-"Don't call me dumb. I have a Phd, motherf***er"
BLUERCHERRY aka- CADE
she/her urg🇺🇾 aspiring author feminism & unclear sexuality
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@bluercherry
-"Don't call me dumb. I have a Phd, motherf***er"
BLUERCHERRY aka- CADE
she/her urg🇺🇾 aspiring author feminism & unclear sexuality
MASTERLIST | READERS
All works by ©bluercherry not feed any of my material to ai. i will crash out

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exams currently kicking my ass completely. i'll come back more motivated tough cause i have the whoooole summer ahead of me
EVERYONE DESERVES SUNSHINE
Dick Grayson x bisexual!reader
Summary: Reader struggles with internalized homophobia, and eventually comes out to Dick.
Warnings: heavy internalized homophobia, angst, comfort.
A/n: Happy Pride month everyone!! I wrote this because I know I struggle with internalized homophobia, and it’s hard to understand myself and my sexuality. The internal dialogue is very similar to mine, and I wrote what I wished someone would’ve told me.
Listen: here and here
Normal.
Everyone wants normalcy right? Normal means comfort. Normal means happiness. Normal means warmth. And you were normal. You’d grown up being normal. You’d lived your entire life being normal. All except for one part of you… the part you tried so hard to suppress, hide and throw away. You tried brainwashing yourself into thinking it was fine. That it was just your brain being weird, that it didn’t mean anything, except, deep down, you knew it did. You were straight, you told yourself — because straight was normal, unlike whatever you felt —, you were straight and the feeling your stomach got when you were around pretty girls was nothing at all.
The normal part of you, the straight part, soon became the only part of you. You told yourself that all it would take for your weirdness to go away was an amazing man who would take whatever thing you had for girls and discard it away into a bin labeled “not normal do not touch.”
It wasn’t that being bisexual, or gay or lesbian was something weird. Or something you looked down upon. When anyone else was gay, it was normal. It was okay. But for some weird reason, when it came down to you, it was a disgusting untouchable thing that changed who you were.
That’s why you had absentmindedly shrunk all your feelings and emotions about this entire topic, and pushed them into an inactive part of your brain— but no matter how hard you attempted, you couldn’t close the window completely.
Then you met Dick Grayson. And everything with him just feels like warmth. It feels like after constantly sinking and drowning, you’ve been pulled back to the shore, and immediately comforted by his presence. Dick Grayson has a way of being present that makes everything feel like summertime and happiness. He doesn’t demand versions of you. He just… stays.
And somewhere along the way, he becomes your sun.
Not in a poetic way you think about consciously, but in the way your body understands light. In the way you notice it more when it’s gone than when it’s there. When he laughs, it feels like something in your chest unclenches without permission. When he looks at you, it feels like you are allowed to exist exactly as you are in that moment, no translation needed. He warms you up and gives you energy. He brightens your day, you go to sleep looking forward to seeing his face in the morning. His smile and warmth fixes everything. The only thing it didn’t fix was, well, the only thing that needed fixing. His warmth melted your heart into a puddle, your messes into puddles (that he dried up)— but it couldn’t melt away your weirdness. It didn’t change the way you felt when you thought about girls.
And because you love him, because he is your sun, you start to think that maybe this part of you is something that makes you less deserving of that light.
So you don’t say it. You don’t even let the idea fully form it into words in your head at first. You just keep it quiet. And in the quiet, it starts to feel like guilt.
You don’t deserve him.
Dick doesn't notice anything. Perhaps he chooses not to. He continues to soak you in rays of love and affection, and you continue to guiltily absorb all his adoration. That’s the part that makes it harder.
You dont tell him because if you do, it becomes real. You don’t tell him because you don’t want to lose the sunshine you don’t even deserve, and you feel terrible about it. He is still there in the same way he always is, still reaching for you like it’s instinct, still smiling at you like you are something uncomplicated and safe. He still talks to you like there is no distance between who you are and who you are allowed to be. Still treating you like you’re fucking normal.
But then, something in you starts to shift around him anyway. You start pausing before answering things that used to be easy. You start choosing silence where you would have spoken not because you are trying to lie to him, but because you failed to successfully lie to yourself. He wouldn’t want to know anyways. Don’t do anything, you’ll ruin everything. You don’t deserve him— he deserves someone normal. Be normal or just stop. You felt guilty for letting him love you. And slowly, without meaning to, you begin stepping away. Not in a dramatic sense, not in a way someone would notice immediately, but in small absences. Shorter conversations. Slightly longer pauses before replying. Moments where you sit beside him and still feel like you are somewhere slightly out of reach.
And Dick starts to notice, because he’s the sun, he notices everything. He notices when his light doesn’t quite touch your soul.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says one night, voice soft, almost careful.
“I’m fine,” you answer automatically, because you don’t deserve comfort or warmth.
But even as you say it, you feel it land wrong between you.
He doesn’t argue. He just watches you for a second longer than usual, like he is trying to understand what kind of silence you’re hiding inside of. And that’s when you start realizing something you didn’t want to admit.
The sun is still there. But you’re starting to look away from it. And it already feels undeniably cold and wrong.
It continues to build more and more, until it’s too hard and unusual to ignore. There’s no longer common light and comfort between the two of you. Only the freezing realization that it’s not the same anymore. That you’re not the same anymore.
Dick starts sitting closer in conversations that feel like they are slipping away from him. He stops accepting “I’m fine” as a full answer. Not because he wants to push, but because he is refusing to pretend he doesn’t see what is happening. You’re his moon, his calming shade when he’s forced to constantly bathe in the searing spotlight. The space growing between the two of you has left him feeling a burning pain in his heart. All he needs is for you to cool it.
He sees the pain in your eyes. He sees how cold, miserable and empty you look. He just wants to warm you up.
One night, he doesn’t fill the silence when you don’t speak. He just lets it exist, like he’s waiting for you to choose whether you’re going to stay in it or leave it.
“Talk to me,” he says finally.
And your chest tightens immediately, because there is nowhere safe inside that sentence.
“I am talking to you,” you try.
But it doesn’t sound like truth. And you both know it isn’t.
Dick exhales softly, shaking his head slightly.
“No,” he says. “You’re staying close, but you’re not letting me in.”
And it makes your throat tighten. Because he’s right. You know he’s right and you hate it. You hate that you can’t just take these feelings out of you and throw them away. You hate that you can’t even do that much for Dick, when he’d do anything for you, He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes steady on you in a way that feels too kind to run from but too direct to survive. Sometimes the only choice you have is to get burned. That’s what this is. The once warm gaze that comforted you in tough times now feels like it’s burning a hole through your heart.
“I’m not leaving,” he says quietly. “No matter what it is. Just… stop doing this alone.”
That almost breaks you. You flew too far from the sun didn’t you? And now the rays won’t reach you anymore. That burning you felt wasn’t the sun. It was you. It was the crippling shame that you threw away the best thing you had. So you go quiet again.
The silence is no longer quiet. It feels like a yell that's begging to close this distance, and somehow that makes everything worse. If it were quiet, if it were small enough to ignore, maybe you could have continued pretending. Maybe you could have kept carrying it for another week, another month, another year. Maybe you could have gone your entire life without saying it out loud and let it rot somewhere deep inside of you where nobody could see it. But it isn't small anymore. It has grown too large to fit inside your chest. It leaks into conversations, into the spaces between words, into the way you look at Dick and then immediately away again. It follows you everywhere, this ugly little secret that shouldn't even be a secret. It sits between the two of you now, invisible but impossible to miss.
Dick watches you for a long moment, and you can practically see the concern growing behind his eyes. It makes your stomach twist. Concern means he cares. Concern means he hasn't given up. Concern means he still loves you enough to worry, and somehow that hurts worse than anything else because all you can think about is how undeserved it feels. Guilt sends freezing chills all over your body and no words he says can unthaw it. You have spent so long convincing yourself that this thing inside you makes you different, makes you wrong, makes you less than what he deserves, that every ounce of affection he gives you feels borrowed. Like you're walking around wearing clothes that belong to somebody else, waiting for the rightful owner to come take them back.
"You've been carrying something by yourself for a while now."
His voice is so painfully quiet and it kills you. You want him to scream, and shout and do the things you deserve. Not act like you’re still deserving of his love. You hate how easily he sees through you. You hate how badly you want to let him.
Your fingers tighten together in your lap. The pressure hurts, but not enough to drown out the ache sitting beneath your ribs. All you want to do is tell the truth and then hug him, and hold him and soak in all his love. You just want to feel that tenderness again. And you feel guilty for that too.
You feel guilty for everything. Like somehow every terrible thing is because of one thing:
You like girls.
The thought settles heavy in your heart.
"It's nothing."
The lie sounds weak even to your own ears. Dick's expression doesn't change, and it feels like that’s the worst part. He doesn’t look annoyed or roll his eyes. He doesn’t get frustrated or angry. He just… looks sad. Not sad at you, but rather sad for you. Sad because for the first time ever, he doesn’t know how to use his warmth to disintegrate your worries away. Sad like he's watching somebody drown from the shore and can't understand why they keep refusing the hand being offered to them.
"You're miserable."
The statement leaves softly, like all his previous ones. But it lands like a slap against your face.
You look away immediately.
"I'm not."
"You are."
His response comes so quickly that it almost sounds automatic, like he knew what you were gonna say, and he knew your response. The certainty in it makes something twist painfully in your chest.
Because he isn't wrong. You are miserable. You've been miserable for months. Every happy moment comes attached to guilt now. Every kiss is followed by the reminder that you haven't told him. Every laugh feels stolen. Every good day ends with the same thought curling up beside you in bed.
He deserves someone normal. The thought has become so familiar that sometimes it doesn't even sound cruel anymore. It just sounds true.
You stare at the floor.
Dick sighs quietly, and it isn’t dramatic, or with pent up frustration spilling out, it’s just tired.
Because Dick has always carried enough burdens for ten people. He's spent his entire life taking care of everyone around him. He shouldn't have to carry you too.
"You know," he says after a moment, "there was a point where I thought maybe you were mad at me."
Your head snaps up immediately at the ridiculous thought. Mad at him? For what? What could he possibly have done to make you mad at him? Sure he did stuff that mad you mad, just not at him. They made you mad at yourself. Because receiving love from him felt like a crime. Like you were stealing it rather than being given it,
"What?"
His mouth twitches slightly.
"Yeah."
"Dick."
"I didn't know."
The small smile disappears as quickly as it arrived.
"I still don't."
The room feels, if it’s even possible, even colder. You don’t know how that’s possible when the sun is literally sitting right across from you.
"Dick—"
"No, seriously."
His voice still stays gentle, making you want to scream.
"I don't know what's happening. I don't know why you've been pulling away from me. I don't know why you look like you're waiting for something terrible to happen every time I walk into a room."
His eyes meet yours. And then the same unbearable warmth is there again— it’s just unreachable. It’s there along with the horrible kindness and the gut wrenching sympathy.
"I just— I know you're hurting."
He’s right again. He always seems to be right. You are hurting.
And it’s not because you're bisexual, and it’s not because there's anything wrong with being bisexual. You know there isn't. You would never look at somebody else and think the things you've spent years thinking about yourself.
You wouldn't ever tell another girl she was broken.
You wouldn't dream of telling another girl she was weird.
You wouldn't instill the concept that she deserved less love because of who she was within her.
But somehow those rules have never applied to you. The hypocrisy isn't lost on you.
It never has been. You know it doesn't make sense and yiu know it isn't logical, and yet somehow the feeling remains. It’s stubborn and persistent and settles in you like a faint, permanent ache that’s buried so deep inside of you that it feels fused to your bones.
You wonder if Dick would still look at you like this if he knew. The thought arrives before you can stop it.
Would he still smile at you the same way?
Would he still call you beautiful?
Would he still kiss you and say you're the best thing that's ever happened to him?
Would he still be your sunshine?
Or would the light finally disappear?
The possibility terrifies you. Because somewhere along the way, Dick stopped being something you simply wanted. He became something you needed. And not in an unhealthy way. Not in a way that made your happiness dependent on him. But in the way plants need sunlight. In the way flowers instinctively turn toward warmth.
Life had existed before him. But it had been colder.
Darker.
Lonelier.
And now that you knew what warmth felt like, the thought of losing it felt unbearable.
A lump forms in your throat and you swallow against it.It doesn't move.
Dick’s expression softens.
"Hey."
The single word almost breaks you.
"Talk to me."
Your vision starts blurring and you hate that. You hate that you’re crying. You especially hate that you’re crying in front of him. Because Dick always treats your tears like they're important. And you hate it, because he should be disgusted. And that just makes you cry harder.
"I can't."
The words come out as a small, pathetic choked sob. And it’s barely audible, but he hears them immediately. His eyebrows pull together.
"Why not?"
Because if you tell him, everything changes.
Because if you tell him, it becomes real.
Because if you tell him, he'll finally realize he could have done better.
You lower your head.
The tears are coming faster now, and it’s embarrassing. It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic. You’ve been pathetic because you’ve let all your feelings and emotions escalate over the years. And the things you kept buried quietly now turned into stormy messes of guilt and self deprecation. You can't stop them.
"Dick..."
His name cracks apart halfway through.
And instantly, he's moving closer. And it’s somehow, the same amount. It’s not enough to crowd you. It’s just enough to remind you that he's there.
Just enough to remind you that the sun is still trying to reach you.
"Whatever it is," he says softly, "you can tell me."
Your chest hurts. Because he means it. You know he means it.
Dick Grayson has never once made you feel unsafe. Not once. Not ever.
The fear was never that he would scream.
The fear was never that he would mock you.
The fear was never even that he would hate you.
The fear was always simpler than that.
The fear was that he'd look at you differently.
That one day he'd wake up and realize you weren't who he thought you were. That the sunshine you've been standing in all this time would finally belong to somebody else. And suddenly you're so tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of carrying this. Tired of spending every day terrified that the person you love most in the world will stop loving you the moment he sees all of you. Your eyes squeeze shut. The words are right there.
Waiting.
Terrifying.
Simple.
Three words.
Three stupid words that shouldn't matter nearly this much.
You can feel them sitting on your tongue.
And for the first time, you're not sure you can keep them there. Not because you don’t know what they are anymore and it’s not because you’re unsure of the shape of them or the way they’ve been forming in your chest for far too long, but because holding them in now feels more painful than letting them go. It feels like standing on the edge of something you’ve been circling for months, maybe years, pretending you weren’t already halfway over it. Like your body has already decided what’s going to happen and your mind is just trying to delay the moment it becomes irreversible.
Rip the bandage .
Because once you say it, there’s no taking it back into the quiet. No stuffing it back into the old corners of your mind where you kept it folded up and small and manageable. Once it leaves you, it stops being something you can argue with privately. It becomes real in a way that has shape and weight and consequence, something Dick can hear and respond to and misunderstand or understand too well. And that is what makes it feel like your entire body is bracing for impact even though nothing has happened yet.
Rip the bandage .
Dick is still looking at you like he always does when he’s trying to reach you without pushing too hard. That steady kind of attention that used to feel like safety, like being held without being touched. It makes your chest ache now in a different way, because you can see how much of him is still here, how much warmth is still being offered to you so freely, and all you can think about is how unfair it feels that you’re standing in it while carrying something you’ve convinced yourself makes you unworthy of it.
The sun is still there.
That thought hits you again, sharp and unbearable in its simplicity. Dick Grayson is still the same person who pulled you out of all those darker places without even trying to make it sound like effort. He still looks at you like you are someone worth staying for, like you are not complicated in the ways you keep telling yourself you are. He is still your warmth, still the thing you orbit without meaning to, still the light you learned to breathe inside of.
And yet something in you keeps insisting you are not supposed to be this close to it.
That you’ve been standing too long in something you were never meant to deserve.
Rip the goddamn bandage .
Your throat tightens around the words before you can even consciously decide to speak. It feels less like a choice now and more like surrender, like your body is finally overriding everything you’ve been telling it to do for years. The fear doesn’t disappear, it just stops being strong enough to hold the words back.
Just fucking rip the bandage .
“I can’t—” you start, and your voice breaks before it can become anything stable, anything usable, anything that would make this easier.
Dick shifts immediately, like that alone is enough to pull all of his attention fully into you.
“Hey,” he says softly, not interrupting, just anchoring. Just waiting.
And that gentleness is what undoes you a little more.
Because you’ve imagined this moment so many times in your head, and never once has it included him sounding like that. Never once has it included him still being here with you, still soft, still close, still waiting instead of pulling away.
You swallow hard, but it doesn’t help.
“I’ve been trying not to say it,” you manage, and even that feels like too much already, like the sentence is already spilling out faster than you can control it, like you’re watching yourself from somewhere slightly outside your body and realizing there is no longer any way to stop this from becoming real.
Dick doesn’t move away. He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, like he always does, like he always has. And that makes it worse in the most unbearable way, because you can feel how much he trusts you to finish.
So you do.
You start to pull the bandage off. And it hurts. But it’s too late to close it back up.
You let the words keep forming even though your chest feels like it’s collapsing inward with every syllable.
“It’s just… I don’t think I ever actually stopped feeling it,” you say, and your voice is shaking now in a way you can’t hide anymore, like your control has finally started to slip completely. “And I tried. I really did. I kept telling myself it was nothing, that it didn’t matter, that it would go away if I just ignored it long enough, but it didn’t. It just stayed there, like it was always going to stay there no matter how much I tried to make myself smaller around it.”
You dread the wound that’s underneath bandage .
Your breath stutters, and you hate how loud it sounds in the space between you.
“And I know how it sounds,” you continue, because now that it’s started, it won’t stop, it can’t stop, “I know it sounds like I should’ve dealt with it already, like it should’ve been simple to figure out or fix or whatever, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t make it disappear and I couldn’t make myself stop being scared of it either, because every time I thought about it I just kept thinking that maybe if I was wrong about myself, if I was just overthinking it, then I could still be normal.”
The word lands heavier than the rest.
Normal. Because normal was supposed to be simple. Normal was supposed to mean you didn’t sit here shaking while trying to explain yourself to the person you love most in the world. Normal was supposed to mean you didn’t have to analyze every piece of yourself like it was something dangerous. You finally force yourself to look at him.
And that’s what almost breaks you completely.
Because Dick doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look disgusted. He doesn’t look his light is about to go out,
He just looks like he’s trying to understand something that hurts because it exists at all, not because it changes how he sees you.
And that realization makes your voice fall apart at the edges when you finally say it.
“I think I’m bisexual.”
You fucking ripped the godforsaken bandage .
You wait for the world to end.
Not dramatically. Not in any cinematic way where everything suddenly falls apart at once. It’s quieter than that, more internal, more familiar. It’s the kind of ending you’ve rehearsed so many times in your head that your body already knows the posture of it. The way your shoulders tense. The way your breathing goes shallow. The way your mind starts cataloguing what comes after, because it’s always assumed there will be an “after,” and it will be colder than what came before. The sun is about to stop shining. That thought doesn’t arrive as metaphor right now. It feels physical. Like something in the room has already begun dimming even though nothing has moved. Like warmth can leave a space before the source of it actually goes. You can almost feel it in advance, that imagined absence of Dick’s presence in your life, the way the world would look if you had just broken something irreversible without meaning to. If you had said too much. If you had revealed too much. If you had finally become too complicated to stay loved in the same way. That’s how your world ends. A cold, numb death.
You don’t even realize your hands are trembling until you try to clench them still.
“I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” you say, and your voice comes out strained, like it’s being pulled through something tight inside your chest. “I didn’t mean to make it weird or heavy or turn it into this whole thing, I just— I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t know anymore.”
The words keep coming because silence feels worse. Because silence feels like waiting tbe judged. And your mind is already filling in what he hasn’t said yet. He’s confused. He’s overwhelmed. He’s realizing something changed. He’s realizing you changed.
“I know how it sounds,” you continue, and now it’s harder to breathe properly, because you can feel yourself slipping into the part of you that always does this, the part that tries to fix the reaction before it happens. “I know people are supposed to just… figure this out earlier or cleaner or whatever, but I didn’t. I didn’t have words for it for a long time and when I did I kept telling myself it didn’t matter and that it wasn’t true for me, because it was easier than admitting it did.”
You swallow, and it hurts.
“And I know you probably didn’t expect this from me,” you add, quieter now, almost apologetic just for taking up space in the conversation, “and I don’t expect you to just understand it, I just— I needed you to know because it was starting to feel like lying every time I didn’t say it.”
There’s a pause.
A real one. And in that pause your fear grows teeth again.
The silence that follows doesn’t feel empty anymore, not in the way it did before when it used to sound like something breaking. It feels heavier now, fuller, like the air itself has changed shape around what you said, like the room is still adjusting to the fact that something honest finally exists in it. You keep waiting for it to tip into something worse, for the shift you’ve been bracing for your entire life, for the moment where his expression finally turns into something you recognize as rejection.
The sun is about to stop shining.
You look at him then, finally, because not looking feels worse than seeing it happen.
But Dick doesn’t move away.
He just looks at you.
And then, slowly, like he’s making a decision about how to hold something delicate without dropping it, he exhales.
“I need you to listen to me,” he says quietly, not like an order, but like he’s asking for a space where he can make sure you actually hear him without your fear translating everything into something harsher than it is. “Not to respond. Not to explain. Just… listen for a second.”
Your throat tightens, but you nod anyway.
Because you don’t know what else to do with yourself. Because this is the part where things usually end.
Dick shifts slightly closer, not closing distance in a way that traps you, just enough that he’s fully here with you, fully present in a way that makes it impossible to pretend you’re alone in this moment, or tune him out.
“When you told me,” he starts carefully, “that you’re bisexual… I think what I heard you say was something about yourself being wrong. Or confusing. Or like it changes something fundamental about whether you deserve to be loved the way you are.”
He pauses, watching your face, like he’s checking whether he’s close.
And you don’t say anything, because you are.
“I need to tell you something really clearly,” he continues, voice steady but softer now, “that has nothing to do with fixing you or correcting you or anything like that. It’s just… truth. The kind of truth I wish someone had told me earlier in my life when I was trying to figure out who I was without feeling like I was failing at it.”
That makes something in your chest shift. Because you didn’t expect that. You didn’t expect him to include himself in this.
“I’m not straight in the way people assume— no one really is—” he says, and he doesn’t hesitate on the words, doesn’t make them smaller or lighter than they are. “And I’m not anything neatly boxed either. I’ve had feelings I didn’t understand for a long time. I’ve questioned myself more than once. I’ve stood in the middle of things and thought, ‘What does this make me?’ and the honest answer was always… I don’t know yet.”
Your breath catches slightly.
Dick watches that reaction, then continues anyway, grounding you with how normal he makes it sound.
“And what I’ve learned,” he says, “is that most people are like that. Not just in sexuality, but in everything that has to do with love and attraction and connection. We grow up wanting answers that are clean and final because it makes us feel safe, like we can label ourselves and be done with it. But people don’t really work like that. There isn’t a switch that flips where you become ‘fully one thing’ and stay there perfectly forever.”
His gaze doesn’t leave you.
“There’s a spectrum,” he says simply. “Not as a buzzword. Not as something vague. Just… the reality that attraction, love, identity, all of it exists in a wide space. Some people sit in one place on it their whole lives. Some people move. Some people don’t understand where they are until they’re already living it.”
Your throat tightens again, but this time it isn’t panic.
It’s something else.
Something quieter.
Because you’re looking down at the wound that was under your bandage, and there’s nothing. No blood. No scratches. Just… healed skin…
“I need you to hear this part especially,” he adds, and his voice drops just slightly. “There is no version of you that was supposed to be ‘normal’ in the way you’re using that word. There isn’t a checklist you failed. There isn’t a right answer you missed. There’s just you. Figuring yourself out in real time like everyone else is, whether they admit it or not.”
The word “normal” lands differently when he says it.
Not like a standard.
Like something that doesn’t actually exist in the way you’ve been measuring yourself against it.
He leans forward a little more, elbows resting loosely on his knees, hands relaxed, like he’s trying to keep everything about him open instead of overwhelming.
“And love,” he says quietly, “is not something that gets smaller or less real because of who it’s directed toward. It’s not conditional on you fitting into some idea of what you’re supposed to be. It’s not something you have to earn by being uncomplicated.”
Your eyes sting again, but you don’t look away.
“I love you,” he continues, and it’s not dramatic, not sudden, just steady in a way that feels like it’s always been there and will keep being there whether you’re panicking or not. “Not because you’re easy to understand. Not because you fit into something predictable. I love you because you’re you. And that hasn’t changed.”
Your chest tightens so hard it almost hurts. Dick’s voice softens further, like he’s trying to undo years of something in you he didn’t cause but is still choosing to help carry.
“And I need you to stop treating what you just told me like it’s something that puts you outside of being loved,” he says. “Because it doesn’t. It’s just a part of who you are. A real part. A valid part. Not something shameful. Not something you owe anyone an apology for.”
That word—apology—makes your stomach twist automatically.
Because you’ve already apologized in your head a hundred times.
For existing like this. For saying it. For not being simpler.
“And before you even go there,” he adds gently, “there is no guilt here. Not from me. Not from you. Not from this. You didn’t do anything wrong by being who you are. You didn’t do anything wrong by realizing it. And you definitely didn’t do anything wrong by telling me.”
A pause.
His gaze holds yours, steady and unwavering.
“You’re allowed to exist without punishment,” he says quietly. “You’re allowed to be figuring yourself out without it meaning you’ve broken something. And you’re allowed to love who you love, in whatever way that happens for you, without it turning into something you have to be ashamed of.”
Dick’s hand reaches for yours.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says finally, softer again. “Not because I have to prove something, but because there’s nothing about this that makes me want to leave. If anything, it just makes me understand you more. And I love you more honestly for it, not less.”
The words settle in the room differently now.
And for the first time since you spoke, the sun doesn’t feel like it’s about to disappear.
It feels like it’s resparkling your entire life. Like everything finally has color again. That’s what love is, isn’t it? It’s all the shades of you and who you love. No color is normal. They’re all unique. They all fill your life with warmth and joy. And for the first time ever, you understand why Dick is your sunshine. It’s because love is sunshine, no matter who you love.
The next morning, you wake slowly beneath a patch of warm sunlight spilling through the curtains. For a few disoriented moments, you remain tangled in blankets and sleep, suspended between yesterday and today, between the version of yourself that had spent years carrying a secret and the version that had finally spoken it aloud. The memory returns gradually. The confession. The tears. The shaking in your hands. The way your voice had broken around words that had lived inside your chest for so long they almost felt permanent. The fear comes back too, though weaker now, stripped of the power it once held. Yesterday, you had stood in front of Dick convinced honesty would cost you everything. Instead, he had listened. He had stayed. He had taken every horrible thing you believed about yourself and treated it with more kindness than you had ever offered it.
You roll over instinctively, expecting to find him asleep beside you, but his side of the bed is empty. The blankets are still messy from where he had been, the pillow dented beneath the imprint of his head, but he is gone. A faint frown pulls at your eyebrows as you sit up. The apartment is unusually quiet, though not completely silent. Somewhere in the distance, you hear movement. A cabinet door. A muffled thud. The sound of someone trying very hard not to make noise and failing. Then something else catches your attention.
The apartment smells sweet. Not breakfast sweet. Not coffee sweet. Sugar sweet. Vanilla sweet. The kind of smell that belongs in bakeries and birthday parties and childhood afternoons spent licking frosting from mixing spoons. Curiosity pulls you out of bed.
The sunlight follows you into the hallway, warming the hardwood floors beneath your feet. The apartment feels different this morning. Lighter somehow. As though yesterday opened a window you didn't realize had been shut for years. Nothing around you has changed, and yet everything feels brighter. The air feels easier to breathe. The walls feel less confining. Even the sunlight streaming through the apartment seems warmer than usual, spreading itself across every surface in long golden stretches.
As you approach the kitchen, the sweet smell grows stronger. You round the corner and stop immediately.
Dick is standing in the middle of the kitchen with frosting on his face.
There is frosting on his cheek. More frosting on one hand. A suspicious amount of frosting on his shirt. The kitchen itself looks like it survived a small baking-related disaster. There is powdered sugar on the counter. A mixing bowl sits abandoned beside the sink. A spatula has somehow ended up on the opposite side of the room entirely. And directly in front of him, sitting proudly in the center of the counter as though it belongs in a museum, is a cake.
A very homemade cake.
The frosting is uneven. One side leans slightly lower than the other. The piping looks like it fought for its life. Across the top sits a large yellow sun made of icing that is unmistakably supposed to be a sun despite looking only vaguely circular. Around it are several sunflowers, each one slightly different from the last, their petals uneven and imperfect and completely impossible to mistake for anything other than something made with love.
Dick notices you standing there and immediately lights up.
"There you are," he says, sounding absurdly pleased with himself.
You stare at him. Then at the cake. Then at the frosting on his face. Then back at him. His grin widens. The longer you stare, the more satisfied he seems.
"What did you do?" you finally ask.
"I created art," he replies confidently.
Your eyes drift back toward the cake. The sun is crooked. One sunflower appears to have significantly more petals than the others. Another looks slightly concerned about its own existence. The entire thing is so objectively terrible that you can feel laughter threatening before you've even fully processed what you're looking at.
"Dick."
"Yes?"
"The sun is leaning."
"The sun is dynamic."
"It looks drunk."
His offended gasp echoes dramatically through the kitchen.
"You are so unbelievably uncultured."
The laugh escapes before you can stop it. It starts small. Then it grows. Just like flowers when they’re offered sunlight. Then suddenly you're laughing hard enough to have tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.
Dick points triumphantly.
"There it is."
"What?"
"That laugh."
His voice softens slightly.
"I've missed hearing that laugh."
Dick's expression changes as he watches you. The teasing remains, but beneath it sits something gentler. He glances at the cake and then back at you.
"I know yesterday was hard."
The kitchen suddenly feels very still. Sunlight pours through the windows behind him, wrapping itself around his shoulders like gold.
Dick leans against the counter, crossing his arms loosely.
"I know you've probably spent a really long time carrying all of that around by yourself. Longer than I can even understand." His eyes remain fixed on yours. "And I know one conversation doesn't magically make years of guilt disappear. I know it probably doesn't feel fixed."
Dick smiles softly.
"But I wanted you to wake up to something good."
You feel your eyes sting and he notices immediately. His expression softens even more.
"I wanted the first morning after telling somebody to be a happy one."
The tears come then.
And its because you're devastated or overwhelmed. It’s because you’ve never seen it that way before. Not as a burden or a confession but as something deserving of happiness. As something deserving of sunshine.
Dick takes a small step closer.
"I was proud of you yesterday."
The tears spill over. His voice remains gentle.
"I'm still proud of you."
You shake your head automatically, years of insecurity responding before logic can catch up.
Dick immediately notices.
"No."
The word is quiet but firm.
"No, we're not doing that."
A watery laugh escapes you.
His expression remains stubborn.
"You don't get to tell me how I feel."
"Dick—"
"I'm serious."
The morning sunlight catches in his eyes.
"You spent years being scared of something that was never wrong in the first place. You spent years convincing yourself that a part of you made you less deserving of love. Then yesterday you looked me in the eye and told me anyway."
His smile returns.
"That's brave."
Your throat hurts. Everything hurts. But in the way a healing bruise hurts. The kind that reminds you recovery is happening.
Dick gestures dramatically toward the cake.
"Therefore, cake."
You laugh through your tears.
He gestures again.
"And sunflowers."
You look down.
Only now do you notice the bouquet sitting beside the cake. Bright yellow sunflowers. Your favorite.
"I knew those would work."
"You got me flowers?"
"Obviously."
The answer comes as though the alternative would have been absurd.
A smile finally pulls across your face.
Dick relaxes slightly when he sees it, as though that expression alone was worth the entire disaster currently occupying his kitchen.
The sunlight continues spilling through the windows, filling every corner of the room with warmth. It catches on the yellow petals of the sunflowers. It glows against the frosting sun sitting crookedly atop the cake. It wraps around Dick as he stands there smiling at you with icing still smeared across his face.
For years, you thought sunshine was something fragile. Something you had to earn. Something that would disappear the moment somebody saw all of you.
Instead, it is standing in front of you holding flowers.
It is covered in frosting.
And it spent half the night making a terrible cake just to make you smile.
That’s when you realize, everyone deserves love, no matter what shade it’s in. No matter how they express it. Everyone needs sunshine. Everyone needs love. Everyone deserves sunshine, and so do you
Hi guys! So I just wanted to say sum stuff! First of all, happy pride month! Second of all, I am so proud of every single person who has come out, and every single person who hasn’t. I feel like we’ve really just pressured everyone to stick by a label. I suppose one of the reasons I’m too afraid to admit my sexuality to myself is because of this. Once I admit it, I’m stuck this way. And it’s so hard because we should all be able to accept ourselves. I’ve learned that sexuality isn’t one firm position. We’re all in a vast space, constantly moving and changing. And love, at the end of the day is love! Everyone deserves sunshine.☀️ 💛🧡
Taglist: @leovaldez0924 @newangelle @pxrcyjcksons @rani1028 @maradcrs @purelypersistenttribe @cecillia-stuff @sarahskywalker-amidala @starrydustedwinter @brucewayneisavirgin @idkwhattosaynowsorry @sexy-sadie-6505
OHH I SEE YOU HARLEY QUINN🙂↕️🙂↕️
AAAAAA YEAHH

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NAME CHANGE EVERYONE
id figured i haven't posted that much yet so might as well change it now so it isn't a pain in the ass rearrange all the URL shit of the masterlist
I'll change my theme a bit too so if you can't find my works for a few days it's because im working on it 🫶🏼
Never meet your idols
Actor!Dick Grayson x Actress!reader
CHAPTER 1 — You never imagined that your potential new co-star—and your character’s love interest—would turn out to be the person you hated the most.
!!: angst. fem!reader. no use of y/n. enemies to lovers. no-capes + fame au. second person narrator. reader's pov (dick is not ooc, it's just reader's perception of him at the beginning of the story, give it time). +2.7k words. A/N: It's finally here!!! thank you to my beloved moots, @fancy-possum for explaining me everything I needed to know about the audition process, and @jxn3 for proofreading and editing this. And thank you for 400 followers. As always, comments and reblog as most appreciated.
[serie masterlist] ; [prologue] [next chapter]
The first time you saw Dick Grayson was at the cinema, when you were eleven years old. Your father, extremely happy that his daughter had developed an interest in his favourite movie saga of all time, had decided to take you to the cinema to watch the latest movie of the franchise.
It was not a secret that Bruce Wayne in the leading role was fantastic, the best decision the casting directors could have made for the main character, but the real newness was Dick Grayson's first appearance on the big screen.
That day, you came out of the cinema with the dream of becoming an actress self-confirmed, and a new crush: Bruce Wayne’s adoptive son, who became Hollywood's greatest promise from that day on.
An innocent crush at eleven was nothing compared with the wave of obsessive fangirls Dick had once he turned sixteen. All the teenage girls were divided into two groups: The ones madly in love with Justin Bieber, and the ones who were head over heels for Dick Grayson.
You, of course, were part of the second group. Because the guy was handsome, talented, rich, and also only one year older than you.
At eighteen, your parents started letting you send auditions for small roles or parts in commercials. If you were lucky enough, you were contacted to be an extra in a very small production. No lines, or more than ten seconds on screen, but it was better than nothing.
At twenty-two, you were finally noticed by a big production, giving you a supporting role with some lines in just one episode of a series.
And at twenty-five, you finally started to be known in the industry. Your life changed, you had a reputation as an actress: you were famous now. And who would have told you that one year later you would have met your first crush ever and be completely disappointed by him?
You had seen Dick on the red carpet. With a wide, white, and charming smile and a perfectly tailored deep navy blue suit. He stood tall in front of all the cameras, while being showered by the flashes. It was impressive how much time he could hold it without blinking, even though the lights were blinding him. It was probably the years of practice, of growing up in front of cameras, that he must be used to them by now.
He looked ethereal, and you felt out of place. You had won your place in that industry with your blood, sweat, and tears. You deserved your spot at that award show. But seeing him so natural, just like the other actors, actresses, movie directors, and important figures around you, made you feel strange.
A weird feeling of not belonging, of not being good enough to step on the same floor they were walking on, settled in your heart, making it feel heavy.
And you had been so excited of just greeting Dick, telling him how much you admired him as a person and as an actor, but before you could you heard it .
“They have offered me another role for this movie that’s going to be filmed somewhere in France. It’s been so long since I did a proper audition, I kinda miss it.”
It was nothing bad, just Dick Grayson, the talented actor you had followed your entire teenage years, confessing to his friends that it had been a while since he did his very last audition. Just him confirming the power the title ‘Bruce Wayne’s son’ holds in the industry, and how that leads to gifted roles.
No. Dick Grayson was not overrated. The guy was talented, and you couldn’t deny how much work and time he devoted to his projects. But he never had to fight to be recognized, to be chosen.
It wasn’t that line he said that affected you the most; it was the laughs and the stupid comments he and his friends made of every single movie presented at the event. Every harmful comment would be excused with an ‘it was just a joke’, but they were grown adults, not stupid teenage boys anymore. And when the film you starred in was announced, and one scene of your character played on the screen, one of his friends said “At least she’s hot.” and Dick dared to laugh.
You hadn’t seen him laugh directly. Your eyes had been fixated on the enormous screen the entire time. But the three boys were right behind you, and all those stupid interviews you had watched at 15 made you recognize his laugh almost instantly.
The comment hurt, because they were implying that your effort hadn’t been enough. That you weren’t talented. That you didn’t belong. And Dick’s laugh meant that he agreed.
The man who had been your idol for over a decade was agreeing with someone who had just mistreated you without knowing you were right in front of them.
Dick could be the best actor in the world, but he definitely wasn’t the person you expected him to be.
The film market was oversaturated with sequels to films that had already been made. It was strange to see an original story on the billboards. This also meant that looking for new actors for leading roles was not happening at all.
You weren’t complaining, but the fact that your manager wasn’t finding any offers for you to audition for, or any business calling you to reinterpret an old role for a sequel, was frustrating.
But there was someone who was strangely absent and had been for the past year, just like you. Dick Grayson hadn’t shown up in any new movie or come back to play any of his characters in any sequel. He was alive, of course. Paparazzi had seen him around Gotham during winter, and in his house in Los Angeles during summer.
It was obvious that his absence was making more noise than yours, and it was also evident that he was the one who chose to take a break while you tried to find new projects to work on, with no luck.
Until you received a call from your manager.
“I have an offer for a movie that is expected to come out in two years, around June. It's a rom-com and the description for one of the female characters fits perfectly with you.”
You jumped out of excitement when you heard your manager’s words on the other end of line. You had been waiting a whole year for this moment, and it was finally happening.
“Do you know what the movie is going to be about?” You asked, biting the skin around your nails, a strange fixation you have had since you were small.
“As far as I know, it’s going to follow the catastrophic love story between Alexandra and Charles. She’s a frustrated and unknown writer who self-publishes her books under a pseudonym, and Charles is a man who’s a regular at the cafe she works at and is also a huge fan of her books, without knowing she’s the writer.” Your manager explained.
“Cliché. I love it.”
“You need to send the audition tape next week. I’ll send you all the details via email.”
You nodded alongside your manager’s explanation. You couldn’t keep your smile to yourself; it was big and shiny, full of happiness.
You were going back to acting, you were going back to your work, your favourite thing. And a rom-com no more, no less. Since you were a child, you had always said how much you would love to work in a rom-com, and this one was your opportunity. You were going to get that role.
You spent the entire week preparing your self-tape, and you even called one of your best friends to help you with it. By Wednesday, it was sent, and now everything was up to the casting director and their team.
Some weeks later, your manager called you to inform you that the in-person casting was going to be that same Friday. This was it, you were going back to the big screen.
You weren't unfamiliar with the casting process; in fact, it had a weird feeling of mystery and thrill to it that you enjoyed. So when you arrived at the building the casting for the rom-com was going to be held, you didn’t feel nervous at all, just happy to have this opportunity and determined to do the best you could.
“Good morning.” The casting director, a middle-aged woman seated in the center of a large table, greeted you with a warm but professional smile. Seated next to her were the other people working on the casting team, the writer and the director of the movie himself.
You shut the door with a soft click behind you once you had fully stepped into the room, and smiled at everyone. It was important to show a positive mindset in this kind of process, as if you had to show yourself as a professional and confident person, without coming across as too rude or arrogant.
“We would like to see you perform a scene of the script that had been sent to you a couple of weeks ago. Do you have it here?” The woman asked, pushing her glasses back in place with her index finger.
“Yes.” You smiled and picked up the script you’d printed out before coming here.
“Then, please, go to the second act. Now, on the self-tape you read for Shiera, the protagonist’s best friend. However, on the callbacks, they had chosen you as a potential option to play the main role, Alexandra.” The woman explained, her eyes moved from the script in her hands to you, standing in the middle of the room.
You nodded, keeping the smile on your face as professional as possible, you couldn’t show how excited you were to have reached the final stage of the casting process for the lead role in the film.
“Now, the actor that is going to play Charles should’ve been here twenty minutes ago…” The casting director’s eyes narrowed. Her eyes were locked to the door, looking hard enough to burn a hole through it if she could.
That was when the door flew open with a loud thud.
His eyes were bluer than they appeared on the screen; his hair was longer than usual, his skin was tanned, and he certainly looked as strong as he was. He had an apologetic yet charming smile on his face, and in his right hand he clutched the movie script far too tightly.
Dick Grayson had walked into the same room where you were auditioning for what could be your next movie.
“Hello, good morning, sorry I’m late. The traffic in Los Angeles is horrible.” He closed the door and took off his jacket with an over-the-top ego, placing it carelessly over an empty chair. He was acting like he owned the place. If the first impression you had of him a year ago hadn’t been the best one, this did definitely not fix the image you had of him.
The movie director sighed but put his professional smile back on when he looked at Dick, now standing too close to you.
“Good morning.” He then looked at you. “Meet Richard Grayson, he is going to play Charles in the movie, and we would like to see how you both would work together.”
You could feel your heart racing. Maybe it was because the man next to you apparently didn’t know anything about social distance and was standing way too close to you. You could step away, just one step to your left, but it would seem rude, or the director could sense it as you being uncomfortable next to him and directly dismiss you as an option for Alexandra’s role.
Maybe Dick wasn’t your favourite person in the world, and working with him didn’t sound appealing at all, but this was the best opportunity that had been given to you for the past year, and you weren’t going to let a man ruin this for you.
“The plan was for you two to play some scenes from the second and the third act, but we’re going to skip to the first scene in the third act, since Mr. Grayson has made us lose twenty valuable minutes of our precious time.” That passive-aggressive remark didn’t seem to affect Dick, as his charming and confident smile didn’t waver at all.
Both of you turned to the page the director had ordered, then turned your bodies to look at each other.
Having Dick in front of you, this close, felt unreal. He was taller than you had expected, and the smell of his Jean Paul Gautier cologne filled your nostrils.
Then he looked at you, and his blue eyes met yours. They were a very distinctive shade of blue—not light enough to look gray, but deep enough to be compared to the sea. Trapped deep within those irises were the ghosts of the past: a sadness and a longing masked by an overwhelming personality.
“Action!” the director said.
“I just don’t understand, Alex. He’s clearly trying to steal your work. Can’t you see it?” Dick, now deep into Charles’ character, said. The pupil in his eyes had dilated, and his body and voice had completely folded into a way that perfectly captured the character’s frustration.
“He’s helping me. It’s not my problem that you are suspicious of everyone, Charles. God! You’re frustrating sometimes.” You played Alexandra’s character with so much ease, like a double skin.
“I’m not suspicious! I know for a fact that that guy is not going to do anything good, and you are giving him access to the novel you've been working on for years.” Dick read the lines, but it sounded so natural coming from his mouth.
“I trust him. Why can’t you trust me?"
“I trust you, I just don’t trust him.”
“Then you're either jealous or you’re lying to be and in reality you really do not trust me at all.”
“I– Alex, I’m not jealous, he's just–.”
“You are jealous.”
“I might be, yes. Listen to me, Alex. Stop talking to that guy, stop this, everything you have with him. Let me be the one.”
“Are you going to help me find a way to get my book published?” You read with the same feeling of disbelief Alexandra would pour into that sentence.
“I would do anything for you just to see you happy.”
You raised your eyes from the script and looked at Dick, who was already looking at you intensely.
“Stay like that for a minute.” The director whispered from the table.
Both of you obeyed. Your chest rose with every deep breath you were taking, and your eyes were moving rapidly, scanning every inch of his face. On the other hand, Dick looked calm, but his eyes sparked a curiosity that couldn’t go unnoticed.
Your bodies were still closer than they should. You could’ve moved away, but you didn’t, and he hadn’t made the effort either.
“That’s everything, thank you to you both.” The director said, leaning back on his chair.
The chemistry read was over. The next call you would receive this month would be the last one, the one that would finally tell you if the role was going to be yours or not.
“Thank you.” You said while picking up your things.
The director smiled and told Dick to stay.
Once you had gathered your things, you turned to look at Dick, and he smiled at you. A weird, sincere smile that reached his gorgeous and soft eyes. The guy’s beauty really was breathtaking; it was such a shame his personality was so rotten.
“It was nice meeting you, I’m Dick.”
His voice was somehow nice, and it had a really warm tone hugging every word coming out of his mouth. You swallowed your pride as you held the sharp response forming in the back of your mind, so instead you mimicked his smile and told him your name.
“It was nice meeting you too, Dick.”
Except it wasn’t, and if you ended up getting the role, then you would have to deal with a spoiled, self-centered nepo baby who had been handed this role on a plate, just like the other characters he has played throughout his career.
© llovelygood
[serie masterlist] ; [prologue] [next chapter]
Dick Grayson taglist: @princesstrunkz @currentblasphemy @astraeasworld
Ty you cannot believe how invested im in this
The Cure?
'because my head is full of poison and my heart is full of doubt'
Wally West x supes!reader
synopsis: Training in the Watchtower was going fine until your powers got out of control... good thing Wally is around.
-> hurt/comfort, brief panic attack, supes!reader lore mentioned (lab rat) (yes ik that trope is overused but it fits) short drabble
a/n: the title was inspired by the song 'the cure' by olivia rodrigo. sadly the fic doesn't have a lot to do with the actual song, it's just my interpretation of the song mixed with the situation the reader is in. i think it fits
Your chest heaved with every step you took, and you felt your throat closing as if something was clawing at it.
You ran through the halls, tears slipping.
After tripping and falling, you sat down against a wall.
You looked angrily at the concrete, until a hole burned through it. You only managed to scare yourself more.
The people in the white robes had taken everything from you before Clark had found you. They took your family, your future, your normalcy, and the most important thing; your humanity.
At least that's what you thought. Seeing what you could do with your... new abilities scared you. You were no longer a normal human. And those scientifics had made sure to remind you. Every. Single. Day.
One of the only things that kept you anchored, (apart from your new family) was Wally. Hapiness and sarcasm rolled up and stuffed inside a person. He was always there for you. Didn't matter the time or day.
When you were with him, you could't help but wonder if he could be capable of leaving you too.
Today had been a rough training day. Clark took you to the Watchtower, to make sure you could train properly. Some other JL members were also there, some had brought their sidekicks with them.
At a point in trying to test your reflexes, you ended up hurting yourself. When you lost control after that, you ran.
The unfamiliar halls of the Watchtower reminded you vaguely of the sterile lab walls. And now, sat and trying to breathe, you think about the people that were in the training room with you.
What if you had hurt any of them?— but the thing that really took up the worry in your mind— What if you had hurt Wally? What if he was scared of you now?
Without realizing, you were hyperventilating. Back in the day, emotions like anxiety were a weakness you got punished for. Uncounciously, you fear for the worst. For your punishment.
Suddenly, you see a blur, and a pair of strong arms are wrapped around you. A messy, red hair is close to your face as you try to breathe.
“It's alright” Wally mumbles “I'm here. It's okay. Calm down”
You wrap your arms around him too, and slowly— but surely— You get your breath back.
After a while, he sits down next to you on the floor, shoulder to shoulder.
“You okay?” he asks, you only shake your head. “M'sorry” is all you manage to mumble and get out of your chest. You want to tell him. Everything. The way you feel and why, but you can't bring yourself to do it.
“Don't be sorry for nothin'” he scoffs “You did nothing wrong”
“Yeah, no- It's just” you try explaining yourself “I don't know”
He tugs you closer to him, sliding one arm over your shoulders. “You don't have to talk if you don't want to” he whispers “We can just sit in silence. No explanations needed” You almost wanted to cry again just from the gentleness in his voice. You aren't used to it.
“Thank you”
©bluercherry
you know who you are
“bits to use in everyday conversations”

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HIIIII I don't think I've sent a request to you so I'm really excited because I LOVE the way your dividers look!!! could I possibly get red and black punk esq dividers? and maybe with trash like crushed cans & cigarette buds? if not I get that, just a general punk theme would be soso nice <3 tysm in advance if you do this!! <3
hiii there!! and thank you so much lovely! I’m so glad you like them so much!! 🥰
so I went with the crushed cans/cigarettes grungey theme and kind of ran with it, so I hope that’s okay. ♥️
please like and credit if you use, reblogs are appreciated! thank you! 💕
I ain't fighting people on the internet. It sounds deeply stupid.
If a person starts getting too passive aggressive about something, (in this case a COMIC RUN) they're getting blocked.
I think a place like tumbrl is for disconnecting and reading fics and seeing art and having fun in general
(Unless, the matter of discussion is more serious stuff of course. Not this specific case because again, it was about an old comic of supergirl)
Genuinely if you're just gonna go on tumbrl to fight people in the comments get out
guess who went to the comic store today (me) and bought a batgirl comic (me)
(Batgirl as in Cass) I love her sm
"google ai" "spotify ai dj" "ai assistant" "enhanced by ai" what if i just start beating people over the head with a rock
she's the best of us

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School fight
–batfam x batsis!reader(platonic obviously) headcanons
Synopsis: you got into a fight at your new school. Your family reacts in a... variation of ways.
A/n: first time writing hcs... the reactions of the characters are based off my version of batsis!reader I have in mind from other fics I've already written. English is not my first language. Enjoy!!!
Bruce Wayne
When he got the call that his daughter had gotten into a fight, he was taken by surprise.
Bruce could've expected this from his other kids (Dick and Jason) when they were your age. (Because Tim was just a few months older than you). But he didn't expect you, out of all people, to actually get into a fight.
He knew you could fight. He'd seen you in the manors training room late at night, practising punch combinations and hitting the punching bag like your life depended on it. He was aware of your ability at that. But, usually, fighters like that did not go around getting into fights if it wasn't strictly necessary. He knew this better than anyone.
When he entered the principals room, he took in your appearance. Messy hair, a bloody nose, split knuckles... then he looked at the other kid, and felt something strangely like pride swell in his chest before forcing himself to stay serious. The boy looked as if he'd been to hell and back. His eye was black, both his nostrils were still bleeding, and his face was full of bruises. Some still forming.
You looked unbothered, but it gave you away the fact that your hands were still shaking. From adrenaline and hitting repeatedly.
He sat next to you, and gave you a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.
After getting out of the building, you explained to him the situation. He understood, and assured you it was all right. He only warned you to not get caught hitting someone next time.
Jason Todd (and Dick)
In normal circumstances, you wouldn't just have dropped by Jason's apartment without telling him. But staying in the manor meant having to deal with Dick asking a shit ton of questions, Tim's silent worried gaze and Damian's witty comments.
And you really didn't want to patch yourself up alone.
You knew Jason would not force you to speak. He would help you clean the blood, and offer a place to stay if the outside world was too loud. That is all you needed at the moment.
You stood outside and knocked on the door. You heard rustling inside, muffled voices. The door slid open.
A red-headed man stood holding the door open, with a beer in his hand. For a moment, you stood staring at each other. You realised then, that you didn't even brush your hair nor clean your own blood from your face.
To not make it awkward any longer, you spoke to the guy.
"Is Jason home?"
"Uhm yeah- wait a sec"
He looked back to the couch, and Jason looked to the door. When he saw you, he stood up and walked to the door.
"What happened to you, kid?" He scoffed "you look awful"
You didn't respond, and he could recognise himself for a moment in you. The same quiet regret and stubbornness.
"Come in"
.....
"So let me get this straight" The guy hanging out at Jason's, Roy, spoke, "Bat adopted another kid"
You were sat on the kitchen counter, Jason was bandaging your bloody knuckles.
"Is that your blood?" Jason asked, ignoring Roy. You looked at your other hand.
"Ehhm- I don't think so" you srhugged "It's probably from the other guy's nose"
"Well shit" Roy mumbled "you beat him up good, huh?"
"Well, at least I tried to" you replied "But yeah, I guess so"
Jason finished bandaging your knuckles, then desinfected a really ugly looking bruise on your cheek.
"Does B know?" Jason questioned.
You scoffed, "Who do you think the school called, huh? Damian?"
"Okay, fair"
Roy laughed a bit, and Jason just glared at him.
From the kitchen table, Jason's phone rang.
Roy looked over to see who was calling, and turned with a smirk "It's good ol' Nightwing"
"Pass me the phone" Jason walked to where Roy was standing.
He pressed the green button on the screen, and Dick's voice was heard trough the speaker in Jason's beat up phone.
"Hi, Jay" his usually happy voice was laced with worry "Is-" he said your name with a empathic voice. Big brother worry "- by any chance at yours? Do you know where she is?"
Jason responded immediately "I have no idea" he knew better than to just give you away like that. If you had come to his apartment out of all places, you probably did not want to be found.
Still, Dick was asking out of pure courtesy. "Yeah, sure. I know she's there. Bruce tracks everyone's phones." he hesitated for a moment "I just wanted to ask if she was okay"
Dick ended up convincing Jason to let him in. Of course he did.
He gave you a big hug and asked if you were okay. Kinda offended you didn't seek him first, but deep down understood you.
You ended up watching a movie with them (Roy too because he had nothing else to do)
©bluercherry
a/n2: i procastinated so much on this... happy to finally post it
yall want a part 2 with tim and damian?
no i dont want to ‘ask chatgpt’ i want to go to a wikipedia page and spend half an hour reading an article like a real person