thinking abt fever-addled bats getting jealous of your cat nuzzling against your chest and chin when getting pet and deciding that's their real estate too, cue the most intimidating/muscular/stoic (depending on the bat) person you know tucking their red nose into the juncture of your shoulder and asking for head pets because it "eases the fever migraine"
according to all known laws of batman, a robin should not fight crime. batman hates child endangerment. the robin, of course, fights crime anyways, because robin doesn't care what batman thinks.
Debrief: FANTASY AU, peasant artist Kyle is summoned to the castle to paint a portrait of you, The Princess.
Case Notes: I got so carried away with this one 😅 I love me a fantasy au, and they’re just simply not requested enough.
Anyways, enjoy @bearseulgs!
The kingdom of Gotham runs smoothly under the reign of the Royal family, the Wayne’s. King Bruce took his rule at a very young age, under the supervision of his regent, Alfred. Bruce ran the kingdom with a stern face, but was beloved by his constituents as he truly cared for them.
The king adopted a slew of orphaned children throughout his kingdom bringing them into the palace and raising them to make the crown proud just as he had done.
And all the king asked currently of his eldest daughter was that you sat still. A simple task you’d think, but unfortunately, it seemed impossible.
🎨🖌️🖼️🌷🖼️🖌️🎨
Kyle Rayner arrives at the palace with paint on his boots. Not metaphorically. Literally. A streak of cornflower crosses one heel like he kicked the sky on the way in, and he stares up at the palace gates like a man who just realized he accidentally wandered into a dragon’s den.
“Name?” the guard asks.
“Kyle Rayner,” he says, adjusting the leather tube slung across his back, “Painter. I was summoned?”
The guard checks the parchment, frowns, then sighs, “Right. The king’s portrait commission.”
Kyle mutters under his breath, “Cool cool cool cool cool,” and steps inside the most expensive building he’s ever seen in his life.
🎨🖌️🖼️🌷🖼️🖌️🎨
Meanwhile, You, the dear princess, are attempting a daring escape from your third portrait sitting this month.
Court artists are unbearable. They want you to sit straight. Tilt your chin. Don’t smile. Definitely don’t ask them questions or try to engage in conversation. And they never let you look at the painting.
Which is why when the newest one sets up his easel in the sunlit solarium, you immediately decide you hate him. Except… He’s not wearing court robes. He’s wearing a slightly worn tunic, sleeves rolled up, dark hair a little messy like he forgot mirrors exist. He’s humming while he unpacks his paints.
You pause in the doorway, curious about the peasant your father obviously hired to paint your likeliness.
He hasn’t noticed you yet. He pulls out brushes like they’re precious artifacts, lining them up carefully and then he steps back, looks at the empty canvas, and mutters, “Okay. Don’t panic. It’s just the princess.”
You grin before you can stop yourself, stepping into the sunlit room, “You’re panicking?”
He startles so violently he almost knocks over his paint water. Kyle turns, and forgets every word in the human language.
Because the princess is not sitting on the throne where he expected her. You’re leaning casually against the doorway, sunlight catching in your hair like the painters in churches try to fake with gold leaf.
“Oh,” he says before immediately shaming himself internally. Brilliant. Excellent. A masterful sentence.
“You’re the artist?” you ask curiously.
“Supposedly.”
“You’re not dressed like the others.” You glide into the room, circling the canvas curiously.
Kyle watches you like someone observing a wild animal that might bite.
“You’re supposed to bow,” you note.
“Oh.” He bows immediately. Too fast, really and almost headbutts the easel.
You laugh and that’s the exact moment Kyle Rayner realizes he is in catastrophic trouble. Because he has been in this palace for exactly seven minutes and he already wants to paint that laugh more than the Crown Jewels.
🎨🖌️🖼️🌷🖼️🖌️🎨
The first sitting is a disaster. You refuse to sit still, flopping back dramatically on the bench, pacing the room, doing everything but sitting on the floral surrounded stone.
Kyle keeps asking questions, “You climb the palace walls often?”
“They’re climbable.”
“You spar with the knights?”
“I try, Father fusses when I do.”
“You stole the stablemaster’s horse when you were eight?”
“He still holds a grudge.”
Halfway through the session you wander over to look at the canvas and Kyle panics, “No no no it’s not done—”
But you’ve already seen it.
And you freeze.
Because every court portrait you’ve ever sat for looks like a wax statue wearing your face. This one looks like you. Not the princess. You.
Your eyes feel alive. Curious. Bright. Like you’re mid-thought, “You painted me laughing?”
Kyle rubs the back of his neck.
“You’re most beautiful that way, in my humble opinion, princess.”
🎨🖌️🖼️🌷🖼️🖌️🎨
Your heart betrays you almost immediately, and it is terribly inconvenient.
Because you are a princess of Bruce Wayne’s kingdom. You are expected to marry a duke, or a prince, or someone with a castle large enough to appear respectable on a map.
You are not expected to develop a fondness for a painter who arrived with cornflower blue on his boots, and yet…
The portrait sessions become the brightest part of your week. At first you pretend you’re simply… curious about the painting. Then you begin bringing excuses. Fresh fruit from the kitchens. A small basket of honey cakes. One day, a single rose you “found” in the gardens.
Kyle accepts these offerings with increasing suspicion.
“You know,” he says one afternoon while mixing paint, “people usually pay the artist.”
You sit backwards on the bench, arms draped over the backrest.
“I’m a princess,” you say sweetly. “I assume my presence is payment enough… though assuredly my Father will pay you generously once you’ve finished his commission.”
Kyle glances up and your smile is wicked. Your eyes sparkle with the same trouble he painted on the canvas.
He groans softly, “Your Highness, you’re going to get me executed.”
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You start asking him questions the way he once asked you, “What did you paint before you came here?”
“Tavern signs.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that convince people a mug of ale is a good life choice.”
You laugh again and Kyle’s brush pauses midair. He paints the way your head tips back when you laugh. The sunlight sliding across your cheek. The warmth in your eyes. And a quiet thought sneaks into his mind like a thief.
‘This is dangerous.’
🎨🖌️🖼️🌷🖼️🖌️🎨
A week later you appear in the solarium with an announcement, “You’re painting outside today.”
Kyle blinks, slowly moving to pack his things for the move, “… Outside where?”
“The gardens.”
“The royal gardens?”
“Obviously.”
“Where the king walks.”
“Yes.”
“Where guards walk.”
“Yes.”
Kyle stares at you, and you beam, “I’ve decided the painting needs more nature.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, “This feels like a trap, Princess.”
🎨🖌️🖼️🌷🖼️🖌️🎨
The palace gardens are a riot of color. Wildflowers sway in the breeze. Roses climb stone arches like gossiping courtiers.
Kyle sets up his easel beneath a sprawling oak tree while you promptly kick off your shoes and wander into the grass.
“You’re supposed to sit,” he calls.
You spin around, “Am I?”
“Princess.”
“Yes, artist?”
He gestures helplessly toward the canvas and you give him that grin that makes his stomach flip.
Then you drop into the grass like a fallen star. Just… flop. Arms spread. Hair spilling across the green.
Kyle stares, “You cannot be serious.”
“This is sitting,” you say.
“You’re horizontal, it’s lying down, Princess.”
“Call it… creative posing.”
He sighs, But his brush begins moving anyway. Because the sunlight filters through the leaves above you in a halo of green and gold. Because your dress gathers around you like petals. Because you look free in a way that steals the air from his lungs.
You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him after a while and he speaks glancing away from looking at you, paint splattered along his cheek, and your voice is playful, “You’re staring again.”
“I’m painting.”
“You like looking at me.”
“That is the assignment.”
“Liar.”
Kyle nearly drops the brush. Your voice is teasing, but softer than usual. You roll onto your side in the grass, “Do you ever paint things you love?”
Kyle’s hand stills. Paint glistens at the tip of the brush.
“Yes,” he says carefully.
“And?”
“And? Painting things I love is what got me this job… and I’m certainly thankful for it.”
You watch him for a long moment and something warm flickers behind your eyes.
“You should paint things you love,” you say softly, “Life’s too short not to.”
Kyle looks back at the canvas quickly. Because the alternative is looking at you, and that would be a mistake.
🎨🖌️🖼️🌷🖼️🖌️🎨
Days pass and the garden becomes your shared escape. You bring books you don’t read.
Kyle brings sketch pages he claims are “practice for the portrait.” New techniques he wants to try before he puts them on the King’s commission.
They are, in fact, mostly drawings of you. You leaning against a tree. You laughing. You stealing a strawberry from the basket beside him.
He tells himself it’s for the portrait. He tells himself it’s study. He tells himself a lot of things. But if he’s honest with himself, all of them are lies.
One afternoon you fall asleep in the grass.
Just like that, the sun is warm. The breeze is soft. The world is quiet, and there was a comfortable break in your conversation.
Kyle notices when it’s been quite a bit too long and he looks up from his canvas, freezing in place.
You’re lying beneath the oak tree, breathing slow and peaceful. Your hair has spread across the grass like spilled ink. One hand curled loosely against your cheek.
Kyle sets down the brush and against his better judgement, walks closer. Carefully. Like approaching something sacred.
He crouches beside you, and that is when it happens. The terrible, awful realization. The one that feels like stepping off a cliff.
Because looking at you like this, soft and real and human instead of royal, something in his chest twists tight. It’s not admiration or fascination. No, it’s something far worse.
Love.
Kyle exhales slowly, staring at the sleeping Princess of Gotham.
“This,” he murmurs quietly, “is a terrible idea.”
You shift slightly in your sleep, brow creasing.
And Kyle feels something inside him unravel completely. Because he knows something you don’t.
You are the daughter of the king. You belong to a world of crowns and alliances and political marriages.
He belongs to muddy roads and paint-stained hands. The distance between those worlds is wider than any kingdom.
So he does the only sensible thing. He picks up his sketchbook and draws you. Because loving the princess may ruin him. But not capturing this moment would be worse.
🎨🖌️🖼️🌷🖼️🖌️🎨
The last brushstroke feels heavier than it should.
It is, objectively, a very small thing. Just a soft sweep of color where sunlight kisses the grass beside you. A little warmth to finish the world he built around your laughter.
But when Kyle pulls the brush away from the canvas, he knows something with a far larger weight has just ended.
The commission is finished. Which means he will be paid, thanked, and escorted politely out of the palace gates. And that will be that.
Kyle stares at the painting beneath the oak tree in the royal gardens. The portrait of the princess of Gotham, eldest daughter of King Bruce Wayne.
Except… it doesn’t look like a princess. It looks like you.
Barefoot in the grass. Hair caught in the breeze. A smile dancing on your lips like the next adventure has already begun.
He exhales slowly.
“Well,” he mutters to himself, realization of endings weighing on him, “That’s… inconvenient.”
You arrive a few minutes later with a small basket swinging from your arm.
“Artist,” you call brightly, stepping onto the path.
Kyle turns and your smile falters just slightly. Because he’s standing very still beside the easel, expression thoughtful in a way you haven’t seen before.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, walking closer, your head tilting curiously.
Kyle gestures toward the painting, “It’s done.”
You blink, expression falling ever so slightly, “That’s wonderful.”
But the word wonderful lands strangely between you. Because done means something else too. Done means finished, and finished means goodbye.
You step beside him, looking up at the portrait. It’s beautiful. The garden glows. The sunlight dances across the canvas. The girl in the painting looks like she might leap off the frame and sprint through the hedges. Better than any of the court artists.
Your throat tightens unexpectedly.
“You made me look free,” you say quietly.
Kyle huffs a small laugh, “You are.”
“Not really.”
He doesn’t answer that. Because you both know the truth. You are a princess of Gotham. Your life is treaties and alliances and royal expectations. Freedom is not written into your story.
The silence stretches. Bees hum through the lavender nearby. Kyle runs a hand through his hair, smearing a faint streak of green paint across his temple.
“Your Highness,” he says finally. Your eyes flick toward him and he almost laughs.
‘Your Highness.’
After weeks of strawberries, and laughter, and falling asleep in the grass. It sounds absurd now.
“Y/n, please,” you correct softly.
He swallows, using your name so carefully,
the word trembles a little, “y/n.”
Then he sighs, forcing a crooked smile, one you’ve come to adore on his face, “Well, I suppose this is the part where I say something irresponsible.”
You tilt your head, “That sounds ominous.”
“It should.”He looks back at the painting. Then at you.And the words tumble out before courage can abandon him, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
You already knew that, of course. But hearing it spoken aloud still feels like someone quietly shutting a door somewhere inside your chest.
“I thought so,” you admit.
“And I know,” he continues carefully, “that what I’m about to say is… wildly inappropriate.”
Your curiosity flickers. He rubs the back of his neck, “Possibly career-ending.”
“Kyle.”
“And I absolutely understand if you pretend this conversation never happened.”
“Kyle.”
He exhales, then looks at you fully, and there it is again. That dangerous, unstoppable feeling.
“Well,” he says softly, “I have fallen in love with you.”
The words sit in the warm garden air like startled birds. Kyle winces faintly, before he laughs awkwardly and gestures vaguely at the palace behind you.
“You’re the princess. I’m… the guy who used to paint tavern signs. Logistically speaking, this is a terrible plan, and I know it would never work.”
You stare at him, completely still. Kyle rushes onward before panic devours him, “I just figured I should say it once. Out loud. Before I leave. That way I won’t spend the rest of my life wondering if I should’ve.”
He shrugs helplessly, “So there it is.”
Your heart is hammering and he thinks this is the end. Kyle thinks this is goodbye, that the story stops here. And maybe it should. It must, for the better of both of you.
But something inside you refuses to stay quiet, “You’re very stupid,” you say suddenly.
Kyle blinks, “Excuse me?”
You step closer, “You painted me for weeks. You listened to me complain about court politics. You watched me fall asleep in the grass. And you somehow didn’t notice that I fell in love with you too?”
Kyle’s brain stops functioning. The garden wind rustles through the trees, “I—”
Words fail him completely. You step closer again.
Now there’s barely a breath between you.
“Kyle Rayner,” you say softly, “you are many things.”
He swallows as you continue, “But despite your occupation, observant is apparently not one of them.”
His voice cracks a little, his eyes sweeping over your pretty face, “You… what?”
You reach up and place your palm against his paint stained cheek, “I fell in love with you.”
Kyle stares at you like the world has tilted sideways, “Princess—”
You shake your head.
“Just for a moment,”your voice is soft and your eyes shine with something bittersweet, “Just let me be a girl who likes a boy.”
And then you kiss him. It’s soft and warm, if not A little clumsy. Like two people who both understand this moment cannot last.
Kyle’s hand trembles slightly where it comes to rest against your cheek. The world beyond the gardens still exists.
Kings.
Duty.
Reality.
But for a few stolen seconds beneath the oak tree, none of it matters. When you finally pull apart, your forehead rests against his.
Kyle exhales slowly, almost laughing in disbelief.
“Well,” he murmurs, “That complicates everything.”
You smile faintly, “Yes. I suppose it does.”
The portrait beside you catches the last gold of the afternoon sun. A princess in the grass. Laughing and free. Even if only for a moment.
STOP making jokes about the welsh language being ridiculous, STOP saying that welsh people are “meant for the mines,” STOP using hiraeth as an aesthetic word, STOP refusing to learn welsh pronunciations because they “look too hard.” kill the british coloniser in your mind. read about about the blue books, the welsh-not, or any of the things that were said about welsh people at the height of their oppression WHICH ARE STILL BEING SAID NOW.
