

His hand finds the small of your back. Not drawing attention. Just there.

Later, in the car, he doesn't say anything immediately. Dick knows when to wait.

"I'm boring," you say, to the window. You hadn't planned to say it. It just came out.

"You're not boring," he says.

"I'm not interesting. Not like — not like them. Not like any of you."

Dick is quiet for a moment.

"Can I tell you something?" he says.

"Don't."

"I'm going to anyway." He glances at you. "I grew up performing. Literally. I was on a trapeze before I could read properly. And then I was Robin, and then I was Nightwing, and my whole life has been about being something extraordinary in front of other people." He pauses. "You know what I wanted, for years, more than anything?"

You don't answer.

"Someone who was just there," he says. "Not performing. Not proving something. Just — present. Real." He takes your hand. "You are the only person in my life who makes me feel like I don't have to be anything other than Richard Grayson. Do you understand how rare that is? Do you understand what that's worth?"

You don't say anything.

"You're not boring," Dick says. "You're the only real thing I've got. That's not nothing. That's everything."

JASON

Jason is the wrong person to be subtle with, and you know it, which is why you don't try.

You say it flat, one night, while he's cleaning his helmet and you're sitting on the kitchen counter: "I don't know what I bring to the table. With you. In general."

He stops.

Puts the helmet down.

Turns to look at you with the expression he gets when he's deciding how to handle something he wasn't expecting.

"Where is this coming from," he says. Not a question.

"Everywhere." You look at your hands. "You're — you're you. And everyone around us is extraordinary. And I'm just — I'm here. I'm regular. I have nothing that — "

"Stop," he says.

"Jason — "

"I said stop." He crosses to where you're sitting, and he's close now, and his voice isn't angry, but it's firm in the way that means he means it. "You want to know what you bring to the table?"

You look at him.

"You don't flinch," he says. "You know what I am. You know everything — the pit, the Joker, the kill list, all of it — and you don't flinch. You don't look at me like I'm a problem to be managed or a tragedy to be fixed." His jaw is tight. "Do you have any idea how many people have looked at me like that? Every single person who matters to me. Everyone." He exhales. "Not you. Never you."

'That's just — that's just me not being scared of you — "

"That's not just anything," he says. "That's everything. You being unafraid of me is the thing that let me stop being afraid of myself."

He doesn't say things like that often. When he does, he means them the way buildings mean their foundations.

"You're not average," Jason says. "You're the bravest person I know. You just don't have a costume for it."

TIM

Tim approaches it like Tim approaches everything, which is logically, and initially, this is the wrong approach.

"There's no objective metric for being extraordinary," he says when you tell him. "The concept is relative and largely socially constructed — "

"Tim."

"I'm just saying that the framing of the question is — "

"Tim, I don't want a philosophical deconstruction. I feel like I'm not special. I feel like I don't belong in this world you all live in."

He stops.

He looks at you.

Tim Drake, to his credit, knows when he's made an error and corrects it fast.

"You're right," he says. "I'm sorry. That was — I went analytical because I don't know how to handle thinking about you feeling like that.' He sits down next to you. 'Can I try again?"

"Yeah," you say.

"You are the most perceptive person I have ever met," he says. "And I live with people who solve crimes for fun. You understand people — actually understand them, not just analyze them — in a way I've spent years trying to learn and still can't." He looks at you seriously. "You understood me. In like three weeks. That took Alfred years. That took Dick decades. You did it in three weeks."

"That's just — paying attention — "

"So is detective work," Tim says. "You just use it differently. You use it to make people feel known." He pauses. "I have never felt as known by anyone as I do by you. That is not a small thing. For me specifically, that is the largest possible thing."

You're quiet.

"You belong here," Tim says. "You belong with me. Those are the same thing, and they're both completely true."

DAMIAN

Damian doesn't find out because you tell him.

Damian finds out because he's Damian, and Damian notices everything, and files it, and brings it up at a time of his choosing, which is never the time you'd choose.

It's three weeks after a League of Assassins gala, of all things, where you'd spent an evening surrounded by people who could kill with seventeen different household objects, and you'd smiled and made conversation and felt comprehensively unremarkable.

You've mostly moved on. You think.

"You've been doing the thing," Damian says, out of nowhere, not looking up from his sketchbook.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you're present but you've decided you're not significant."

You stare at him.

He looks up. His expression is its usual composed, unimpressed default, but his eyes are doing something different. Something that, on anyone else, you'd call careful.

"I don't do a — "

"You've done it consistently since the Al-Ghul event," he says. "Which I should have addressed sooner. I was determining the correct approach."

"And what approach did you determine?"

Damian puts down the sketchbook. He turns to face you fully, which means this is serious.

"I was raised to believe that worth is determined by ability," he says. "By skill. By measurable superiority." A pause. "I was raised incorrectly."

You blink.

"You have no combat training. No powers. No particular strategic credentials." He says this without cruelty, just precision. "And yet you are the only person whose opinion I seek. The only person in whose presence I do not feel the need to perform capability." He holds your gaze. "You make me want to be better. Not because you've demanded it. Simply by existing as you are. By being decent, and kind, and entirely without artifice."

"Damian — "

"That is not average," he says. "That is exceptionally rare. I have met very few people who could survive my family's world and emerge kinder for it." He picks the sketchbook back up. "You are not ordinary. You are precisely the kind of person the extraordinary cannot manufacture, no matter how hard they try."

He goes back to sketching.

The subject is closed.

Except: you notice, later, that what he's drawing is you.

WALLY

Wally West has a lot of feelings and very little ability to not immediately express all of them at top volume, which is usually either the best or worst quality in a person, depending on the situation.

In this situation, it's the best.

"Okay, no," he says when you finish talking. "Nope. Absolutely not. We're not doing this."

"Wally — "

"You feel average? You? You feel average?" He is already pacing, which at Wally speed means he's basically vibrating in place. "You know what average looks like? I am surrounded by people who move at the speed of light and punch satellites, and I still think you're the most impressive person in any room you walk into. Do you know why?"

"Because you love me and you're biased — "

"Yes, and also because it's true." He stops pacing. He comes to stand in front of you with that Wally energy that's always slightly too big for indoor spaces, warm and earnest and completely unguarded. "You know what I think about when everything gets too fast? When it's too loud and too much, and the speed is more curse than gift?"

You don't answer.

"You," he says. "The way you move through a room like you've got all the time in the world. The way nothing seems to panic you. The way you slow everything down just by being there." He takes your hands. "I need you to understand that I run at the speed of sound and you are the only thing that makes me want to stop."

You look at him.

"You're not average," he says, serious for once, fully serious, the Barry Allen seriousness underneath all the Wally West noise. "You are the stillness I can't make myself. That's not a small thing. That's the whole thing."

ROY

Roy doesn't do speeches. Roy does honesty, which is sometimes messier but always lands harder.

"Yeah, I get it," he says when you tell him.

Which is not what you expected.

"You get it," you repeat.

"I've spent half my life next to Oliver Queen, who is generationally talented and also happens to be a superhero. And then Ollie's best friend is literally the fastest man alive." He leans back. "I know what it feels like to be the regular one. Trust me, I have a PhD in it."

"Then you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," he says. "And I also know it's wrong." He looks at you levelly. "You know what nobody ever talks about? How hard it is to love people like us. People who disappear at two in the morning. Who comes back banged up and won't explain why. Who carries things they can't put down and take it out sideways?" His voice is even. "Most people leave. They can't handle it. And I don't blame them, it's a lot."

'Roy — "

"You stayed," he says. "That's not average. Staying with someone like me — staying with any of us — takes something most people don't have." He meets your eyes. "You want to know what you bring to the table? You make a life possible. An actual life. Not just a mission. Not just a cover identity." He exhales. "I didn't know I needed that. Turns out it's the only thing I actually needed."

You're quiet for a long time.

"You're not the regular one," Roy says. "You're the one who makes the rest of it worth it. There's a difference."

HAL

Hal Jordan's entire personality is confidence, which he sometimes actually has, which means he knows exactly how it sounds when someone's running low on it.

He hears it in you before you finish the sentence.

"Hey," he says, cutting you off gently. "Come back."

"I'm here."

"You're here, but you're doing the thing where you've already decided something, and you're just telling me the conclusion." He sits down across from you. "Start from the beginning."

So you do. You tell him about the feeling — the accumulation of it, the galas and the team-ups and the moments of standing next to someone extraordinary and being, by comparison, just there.

Hal listens. Hal is better at listening than anyone would guess, given everything else about him.

"You know what I've learned," he says, when you're done, "from having a ring that runs on willpower?"

"What?"

"Will isn't about being extraordinary. It's about deciding something matters and not letting go of that decision." He looks at you. "That's it. That's the whole thing. There's no talent component. There's no special gene. It's just — you decide, and you hold on."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Because you have that," he says simply. "You have it more than most people I know, and I've literally flown through space with some of the most willful beings in the universe." He tilts his head. "You decided this relationship was worth it. You decided to stay in this world, with all of its chaos and its danger and its complete inability to function normally. You decided, and you held on."

"That's not — that's not the same as — "

"It's exactly the same." His voice is quiet and certain in the way that Hal Jordan rarely is, the way underneath all the bravado. "The ring would choose you. I know it would. It picks the ones who don't quit." He reaches over. "You've never quit. Not on me, not on any of us. That's extraordinary. You've just never called it that."

CLARK

Clark is the hardest to tell, because Clark is Clark, and you spend three weeks not saying it.

He notices at week two. He waits until you're ready.

When you finally say it — quietly, sitting on the apartment floor because you'd slid down the wall and hadn't bothered moving — you say: I just don't see what I am to all of this. What I contribute. What makes me matter in a world full of people who change things?

Clark sits down on the floor next to you.

He doesn't say anything immediately.

Clark is the most powerful being on the planet, and he uses that silence like it's something gentle.

"Can I tell you something?" he says, finally.

"If it's about how everyone is valuable in their own way, I'm going to — "

"It's not," he says. "It's about Smallville."

You wait.

"I grew up knowing what I was," he says. "Knowing I was different. And I spent a long time thinking that the power was the point — that what made me matter was what I could do that no one else could." He looks at the middle distance. "And then I got older, and I met people — journalists, farmers, teachers, ordinary people living ordinary lives — who were good in a way that had nothing to do with ability. Who showed up, every day, for the people around them. Who made things better not by being extraordinary but by being decent."

"Clark — "

"Those people changed my life more than the ability ever did," he says. "Being good is not a small thing. Being kind is not a small thing. Being the person who shows up, who stays, who loves without needing to be exceptional — " He looks at you. "That is the hardest thing I have ever encountered. Harder than anything I can lift."

He takes your hand.

"I have never once looked at you and seen someone who doesn't matter," he says. "I have looked at you and seen the kind of person I try to be. The kind of person I'm not sure I've managed yet." A pause. "You are not less than us. You are, in many ways, the thing we're trying to become."

The floor is still the floor. Nothing has changed technically.

But Clark is sitting on it with you, and somehow that makes the distance between ordinary and everything else feel much, much smaller.

You are not a footnote in their stories.

You are the reason some of them still have one.

[jellyfishsthings]

Angsty Request: DC characters(Roll the dice if you wanna do multi or just choose a random) reacting to Reader’s insecurity about being average. Like surrounded by so many people who are amazing at so many things, they don’t have anything that makes them “stand out” or “special”

Ordinary

navigation , dc navigation

PAIRINGS: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Wally West, Clark Kent, Hal Jordan, Roy Harper

requests are open

It starts, like most things do, small.

A comment at a party. Someone saying oh, you're with him? What do you do? And you'd answered, and watched their face do the thing — the polite thing, the oh, that's nice thing — before they turned back to the person next to you who cured diseases or broke land speed records or could benchpress a building.

You don't say anything about it. It's fine. It's always fine.

It's just that fine has been accumulating for a while.

DICK

Dick finds out the way Dick finds out everything, which is by paying attention when you think he isn't.

You're at one of Bruce's Foundation galas, standing slightly to the left of where the conversation is happening, and Dick is watching you from across the room the way he watches things that matter to him — not obviously, not intrusively, just present in the specific way of someone who has made you his business.

He sees the moment. The woman is talking about her research. The colleague is talking about his company. The way you smile and contribute, and then go slightly, barely, quiet when someone asks the table what everyone does.

He's next to you before you've finished your answer.

His hand finds the small of your back. Not drawing attention. Just there.

Later, in the car, he doesn't say anything immediately. Dick knows when to wait.

"I'm boring," you say, to the window. You hadn't planned to say it. It just came out.

"You're not boring," he says.

"I'm not interesting. Not like — not like them. Not like any of you."

Dick is quiet for a moment.

"Can I tell you something?" he says.

"Don't."

"I'm going to anyway." He glances at you. "I grew up performing. Literally. I was on a trapeze before I could read properly. And then I was Robin, and then I was Nightwing, and my whole life has been about being something extraordinary in front of other people." He pauses. "You know what I wanted, for years, more than anything?"

You don't answer.

"Someone who was just there," he says. "Not performing. Not proving something. Just — present. Real." He takes your hand. "You are the only person in my life who makes me feel like I don't have to be anything other than Richard Grayson. Do you understand how rare that is? Do you understand what that's worth?"

You don't say anything.

"You're not boring," Dick says. "You're the only real thing I've got. That's not nothing. That's everything."

JASON

Jason is the wrong person to be subtle with, and you know it, which is why you don't try.

You say it flat, one night, while he's cleaning his helmet and you're sitting on the kitchen counter: "I don't know what I bring to the table. With you. In general."

He stops.

Puts the helmet down.

Turns to look at you with the expression he gets when he's deciding how to handle something he wasn't expecting.

"Where is this coming from," he says. Not a question.

"Everywhere." You look at your hands. "You're — you're you. And everyone around us is extraordinary. And I'm just — I'm here. I'm regular. I have nothing that — "

"Stop," he says.

"Jason — "

"I said stop." He crosses to where you're sitting, and he's close now, and his voice isn't angry, but it's firm in the way that means he means it. "You want to know what you bring to the table?"

You look at him.

"You don't flinch," he says. "You know what I am. You know everything — the pit, the Joker, the kill list, all of it — and you don't flinch. You don't look at me like I'm a problem to be managed or a tragedy to be fixed." His jaw is tight. "Do you have any idea how many people have looked at me like that? Every single person who matters to me. Everyone." He exhales. "Not you. Never you."

'That's just — that's just me not being scared of you — "

"That's not just anything," he says. "That's everything. You being unafraid of me is the thing that let me stop being afraid of myself."

He doesn't say things like that often. When he does, he means them the way buildings mean their foundations.

"You're not average," Jason says. "You're the bravest person I know. You just don't have a costume for it."

TIM

Tim approaches it like Tim approaches everything, which is logically, and initially, this is the wrong approach.

"There's no objective metric for being extraordinary," he says when you tell him. "The concept is relative and largely socially constructed — "

"Tim."

"I'm just saying that the framing of the question is — "

"Tim, I don't want a philosophical deconstruction. I feel like I'm not special. I feel like I don't belong in this world you all live in."

He stops.

He looks at you.

Tim Drake, to his credit, knows when he's made an error and corrects it fast.

"You're right," he says. "I'm sorry. That was — I went analytical because I don't know how to handle thinking about you feeling like that.' He sits down next to you. 'Can I try again?"

"Yeah," you say.

"You are the most perceptive person I have ever met," he says. "And I live with people who solve crimes for fun. You understand people — actually understand them, not just analyze them — in a way I've spent years trying to learn and still can't." He looks at you seriously. "You understood me. In like three weeks. That took Alfred years. That took Dick decades. You did it in three weeks."

"That's just — paying attention — "

"So is detective work," Tim says. "You just use it differently. You use it to make people feel known." He pauses. "I have never felt as known by anyone as I do by you. That is not a small thing. For me specifically, that is the largest possible thing."

You're quiet.

"You belong here," Tim says. "You belong with me. Those are the same thing, and they're both completely true."

DAMIAN

Damian doesn't find out because you tell him.

Damian finds out because he's Damian, and Damian notices everything, and files it, and brings it up at a time of his choosing, which is never the time you'd choose.

It's three weeks after a League of Assassins gala, of all things, where you'd spent an evening surrounded by people who could kill with seventeen different household objects, and you'd smiled and made conversation and felt comprehensively unremarkable.

You've mostly moved on. You think.

"You've been doing the thing," Damian says, out of nowhere, not looking up from his sketchbook.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you're present but you've decided you're not significant."

You stare at him.

He looks up. His expression is its usual composed, unimpressed default, but his eyes are doing something different. Something that, on anyone else, you'd call careful.

"I don't do a — "

"You've done it consistently since the Al-Ghul event," he says. "Which I should have addressed sooner. I was determining the correct approach."

"And what approach did you determine?"

Damian puts down the sketchbook. He turns to face you fully, which means this is serious.

"I was raised to believe that worth is determined by ability," he says. "By skill. By measurable superiority." A pause. "I was raised incorrectly."

You blink.

"You have no combat training. No powers. No particular strategic credentials." He says this without cruelty, just precision. "And yet you are the only person whose opinion I seek. The only person in whose presence I do not feel the need to perform capability." He holds your gaze. "You make me want to be better. Not because you've demanded it. Simply by existing as you are. By being decent, and kind, and entirely without artifice."

"Damian — "

"That is not average," he says. "That is exceptionally rare. I have met very few people who could survive my family's world and emerge kinder for it." He picks the sketchbook back up. "You are not ordinary. You are precisely the kind of person the extraordinary cannot manufacture, no matter how hard they try."

He goes back to sketching.

The subject is closed.

Except: you notice, later, that what he's drawing is you.

WALLY

Wally West has a lot of feelings and very little ability to not immediately express all of them at top volume, which is usually either the best or worst quality in a person, depending on the situation.

In this situation, it's the best.

"Okay, no," he says when you finish talking. "Nope. Absolutely not. We're not doing this."

"Wally — "

"You feel average? You? You feel average?" He is already pacing, which at Wally speed means he's basically vibrating in place. "You know what average looks like? I am surrounded by people who move at the speed of light and punch satellites, and I still think you're the most impressive person in any room you walk into. Do you know why?"

"Because you love me and you're biased — "

"Yes, and also because it's true." He stops pacing. He comes to stand in front of you with that Wally energy that's always slightly too big for indoor spaces, warm and earnest and completely unguarded. "You know what I think about when everything gets too fast? When it's too loud and too much, and the speed is more curse than gift?"

You don't answer.

"You," he says. "The way you move through a room like you've got all the time in the world. The way nothing seems to panic you. The way you slow everything down just by being there." He takes your hands. "I need you to understand that I run at the speed of sound and you are the only thing that makes me want to stop."

You look at him.

"You're not average," he says, serious for once, fully serious, the Barry Allen seriousness underneath all the Wally West noise. "You are the stillness I can't make myself. That's not a small thing. That's the whole thing."

ROY

Roy doesn't do speeches. Roy does honesty, which is sometimes messier but always lands harder.

"Yeah, I get it," he says when you tell him.

Which is not what you expected.

"You get it," you repeat.

"I've spent half my life next to Oliver Queen, who is generationally talented and also happens to be a superhero. And then Ollie's best friend is literally the fastest man alive." He leans back. "I know what it feels like to be the regular one. Trust me, I have a PhD in it."

"Then you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," he says. "And I also know it's wrong." He looks at you levelly. "You know what nobody ever talks about? How hard it is to love people like us. People who disappear at two in the morning. Who comes back banged up and won't explain why. Who carries things they can't put down and take it out sideways?" His voice is even. "Most people leave. They can't handle it. And I don't blame them, it's a lot."

'Roy — "

"You stayed," he says. "That's not average. Staying with someone like me — staying with any of us — takes something most people don't have." He meets your eyes. "You want to know what you bring to the table? You make a life possible. An actual life. Not just a mission. Not just a cover identity." He exhales. "I didn't know I needed that. Turns out it's the only thing I actually needed."

You're quiet for a long time.

"You're not the regular one," Roy says. "You're the one who makes the rest of it worth it. There's a difference."

HAL

Hal Jordan's entire personality is confidence, which he sometimes actually has, which means he knows exactly how it sounds when someone's running low on it.

He hears it in you before you finish the sentence.

"Hey," he says, cutting you off gently. "Come back."

"I'm here."

"You're here, but you're doing the thing where you've already decided something, and you're just telling me the conclusion." He sits down across from you. "Start from the beginning."

So you do. You tell him about the feeling — the accumulation of it, the galas and the team-ups and the moments of standing next to someone extraordinary and being, by comparison, just there.

Hal listens. Hal is better at listening than anyone would guess, given everything else about him.

"You know what I've learned," he says, when you're done, "from having a ring that runs on willpower?"

"What?"

"Will isn't about being extraordinary. It's about deciding something matters and not letting go of that decision." He looks at you. "That's it. That's the whole thing. There's no talent component. There's no special gene. It's just — you decide, and you hold on."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Because you have that," he says simply. "You have it more than most people I know, and I've literally flown through space with some of the most willful beings in the universe." He tilts his head. "You decided this relationship was worth it. You decided to stay in this world, with all of its chaos and its danger and its complete inability to function normally. You decided, and you held on."

"That's not — that's not the same as — "

"It's exactly the same." His voice is quiet and certain in the way that Hal Jordan rarely is, the way underneath all the bravado. "The ring would choose you. I know it would. It picks the ones who don't quit." He reaches over. "You've never quit. Not on me, not on any of us. That's extraordinary. You've just never called it that."

CLARK

Clark is the hardest to tell, because Clark is Clark, and you spend three weeks not saying it.

He notices at week two. He waits until you're ready.

When you finally say it — quietly, sitting on the apartment floor because you'd slid down the wall and hadn't bothered moving — you say: I just don't see what I am to all of this. What I contribute. What makes me matter in a world full of people who change things?

Clark sits down on the floor next to you.

He doesn't say anything immediately.

Clark is the most powerful being on the planet, and he uses that silence like it's something gentle.

"Can I tell you something?" he says, finally.

"If it's about how everyone is valuable in their own way, I'm going to — "

"It's not," he says. "It's about Smallville."

You wait.

"I grew up knowing what I was," he says. "Knowing I was different. And I spent a long time thinking that the power was the point — that what made me matter was what I could do that no one else could." He looks at the middle distance. "And then I got older, and I met people — journalists, farmers, teachers, ordinary people living ordinary lives — who were good in a way that had nothing to do with ability. Who showed up, every day, for the people around them. Who made things better not by being extraordinary but by being decent."

"Clark — "

"Those people changed my life more than the ability ever did," he says. "Being good is not a small thing. Being kind is not a small thing. Being the person who shows up, who stays, who loves without needing to be exceptional — " He looks at you. "That is the hardest thing I have ever encountered. Harder than anything I can lift."

He takes your hand.

"I have never once looked at you and seen someone who doesn't matter," he says. "I have looked at you and seen the kind of person I try to be. The kind of person I'm not sure I've managed yet." A pause. "You are not less than us. You are, in many ways, the thing we're trying to become."

The floor is still the floor. Nothing has changed technically.

But Clark is sitting on it with you, and somehow that makes the distance between ordinary and everything else feel much, much smaller.

You are not a footnote in their stories.

You are the reason some of them still have one.

[clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm]

hmm, batboys appreciating some thick thighs...

“Thunder thighs.”

Batboys x Reader; appericating thick thighs

My best friend found my tumblr account.Someone kill me omgggg. SHe knows i write fanfiction but when she casually mentioned my account my heart fell to my ass.Its so embarrassing to me idk why😭😭😭

Bruce Wayne

•Bruce notices early on that you tend to tug skirts or dresses down out of habit, and one day he quietly asks, “Are you uncomfortable, or just used to doing that?” When you admit you’re self-conscious about your thighs, he simply replies, “You don’t need to make yourself smaller for anyone.”

•Sitting together, he’ll naturally rest a hand on your thigh while you’re talking, absentmindedly tracing small circles as you chat without making a big deal of it.

•Absolutely loves when you wear stockings or tights-anything that emphasises your thighs-He will rip them off with his teeth.

•He especially loves the feeling of your thighs against his waist while he pounds into you.

⸻

Dick Grayson

•Dick is the first person to point out that your thighs are ridiculously comfortable to nap on, announcing it like he’s made a groundbreaking scientific discovery.

“I’m never buying another pillow.”

“Dick…”

“I’m serious.”

•He never makes comments that make you feel self-conscious; instead, he treats it like just another thing he loves about you.

•He loves when your thighs squeeze his head as sucks at your clit,it’s almost enough to make him cum in his pants.

⸻

Jason Todd

•Jason notices because you’re constantly adjusting shorts that ride up when you walk.

“Doesn’t that get annoying?”

•You sigh. “Every summer.”

•From then on, if you’re shopping together and you find something that actually fits comfortably, Jason quietly encourages you to get it.

• If you ever call your thighs “too big,” he immediately shakes his head.

•“Too big for what?”

•You don’t have an answer.

“Exactly.” He retorts, then begs you to suffocate him with your thighs.

•You do it of course because who are you to deny him pleasure..

⸻

Tim Drake

• Tim doesn’t think twice about your thighs until you casually mention that chairs with hard edges are uncomfortable because they dig into them.

“Wait… is that why you always steal the cushioned seat?”

“Yes.”

“That makes so much more sense.”

•When you mention struggling to find clothes that fit both your waist and thighs, he immediately starts looking up brands with different cuts because, in his mind, it’s a practical problem that deserves a practical solution.

•Gets extremely flustered when you wear thigh highs or fishnets.

•Will pepper kisses down your legs as he peels them off with so much care and caution its almost erotic

⸻

Damian Wayne

•Damian notices how often you apologize for taking up space on buses or benches, even when there’s plenty of room.

•One day he quietly says, “You apologize for your existence far too often.”

* You blink.

“I wasn’t-“

* “You were.”

•After a long day, he loves to rest on your lap while you comb through his hair.

[lovepeachh]

Silent Songbird

Mute!Jason Todd x fem! reader

You get the love of your life back, but not before Bruce accidentally takes his voice away with an ill aimed batarang.

Warnings: violence, injury, reader hates Bruce (who wouldn't if they were dating Jason.)

Inspired by this post

Dividers from here.

The next time you see Bruce, you might actually kill him.

The boy you love, the boy you lost and were lucky enough to get back, rests his head on your lap as you run your fingers through his hair. The fight with Bruce was brutal.

And he took a batarang to the neck.

And now he's here on your couch, head in your lap, neck full of stitches and crying because his own father hurt him so badly to protect his killer.

Only time will tell if you'll ever hear him speak again.

The silence is heavy, so you fill it with gentle words.

"It'll be alright, baby."

"I've got you."

"I love you."

He weeps like a child in your arms. And a part of you feels so lucky that he feels safe enough to be this vulnerable.

But mostly you're terrified. Because you love his voice, his laugh, the little noice he makes when he's surprised sometimes. You could listen to him ramble about Jane Austen for hours.

What if he never gets that back? What if you never get to hear him laugh at one of his own stupid fucking jokes ever again, or hear him tease you or say "I love you"?

Fear does nothing. All you can do is love him through this.

"We'll be ok."

His voice doesn't come back.

You've lost the game of waiting. His voice is just another part of him that's gone now.

Like his innocence.

His life, for a while.

How much more of him can he possibly lose in this endless game between Batman and Joker?

How much more can he come back from?

But its not about you, you know that. You gotta be there for him while he goes through this.

"Oh my love...."

It's been difficult. The both of you are learning sign language so you can keep talking face to face, but he has an app on his phone to text to speech what he types, too.

You miss his laugh so much.

It's alright, you try to assure yourself. At least you have him back at all.

The silence is heavy. It sits on your chest like an animal.

Some days are harder than others. No days are easy.

You try desperately to cheer him up in the midst of your own sadness to never hear the beautiful baritone of his voice again.

He signs, I love you. The first one he learned.

You fight off tears and sign it back.

The next time you see Bruce, your fist connects with his face so hard you fracture one of the bones in your finger. Bruce's nose is bleeding.

You've never been a particularly violent person. A civilian. Jason's always loved that about you.

But how far can you bend a broken woman until she snaps?

"How could you fucking do that to him?"

"I prevented him from making a terrible mistake, (name)." And you realize, he wouldn't be defending himself this hard if he knew what had happened.

He doesn't know the gravity of what he did.

He doesn't know what he took from him.

"You don't even know, do you? How could you, its not like he comes here, not after that. Probably scared you'll do more than just take his voice next time."

Bruce freezes. "What did you say?"

"...You really don't know. The batarang you threw at his neck. You slit his throat, he barely made it through. He can't talk anymore."

His expression falls. "No."

"Yeah. Now I gotta go. Need to get back to the boyfriend before he realizes I left to go yell at the man who hurt him."

"...It was an accident." He says, his voice wavering. His heart is breaking in real time, because his son will never speak again because of him. "I didn't mean to- I just couldn't let him kill Joker."

"One that wouldn't have happened if you hadn't chosen his murderer's life over his. You're his dad, Bruce. You were supposed to love him. And you hurt him just to keep that bastard alive." You know your words cut him. You don't care.

"Is he ok?"

"What do you think?"

"..."

"I have to go home." You leave without another word.

Alfred is kind enough to splint your finger before you leave.

Back in the arms of your lover, you relax. He turns you to face him and signs badly, Where did you go? You look angry. Your finger is hurt.

It's a quarter choppy signs that he's learned so far, and mostly fingerspelling, but you guys don't want to lose the ability to converse so you're trying.

You sign, equally choppy and worse with your splinted finger, while you speak because to learn to understand him, youve gotta learn the language too. "Is it that obvious?"

Yes.

"Oh."

Where were you?

"Don't be upset with me..."

He gives you a look that asks, what the hell did you do?

"Talked to Bruce."

He scowls. God! Are you serious, (name)?

"And I punched him in the face."

You did what?

"Broke his nose."

You're insane. What if he comes here?

"If he comes here and you want him to leave I will kick him to the curb faster than you can fingerspell his name."

...Ok. He still looks bothered. But you can't fault him for that.

"Are you mad at me?"

...No.

"Liar"

...Yes.

"Forgive me?" You look at him with pleading eyes. And how on Earth could he say no to that, when all he wants is someone who loves him enough to fight for him. And here is his civilian partner who'll punch Batman for hurting him.

You're all he's ever wanted.

...Of course I do.

[gothamgraveyard]

"Babe, what, and I stress this, the fuck?"

Dick Grayson x crazygf! reader and Jason Todd x crazygf!reader

Summary: You find out that they still kind of talk to their ex. It's professional, but you're not over it.

TW: Kind of smutty, death mentioned (Jason's part)

DICK GRAYSON

"Just answer the fucking question, Dick! Did you sleep with her in the Batcave? Yes or no?”

"No!" Dick groaned, dragging his hands down his face, his voice cracking with frustration. His eyes were bloodshot. "We did not do it in the Batcave. Why the fuck are we talking about this right now? It is two in the morning!"

"Because I looked at your phone and her name is 'Babs 🌶️'!"

"That's a chili pepper! It means she handles the red-alert comms, you psychotic brat! It’s an emergency tag!"

"I don't care! It looks like a fucking sexting emoji!" You dropped to your knees on the mattress, crawling over to him and slamming your knees right into his thighs. You grabbed his jaw, fingers digging into his skin, forcing him to look at you. "Who’s the better kisser? Me or her? Don't lie to me. Did you guys used to make out on roofs? Did she use tongue? Does she do that little sigh thing I do when you touch her? Tell me!"

"Jesus Christ, Babe," Dick choked out, his chest heaving, looking genuinely stressed. "You are lightyears better. You're fucking incredible. Please, look at me, you're the only one I want. Can we please stop this?"

"No! Because I’m prettier than her, right? Obviously I’m prettier. Look at my fucking face." You shoved your face inches from his, your eyes wide. "But she’s so good with your dad! Ugh! It makes me want to vomit! She talks to Bruce, and he actually responds like a human being! I tried to talk to him last week and he treated me like I was gum on the bottom of his shoe! She has history with your fucked-up family, Dick! Did you guys fuck while you were living there? In his house?!"

"No! Never! I swear to God, never!" Dick’s hands came up, grabbing your wrists, his palms sweating. He looked completely panicked now. "Babe, please, you’re making shit up. I hate when Bruce does that to people, I literally moved to Blüdhaven to get away from him. I don't want her. I don't want any of them. I want you."

"Are you sure?" you whimpered, the anger turning desperate. You shifted, straddling his lap entirely, your bare thighs rubbing hard against his sweatpants, feeling how stiff he already was despite the stress. "Because she has that red hair. You like the red hair, don't you? Did you pull it? Did you bend her over the fucking desk in the cave?"

Dick’s grip tightened on your hips, an irritated groan escaping his lips. He was miserable that you were this upset, but the feeling of you grinding against his crotch was pushing him over the edge. "I didn't bend her over anything. Stop saying that shit, it’s making me sick. I don't give a fuck about her. Right now, I care about the fact that you’ve been screaming at me for forty minutes, your nipples are hard against my chest, and you’re tearing me apart."

"I'm upset babe, you’re friends with your fucking ex!" you snapped, tears of pure rage blurring your vision. "You talk to her every day! I feel like a fucking idiot!"

"Babe, you’re losing your fucking mind, please don't cry," Dick mumbled, his voice breaking as he pulled you down, burying his face in your neck, holding you so tight it bruised. He was completely desperate to fix it, terrified you were actually going to leave him. He nipped hard at the skin right over your collarbone. "You want to know what we did? Nothing like this. She never made me feel like this. She never made me want to rip my own hair out just to get her to shut up and take my dick."

"You're just saying that," you panted, your legs already wrapping around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, feeling him throbbing against your cunt through his pants. "You're just trying to manipulate me because you know your body is perfect."

"I'm not manipulating you, I’m fucking begging you," he hissed, flipping you under him so fast your head hit the pillow. He pinned your hands above your head, his face paler than usual "Look at me. Look at my eyes. I will block her number right now if you want me to. I'll do whatever the fuck you want. Just tell me you're mine."

"Prove it then," you choked out, pulling at his sweatpants "Put it in me right now and make me forget her fucking name."

"Shut up," he muttered, slamming his mouth down on yours, cutting off any other unhinged theories you had left as his hand ripped his sweats down.

JASON TODD

"Who the fuck is 'Artie'?" you shrieked. "Who the fuck is she, Jason? Because I just saw a message pop up on your secure line that said 'Rain check, Big Guy,' and I know for a goddamn fact it isn't one of your freak-show brothers!"

Jason froze, his knuckles turning white around the rifle barrel. He set it down with a heavy clatter and finally looked up, his green eyes flashing. "Are you fucking kidding me right now? You’re going through my secure comms? Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

"Answer the fucking question!" You stepped right into his chest, shoving him hard enough to make his boots slide an inch "Is that Artemis? The giant Amazon? The one you were playing house with in the desert? Are you still fucking her? Why’d she call you ‘big guy’!? Your dick’s not even that big!”

"We haven’t done shit since before I even knew you existed!" Jason argued, standing up to his full height, towering over you as his chest heaved. "She’s a teammate! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Oh, a teammate? So you didn't bend her over that ancient shit in Egypt?" you screamed right back, getting entirely in his face, your chest heaving against his. "Did you taste her? Did she taste better than me? Did you love it when she pinned you down, you fucking manwhore? Tell me right now! Did you put your mouth on her?!"

"We didn't fuck in the desert! We were trying not to get killed, you crazy bitch!" Jason snapped, his eyes were glowing green. He grabbed your wrists with an iron-tight grip, his fingers digging into your skin as he shook you. "You are making up disgusting, toxic shit in your head because you're insecure! Stop fucking yelling at me about shit from six years ago!"

"Is it because I'm not as strong as her?!" you went off, completely pivoting into a breathless rant, the words tearing out of you like a flood. "Is that what it is? You want some giant warrior bitch who can toss you around? Or is it the red hair? Are you obsessed with redheads? Is that why you're always so fucking chummy with her and Roy?! Oh my god, do you want to fuck Roy too?! Are you into guys?! Because I'm not a fucking guy, Jason! I can't be a guy for you! What the fuck do you want from them, do you want a threesome or some shit?! Is that what you guys do when you're 'saving the world'?!"

"Are you fucking insane?!"  his face twisting in pure, unadulterated disgust and fury. He yanked your wrists down so hard your balance broke. 

"Then why are they always texting you?! Why are you always looking at your phone like you miss them?!" you screamed back, your face flushed, tears of absolute blind rage spilling over your eyelashes. "If you're still playing orgy with your little Outlaw club, then I guess it's fair game! I’m gonna fuck my ex!”

"Say that shit again," he snapped. "Say you’re going to go touch another man. Say you’re going to let someone else lay a hand on you. See what fucking happens to both of you. I will hunt him down and paint the fucking walls with him."

"Why do you care?!" you choked out, your heart hammering against your ribs "Go call your Amazon! Go tell Roy how crazy I am while you guys jerk each other off!"

"She was before you! And Roy is my fucking brother!" Jason groaned, you were getting so deep under his skin. "Do you not understand how time works, you idiot?! I haven’t touched her, I don't want to touch her, and I sure as hell don't want a goddamn man I consider my brother! But you want to go fuck your ex?”

"Yeah! Because you're driving me fucking insane!" you screamed back, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper into the apex of your thighs. You could feel how insanely hard he was through his sweatpants "You're a liar! You're a dirty, lying fuckboy!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Jason snarled, his hand flying from your throat to catch your jaw, his thumb digging brutally into your cheek to force your mouth open. "I am not a liar. I am fucking obsessed with you. I haven't looked at another woman since the day I went out with you, and you're being a loon”

"Prove it then," you panted, your teeth baring as you bit down lightly on his thumb "If they're nothing, text them right now telling them we broke up and if either of them offer you a pity fuck, just know you’re going to die a second time, Todd”

A/n: was this a ploy to get banged hard? yes, yes it was

[kentluv3r]

hello! may i humbly request this:

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTScEUMHn/

with jason todd and/or dick grayson

please and thank you!!

you miss THEM! [DICK, JASON, TIM, DAMIAN, DUKE, BARBARA, STEPHANIE, BRUCE] while they’re gone… so why not ask them for a simple favor; send a video of them doing push ups while saying your name!

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 CONTENT WARNINGS: horny texts, flirting, multi-character, implied sexual content, MINORS DNI ノhorny! fem! reader, teasing, dirty talk, mentions of disabilities, obvious usage of y/n but not overly done!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: mhmmmmm, this request is so good, i luv it. instead of just dick or jason, i decided to do a lot of the bat family so there’s a lot of variety. if you can’t get the link, it’s a tiktok that says “life is too short. just ask him to send an audio saying your name while doing push ups.” hope i do this justice bc i loved the idea!

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 DICK GRAYSON !

you: *link*

you: babe, look at this

my birdman 💙: the first text i get from u on patrol

my birdman 💙: WHAT do you want me to do?

my birdman 💙: babe, asking for a dick pic would be easier

you’re a little shocked that dick hasn’t seen the video; the fucker somehow knows every horny video out there, every single little thing you could ask your man to do… and yet this is the one that trips him up. it’s cute in a way.

dick was out on patrol with duke and wally— they’ve grown a great friendship and now dick is practically third-wheeling for them but he doesn’t mind, the more people out in the streets of gotham, helping out, the better. it gives him a chance to have a little bit of breathing room in between all the fighting going on. 

my birdman 💙: baby, i’ll do it, you know i will

you: then get to it, pretty boy

my birdman 💙: i just wanna know why?

my birdman 💙: we have god knows how many sex videos

you: because dick

you: sometimes a girl wants what a girl wants

you: now do it before i bite ur dick off

my birdman 💙: that would be hot

you: fine

you: cut it off

my birdman 💙: okay, damn babe

my birdman 💙: give me a minute to find a roof top 

and eventually, three minutes later... a video pops up on your screen, and you click on it without second thought.

the video loads without issue... and there dick is, in full nightwing costume, escrima sticks stuck to his back, domino mask still on as you see that he's on top of a building, looking out at gotham city. the phone is already propped up on one of the roof's electrical boxes.

"alright baby, since you need me oh so badly." he jokes as he gets into formation.

even through the nightwing suit, you can still see his big biceps, big thighs, and overall strong posture that you scratch at every night when he’s balls deep into you— but there’s something sexy about the nightwing suit that you love so much. you couldn’t put your finger on it.

but you don’t think too much of it as he begins to move, his arms flexing and the gotham wind blowing his black hair strands in different directions as he does the pushups… most notably with one hand behind his back.

“y/n… y/n, y/n, y/n…” he continues over and over again, that cocky fucking grin on his face as he speaks to the camera again. “you better like this shit, baby, making me do your horny little fantasies… not like i’m complaining.”

he just has a great way with words, doesn’t he?

you could feel your pussy clench around nothing, your free hand can’t stop itself from drifting downwards close to your pants as his words fill in your mind. just the implications make your mind melt… and the way he does it is so good.

“fuck, dick…” you whisper to your empty bedroom as you watch the video, his movements not slowing down for a moment.

“y/n… y/n… shit this is easy baby, but trying to not imagine you under me right now is what’s fucking me up baby.” he mutters, chuckling as he continues to push up and down off his left hand. 

you shudder at his words, body heating up at the idea of being under him in this current moment. he’s able to ruin you even from afar— and god you hate it as much as you love it. 

eventually, he reached up to 45 times, his arm working over and over again, his head looking behind himself to see gotham behind him. "they're probably handling it pretty good down there." he speaks, meaning wally and duke. "i'm too busy making my pretty girl happy..."

your hand strokes your own thigh at his words. "quit being such a sap..."

“y/n… y/n… y/n…” not knowing damn well that on the streets, wally and duke are fighting a bunch of joker goons— because of course he decides to try to fuck with them this night.

the heat in your stomach curls with need as dick finishes the pushups, standing on his two feet as he flexes his biceps in front of the camera, jokingly showing off his back muscles for you as well. he just has a phenomenal way of acting.

“there’s a few extra things for you as well.” he tells you as he picks up the phone, waving at the camera. “get a good’s night sleep girly, i’ll be home soon… like i never left.”

the video ended and you felt ten times hotter than you felt before the video.

you would eventually find him in your bed two hours later when you fell asleep, just like he said he would. but that’s a topic for another day.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 JASON TODD !

see; you found the tiktok at the perfect time.

because jason wasn't in bed with you sure, but you knew where he was at— currently in the gym, doing whatever core exercise he had on the agenda today because despite his denial of it; he has his work-out regimine on a piece of paper. at the beginning of the week? legs, get it out of the way. middle of the week? chest, arms, and back. and the last days of the week? his core and whatever he failed to get if he skipped a day.

you knew it because he always told you before he left— it's kinda sweet in a way... but you knew it would be a day where he'd answer.

you: *link* 

you: jason 

you: know ur lifting but watch this

jay: oh jesus baby

jay: ur always making me do this shit

you: complaining?

jay: nope

jay: just, simple observation 

you: good

you: now do it

jay: why u gotta be so mean

you: i’m not mean, i’m horny

you: now do it

jay: yes ma’am! 

soon enough, you see the notification and you click on it, the video loading up in no time.

there jason was, in the gym with his headphones around his neck, black hair sweaty and messy in the ways you only saw after-sex, with one of his stupid tank tops on and gym shorts— you only call his tank tops stupid because they're always so fucking sweaty and stink up your apartment for a good hour before going in the wash.

but jason waves at the camera as he puts it against the gallery of weights, nobody around him.

clearly, it's an empty day at the gym. not that uncommon at eleven pm on a friday night when everyone else is drinking or partying at this hour.

"hope all is well at home, baby." he begins as he gets in position, perfect push-up form as he begins.

jason starts off slow, going down and back up not too quickly. "y/n..." he mutters, loud enough for you to hear— you also hear the slight change in his breath, it's obvious he just got done lifting some heavy ass weight as seen next to him with a "125" pound dumbbell. "y/n..."

you get that feeling in your body in the same way he teases you when he touches you. trying to ignore it, you continue to watch, rolling on your stomach and putting your chin on your forearm. "jay..."

in the video, he speeds up. "y/n... y/n... fuck— y/n..." almost using your pretty name like a pushup counter to himself but god it sounds beautiful. "y/n..."

jason continued his fluid motions, so easily going up and back down then back up, his muscles showing every time he extends his arms.

“y/n, y/n, y/n.” each time he says your name like that, it only works to drive you further and further into a horny mess, and this asshole knows it, that is what makes you even more happier inside and wetter in your underwear.

"god damn, jay... so good f'me." you whisper as you watch him push up and down, looking down to see his hand veins, just the way they look puts images to your mind.

jason almost loses track at how many he does in a row; just using your name is able to make him go further than his usual set reps of pushups. he loves hearing your name, even if he's saying it, so he keeps going.

"y/n... ngh, fuck, y/n... keep going for you, hun." he says, almost thinking about his cock with his hand stroking himself for you; the only reason he stops himself is cause he's not trying to have a boner in the middle of the gym... even if there's nobody else there besides the workers.

you keep your eyes on him, everything around you seeming irrelevant as the video continues till it's the last minute where you see him slow down finally; you don't know how many times he said your name, but it had to be in the sixty amount.

"y/n... y/n..." he's not out of breath but still, he catches his breath as he finally stops, standing on his two feet as he walks over to his phone and grabbing it; giving you a damn good look at the sweat beading down his face and the stupid white streaks in his hair falling in front of his face.

he smiles at the lens. "hope that fufills your filthy little idea, baby..."

jay: did u enjoy it?

jay: baby?

you: for fucks sake, jason

you: yes, i did enjoy it, god i loved it

you: you're hot, it's fucking irritating

jay: don't worry baby, i'm almost done

jay: then you can have me all u want, hun

you: good

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 TIM DRAKE !

you hated being away from tim, so obviously, when you saw the video on your for you page… it’s obvious what you were thinking about.

he was always doing some detective work; you loved his intelligence and his way of thinking about things… but one of the worst things about it? he was always gone at the worst times possible. he made time for you, but sometimes, when you really wanted him… no where to be found. 

you: *link*

you: tim.

you: timothy 

you: do this for me

handsome timmy: what happened to hey

handsome timmy: what happened to how was your day, tim?

you: not the time

handsome timmy: fine fine

handsome timmy: let me buy a second real quick

that’s the thing about tim that you loved; even when he was busy, even when he was away from you… the moment you asked him to do something? he would try to find the time and a way to do it.

meanwhile, in the inner city, away from you, tim was filing through paperwork one of his sources gave him.

the hotel room dim with both lamps on, tim’s eyes reading over the lines of text. it was a simple case of murder (well, simple to describe murder isn’t the best word to use… but it is the most accurate. it wasn’t convoluted in the “there’s so many suspects” way but more like “which gang put the hit out”) on a poor mailman who unknowingly smuggled another gang’s weapons to their biggest rivals. the more confusing part was just figuring out which member is apart of which gang because… of course members switch and betray and align.

it’s all tiring for one robin… so getting a text from you? wanting him to do pushups and say your name… he’s smart enough to know what that implies.

handsome timmy: you perv

you: yep!

you: you’re not here to do it… so this will do

handsome timmy: baby don’t u have other videos of us?

handsome timmy: you have that video in the bathroom

you: yeah and i love that video

you: but i’ve already watched it

you: i want something fresh, baby

handsome timmy: okay baby, since u need it so bad

he was busy, but he was willing to do it; for you and you only.

three minutes later, you got the video and laying on your apartment couch, legs sprawled out. you immediately press on it and it loads up; tim, in grey sweatpants and a tanktop, his stupid black hair messy but falling in front of his face gorgeously, eyebrows furrowed as he gets into pushup position.

“can’t believe i’m doing this… but only because you asked me for it.” he mutters before he begins to do the pushups, his grunts fill the room and the audio of the video as he continues.

“y/n… y/n… y/n— ngh, shit— y/n…” it’s not even hard for him to do a pushup, it’s just the entire thing about what it’s implying as well as his cock aching with need but who said that? his biceps flex, eyes on the floor before he looks over at the camera and winks at you. “hope you enjoy this, my filthy… perverted… pretty girl.”

“this is not perverted.” you defend yourself to him even if he can’t hear or see you, eyes dragging up and down to watch his hands and his biceps.

he repeats your name over and over again, taking deep breaths to try to calm yourself down while he takes deep and guttural breaths in between each push on his arms, a single line of sweat beading down his head.

“bet you’re enjoying this, i’m glad though…” he mutters, keeping his eyes locked on the camera. “y/n… y/n… y/n…” he looks forward, biting his tongue in between his teeth, trying to not think too hard about the implications… but how could he not? he loves the thought of you under him.

tim continued to push up and down until he felt his body burn, stopping at the thirty pushup mark, taking deep breaths as he sits on his knees, grabbing his phone and chuckles. “you probably look so cute right now… too bad i’m over here, doing paperwork… but i’ll be home soon.”

you laugh under your breath at his words, the video ending and you find yourself with a smile on your face.

you: god, you’re so hot

you: fuck the paperwork, come fuck me

handsome timmy: I WILL. TRUST

handsome timmy: I WANT YOU TOO

handsome timmy: but i gotta do this shit but…

handsome timmy: maybe send me a video… possibly?

you: you’re lucky i’m horny

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 DAMIAN WAYNE !

work has you travelling all over the world sometimes… the problem? none on the surface.

you loved to travel, seeing the world even if it was for work related stuff. you went to other states to talk to different people about work, you even got to go to other countries for your work— being a high ranking employee will do that, so obviously, you love the travel for work aspect of your job.

the only problem you seem to be dealing with? you miss your boyfriend.

damian is a great boyfriend, there’s no one else like him.

which meant traveling for work and being away from him sucked. hard. he sometimes went with you if gotham allowed him to leave for once and you loved that time with him— he knew it was important for you to travel so he never bothered you when you had to leave… but he definitely hates it as well.

thankfully, he has his family and jon to bother him when you’re gone.

so, obviously, when you get the video on your screen… your pussy acts first instead of being smart.

you: *link*

you: damian

you: watch this and do it

dami 💚: what happened to hi? hello? how was your day?

you: not important

you: need to see your body

dami 💚: this is what this is about?

dami 💚: HEY 

dami 💚: I HAVE THAT VIDEO SAVED 

you: good

you: you know me too well

dami 💚: shirtless or with a shirt on?

you: why do u even ask

dami 💚: just making sure, princess

you: do it shirtless, genius 

it doesn’t take long before your phone dings and you see a video on your screen. 

you click on the video without a second thought.

the video loads and there damian was; shirtless, in his bedroom at wayne manor. his tv paused at whatever he was watching as he placed the phone on the wood bedframe leg, backing up and seeing if it will fall as he gets on his hands and knees. 

“okay… you’re good? won’t fall and ruin this video for my girl?” he questions the phone, extending his legs and getting into the typical pushup position. “good. stay like that.”

he mutters as he looks at the lens with a softer gaze. “okay, i hope this is a good enough angle, baby… for your little fantasy.”

and right after that, he goes down and goes back up, doing what you wanted him to do slower but making sure you heard every single grunt, groan, and breath. “y/n… y/n…”

he can feel his hands shift as he gets more comfortable with his movements, letting you get a glimpse of his broad back when he goes down and his chest when he goes up, the light in the room being enough to see his muscles each time.

“y/n, y/n, y/n, pretty good form if you ask me.” he jokes midway through, not even counting how many he’s doing— he’s just going up and down and trying his hardest not to get a raging boner at the idea of you under him, on your stomach, and instead of pushups, he was thrusting.

you were also trying your hardest not to think about that too much, but how could you not?

here’s your sexy boyfriend, saying your name while shirtless and doing an exercise that comes close to replicating it— rivaling only hip thrusts with weights. “dami… fuck…” you moan oh so quietly.

damian chuckles as he shifts his form, putting his hands out wider as every time he goes down, he goes to the right then back up then he goes to the left downwards, pressing his lips on each hand as he goes down. 

deep down, he’s pretending it’s your lips or your head he’s kissing and not his own hands. “y/n…” he mutters into his right hand before going back up and going down to his left hand, kissing the top of it. “y/n…” 

his arms being extended shows off his triceps and forearms in all their glory; you love his forearms oh so much. 

"y/n, my love. y/n, my sweetheart. y/n, my horny ass girlfriend." he says as he comes to his final pushups, going back to the center for the final couple of pushups, this wider approach to his movements allows you to see his back and lower back as well, making your pussy throb only more.

"dami..." you whisper as he does his final one, letting himself fall to the carpet floor after he goes back down and grabs his phone from the bed's leg, fingers wrapping around the phone.

rolling onto his back, he moves the phone to above his head, letting you see his abs as he catches his breath. "here's what you're missing baby, 'cause you wanna be such a good employee." he jokes, then furrowing his brow as he brings his phone closer to him. "just kidding, baby... 'm glad you're good at the job and they can see that. love you, sweetheart."

and just like that, the video ends and you're here, wanting him only more than you did before this.

you: god you’re the best

dami 💚: ur welcome baby :) 

dami 💚: missing u!!!

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 DUKE THOMAS !

you loved vacation much as the next person.

you were lucky to have this… but with how hard you were working at your place of employment, constantly putting in overtime to get a little extra money… it was obvious this was close to happening.

you loved the location and the week that you’ve had; the only thing you didn’t like? being away from your boyfriend, duke, who was busy fighting crime in gotham.

he encouraged you to go— he loved seeing how hard you worked and get repaid for it, plus he knew as much as you did that you needed this vacation with a few of your closest friends, so he wasn’t mad about it; he had no problems!

but you hated being away from him. 

you loved the man and that showed, so of course, when you’re scrolling through your for you page, lounging around in your rented house… you knew exactly who to send it to; the only person you wanted to listen to.

you: *link*

you: duke, my baby

you: you better not be busy 

you: cause i need u to do this

duke 💛: wow, not even an update on ur vacation

duke 💛: but i’m not busy, sweetheart

you: just don’t die on me duke

duke 💛: i’m not gonna die sweetheart

duke 💛: not from the criminals at least

duke 💛: but the lack of pussy might kill me

you: you’ll fucking survive.

you: now watch what i sent you

duke 💛: bossy woman but sure

you: i am not bossy

duke 💛: yes u are

duke 💛: but jesus baby, just ask me for a video of my dick

you: where’s the fun in that?

duke 💛: true

duke 💛: give me a minute, pretty baby

and just like he said, not even too long later— maybe four minutes later, a video pops up in your text messages…

duke 💛: *video*

duke 💛: god i wish i could see u watch it 🫠

and you don’t hesitate to click on it.

in front of the camera is duke, wearing only pajama bottoms and a black shirt, a big smile on his face as he gets into pushup position. it’s clear that he just got done with patrol and just got out of his batsuit, a bandage on his forearm. “don’t mind that, sweetheart.” he mentions, his hands close together as he decides to do a diamond-style pushup. “now… you better enjoy this, hun.”

and without hesitating, his pushups begin; elbows close to his chest every time he goes down and comes back up, the veins in his forearms show clearly. “y/n… y/n… y/n… y/n…” 

you lick the inside of your cheek, watching with glee as duke pushes up and down, taking deep breaths in between each push of his arms— he always says to never hold your breath when doing pushups— and he’s clearly letting you get your mind going in the dirtiest of directions.

you could just imagine him right now, pushing in and out of you instead of pushing up and down, imagining it was his chest you were laying on as he fucked you— but of course, he wasn’t here to do it. so you took this, and you loved it.

“duke… fucking hell.” you whisper as he continues.

“y/n… y/n… y/n l/n, my love… my baby… making me do pushups instead of jerking off… quite creative if you ask me… y/n…” he mutters, letting his own mind go into places but he continues on the video.  

he’s able to do this so easily, feeding into your thoughts as he repeats your name over and over again, making your mind fulfilled at the same time yearning for him only more. 

“y/n… y/n… final one.” he says as he pushes up one more time, clapping his hands and just as quickly, putting his hands back down. “y/n…”

you giggle at his stupid little clap pushup. 

he remains in the down position before he kneels on one knee, reaching over and grabbing his phone with his left hand, smiling at the camera. “hope vacation is treating you the way it should, baby… you deserve it…” 

and just like that, the video ends, your mind a whole lot filthier than it started out as. 

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 BARBARA GORDON !

you know deep down, in your heart, sending your wheelchair-bound girlfriend this tiktok would be... definitely a little off the cuff, but you truly couldn't help yourself; you were lonely, a lil horny, and besides, she joked about her wheelchair more than you (including the time she let tim's dumb ass do wheelies in the fucking thing) but not in the self-deprecating manner people thought she would, just as a throw-away line, so it's not like it would be totally wrong.

you: *link*

you: barb, baby... watch this

you: you're always on that damn computer

you: answer me, babyyyyyyyy

barb 💻🫦: ???

barb 💻🫦: babe. baby. sweetheart.

barb 💻🫦: does it look like i can do that?

you: c'mon

you: you have to have done a push up once in ur life

barb 💻🫦: honey, i love you and you know that…

barb 💻🫦: and you’re far from blind

barb 💻🫦: but did you mean to send me this shit?

you: absolutely!

you: besides, who would i ask anyway? there's only one pair of lips i want saying my name that way

barb 💻🫦: good

barb 💻🫦: u don’t need anyone else to do it

you: u don't have to do it, just thought it was funny

you: i don't want you to hurt urself, baby

barb 💻🫦: no it's fine, baby. ain’t mad at it

you: busy dealing with bruce?

barb 💻🫦: happily

it's minutes before barbara texts you back. you took her words for granted— bruce, especially on missions as batman— drives her up a wall sometimes but it's not like it's hard work, she's the greatest asset on the team if anyone really thinks about it, so it's easy work for the oracle... it's just tedious work listening to the deep voice of batman asking for coordinates every ten seconds.

the thought did cross your mind: was it wrong? sure it was a joke but still… you didn’t want to cause barbara any actual trouble over a shitty little tiktok.

it’s not until seven minutes after barbara sent her last text that you get a notification on your phone.

you reach for it and click on the message without even thinking a second thought.

barb 💻🫦: *video*

barb 💻🫦: here you go, hun ❤️

the video loads without issue… and on your screen, barbara stares into the camera as she readjusts it on the floor, sitting on the floor with her wheelchair slightly veered to the left on the right side of the video.

she bites on her tongue as she balances the phone against one of the many computer desk’s legs. “c’mon you… these things are not stable at all.”

finally, the phone stays still and barbara keeps a close eye on it. “don’t you dare fall or else.” she threatens the device as she adjusts her position to get on her right side, using both arms to hold herself up as her palms press down into the floor of the computer room of wayne manor. “hope this suits your needs, baby.” she speaks to you through the video.

your eyes watch as she’s able to balance her self with just core strength, even if her legs don’t want to move for her. you knew from what shes told you about being paralyzed from the waist down that her legs feel limp most of the time even with physical therapy helping her balance when she does attempt to walk and with training, she has been able to put her toes down but never fully walk, so her legs are practically dead weight for her ninety perfect of the time.

and without hesitation and no issue whatsoever, barbara begins to push up and down, using her arms and core to balance herself even if those damn legs of hers wanna fall back to the floor even if barbara can’t control their actions.

“y/n— fucking hell.” she begins as she consistently pushes up and down with her core doing an insane amount of work to keeping her body up. “y/n…” she repeats, over and over again without issue.

you could see the veins in her forearms of her rolled up sweatshirt sleeves, there was something so fucking hot about it that you couldn’t describe simply because of how needy you got watching the video.

she continues her movements without issue, driving her palms into the ground to keep her balance. “y/n, y/n, y/n… shit, baby, you’re making me work for it.” god, you could just imagine her saying that in between your thighs, her fingers curling deep when you tell her to keep going. “y/n…”

by the fifteenth name call off her sweet lips that only drives you further up the wall, she gives her last pushup; getting back on her ass and grabbing her phone, smiling at the camera with the smile you love oh so much. 

“i’ll be done soon, hun, don’t stay up if you can’t.” she tells you, looking up at the monitors above her. “bruce probably wants me back on comms… this fucking guy.” she says it with love for the man. “see you sweetheart.”

and the video ends just like that. fuck this woman’s gonna be the death of you.

you: holy shit

you: you’re the sexiest woman ever

you: u actually did it

barb 💻🫦: baby, i do anything you want

you: men ain’t shit

barb 💻🫦: i know

barb 💻🫦: now let me get back to work

you: you’re eating my pussy when u get home

barb 💻🫦: yay! 

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 STEPHANIE BROWN !

you hated being sick, mostly because it didn’t allow you to do most things.

you were laying in bed, resting from a stupid sickness you got maybe three days ago. it sucks and you’re still kind of shocked that it’s still running through your system, but you’ve been doing everything in your power to feel better; called off work, only did things if you actually needed to, and knocked out a few things you actually wanted to get done.

you also had your girlfriend, stephanie, making sure you took care of yourself. 

which brings you to your current predicament; scrolling through tiktok and seeing a video that strikingly sounds like something you want stephanie to do… so you sent it to her not thinking much of it.

stephanie was a little busy right now; dancing in a club in downtown gotham with dinah lance and kate kane— stephanie only knew dinah because of a situation where both of them were on the same crime at the same time, as well as the very important factor that dinah was in a two year long relationship with barbara so she kinda had to be civil with dinah… but she wasn’t too bad.

she hesitated to go with them but you insisted, wanting her to go out and have fun and you’d join them next time… which is how you ended up alone but not sad… but you knew stephanie, if you sent her a text? she’d immediately answer it.

you: *link*

you: heyyyyyyy

you: hope the club is good, baby

you: do this when u get a chance

steph 💜: my baby

steph 💜: you feeling okay? 

steph 💜: yeah, i’ll see it, give me a moment

steph 💜: oh my god, kate is trying to climb something

you: feeling alright over here steph

you: just missing you :( 

you: miss your sexy ass

steph 💜: trust me baby, miss u too

steph 💜: but i’ll be home soon

steph 💜: now what the hell did you send me?

steph 💜: oh you freaky girl

you: yes, now do it

steph 💜: alrighttttt, lemme find a place!

it takes a few minutes, but eventually, your phone dings on the blanket as you finish your plate and put it on the coffee table, pausing the movie you were watching and look at the phone.

you open the video stephanie sent you, her long blond hair, curled slightly due to sweat in the front filling your mind as you hear the muffled sound of the bar she was at with dinah and kate— neither of them in frame but stephanine starts the video by yelling at someone behind the door as she sets up the phone against the shitty bathroom sink.

“hold up, dinah! doing something for my girlfriend!” she yells— it strokes your heart just hearing her call you “her girlfriend”, it’s mundane but god it’s so good.

dinah groans from outside the locked bathroom door. “oh my god! you better not be fingerblasting yourself there! this is not the place to do it!”

stephanie cackles out a laugh at dinah’s words but gets into pushup positon as she does it. “aye! me and my girl weren’t the ones who caught making out on the computer desk now were we?” stephanine bites back, giggling in front of the camera.

you get a good look at her; black canary shirt rolled at the sleeves (cause she knows how you feel about her arms), her blonde hair damp and sticking in different directions but not too messy, and her makeup slightly fucked up but in the sexiest way possible. 

dinah scoffs. “you’re lucky your sister’s hot, or else.”

“yeah, yeah, whatever.” stephanie says, finishing her little bout with dinah as she looks back at the camera— smiling. “now she’s gone… hey baby, bet you look so cute right now… bet you want me to come home… god you look so gorgeous and i can’t even see you.”

your heart flutters, this fucking girl. but you can’t think too much of it before she begins to do the pushups.

the thing? she’s already sweating. not even because it’s difficult or anything (you’ve seen this woman knock out 50 pushups with no issue) but rather the already built-up strain of her muscles dancing at the club and sweat due to moving her body to the music that’s got her sweating… but god she looks so sexy like this.

“y/n… y/n, fucking hell baby, you’re lucky this place even has a bathroom.” she jokes, looking at the sticker-covered wall of the right side of the bathroom, so many different stickers and sticky-notes with phone numbers and names, different pop culture references, even someone’s dick pic… but you’re too focused on your babe to look at anything else. “y/n… y/n…” 

you can feel a certain dampness in your underwear but you don’t pay it any mind— you try to not think about it but c’mon… who would blame you.

the way your name falls from her lips is incredible and you watch as she slowly stops her movements at the 35 range, your name said for every single one of them. “y/n… y/n… fuck— y/n…” the last three times before she looks over at you, in the up position as she gets on her feet.

catching her breath as she grabs the phone, she smiles and kisses the lens. “love you baby.”

and the video ends just like that; your underwear ten times damper than it previously was.

you: god you’re good at that

steph 💜: i’d hope so

you: if i wasn’t dying, you’d be between my thighs asap

steph 💜: oh baby

steph 💜: maybe in the morning

you: you’ll get sick though

steph 💜: death by pussy sounds pretty good to me

you: steph… 

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 BRUCE WAYNE !

asking bruce wayne to participate in any type of relationship trend or request was easy.

he loved you and you loved him... contrary to popular belief, the man knew pop culture and he knew his shit when it came to relationships— not in the same way his sons did but he knew things, he knows what tiktok and twitter and all these apps are— he's old but he's not that fucking old, get a grip. he doesn't have any social media accounts, just wayne enterprises accounts that he doesn't even manage, and he only shows up on occasion in one of dick's or stephanine's videos and that's in the background of 'em.

so when you text him the video while laying in your shared bed in wayne manor... it's not too long after that you receive a text.

you: *link*

you: bruce, baby

you: if you aren’t busy, look at this asap

bruce 🖤🦇: darling

bruce 🖤🦇: you’re serious?

you: of course!

you: i know you know how much i love those arms

you: so lemme see them work!

bruce 🖤🦇: dear god

bruce 🖤🦇: it might be a minute though

bruce 🖤🦇: busy right now but i’ll do it soon

you: i’ll be waiting handsome

bruce 🖤🦇: keep testing it

you: or what, bruce? gonna fuck me?

bruce 🖤🦇: at this point, you want that

you: i’m not dumb!

he may not understand most pop culture things… but when you talk about it? he pays the most attention to it, wanting to understand what you’re talking about.

and yet, the man is able to understand trends faster than most (when one of his kids try to explain it to him during patrol)... just the batman intelligence you guess.

it's just... he's nonchalant about it, which comes off as "he doesn't know anything about it" but instead, he understands…

bruce 🖤🦇: *video*

bruce 🖤🦇: here you go, sweetheart

bruce 🖤🦇: hope this is suits you, hun

you knew he was busy; you didn't know what but you knew he would be home soon and he's being safe. probably at a high-end gala or a philanthropy event. maybe even doing some detective work with gordon, but when you pull up the video... the place he's in... looks recongizable.

the brick as a flooring, the gates in the background with the bushes, the sun going down... but you don't pay attention to it when bruce begins to do the pushups.

positioned right on ground level, the phone leaned up against... something... bruce begins to do pushups just like you requested, veins popping out from under his short-sleeve shirt and his voice ringing out.

"y/n... y/n... y/n..." his deep voice makes your pussy flutter even under the sheets of the bed, his sleeves rolling up to show his biceps, neck vein showing up during one of the pushes up— god he's so good. "hope you're enjoying this baby..."

you smile. "oh i am bruce." you whisper into the room, licking the inside of your cheek as he continues, babbling your name about fifteen times until he's close to reaching twenty.

"y/n... y/n... almost there, baby... y/n... jesus baby, you better enjoy this." he says, looking at the camera. "trying to do push-ups in dress shoes is not a good thing, hun..."

you laugh at his words but you know damn well this man can get a new pair faster than anyone else could.

"y/n... y/n... y/n..." he repeats, his growl-like voice making your mind melt in the best way possible— he's just good like that. "y/n. y/n. y/n."

you're not shocked that he's this good at this. not only is he muscular than most men, but this was the playboy-in-his-youth billionaire you're dating, so he's used to doing shitty things for his girlfriends... but to you? he doesn't care about doing it.

he loves you so much he'd do anything.

"three more, baby, y/n... y/n... y/n..." he groans before finishing after his final pushup, doing about twenty-seven pushups, stepping on his two feet as he stretches his back out as he grabs the phone, and you get a damn good look at his background.

the front door of the wayne manor.

"hope you loved that, baby... be home soon."

and the video ends. just like that. before you could realize that he was literally a minute away from you.

you: bruce

you: my love

you: my handsome man

you: as if i couldn’t love you even more

bruce 🖤🦇: good

bruce 🖤🦇: now unlock the bedroom door

ADDITIONAL NOTE: prolly the only time i’m adding one of these but for anyone wondering why i did barbara… because i love her. decided to do a mix of pre-2011 and post-2011 treatment of barbara’s legs. i’ve always really loved oracle so whenever i write for barbara, it will be oracle! barbara, plus its my fic so my interpretation of these characters.

masterlist is here! click here for more!

ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!

[imfeelingtheaster1]

Put a Ring On It! - Pt. 1

bruce wayne smau!! fem!reader (works at the iceberg lounge)

NONE OF THE PHOTOS USED ARE MINE (except spain and the one of your dog) yes it’s my dog NO it’s not a self insert because i use it for a plot point. if you don’t like it sorry 🤷🏽‍♀️

the photos of the you and bruce are of white girl with dark hair idek why im legit black but that’s how it came out ask systemic and internalized racism idk

creds to @pixopix for the divider thank you!!

anyway love you thank you for reading

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hope you enjoyed!!

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