#richard graysonxreader

Whole [Dick Grayson x Reader]

“Come on Missus Grayson—just give us one last, biiig push.”

“I can’t,” you sob, as you dig your head back into the pillow underneath it. The thing is soaked through from a mixture of sweat and tears, and it sticks uncomfortably to your equally wet, exposed skin.

Doctor Thomas and her nurses both assure you that you can, you must, but it’s the man that holds your hand—or rather, allows you to crush his under your punishing grip—that gives you the strength that you need. He tells you of all the love he has for you and praises your strength, but it’s the reminder that the son you’ve waited nearly ten months to meet is just one push away that sees you through.

Aside from the morning sickness that never really abated, your pregnancy had been blessedly incident free. Of course that isn’t to say that you didn’t have the typical complaints of any expecting mother—night sweats were terrible as were swollen ankles, and having to pee every five minutes was hardly ideal—but it wasn’t anything that you couldn’t handle. It wasn’t until you were a week past your due date that things started to get dicey. Worried, you and Dick had rushed to see your obstetrician, but the woman assured you that you were still within the realm of normalcy. When another week passed she told you that, despite its name, Naegele’s rule wasn’t an absolute. By the middle of the third week she’d set the date for a Caesarean. The thought of being cut open wasn’t exactly enticing, but apparently it was what you needed to kick start the labor process. Contractions hit you not long after settling into your private suite at Gotham Memorial and soon after your extended family was being cleared out of the room and your legs were up in stirrups.

Through it all Dick hasn’t left your side once, nor has he complained despite your cursing him and vowing to never ever let him touch you again. His free hand is gentle as it wipes away sweat from your brow and his smile unwavering in the face of your pain-fueled wrath. Even now as you lie panting and red faced he still looks at you like you’re a goddess incarnate, perfection made flesh.

Thomas' urging to push is becoming more of a demand now as is the painful pressure in your lower half. Scraping the very bottom of your reserves you bare down with a guttural sound that’s caught somewhere between a scream and a groan. That’s it, you think as oxygen rushes back into your lungs under a noisy inhale, I have nothing left to give…

And then you hear it—the first sounds that your child, your precious little boy, contributes to the outside world.

His cry is keening as it dips and warbles under its own force, and yet it’s still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

Praises and cheers rise up from the doctor and her crew, but you can barely hear them over your own happy sobs. For his part, your husband drops down into a crouch though he doesn’t release your now limp hand. Instead he pulls it to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it; you’re not surprised to feel the warmth of his tears against your skin. You have just enough strength left in you to listlessly roll your head towards him and give him a quivering smile.

“We did it,” you say, voice tired and a touch hoarse.

Wiping at his eyes, Dick shakes his head. “No, you did it, love. My biggest contribution to this whole deal was given months ago.” His quip earns laughs from the other side of the room and an eye roll from you.

“You’d better be glad I love you, Richard John, because that was terrible.” You’re joking, of course; there’s no real venom behind your words and he knows it.

His only reply is one of those heart-stopping smiles that has surely played a part in leading you to this moment in time. He rises up to his full height again before bending over to place a kiss on your forehead, then your nose, then both of your cheeks, and finally a chaste press of lips against lips. He lingers in your space after pulling away, allowing his head to rest lightly against yours. No words are exchanged, none are needed. The love you share is a tangible thing in that moment—palpable and cloying, it fills your every sense to leave you on the verge of tears yet again. The scene is made whole when your son is finally cradled against the beat of your heart.

“He’s so perfect. How is he so perfect?” Dick’s words are little more than a whisper as he regards the little bundle.

Hands that usually move with deft confidence and precision tremble now as he reaches out to touch the shock of raven-hued hair that is already flecking out at the thin tips in an attempt to curl. As in response to his father’s touch, the baby’s eyes slowly slide open revealing irises that are the deepest blue; an indigo to rival that of his father’s sapphires as your favorite shade of the color. He blinks up at the man a few times before staring wide eyed, but unfocused, little snuffling noises escaping him all the while. There so much love in Dick’s gaze as looks between you and what you’ve created together, pure and endless love magnified by the diamonds of his tears that have once again started to fall. Now it’s his turn to squeeze at your hand for support.

“Hey there little guy,” he starts after a thick swallow, “you’re late.” He chuckles a bit then, a watery sound, before continuing. “Not gonna lie—you had us worried there for a second, but my god, look at you now… There’s so much that I want to show you, but first I think Doctor Thomas needs to take you for a bit. Don’t worry though, she’s good people. I love you. I love you so, so much.” A gentle peck to the round of his little shoulder punctuates the declaration.

You mumble your own words of adoration before brushing your lips against the babe’s forehead. You reluctantly hand your son over then, making the doctor laugh a bit. She assures you that the testing won’t take too long and then she’s whisking him away beyond the heavy oak door with the nurses on her heels. As the soft click of the lock catching sounds, the full weight of your fatigue settles over you. Like a puppet whose strings have been cut, you slump back heavily into the still damp pillow and let your eyes flutter close. Dick’s still joined to you by the hand, and despite the sweat that slicks the shared grip, you find the contact comforting. Tiredness has seeped into your everything and just as you’re ready to fully give in to sleep’s beckoning call he speaks, though his words are lost to you.

A slurred “Mmm?” is all the reply you can manage.

“Thank you,” he says again.

You’re too drowsy to produce anything that goes beyond the basic hum you’d given him before, though you do manage to open your eyes, if only just. Your lackluster response earns a huff of laughter and another forehead kiss; he mumbles something—possibly I love you, it’s spoken too softly for you to be sure—against the wrinkle of your brow before continuing.

“All I ever wanted after my parents… I just, I always wanted a family. I know I have Bruce and Alfie and my siblings, and they’re my family too but this…” His words trail off into a wondrous sigh. “When I found you it was like finding a piece of myself that I didn’t even know was missing and now we have a son, our son, and I just—I didn’t know it was possible to feel this full. So yeah—thank you love, really.”

There’s so much that you want to say in response to that, but sleep-addled or no you’re not sure that you’ll be able to express what’s in your heart as clearly as he has. Thankfully three words, even spoken at a whisper against his lips, are an excellent start.

No Words Needed [Older!Damian Wayne x Reader]

"I’m late! I’m late! For a very important date! No time to say ‘Hello’, goodbye! I’m late! I’m late!”

The voices that sing in unison are at two different ends of the spectrum. One, a child’s soprano—reedy and full of the enthusiasm and unbridled joy that only toddlers seem to be able to harness—the other a man’s baritone, unrefined by training, but no less melodious for it.

Even people who know him personally would be surprised to varying degrees by such a display from the youngest Wayne child—well, man now—but if you hadn’t known that Damian was capable of something more than the cool aplomb that swathed him like a second skin you never would have agreed to see him again after that first date; and that’s saying nothing of marring him and starting a family.

Of course he’ll always have his barriers. Like China’s Great Wall or the pyramids of Giza, they’ve been built to withstand the ages. The only way to really get through to the heart of him is by his leave and that’s a thing rarely granted. You’re still not sure what he saw in you that he deemed worthy enough to be allowed in, but by god are you grateful. He’s a maze, full of looping halls and meandering branches and false ends. His love language is just as nuanced, often times being at odds with itself, but over the years you’ve learned to navigate it and all its intricate minutiae. You know when to push and when to let things go; and defusing disagreements between him and the other Wayne men is an art that, while not mastered, definitely falls under your purview.

This acquired knowledge is what tells you to slip away from the den’s doorway rather than entering the room as you had planned. Because while he shares more of himself with you than anyone else, there are still parts that remain cast in shadow, hidden and tucked away from any eyes that would pry. You know that it stems out of a lack of trust—not for you, but rather himself.

Damian’s early childhood is a fractured wasteland, made so by traumas survived and the twisted parental failings of his mother. It’s only through the passage of time and the loving support of those that truly care for him that he’s been able to reconcile with it all, but even then only just. It’s still a delicate balance for him, keeping his past from tainting his present and swallowing his future whole, but he pursues that precious equilibrium with the same dogged determination that drives his every action—more earnestly even, given all that there is to lose.

To that end he pours every ounce of himself into giving your daughter everything he never received during his own formative years—love, stability, acceptance, and care all in their purest forms—and in doing so you’ve seen him change. Heal. Move just that little bit closer to being whole.

It’s a beautiful thing to watch and you find your heart aching in the best of ways every time you’re allowed to bear witness to it.

But even after years of emotional growth he still occasionally takes issues with anyone, even you—especially you—seeing him in what he considers to be a vulnerable state. Most days he’s able to pull himself back from the edge of the abyss that is his insecurities, but today isn’t one of those days. You can see it in the slight way his shoulders tense and in the stiffening of his spine. He doesn’t turn towards you, nor does he allow his voice to waver as he continues to sing in time with the child in his lap and the harried rabbit on screen, but you’ve long since learned how to read between his lines.

Please don’t, comes his simple, silent plea.

Don’t worry, I won’t, you say with a pat on the door’s frame that’s just loud enough for him to hear.

Damian does spare you a glance then, and his eyes are smiling even as his lips continue to echo the song.

Thank you, ruuhi. I love you.

You smile softly back. Of course, qalbi. I love you too.

A/n: Dami would totally teach his s/o Arabic and they’d use endearments from said language do not fight me on this. Or square the fuck up, it’s whatever lol.

All Arabic that appears in this fill was sourced from the interwebs so if it’s wrong blame that lol.