gang is it gay to like girls?

i'm not mentaly well enough for this

[sillygayfreak]

New (and hopefully improved) Intro/Pinned post

Call me Silly, Luna, lulu <- any variates of these also work

pronouns are non-existent idgaf about all that

I’m lowkey more active on other sites if you wanna find me there my twt is @/sillygayfreak 

I low key don’t post anything except like shit post so be warned about that 

fandoms I'm in under cut

I'm a huge vtuber fan and my kami is Rosco (roscals hmu) I'm also a pretty big Luca, Claude and also xsoleil as a whole

Tokyo debunker (rui is my BBG)

Honkai Star rail

ToT

LADS (if homophobic DNI)

Alien Stage (Luka my love)

windbreaker

anything to do with Yuri <3

[timmy-06]

Timkon ! 🐦‍⬛ 💫

[young-vandal]

[arachnifin]

[notonelover]

no pronouns. don't refer to me, ever

[squashbananak]

[cowsnotcrows]

For Father’s Day Bruce gets to hold his son for the first time in years 🫶

[kayseejay]

Such a sad day for Kon fans, he’s been turned into a Konathan homunculus like Tim Todd from TNBA

[nagumolvr]

HOTEL STRANGER

one night stand!jason todd x fem!reader

waking up next to a stranger in your hotel room after a turn of events caused by a few drinks at the hotel’s bar.

# drabble .ᐟ⸝⸝ one night stand!jason todd ⸝⸝ hook-up ⸝⸝ morning after ⸝⸝ suggestive ⸝⸝ sfw ⸝⸝

sunlight seeped through the hotel room curtains. you shifted beneath them and immediately winced—every muscle protested, with a deep ache spreading between your thighs and radiating through your hips. holy shit. your head pounded faintly from last night's minibar drinks, but the real proof was right beside you.

the man lay on his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, one arm casually draped over the edge of the mattress. his dark hair was a total mess, sticking up in wild directions with that one white streak catching the light. the sheets had slipped low, barely covering the curve of his hips, leaving the broad expanse of his back exposed. god, he was built like a tank—wide shoulders tapering into a powerful, scarred v-shape, with old wounds and fresh marks telling of fights and stories you didn’t know. muscles even at rest. you couldn’t stop staring.

what the hell did i do? vacation fling with a total stranger. the smooth talk at the minibar—him nursing a whiskey, you on your second cocktail—had somehow turned into heated banter, lingering contact, and then… this. you remembered the way he’d smiled, the low rumble of his voice when he leaned in close: “you sure you can handle a guy like me, sweetheart?” you’d laughed and pulled him toward the elevator.

now, in the sober light of morning, reality hit. and it hit hard. though, he was gorgeous, intense, and clearly dangerous in ways you weren’t careful of last night. you didn’t even know his last name.

you tried to slip out of bed quietly, but the mattress dipped and he stirred. his green eyes cracked open, hazy at first, then sharpening with that street-honed alertness. he didn’t bolt or look panicked—just rolled his head on the pillow to look at you properly with a lazy, crooked smirk tugging at his lips. his voice was rough with sleep, but never missed the sarcasm. “mornin’, gorgeous. you gonna stare at my back all day or come back here and tell me your name again? pretty sure i earned forgetting it after last night.”

heat rushed to your face. you clutched the sheets higher, suddenly hyper-aware of your own nudity. “it’s… still [name] and yeah, i remember your name, jason.”

he chuckled as he pushed up on his elbows and turned over to lie on his back. the movement made the sheets slide even lower in the process, giving you a glimpse of more of that sculpted back and the dimples at the base of his spine. scars crisscrossed his skin—knife wounds, burns, bullet grazes. this guy had seen some shit. he didn’t seem bothered by you noticing. “good. means i didn’t completely blow your mind. though from the way you’re moving… sore?” his tone was teasing, but there was a softer thing underneath—concern? satisfaction? both?

you nodded, biting your lip. “yeah. we… went a few rounds.”

jason sat up fully then, the sheet pooling at his waist, and ran a hand through his messy hair. he looked rumpled and stupidly, unfairly hot. “didn’t hear any complaints. you were enthusiastic. kept calling me ‘big guy’ and some other things i’m not repeating unless you ask nicely.” he winked, but his eyes scanned you carefully, like he was checking for any regrets on your end. “look, i’m not the ‘flowers and breakfast’ type, but i’m not an asshole who ghosts either. you good?”

you hesitated, pulling your knees up. part of you wanted to bolt—this was reckless. stupid. hooking up with a stranger built like a whole army. but another part, the one still buzzing from the memory of his hands and mouth and the way he’d taken control so easily and… so sexy, wanted to stay. “i’m… processing. didn’t exactly plan on waking up next to a guy who looks like he could bench-press a car.”

he snorted, reaching over to brush a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. his fingers lingered before he pulled them back with a sigh, stretching his arms out—muscles rippling underneath skin. “flattery’ll get you everywhere. i’m on a break from… work. needed to get out of gotham for a bit. didn’t expect company like you.” his smirk faded into something a touch more genuine. “if you want me out, say the word. no hard feelings and shit. but if you’re up for round… whatever we’re on, and some coffee after, i’m game.”

you met his eyes, heart racing faster than usual. risky, yes. but the way he looked at you made you want to lean in so badly.

“coffee first,” you said. “then we’ll… see about those other rounds.”

jason’s grin returned, full of promise and sexual innuendo. “smart choice. i like a woman who knows what she wants.” he leaned in, voice dropping to that gravelly and unbelievably hot murmur that was the reason this all started all last night. “and i’m very good at giving it.”

© nagumolvr , you do not have permission to translate, copy, repost, or feed my work to ai.

[gothamorphosis]

𝐀 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

Or: Your camera roll while dating Dick Grayson

Warnings: A bunch of shirtless men because i trully belive this guy would take his shirt off at any given moment + cacked up guy cause yk // Part of the 𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 smau series <3

Morph's thoughts: We’re kicking off the picture perfect special woohoo!! There’ll be a post every Wednesday and Sunday until the whole masterlist is complete! // These posts were so fun to make, there'll be a second part eventually :p // i feel like it does come across like that, but i'm basing it mostly on how them as people (not the hero persona) would be in a relationship and having fun with it, any feedback is welcome <3

⋆. 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𐙚˚ || 𓄹 ⊹ . 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 . 𐐒𐐚₊⋆｡˚

Comments and reblogs are welcome and encouraged <3 Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai // © gothamorphosis 2026 all rights reserved

𓂃 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — ♡ Let me know if you want to be added!

@candy363man @sillygayfreak @akiwidarling @champagnelovers101 @jaydennicole

[doctorlykos]

douglock warmup sketch

[braddocklegacy]

Marvel Swimsuit Special ‘26 Preview

[dictearchive]

roys arms in this comm going craaazyyy 🤪🥴❤️‍🔥

[bat1nsignia]

drabble #2! 18+ mdni, roy harper

—————————————————————————

roy harper wanted a baby— another one

honestly? he should be the last person having these thoughts, especially the hardships he struggled with when raising lian as a single, struggling father while getting rid of crime at night. not an easy feat by the way.

but the way you always played with lian, kept her company when he was gone, always making each other giggle and snort till your stomachs hurt. the quality time you shared with her always made roy’s eyes soften with a fond look and a smile from the sight— his two girls, together and having fun 

but it was also the way roy kept imagining your belly round and breasts full with milk, how your face would bright up with that pregnancy glow, how there would be a mini you running around with lian, how it wouldn’t just be his child— but yours too

that explains the mean mating press he’s folded your body into, back permanent with that divine arch of yours and legs pushed all the way back as he slammed his cock deep into your cervix with one thing on his mind— to get you pregnant 

“god, baby can you imagine?” roy panted in between thrusts, his hands on your waist pressing two thumbs on top of the faint yet noticeable bulge in your stomach “your belly, round with my cum” 

his hands both moved up to your boobs, the snaps of his hips more than enough to keep your thighs still spread. “these pretty girls, filled and leaking with milk”

you let out a choked moan when he squeezed and fondled your boobs, clamping his cock as a response for only a second. but it was enough for roy to let out a small hiss. “fuck— and those nipples, so sensitive and hard” just the talk of you being pregnant made his cock harden again in your warm pussy 

he brushed his thumb on your nipples, making a soft moan leave your lips and arching your back to press your boobs more into his large palms. and the newfound angle made you feel the tip of his cock hit all the right places, only adding more to the buzz and sensation 

it wasn’t until roy took one hand to cup your face and lock your lips with his in a desperate, messy kiss, saliva seeping from both of your mouths 

“let me cum in you, babe. please—oh god, please”

“wanna make you a mommy so bad and wanna give lian a sibli— fuuuuck, that’s it beautiful. squeeze me out just like that”

“can’t wait. fuckfuckfuck, i can’t wait”

poor man was already looking forward to see two lines form on a pregnancy test 

—————————————————————————

masterlist!

(a/n: TYYY NEIL FOR PROOFREADING!!! <33 also help i wrote this in like 20 minutes in the middle of the night so i can get more confident writing roy)

main taglist: @sweetpeasosweet @lcvgty-4929 @fratbrochrisgf @wrldbloom @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @vianawaits @edawgz @hottubnda @onlyfeng @lucky-clover13 @tragicfiend @nyx-of-night @missmontiopath @bloomfaery @booksrcool @jaydennicole @gglouise23 @sicklyhana @klauvy @pocket-fish0 @romancedawn333 @sashadonat @uxavity @batslilwhore @oh-sheetcake @boo-123456 @ydivine @the-star-rover @slutfordpr @advline @arfemiz @freakkay09 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hernersworld @starrydustedwinter @inejskywalker @seeker2028 @ksiazkowaxx-blog @kh4dij7 @vanillakirstein @lillie1320 @scissorhvnds @branchesofmagic @devilslittlehelper @starr-jazz @nightwingblvd @yukimaniac @freddiweasly @devorator666 @dadump @ftkats @starl1ghtgr4yson @st4rstuddedreblogs @em12021 @heleneae @darkxwolfsstuff @imintoomanyfandoms14 @littlelightbearer @th3d1nOr3ad3r @psychopompsblog @wwolfsca @kaiiii1009 @century-eggg @tvhore @chickenchickenpie @fanofthebatfam @sillygayfreak @tskdeion @potatoheartsyou (tags are open)

©bat1nsignia— please do not steal, repost or reuse my work

[bat1nsignia]

@lcvgty-4929 @darkxwolfsstuff @imintoomanyfandoms14 @littlelightbearer @th3d1nOr3ad3r @psychopompsblog @wwolfsca @kaiiii1009 @century-eggg @tvhore @chickenchickenpie @fanofthebatfam @sillygayfreak @tskdeion @potatoheartsyou @em12021 (tags are open)

[chanth-thara]

inspired by this post i saw on the jli

[inocentuure]

you overfed krypto

you had been dreading the moment your girlfriend walked through the door. usually you were happy to see your girlfriend after a long day of her saving the world, or just recusing a cat from a tree. but today, no. today was very different. you had messed up, big time. it was all your fault. how were you going to explain to kara you accidentally overfed her alien dog, you didn’t know yourself. poor krypto, he was usually running in circles, literally jumping off the walls. now he was curled up near his bed, eyes closed. ever time you glanced back at the dog your heart ended up dropping again.

now you stood in front of the bathroom mirror. practicing on exactly what you were going to say when kara got here.

“soooo, how was your day?”

you said to yourself in the mirror. giving your reflection an tight smile. trying to act normal, nodding your head before letting out an loud awkward chuckle.

“krypto? weird, no! probably just tired. right?”

you then immediately groaned and leaned against the counter, covering your face in her hands while you murmured.

“kara’s gonna hate me.”

then, you heard the front door open and close. your heart dropped to your ass. you wanted to rip our every single strand of hair out your scalp. you regretted the day you were even born. a pathetic whimper escaped from your lips, you heart racing.

“AH KRYPO—“

wait. krypto? the same krypto who had been lounging around like a lazy bum all day today after you overfed? no, you must’ve miss heard. until you heard kara let out another small squeal from the living room. you nearly ran to the room before reminding yourself you can’t look too suspicious. you peeked your head out from the corner, almost scared of what you might see—blinking as your body immediately relaxed. kara had been squatting down, letting krypto lick away at her hand and just nuzzle at kara’s palm.

thank goodness. you thanked every god in the universe, you hadn’t killed your alien’s girlfriend dog. kara glanced up, basically sensing your presence. the big iconic S sparkling to you on her chest.

“oh, hey gorgeous. you have like a very bad constipated face right now.”

[purplespiritimagines]

red ink, soft hands - batsibling! reader

request from lantern anon!

content batfam x batsib! reader, gn! reader, non-graphic self-harm discussion, scars, urges, recovery, emotional hurt/comfort, self-harm ideation, past self-harm, self-harm urges, scar envy, body dysphoria around lack of scars, trauma validation, feeling invisible, relapse scares, non-graphic pain/sensation references, recovery, hurt/comfort, no graphic self-harm, no suicide attempt

masterlist

some resources

usa - 988 uk - 0800 689 5652 méxico - 800-911-2000 australia - 13114 canada - 9-8-8 uruguay - *0767 netherlands - 0800-0113 paraguay - 155 argentina - 0800-999-0091 belgium - 1813 chile - *4141 spain - 024 france - 114 germany - 0800 111 0 222

!!

The family notices in pieces. Not in one dramatic, movie-scene way. Not with shouting. Not with someone grabbing your wrist or demanding answers like your pain is evidence in a case file.

It happens quietly. Cass notices the way your shoulders go still when someone mentions scars. Tim notices your search history goes carefully blank after bad nights. Dick notices the red ink on your arms and thighs and the way you stare at it for too long, like you’re trying to make your reflection finally confess something. Jason notices the hunger in your eyes when you look at his old scars, not envy exactly, but grief wearing envy’s jacket. Bruce notices everything and, for once, has no idea how to speak without making it worse.

They are not perfect about it at first. They are the Bats. Their love language is surveillance, panic, and “I made a contingency plan because I care.” So there is definitely a rough beginning where Bruce gets too quiet, Dick gets too gentle, Jason gets too angry at the world, Tim over-researches, Damian acts like he’s offended on your behalf, and Alfred has to verbally take everyone by the scruff and remind them that you are a person, not a crisis to be solved.

But once they understand, truly understand, they make one thing very clear: You do not have to prove you were hurt. You do not have to bleed history into your skin for them to believe you. You do not have to look broken to deserve care.

They build a family safety language around you that doesn’t feel clinical or humiliating. A code phrase you can text when the urge is bad. Something simple, maybe, “red weather,” or “I need a witness,” because sometimes that is what you wanted all along. Not attention in the cruel way people say it. Witness. Proof that someone saw you hurting and stayed.

They never shame you for wanting scars. They don’t romanticise it either. They hold both truths carefully: that the desire makes sense, and that hurting yourself still isn’t something they want for you.

Together, they help you find substitutes that honour the feeling without feeding the wound. Red body-safe markers. Temporary tattoos. Henna-style designs. Drawing tally marks for every day you stayed clean. A bracelet with beads for each hard month survived. A private journal where you write, “I lived through this,” over and over until the words start to feel less like a plea and more like a fact.

They start a little tradition, eventually. Every time you survive a terrible day, you get to add something to a box Alfred calls your “evidence.” Movie tickets. Notes. Polaroids. A pressed flower from the Manor garden. A stupid receipt from Batburger. A tiny plastic dinosaur Jason won from a claw machine because “every survivor needs a guard lizard.”

It becomes your proof.

Not scars. Not pain. A box full of small, stubborn, living things.

bruce wayne

Bruce is devastated, but not because he thinks you are damaged. Because some part of him recognises the logic. Pain as proof. Pain as grounding. Pain as a way to say, “I am still here,” when your own body feels unreal. Bruce understands that more than he wants to admit. His whole life is one long argument with pain, dressed in Kevlar and a cape.

At first, he handles it badly in a very Bruce way. He goes silent. His jaw locks. His eyes scan you like he can calculate grief if he just gathers enough data. Then Alfred gives him one look, and Bruce course-corrects so hard it almost gives him emotional whiplash.

He comes to your room later and knocks, even though it is his house. He asks if he can come in. He sits on the floor instead of looming over you.

“I believe you,” he says.

You tell him you didn’t say anything.

“I know,” Bruce says. “I should have said it anyway.”

That becomes his anchor with you. He repeats it whenever you start spiraling about not looking hurt enough.

“I believe you.” “You survived it.” “You do not need evidence for me.”

Bruce does not touch you without asking. Ever. Even if he is scared. Even if his hands twitch like he wants to check you over himself. He asks first, because he knows control matters. He knows being treated like a crime scene would only make you feel less human.

He makes sure you have access to help, but he doesn’t make it feel like punishment. Therapy is not framed as “fixing you.” It is framed as giving you more weapons. More tools. More exits from rooms your mind keeps locking you inside.

Sometimes, when you’re having a bad night, he sits beside you in the cave while he works. He doesn’t force conversation. The hum of the Batcomputer fills the silence. His presence is steady, dark, warm in its own strange way.

Eventually, he tells you, very softly, “There are scars people can see, and scars people have to be trusted with.”

You ask which kind counts more.

Bruce looks at you like the answer hurts. “All of them.”

dick grayson

Dick is the first one who makes you cry about it. Not because he says the wrong thing. Because he says the right thing too gently. He finds you one night sitting on the bathroom floor with red ink on your skin, staring at it like it is supposed to turn into something real. He doesn’t gasp. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t make you cover up.

He just sits down outside the doorway and says, “Do you want company or a distraction?”

He does not assume. He does not choose for you. He gives you options when your brain has been making everything feel like a locked room.

Dick is very good at making check-ins feel casual. He’ll flop dramatically onto your bed and ask, “What’s the weather in there today?” while tapping your forehead. If you say “stormy,” he knows not to joke too much. If you say “foggy,” he knows you might need grounding. If you say “red,” his face softens, but he does not freak out.

He teaches you tricks that feel almost silly until they work. Naming five blue things in the room. Balancing on one foot. Throwing soft socks at a laundry basket. Dancing badly to a song that is too upbeat for the mood. He tells you that sometimes being alive does not feel like a grand revelation. Sometimes it feels like doing the Macarena in the hallway while your older brother sings off-key.

He is also the one who says, “Wanting someone to notice isn’t selfish.”

You freeze.

Dick keeps his voice careful. “People act like wanting attention is bad. But sometimes attention means care. Sometimes it means help. Babies cry because they need something. Adults do too, just in quieter ways.”

On hard days, he draws on your arms with washable marker if you let him. Not fake scars exactly, but vines, stars, little escrima sticks, tiny robins, lightning bolts, flowers blooming from red lines. He never makes it weird. He just lets your body become a canvas instead of a battleground.

“You don’t have to earn gentleness,” he tells you.

And because it is Dick, he then adds, “But if you did, you’d have, like, a lifetime platinum membership.

jason todd

Jason understands the scar thing in a way that makes him quiet. He knows what it is like to want your body to testify. To want the outside to match the inside. To hate looking normal when something in you came back wrong, or came back different, or barely came back at all.

When he realises you envy visible scars, his whole expression changes. Not pity. Recognition.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “I get that.”

You almost hate him for it. You almost love him for it.

Jason is the one who gets angry, but never at you. His anger turns outward. At whoever made you feel invisible. At whoever responded with cruelty when you needed care. At every person who taught you pain had to be loud before it deserved help. He is fiercely protective, but he tries very hard not to become controlling. He knows what it is like when people make choices about your body for you. So he asks.

“Do you want me to sit here?” “Do you want me to take that away, or would that make it worse?” “Do you want quiet, food, or a stupid movie where stuff explodes?”

Jason is also brutally honest in a way that helps. One night, when you admit you feel like you need scars to prove you fought, he says, “You’re not a war documentary.”

You blink.

He shrugs, uncomfortable but stubborn. “You don’t owe anybody visible wreckage. You lived. That’s the proof. You’re breathing right in front of me, kid.”

He becomes your late-night person. If the urge hits at 2:00 a.m., Jason is the one who shows up in sweatpants and a leather jacket, hair a mess, holding convenience-store snacks like emotional support contraband. He takes you on drives through Gotham when the walls feel too close. Windows down. City lights smeared gold and red. He lets you choose the music unless your taste is “criminal,” in which case he complains for twenty minutes and still lets it play.

If you need sensation, Jason helps you find safer intensity. Spicy noodles. Sour candy. A punching bag. Running until your lungs burn clean. Holding an ice-cold soda can while he times your breathing. Loud music. Kneading bread dough with Alfred. Anything that reminds you your body is alive without asking it to become evidence.

He calls you “survivor” exactly once. You tell him it sounds cheesy.

He says, “Fine. Gremlin.”

But after that, whenever you make it through a bad night, he bumps his shoulder against yours and says, “Still here.”

And you answer, eventually, “Still here.”

tim drake

Tim researches everything. Obviously. He has seventeen tabs open within an hour and a spreadsheet by morning. It would be funny if it weren’t also so painfully earnest. He is not trying to reduce you to symptoms. He is trying to build a map because Tim Drake is terrified of losing people in places he cannot follow.

But when he realises the research is making you feel studied instead of seen, he stops.

He actually closes the laptop. That is how you know it is serious.

Tim is the best at understanding the dysphoric part of it. The mirror feeling. The wrongness. The sense that your skin is missing a truth it should be carrying. He doesn’t call it vain. He doesn’t call it messed up. He says, “That sounds exhausting.”

And somehow that helps more than a dramatic speech.

Tim starts sitting with you during mirror spirals. Not forcing positivity. Not making you say affirmations in the glass like some cursed wellness podcast. He just stands beside you and says neutral, grounding things.

“That is your arm.” “That is your shoulder.” “That is skin.” “That is not a verdict.”

On days when you feel like your body looks too normal for what happened, Tim helps you create records that aren’t injuries. Encrypted audio diaries. Private photo projects. A timeline of survival. A folder called “Proof” that contains dates, screenshots of kind messages, poems, notes, tiny records of days you thought you would not get through.

He treats your pain like something worthy of documentation, not spectacle.

Sometimes you catch him looking at you with this awful, soft guilt, like he wishes he had noticed sooner. You tell him he doesn’t have to solve it.

“I know,” Tim says. He pauses. “I hate that, but I know.”

Tim checks in through texts because sometimes face-to-face is too much.

Tim: scale from 1-10? You: 6 Tim: company? You: no talking Tim: coming over with laptop. parallel misery mode. You: bring coffee Tim: terrible idea. obviously yes.

Parallel misery mode becomes your thing. You sit in the same room doing separate things. No pressure. No performance. Just existence beside existence.

For someone who runs on caffeine and repression, Tim is surprisingly good at making survival feel ordinary.

damian wayne

Damian reacts badly at first. Not cruelly. Just sharply. He is young, and he is scared, and fear in Damian often comes dressed as judgment with a sword.

“Why would you do that to yourself?” he demands, too harsh, too loud.

The room goes silent. Jason says his name in warning. Dick looks pained. Bruce closes his eyes like the universe personally handed him a parenting exam he did not study for.

But Damian sees your face, and the anger drops out of him so fast it almost hurts to watch.

He leaves. Then he comes back twenty minutes later, stiff as a soldier, holding a sketchbook.

“I spoke incorrectly,” he says.

It is the most Damian apology ever.

He sits beside you, not quite looking at you.

“I do not understand fully,” he admits. “But I understand wanting the body to obey a feeling.”

That is Damian at his best: awkward, intense, honest.

He starts drawing with you. Not because he thinks art fixes everything, but because he understands the need to put a mark somewhere. He teaches you controlled lines. Ink washes. Red flowers. Battle standards. Mythological creatures with visible cracks filled in gold.

When you say you want scars because they would prove you survived, Damian frowns deeply.

“In the League,” he says carefully, “scars were often treated as proof of worth.”

You look at him.

His jaw tightens. “They were wrong.”

That lands differently from him.

Because Damian knows exactly what it means to be taught that pain is currency.

He becomes fiercely, almost ridiculously devoted to making sure you are not alone after family arguments or bad days. He will appear in your doorway with Titus and say, “The dog requires your attention.”

Titus absolutely does not. Titus is asleep.

Damian also becomes your biggest defender if anyone outside the family makes an ignorant comment. He has zero patience for people who call it attention-seeking like that means fake.

“Attention is a valid human requirement,” Damian snaps once, sounding like he is reciting from a psychology article Tim forced him to read. “Perhaps if you had provided appropriate attention, the situation would not have escalated.”

cassandra cain

Cass notices before almost anyone. She reads bodies like books. She sees the hesitation, the longing, the way your gaze sticks to other people’s scars. She sees when your hands hover. She sees when your smile becomes a locked door.

Cass does not confront you with words at first. She sits beside you. That is all.

Her presence is quiet enough not to scare the feeling away. She does not demand a confession. She lets you exist near her until your body remembers that being seen does not always mean being attacked.

When you finally tell her, she listens with her whole face. You struggle through the explanation. That sometimes pain made you feel real. That sometimes you wanted someone to notice. That sometimes now, even better, you still want the marks. That you look in the mirror and feel like something is missing.

Cass reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away. If you let her, she touches two fingers lightly to your wrist. Not checking. Not restraining. Just contact.

“Here,” she says.

You swallow.

She taps your chest next. “Here.” Then the mirror. “Not missing.”

Cass is the one who helps you reconnect to your body without punishment. Stretching. Slow movement. Dance. Breath. Sitting in sunlight. Letting your feet press into the floor. She makes you tea and watches bad movies with subtitles on because sometimes speaking is too much.

She does not care what your skin proves.

Cass believes bodies speak, yes.

But she also knows silence is a language.

And she hears you.

stephanie brown

Steph is furious on your behalf. In a “who made you feel like you had to carve your pain into a billboard before they would care, because I just want to talk” way.

She brings humour like a flashlight into a basement. Not to minimise it. To make the dark less smug.

When you admit that you sometimes draw red lines to imitate scars, Steph nods like this is not strange to her.

“Okay,” she says. “Then we upgrade the art department.”

She shows up the next day with body-safe markers, glitter pens, temporary tattoo paper, and an expression that says she has never under-committed to a craft project in her life. Soon your arms are covered in red vines, purple bats, little stars, fake dramatic lightning scars, and one tiny drawing of Bruce as a sad Victorian gargoyle.

You laugh so hard you almost cry. Steph’s face softens when you do.

“There you are,” she says.

She is very good at not making recovery feel sterile. With Steph, it is messy and colourful and occasionally involves eating cereal out of mugs at midnight while she tells you about the time she cried in a grocery store because the avocados were “emotionally aggressive.”

But she can be serious too.

When you say you envy people with scars, Steph does not flinch.

“I get wanting proof,” she says. “I used to wish people could see all the stuff I was carrying. Like, hello? Can I get a visible damage meter? A little Sims bar? Something?”

You snort.

“But,” she continues, gentler, “you shouldn’t have to hurt yourself to make people read the room.”

Steph is the one who reminds you that wanting to be noticed is not shameful.

“You were sending flares,” she says. “That doesn’t make you manipulative. It makes you someone who needed rescue and didn’t know how to say it yet.”

duke thomas

Duke gets the “proof” thing more than people expect. Maybe because his powers are tied to light. Maybe because he knows trauma can make the world feel unreal. Maybe because Duke has always been good at seeing what sits just under the surface.

He never pushes. He has this calm, steady presence that makes confession feel less like falling and more like setting something heavy down.

You tell him once that you feel strange for thinking scars are beautiful. Duke thinks about it.

“Maybe you’re not seeing the injury,” he says. “Maybe you’re seeing the survival after.”

Duke is the one who reframes beauty without glamorising harm. He takes you out during golden hour and shows you cracked pavement with flowers growing through it, old buildings repaired with mismatched brick, trees struck by lightning and still leafing green.

“Evidence,” he says, pointing.

You roll your eyes. “You’re so poetic.”

He grins. “Yeah, it’s a burden.”

Duke helps you find beauty in healing that still looks like something happened. Mended clothes with visible stitching. Kintsugi bowls. Embroidered patches. Art where the repair is part of the design.

He gives you a jacket one day with a small golden seam stitched near the cuff.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“A marker,” Duke says. “Not of pain. Of repair.”

You wear it constantly.