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Since you accepting request for TWD right now, could you do a Daryl x male reader? I am thinking of it being set on season two where reader and Daryl already knew each other a bit before everything went to shit, so when he starts pulling away from the group in the later half of the season and reader decided that it would be best to confess since they literally could die anytime and before he pulls away too much from him as off the group
Fluff because I am a pussy who can't handle sadness lol
(This feels really shitty I am sorry, I just really like this type of fics even if they can be a bit corny sometimes and I am really liking Daryl so far, but I am like EP 1 of season 3 so I can't do a more proper request for him, I am sorry)
Man-child
Daryl Dixon x Male Reader
Summary: The world went to shit, so what was the point in holding everything in anymore?
CW: Soft angst - Established friendship - Fluff - Love confession - Reader is a country boy - Kiss
Words: 3.2k
A/N: I was doing my best not to have angst, or at least as little as possible because of the reasons he pulls away from the group. Literally re-watching the show when you sent the request in, so I decided to start all over again to get as accurate as I could but still some inconsistencies. I'm also so happy to see you send another request, I love when mutuals request!
Daryl Dixon. It was a name and a face you’d grown fond of—maybe too fond—after the world went to hell and took the map with it.
You’d known the brothers before the turn, if only in passing. You ran into ‘em on a hunting trip deep in the Georgia pines, back when the only thing you had to worry about was the game warden or a dry season. Merle, you never much cared for. He had a loud, jagged way about him that reminded you too much of your own old man—a hard-ass who’d spent twenty years tryin' to beat a "good, honest" work ethic into you until your knuckles stayed permanently scarred.
Daryl, though....Daryl was different. He grew on you like moss on an oak—slow at first, then all at once. You still remembered the weight of that damn crossbow bolt pointed dead at your eyes after you’d bagged a buck he’d been tracking for three miles. He’d been all spite and vigor then, snarling about his deer, but there was a quietness in his eyes even then that matched your own. By the time the dead started walking and the world turned into a slaughterhouse, that crossbow wasn't pointed at you anymore; it was the only thing keeping you breathing.
In the camp, you kept your jaw shut. You’d always been a man of few words, a trait that served you well around the Dixons. Merle couldn't keep his mouth shut if you paid him in gold, and Daryl seemed to treat every spoken word like it cost him a dollar he didn't have. That left you to be the bridge between 'em—the one who noticed the small things. You saw the way Daryl sharpened his bolts when he was agitated, or how his shoulders hunched just a hair tighter when the "city folk" started yapping.
Everything changed when that newcomer, Rick Grimes, showed up with a badge and a guilty conscience. When he opened his mouth about leavin' Merle handcuffed on a rooftop in Atlanta, you felt the air in the camp turn brittle. You saw the switch flip in Daryl’s head—that raw, frantic loyalty taking over. But when you finally made it back to that roof and saw nothing but a bloody hacksaw and a severed hand....you felt Daryl start to slip away right then. It was like he’d decided if he couldn't protect his own blood, he wasn't gonna let anyone else get close enough to try.
Then came Sophia.
Daryl threw himself into that search like a man possessed. He was out there in the heat and the brush every day, pushing himself until he was nothing but bone and grit. For a second, you thought he’d found a new purpose—something to anchor him back to the world. You’d catch him looking at you across the campfire, and for a heartbeat, the ice would melt.
But then the barn doors opened.
The world went silent as that little girl stumbled out into the light, grey-skinned and snarling. When you stepped forward to catch Carol, holding her as she came apart in your arms, you didn't look at the walkers. You looked at Daryl.
The hope you’d seen in him over the last few weeks didn't just die; it burnt to ash. Every step he’d taken toward being part of the group—toward being part of you—was gone. You could feel the distance growing between you already, ten miles wide and getting deeper by the second. He was pulling back into that shell, and this time, you weren't sure if any amount of country grit was gonna be enough to pull him back out.
The woods around the Greene farm didn't feel like sanctuary; they felt like a cage. Ever since that barn door swung wide and the world found out what Hershel was keepin' in the dark, Daryl had turned into a briar patch—all thorns and no give.
You’d watched him all morning. He’d snapped at Carol until she looked ready to break again, and he’d nearly taken Lori’s head off just for askin' if he wanted a plate of squirrel. He even tried that shit with you earlier, growlin' some half-cocked insult about you "gettin' too cozy with the farm folk" while you were haulin' water. You didn't even think about it—your hand just flew out, crackin' him upside the back of his head like a mama bird correctin' a fledgling.
"Watch your mouth, Dixon," you’d barked, "before I wash it out with what’s left of the lye."
For a second, the campfire went dead silent. Daryl had looked at you like he was gonna gut you right there, his eyes blown wide and wild. But then, just for a flicker of a second, you saw it—that tiny, traitorous tug at the corner of his mouth. A smirk. He didn’t say a word, just spat on the dirt and trudged off toward the stables, but that look stayed burned into your mind.
By the time the sun started climbin' high, you were plumb worn out. You’d spent the last three hours helpin' Hershel in the barn. He was a good man, reminded you of your granddaddy with that quiet, steady way he went about his business, but even his company couldn't settle the itch under your skin.
You were a mess. Your tank top was soaked through with honest sweat, lookin' more grey than white, and the Georgia red clay was caked under your fingernails. Hair was plastered to the back of your neck, and you had one of Daryl’s old, threadbare flannels tied tight around your waist—a habit you weren't ready to break just yet.
You found him leaned up against a gnarled old oak near the stables, the shade doin' little to cut the humidity. He was whittling a piece of cedar, the wood shavings falling onto his boots like snow.
"You gonna wallow in self-pity 'til it kills ya, or you plannin' on joinin' the livin' at some point today?" you huffed, wipin' a bead of sweat from your brow with the back of a dirty hand.
Daryl didn't even look up. The knife slowed, but it didn't stop. "Go 'way," he grunted, his voice like gravel rubbin' together. "Ain't in the mood for no more preachin'."
You didn't budge. Instead, you marched right up into his space, blockin' out his light until you were standin' directly over him, your boots mere inches from his.
"Mood? Hell, Daryl, you ain't had a 'mood' since we left Atlanta, you’ve just had a damn tantrum," you snapped, the twang in your voice sharp enough to cut. "I’m tired. I’m tired of watchin' everyone act like they’re the first folks to ever lose somethin', and I’m damn sure tired of you actin' like I’m just another shadow in the woods. Look at me when I’m talkin' to you."
Daryl’s knife bit a little too deep into the wood. He went still, then slowly, he tilted his head back against the bark. His eyes were bloodshot, lookin' tired and mean, but there was a crack in that armor.
"I told ya to leave it be," he muttered, his jaw workin' hard. "Ain't got nothin' for ya. Not today. Maybe not ever."
"Well, ain't that just convenient for you," you countered, huffing a dry, bitter laugh. "You think you can just pull away 'til you’re gone? I’ve known you too long for that, Daryl Dixon. You might be a man-child with a temper that'd put a mule to shame, but you're my man-child. And I ain't lettin' you slip off into the dark just 'cause things got ugly. We’re already in the ugly. We’ve been there since the start.”
Daryl’s whittling knife froze mid-shave. For a second, the only sound was the cicadas hummin’ in the tall grass and the distant shriek of a hawk. Then, slow and deliberate, he tucked that blade into his pocket and stood up. He didn't just stand; he uncoiled like a copperhead. He was a good few inches taller than you, and he used every bit of it to try and loom, his eyes narrowed into slits.
"Your what?" he rasped, the words caught in the back of his throat.
"You heard me," you challenged, plantin' your heels in the dirt. "Man-child. Grumpy as a bear with a thorn in its paw and twice as stubborn."
Daryl let out a sound that was halfway between a growl and a huff of disbelief. "You got a hell of a nerve," he muttered, and then he lunged—not with a punch, but a heavy-handed shove to your shoulder that sent you stumbling back a step. It wasn't the kind of hit he’d give a walker; it was the kind of shove you give a brother when he’s talkin' sideways. "I ain't nobody's nothin', especially not yours."
You recovered quick, a grin tuggin' at your mouth despite the heat. You stepped right back into his space and gave him a two-handed shove right back, catchin' him square in the chest. "Seein’ as I’m the only one left with enough patience to put up with your sour hide, I reckon that makes you mine by default. Unless you’d rather go sit with Lori and talk about your 'feelings' over a bowl of canned peaches?"
Daryl’s face twisted, a genuine bark of a laugh nearly breakin' through his scowl. "I’d sooner eat the peaches and the damn tin they came in," he shot back. He reached out to grab your arm, tryin' to swing you around, but you twisted out of his grip, kickin' a bit of dust at his boots.
"Then stop actin' like a ghost!" you snapped, keepin' the pressure on even as you dodged his next swipe. "You’re chasin' shadows in the woods all day and turnin' into a stone wall every night. You think you’re protectin' us by pullin' away? All you’re doin' is makin' me wonder when the hell my best friend decided I wasn't worth the breath it takes to say 'hello'."
That hit home. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened. He lunged again, more frantic this time, his hand snaking out to catch your wrist. He caught it, alright, but he’d overextended himself on the uneven ground. His boot slipped on a patch of dry grass, and before you could plant your feet, he was goin' down—and he wasn't goin' alone.
He yanked your arm, taking your balance with him. You let out a startled "Hey!" before the world flipped. You hit the dirt hard, the air leavin' your lungs in a wheeze as you landed practically on top of him, your knees pinnin' his thighs and your chest flush against his leather vest.
The dust swirled around you both, settling on your sweaty skin. Daryl lay there in the red clay, huffing like a winded horse. He looked up at you, his hair a mess of tangles and dirt, his chest heavin' under yours.
"Get off me," he wheezed, though his hands didn't push you away—they just rested heavy on your waist. "Gawd....you're all gross. Covered in barn filth and sweat. Stink worse'n Merle’s old socks."
You let out a dry, dusty scoff, lookin' down at him with a raised eyebrow. "Since when did you become such a dandy, Daryl Dixon? I’ve seen you gut a squirrel and wipe your hands on your pants without a second thought. Don't act like my sweat’s gonna kill ya."
You didn't move. You stayed right there, usin' your weight to keep him grounded. The playfulness died down, replaced by something thicker, something that felt like the air right before a thunderstorm.
"I’ll cut a deal with ya, you stubborn mule," you whispered, your voice low and thick with that country twang. "You tell me what’s rattlin' around in that head of yours—why you’re tryin' so hard to vanish right in front of me—and I’ll get off and leave you to your lonesome. Deal?"
Daryl didn't look away this time. He couldn't. He just stared up at you, his eyes searchin' yours, lookin' smaller than you'd seen him in a long, long time.
Daryl didn’t move. He didn't even try to buck you off. He just lay there in the Georgia red clay, his chest rising and falling in heavy, jagged hitches. For a long minute, the only thing between you was the heat and the smell of sun-beaten pines. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low it was almost buried by the wind in the trees.
"Merle’s gone," he rasped, his eyes fixed on a spot somewhere over your shoulder. "Gone 'cause he was too loud, too mean....or maybe 'cause I wasn't fast enough to find 'im. Then that girl....Sophia," He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbin' in his throat. "I put ever-thin' I had into findin' her. Everythin'. And she ended up behind that door anyway."
He finally shifted his gaze, lockin' onto yours with a look that was raw and bleedin'. "You’re the only thing left that feels like....like before. If I keep you close, if I let you keep taggin' along like you're part of me....then the world’s just gonna find a way to take you, too. Pullin' away felt like the only way to keep the rot from touchin' ya."
You felt a pang in your chest that had nothing to do with the hard ground. You let out a short, sharp scoff, shakin' your head as you gave his chest a playful, heavy thud with the side of your fist. You didn't get up, though. You stayed right where you were, pinnin' him to the earth.
"You really are a piece of work, Daryl Dixon," you muttered, your twang thick and soft. "You think you’re doin’ me a favor by turnin’ into a ghost? I survived a hard-ass father and a world that went belly-up; I reckon I can handle stayin’ by your side without ‘the rot’ catchin’ me. You ain’t gonna lose me. Not today, and not to some shadow in the woods. Now stop actin' like a damn child before I actually have to start treatin' you like one. I’ve got half a mind to put you in a corner 'til you learn how to use your words."
A ghost of a smile tugged at Daryl’s mouth—a real one this time. It softened the harsh lines of his face, makin' him look younger, like the boy he might’ve been if the world had been kinder. But then, as he looked at you—really looked at you, pinned under your weight with your hair fallin' over your forehead and your hands restin' on his shoulders—something shifted.
You saw the gears grindin' behind his eyes. The smile didn't just fade; it turned into a look of pure, wide-eyed realization.
"Wait a minute," he grunted, his brow furrowin' deep. He shifted beneath you, but not to get away—just to see you better. "You....you like me. Like, that way."
He went still as a deer in the brush, his eyes searchin' yours like he was trackin' a new trail. "That’s why you keep sayin' I’m yours? Why you’re puttin' up with my hell?"
The sheer, dumbfounded look on his face was more than you could handle. You tried to keep a straight face, you really did, but the absurdity of it finally broke you. You threw your head back and barked out a loud, genuine laugh that echoed off the stable walls.
"God, you’re slow!" you managed to wheeze out between laughs, your shoulders shakin' as you looked down at him. "The world ends, the dead start walkin', and it takes a damn wrestling match in the dirt for you to figure that out? I’ve been wearin’ your flannel and haulin’ your gear for months, you thick-headed mule!"
Daryl’s face turned a shade of red that almost matched the Georgia clay. He looked away, his jaw workin' as he tried to find his dignity while pinned to the ground by the man he just realized was in love with him.
"It ain't funny!" he grumbled, his voice goin' back to that defensive, gravelly growl. "Quit laughin' at me. I ain't....I ain't used to folks wantin' to stay. Especially not for me."
He tried to huff a breath of air, but he still didn't push you off. In fact, his fingers twitched against your waist, like he was considerin' holdin' on.
Daryl was still grumbling, his face a hot mess of red flush and dirt, his mouth opening to probably offer up another clumsy excuse. You didn’t give him the chance. You were tired of talking, tired of the back-and-forth, and most of all, you were tired of him thinking he wasn't worth the trouble.
You leaned down, closing the small gap between you, and pressed your mouth hard against his.
It wasn’t some soft, cinematic kiss. It was grit and salt and the lingering taste of woodsmoke. It was a "shut up and listen" kind of kiss. For a heartbeat, Daryl went stiff as a board, his breath hitching in his throat like he’d been struck by lightning. But then, just as your eyes fluttered shut, you felt his hands—rough and calloused—tighten against your waist, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he was trying, his lips moving against yours with a desperate, clumsy hunger that told you everything his words couldn't.
You pulled away just as things started to get heated, the ghost of a smirk playing on your lips. You stayed hovering over him for a second, watching his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
"There," you whispered, your twang low and steady. "That enough of a hint for ya, or do I need to draw you a map?"
You gave his chest one last, firm pat—the kind you’d give a prize horse—before you pushed off him and stood up. You brushed the red clay from your knees, feeling the ache in your muscles and the heat of the sun on your neck.
"——!"
Hershel’s voice rang out from the porch of the big house, steady and impatient. He needed help with the horses, or maybe more water for the barn. Either way, the world didn't stop turning just because a Dixon finally got his head on straight.
"Comin', Hershel!" you hollered back, cupping your hands around your mouth.
You looked back down at Daryl, who was still sprawled in the dirt exactly where you’d left him, looking like he’d been hit by a freight train. His hair was a wild nest of weeds and dust, and he was staring up at you like he’d never seen a man before in his life.
"Don't just lay there and grow roots, Dixon," you chuckled, adjusting the flannel tied around your waist. "Get your hide up and get to work. I expect you at the campfire tonight, and I ain't acceptin' no excuses about goin' out into the woods."
You didn't wait for an answer. You turned on your heel and started the trek back toward the farmhouse, your boots crunching rhythmically on the dry grass. You could feel his eyes on your back the whole way—a heavy, burning weight that told you he wasn't going anywhere. For the first time since the barn, the air didn't feel so heavy.
Daryl Dixon might be a man-child with a temperament, but he was your man-child. And as you walked toward the porch, you knew he’d be following you soon enough.
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Bruce makes secret hair appointments cause he’s going gray. It’s just one of the many cosmetic things he does on a regular basis.
At first, it was only for Jason. Jason missed out on a lot of years after being dead and always seemed to become distraught whenever Bruce showed any signs of having aged.
He understood. Suddenly coming back after being gone for so long, only to realize everything has changed, is a huge shock.
That’s fine. He can handle that.
But then, he noticed that the rest of his children would also have not-so-quiet mental breakdowns right in front of him if he showed any signs of aging.
Dick gets a quiet, faraway look in his eyes whenever Bruce reminisces about their time together, like it was a hundred years ago, before refusing to leave his side for a few hours. Then he would disappear when Bruce wasn’t looking, never for more than an hour, only to return shortly afterwards with puffy red eyes and a death grip on his hand
Jason would pretend he didn’t care, seeing the wrinkles on his face settle like they’ve been there since forever, before forcing Bruce to hug him, fixing his face away so no one could see it, and crying his eyes out right then and there, lamenting loudly on the fact that Bruce was apparently ready to drop dead at that very moment
Cassandra would get a sour look on her face when Bruce let out a soft groan as he got out of his seat, which was saying a lot, since she didn’t often show much emotion on her face. She would sit beside him, holding his hand in her own, her fingers pressed against his pulse. She would refuse to speak for hours, not even bothering to sign if it meant taking her hand away
Stephanie, despite not being his child in a legal sense, dropped her milkshake on the ground in shock when Bruce complained about something being too sweet when it was, in fact, not that sweet at all. She gently touched his face and shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes, “You’re so old.” She whispered before insisting on having a movie night with just him
Tim seemed as though he had a conniption when Bruce needed to put on his glasses after a few hours of staring at a screen. He goes on a long, rambling rant about how Bruce could stare at screens for days on end before collapsing into Bruce’s arms and cursing out the weakening lenses in his eyes. Then he made Bruce take a screen break for two whole days, while trying not to cry and failing
Duke’s hands shake when he realizes Bruce takes more naps than he used to. He stays by Bruce’s side when he naps, even as he complains in a shaky voice that if Bruce spends all his time sleeping, he won’t have any time to spend with him. Bruce then has to sleepily comfort a crying Duke before they finish the nap together
Damian throws himself into Bruce's arms, and Bruce has no struggle with it at all. But Damian’s eyes get watery when he thinks that one day, it’s possible that Bruce will never be able to hold him up ever again. Maybe he would have to be the one carrying an old Baba around. He makes Bruce carry him around everywhere on days when he can’t keep those thoughts out of his mind
Alfred had to stop and close his eyes for a second; he truly believed he was staring at Thomas before realizing it was just Bruce. And as Bruce continued to get older and older, he could no longer see Thomas, because Thomas never got to make it as far as Bruce did. Despite the fear gripping his heart as Bruce continued to age, he couldn’t help but be grateful that Bruce still could age, that being Batman hadn't taken him away far too young.
Bruce knows they all understand that despite their complaints and tears, nothing is going to stop him from aging. At times, they seemed awed that his stupid self-sacrificing moves haven’t already killed him, but Bruce can’t fault his children for being weepy. It’s cute, he'll never tell them that, just so they'll keep their dignity
So yeah, he’ll take the time to dye his gray hairs black, and he’ll use his most expensive wrinkle cream to smooth out his features. He’ll muffle his groans when sitting down or getting up, and he’ll wear his contact if he needs to do a lot of reading. And he’ll take shorter naps or skip every so often so he can hang out with his kids, and he’ll continue working out so he can lift all his kids when he needs to
On the plus side, the jokes about him being an old man have lessened
Don't ask me if an actor/actress is hot, ask me if the character they PLAY is hot. Because I won't like a celeb for no reason.
Examples:
I did not find Hugh Jackman, Ryan Reynolds, or Channing Tatum hot UNTIL I watched the dp&w movie
I didn't think brad pitt was hot UNTIL I watched fight club
So basically all of your basic famous actors/actresses that are conveniently attractive won't appeal to me until I have consumed the media they are from
Once again Avatar posting because I've never seen it pointed out how in S1E15 when they go ice dodging and they're going up against some rocks that they can't sail through (not without difficulty), Bato tells them to turn around and find another way, that Sokka (and the rest) have already proven themselves, that due to the attempted genocide (and successful cultural genocide) of the south Bato has likely never seen their ships how they could have traditionally been.
Noone can remember a time where the southern tribe had benders, where they had an actual bending culture. Where the hunts and the fishing trips and the foraging in the tundra and literally everything was accompanied by waterbenders. Throwing up snow or ice to block the route of an animal, gathering up fish and safely navigating sudden rapids, clearing and creating paths to local flora and strengthening ice sheets so noone fell in.
Sokka is the first of the Southern Water Tribe to relearn how to sail with a bender, to trust that they can navigate far beyond the capabilities of a rudder should they need to.
Katara brought bending back to the South, and Sokka matched it every step of the way (well,,,,, every step of the way post Kyoshi lmao) and I'm so,,,
I forgot just how autistic I am about this damn show
Who up thinking about Tim being called by his predecessor’s name and he just grits his teeth and bares it because Batman needs a Robin, even if Tim isn’t the one he wants.
Who up thinking about how he probably never got over that and Bruce probably never apologised for it; and even when Jason comes back Tim can still feel the ghost of a dead Robin over his shoulder when Bruce seems to look through him, stumbles over his name, calls him ‘Robin’ even at home because he knows that he’ll slip up around the others if he doesn’t.
Who up thinking about how Tim knows that he fundamentally will never be enough for Bruce, will never fully climb out of Jason’s grave. The graveyard dirt cakes his soul and blurs him around the edges so much that his father looks at him and sees a dead boy before he sees Tim. Every single time.
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PLATONIC!JUSTICE LEAGUE x CIVILIAN!TEENAGE MALE READER
(Did them separate cause it’s easier for me + an old request from January ;-;)
—SUPERMAN/CLARK KENT
Clark freaking Smallville Kent.
He’s the number one dad figure to you.
Honestly, if you did have a good dad he’ll be the second dad you’ll ask for advice.
But if you didn’t have a good dad and he was a deadbeat, he’ll gladly adopt you (cough cough go away Bruce).
Calls you , “champ” “son” “kid” just classic country boy things or whatever.
He likes to think you’ll be safe if he’s just Clark to you. But of course he’s wrong.
Whenever he hears you’re in trouble or maybe you’re at an event due to school and there’s a villain. He’ll be there in a snap.
Maybe too quick.
Maybe he knows you’re his child in his heart rather than biologically.
Late to school? Don’t worry he’ll drive you over there like a NORMAL person and not as a hero. Even if you begged him if you knew he was Superman.
You’d joke about being an intern for him as a photographer. And he’ll take it as a pride that he inspired you to work at the Daily Planet.
“Cmon kid, take a picture of that.” He’d say as you grumble annoyed.
“Yeah sure, Dad.” You said accidentally. You covered your mouth in shock while Clark just froze before hiding the smile and tears in his eyes.
He cried that night to Lois. “He called me dad!” He was so happy, not minding how you felt embarrassed.
He was definitely proud of being the male role model for you.
—BATMAN/BRUCE WAYNE
 Motherfucker run. You're gonna be the next victim of being added to the Batfamily if you don’t stop being so damn smart and adorable.
You’re a classmate of Damian, a simple student who is ranked number one in the grade you are in with Damian. Damian envies you, he hates you is what he ranted to Bruce before two months had passed, and he would bring you along to the manor.
It didn’t take you til around the fourth month of basically being a new ‘member’ of the family to figure out who the hell these people were.
Bruce caught you staring at a shelf, the same shelf that held the secrets of the Batcave. Secrets of years of having robins and being the dark knight of Gotham.
“This shelf. It’s different.” You simply said, looking at Bruce through your square glasses. Bruce couldn’t help but smile, you reminded him of Tim. But different.
He revealed it. It wasn’t too much to handle, but it was enough for you to be around with Barb whenever the family was on missions.
You’d be doing homework while in the Batcave as Damian is training behind you.
He practically adopted you without the adoption papers.
If you don’t come to the manor at the specific time , he’s sending one of the kids to check you out.
Cass would literally stalk you from afar like a big older sister who’s making sure you aren’t having any problems with people.
Steph would make sure you live your life out big.
Tim would help with your chem exams. He’s your tutor and best guy to ever as for questions when stuck on your homework.
Duke was the coolest guy ever! He always knew what to say to you and smiled when you explained your day to him.
Damian argued with Tim about helping you, mostly making sure he was the one who helped you more.
Dick was the cool oldest brother who would practically take you out to movie theaters and eat popcorn.
Barb was the kind of person who’d say “I’m not babysitting him” just for her to watch you with soft admiration for helping her.
Jason.. he’s that one brother that pops up out of nowhere and just takes you out for a simple McDonald’s meal all cause you wanted some too.
Bruce practically has a camera and safety alarms in your apartment. He’d almost forgotten you have a parent/parents.
Too bad you already signed up for his batfamily nonsense.
Yep, you’re adopted.
—WONDERWOMAN/DIANA PRINCE
Ouuuu, she’s big momma.
You once went up to her and told her that she inspired you to fight against your bullies.
Just small and simple as she felt her heart warm up and pet your head. Calling you a “warrior”.
As Wonder Woman, she was your personal protector. Always there to your call as she felt maternal towards you.
And as Diana Prince, she kept the maternal relationship with you and the energy. You’d come to the watch tower beside her, smiling wide with that kiddish teenage grin as you rant to her about your school day.
She didn’t get much from what you spoke about, other than that you had a good day and the school lunch was better today.
Clark would slightly tease her talking about how she’s practically your mother.
Diana smiled and waved her hand, “Of course I’m not. I am his mother.”
And she meant by that, she’d be your second mother if you already had one. She’d be the man one if your mom left you or died.
She’ll train you, she’ll mentor you in every case that she won’t be there to protect you.
There’s nothing better than a woman who’s devoted to caring for her child that’s not hers biologically.
—THE FLASH/WALLY WEST
Holy fucking shit.
You just gained the best older brother/dad figure ever.
Wally, wallster, big red (cuz of his red hair), the flash, THEEE flash is always there for you bro.
He’s always there to be on time for your recitals for your marching band.
He realized you were just like him, you couldn’t stand or sit still. You always drummed your fingers against your knees or on his head.
“Kid, you may wanna get into a band.” He suggested, feeling your smaller hands on his head as you drummed.
“Sure!” You said back. And look at Wally now, taking a video of you beating on your percussion instrument.
Bart side eyes Wally who’s pointing at you with a proud grin, “You see him? He’s the one right—”
“Omg I get it!!” Bart said annoyed, but he couldn’t lie and say you weren’t cool.
You let Bart beat on your drums that were old drums to let out his energy.
The Flash family does admire you cause you can handle their energy. Including Bart who likes to ask you to hang out on random weekends.
Wally would speed over to you with some groceries that you need with the help of Barry beside him.
You were one of the normal people in the family, even if you aren’t really in the family by speed or biological relationships.
It’s about the relationship that makes the family.
—GREEN LATERN/HAL JORDAN
He wants to be sooo nonchalant at least, talking about how “this kid is so clingy to me, it’s adorable.”
Meanwhile, this cocky mofo is soft and a sweet father figure, texting you if you made it safely to the bus.
I’ll say I can see him trying to get away from you as he just sees you as some kid around the watch tower that was randomly brought around all cause Batman knows you’re a safe person to trust despite being young.
But the more times you rant about how you thought planes were cool, you didn’t make much eye contact. You talked about planes like they were the only things that made sense to you.
You were someone he knew he had to protect.
He’d watch you when he wasn’t needed for a mission as you sat by him at the long table. He’ll help you quietly at first.
Guy once made fun of you, it was a small joke of course. But Hal didn’t take it that way and almost fought him before Wally came over and diffused it as you clung to Hal’s arm.
You were just 14 and you knew that the air shifted around you.
Okay yeah, he denies how he’s your guardian, but then he’ll proudly declare it if someone were to just call him that.
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I love the idea of Tim clocking Bruce was Batman as a small child but the problem is that he is a small child. Tim at a charity event with his parents and they're passing Bruce and Tim just tugs at Janet's hand snf he's like "Dad, that's Batman" and the Drakes are all, "Oh don't be silly, Timmy."
Then a few years later, Bruce is at a gala and Jack and he are bonding over their kids and Jack has to tell him that his Tim, his silly little boy, thinks that Bruce is Batman. And Bruce is chuckling, like "yo that's crazy" until he looks around and... is that? There's Tim pressed up against a window.
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