I Hc Dick Will Be Non-verbal For A Bit When Bruce First Adopts Him

Hope this cheers someone up

Simon Riley got his fingers fucked up. Time spent under Roba's torture messed up the joints, made his digits barely able to flex and curl and left him with chronic pain, especially once the temperatures start to drop. It's alright, not the worst thing he came out of that encounter with, he can live with it. Doesn't bother him even that much.

It's just that Simon Riley used to love knitting.

Soft, creamy white, thick yarn turning into volumunous sweaters with huge warm collars his mother and his brother's bird could wear, safe from the nasty winter chill. Stripey socks, comfortable hats, long fluffy scarves - he could and would do it all.

Roba took it from him. Knitting needles became almost impossible to hold properly, struggling over the yarn mess for more than 15 minutes pisses him off and makes him never want to pick it up again. He can barely make a couple rows of a shitty excuse of a scarf, let alone finish a single thing.

And then Soap brings his LT over to his family home for their joint leave - two whole weeks in a household full of bustling life, hearty food and loving banter. In the evenings, when Johnny and all the younglings of the family have already spent their buzzing energy and are snoring in their beds, sometimes piled up like tired puppies, Simon and Mama MacTavish both are kept up by their insomnia. In a pleasantly dimly lit living room, this beautiful woman with white hair and noble profile sits, kitting - soft white wool of Highlands' best sheep turning into a sweater in her hands.

Simon comes to sit with her, calmed down by the sounds her needles make and the hypnotizing movements of her hands. First couple of nights he just lets it lull him to sleep before Mama MacTavish sends him off to wam bed with her snoring son already sprawled across it like a starfish.

Then Simon picks up needles himself. It's a slow, torturous process, his grip slipping, threads coming apart, frustration and anger at his useless fingers building - yet Mama's hands always come to rescue. She soothes the pain in his fingers, helps fix uneven loops, tells him stories of Johnny's childhood to distract Ghost from his angry mind. It works.

By the end of the leave he presents Soap the ugliest knitted hat with pompoms stitched to it in a row resembling a mohawk, and you bet Johnny wears it all the time, flexing in front of everyone who sees him in this monstrosity. He takes it to all the places he shouldn't, stubbornly unwilling to part with the gift, and loses pompoms - yet somehow Simon constantly sees new ones pop up on the hat.

It's Mama MacTavish stitching them on, because she knows, Simon needs a little help with this painstaking work for now.

Not ever crying is POWERFUL. Healthy? No. But when you have a character who never cries who just fucking loses it?? Holy shit

All this to say, Batman's children are manipulative as hell when need be. Some of them definitely can cry on command, but if they do so too often, the effects lessen, so they choose wisely.

Who do they manipulate with these crocodile tears? Their overprotective, very intimidating, very no-nonsense father, of course.

Dick, age 11, accidentally flips into Superman, which is essentially like running into a wall and winds up faceplanting on the floor: Owww

Superman: oh sorry, buddy! But y'know this is why Batman told you not to do those flips in the halls-

Dick, embarrassed and afraid Batman is going to yell at him, immediately starts crying: B! B!

Superman, panicked: no, no, shh, hey, it's okay, I'm sorry, here let me help-

Dick, sobbing: no! You'll hurt me again!

Batman, appears out of nowhere: What. Did. You. Do.

Superman: he ran into me, I didn't-

Batman: is your name not "super" man? Could you not use your "super" hearing or "super" vision or "super" speed to get out of the way?

Superman: he's fine! It wasn't my-

Dick, bravely through his tears: my head hurts

Batman, gently: do u think u have a concussion, chum?

Dick: I d- don't know I just wanna go h-home

Batman: of course, we'll go home now and after dinner we'll get ice cream, just the two of us. How does that sound?

Dick, sniffing: okay

Batman, whispering to Superman: if u ever so much as touch a hair on my son's head again I will pour boiling liquid kryptonite in your ears while you sleep. From now on you are dead to me. I'll see you in hell, Clark Kent.

Superman: bruce that seems a little extreme-

Batman: another word and I'll guarantee after I'm done with you, your funeral will have to be closed casket

Superman:

Batman: okay, chum, let's get you home! *picks up his child*

Dick, peering over Bruce's shoulder at Clark with a small smile, mouthing: sorry, Uncle Clark, love you

Superman muttering to himself: heaven help us if he adopts more children

Ghost, Farah and Gaz

i know it's been done many times before, but i just love gross weird creepy awkward simon and his cute harmless bird.

like she's so intrigued by him, so infatuated with this odd man. she giggles at his dark humour and crude jokes, a genuine smile on her face as her shoulders shake from laughing so hard while he's huffing out a sound of amusement of his own. meanwhile, everyone else has an uncomfortable look on their faces, giving them both judgemental stares.

he's the type to tug her close to him and kiss her nasty, uncaring if they're in a public setting. he sucks on her tongue and spits in her mouth, a big hand reaching down to squeeze her ass before disappearing up her skirt. he doesn't really care if others watch or not, and he grips her tight when she tries to escape, swallowing all her squeaky little noises with a satisfied hum.

there's no shame when it comes to him. he lets her know when he's going for a piss and asks if she wants to come, not bothering to close the door (he demands that she leaves it open when she goes too; it's only fair). he uses her hand to jerk himself off when she's busy or not in the mood, heavy groans rumbling from his chest because it feels so much better than rutting into his rough hand—not as lovely as her soft, pretty cunt though. he lets his tongue dip low to lap at her asshole and ignores her whiny protests, promising he'll make her feel good in a second, groaning to himself as she grinds against his face.

ughhh he's just so unusual. sometimes he stares at her too long for it to be considered cute, dark eyes burning into her very soul for so long that she has to remind him to blink. he corners her just to get a whiff of her perfume, heavy breathing down her neck like he's getting worked up just from smelling her.

when he comes home from deployment and tells her about the things that happened while he was away (lost one of my good knives in tha' prick), she's sitting pretty on his lap and chirping out her responses, urging him to tell her more. she says it's good for him to get it off his chest, but really she likes hearing his gruesome stories. it makes her heart flutter that he's so skilled and competent.

others have come up to her asking if she's okay and if she's aware of the weirdo following her, and she's like "yeah that's my man :)" she tries her best to drive them away before he starts sulking over yet another person interrupting their parallel play.

she just really loves how strange and off-putting he is.

Something something Gaz as a soccer scholarship student in his third year at the university you work at. He’s the model student athlete; excelling both on and off the field. He’s already in a frat, accepted by the brothers and happily indulging in the American hedonism that is Greek life. 

He’s undecided in his major, just kind of flitting around until he has enough credits to graduate. He knows he’s smart so he’s on the Dean's List he’s just… bored. 

He was passing by one of the large message boards in the frat house when he sees a flyer for your class. Some foofy English elective focusing on 18th and 19th century British and Irish literature. The descriptions touts a deep dive into some of the most popular novels. He doesn’t pay much attention to the flyer or class again until his advisor tells him he’s a credit short for an English major and he decides that since he’s in for a penny, he’s in for a pound, and adds your class to his schedule. 

When the semester starts up he’s expecting a little old woman to hobble in with skirts trailing down to the floor and gray hair that isn’t much shorter. So imagine his surprise when you walk in; closer to his age than not and fresh out of a PhD program with a beaming smile. You dive into the syllabus with such gusto that it’s impossible for him to not be excited about the course material. 

He also happens to note that he’s the only male in the class- the rest of the chairs taken up by girls that have had English decided as their major since before they were admitted to the school. So it only makes sense that your eye catches him the most, naturally drawn to the confident sprawl he sets himself into when he’s sitting in your seminar.

Gaz enjoys the way you flitter around the room and talk about each book as if the entire meaning to life was filtered away into it’s pages. Suddenly Frakenstein and Pride and Prejudice have new meaning, and he’s flying through Dorian Grey as he sits in the frat house common room with the noise of football playing in the background. He keeps a book with him so during practice he can continue to read, much to his coach’s displeasure. 

He completes all his work on time and is a model student, even going so far as to help the others in class if needed. You see this all from your table in the front, and he sees you seeing him. 

It’s all calculated really; he makes sure to you can see him as he offers his assistance or when he raises his hand to express a point in a simpler way. You’re impressed, and tell him so one day when it’s only the two of you left in the room. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says back to you, brown eyes sparkling. You swore you could see some color dust high on his cheeks. 

So, it came as a surprise when he asked you to cubby away some office hours for him regarding an essay he was having issues with. You had thought that of all your students, Kyle would be the last one to need help. But you agree, and let him know you made time for him on your late day so he could come straight from training. 

He’s military precision punctual and shows up to your office that night covered in a sheen of sweat. You make some comment about letting him know a shower was an important enough reason to be late and he just smiles, eyes crinkling. 

It’s anyone’s guess how you ended up having his tongue halfway down your throat with the door barely shut behind him. 

Well, you could have guessed but it still felt taboo. Sure he was 21 but still, you were in a position of power over him as his professor. And you tell him such as he grips your face in a bruising kiss. He just laughs, moving to grab your legs and plop you down so you’re sitting on your desk with your legs spread wide and open for him. He lets you whine about decency and rules until he’s had enough, and then promptly sticks his face between your legs to shut you up. 

He leaves later that night, wiping his damp face with his already sweat soaked shirt while you hastily readjust the sweater dress you had been wearing. As you round the desk to get your purse you notice that your panties that he had taken off, with his teeth no less, were missing from their hasty hiding place. Heaving a sigh, you fall into your office chair and contemplate a transfer. 

Halfway back to his room, Gaz fiddles with the stolen panties in his pocket, thinking about applying for that summer English internship he saw advertised in your office.

GAZ NEEDS MORE LOVIN EXPRESS NOW CALLING FOR BOARDING!!

I think anyone that studies medicine with Damian would lowkey hate his ass.

Not in a mean way, but in a petty why-aren't-you-struggling-like-me type of way. I mean, thanks to Robin and the league Damian is light years ahead of everyone on terms of experience and it would show.

Half the class is puking their guts out the first time they see a patient with an open fracture. Damian has been there, done that, seen that and worse. He's eating m&m's in the back.

They're all practicing making sutures until late. Damian is like "No, I don't need to join you. I could suture with my eyes closed" and then when someone is like "prove it, rich-boy" that mf actually blindfolds his eyes and sutures perfectly using four different techniques.

He also passes everything with flying colors! Because of course, the guy can't just be rich, good looking and famous, he has to be smart too.

And it just gets worse when he starts his actual residency.

Nothing shakes him! Thirty hour shifts? He doesn't even yawn. Extreme stress during a surgery gone awry? Damian is the one telling the other members of the surgical team to stay calm. Violent patient? They don't even get to call security, Damian has the guy pinned already.

And it would be easier to not get jealous of him if he somehow was a souless blood sucking asshole. But Damian is a good person, awkward and standoffish but always willing to help. He's there for whatever people need. He aids nurses, listens to patients, conforts victims. He sits with people for the bad news and when someone dies he gets this sad faraway look that shows he cares.

And it's just so unfair.

simon knew it was over the moment he realized just how freaky you are.

simon knew he was massive—he always had.

it was a quiet fear that followed him, the thought that if he lost control for even a moment, he might hurt you. his touch was always careful, deliberate.

his hands were wrapped around your neck, not tight, but gentle—just enough to feel the pulse beneath your skin. his thumbs rested softly against your throat, his grip light, careful not to leave a mark. but when you started frantically grinding your hips against his, rolling your body in desperate need, everything shifted.

a low, guttural noise rumbled from his throat as his body responded on instinct. without meaning to, his hands tightened, gripping your neck for leverage as you moved against him. he froze for a second, startled by his own strength. but then—

it happened.

you clenched tighter around him, your head falling back as a broken moan escaped your lips. you were crying out, completely undone, lost in the moment. your hips bucked harder, desperate for more, and it hit him like a bolt of lightning:

you liked it rough.

you, his innocent, angelic girl — the one with soft smiles and bright eyes, the one who blushed at the smallest touch — had been hiding it all along.

he stared at you, stunned, as you begged with your body, your innocent exterior cracking to reveal the wicked, burning desire beneath. his angel wasn't just soft and sweet

—you were freaky.

a low growl rumbled in his chest as he leaned in, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “you've been holding out on me, haven't you, lovie?” he murmured, his voice dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.

something something your friends howling with laughter when you send “john mactavish — the better john” back to the table he shares with a bunch of wide shouldered sorts with a careless “sorry, i prefer my “johns” with experience” after a cursory up-and-down over his body.

those same friends staring slack-jawed when an absolute bear of a man drops heavily into the seat opposite you with a “heard you like a john with experience, s’that right, sweetheart?”

meanwhile you’re staring at the grey hair in his beard and at his temples with something approaching stars in your eyes