Love your writing! It's a bit heavy so no worries if you don't want to but I was wondering how the batboys™️ would react to the reader refusing to accept money from them even in a financial emergency because they're afraid of taking advantage of the fact their partner is rich asf (I'm a sucker for ✨polite✨ angst)
BATBOYS BUT THEY'RE DATING A POOR!F!READER WHO REFUSES TO TELL THEM AND ACCEPT THEIR HELP.
★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, angst, not poly, hurt/comfort, jason before he reformed, mentions of violence (not towards reader), small panic attack (not described in detail), anxiety, lots of comforting and love, it hurts them to see you struggle :(((
★ A/N: first ask, omg!! thank you for coming to save me 💞💞💞 i love angst, you are doing me a favour by requesting it, not to worry!! hope this is good enough <333 oh, and quick notice, but this is not at all meant to romanticise the situation depicted, please remember that not having much money is a real struggle that people go through and this work does not aim to diminish it
★ W/C: 3.5k (why is this so long—)
The paper on your door stares back at you blankly—no sympathy in its gaze, and certainly no mercy in its letters, all uppercase and practically shouting at you:
EVICTION NOTICE.
You're sure the thud of your bag hitting the ground can be heard from multiple stories both above and below, but in that moment, staring at those two words with static ringing in your ears and the world closing in around you, it's hard to really care.
You think you spend a while standing there, just glaring at the door with no real thought behind your eyes, no real drive to your actions, just this void swallowing you whole.
It's almost hard to believe that just this morning, you were laughing and shoving the shoulder of your boyfriend as he teased you about something you can't even bother to remember. That just this morning, you were beaming and bright and shining all over as you joked without a care in the world.
And now...
Now this.
A light gasp coming from beside you snaps you out of your daze, tired eyes landing on a pair swimming in so much sympathy and pity that it makes you sick to your stomach, and before you even know it, the echo of your door slamming shut rings clear through the hall, paper all but gone from its wooden surface.
The next few days are a blur, spent either packing, or curled up in your bed with dry, crusty streaks coating your cheeks and a phone laying forgotten by your bedside table, arms too weak to pick it up and brain too tired to bother even trying.
This whole thing just came so fast, too fast, that you couldn't even bring yourself to keep the one thing you spent years trying to hide from your lover a secret anymore, not responding to his texts or calls to the point he shows up knocking at your door, and when you open it, his eyes aren't on you, but glued down.
Glued onto the piece of paper in his hands.
You take a second to quickly glance at your door, spotting another tape situated on it.
That motherfucker put up another notice.
Jaw clenched, you turn back to your boyfriend.
-> DICK GRAYSON <-
"Y'know..." he starts, tone soft with a hint of his usual playfulness, but, you notice, significantly watered down this time, "when I said you can come to me for anything, I meant it."
You part your lips to respond, but can't quite bring yourself to let any words actually escape, just like Dick can't seem to bring himself to lift his head up and meet your gaze.
(He doesn't because he feels like he failed you, staring at those two words without registering anything else as he wonders just how long this has been going on for, just how long has his girlfriend been suffering, while he sat there basking in riches and wealth?)
"I can help," he spits out almost too soon, almost too desperate, "I can wire you the money, pay off the—"
"No."
His head shoots up.
"No..?" he echoes, shoulders dropping and form all but kicked puppy. "What do you mean 'no'?"
"I mean: no, Dick."
Your hand goes up, fingers pinching your nose and head shaking from side-to-side as you curse yourself for not even bothering to answer at least one text.
For even showing him where you live in the first place, really.
"Why not?"
"Because," you force out, the word tasting bitter on your tongue, "I refuse to do that to you."
"Do what to me?"
"That," you hiss, gesturing in front of you as though what you're talking about is actually, physically there. "The asking for money, the begging for funds—God, Dick, I can't. I can't take advantage of you like that. That's not why I dated you."
"Dated?" Dick stares at you, brows knitted and eyes pouring out all the hurt siphoned by his voice.
"That's..." you trail off, shaking your head. "That came out wrong."
Your lips pull down, eyes glazing over before he catches your hands and refocuses your hazy pools towards him.
"Hey," he calls, soft and sweet. "You know you wouldn't be taking advantage of me, right?"
You scoff, and immediately, he lifts a hand up to cup your chin, coaxing your averted eyes back to him.
"I mean it," he says, firmer, "I'm your boyfriend. Your partner. I'm here to help. Money or otherwise."
"I can't, Dick. I can't."
With a tug, you crash into him, hands planted firmly on his chest as his arms curl around you, the warmth like a hammer to your shell, a crack in your dam, and before you even know it, the tears that were glistening in your eyes just moments ago start to spill over.
Dick's arms secure you, grip not faltering even while you soak his shirt in your ugly tears and snot, even while you squeeze it tight enough to dig into his chest through the fabric, even while you admit to lying to him for years about a situation that pains him so.
"Stay with me for a while."
"Huh?" You sniff.
"You said you won't accept my money," he continues, and you crane your neck to find him already looking down at you, "so accept my hospitality instead."
"Dick..."
"Just until you can get back onto your feet again," he pleads. "Just let me help until you can get back up on your own."
"I..."
"Please, [Name], I can't let you live on the streets. I can't."
And he means it, staring at you with such heartbreak, the sob you've worked so hard to keep down climbs back up your throat, sending you crashing straight back into his chest.
And as you stand there, his arms around you and his nose buried in your hair, you think to yourself that, just this once, you'll allow yourself to reach out.
-> JASON TODD <-
"Always fucking hated that prick," he growls out, voice all sharp edges and nasty scowls. "He looks at you like you're some piece of meat and not an actual fucking human being."
"Yeah... I hate him too."
Jason's eyes flit up, gaze narrow and lips taut. "Then why the fuck did you never tell me about this?"
You purse your own lips, words lost on your tongue—
"I can kill him."
—until he says something like that, of course.
"What?" you can't help but scoff out, incredulous. "Jason, no."
The paper scrunches in his hands, bunching up like some petty inconvenience rather than the words that have quite literally decided your living situation for the next who-knows-how-long.
"Why the hell not?"
"Wha—? Are you hearing yourself right now?"
When he only lifts a brow in response, you try for a different approach.
"I thought you only killed criminals."
"He looks at you like a criminal," he quips back, sharp and quick. "That's enough."
"No. You are not killing someone just because I didn't pay my fucking rent on time."
You cross your arms over your chest, stance firm, rigid, as stubborn as your will as you eye him down with a look that promises consequence should he choose not to listen.
A beat passes without a word.
Then—
"Fine." His shoulders fall with a grunt, but the topic doesn't fall alongside them. "If you won't let me kill him, then I'll just pay for your new apartment instead."
"No. No way."
His eyes narrow. "I wasn't asking."
You return the look. "Neither was I."
The moment stretches, the two of you glaring at each other with steely gazes and tight jaws, each equally as unyielding as the other.
(Jason thinks to himself that your glare isn't as fierce as usual. Like it's lacking something. A will. A drive. A reason to continue pushing forward. When did his girlfriend start to look so tired?)
His gaze softens. "Doll..."
Just like that, like his look is made up of some sort of soothing magic, your shoulders fall, and he catches you before you can go spiralling in a pool of your own thoughts.
"What's wrong?"
"I can't do that to you, Jay." You shake your head into his chest, voice all but muffled. "I can't use you like that. Not you."
"You wouldn't be using me, [Name]."
"Yes, I would," you grit out, squinting your eyes shut to force the sting away. "I would..."
He goes to respond, but you beat him to it.
"You've already had to go from having everything to having nothing before." You heave a breath, chest tightening with the effort of holding that damn salty water back. "And now that you've got it back... I can't take that from you."
"You wouldn't be taking it from me, [Name]."
You go to echo your response before, but it's his turn to beat you to talking.
"No, you wouldn't." You can feel him shake his head above yours. "I choose how I spend that money, doll. It's my decision. And if I choose to spend it on you, then it'll be spent on you. There is no using one another. I love you."
Your breath hitches, head shooting up to find his own already facing you, and his eyes are so soft, so sincere, that you can't help the sob that lurches from your throat, arms looping around his neck and pulling him down until his lips slot perfectly against yours.
And as he stands there, kissing you even through all the salty water that coats your lips, you yield just a little more to the idea of getting some help from someone you love.
-> TIM DRAKE <-
"So that's why you weren't answering any of my texts." He lets out a chuckle, but it comes out dry and insincere.
(He stares at the page. All of a sudden, it all makes sense. The refusal to eat at places that aren't small cafes or local diners, the avoidance of high-spending activities like shopping at the mall or going to theme parks, the amount of dates spent just streaming movies at yours or walking around the same park a dozen times over. How did he not see before? How can he call himself a detective and not notice his own girlfriend's struggling financial situation?)
"Sorry..." You go to hug one arm, voice small and gaze smaller.
"Y'know you could've told me, right?" He glances up, brows knitted and tone soft, reassuring. "You can tell me anything."
"I know."
"Then why didn't you?"
You look up and wince, Tim's defeated expression stirring something within you, something small but no less significant than all your other emotions.
"You already have so much on your plate," you start, averting your gaze because the look in his eyes is just too much to handle. "I didn't wanna worry you."
"I'm always worried about you," he responds simply, "I'm worried about whether or not you get home safe. I'm worried about whether or not you ate, or got enough sleep. I'm worried that some day, somehow, you'll grow bored and leave me. I worry all the time.
"It's how I show I care."
"I know that..." you trail off.
"Then you also know that giving me one more thing to worry about wouldn't make much of a difference."
You stay quiet, and so Tim sighs, carefully going to reach for your hands and cup them with just gentle enough of a hold to give you room to pull away should you choose to.
You don't, of course.
"You know you don't have to go through this alone." Tim's thumbs rub gentle circles over your knuckles, his voice a grounding source that anchors you, keeps you from straying too far into the ocean. "I'm here for you, always."
He's always been good at that. Being there for you. Comforting you. Of all his brothers, Tim is probably the most emotionally aware. The most painfully empathetic. It's so easy to yield when he's the one talking to you.
It's why you kept it a secret in the first place. You knew you'd fold so easily the second he confronts you.
So you plead, "Please, Tim."
His brows knit.
"Don't do this. I can... I can fix this myself."
His lips pull down. "You know you can't."
You want to defend yourself, to tell him he's wrong, you can, but your lips wobble, and a lump blocks your throat, and your eyes just start to shake like a breaking water tank threatening to spill all its contents.
And Tim sees it all.
"Tell you what," he starts lightly, soothingly, "I'll help pay for a new apartment and keep track of how much. Then, when you earn enough, you can pay it all back. You won't be using me. It'll be like a loan."
He knew your reservations before you even told him them. Of course he did. He's Tim. Your Tim. Your sweet, kind, loving Tim.
"I don't deserve you," you say, and you mean it, so he pulls you into his arms and rests his chin on your head, rubbing up and down your arms in that way that just releases all tension from your shoulders.
And as you both stand there together, the only sound being your silent sobs against his skin, you think you can just about get behind this compromise.
-> DUKE THOMAS <-
He whispers your name, soft, betrayed, with a look about the eye that almost cracks your heart in two.
"Why didn't you say anything..?" he asks, and his gaze is all blue, all rain showers and stormy clouds. "Why didn't you tell me you were still struggling with money?"
When you don't respond, he chooses to continue.
"I thought we told each other everything. Ride or die, remember? We—we've been through it all, haven't we..?"
You wait for a beat to pass before finally saying something.
"You... you just looked so happy lately. For a while now, actually. Ever since the Waynes took you in...
"I—I didn't wanna ruin that."
Duke goes quiet.
(In his mind, he's wondering where he went wrong, where on earth you got the idea that his happiness trumps your own, that you weren't both in this together. Did he... did he somehow do something to make you feel that way..?)
A quiet settles over the two of you, a sombre atmosphere that even the most classical of musicians couldn't put into notes, that even the most tragic of tales couldn't spin into words.
In that moment, for the first time since both you and Duke were little, the silence is static, no understanding or connection cutting through, no seemingly telepathic words jumping from one mind to the other, just a void, empty feeling that holds you hostage and threatens your very relationship.
"Duke—"
"Let me help," he cuts you off. Then he lifts his head, and his eyes are narrowed, determined.
"Huh?"
"Let me help you. I can. I have the money now," he says with a will, like he knows his words will come true, like he's so sure he'll be able to do this for you.
"No," you shoot him down, "I can't do that to you."
"Do what?" he scoffs out, arms folding over his chest. "Accept my help?"
"Accept your money," you correct him, and almost as soon as you do, he loses the hard look, settling for something softer instead—gentle. "I can't use you like that."
"[Name]. Don't you think I know that?"
You raise a brow.
"How you feel right now: don't you think I know it?"
You purse your lips, and he keeps going.
"Did you forget already who I was before this..? Did our time together mean that little to you..?"
The accusation is enough to make your eyes widen, words tumbling out your mouth so fast, you can't even second-guess them.
"No, no of course not!"
"[Name]." He shakes his head, pulling you into his arms. "I know what it's like to feel like you're using someone for money. Fuck, I know better than anyone else." His brows scrunch, expression looking pained for a second before steeling once more. "That's why it took me so long to even accept Bruce's offer."
You rest your hands gently against his chest, and then also let your head rest against his own, those brown swirls drowning you.
"So trust me when I say that this isn't you taking advantage of me, or using me for money," he whispers softly. "It's you accepting my help. It's you letting me in."
You blink, lashes growing wet.
"You could never be a burden to me. Ride or die, remember?"
You do. You do remember.
God, you remember it all.
And as he holds you close, as he rests his head against your own in your once again, shared silence, you're sure you'll remember it for the rest of time.
-> DAMIAN WAYNE <-
"Tt. I'll have Pennyworth hire a moving agency and wire you enough money so that this is never a problem again."
Your eyes blow wide, brows shooting straight up to your head, and mouth opening to protest like your life depends on it.
But Damian is already moving away.
In fact, he's already got his phone out, finger swiping away at it with a speed that could rival the Flash himself as he takes step after step down the hall.
So you bound straight after him.
"No! Wait, Damian, wait!"
He stops, your hands planted firm on his chest as you take a moment to catch your breath, the lack of movement you've been doing the past few days making just that short sprint feel like too much.
Fucking hell.
Your chin is tilted up.
"Have you been crying?"
You flinch. "No..."
His fingers trace your cheeks, right over the crusty streaks you know are there, and you wince as you're reminded of just how filthy you must appear in front of him.
"You have," he observes, moving your head from side-to-side gently, "You haven't been eating either."
You purse your lips, choosing not to respond lest you risk another observation that will shake you to your core.
"Beloved"—there he goes again with that petname. The one your heart lurches in your throat for—"you haven't been caring for yourself."
(When?—he wonders—when did you stop partaking in the act of caring for your own health? And why did you not think to come to him, your boyfriend, for help in doing so?)
"I..."
His fingers leave your chin, and you almost drop it to chase the feeling of them before catching yourself and quickly withdrawing.
God, just how touch-starved are you?
"It seems as though I'll need to ask for a larger amount to be wired through than I initially thought."
Once more, you find your eyes turning into saucers.
"No!"
He raises a brow.
"No," you repeat, quieter, but still just as sure, "Damian don't, please."
"Why not?"
"Because"—you think you're shaking, but there's no breeze in the hall, and it's nowhere near winter—"I... I can't take your money like that."
"It's not my money," he responds simply, logically, "it's my father's."
"I know. And I can't use you to get to his money."
"Technically speaking," Damian starts, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side and his lips still the straight line that they were just moments ago, "it's not even my father's money, it's his parents', and both are deceased, so I see no problem in taking it."
When he goes to add more, he stops abruptly, brows furrowing, and for the first time since appearing at your door, lips pulling down.
"Beloved, you're shaking."
"I can't stop..." you whisper, and perhaps it's quiet enough for him not to hear, but you don't even think you're saying it to him. "I can't stop."
"Habibti." He gently squeezes your arms, and your pupils dart up. "Copy me."
His chest rises and falls. His breathing. Copy his breathing.
He means copy his breathing.
So you do.
When his chest rises, so too does yours. And when it falls, yours falls straight after.
It takes a couple of tries before you're in complete sync. But once you are, once you've finally matched the pace of your boyfriend, the ringing in your ears dies down, and the world around you starts to clear up again. You start to feel real again.
"Better?"
You hum.
He pulls you into his arms.
And your eyes flutter shut.
"Rest assured, if you don't wish me to this much, I will not wire you the money," he finally speaks after a long while of standing there with you in his arms, "but I will find a way to get you out of this situation through other means. Even if those means cost me everything."
And as you stand there, the warmth of his presence blanketing your form, hiding you from the world, you let yourself quietly sink into the comfort of his words.
“Does anyone here know the importance of giving honest feedback to your fellow writers?”
Ms. Miller’s voice carried the cheerful cruelty of someone who got to sleep more than four hours. The whiteboard behind her was crowded with tidy bullet points and underlined words like clarity and intent and tone, as if those things could be summoned by marker.
Blair stared straight through the board.
Their eyes burned with the particular ache of fluorescent lighting and fried-food steam and gasoline fumes that lived, stubbornly, under their skin. Last night had been the gas station. The hours before class had been Café Al-Fajr. Their hands, wrung together in their lap, were trying to massage wakefulness back into the body like it was a stubborn knot. It wasn’t working.
“No one?” Ms. Miller smiled at the room like she was indulging them. “Okay. So to give good feedback…”
Blair’s phone vibrated once against their thigh.
A reminder, because apparently their life was run by alarms now.
SHIFT, 5:00 PM.
SHIFT, 10:00 PM.
PAYMENT PLAN DUE.
Blair shut their eyes for half a second, and the world swam: the hum of the overhead lights, the scratch of pens, the soft cough of a student who had definitely never wiped down a gas pump at 2:00 AM while a man argued about lottery tickets.
Blair reopened their eyes and turned their head toward the windows.
Outside, Gotham University looked like it had been built specifically to mock people who didn’t belong in it. The stonework was too old and too proud. The lawns were clipped and manicured to a perfect precision. Students passed by in clumps, laughing too loudly and moving too slowly. Two girls walked by giggling, and three guys bounced around them like puppies trying to impress. Carefree. Unhurried. So sure the ground would hold.
Blair’s mouth tightened. Not because they hated joy, not exactly.
Because Gotham didn’t hand out that feeling for free.
They’d worked too hard just to get to this city. Too hard just to get to this campus. And now they were paying for it in installments that made their stomach twist every time they logged into the student portal.
“All right,” Ms. Miller said, clapping her hands once. “That’s it for today. Remember to upload your feedback for each of your classmates before next week’s Thursday class.”
The room erupted into motion: shuffling papers, zippers, chairs scraping. Blair slid their laptop into their bag and stood, joints complaining like they were twice their age.
They made it two steps toward the door before Ms. Miller’s voice softened.
“Blair.”
Blair paused. That pause was automatic, trained into them by years of hearing their name in front of authority. You didn’t ignore teachers. You didn’t ignore bosses. You didn’t ignore anyone who could cut off your next meal.
“Excuse me,” Ms. Miller continued, warmer now, “could I spare a few moments of your time?”
Blair turned around slowly and walked back, closing the gap with the careful dread of someone approaching a smiling person holding paper. What could she possibly want from them?
Ms. Miller stood by her desk with a notebook and pen. She had that same sweet expression she wore when she told a student their work was “promising,” which meant “not good, but I don’t want you to cry in my classroom.”
Blair swallowed.
What sort of shit could this be?
Ms. Miller seemed to read their face and hurried to clear the air.
“Oh, no, Blair, everything is fine!” She let out a small laugh. “I just wanted to ask if you’d be interested in helping someone.”
Blair blinked. “Helping… how?”
“So,” Ms. Miller said, lowering her voice like she was offering Blair the location of buried treasure, “I have a student in another one of my classes who isn’t doing so hot right now. He puts in effort, but he’s struggling to get a good grasp on writing. I know he could be doing better than he is if he had the right tutor.”
Blair’s soul left their body for a moment and returned carrying a resignation letter.
Tutoring.
Not another time sink. Not another demand on hours that were already rationed like its wartime.
Blair exhaled slowly, forcing their expression into something neutral.
“You want me to tutor him?” Their voice came out flatter than they meant. “I’m not sure I have time for that.”
“Hear me out.” Ms. Miller held up a hand. “I recommended you specifically because you are the best writer I have in class.”
Blair’s eyebrow twitched. That praise should have felt like something, but exhaustion flattened everything into the same grey.
“I’ve never given out a grade as high as the one I gave your last paper,” Ms. Miller continued, clearly pleased with herself for having a student worth bragging about. “And when I spoke to him yesterday, we discussed the cost. He’s willing to pay significantly more than the normal fee out of pocket himself.”
Blair’s attention snapped into place like a lock clicking shut.
“How much more?”
Ms. Miller’s smile widened. “One hundred dollars per hour. For a minimum of three hours of your time.”
Blair stared at her.
The number landed with a physical weight.
It wasn’t just “help.” It wasn’t just a “nice thing.”
It was groceries. It was a month of bus fare. It was breathing room.
“Shit,” Blair said, because their filter had clocked out.
Ms. Miller laughed, delighted. “I told him you work part time and might not be available otherwise, and that’s what he offered. Great, right?”
Blair’s mind ran through a quick checklist: shifts, homework, sleep that didn’t exist anyway. Their pride tried to object on principle, but their bank account strangled it.
“Yeah.” Blair’s mouth tasted like surrender. “Tell him I’ll do it.”
Ms. Miller handed them the notebook and pen like she was passing over a contract.
“Just put your contact info here,” she said. “I’ll hand it to him after class today.”
Blair scribbled in their number with quick, jagged strokes and shoved the notebook back.
Then they retreated from the classroom like someone escaping a trap, not a job offer.
Outside, the campus air was cold enough to sting. Blair pulled their hoodie tighter, shoulders hunched, and glanced up without meaning to.
Up past the neat windows, up past the decorative stonework, toward the older buildings where the upper floors looked too quiet.
Someone had said, yesterday, that there was a ghost in the attic windows of one of the halls.
Blair told themselves they didn’t believe in ghosts.
He’d been stabbed before. Shot. Poisoned. Thrown off buildings. Lit on fire, once, briefly, and the memory still annoyed him.
But there was a certain purity to academic humiliation. A certain… bureaucratic cruelty.
A grade didn’t just hurt.
It sat there. Official. Permanent. Printed in bold red like a judge’s sentence.
Damian stared at the page on his desk.
66%.
His brain, which had memorized languages and poisons and flight patterns like other people memorized song lyrics, refused to accept the number.
He read it again.
66%.
A shock went through him so sharp it felt like a bullet.
He’d never received a grade that low in his life.
Ever.
The first time, he’d told himself it was a fluke. He’d put in more effort on the next short story assignment, spent hours on it, turned it in with confidence.
72%.
Then the essay.
He’d taken himself off patrol for a night to work. Stayed up. Edited. Cross-referenced sources.
77%.
It wasn’t that he was failing.
It was worse.
He was trying and still being told he wasn’t good enough.
Immediately after the 77%, he’d approached Ms. Miller after Tuesday’s English 201 with the polite precision of someone who could very easily become impolite if necessary.
He’d demanded an explanation.
To her credit, Ms. Miller had gone over his work and her feedback so generously that it was hard to hate her for it. She didn’t mock him. She didn’t patronize him. She simply… showed him the gap.
Then, with a kind of devastating fairness, she pulled a printed copy of another student’s short story.
“Read this,” she’d said, tapping the top of the page. “This is what I mean by essence.”
The title was a single word.
Needled.
Damian had read the first few pages with narrowing eyes.
And then, quietly, something in him twisted.
The writing was… different. It wasn't cleaner, it wasn't more “proper,” not academically obedient.
Alive.
It made his own work, suddenly, feel like a child dressing in armor and calling themselves a warrior.
Damian had stared at that story for a long moment.
Then he’d looked at Ms. Miller and asked the question he hated asking.
“What do I do?”
She’d suggested tutoring.
He’d scoffed on instinct. Tutoring was for people who needed help.
Damian Wayne did not need help.
He taught others. He trained others. He corrected others.
But Ms. Miller had made him an offer that, annoyingly, intrigued him: she could arrange instruction from the author of that story.
Well. If he had to be taught, it might as well be by someone worthy.
So he’d offered extra cash to sweeten the arrangement. Ms. Miller had promised to reach out.
Now it was early October, and Damian walked briskly toward class with purpose, weaving between groups of students like they were inconvenient furniture.
People called out his name. Damian ignored them. He’d never been in the mood to socialize with hangers-on, and he didn’t have the patience to pretend.
That was another skill his father had mastered: the public Bruce Wayne smile that made people feel chosen. Damian could do it, if he had to, but it felt like wearing a mask that itched.
All those thoughts dissolved the moment he reached Ms. Miller’s desk.
“Hello, Damian!” she said brightly. “They agreed to help you. I have their contact info right here.”
“Excellent.” He took it without hesitation. “Thank you.”
He turned to leave, but Ms. Miller spoke again, lowering her voice.
“Just to warn you,” she said, “Blair is a bit rough around the edges. But they’re really passionate about writing. Don’t get too discouraged.”
Damian paused.
Rough around the edges.
He looked down at the contact info. The handwriting was sprawling, almost aggressive. Like the pen had been angry at the paper.
He had a brief, irrational thought: So good at typing, but poor handwriting.
Then he typed the number into his phone and drafted the friendliest text he could tolerate writing.
Hello Blair, my name’s Damian. Do you have any free time soon for tutoring? Preferably sometime after 5pm but before 11pm?
He expected a delay. A negotiation. A polite refusal.
His phone vibrated almost immediately.
I’m going to be working the next two evenings unless you want to meet up tonight. I stay pretty busy so you’ll have to make time to match my schedule.
Damian blinked.
A part of him, the part trained on patrol to enjoy danger, felt a small spark of interest.
He typed back.
Tonight is fine. I’m reserving private study room C for us in Chatsworth Hall at 7pm.
He booked the room with two clicks and sent the confirmation.
A response came back within seconds.
Ooh fancy. Fine, I’ll be there. Although you should really ASK if a time/place is ok with a person BEFORE you book something. Don’t be late.
The clock in study room C ticked like it had personal beef with Blair.
7:12 PM.
Blair sat at the table with their laptop open, notes arranged neatly around it in a defensive little barricade. Their hoodie was oversized, the hood pulled up, a beanie shoved underneath like extra armor. Their nails were painted black and glossy, chipped at the edges from working.
They stared at the clock again.
He was late.
Of course he was.
Blair tried not to care. The room was booked either way, and if Damian Wayne didn’t show, Blair could still work on feedback and assignments in peace.
But peace didn’t pay tuition.
Blair’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. Three hours. Three hundred dollars. The number sat in their head like a candle in a dark room.
They could stretch groceries for weeks with that.
Maybe even longer.
Blair forced their eyes back onto the screen, typing feedback for a classmate’s draft with mechanical focus, trying not to imagine their bank balance.
The door knob turned.
Blair didn’t look up.
7:16 PM.
Footsteps.
A pause, like he expected them to stand in awe.
Blair kept typing.
Damian’s voice was clearly prepared to deliver an excuse. Traffic, a meeting, some rich-boy nonsense. Blair cut it off before it could breathe.
“I don’t want to hear it,” they said, still not looking up. “Whatever the reason, I’m still charging you for the whole hour.”
Silence.
Blair kept typing.
Finally, Damian spoke.
“That’s fine with me.”
Blair’s fingers stopped. Slowly, they lifted their gaze.
Green eyes. Sharp. Annoyingly pretty in a way that felt unfair. A face that looked like it had never worried about rent in its life.
Blair’s neutral expression shifted into something flatter and more irritated.
“You got the cash?” they asked.
“Yes,” Damian said, like that was an obvious question.
“Let me see it.”
Damian reached into his wallet and handed over three crisp bills without hesitation.
Blair counted them quickly. One. Two. Three.
Then they pocketed the money with the speed of someone who’d had cash stolen before.
“So,” Blair said, gesturing with their chin at the chair, “are you going to sit down or what?”
Damian moved closer and took the seat directly next to them, which was not necessary and felt like a challenge.
Blair’s laptop was covered in cartoon stickers, a chaotic collage of bright colors that did not match the rest of their aesthetic. Damian’s eyes tracked them for a moment, as if he couldn’t understand why anyone would put something silly on a tool.
Damian extended a hand with polished confidence.
“We haven’t introduced ourselves properly,” he said. “I’m Damian Wayne.”
Blair looked at the offered hand.
Then they looked back at Damian’s face.
They didn’t move.
“I know who you are,” Blair said. “Are we working on your writing or not?”
Damian’s hand stayed suspended for a beat too long before he withdrew it, expression tightening.
“What’s your last name?” he asked.
“It’s irrelevant.” Blair’s fingers returned to the keyboard, clicking open a document. “I read through your last three assignments and made notes.”
Damian stared at them like they’d just committed a social crime.
Blair didn’t care.
They’d dealt with worse customers than a billionaire’s son with a bruised ego.
“So,” Blair said, sliding their notes toward him, “you have a strong grip on vocabulary. Your word choices are correct. But you overwrite in places, then suddenly stop like you ran out of air. The overall tone is… lacking.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. “It’s not that bad. I’ve always done well before, and I’ve read far worse writing.”
“It’s not that it’s objectively the worst thing ever written,” Blair said, meeting his eyes evenly. “It’s just that it says absolutely nothing.”
Damian leaned in slightly, voice sharpening with authority. “I turned in an essay on the importance of creative writing and explained the importance of creative writing. What more was there to say?”
Blair felt something hot spark behind their ribs. Exhaustion had thinned their patience to a single fraying thread, and Damian was yanking on it.
They leaned in too, returning his stare like a mirror.
“You used a bunch of middle school writing cliches and repeated the same idea until you hit the word count,” Blair said. “And half your points are just reworded from the top three results of a Google search on the importance of creative writing.”
Damian’s eyes flashed.
Blair didn’t flinch.
“Are you here to argue with me,” Blair asked, voice calm in the way that meant violence, “or are you here to learn something?”
A beat of silence.
Damian’s irritation was obvious, like a storm cloud trying to hold itself together in public.
And then, unexpectedly, he exhaled.
“I do want you to help me,” he said, clipped.
Blair nodded once, as if that was the only acceptable answer.
“Okay.” They slid a page toward him. “Read over my notes and rewrite this paragraph. I’ll give pointers while you work.”
Damian stared at the page like it had insulted him personally, then began writing.
He wrote a sentence. Scratched it out.
Wrote another. Scratched it out.
Blair watched without comment, letting him bleed his pride onto the paper.
Damian glanced sideways.
“What are you working on?” he asked.
Blair didn’t look up. “Feedback for my classmates. Why do you need help?”
“No,” Damian said flatly, “I was just curious.”
Blair finally looked up, eyebrow raised. “You should concentrate on your work. You have nothing right now.”
The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It sat between them like a third person.
Damian, annoyingly, tried again.
“So,” he said, doing a version of friendliness that looked like he’d practiced it in a mirror, “is writing a big passion of yours? Are you majoring in English?”
Blair’s fingers froze.
Because that question had teeth, it triggered memories of similar situations before this one.
Because rich kids don’t ask questions for no reason.
Blair turned slowly, placing their hands on the table like they were bracing.
“Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Damian Wayne,” Blair said, each word measured. “I don’t write assignments for anyone. Many spoiled babies before you have tried and gotten nowhere. You will get nowhere. If that’s all you wanted from me, you can leave.”
Blair’s mouth tilted, sharp and unapologetic.
“I’m keeping the cash, though.”
Damian’s eyes widened. He sat back, like he’d been slapped.
“You think I’m trying to buy an assignment from you?” he said, voice low. “No.”
Silence again. Sharper this time.
Blair watched him. Damian watched Blair. Two predators assessing, neither willing to blink first.
Then Damian, of all people, broke the quiet.
“Truthfully,” he said, and the word itself sounded like it offended him, “I hate not doing something well.”
Blair’s expression didn’t soften, but something in their chest loosened a fraction. Not sympathy.
Recognition.
“It bothers me to not be the best at this like every other subject,” Damian continued. “I wanted to learn from you because I read your work.”
He paused, as if forcing himself to concede the next part.
“It’s… adequate.”
Blair snorted, unable to help it.
Damian’s eyes narrowed, but he kept going, because he was committed now.
“Since you are the best here,” he said, “I’m going to learn from you and then I’ll write something that crushes you.”
Blair stared at him for a moment.
Then they smiled thinly, the kind of smile that said, Oh, you’re going to be fun to ruin.
“That’s a lofty goal,” Blair said, voice light, “for someone trying to break a B.”
Damian’s lips twitched, like he hated that he almost enjoyed the hit.
And just like that, the session shifted.
Blair stopped fighting him and started fighting his sentences. They went through his paragraphs line by line, arguing about word choice, about pacing, about what he refused to say even when he thought he was being honest. Damian resisted, then listened, then resisted again.
Time moved.
The clock chimed 10:00 like a verdict.
Blair packed their things quickly, shoulders already thinking about the walk, about the next shift, about the hours between now and sunrise.
Damian stood too, gathering his papers with controlled precision.
“So,” he said, as if they were colleagues and not enemies, “you’re working the next few days, right? Let’s pick this up again on Sunday.”
Blair’s head snapped up.
“There you go again making plans,” they said, already sliding their laptop into their bag.
“I’ve already booked it,” Damian said, like that was an argument that ended the conversation, “and I have cash. Is there a problem?”
Blair stared at him.
“It’s only not a problem,” Blair said, voice dry, “because you’re paying over eight times the university rate.”
Damian’s gaze sharpened, and then his tone shifted, suddenly formal in a different way.
“It’s late,” he said. “Allow me to walk you home.”
Blair’s stomach dropped.
Home.
That word was a landmine.
“Nope,” Blair said immediately. “Not going to happen.”
They moved toward the door, fast.
Damian followed two steps behind, like he couldn’t help himself.
“Blair,” he called.
Blair didn’t answer.
They slipped out into the library hallway and then into the night, pace accelerating from brisk to urgent.
Blair practically bolted down the steps and into the open air, vanishing into the campus shadows with a speed Damian hadn’t expected from someone who looked half-dead.
Damian stopped at the library doors, watching.
His instincts, honed by patrol and blood and long nights, hummed in the back of his skull.
Something was off.
Blair wasn’t just rude. Blair wasn’t just tired.
Blair was hiding.
And Damian Wayne had never been able to resist a mystery.
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