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annoying older brother

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Kakashi Sketch

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if we never remember

Pairing: Dick Grayson x fem!reader

Summary: Barbara recruits you to help Batman and his team of heroes. Dick Grayson knows he's seen you before, but can't remember when or where. To get answers, he starts breaking things to visit you. Even after you remember him, it takes Dick a while to remember what you had before.

Warnings/Word Count: r's codename is Glitch, r and Dick are ~23-25, brief angst, fluff, banter, the batboys, flirty slightly desperate Dick, childhood friends to lovers?. 5.5k+ words, requested

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“Oracle,” Batman rasps over the comms system.

“Gordon,” Robin calls soon after.

“Babs, me first,” Nightwing request.

“Get in line,” Red Hood barks. “Barbara, I asked first.”

“Stop!” Barbara calls into her mic. “All of you. Is anything urgent?”

Her command center in the watchtower remains quiet, none of the bats willing to lie to her about the urgency of their needs. Barbara sighs, clicking through traffic cameras as she updates the GCPD radio transcript.

“Sorry, Babs,” Jason offers softly.

“It’s okay,” Barbara assures him. “Just, there are six of you and one of me. When you all start talking over each other, I lose track of what needs to get done and what I can ignore.”

“I get it,” Dick murmurs. “We’ll be better about taking turns.”

“For a week, at least,” Damian deadpans.

“Yeah, speaking of taking turns,” Barbara hums. “I have a favor I need to ask. It would affect all of you.”

“Come by the manor tomorrow?” Bruce suggests. “We’ll all be there. Anything you need.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” She sends Red Robin to a possible Killer Croc sighting, then asks, “Can I bring a friend?”

“No, abandon me,” you sigh, “that’s fine.”

Barbara laughs, your video call timer nearing two hours. Since you returned to Gotham after interning at a computer science conglomerate in Coast City for a while, you’ve rekindled your friendship with Barbara Gordon, and these long catch-up calls have become highlights of your week.

“We can get coffee after my meeting, if you want,” she offers.

“Sure. And this is the meeting that might help me get another job?”

“Possibly. Don’t hold me to that.”

“Oh, you can do no wrong, Barbara Gordon.”

“I like the sound of that,” she replies. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m done. Coffee’s on me today.”

“Good luck at your meeting,” you offer. “I’ll talk to you later.”

After you end the call, you look around your apartment. You’re finally unpacked and have started adding little things to make it feel more like home. You were surprised to find that Gotham hasn’t lost its charm since you left, though it has gained a few more bats and birds.

“I thought team recruitment was Bruce’s thing,” Tim interjects.

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Jason jokes.

“Boys,” Bruce warns, gesturing toward Barbara.

“I’m not saying that you have to reveal your secret identities,” Barbara continues. “You don’t even have to say yes. But sooner or later, I’m going to be in desperate need of help from an Oracle standpoint. I don’t want to wait too long and watch one of you get hurt because I can’t keep up with it all by myself.”

“We would never blame that on you,” Jason reminds her. “But I understand where you’re coming from. Who did you have in mind?”

“A friend,” Barbara answers. “I don’t think you really want to know her name, not right away. She’s good. Really good. In fact, I think Hal Jordan would vouch for her as well, if you need a second opinion.”

“I trust you,” Bruce interrupts, standing from his oversized leather chair. “But I think we should meet her. No matter what you decide, if you want her on the team, she’s on the team.”

Barbara nods once, then looks at the others. “You’re all okay with this?”

“What the old man said,” Jason agrees. “If you trust her, I do too.”

“We need all the help we can get,” Dick adds.

“I won’t make such a statement until I have evidence to call upon,” Damian murmurs. “But I am open to the possibility.”

“When do we meet her?” Dick asks, reclined upside down over a chair as he smiles.

“Come by the clocktower tomorrow,” Barbara invites. “And be ready to listen to her. She won’t put up with your unique brand of shenanigans any more than I do.”

“I prefer tomfoolery,” Dick jokes, hissing when Jason slaps his leg.

“See you tomorrow, then.”

“You didn’t tell me that if I got this job, the fate of Gotham might be in my hands,” you tell Barbara, pacing the length of her desk. “Or that you work with Batman!”

“Would you have changed your mind?” Barbara asks, spinning her wheelchair to face you. “Look me in the eye and tell me that if I’d mentioned Batman, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

“Obviously, I would still be here,” you groan. “The point is that you didn’t tell me!”

“Well, then you’re going to be more upset with me in about thirty seconds.”

You don’t have time to ask what does that mean? before the computer behind you beeps, and the large metal door across the room creaks open. You hook your fingers together, chewing your bottom lip as you watch Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Robin, and Spoiler file in. Just before the door closes, Orphan slinks in like a shadow, the bright white eyes of her mask fixing on you.

“Hi!” Nightwing greets first, waving at you. “Welcome to the dark side.”

“Hi,” you respond softly, raising a hand. “I, uh… I’m honored to be here.”

“Gordon vouched for you and your technological inclination,” Robin scoffs as he crosses his arms. “That does not mean you have an easy path into our inner circle. You must still prove yourself.”

“Of course,” you agree. “I will do everything I can for you and for this city.”

Nightwing tips his head, watching as you introduce yourself. Beneath the mask, Dick narrows his eyes, scanning every visible feature of your face before looking at your hands. He recognizes you, but he can’t place why or where he would know you from. If you’re Barbara’s friend, it should be easy to remember.

“Nightwing?” Tim asks, nudging his side.

“Huh? What?” Dick asks, rolling his shoulders back.

“She said we can ask questions,” Tim explains. “Do you have any?”

Looking at you, Dick asks, “Can you fix a broken tracker?”

“I can try,” you answer kindly. “No promises.”

He pulls the small magnetic device from the hidden pocket on his side, grimacing when he realizes he crushed it while trying to figure out where he’s seen you before. You don’t have a forgettable face — quite the opposite, in fact — so, why can’t he remember?

“Oh,” you sigh, your fingers brushing his palm when you take it. “Yeah, I should be able to replace the fuse and get it working.”

“Cool,” Dick says quickly, nodding. “Thanks.”

The room alights when the glow of the Batsignal hits the clouds looming over Gotham. Batman turns first, his cape billowing behind him.

“Time to prove yourself,” Spoiler tells you. “Good luck. I hope it sticks because there’s way too many boys on this team.”

“I resent that,” Tim exclaims.

“I’m here for whatever you need tonight,” you promise. “Please don’t hesitate to put me to work.”

“I won’t,” Dick answers. “I mean, uh, you- we won’t. Thanks for coming- being here!”

You smile at his rambling. “Sure thing. Be careful out there.”

They exit faster than they arrived, spreading in different directions throughout the Gotham night. You pull up a chair to the desk Barbara set up for you and slide a headset over your ears. She sends you a thumbs-up, then taps into the GCPD server as the heroes you just met bicker over the radio.

“Hey, Oracle,” Red Hood calls. “What are we calling the new girl?”

“The new girl can hear you, Hood,” Barbara responds. “Maybe we should ask her what she’d like to be called.”

“Mine!” Dick yells. “Sorry, not talking about the same thing. I’ve got Condiment King.”

“Condiment King?” you repeat, holding your hand over your microphone.

“It’s Gotham,” Barbara replies with a shrug. You’re unsurprised to find that it’s enough of an answer.

“You all have better names than me,” you admit. “I’ll answer to whatever you want to call me.”

“Techy,” Red Robin mumbles.

“Little close to tachycardic,” Red Hood muses.

“Maybe we can decide this later?” Spoiler asks. “Red alert at Arkham.”

“That’s not good,” Robin says, talking to himself.

“What do you have, Robin?” you ask. “Red Robin, you’re the closest, if he needs backup.”

“I am capable of handling this,” Robin argues.

“I believe you. But it doesn’t mean you can’t accept a little help.”

“Tt. Fine.”

Barbara meets your eyes over the monitors and nods, then directs Red Hood and Nightwing to move toward Batman’s location.

“Oracle?” Dick asks. “We on a private channel?”

“Mmhmm,” she answers.

“Who’s your friend? Really.”

“What do you mean?”

“Has she been around before?”

“No, she just finished a job in Coast City. Grew up here, but I didn’t get close with her ‘til the end of high school.”

“What’s the interest?” Jason asks. He glances at Dick, then realizes, “Oh. I think that’s a rabbit hole, Wing.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve fallen in it before,” he grumbles to himself.

“Your brothers seem to like her,” Barbara says softly. “Do with that what you will.”

Jason and Dick meet each other’s gaze and demand, “Brothers?”

“Glitch!” Damian yells.

“I’m working on it,” you promise, your fingers flying across the keyboard as you try to find Arkham’s file on Oswald Cobblepot.

“Found it,” Tim alerts. “Dumpster full of money.”

“Where?”

“The dumpster?” Tim clarifies.

“No, where did Cobblepot find it? According to Harley’s files — based on stuff she got from Joker and supplemented with her own sleuthing — his parents blew most of the family’s money long before they died. He shouldn’t have inherited enough to buy that club, let alone have anything left over.”

“Sounds like a job for you,” Damian says. “I’ve incapacitated the doorman, Red Robin. You’re welcome.”

“Yeah, thanks. What are we doing about the money, Glitch?”

“Leave it,” you direct. “I’ll get eyes on it, see where they take it.”

“What are we doing tonight?” Damian wonders, grunting softly as he flips onto a fire escape.

“We?” you repeat with a smile. “Isn’t it a school night?”

“Gotham Academy is out tomorrow for parent-teacher conferences,” Tim tells you. “Which means Damian likes to house-crash someone while we take turns coming up with a reason to get out of the conference.”

“Why don’t you just stay home?” you inquire. “Take a break.”

Damian hums. “I spend enough time in the manor.”

“What are we talking about?” Nightwing asks, switching to your channel. Tim and Damian are the only ones who have entrusted you with their real identities, and you’ve made no effort to identify the others, though you assume it would be simple enough.

“Damian and his home invasion patterns,” Tim answers.

“Parent conference time already? My door’s open, Dami.”

“But Glitch and I are binging Warrior Cats before the new series starts,” Tim says, sounding far too awake for someone who hasn’t slept in nearly two days.

“I insist on coming!” Damian exclaims.

“You’re absolutely invited,” you say, chuckling. “As long as one of you gets popcorn on the way over. By which I mean the one who isn’t ten years old.”

“Almost eleven,” Damian grumbles.

“Hey, Glitch?” Nightwing interrupts. “Got anything for me to do?”

“Up for taking money from the Penguin? Just a few bills so I can run the serial numbers?” you check.

“You have no idea how much I’d enjoy it.”

You give him directions to the dumpster Tim found, then click on the closest traffic camera. Squinting, you lean closer to the screen, watching Nightwing spin into a triple kick flip before he catches a loose brick and drops to street level.

With your mic muted, you whisper, “Dick Grayson?”

Fifteen Years Ago

“Whoa!” you exclaimed, clapping as you bounced in place. “That was two flips at the same time!”

“I could probably do three,” Dick realized, beaming at you.

“Try it!”

“Don’t,” Bruce interrupted. “You might fall. Just because you already know a lot doesn’t mean you don’t have to practice to improve.”

“Of course, Mr. Wayne,” you replied politely. “But I can spot him, right? That’s practicing.”

Bruce rolled his shoulders back, his hands flexing at his sides. He looked at Dick, saw the excitement in his eyes that had been dim since his arrival.

“Be careful,” Bruce warned. “If you need a mat, I can order one.”

“Yes!” Dick cheered, puling your hands to bring you closer. “I’ll jump, and you keep your hand out like this.”

“What- what if you fall?” you checked. “I don’t think I can catch you.”

“That’s okay. I fall a lot anyway.”

You nodded slowly, then promised, “I’ll patch you up if you fall, goofball.”

“Bruce bought me elephant bandages. They’re in the bathroom by my room.”

“Got it.”

Dick showed you how to hold your arms again, then got in position. You inhaled deeply, then watched as Dick threw his arms back, bringing his legs over his head to twist into a flip, then two, then three. He brought his left leg out in a sharp kick, then landed in a low squat.

“Wow!” you yelled, crashing into him and wrapping your arms around him. “That was the coolest thing ever!”

Dick smiled at you and murmured, “Couldn’t have done it without my spotter.”

Present Day

Dick’s earpiece fizzled out in the middle of a fight in the Narrows. He pulled it out and tightened the knot, then texted you that he was on the way in. In the month since you joined the team, he’s become proficient in breaking things. Each time he carries a broken piece of tech to you, he holds his breath when your fingers move across his palm, watches in awe as you dedicate your time and talent to helping him. Yet, after all these visits, he hasn’t been able to remember where he knows you from.

“How’d that happen?” you ask, holding the tangled earpiece chord up to the light.

Barbara glances up, then looks pointedly at Dick. “Weird place for damage,” she muses knowingly.

“I think Scarecrow grabbed it,” he offers, shrugging. “Can you fix it?”

“Should be easy enough.”

You pull out a pair of pliers and a magnifying glass on a stand. Before you pull it into place, you check your computer.

“Robin, Red Robin, going dark for five,” you radio.

“If you’re eating, I’m going to be so mad,” Tim replies. “I’m starving.”

“Then get something to eat,” you suggest. “I’ll be back. Watch out for each other.”

“So,” Dick begins, leaning against the edge of your desk. “You’re pretty close with Tim and Dami.”

“I am. They’re great.”

“Just them?”

You look at Dick from the corner of your eye, smiling when you see that his attention is on you. “Well, there are some days that I feel like I adopted them without knowing about it… But I’m honored they trusted me enough to get close.”

“I trust you too,” Dick murmurs, reaching toward you.

“I know,” you hum. “Enough to fix all your broken toys, at least.”

“No, seriously,” Dick continues, shifting to be closer to you. “I trust you. I- Do you think we could be that close?”

You pull the knot loose, then work the chord back into place. As you pass it to Dick, you look at his mask and admit, “If that’s what you want, absolutely.”

You stand and offer your hand, telling him your name again. He pulls his domino mask off, his blue eyes dipping to your lips before he meets your eyes.

“Dick Grayson,” he introduces.

“Nice to meet you. I think Batman needs you back out there, though.”

Dick nods, squeezing your hand once before he replaces his mask. “I’ll be back.”

“I have no doubt about that.”

He waves, then slips out of the clocktower.

“You didn’t seem surprised,” Barbara muses, wheeling herself closer to where you’re still standing. “Something you want to tell me?”

“Dick Grayson learned how to do Nightwing’s signature triple kick flip because I offered to spot him,” you admit. “I’ve known for a week.”

“And you didn’t tell me?!” Barbara exclaims. “I didn’t know you and Dick knew each other!”

“We were childhood friends, Babs. We lost touch before high school, I think. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again.”

“And now?” she asks.

“Now, I have to get back to work.”

“You know what I mean.”

Putting your headset on, you murmur, “Can’t hear you, working, sorry.”

“Does he know?” Barbara asks.

You look down at your keyboard and admit, “I have no idea.”

“Well, it answers the great mystery of why Nightwing keeps breaking everything he touches.”

“Anything I can blame him for?” Red Hood asks, entering with a tray of drinks in hand.

“Not unless you’ve had a damaged piece of tech brought in so he can flirt with Glitch,” Barbara answers flatly.

“What?” Jason asks, wide-eyed as he sets the drinks down. “Oh, tell me everything.”

“Did you know they grew up together?” Barbara asks, smiling at your dramatic groan.

Jason passes you a drink and realizes, “I knew you looked familiar! Boy Wonder really didn’t recognize you right away? With the crush he had on you back then?”

“What?” you question, pushing away from the desk. “He… It wasn’t like that.”

Jason looks at Barbara and whispers, “She serious?”

“They both are,” Barbara sighs. “I’m hoping he catches up soon.”

“Let me know if he doesn’t,” Jason says.

“Why?” you wonder.

“She’s adorable,” Jason rumbles. “But I gotta go punch some people. See you later.”

“Sorry,” Dick says, cupping something in his hands.

“What did you break tonight, Mr. Grayson?” you ask, inviting him into your apartment through the window.

“Uh, my microphone,” he murmurs as he steps into your space. “Which I apparently need.”

“Whatever would we do without your dulcet tones keeping us informed?” you joke.

“See, you get it.”

You chuckle, then drop the broken mic onto your counter. “What’d you do?” you question as you open a small toolbox beside it. “You sit on it, goofball?”

Dick freezes behind you, watching your hands move.

Ten Years Ago

“That hurt,” you complained through giggles.

“It looked like it hurt,” Dick replied, failing to stifle his own laughs.

“Then why’d you jump after me, goofball?”

Dick shrugged, brushing his fingers along your forearm. “I didn’t want you to do it alone.”

“Thanks,” you whispered, leaning closer to him as you laid in the grass.

“Master Dick!” Alfred called from the patio. “Are you alright?”

Dick rolled his eyes and jumped to his feet, assuring Alfred everything was alright as he helped you to your feet.

“Want to stay for dinner, goofball?” Dick asked.

“Hey, that’s my thing,” you reminded him, bumping your hip against his side. “Get your own nickname.”

Present Day

“Dick?” you ask, twisting to see him. “You alright? Need me to call Leslie?”

“I- I’m not hurt,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Did you just call me a goofball?”

You drop your miniature screwdriver and stand, rubbing your hands together. “I didn’t mean to be offensive,” you explain. “It’s just something I’ve said-”

“Since you were a kid,” Dick finishes for you. “It never bothered me, even I pretended it did.”

“You remember me?” you ask, breathless as Dick steps closer to you.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Dick prefaces, “I didn’t. Not until just now. I knew I had seen you before, but I couldn’t remember where. It was keeping me up at night, the wondering and thinking about you.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me?”

“I didn’t know if you remembered me, too. Or if you wanted to.”

“Of course, I remembered you. I’ve known since that night in the alley behind Iceberg when you did the triple kick flip.”

Dick smiles, shaking his head as he muses, “And Jason said my showmanship wouldn’t get me anything in life.”

“Now that I know and you know… Do you still trust me?”

“I always have.”

“Good. Because I think your mic is a lost cause.”

“Sounds like something you should tell Bruce.”

“Sounds like something you should tell Bruce,” you counter. “I did my part and I wash my hands of it.”

“Scaredy cat,” Dick taunts.

“That is correct. Tim and Damian are coming over to watch a movie, if you want to stay.”

Dick agrees, though something in his chest tightens at the idea of his brothers being so much closer to you than he is, even with your shared history.

“Hey, Glitch?” Dick calls when you move toward the living room. “I’m glad I remembered.”

You smile at him, and Dick nearly falls to his knees when you say, “Me too.”

“You know the night-shift baristas all have crushes on Jay, right?” Dick asks.

“When did you get here?” you question, setting your cup down as you look at the still-closed door.

“You should be used to that by now,” Barbara mumbles.

“Wait, is that why he never lets me pay him back?” you realize. “The drinks are free?”

“My brother brings you drinks?” Dick exclaims. “He never gets me anything!”

You smile and posit, “Maybe he likes me more.”

Dick peels his domino mask off and slides onto your desk before he nods. “Understandable. I actually came in because I need a favor.”

“What’d you break?”

“Me? Break something?” Dick repeats, holding an offended hand to his chest. “How could you think such a thing?”

“Dick,” you sigh, looking up at the exposed roof rafters.

“Less of a break and more of an accidental deletion,” he admits, passing you the small device you privately refer to as a batphone.

“What do you need to recover?” you ask, plugging it into your computer.

“A picture of-”

“Glitch,” Damian says, pushing the heavy metal door open. “We require assistance.”

“You and every other hero,” you murmur. Speaking up, you ask, “How can I help?”

“I found this in Two-Face’s stuff,” Tim offers, passing you a red thumb drive.

“Which you can investigate without me,” you reply, sliding it across the desk. “Though I appreciate you trusting me enough to keep passing off your work.”

“I don’t think I can,” Tim counters, pushing it back.

“I was here first,” Dick interrupts as he lays his hand on your shoulder. “Get in line.”

Damian narrows his eyes at Dick, then whispers something you can’t decipher. You can’t be sure if you’re more grateful or curious.

“I can help you both, but if you’re all camped out in here, who’s watching the streets of Gotham?” you inquire.

“Me, Batman, Red Hood, Spoiler, and Orphan,” Barbara answers. “We’ve got it handled for at least twenty minutes. Take your time.”

“And stop accepting presents from Jay,” Dick suggests.

You twist to look up at him, already sure of the answer when you ask, “Why?”

“Uh, because… You know… For the baristas! He’s taking advantage of them and the working class has it rough.”

“I see.”

“I knew you would,” he hums, nodding. “You’re very perceptive.”

“This is super weird,” Tim groans from your other side.

“I’ve seen bird courting rituals in which the male retained more dignity,” Damian mutters.

“I can call you when it’s done,” you offer. “You too, goofball.”

Dick smiles, moving lithely toward the door. “You’re too kind, my love,” he calls.

“So, are we going to talk about that or you want to keep it secret like when you found out his identity?” Barbara wonders, smirking at you.

“I thought you were protecting Gotham,” you respond softly, scrolling through the files on Dick’s device.

“I can multi-task.”

“Fantastic.”

“What is going on tonight?” you ask no one in particular, clicking between numerous open tabs. “It wasn’t this bad when Scarecrow dosed the Upper East Side.”

“Gotham’s an enigma,” Barbara agrees. “My dad is sending some intel and a few 911 call transcripts.”

“You think that’ll help?”

“Yes. Maybe. No. Who knows?”

“That was encouraging,” you deadpan, watching the boys’ trackers blink across the city. “Thanks for that, Barbara.”

“Anytime. I’ll be here all night.”

“Glitch,” Jason radios. “Where am I going?”

“We could use some help down here, G!” Tim yells, his first word overlapping with Jason’s last.

“Let me-” you begin before Damian agrees that your assistance is required.

“Where’s Killer Croc?” Dick asks then. “I’m by the camera you said spotted him.”

“Guys,” you interrupt. “I can only check one thing at a time.”

“I asked first,” Jason reminds you.

“But we are facing a situation with more urgency,” Damian argues.

“And I need to find Croc before he eats someone,” Dick chimes in. “Or another taser!”

“Okay, okay,” you concede. “Then maybe one of you could ask Babs? She can-”

“No,” the boys say together.

Across from you, listening in, Barbara begins laughing, clutching her stomach as the heroes of Gotham argue over who you should help first, refusing to go to Barbara to get the information and assistance they need. Her laughs grow shorter as her eyes water in amusement.

“Seriously?” you question, splitting your monitor to have three tabs open and accessible.

“Yep,” Jason affirms.

“Babs asked you to help because she’s busy, too,” Tim reminds you.

“And you care about us,” Dick murmurs, his pout practically audible as he checks, “right? We’re helpless boys, remember?”

“Helpless?” you repeat incredulously.

“Yeah. And you’re so smart and kind and you-”

“Fine, I’ll help. Just stop talking for a second. Hood, Mercy Hospital.”

“Aye, aye, cap,” he radios before his tracker moves toward the bridge connecting the narrows to the Upper East Side.

“Robin, Red Robin, your intel is old. The new meeting is in Cherry Hill.”

“This is why we love you,” Tim singsongs.

“And Nightwing…”

“I’ll do the triple kick flip again, you just have to ask,” he responds when you trail off.

“Killer Croc is in the water tunnels, moving toward us,” you say. “And maybe another day, when you’re ready to make that a quadruple kick flip.”

“Smart kind and beautiful,” he mutters softly. “’S what I was gonna say before.”

“Go save the city, Nightwing.”

“Only ‘cause you’re in it.”

Barbara takes a deep breath, wiping beneath her eyes. “Oh, I’d heard that he flirted with you and the others were acting like your kids, but I wasn’t expecting it to be that good.”

“They trust me,” you sigh. “That was the goal, right?”

“They do more than trust you. Especially the Boy Wonder.”

“He’s flirty. Always has been.”

“With you, I believe.”

Three months into being part of Batman’s team, you’ve become part of the family. Tim and Damian have practically moved into your apartment — it’s the only place they can be found most weekends — while Dick has kept up the flirty repertoire while he patrols and Jason gives you unsolicited but amazing book recommendations and advice. When you’re not in the clocktower working alongside Barbara or watching nature documentaries with Damian, you hang out with Barbara as people rather than Batman’s backstage crew. You go shopping together, visit her dad, just have fun.

But it’s different with Dick. Not just the radio flirting, all of it. You lie in bed at night unable to sleep; not because of the fights and the devastation you witness, but because you’re thinking about Dick Grayson. Like tonight, the boys are taking shifts protecting the night while Bruce is at a charity gala, and you’re sitting at home, restless as you wait for midnight, when you’ll take over for Barbara from the comfort of your own home.

With only an hour and a half ‘til then, you flinch when someone knocks on your window. Your window that is far above ground level. Carefully, you inch down the darkened hallway until you reach the living room. Peeking around the corner to see the window, you gasp at the sight of Nightwing leaning against the fire escape railing.

“What happened?” you demand as you pull the window open.

“I think Bane is having a bad night,” he grumbles, sliding into your space. “Was. I knocked him out.”

“You couldn’t have done that before he tried to crush you like that radio you broke my first week?”

Dick smiles, flipping the latch on your window to lock it behind him. “I’m clumsy,” he excuses with a shrug.

“You’re hurt,” you correct, ushering him to your bathroom.

He falls heavily onto the closed toilet lid, hissing softly when he pulls the domino mask off his face.

“I thought you had Leslie for stuff like this,” you murmur, spreading a first aid kit open by the sink.

“We do.”

“Then why are you here with me?”

Dick drops his head back, his eyes closed as he smiles. “Just answered your own question, goofball.”

“Hold still,” you request, cupping his chin to wipe a scrape across his forehead. “How bad is it?”

“I’ll probably be sore, but nothing’s broken. Totally not like the radio.”

You nod, then work in comfortable silence. Kneeling in front of him, you put ointment on his bruises to ease the pain, then open a few bandages. You press one to a scratch on his left shoulder and one around his thumb.

“Elephants?” Dick asks when he opens his eyes.

You lift your head to find he’s looking at you rather than the cartoon elephant bandage. “I promised I’d patch you up with them if you fell,” you remind him softly.

“Yeah, you did.”

Dick reaches forward, brushing his hands against your waist. When you lean into the touch, he grips you tighter, pulling you closer in the already limited space. He whispers your name when you brush your fingers through his hair.

“Nightwing,” you reply lowly.

“No, it’s-”

“I know, Dick,” you promise, smiling. “I know.”

“I wanted to fall that day,” Dick admits. “I knew that if I fell, you really would patch me up and maybe if I was lucky, I could convince you to kiss it better.”

“Genius plan.”

“I’m very smart,” he defends. “But then I got in the starting position and all I could think about was my parents falling and how scared I was. I knew I couldn’t do that to you.”

You nod, stilling your fingers in his hair. “I’m sorry we lost touch,” you offer.

“I’m sorry I broke so much stuff,” he replies. “I just… I just needed to see you, to be close to you.”

“Not entirely unlike how it was back then. You snapping pencils in half to borrow one of mine or breaking hair ties to offer to play with my hair,” you remember. “It’s just, it’s a little better now.”

Dick smiles, straightening as he raises one hand to cup your face. “You think so?”

“Of course I do.”

“I was scared that you wouldn’t remember me,” Dick admits.

“I think even if we never remembered exactly what it was like before, we would have found something new,” you promise him. “You were always going to be my goofball.”

Dick smiles, moving slowly as he pulls you down to his level. He brushes his lips over yours, sighing into the kiss as you hold him like you never want to let go. When he moves to pull back, you steal one more kiss, then move to spread kisses along his jaw and up to his cheekbone. Dick laughs, his shoulders shaking against you. At the reminder, you dip your chin and press the bandage on his shoulder, then interlace your fingers and bring his forearm up to kiss there too.

“Oh gross!” someone yells before the sound of an exaggerated gag fills the hall.

“I thought you locked the window,” you whisper against Dick’s arm.

“That doesn’t matter,” Tim scoffs. “We’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done with whatever this is.”

“You could do better, Glitch,” Damian adds, pulling the bathroom door closed.

“I love that they act like we’re kissing in their house and not admitting that they broke in,” Dick muses, sliding his hands along your sides.

“They’re your brothers,” you remind him. “I’m allowed to show my goofball love however I want in my own-”

“Love?” Dick interrupts, his head tipped to the side.

“Yeah, Dick,” you promise, leaning in again. “Same as always. There was no way I’d never remember you.”

Dick smiles into the next kiss, the pain of Bane’s punches long gone as your confession moves like lightning in his veins.

Bonus:

“I thought you weren’t supposed to bring me presents anymore,” you joke when Jason passes you a cup.

“I paid for it,” he promises. “With my winnings.”

“Winnings?”

“You didn’t know about the betting pool?” Babs asks. “You and Boy Wonder?”

“You bet on my relationship with Dick?”

“Not just us. Your goofball made a pretty penny betting that you’d remember him and not tell anyone,” Jason explains.

“Great, now I’m part of a Red Hood-orchestrated rom-com,” you grumble.

“Where did you get that?” Dick asks, standing in the doorway and pointing at your cup.

“Your brother is making amends.”

Dick nods, then sits on the floor beside you, leaning his head against your leg. “I love you,” he says.

“On that note, I’m out,” Jason says. “See you tonight, Glitch.”

“See you,” you call. “Be safe.” Then, you look down at Dick, brushing his hair off his forehead as you promise, “I love you.”

“What’s tonight?” he wonders.

“We’re showing Damian George of the Jungle.”

“Oh, I’m so there. Dibs on the seat by you.”

“It’s yours forever, goofball.”

Dick Grayson taglist🏷️ @peachescastles @kmc1989 @stilestotherescue @ilocuras24 @coastalcowgirlie @waltermis @itzpixiebabe

[pilmyeol]

i dont read comics but i think dc should create a new role called the Crazyperson Advisor and hire one for every writer. the crazyperson advisor has read and memorized every comic ever and can tell the writer when something contradicts established canon and how. obviously comics canon is at this point so convoluted and contradictory that it would be impossible to never write something that doesnt follow it but i think it would be good if it only happened on purpose. also i think it would make my mutuals make posts like “did timothy jones fucking kill his crazyperson advisor is that how this happened” and “i am going to kiss the green lantern 2030 crazyperson advisor on the mouth for this reference to the 1954 martian manhunter” and i think that would be fun. i would like to see them.

[b4tboys]

i’m going to get dick fic finished for my birthday, i’m going to get dick fic finished for my birthday, i’m going to get dick fic finished for my birthday

[b4tboys]

since when did hsr do patch updates on sunday?? am i that out of touch with the game 😭

[elirium]

2026 Tiny Robin Update

[fallen-jpg]

summer rain. redrew parts of an old drawing

BONUS:

he did that on purpose. bonus bonus:

[lujinarchive]

Katara and Sokka

[astruma2]

[yearninflowers]

I miss Phainon

[papayafromtv]

fed up with Bruce tracking them/invading their privacy in the name of safety, i like to think the batkids pull an uno reverse and microchip Bruce while he’s passed out after a bad patrol injury. they start tracking his phone activity and texting him about wherever he is. bringing up things they know he’s searched for one his phone/people he’s been talking to, showing up at wherever he is during the day and interrupting him just to prove they always know where he is; just overall trying to annoy him the best they can.

issue is, Bruce is just so happy to see and talk to his kids at any point that he doesn’t even notice the breach of privacy, and the kids just end up feeling really awkward about how happy their dad is to see them.

Jason will bring up something in conversation with Bruce that was only privately relayed through texts between Bruce and a colleague, smirking because he knows Bruce is gonna be really paranoid about who’s watching his texts, except Bruce just smiles and happily chats with him for thirty minutes and he’s in a good mood all day because Jason willingly had a casual conversation with him, and when the JL ask why Batman’s in such a good mood at a meeting later that day Jason just goes bright red and doesn’t know what to say because he didn’t realise how much Bruce genuinely craves just catching up with him every now and then.

Dick will stalk him for weeks and wait until Bruce has a really tough busy day at work, specifically so he can wait for the evening where Bruce finally has a single moment to himself in a bar somewhere to relax, and then he busts in loudly sitting down next to Bruce and talking non-stop while ordering a drink, thinking that Bruce is going to be mad because this was his one peaceful moment and Dick ruined it by constantly tracking him. but instead the second Bruce realises Dick’s there all his exhaustion disappears. he gets a really wide genuinely pleased look on his face and happily offers to buy Dick a drink because ‘it’s so rare that they get to hang out!’ and Dick is left floundering because he was trying to be an asshole but now he just feels bad that he doesn’t spend time with Bruce outside of patrol business.

Tim keeps watching him through security cameras and updating him through text on his location in an attempt to make him tired of the constant supervision, but every time he texts Bruce like ‘you just walked into starbucks for the second time today.’ Bruce will just openly smile at his phone and respond like ‘would you like me to get you a drink? i can drop it off at your office if you’d like :)’ and Tim has to give up almost immediately.

essentially i like the idea of the batkids trying to annoy Bruce with themselves, forgetting that Bruce is just a dad who really loves his kids and can’t ever be annoyed by them.

[the-darklings]

KAT!!!

Sorry to disturb the regularly scheduled iceflame/icespring/general akotsk programming, but your recent Jason headcanons (immaculate btw top tier Jason characterization!!) made me wonder 👀 ik you said Jason is your boy but would you happen to also have any thoughts on Dick (Grayson)?? 👀👀👀

Bc I’d LOVE to hear them!! (dc was my first fandom and continues to have me on a leash)

STILL DON'T GO HERE, BUT PEOPLE SEEM TO REALLY ENJOY MY JASON HDCS, AND I ALWAYS MAKE TIME FOR MY ICEFLAME PRESIDENT. 18+ for nsfw (got wayyy too carried away 🚬). mdni. ✶ JASON'S VER.

DICK GRAYSON AS YOUR BOYFRIEND HDCS—

Loving Dick Grayson is, on the surface, the easiest thing in the world. And that's the first lie you have to learn to see through.

Because Dick is spectacularly good at making things look easy, and the things that look easiest with him are usually the things that are most likely to break your heart in slow motion if you don't pay attention.

He's the one who seems open and seems warm and seems like he's giving you everything, and the trick of him (the actual heart of him) is learning to tell the difference between what he gives easily and what he gives only when something has been earned.

The first thing you'll notice about Dick is that he's charming, and you should understand this is not an accident or a personality quirk, it's a trained skill.

Dick Grayson learned to read a room before he could read a book, he was raised in a circus that depended on charisma the way a body depends on oxygen, he learned at his father's knee how to walk into a tent and have eight hundred strangers fall in love with him in under thirty seconds, and then he was raised by Bruce Wayne, who taught him an entirely different kind of social engineering.

The result is a man who can, without effort, make you feel like the most important person in any room, and the terrifying thing is that in the moment, he means it, every time.

The way he meets you is going to feel like a movie scene. Dick has a talent for the meet-cute, he's the kind of man who notices you across a crowded bar and crosses the room and introduces himself with a grin that suggests he's been thinking about this for hours.

Within ten minutes you'll be laughing, and within twenty you'll be telling him things you don't normally tell strangers, and within an hour you'll be wondering if you've ever actually been seen before you met him. Because that's the gift he has, the genuine one, not a manipulation but a capacity: he can give you his whole attention, all of it, the lights-on undivided real thing, and the world will narrow to the size of your face.

But here's where it gets complicated: he's doing this honestly, he's not performing, not running some play on you. He genuinely is that interested, genuinely does find you fascinating, but he's also like this with the bartender, and the woman who sells flowers outside the subway, and the teenager working the front desk at the gym, and his cousin's best friend at the wedding three states away.

You will not understand for a while that what feels singular and miraculous is actually his baseline mode of being a person, and the question of whether what's between you is special is going to require a different metric than how brightly he shines when he looks at you, because he shines that brightly at everyone.

The early dating is euphoric. Dick is, hands down, the most fun first three months of your life.

He plans things, real things, not generic dinner-and-a-movie things, but things: a midnight breakfast at a diner he loves in Blüdhaven, a borrowed canoe at four a.m. so you can watch the sun come up on a reservoir, a rooftop he knows about with a view of the river, the back room of a salsa club where he knows the owner and has known the owner since he was fifteen, a bookstore that's open late where he buys you a book he thinks you'll love and inscribes it with something funny and slightly breathtaking.

He texts back immediately, he calls when he says he'll call, he remembers every offhand thing you mention, he shows up on time, he opens doors, he has manners in a way that's real and was beaten into him by both his parents and Alfred and his own native warmth, and the manners are not a performance.

He is, also, physical in a way that disarms you immediately.

Dick was raised by acrobats and lives in a body that doesn't have the boundary between platonic and not-platonic that most people's bodies have; his hand will be on your lower back when he's guiding you through a crowd, his arm will be slung around your shoulders when you're walking down the street, he'll pull you into his lap on the couch with the easy thoughtlessness of a man who's been physically affectionate with everyone he loves since he was a child, and within the first two weeks you'll already feel like you've been touching him for years.

The flirting is playful. Dick teases the way he was taught to tease, lightly, never punching down, with a grin that lets you know he's having a wonderful time.

He calls you gorgeous and beautiful and uses your name like a song, he winks at you across rooms with the kind of dial-up wink most men cannot pull off to save their lives but which on Dick reads as charming because his face was made for it, he flirts like flirting is a love language he speaks fluently in three dialects and is willing to teach you any of them.

And then (and this is the first crack) you'll notice, somewhere around week six, week eight, that you don't actually know him. Not yet. You know an enormous amount about him: the surface biography (orphaned, raised by Bruce, was Robin, became Nightwing, lives in Blüdhaven, used to date Barbara, used to date Kori, used to date a half-dozen women whose names you've heard in passing and who he speaks of with affection that's also slightly unnerving because who manages to break up with that many women and still be friends with all of them—the answer is Dick).

You know his routines, and you know his favourite restaurants, and you know which of his brothers he can tolerate this week. You know that his back hurts when it rains, and you know how he takes his coffee. But you don't know what scares him, or what he thinks about when he can't sleep, and you don't know what he has not told you, because Dick is a master of giving you so much that you don't notice what's being withheld.

This is the central paradox of dating Dick Grayson, and you have to understand it early or you'll spend years confused: he's not lying, he's not hiding from you in any way he could be called out for, he's not a secretive man. He is, in fact, by Bat-family standards, a radically open one, a person who hugs his friends and tears up at movies and tells you he loves you without flinching.

But he has a way of being present with you that doesn't require him to be known, and it can take you a year to even register that you've been giving him your whole inner life and getting back something that feels like the same coin but is actually a different currency altogether.

The flaws (because yeah, golden boy has those) are real and they're specific, and the first one is that he's conflict-avoidant in a way that can drive you genuinely insane.

Dick was raised by Bruce, and Bruce communicates by glaring through plate glass for forty years, and Dick reacted to that by becoming the opposite on the surface (affable, talkative, easy) but underneath he's still a Bat, which means when something is actually wrong, when something is sitting between you that needs to be dealt with, he'll smile, deflect, and he'll change the subject.

He'll give you a hug and a forehead kiss and a we're fine, baby, we're great, and the issue will not get addressed, and three weeks later it will resurface in some roundabout way and you'll realise he's been carrying it around the entire time and just not telling you, because telling you would have been a fight, and Dick Grayson has spent his whole life trying to be the person who never has to fight with the people he loves.

The second flaw is over-extension. Dick says yes to everything, Dick is in a dozen people's emergency contacts, Dick is the one his brothers call at 2 a.m., Dick is the one Babs calls when she needs help, Dick is the one Bruce calls when something has gone wrong with the family in a way Bruce can't fix on his own.

Dick is the police officer (or the consultant, depending on which era we're talking) who can't say no to overtime, Dick is on the Titans roster, Dick is in the JLA rotation, Dick is mentoring three teenagers and checking in on six others, and you'll find, in the second or third month of dating him, that he's exhausted in a way he will not admit to.

The exhaustion has consequences for you. He'll fall asleep mid-sentence on your couch, cancel plans last-minute with apologies that sound rehearsed because he gives them too often. He'll be physically present with you and mentally three calls behind on his to-do list, and when you try to talk to him about it he will look at you with those big blue eyes and tell you he's fine, baby, I promise, I just need a few hours, and you'll have to learn that a few hours in Dick's vocabulary means I'm not going to address this, please stop asking.

The third flaw (and this one's the worst) is what Babs once called, in a fight that he absolutely did not handle gracefully, his martyr complex.

Dick has internalised the idea that he's responsible for the wellbeing of the people he loves, that their pain is his to absorb, that if anything goes wrong it's on him to fix it.

The way this shows up in a relationship is that he'll not let you take care of him, not in any way he could not have explained as just being thoughtful, not in any way you can call out without sounding ridiculous. But the asymmetry is real.

He'll hold you when you cry, but won't cry in front of you; he'll ask you about your day with focused interest, then deflect when you ask about his; he'll let you in to the version of him that needs to be the strong one, and he'll pretend the version of him that needs anything else doesn't exist. And if you're not paying attention you'll fall in love with the strong version and never notice that the other one is starving.

Then there's the family. Dick's family is, depending on the day, either a delight or a structural threat to your relationship. Dick is the eldest son, the golden boy, the one who absorbs all of the Bat-family chaos and metabolises it into functional family dynamics, and being his partner means inheriting an entire tribe of complicated, traumatized, dangerous men (and women), some of whom will adore you and some of whom will decide instantly that you're not good enough for him.

Damian will be politely contemptuous of you for at least a year before grudgingly admitting that you have your uses; Jason will needle you and Dick equally and call you sister-in-law in that lazy drawl before you've even talked about marriage just to watch Dick choke on his beer; Tim will run a background check on you because he runs background checks on everyone Dick dates and is genuinely apologetic about it (maybe); Cass will simply look at you for a long quiet moment and then either nod or not nod, and there's no court of appeal for what Cass decides; Babs will be polite to your face and reserve judgment, and you'll understand within ten minutes of meeting her that she and Dick share a history that is cellular in a way that nothing can quite touch, and you'll have to make peace with this or you'll lose your mind.

Bruce will be Bruce about it, which means he will not openly disapprove and he will not openly approve, he'll simply observe, and you'll leave every dinner at the manor unsure whether you passed or failed. Alfred (bless Alfred) will be the one who actually tells you the truth, in tiny offhand asides delivered while he refills your tea, things like, "Master Dick has not slept well this week, Miss, I trust you will encourage him to take a proper rest", and you'll understand that Alfred is the only person in this entire family who's going to tell you what's actually going on, and you'll love Alfred for the rest of your life (don't we all?).

Now, the Barbara thing. Because we have to address it.

Babs is one of Dick's people in a way that you, no matter how much he loves you, can't fully displace at the level of history, and you have to decide early whether you can live with that or whether it's going to corrode you from the inside.

They've known each other since they were teenagers, they've loved each other in every possible way (romantically, platonically, professionally, with grief, with rage, with the kind of forgiveness that only comes from people who've survived each other), and there's a frequency on which they communicate that no one else can pick up (half-sentences finished by the other one, references to events that don't have names, the particular way she says Grayson that sounds like a whole conversation) and the texture of their friendship is going to take some getting used to, because they are close, they'll always be close, and that's information you have to absorb without resentment.

But (and this is very important) Dick knows what it looks like from the outside, Dick has been in this exact situation with previous partners. Dick has watched relationships die on the Babs hill before, and he's not going to let that happen with you, and the way he'll not let it happen is by being crystalline about where you stand.

The first time the topic comes up (and it'll come up, you'll say something offhand, or he'll catch a flicker on your face when she calls, or someone at a Bat-family thing will make a comment that lands wrong) he will stop, turn to you, take your hands or your face, and he'll say it: "hey. hey, look at me. she's my friend. she's my best friend. she's not—she's not what you are. you are what you are. you. okay?" and the use of the word you twice, the you-are-what-you-are, is going to land in your sternum like a bell, because Dick chooses words for a living and he's chosen these ones on purpose. What he's telling you is not don't worry about her but understand who you are to me, specifically, and let that be enough.

He'll do it more than once, because he understands it has to be reiterated. Because he understands that with him in particular the past is populated, and reassurance with Dick is not a one-time conversation it's a practice.

He'll bring it up unprompted sometimes, when he's noticed something you didn't say, "hey, by the way, you know that thing earlier? Barbara and I are gonna be like that forever, that's not changing, but you also know there's no version of my life where I'm not coming home to you, right? you know that?", and the willingness to say it without being asked is the thing that, over months, defuses it.

He'll not perform a separation from her that isn't real, but he'll absolutely perform, in the most direct and least ambiguous terms possible, his choice of you, and you'll learn, slowly, to trust that the choice is renewed every day on purpose.

And the small things matter: he keeps a photo of you on his nightstand, where her photo used to live (he'll mention this exactly once, casually, watching for your reaction, "used to be a different picture there, now it's you, just so you know," and it'll take you the rest of the night to recover).

He introduces you, every time, by your full name followed by my girl; he holds your hand at family dinners (the small everyday hand-holding, not performance) even when she's at the table.

He asks your opinion on cases when both of you are present, because he wants you to know that you're not in the second tier, that the room you occupy in his life is the room with the lights on; and the cumulative weight of all of these small choices, made consistently over years, is what makes the difference between a partner who eats herself alive over Babs and one who learns, eventually, that being his now is not a lesser thing than being someone's was, and may in fact be the bigger thing.

The Kori thing is different and easier, because Kori lives in a different gravity than the rest of you do, and her relationship with Dick is something he carries with him like an ache rather than a pull. It's the past, it really is, but the past did something to him that you'll feel sometimes. The way he gets quiet when stars come up in conversation, the way he doesn't talk about the time after the Titans first broke up. You don't push it, the same way you don't push the rest of it, because Dick is not a man who responds well to being excavated.

Now, the intimacy. This is where everything that's been laid out so far really matters, because Dick in a relationship looks one way and Dick in bed looks another, and the difference is illuminating about who he actually is.

You'd think (based on the charm, the easy physicality, the way he flirts, the half-dozen famous exes) that Dick would be a suave lover, a smooth one, the kind of man who orchestrates a seduction the way a conductor runs a symphony, and the truth is more interesting than that and a little bit funnier:

Dick is technically extraordinary (this is a man who has the body control of an Olympic gymnast, the cardio of a working acrobat, and the kind of physical literacy that means he can find any nerve cluster in your body within four minutes of meeting it), and yes, he absolutely could run the symphony version, and sometimes does, but his actual default mode in bed is delighted, almost playful, with a generosity that borders on excessive.

Because Dick was raised in a culture where giving someone pleasure is a form of love, and he has internalised this so thoroughly that he genuinely doesn't understand selfish lovers, finds them confusing, considers them a category mistake.

The first time is not fast. Dick is not a man in a hurry, he's waited his whole life to find out what you like and he's not going to rush.

The experience of being undressed by Dick Grayson the first time is a thing that will spoil you for other people, because he treats it like an event. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world (and he does, and he's going to use all of it), and when his hands first move under your shirt the touch is so unhurried and so deliberate that you'll, briefly, forget how to breathe.

He undresses you slowly, watching your face, narrating with his hands rather than his mouth. The first thing you'll notice is that he's quiet in bed at first, not silent but attentive, listening to you, watching, learning, and the second thing you'll notice is that he smiles against your skin, often, like he's having a wonderful time, like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

The smiling against your skin is going to undo you, because nobody has ever made you feel that welcome in your own body before.

He has specific physical tells in bed that are just him, and you'll come to recognise them like signatures:

He hums. A low, almost-not-audible hum against your skin when he's particularly enjoying something, a sound that's not a moan and not really a growl but something closer to a contented animal noise, and the first time you feel it vibrate against your collarbone you'll understand why his exes never quite got over him;

He has a habit of pausing mid-thrust to grin at you, just stop and grin, like he can't quite believe his luck, and the grin will be at close range and unguarded and if you weren't already in love with him it would do the job;

He taps his fingers. When his hand is resting on your hip or your thigh, his fingertips will tap absently, an irregular little rhythm, the same way they tap on a coffee cup when he's thinking, and you'll realise he doesn't even know he does it;

He has a ticklish spot just below his ribs on the left side that he does not announce and will absolutely deny if asked, but if your mouth happens to land there during the slow exploration phase he will jolt and laugh, surprised out of his cool, and the laugh (that real laugh, the one his handsome face was made for) will derail the next ten minutes;

He kisses foreheads, constantly, mid-fuck, between thrusts, after climax, your forehead, your temple, the crown of your head, like a punctuation mark, and you'll learn that the forehead-kiss is his most reflexive expression of affection and it shows up in bed as often as it shows up anywhere else.

He's a worshipful lover in a way that can take you a few times to get used to.

Dick goes down like it's a hobby, he goes down like he's competing with himself for Olympic gold. He goes down for long stretches and shows no signs of getting bored. The eye contact is intense in a way that will short-circuit you the first time, because he wants to watch your face fall apart, he wants the information, and the entire time his hands will be doing other things, attentive things, his fingers laced with yours or holding your thigh pinned open or pressed flat against your stomach so he can feel you breathe.

Afterwards he will rest his cheek against your hip for a moment with this expression of quiet satisfaction that will make you want to weep, because he's pleased with himself, in the best way, like he just executed a perfect double-twist and stuck the landing without a single wobble.

He's vocal in a particular register. Dick praises, constantly, and the first time you notice the pattern it's a little dizzying because you have not, until this point in your life, been told you are gorgeous, perfect, fucking incredible, baby look at you, that's it, just like that, fuck you feel so good, you have no idea what you do to me by a man who clearly means every single word.

The praise is not generic, it's specific. He tells you about the noise you just made, tells you about the way your back arched just now, he tells you about how you taste, tells you about something you did three minutes ago that he can't stop thinking about. And the cumulative effect is that being in bed with Dick is like being told an extremely flattering story about yourself in real time and discovering, against your will, that you might actually believe it.

He calls you baby (that's the dominant one, the one he uses the most) and beautiful and sweetheart and honey and your name, often, comfortably. The use of your name is not a wall to be brought down because the wall isn't there; the first time he says I love you in bed it will be relatively early (months early) because Dick says it easily, he says it freely, and he means it every time.

You'll have to decide whether the easiness of it is a comfort or a complication, because the words come faster from him than they did from anyone else you've loved and that doesn't necessarily mean less, but it does mean different.

He's ridiculously attentive. He reads you in real time and adjusts, he learns your body in two or three sessions in a way that some people don't manage in years. He remembers what worked, he tries new things and watches your face for your reactions, he asks (verbally! with words! like a regular person!) what you want, and the asking is hot rather than awkward because Dick is genuinely curious, he wants to know, the wanting to know is part of the wanting you.

The cumulative effect of all of this, over months, is that the sex with Dick becomes some of the most pleasurable sex you've ever had in your life, and that fact, in itself, is going to start to bother you in a specific way that takes you a while to identify.

Because here's the thing nobody tells you about being a generous lover's partner: you start to notice, somewhere in month three or four, that the dynamic is asymmetric.

Dick is very, very invested in your pleasure, he derives a great deal of satisfaction from giving it to you, but the bulk of every encounter is structured around making you fall apart, and you'll start to wonder, gently at first, what he actually likes. What he actually wants. What would happen if you took the wheel for an evening and made the night about him, and you will discover, over time, that this is genuinely difficult for him.

Dick has trouble receiving. This is the bedroom version of the wider pattern (the over-extension, the conflict avoidance, the martyr-complex thing) and it shows up in bed as a deflection, a graceful one, almost imperceptible.

You start working your way down his body and he'll roll the two of you so suddenly you're underneath him again and he's grinning at you like yeah, no, my turn; you'll try to slow him down and he'll redirect with a kiss and his hand between your legs; you'll say it, eventually, Dick, hey, let me, and he'll laugh (that easy charming laugh, the deflective one) and say baby, I'm having fun, I'm great, c'mere, and the conversation will end and you'll be on your back again and you will, an hour later, lying next to him while he's drifting off, realise that he's done it again.

The first time you sit with this, properly (the first time you understand what's happening) you'll feel a little sick, because you'll realise that the generosity you'd been mistaking for sexual confidence is partly a deflection, a way of making the encounter about you so it doesn't have to be about him. A way of staying in the role of the giver because the role of the receiver is one he was not, somewhere along the way, taught how to occupy without flinching.

The way you have to crack it is the same way you have to crack every other layer of him, which is patiently, over time, with a kind of attention that mirrors back the attention he's been giving you.

What you do, slowly, is insist, gently, repeatedly, without making it a confrontation: you take his hand and put it on the headboard above his head and you say stay there, you laugh when you say it, you keep it light, but you mean it, and he'll laugh and try to move and you'll say no, stay, and he'll go very still and look at you with something new in his face (a flicker of genuine surprise, almost a kind of unease) and what yo're doing in this moment is showing him that the room is going to hold him whether he's in motion or not.

The first time he actually lets you do what you want with him, the first time he just lies there and lets you take him apart, slowly, with no escape route, you'll see his composure crack in real time and it'll be one of the most extraordinary things you've ever witnessed, because Dick Grayson unguarded is a rare phenomenon and you're getting it because you earned it.

And what you'll discover, when he finally lets himself receive, is that he is extremely responsive. Vocally, physically, emotionally. That the surface charm has been masking a deep, almost unbearable sensitivity, that he gets loud when he's being properly attended to, that he has shake in him when someone is patient with him.

He will say things (broken, half-finished things, baby, please, oh god, fuck, don't stop, please) that you have never heard from him in any other context, because Dick when he's being taken care of is a different person than Dick when he's taking care of you.

The moment you get access to that other Dick is the moment the relationship begins to deepen into something the surface version could never have built on its own.

The other thing about Dick in bed (and this is important) is that he's strong, in a way that doesn't always register because his charm makes him read as soft. The way this surfaces in bed is genuinely startling the first time you encounter it.

Dick can pick you up, easily, without much effort, and rearrange the geography of the bed with the kind of casual physicality that comes from a man who routinely flips off rooftops, and the first time he does it (the first time he just lifts you, hands under your thighs, and walks you to a different position with no apparent strain) you'll have a small private revelation about what the rest of his life is like, and the thing he holds back.

The strength he's being careful with around you, is going to become a quiet erotic undercurrent for the entire relationship.

And then there's the flexibility, which you can't talk about Dick in bed without addressing.

The man can do things with his body that other people genuinely cannot, and it's not a party trick, it's just physical fact. He can hold positions other men would tap out of within minutes, his hips have a kind of fluency that's difficult to describe and impossible to forget.

He can fold you up into shapes you didn't know your body would do and hold you there long enough for the position to stop being an act and start being a place you live, and he's not show-offy about this, he doesn't lead with it, he just uses it, casually, the way other men use their hands.

The first time it really registers what you're working with you'll laugh, mid-act, an involuntary disbelieving laugh, and he'll stop and grin at you and ask what, and you'll say nothing, nothing, keep going, and he'll know exactly what, and his ego will preen for a week about it.

He can kneel between your thighs with his back arched and his hands braced wide on the headboard for as long as he wants to; no shake, no shift, no sign of strain, just steady working focus. He can fold himself almost in half over you while still keeping perfect rhythm, his forehead against yours, his elbows planted on either side of your head, his hips doing something that should not be physically possible from that angle but apparently is when it's him.

He can sit back on his heels with you in his lap and stay there for hours, his hands on your hips guiding you, his thighs not trembling once, his breathing barely changed, and the patient quality of that stillness (the way he can just hold and let you move on him at your pace) is one of the most erotic things you've ever encountered, because he's not enduring it, he's enjoying it, you can see it on his face.

His hips are their own subject, and you'll think about them in spare moments for the rest of your life.

There's a fluency to the way he moves that other people simply don't have, an unbroken liquid quality, the same physical literacy that makes him a working acrobat showing up here as the ability to change rhythms mid-stroke without losing the through-line, to slow down without losing the angle, to grind in a slow circle that finds something specific inside you and stays there until you're making sounds you don't recognise, and the worst part is that he knows.

He has the information, he's clocked the angle that makes your breath catch and he can return to it with surgical precision whenever he wants to, and he does, often, with a small private smile against your shoulder.

He has a habit to pick you up mid-fuck and walking you somewhere else without losing rhythm. This is a real thing he does and the first time he does it you will go slightly insane, because you'd been on the bed and you'd thought you were going to finish on the bed, and instead he's reached under your thighs, lifted you cleanly into his lap with his hands cupping you, stood up, walked you to the wall, and pressed your back against it without ever pulling out.

The casualness of the whole manoeuvre (the way it's genuinely no effort for him) is going to recalibrate your understanding of what sex can be; he does the same thing with the bed-to-counter relocation, with the bed-to-shower transition, with picking you up off the couch when neither of you is going to make it to the bedroom in time, and every single time he does it he treats it as completely unremarkable, which is somehow worse than if he were trying to impress you with it.

The positions he prefers shift over time, too.

His early-relationship favourites are these: he loves having you on top of him with his hands on your hips, because he likes watching you, he likes the angle, he likes being able to reach every part of you at once (your hips, your stomach, up to your breasts, your throat if you tip your head back), and he likes the freedom it gives his mouth. He can sit up and meet you, pull you down against him, kiss you while you move, or lean back and just watch, eyes dark, jaw slack, with the kind of frank wonder that's going to feel like being looked at by a man who has never seen another woman in his life.

He loves having you face-down with his weight on your back, one of his hands flat against the mattress next to your head and the other gathered in your hair, his mouth at your ear narrating playful filth, because the angle is good and the intimacy of his mouth that close to your ear is a thing he's very aware of.

He loves having you on your side with him behind you, slow and deep and unhurried, his arm under your head and his other hand splayed across your stomach holding you against him, because this position is the one where he can stay closest to you for the longest, and Dick prioritises closeness above almost everything else.

He loves (and this is one of his giveaway favourites) having you sit in his lap, facing him, both of you upright, your legs around his waist, your foreheads together, his hands on your back holding you against him.

This is the position he reaches for on slow nights, the one he gets you into when he wants the whole encounter to be one long unbroken kiss, and the slowness of it (the way it forces you to breathe in time with him, the way his eyes are right there, two inches from yours, the way every shift is felt across your whole pressed-together body) is the position where he's most undone, where the surface charm comes off completely and you get the real him.

There's also the mid-sex things he does that will become the texture of the relationship.

He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and turns his head to kiss the inside of your knee, never breaking rhythm, and the casual grace of the gesture (the fluency of it, the way it costs him nothing) will undo you the first dozen times he does it;

He catches your hand when you reach for him and laces your fingers and pins it to the mattress next to your head and holds it there, palm-to-palm, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist, an entire conversation happening in two square inches of contact; he stops, sometimes, mid-thrust, and just looks at you, his rhythm gone still, his eyes traveling your face like he's trying to commit something to memory, and when you ask what he just shakes his head and smiles and kisses you and starts moving again, and you'll never get the answer to what, but you'll learn that this is one of his most reflexive expressions of love.

He talks against your skin (not on it, into it) his mouth pressed to your throat, your shoulder, the soft place under your ear, and the praise comes out muffled and warm and slightly slurred. Like he can't quite focus enough to enunciate, and there's something about the vibration of his voice directly against your pulse that hits a frequency words alone can't reach.

He murmurs into the join of your neck and shoulder, a small steady stream (baby, fuck, you feel—fuck—)and the sentences don't always finish, and the not-finishing is the proof that he means them.

He has a habit of brushing your hair back from your face mid-sex. Your hair will fall across your forehead, or into your eyes, or stick to your temple, and his hand will come up automatically and touch it, gentle, almost absent, like he can't bear to have anything between him and your face.

The gesture is so reflexive he doesn't even know he does it; he does the same thing with hair stuck to your temple from sweat (smooths it back with his thumb, presses a kiss to where it was, keeps moving) and the overall effect of being touched this attentively, this casually, while he's taking you apart between your thighs, is going to ruin you for partners who treat sex as a contained event with discrete inputs, because Dick treats it as a continuous field of attention, and once you've experienced that you can't go back.

He sucks on his fingers. Sometimes after he's had them inside you, holding eye contact, deliberate, with a small smile that's the smuggest expression on his entire face, and you'll hate him for the smugness and you'll love him for it. And you will, eventually, give up on which one wins; he does it casually, like it's the most natural follow-through in the world, and the unbothered quality of the move is what makes it work, because if it were performed it would be obnoxious and instead it just reads as a man who's genuinely enjoying himself.

He kisses down your body in a continuous unbroken line. Dick doesn't skip, Dick doesn't jump-cut. He gets from your mouth to where he's going by traveling, lips against your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, your sternum, the soft place between your ribs, your stomach, your hip.

The journey takes as long as it takes, he's in no hurry, and he stops at points along the way to settle in for a minute, sucking a mark into the place where your shoulder meets your neck, scraping his teeth lightly across your hipbone and watching you twitch, and the deliberateness of the trip is more arousing than the destination.

Dick has a thing he does where he'll be inside you, going slow, and he'll stop moving entirely. Just stop, just stay there, deep, holding still, and lean down and kiss you, hungry and unhurried, for a full minute, two minutes, however long, while the rest of him is just present inside you, not moving, not building, just there.

The held stillness combined with the kissing is going to do something to your nervous system that nothing else has ever done, and he knows, and he does it on purpose, and he watches your face afterward with this small satisfied expression that says yeah, that one's mine, I did that.

He gets a flush (high on his cheekbones, down his throat, across his chest) when he's getting close, and the flush is one of the few things about his body he can't control. The first time you notice it (you'd been watching his face) you'll feel the small private thrill of having identified one of his tells, and after that you'll watch for it deliberately, and he won't know you're watching for it, but when it appears you'll know before he does, which is a strange small power that becomes one of your favourite things about him.

He stretches afterwards, in bed, with the unselfconscious physical grace of a cat. Arms over his head, back arched off the mattress, a long luxurious extension of every muscle group, and the first time you watch him do it you'll understand viscerally what kind of body you've gotten access to, and you'll think about the stretch in inappropriate moments for years; sometimes he'll do it half-on top of you, his weight pleasantly pinning you to the mattress while he stretches his arms above his head, and the unconscious comfort of the gesture (the way he'll just use your body as a place to land) is one of the most affectionate things he does.

He puts his ear to your chest, sometimes, after you're both finished. Head tucked under your chin, ear flat against your sternum, and listens to your heartbeat, and he does this often enough that you'll realise it's very much deliberate. He's checking, that something in him is soothed by the sound of your heartbeat; he won't explain why, and you won't ask, but you'll find yourself, on the nights he does it, automatically running your fingers through his hair, holding him there, letting him stay as long as he wants. Because you understand on some pre-verbal level that this is one of the ways he loves you.

He likes (and this is something you'll have to learn over time, because he doesn't volunteer it, it has to be asked for) being underneath you. Not just casually. But in a true sense. With you setting the pace.

He likes pinning your hands above your head and watching you try to move under him; he likes (and this is the one that surprises you both) being held afterwards in a particular way, your arms around his ribs, your face against the back of his neck, your whole body tucked against his, and the first time you do it without thinking.

The first time you fold yourself around him and just stay, he goes still in the way that means I didn't know I needed this and now I will not be able to live without it, and he won't say anything, but in the morning he'll be a little softer with you than usual, a little more clingy, and that'll be his way of telling you.

He also has, and this takes you longer to notice, a thing about hair (yours specifically, but his too) he likes you running your hands through his hair (and his hair is thick and a little wild and slightly too long and he uses some kind of product that smells like cedar, and you will find yourself reaching for it constantly), and he likes pulling yours, gently, at the right moment, with the kind of precision that suggests he has done his homework on what you can take.

He likes when you scrape your nails along his scalp, soft slow drags from temple to nape, and the first time you do it absent-mindedly while watching a movie he goes liquid on the couch beneath you and you'll think you've broken him, and then you'll do it again, on purpose, in bed, and he'll make a noise you've never heard him make before.

He's a kisser in a way that some men are not. Some men kiss as a transition, a means to an end, a thing you do on the way to other things. Dick kisses as a destination, kissing is part of the event, and he'll kiss you for absurd lengths of time without escalating, just kissing, slow deep unhurried kissing, his hand at your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone.

There are nights when the whole evening is essentially just that, hours of just kissing on the couch like teenagers, and you'll realise at some point that he's doing this on purpose, that he's savouring, that he genuinely loves the act of kissing you and considers it not foreplay but its own complete category of intimacy.

The slow nights with Dick are soft in a way that's almost embarrassing. He's not afraid of softness, he leans into it, he enjoys it. He kisses you for forty minutes before anything else happens because he genuinely loves kissing you, he wraps his whole body around yours and moves slowly enough that you can feel every shift. He keeps his eyes on yours, he talks, but quieter than usual, the praise reduced to its essentials, baby, baby, you're so perfect, I love you, fuck I love you, and the I-love-yous on these nights are easier than they have any right to be, because Dick really does love easily, that part isn't a lie, the difficulty is what's underneath the loving, but the loving itself is real.

Dick is a man who feels things deeply and was trained from childhood to perform composure, and there are nights (usually after he's let you take him apart, usually after a stretch where work has been hard and he's been carrying too much) where he'll hide his face in your neck afterwards and you'll feel his breath catch, and you'll feel something wet against your skin.

He will not acknowledge it, and the way to handle it is to do nothing (don't comment, don't question, don't make it a thing) just hold him, run your hand up and down his back, and let him do it, because what is happening is that he's letting himself feel the day, and the only place he's allowed to do that is here, with you, and if you make a fuss about it he won't be able to do it again without feeling like a burden.

Aftercare with Dick is seamless. He's good at it the way he's good at everything socially calibrated, but the early version of his aftercare has a quality of checking that you've to learn to read past (are you good? you good, baby? you need water? you need anything?) and this is partly genuine concern and partly anxiety, partly his own need to confirm that he did the encounter right.

The loving thing to do, eventually, is to take his face in your hands and kiss him gently and say yes, I'm good, I'm great, come here, and pull him down and hold him, and let his version of aftercare give way to your version, and the long quiet hours of just lying tangled up in him, his head on your chest, his hand in yours, are the hours when he is most himself, when the performance is fully off, when he's just a man in a bed with someone who loves him.

He's deeply affectionate post-sex in a way that will spoil you.

Dick doesn't roll over and just fall asleep. No. Dick wants to talk, Dick wants to cuddle (he uses this word, unironically, he's not embarrassed by the word cuddle, he's comfortable with all of his feelings in a way that took him years of work to get to).

Dick will trace shapes on your back for an hour, he'll kiss the top of your head every few minutes like he's checking in. Dick will tell you stories from his childhood at 2 a.m. with your head on his chest and his hand in your hair, and these are the hours when he gives you the real him, the one that exists underneath the glossy charm, and you'll learn that the way to access this Dick is to be still with him. To not rush it, not ask him questions that put him on the spot. To just be a warm body next to his and let him talk, and over months, over years, the stories will accumulate, and you'll know him in a way that few people have ever truly known him, and that knowing will be the thing that makes the relationship real.

His general affection, outside of bed, has its own grammar that you'll learn to read as well.

He's a toucher, constantly, never aggressively, just always. His hand on your knee at dinner, his fingers tangled in yours under the table at family events, his arm around your shoulders on the couch, his hand at the small of your back when he's standing behind you in any line for any reason.

He's a forehead-kisser, as established, and the forehead kiss is his most freely given affection. Dispensed dozens of times a day, when you walk past him in the kitchen, when you hand him coffee, when he leaves for patrol, when he comes back.

He' a nape-of-the-neck-toucher, his palm warm and broad against the back of your neck when he's leaning in to say something close, and there's a soft, possessive quality to the touch that he himself doesn't quite recognise, the kind of soft mine that doesn't need to be said out loud.

He likes holding your hand, full hand, fingers laced, in public, walking down the street, at parties, at dinners, like he wants people to see, and the wanting-people-to-see is its own kind of declaration.

He cooks for you. Badly. But with great enthusiasm, and he'll get better over the years because Dick gets better at everything he applies himself to.

He learns your favourites and makes them on bad days, he leaves you notes on the kitchen counter with hearts on them like he's twelve years old, he sends you texts in the middle of the day that are just thinking about you, beautiful, hope your day's going okay, and the weight of all of these gestures is what builds the relationship into something solid.

Dick understands (in a way many people don't) that love is not a feeling you have once and refer to forever, it's a practice, it's the daily choice, and he's good at the daily choice, which is one of the most quietly extraordinary things about him.

He dances with you in your kitchen. Actually dances. Not the joke kind, real dancing, he was raised by acrobats and learned to dance before he could read.

He can lead, and he'll teach you, and the first time he pulls you up off the couch to dance to something that came on while he was making dinner you will feel like you have walked into a different kind of life

He sings, badly, in the shower, loud, unselfconscious, and the badness of his singing is one of the only things he is genuinely unselfconscious about, the only place where the surface composure cracks without him noticing.

He laughs at your jokes. Not in some polite way, in a full way, head thrown back, with his whole body, and the laugh is so generous it will make you try harder to be funny, just to hear it again, and you'll become, over the course of dating him, slightly funnier than you were before, because he's been treating your humour like a thing worth investing in. And he'll become happier, because you're one of the few who can bring simple, uncomplicated happiness into his life with a few sentences.

He remembers everything. The names of your friends from college, the specific wine you liked at that one restaurant two years ago, the way you take your eggs, the title of the book you'd mentioned wanting to read. And the effect of being remembered like this, of being attended to at this granularity, is destabilising in a way that takes you months to recover from. Because most people in the world are not paying attention at this level, and discovering that one of them is paying it to you will change your understanding of what attention can be.

Now, fights with Dick are their own thing because they're terrible in a specific way. Dick doesn't yell, he doesn't storm out. Dick instead does the worst possible thing, which is get quiet, get gentle, smile at you with sad eyes and say you might be right, baby, let's just—let's just take a beat, okay? and then leave the apartment for three hours and come back composed and ready to not talk about it.

The first time he does this you're going to be furious in a way you don't quite have language for, because he didn't fight back, he didn't engage, he just side-stepped and you're now standing in your living room with all of the original anger and nowhere to put it.

You will learn, over time, that the way to fight with Dick is to refuse the side-step: you have to make him stay in the room, you have to ask him direct questions and not let him deflect with charm.

You have to be willing to call him on the we're fine, baby when you're not, in fact, fine, and you have to do this without yelling, because yelling triggers his shutdown, the version of him that learned at age fourteen that the way to survive Bruce Wayne in a bad mood was to be agreeable and inscrutable.

You have to be steady, and you have to be patient, and let him know that the conversation is going to happen, today, and that you're not going to be charmed out of it.

When he realises you've figured out the trick of him will be a moment of genuine pain on his face. Not anger, not annoyance, grief, almost, because something he's used to manage relationships his whole life has just stopped working, and he's now going to have to actually be in the room with you, and he is, on some level, terrified, and that fear is a thing you have to handle gently, because what is being asked of him is enormous, and what he's going to discover, on the other side of it, is that he can survive being known.

Over time, the relationship with Dick stabilises into something that's both easier and harder than the early days suggested it would be.

Easier because he's genuinely a wonderful person to be around, because he makes you laugh, because he's reliable in the ways that matter. Because he loves you with a steady warmth that doesn't ever waver. The sex remains, against all odds, better than it was at the start.

But harder because the work of dragging him out of his own self-effacement, the work of insisting that he be a whole person with you and not just the version that takes care of you, the work of sitting in conflict with him until the conflict is actually resolved... that work is constant. IT doesn't get easier, you don't fix it once and have it stay fixed. You have to do it every six months, every year, every time something gets stressful and he reverts to his old habits, and you have to decide if you have the energy for that work, because you'll need it for the rest of your life with him.

The big picture, the actual truth of dating Dick Grayson is this: he's the easiest man in the world to fall in love with, but one of the more difficult ones to actually know. The gap between those two facts is the entire territory of the relationship.

Butt if you're willing to do the work, if you're willing to refuse his deflections without breaking him, and you're willing to be the person who insists on his full self instead of accepting the gracious half he hands you, what you get on the other side is a man who is radiantly good.

Who loves you with everything he has, who is kind in a way the world doesn't produce many of anymore, who will show up for you for the rest of his life, who will hold your hand in the hospital and your face when you cry and say your name like a prayer when he comes.

Who, when he finally lets you all the way in, will look at you with the kind of relief that suggests he's been waiting his whole life for someone to refuse to let him hide, and you will understand, then, what the charm was for: it was simply the door. It was never the room.

He's the easiest man you'll ever love and the hardest one to actually reach, but the reaching is the whole point.

[jellyfishsthings]

Hi! Love your the secrets out fic! Thanks so much for writing it! Are we plowed to asked for more scenarios regarding isekei reader and the bat fam?

Scenarios(you pick, or none).

1. The boys find out reader actually has a few of the dc comics under her bed that somehow managed to cross over to Gotham with her after her shopping trip to the craft store and the comic book store to get the new releases of absolute Batman comics. Chaos ensues as the boys want to read them and finds out about baby suit joker(Jason has nightmares for a week). (Maybe Bruce finds the “Batman who laughs” comic at the bottom of the bag and reads it and is now horrified.)

2. Damian finds out he is readers most favorite Robin despite the other boys protests on why they should be her favorite Robin,(she even makes the “if Damian dies I’m killing everyone in this room and then myself” joke), (Reason? He’s the only Robin that carries a sword and that’s cool in her book.) also Jason finds out the reason he got killed by the joker was because 5k kids in the 80s called a phone number poll that dc comics set up to vote weather Robin should die or live in the next release and that him dying won out by 72 votes.

3. Tim finds out that there was a 3 season animated series about the original teen titans in readers universe and Tim is devastated that he won’t ever get to watch that show. (Dick finds out that reader thought he was the “least cool” member of the teen titans when the showed aired.)

4. Bruce finds out from a slip of the tongue by reader that Damian mighttttt, actually have an older sibling somewhere after Talia told Bruce that the baby was miscarried and instead she put the baby up for adoption. (But reader insists that the child probably doesn’t exist cause the story was retconned after Damian was created.)

5. Reader accidentally solved a mystery Tim and Bruce were puzzled over for a month after she just takes one look at it and mentions “oh no, that guy didn’t kill them, it was actually the other guy. You’re being led astray. Wait, was it? No I think- no, no, it was! …..or maybe not.” And Tim restrains himself from wanting to strangle reader on weather the “guy” they been tracking down for 2 weeks is the true murderer or not.

6. Reader actually gets kidnapped by the joker and held hostage, reader stumps joker when she says his government name and refuses to elaborate why or how she knows so much about him. Joker is understandably, pretty creeped out by reader and doesn’t find the whole hostage thing funny anymore and just lets reader go, and reader just walks out the building the bat fam was about to storm in to rescue her.

ok so I changed it up a bit to the point where they don't know yet so it can be more funny

Controlled Chaos

navigation , dc navigation

requests are open

It has been a while since you had taken this knew identity. Living a life you have read about in the past, being a part of it. The file you had made for yourself seemed airtight, posing as a genius and pretending to be one, when in reality you just had too much prior knowledge of everything. The hardest part was to be calm and not give away too much information, no matter how much you wanted to help them, and when you did they were losing their minds. Just like this case that has been bugging them for sometime now.

"It was definitely Marchetti," Tim said, staring at the evidence board with the intensity of someone who'd been awake for thirty-six hours straight. Which he had been. "The timeline matches, the motive is there—"

"Except Marchetti was in Coast City when the murder happened," you said from where you were perched on the edge of the Batcave's main console, flipping through the case file. "His alibi is airtight."

"Alibis can be faked—"

"Not this one. He was on live television. I checked." You looked up. "Oh, and that guy you've been tracking for two weeks? Not the murderer."

The entire Cave went silent.

"What," Bruce said slowly, "did you just say?"

"The guy you're tracking isn't the killer. It was actually the other guy—Salvatore's brother. The one you ruled out because he was supposedly in prison? Yeah, he got released six months ago on a technicality but it wasn't widely reported. He killed Marchetti's accountant as revenge for testifying against him, made it look like a mob hit to throw you off." You paused. "Wait, was it Salvatore's brother? No, I think—no, no, it was! ...Or maybe not."

Tim made a strangled sound. "We've been working this case for TWO WEEKS—"

"Yeah, I know. I've been watching." You turned a page. "You were on the right track initially, but then you got distracted by the Marchetti connection and missed the prison release records. Easy mistake."

"Easy mistake," Tim repeated faintly.

"How do you know about the prison release?" Bruce asked, his Batman voice in full effect.

"I checked? It's public record. Well, technically it's sealed record, but public enough if you know where to look." You tilted your head. "You guys were so focused on the complicated conspiracy angle that you missed the simple revenge plot. Classic misdirection."

Dick was staring at you like you'd grown a second head. "You solved in five minutes what we've been working on for two weeks?"

"Well, I've been thinking about it for like three days. I just looked at the file today to confirm." You frowned down at the papers. "Although now I'm second-guessing myself. Was it the brother or the cousin? They both had motive..."

"I'm going to have an aneurysm," Tim said.

Jason, who'd been watching from the corner with poorly concealed amusement, started laughing. "Oh man, Timmy got out-detected by the newbie."

"She's not a detective, she's a—" Tim stopped. "What are you, exactly?"

You shrugged. "Bored, mostly. And observant. You guys talk about your cases a lot, and I pay attention."

"You solved a two-week investigation by passively listening to us talk?" Bruce's eye was twitching slightly.

"Is that... bad?"

"No, it's—" Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "We need to have a conversation about information security."

"But first," Dick said, grinning now, "we need to confirm if it was the brother or the cousin."

"Brother," you decided. "Definitely the brother. The cousin was in Europe. I think. Actually, now I'm not sure again..."

"ORACLE," Tim barked into his comm. "I need you to check prison release records for anyone connected to the Salvatore family in the last year—"

"Already on it," Barbara's voice came back, amused. "And she's right. Salvatore's brother, Marco, was released six months ago. Charges dropped on a technicality. He matches the physical description of the suspect in the Marchetti accountant murder."

The silence in the Batcave was deafening.

"Huh," you said. "So it was the brother. Cool."

Tim slowly turned to look at you. "You just... you casually solved a murder investigation that three of the world's greatest detectives have been working on for two weeks."

"When you put it that way, it sounds impressive. But really, you guys did all the hard work. I just noticed the thing you missed because you were too close to it." You hopped off the console. "Anyway, I'm gonna go make a sandwich. Anyone want one?"

"I want answers," Tim said. "How did you—what's your process—do you have some kind of meta ability we don't know about—"

"I just looked at what you were looking at and thought about it differently?" You were already heading toward the stairs. "You were looking for complicated. I looked for simple. Sometimes the obvious answer is the right one."

After you left, the four of them just stood there.

"So," Jason said finally, "we keeping her or what?"

"She's not a stray cat, Jason," Bruce said.

"Could've fooled me. She showed up, made herself at home, and is now better at our job than we are."

"She's not better—" Tim stopped. "Okay, in this specific instance, she was better. But that doesn't mean—"

"She solved in three days what you couldn't solve in two weeks."

"It was a lucky guess!"

"Was it though?" Dick was grinning. "Because I'm starting to think we might have accidentally acquired a genius."

"She's not a genius, she's just—" Bruce paused. "Actually, Barbara, pull up her file."

"Already did," Barbara said. "You're gonna love this. Genius-level IQ, photographic memory, pattern recognition off the charts. She was flagged by three separate universities for early admission before she was even sixteen."

"Then why is she here instead of at university?" Bruce asked.

"Because she turned them all down. Said higher education was 'boring' and she'd 'rather learn by doing.'" Barbara paused. "She's been auditing your case files for entertainment, apparently."

"Our case files are classified—"

"Yeah, she hacked those about two weeks after moving in. I've been monitoring. She doesn't distribute or misuse the information, just reads them like novels."

"And you didn't think to MENTION THIS?" Tim's voice had gone up an octave.

"I figured you'd notice eventually," Barbara said, completely unrepentant. "Besides, it's been hilarious watching her casually drop information that you all missed."

Jason was still laughing. "Oh man, this is the best thing that's happened all month."

"This is a security nightmare," Bruce said.

"This is an opportunity," Dick corrected. "She's brilliant, she's already here, and she clearly has good instincts. We should train her properly."

"Absolutely not—"

"Bruce, she just solved a case that stumped Tim, you, and Oracle. In three days. While barely trying." Dick crossed his arms. "That's not luck. That's talent."

"That's dangerous," Bruce countered. "She's seventeen—"

"I was younger than that when you took me in," Jason pointed out.

"So was I," Dick added.

"And I," Damian said, appearing from wherever he'd been lurking. "Though I maintain I needed no training, as I was already perfect."

"Not helping, Demon Spawn," Tim muttered.

Bruce looked at all of them, then up at the Cave ceiling like he was asking for divine intervention. "One. One calm child. That's all I asked for."

"Sorry, B," Dick said, not sounding sorry at all. "You keep adopting chaos gremlins. This one just happens to be a chaos gremlin with detective skills."

"I'm not adopting—she's just staying here temporarily—"

"Sure," Jason said. "Temporarily. Like all of us."

The Joker situation happened three weeks later.

You were on your way back from the library—because despite having access to the Batcave's extensive files, you still liked physical books—when a van pulled up.

"Oh, come on," you said as three goons jumped out. "Really? The grab-and-go in broad daylight? That's so derivative."

"Shut up and get in the van," one of them growled.

"No thanks. I'm good."

They grabbed you anyway, which was rude, and threw you in the van. You considered fighting back, but honestly, you were kind of curious where this was going.

The warehouse they took you to was exactly as cliché as you'd expected. Lots of shadows, dramatic lighting, and there—sitting in a chair like he was holding court—was the Joker.

"Well, well, well," he said, grinning that horrible grin. "The Wayne brat. Not the one I usually play with, but you'll do."

"I'm not actually a Wayne," you said. "Common mistake."

"You live in Wayne Manor. Close enough." He leaned forward. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you?"

"Monologue, probably. Maybe some light torture. Eventually use me as bait to draw out Batman." You looked around the warehouse. "This is the old Amusement Mile location, right? Hasn't this been condemned?"

Joker's smile faltered slightly. "You're not scared."

"I'm a little scared. Mostly annoyed." You studied him. "You know, you're shorter than I expected. The news makes you seem taller."

"I—what—"

"Also, your henchmen are terrible at kidnapping. One of them left a fingerprint on the van door. Very sloppy."

Joker stood up, and okay, maybe you should have been more scared because he pulled out a knife and that was definitely concerning.

"Let's try this again," he said, voice dropping to that dangerous whisper he was known for. "I'm going to hurt you. And you're going to scream. And Batman is going to come running. And then we'll have some real fun."

"Okay, but before you do that, can I ask you something?"

"...What?"

"Is your real name Jack Napier or is that just what the media says? Because I've seen conflicting reports."

Joker stared at you. "How do you know that name?"

"Public records. Well, semi-public. You were arrested in 1987 under that name, before the whole acid bath situation. It's all in the Gotham PD archives if you know where to look." You paused. "Oh, also, your current location is being broadcast on the dark web. Did you know that? Someone in your organization is selling you out."

"They're—what—"

"Yeah, there's a tracker on your shoe. Probably from that new guy—what's his name, Dennis? He's actually an undercover GCPD officer. Did you not vet him before hiring?"

Joker looked at his shoe, then back at you, then at his henchmen. "Dennis?"

Dennis, who had been standing in the corner, went pale. "Boss, I can explain—"

"You're a COP?"

"This is awkward," you observed.

What happened next was chaotic. Dennis ran. Two of the other henchmen chased him. Joker was yelling. Someone pulled a gun.

You took the opportunity to slip your restraints, they'd tied them loose, amateurs really, and move toward the exit.

"Where do you think YOU'RE going?" Joker grabbed your arm.

And here's where you made a decision that was either very smart or very stupid.

"Jack Napier," you said clearly. "Also known as the Joker. Born in 1962, grew up in Gotham's East End. Your mother's name was Maureen. You had a younger brother who died when you were twelve. You worked as a chemical engineer before the accident. You have a documented phobia of bats stemming from a childhood incident at Robinson Park."

Joker's grip loosened. He was staring at you with something that wasn't quite anger, wasn't quite fear, but was definitely unsettled.

"How," he said slowly, "do you know all that?"

"I read. A lot. And I'm very good at connecting information." You met his eyes. "I know things about you that even Batman doesn't know. I know about your first crime—the one you got away with when you were seventeen. I know about the girlfriend who left you right before the accident. I know about the deal you made with Falcone in 1989 that you've kept secret ever since."

"You—" His face was doing something complicated. The grin was gone, replaced by something almost human. Almost vulnerable. "You can't—you shouldn't—"

"I'm not going to tell anyone," you said. "Your secrets are safe with me. I'm just saying... I know things. And I don't think the whole hostage situation is really your style anymore. You've evolved past that. You're more interested in the psychological game now, right? The chaos? Hostages are so 1990s."

Joker laughed. It started small and built to something manic. "Oh, you're good. You're really good. Batman didn't send you, did he?"

"Batman doesn't know I'm here. Neither does anyone else yet. They will soon—I activated my tracker when your guys grabbed me—but right now, it's just us."

"And you're not scared of me."

"I'm appropriately cautious. But no, not really scared." You paused. "You're a man who fell into a vat of chemicals and came out changed. You've built an entire persona around chaos and unpredictability. But underneath it all, you're still just a person. A very damaged, very dangerous person, but a person."

For a long moment, Joker just looked at you.

Then he started laughing again, but this time it was different. Less manic, more genuine.

"Oh, Batsy is going to HATE you," he said, delighted. "You're completely fearless and entirely too smart for your own good." He released your arm, stepping back. "You know what? Go. Just walk out. This—" He gestured around. "—isn't fun anymore. You've ruined it by being interesting."

"So I can just... leave?"

"You were never really in danger. Well, maybe a little. I hadn't decided yet." He waved dismissively. "But now I'm bored and you're creepy and I need to deal with Dennis the traitor. So shoo."

You started backing toward the door. "This is the weirdest kidnapping I've ever been in."

"How many have you been in?"

"Just this one, but still. Weird."

"Get out before I change my mind!"

You got out.

You made it about three blocks before the Batmobile pulled up and Bruce practically fell out of it.

"Are you hurt? Did he—what happened—"

"I'm fine. Joker let me go."

Bruce stopped. "He what?"

"Let me go. We had a conversation. It was educational."

"You had a CONVERSATION with the JOKER?"

"Is that not normal?"

"NO, that is NOT NORMAL—"

The rest of the family pulled up in various vehicles. Dick practically tackled you in a hug. Jason was doing a perimeter check. Tim was scanning you for injuries. Damian was glowering at the warehouse like he could set it on fire with his mind.

"What happened?" Dick demanded. "We got your tracker signal, we were on our way—"

"Joker kidnapped me. We talked. He let me go." You frowned. "Also, he has a mole in his organization. You might want to look into that."

"You TALKED to him?" Tim looked somewhere between horrified and impressed. "What did you talk about?"

"His government name, mostly. And his childhood. And his career trajectory." You paused. "He seems like he's going through something. Very unstable. More than usual."

"She KNOWS HIS GOVERNMENT NAME?" Jason's voice had gone up significantly.

"It's in the archives—"

"THOSE ARE SEALED—"

"Not very well," you pointed out.

Bruce made a sound like a teakettle about to explode.

"Also," you added, "I told him about the mole. And his mother's name. And his fear of bats. He didn't seem happy about that last one."

"You told the Joker we know his secret identity?" Bruce's voice was very, very calm. Which was more terrifying than yelling.

"I mean, you didn't know it. I knew it. So technically I told him that I know his secret identity." You thought about it. "Does that make it better or worse?"

"WORSE," everyone said simultaneously.

"Oh. Well, in my defense, it did get him to let me go without any violence, so tactically it was sound—"

"No," Bruce said. "No, we're going home. We're having a very long discussion about information security, tactical decisions, and why you should NEVER NEGOTIATE WITH THE JOKER."

"I mean, it worked though—"

"NOT THE POINT."

On the drive back to the manor, squished between Dick and Tim in the back of the Batmobile, you reflected that maybe you should have played up the damsel in distress thing more.

But where was the fun in that?

The "very long discussion" turned into more of a family intervention.

"You can't just TELL villains their secret identities!" Tim was pacing. He'd been pacing for twenty minutes.

"Why not? He already knew I knew things. It established credibility."

"It established that you're INSANE," Jason said, but he was grinning. "I mean, I respect it. But you're insane."

"The Joker is not someone you negotiate with," Bruce said for the fourth time. "He's unpredictable, violent, and extremely dangerous—"

"Yes, but he's also dramatic and appreciates a good psychological play. I read his profile." You were sitting on the Batcave's medical cot, having been forced to submit to Alfred's examination despite being completely uninjured. "He responds to intellectual challenge. So I challenged him."

"By telling him you know his deepest secrets," Dick said slowly. "Which, okay, definitely a power move, but also INCREDIBLY RISKY."

"It worked though."

"THIS TIME," Bruce said loudly. "It worked this time. Next time, he might decide to kill you instead of being impressed."

"Then I won't get kidnapped next time."

"THAT'S NOT THE SOLUTION—"

"Master Bruce," Alfred interrupted calmly, "perhaps we should focus on the fact that the young miss is safe and unharmed, rather than the methods she employed to achieve that state."

"Alfred, she told the Joker his government name—"

"Which you didn't know," you pointed out. "So really, I gathered intelligence—"

"BY TELLING A SUPERVILLAIN YOU'VE BEEN INVESTIGATING HIM!"

"When you put it that way, it sounds bad.

Damian, who'd been silent up until now, spoke up. "I find her tactics sound. Psychological warfare is a valid strategy."

"Thank you, Damian—"

"However," he continued, "employing such tactics without backup or extraction plan was foolish. Next time, inform someone of your strategy before implementing it."

"There won't BE a next time," Bruce said firmly.

"Statistically unlikely," you said. "I live with vigilantes. The kidnapping rate is probably going to be higher than average."

Jason was laughing again. "Oh man, B, she's got you there."

"This is not funny—"

"It's a little funny," Dick said. "I mean, she outplayed the Joker in a psychological game. That's kind of impressive."

"It's terrifying," Tim corrected. "She's seventeen and she made the Joker uncomfortable enough to let her go. Do you know how insane that is?"

"I prefer to think of it as effective communication," you said.

Bruce sat down heavily in his chair, looking about twenty years older than he had that morning. "We need rules. Clear, explicit rules about acceptable behavior."

"I follow rules," you protested.

"You hacked our classified files."

"That's not against the rules. You never said I couldn't."

"IT'S IMPLIED—"

"Implications aren't rules, Bruce."

Dick was trying very hard not to laugh. Jason had given up and was openly cackling. Even Damian looked amused, though he was hiding it better.

"Okay," Bruce said, clearly trying to regain control of the situation. "New rule. No engaging with supervillains without explicit permission and backup."

"What counts as engaging?"

"Talking to them. Negotiating with them. Telling them their secret identities—"

"Okay, but what if they kidnap me again? Am I allowed to talk then?"

"If you're kidnapped, your priority is escape, not conversation—"

"The conversation facilitated the escape—"

"Okay, everyone out," Alfred said firmly. "Master Bruce needs a moment. And the young miss needs rest, despite her protests of being fine."

"I am fine—"

"You were kidnapped by a homicidal clown. You are going to your room, drinking the tea I prepare for you, and resting. Non-negotiable."

You knew better than to argue with Alfred. Nobody won arguments with Alfred.

As you headed upstairs, you could hear the family still debating in the Cave.

"We should train her properly," Dick was saying. "If she's going to be in these situations anyway—"

"Absolutely not—"

"Bruce, she's already involved. Better to give her the tools to handle it—"

"She's seventeen—"

"I was younger when I died," Jason pointed out, which shut everyone up real quick.

You kept walking. You'd let them figure it out.

In your room, you pulled out your laptop and added some notes to your personal files.

Joker responds to intellectual challenge. Uncomfortable when confronted with personal information, particularly pre-accident identity. Possible leverage for future encounters? Note: Do not mention to Bruce. He will have an aneurysm.

Also: Need to investigate the Falcone connection more. There's something there.

Alfred appeared with tea, as promised. "You gave them quite a fright."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry anyone."

"I know. But perhaps in the future, try to worry them slightly less?" His eyes twinkled. "Though I must admit, the image of you lecturing the Joker on his career trajectory is rather amusing."

"You're not mad?"

"My dear, I've been managing this family for decades. It takes quite a lot to truly upset me." He set the tea down. "Though I would appreciate if you'd avoid being kidnapped in the future. It's terribly inconvenient."

"I'll try."

"That's all I ask." He headed for the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, you did well. You kept your head, used your intelligence, and got yourself out safely. That's more than many could say."

After he left, you drank your tea and thought about the day's events.

You'd been kidnapped by the Joker. You'd psychologically outmaneuvered him. You'd walked away unscathed.

And you'd somehow managed to give the entire Batfamily a collective heart attack in the process.

All in all, a pretty average Tuesday.

Your phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.

You're interesting. Let's not do this again. I prefer my chaos unpredictable. - J

You deleted the message and made a note to mention it to Barbara. Joker having your number was probably something they should know about.

But maybe not right now. Bruce was already stressed enough.

You'd tell them tomorrow.

Probably.

"So," Stephanie said, sliding into the seat next to you in the Manor's library, "I heard you made the Joker so uncomfortable he just let you go."

"News travels fast."

"You're a legend now. 'The Girl Who Psyched Out the Joker.' It's got a ring to it." She grinned. "Tim's still not over it, by the way. You solved his case AND outsmarted his nemesis in the same month."

"The Joker is Batman's nemesis, not Tim's—"

"Semantics." She pulled out her phone. "Also, you're trending on the dark web. Villains are taking bets on how long you survive."

"That's morbid."

"That's Gotham." She showed you the forum. "You've got pretty good odds, actually. Lots of money on 'she'll talk her way out of anything.'"

You scrolled through the comments. Most were some variation of impressed or terrified. A few were planning to test you themselves.

"I should probably tell Bruce about this."

"Probably. He's going to love it." Steph's grin widened. "So, when are you joining the team officially?"

"What team?"

"Uh, the Bat team? The vigilante squad? The family business?"

"I'm not a vigilante—"

"Yet. Give it time." She stood up. "For what it's worth, I think you'd be great at it. You've already got the most important skill."

"Which is?"

"Driving Bruce crazy while somehow making him proud at the same time." She winked. "That's practically the family motto."

After she left, you went back to your book. But you couldn't focus.

Because maybe Steph had a point. Maybe you were already part of this, whether you'd planned to be or not.

You'd solved their cases. You'd survived a Joker kidnapping. You'd somehow become part of the family dynamic.

And honestly? You kind of liked it.

Even if you did give them all heart attacks on a regular basis.

Especially because of that, actually.

After all, what was family for if not shared chaos and collective anxiety?

Your phone buzzed again. The family group chat that Dick had added you to.

Dick: Family movie night! Mandatory attendance! Tim: I'm working on a case— Dick: MANDATORY Jason: I'm dead. Can't attend. Dick: You're literally texting from the Manor right now Jason: My ghost is texting. Very tragic. Damian: This is frivolous. Dick: MANDATORY FAMILY BONDING You: What movie? Dick: See? She gets it! Bruce: I have work— Dick: ESPECIALLY mandatory for you, B Alfred: I'll prepare popcorn. Dick: Alfred is the only one who understands family values

You smiled and put your phone away.

Yeah. You could get used to this.

Even if it meant occasionally getting kidnapped by clowns and giving the world's greatest detective a stress migraine.

Maybe especially because of that.

After all, you'd always preferred chaos to boredom.

And this family? They had chaos in spades.

[bashcrandicoot]

Based on a true story