⟿ feel free to request! i mainly write for yellowjackets, but feel free to request challengers, panic, outer banks, DUNE, F1 drivers, young justice, or really any DC character!
characters I'll write for
guidelines
Yellowjackets
Travis Martinez
"Oh, Cruel Fate." — undefined relationship, hurt very little comfort
"To Know That You're Mine." — afab reader, travis being pissy
“We All Know He’s a Virgin.” — pre-crash travis thoughts, smut
Outer Banks
Unspecified relationships
"She's not special, or a pogue." — reader goes off on Kiara for her ignorance
a/n: i truly don't know why i've been gone for so long but i'm back. i think i got super burnt out...whoops.
here's part 2, i'm working on part 3 rn. i hope you guys like it :)
You stood in the kitchen, arranging small plates of snacks with careful hands.The hum of voices from the living room drifted in, laughter rising and falling in waves.
Yuta had insisted on hosting Nanami’s surprise party here. Said it would be less suspicious than a club. Easier. Safer.
You swallowed at the thought.
“Do you need any help?”
The deep voice pulled you from it. You turned, blinking, to find Megumi leaning against the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression calm as ever—but observant. Always observant.
“Yes,” you said quickly, forcing brightness into your tone as you clapped your hands together. “Actually, yeah. Can you take this tray of rice cakes out to the table?”
A small smile tugged at his lips. “Of course.”
He stepped forward, picking up the tray with ease, and you grabbed a few bottles of sake, balancing them carefully in your arms before following behind him.
The moment you stepped into the living room, the energy shifted around you—warm, lively, full. Familiar faces filled the space. Old classmates, former teachers, people you hadn’t seen in years. Music played softly in the background while someone laughed a little too loud over a game in the corner.
It looked perfect.
“Everything looks amazing,” Megumi said beside you, setting the tray down.
“Thank you,” you replied softly, glancing at him. “I just hope Nanami likes it.”
Megumi nodded, glancing around the room. “Where’s Yuta?”
Your eyes instinctively followed, scanning the crowd—faces blurring together for a moment before the realization settled in.
He wasn’t there.
“I think he’s outside,” Itadori chimed in, already halfway through another bite. “By the way, these dumplings are amazing!!”
You forced a grin, the kind that came easy on the surface. “Thank you.”
Walking out onto the patio, you paused at the threshold, your eyes adjusting to the quiet dark. The house behind you hummed faintly with music and laughter, but out here, everything felt still—too still. A breeze slipped past, cool against your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms.
You scanned the space, searching for your husband.
Nothing.
You exhaled, already turning back toward the door, rehearsing what you’d say when you found him—until a soft giggle cut through the silence.
Your steps stilled, it came from the far corner. Slowly, you turned, and there they were.
Your husband and Maki, bathed in pale moonlight. She leaned against the banister, her arm resting along the wood, and his hand… his hand was on top of hers. Gentle. Absentminded, almost, as his fingers traced over the faint lines of her scars, as if it was second nature. Like it was familiar.
Maybe he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
They stood close, close enough that the space between them felt intentional, charged. Not touching beyond that small point, but not distant either. Suspended in something you couldn’t quite name.
Your chest tightened, and you took a step back, trying to escape the scene you just entered.
The wood creaked beneath your foot.
Their heads snapped toward you at the same time, smiles still lingering, until they saw you. And just like that, the warmth drained from their faces, replaced by something sharper.
Guilt.
Yuta pulled his hand away as if burned, straightening quickly, putting space between himself and the moment you’d just walked in on.
You forced a smile, even as your stomach twisted.
This is normal, you told yourself. This is what friends do.
“Hey,” you said, your voice lighter than you felt. “I was looking for you.”
Yuta smiled back, but it wasn’t the same smile. Not the one he’d just given her. This one felt… practiced. Dulled at the edges.
“Hey,” he said, stepping toward you. There was a faint slur in his words, the scent of alcohol clinging to them. “I was just catching up with Maki.”
“Yeah?” You nodded, glancing past him.
Maki stood a few feet back now, oddly quiet. Still. Which was strange—because Maki was never still. Never unsure. And yet, she hadn’t spoken a single word to you all night.
“Well,” you added, forcing a small laugh, “the party’s inside. And I kind of need help with the food.”
Your eyes flicked to her again, searching for something, anything, but she gave you nothing.
“Come on,” Yuta said, sliding an arm around your waist, pulling you into him like it was instinct. Like this was normal. Like everything was fine. “I’ll help.”
He grinned, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your lips.
You flinched, just slightly.
Enough that you felt it.
Enough that it lingered.
Because all you could think about was the way his hands had looked on her. The ease of it. The softness.
And suddenly, his touch didn’t feel like comfort.
It felt wrong.
As he guided you back inside, his arm still around you, your mind drifted back to the conversation in the grocery store weeks ago. The way her name had slipped into it so easily. The way something in his voice had shifted when he said it.
You hadn’t wanted to think too deeply about it then.
But now? Now it was all you could think about.
Once again, you pushed the feeling down.
It settled somewhere deep, somewhere quiet, where you didn’t have to look at it too closely. Because he was your husband. He chose you. Every day, he chose you. There was nothing strange in the way he treated you, nothing lacking. Your marriage was good, more than good.
It was just… her.
And as much as a part of you wanted to be cruel, to draw a line in the sand and demand he stop talking to Maki altogether, you couldn’t. You couldn’t bring yourself to be that person. Not when you knew their history. Not when you knew he had loved her once.
Maybe a part of him still did.
That was the part that ate at you.
The way he looked at her was sometimes soft, unguarded. The kind of smile that didn’t need effort. The kind that felt… familiar.
“Hey.”
Yuta’s voice pulled you back, his arm slipping around your shoulders, warm and grounding as he tugged you gently into his side.
“What’re you thinking about over there?”
You tilted your head up to look at him. His smile was wide, easy, stretching across his face like nothing in the world could touch him.
Like nothing was wrong.
“Nothing,” you murmured, exhaling softly. “Just a little overwhelmed with hosting, that’s all.”
“Baby,” he said, his expression softening instantly, concern flickering in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been helping more.”
His hand slid down your arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
For a moment, you just looked at him. At the man you loved, the man who chose you. Everything in that moment melted.
And you nodded, offering a small, reassuring smile—one that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Just stay with me for a bit,” you said quietly. “That’s enough.”
~
The party began to die down, and everyone was leaving, heading home or out to party more. You stood
“Yuta,” you said softly.
A quiet hum slipped past his lips as he looked up from his phone, his eyes meeting yours. For a second, he just watched you, like he was trying to read something you hadn’t said yet.
You crossed your arms, pulling his jacket tighter around you, the fabric shielding you from the chill more than the night ever could.
“What were you and Maki talking about?”
Something in his expression shifted. Subtle, but there. His jaw tightened, a breath dragging slowly from his chest as if the question weighed more than it should have.
“We talked about a lot,” he said, too casually.
“What exactly do you mean by that?” you asked carefully. Normally, you never involved yourself in your husband’s business, never questioned the conversations he kept tucked away behind closed doors. But tonight was different. All evening, you’d caught the subtle glances exchanged between him and Maki, the kind that lingered just a second too long. Every time you touched him, wrapped your arms around him, his heartbeat turned frantic beneath your hands. Since that conversation with her, something about Yuta had shifted, and the feeling gnawed at you all night. Physically, he was beside you, but mentally, he seemed galaxies away.
His brows pulled together tightly as he looked at you. “What are you trying to imply?”
“Yuta, please.” Your voice cracked despite you trying to steady it. “Don’t lie to me. It’s obviously something I should know. Look at you—you’re acting weird.”
Silence fell between you, heavy and suffocating. You watched him carefully, the way his gaze slipped past you, out into the dark sky like he couldn’t bear to look at you when he said it.
“She, uh…” His voice faltered as he dragged a hand along his chin, buying himself time while he searched for the right words. You watched him carefully, anxiety twisting in your chest as the silence stretched on. It was obvious he was battling with himself, trapped somewhere between what he wanted to say and what he was too afraid to admit.
“Maki, uh…”He inhaled sharply through his nose, like even forming the words hurt. “She told me… she told me that she’s in love with me.”
Your heart dropped.
“It’s hard for her,” he continued, quieter now. “Seeing me with you.”
For a moment, everything inside you stilled.
Then it shattered.
Your eyes widened instantly, your arms going slack at your sides. “Yuta, what the fuck?” The words came out harsher than you intended, your voice cracking as it rose. “Why wouldn’t you tell me? How long has this been going on?”
His own eyes widened in surprise, clearly caught off guard by your reaction. You hadn’t meant to explode at him, not really. The anger wasn’t pure rage; it was hurt, raw and overwhelming, bubbling over from the sinking feeling you’d carried in your chest all night. Deep down, some part of you had already known something was wrong, and hearing it out loud only made the ache sharper.
Your chest heaved, anger and something far more fragile clawing its way up your throat. “You were just going to what, keep this from me? Act like everything’s normal while she’s confessing she’s in love with you?”
A shaky laugh escaped you, hollow and disbelieving. Your mind raced. This was not real; this was not happening. Your husband just admitted that his first love was in love with him.
“Do you hear how insane that sounds?”
Your gaze locked onto his, searching, demanding. “When, Yuta?”
“This happened a few weeks ago, (Y/N),” he said, voice low, almost pleading. “I didn’t know how to tell you. She’s my friend, I don’t want to lose her.”
“I’m your wife.” The words snapped out of you, sharp and shaking. “And you were just out there with her talking, touching her, like everything’s fine while she’s in love with you?”
Yuta dragged his hands down his face, shoulders slumping under the weight of it. “Yes, you’re my wife, honey, and I love you, but I promise that everything was platonic. We were just catching up. That’s all.”
“No.” You shook your head, a hollow laugh slipping through. “No, you weren’t. You were filling something. Something you lost when you were younger. And you liked it.” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t stop. “You liked hearing that she still loves you. That’s why you didn’t tell me, because you knew I’d shut that shit down. For good, Yuta.”
“It’s not like that,” he said quickly, stepping toward you, desperation creeping into his voice. “I just..I didn’t know how to handle it.”
Your expression softened for half a second, not with forgiveness, but with something heavier. Understanding, you closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. No need to continue to get worked up over something that has clearly been solidified..
“I do,” you said quietly.
His head snapped up. “No—no, wait. Let me fix this.” He moved closer, reaching for you as if he could just touch you; he could undo everything.
You stepped back.
“No,” you said firmly, the word landing between you like a door slamming shut. “You could’ve fixed this weeks ago. You just chose not to. You looked me dead in the eyes and told me that nothing was happening for weeks. You lied.”
The silence that followed was louder than anything you’d said.
Your chest rose and fell unevenly, your hands trembling at your sides, but your voice, when you spoke again, was steady.
“You don’t get to stand here and figure it out now that I know,” you said. “You already made your choice, Yuta. You just didn’t think it would cost you anything.”
His face faltered, something breaking in his expression.
You squeezed your eyes shut, desperately trying to keep the tears from falling, but your body trembled violently as the thoughts crashed through your mind. “The worst part isn’t the argument,” you choked out between sobs, your hands covering your face. “It’s not even the fact that she confessed to you.”
Your breathing hitched painfully.
“It’s that you love her too, Yuta.” Your voice broke as you wiped furiously at the tears staining your cheeks. “You always have.”
“Baby, please—don’t do this.” He stepped toward you carefully, like approaching a wounded animal.
You immediately shook your head, backing away. “No. I need time… just don’t, Yuta.”
For a moment, he stood there helplessly before giving a slow nod. “Take all the time you need,” he said quietly. “But, (Y/N), please believe me when I say I love you. I don’t love Maki. You’re my other half.” His voice cracked slightly. “I can’t imagine my life without you.”
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.
Turning away from him, you walked back into the house, quickly wiping at your face even though the tears kept coming. The moment you stepped inside, the room fell silent. Everyone stopped cleaning to stare at you, their movements freezing mid-action.
Including Maki.
And suddenly, under the weight of everyone’s eyes, doubt crept into your chest. Maybe you were overreacting. Maybe you were turning something innocent into something ugly.
You watched as your husband’s smile stretched wide, bright and effortless as he waved at the raven-haired woman disappearing down the street. They laughed together, voices overlapping as they reminisced about high school—about a time that had nothing to do with you.
You stood there silently, something heavy settling in your chest.
Lately, it felt like you couldn’t escape her. Not that you wanted to. But knowing how deeply they once loved each other—romantically, emotionally—gnawed at you. Everyone had seen it back then.
“Yuta and Maki are endgame.”
“They’re going to get married someday.”
You still heard those drunken voices echoing in your mind.
Inside the grocery store, you lingered a few steps behind as Yuta pushed the cart down the aisle. Your fingers curled into your sleeves. The question you had buried for years finally clawed its way out.
“Do you still love her?”
“Hmm?” Yuta murmured, crouching to study the shelves of chips.
“Maki.” Your voice tightened. “Do you still love her?”
He froze. Slowly, he looked up at you, startled by the weight behind your words.
“Answer me honestly.”
He stood, hands resting on his knees. “Come on, hun, I married you, didn’t I?”
“That’s not my question, Yuta.”
A breath left him. He scratched the back of his head, eyes drifting away as if the answer was something he had been avoiding even from himself.
“I… I did love her. A lot. I was head over heels for Maki once.” His voice dropped. “And if I’m being honest… I still love her. But not like that. It’s different now. After everything we’ve been through, the bond is just—different. We have years of history.”
“A different kind of love?” You let out a shaky laugh. “That’s not something you say to your wife.”
Panic flickered across his face. “You asked for the truth. I—I didn’t want to lie.”
And somehow, that hurt more than any lie ever could.
“Why didn’t it work for you two?” you asked.
“She wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment,” Yuta said after a moment. “I waited for her, but she never came around. Looking back… I’m almost glad. We were just two messed-up people trying to fill a hole in ourselves. Then I chose to heal. And now we’re here.”
Your nails pressed into your palms.
“Do you ever imagine a life with her?”
“No.” He answered too quickly. “I don’t live in the past. I just want to focus on you. On us.”
You searched his face. Guilt flickered there, subtle but unmistakable—like a shadow he couldn’t quite shake. Deep down, you knew the truth he wouldn’t say out loud: he had imagined that life once. With Maki—strong, beautiful, brilliant. The kind of woman people wrote stories about.
“Okay,” you murmured. “I believe you.”
Relief poured over him. His shoulders sagged like he’d been holding his breath for minutes. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly. “I love you.”
And he did. You knew he did.
But the way they moved together was undeniable. Effortless. Natural. Like two pieces that had once been carved from the same whole.
Maki was his soulmate. His true love.
He loved you—of that you had no doubt. But it was a different kind of love. A steadier, safer one. The kind that grew from healing, not longing.
He would never love you the way he had loved Maki.
You’ve been having dreams about your husband’s best friend, and your body isn’t as good at keeping it a secret as your mouth. Nanami has been watching you night after night as you whimpered a name that wasn’t his while you curled into his side. He should’ve been upset, but it turns out his body wasn’t built for lying either— especially when it came to both of the most important people in his life.
⋮ pt.2 headcanons // m.list ⋮
𑣲 mdni , afab!reader, failed cuck Nanami, the guys discover something about themselves, fluffy ending
Nanami sent you a very, very simple text early in the day. ‘Higuruma is coming over later today, I hope that’s alright.’ And for some weird reason it’s all you could think about.
Higuruma is one of Nanami’s closest friends and you really do enjoy having him over, but in this moment? You feel… conflicted.
You’re not entirely sure how they met, maybe through a friend of a friend, or a work related event… though that hardly made sense. You attend every one of Nanami’s office parties, clinging to his arm because you know if you didn’t he’d find an excuse to slip outside where it was quiet. You can’t completely blame him for that. And each time you showed up you’d never once ran into Higuruma.
Regardless, it was good to see Nanami get along with someone who wasn’t you. He deserved to let his hair down just like everyone else in the world, which is exactly why his dear friend was coming over after they both got off work. They both worked till late. And you? You had the opportunity to sit with yourself and ask, what happened in your mind within the last two weeks.
The smell of warm vanilla and freshly brewed coffee fills your nostrils, your elbows resting against the dining table, palms cradling your warm mug close to your lips. Higuruma visits every few weeks for a drink and a debrief with your husband, and of course one drink turns into five. The both of them rambling, legs crossed as they sit on the floor next to one another laughing like little kids. It always makes your heart so warm when you come out to kiss Nanami goodnight, his cheeks flushed and his usually pristine work shirt crinkled and unbuttoned.
Last week was exactly the same. When Higuruma had walked through the door he looked stressed, eyes heavy and body dragging itself through your house like a zombie with manners. Nanami told you later that he’d lost a case, one he’d actually had some hope for— so of course you wrapped your arms around him, bringing his head to your shoulder as if he was some oversized kicked puppy. “I’m sorry, Ruma.” You’d mumbled as your hands ran up and down his broad back softly. You were a hugger, it’s not like you stuck your tongue down his throat… so that couldn’t have been the problem.
You chew on your lip as you continue to think. It’s like your brain is purposely omitting everything that could be a sign. That or you’re the worst detective to walk this earth— but the thing that irks you the most is that your body seems to remember so vividly what you can’t.
Higuruma sighed into your ear, arms not moving from his sides as you squeezed him one final time before letting him go, giving Nanami a quick peck before vanishing down the hall. And that was it! The last time you saw either of them that evening is when you’d walked out to give your (very clearly drunk) husband a kiss. You had just gotten out of the bath, skin soft and warm and smelling faintly of Jazmin as you walked quietly down the dark halls, following the husky sounds of laughter. When you reached them you didn’t immediately enter the room. Instead you leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest, robe clinging to your freshly moisturized skin and damp locks dripping onto the hardwood floor.
Nanami was pouring Higuruma another drink while the other man loosened the collar of his shirt. You caught a glimpse of pale flesh as his thick fingers worked to sluggishly pop the buttons one by one. You were so lost in the sight that you nearly jumped when you heard Nanami call to you, his hand outstretched. “Hi, honey.” You quickly snapped back to reality, brows scrunching in confusion for a moment before leaning down to press your lips to his temple. “Bed already?” He asked, subtly pulling you into his lap. You always seemed to let Nanami maneuver you in any which way, his hands guiding you with such tenderness.
Whiskey clung to his breath as you lowered yourself, feeling the way his arms wrapped around your middle, lips pressing a quick peck to the apple of your cheek— and the entire time you could feel another set of eyes like a physical weight against your skin. Dark brown irises nearly hidden behind hooded lids watching you over the lip of his glass. Nanami’s hands never wandered from your stomach, nothing provocative in the slightest… and yet your skin felt flushed as leaned back against his chest. “Yeah, I’ll catch you in the morning.” You tilted your head to the side, offering a small smile before you leaned in once more, pressing softly against the corner of his mouth before he released his grip. When you looked back Nanami had his head tilted back, heels of his palms digging into his heavy eyes while he murmured something you couldn’t quite hear. But Higuruma? His eyes were on you and the way your hips swayed. It was only for a second, so brief you convinced yourself you made it up because when you blinked his eyes were on Nanami, a lazy grin on his face as if it were a blip in reality.
That didn’t seem too weird either, you thought. Sure it was definitely… charged. But they had been drinking and your mind was already cloudy with exhaustion, there’s nothing strange about that! You sip your coffee, humming as the warm liquid flows down your throat, warming your stomach as you wrack your brain for any idea on why you could possibly…
“Oh. My. God!” You yell, slamming your mug down with more force than necessary. That mundane little action sparked a memory you’d forgotten.
It startles you how the feeling of warm coffee reminded your brain of a memory that wasn’t even real.
That night when you crawled into bed you had a dream. Now it only feels like a jumble of scenes your mind curated, lewd flashes that make your cheeks heat the more you pick them apart. Nanami was there, of course he was. Your husband was the star of all your wet dreams, but this time he was behind you, big hands holding your thighs apart as his best friend stood between them.
Higuruma was grinding his cock against your swollen pussy lips watching the way his pre cum made your clit glisten as Nanami pressed his lips to the nape of your neck. “Fuck—“ you mumble, hands raking down your face as you recall it in excruciating detail. “Fuck fuck fuck!”
Another flash showed you on your knees, lips wrapped around his cock, swallowing down warm sticky cum as Nanami praised you so sweetly.
Everyone has dreams like this, it’s not like you can control what your brain mixes up the second your eyes close… right? It wasn’t your subconscious trying to tell you something and it certainly wasn’t a promise of things to come.
You’ve welcomed this man into your home countless times! Made him dinner, let him sleep in the guest room when he was just too tired to drive home. You’ve gotten to know him almost as deeply as Nanami has but that doesn’t mean you’d developed feelings over time… you hope.
Static buzzed in your ears as you stood up, mind reeling. You had to move. Your fingers itched for a distraction— and so like magic the dishes were done, and the laundry was folded, the floor was swept and you even showred— all while you kept replaying the dream in a haze like state. Warmth sits heavy in your gut as you comb out your wet hair, bottom lip stuck between your teeth, worrying away at the skin until you wince in pain. “I’m so fucked.”
Touching yourself to thoughts of another man never once crossed your mind, but as you squirm on the sofa, anticipation making your thighs squeeze together, you heavily consider it.
Bzz Bzz your phone sits next to you, face down on the cushion as you watch the sky change colors out the window.
Pale blue mixing into a rich vibrant orange—
Bzz Bzz
Orange bleeding into a hue of pink and purple, leaving the sky a beautiful bruised shade that makes you think of the hickeys Nanami leaves across your chest after a long day at work. You wonder if Higuruma is the same way. Mouth ravenous and strong hands holding on with a punishing grip—
Bzz Bzz
With an exasperated huff you pick up your phone, forcing yourself to sit criss cross so your thighs aren’t touching anymore, the ache between them an annoying reminder.
Nanami: We’ll be home soon, Love.
Nanami: Higuruma requested you have at least one drink with us tonight.
Nanami: Only if you would want to. But I would really like to see your pretty face as much as I can before you vanish into our room.
One drink. One drink couldn’t hurt— and with the way your body’s been trembling with a mixture of anxiety and reluctant lust you think you deserve it. Your thumbs move before your brain can form a full opinion on the proposal, nails clacking against the screen as you type a response.
You: That sounds nice! I miss you both, can’t wait to see you <3
“God—“ you whine, teeth gnawing at your abused bottom lip.
‘But I would really like to see your pretty face as much as I can before you vanish into our room.’
Do you really do that each time? Say hello and disappear into solitude until you go to sleep? Nanami isn’t being rude, he would never even entrain that notion, but it also feels… strange. You spend every afternoon together, legs tangled as you cuddle and chatter on the sofa. You thought you were being polite by giving them some space to themselves…
Dwelling on it is just a waste of time, there’s more important things to do… like quickly grabbing three clean crystal tumblers, placing them on the coffee table along with a new bottle of whiskey, nails tapping anxiously against the cool glass. For a moment you contemplate changing out of your t-shirt and shorts, quickly brushing the thought under the rug. Both men have seen you in your bathrobe or in your ratty pajamas, hair all frizzy and messy as you say your goodnights— and tonight definitely isn’t one of those nights.
As you throw your head back against the sofa, hands raking through your hair you hear the door push open and the heavy thud of shoes being slipped off. With a quick, quiet glee you hop to your feet, peaking behind the hallway arch to watch them. The faint smell of polyester, old papers, and something faintly minty wafts in the air they slip off their coats, handing them meaty on the coat rack while you try to distinguish which scent is coming from which man.
“Hello, beautiful.” Nanami says, voice lightly as his hand slides around your waist, pulling you to him, his lips pressing gently against your cheek as you hum with delight.
He always touches you so softly when other people are around— and even if they aren’t. For someone who looks so cold he’s such a big softie. You love the way his cool exterior cracks the second you’re within five feet of him, his lips curling into a smile and his eyes softening. The same could be said for Higuruma if you really wanted to think about it. His face always looks so bored unless you’re speaking with him, pulling a smile out of him the more you talk.
Your previous anxiety almost slips away.
Key word— almost.
Nanami’s hand rests lightly against the small of your back as you turn your head, smiling sweetly as Higuruma walks towards you. “Ruma,” you hum, reaching your arms out for a hug. He knows it’s a habit by now, but still the action makes his stomach twist into knots.
Soft, gentle hands resting against his back as you squeeze. He never hugs you back, hands always at his sides— but he does tonight. A small squeak sounds in your throat when you feel warm palms pull you in, one resting in the middle of your back while the other lies too closely to the nape or your neck. You inhale, body tingling with realization.
Mint. He’s the one who smelt like mint and something unmistakably masculine. You could bury your face into the crook of his neck and just breathe it in. You imagine if you took another you’d smell his musk, a rich heady scent that would surely make you head swim.
“It’s good to see you.” His voice is a low, tired sound in your ear as he pulls back. Teeth sink down into your tongue for a moment, praying your body doesn’t react the way it so desperately wants to.
“It’s nice to see you too.” Heat pools in your gut as you step back, feeling the weight of his hand still resting against your hip like a brand. You’ve always been the touchy one, only now are you confronted with how deeply intimate it all was— is this how he felt? Warm and clammy and itching for another feel? All too quickly it’s gone, body growing cold as you watch him follow Nanami into the livingroom.
Right… drinks. That’s why he’s here.
With quick steps you follow after, bouncing on your toes before collapsing onto the plush of the sofa with a small puff of air, pretending not to watch as they surround you. You tilt your head as Nanami cracks open the bottle, the sound echoing loud in your ears as you feel your heart quicken, “did you want me to move?”
Confusion paints his features as he pours the amber liquid into a glass, reaching his long arm over you as he hands Higuruma his drink. “Of course not.” he wraps that same arm around your shoulders, giving you one quick squeeze before pouring another, handing it to you without a word. So that’s that… his next few words are directed to Higuruma, topics flying back and forth that you hardly comprehend.
What cases Higuruma is working on, how many reports Nanami had to complete today, awful interns— on and on about how their days were bad but could’ve been worse. They say it all while they relax, their thighs pressing into yours, their warmth surrounding you like a cocoon of overwhelming sensations.
Whiskey burns your throat as you take a sip, lips tugging in a grimace. The sting is better than doing nothing, each sip is an anxiety fueled action. But it doesn’t take your mind off of your dream. It feels like you’re holding in such a big secret, something you should pull Nanami aside for so you can spill your guts and beg for forgiveness.
His arm slides over your shoulders again, large palm squeezing your shoulder as you tilt your head to look at him. “Hm?”
“I asked how your day was.” His voice holds no anger or annoyance, just a soft sound that makes you smile apologetically. “Boring.” You lie, “My day was boring.”
The pressure of Higuruma thigh pressing against yours makes you twitch. You squish both your legs together in an attempt to take up less space— but it doesn’t feel like it’s working. “Then why do you look so…” Nanami snaps his fingers, searching for a word. “Tense.” Higuruma finishes for him. “Tense, that’s it.”
If the earth would split open and swallow you whole it would be considered a mercy in your eyes— because it’s all you want in this moment. “I’m not…” you sound so unconvincing, even in your own ears. The feeling of their eyes on you makes you squirm, and the way you take another sip of whiskey doesn’t help in the slightest.
Warmth spreads down your chest and fills the pit in your stomach. You can feel your cheeks heating as they seem to press closer.
“Is there anything we can do?” Your husband asks, fingers tracing patterns on your shoulder, tips slowly sliding down your arm.
We?
What could they possibly do as a team that would make you feel better? Besides pressing harder into you, letting their hands explore your body the way they did in your dream.
You blink, eyes darting between them as they allow you a moment to sit in the silence. “W-what does that mean?” You whisper, leaning into Nanami as if you were telling him a secret.
His chuckle makes you shiver and his grin just makes it worse. “Honey,” voice a purr in your ear as you feel the warmth of his hand move from your shoulder to your thigh, squeezing lightly for a moment as he continues, “We just want to make sure you’re taken care of. You’ve been a little… absent minded lately.”
So he’s noticed…
Now you really wish the earth would split open— “I’m fine!” You start, heart hammering wildly behind your ribs. “I’ve just been… having… trouble sleeping.” It sounds like a question rather than a statement.
Fingers dig into the fat of your thigh, an involuntary flex that makes your breath hitch.
“Why?”
If only you knew what Nanami did, it would all be so clear. But there would be no fun in teasing you like this if you did, now would there?
It’s normal to have dreams you can’t remember, everyone has them. But you? You’ve been having them every night it seems, and if you did remember them you certainly weren’t telling him. Sure you were lucky enough to remember that one dream, but you didn’t seem to remember the others that followed.
Nanami tends to go to bed later then you do, even if he’s holding you his mind is wide awake, reluctantly running a mile a minute while you snore softly against his chest, arms holding him to you.
He remembers the first night it happened. You were lying against his chest, leg slotted between his as you drooled against his t-shirt, soft snores turning into little mumbles. And then those mumbles turned into slurred sleepy words— no… a name. “Ruma—“ you whined, hips jerking against Nanami’s thigh, tired body instinctively seeking the pleasure you were in your head. Nanami should’ve been livid that you were dreaming of another man, his best friend no less! But he wasn’t. He laid under you, heart beating in his throat as you rocked against him again, skin growing clammy until you stilled, those soft snore filling his ears once more.
The same thing happened a few nights later, but this time you mumbled something about the both of them as you ground your needy cunt against his leg like a bitch in heat. It was so erotic to see you bathed in moonlight, body moving on its own as your subconscious told him exactly what you unknowingly craved.
Nanami wasn’t blind, he saw the way Higuruma looked at you— especially when they’ve had to much to drink. And sure, he may have contributed to his best friend’s desire for his wife… Like on that infamous night when he tugged you into his lap. He secretly took note of the way Higuruma’s eyes flicked over your body, hand clenching so tightly around his glass he was afraid it would shatter. You smelt so fresh after your bath that he was sure his friend could smell the sweetness of your skin— fuck, Nanami would’ve bet money that his friend’s cock was twitching in his slacks at the sight of your soft skin barely covered by your robe. He just had to confirm it.
Information wasn’t hard to get out of Higuruma. In fact it was too easy— as if Nanami were a priest and Higuruma a sinner, he let his feelings flow from his lips.
He wanted you.
And Nanami decided that he could have you. For a price or course.
“Ken.” You say his name urgently turning to face him as your body flushes with heat. “What’s going on?” You stiffen as Nanami takes your glass from you, getting it on the coffee table without a word. “Higuruma wants to make you feel good, Angel.” Words soft in your ear as he leans in, “it’s what you’ve been dreaming about, isn’t it?” His lips press to your warm cheek, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
This feels like a sick joke, “What? Kento what the hell is… is going…” you look down at your lap, heart in your throat as Higurumas palm joins your husbands, squeezing lightly almost as if he’s afraid to startle you. “K-Ken?”
Warm breath ghosts over your skin before you feel the gentle press of his lips against your neck, “Your body talks about your desires more than you do, Doll. What kinda husband would I be if I didn’t make sure those desires were met?”
Hands slide over you, hot breath and skin seeping into you as you try so desperately not to squirm. You don’t understand— and you’re not sure you want to.
“You trust him,” Nanami murmurs, tilting your head, “don’t you?” Hunger paints Higuruma’s usually cold features. Pale cheeks flushed and dark eyes blown wide as he watches Nanami murmur into your ear. “Do you want him to touch you?”
A second hardly passes before you’re nodding, fingers tingly as you reach out to him.
“So needy.” Over your shoulder eyes meet, lust thick in the air, hands sliding from your thigh to your waist— and then you’re being manhandled.
Higuruma grips your hips, holding you to him as if you will slip between his fingers like mist. He looks almost as nervous as you do, but not by much. He’s so devastatingly handsome, eyes hooded and glimmering in the low light as you squirm. The anticipation is killing you, sneaking its way into your lungs like heartburn before it all vanishes in the form of a soft moan.
His lips are against yours, a soft peck that makes you melt into him. It’s stupid of you to expect him to be a gentleman forever, especially when he’s been craving you for so long.
Soft needy gasps leave you as he parts your lips with his tongue, pulling you closer until you can feel him. He’s twitching under you, cock stiff in his slacks as you move, teasing him with each eager wriggle of your hips. It’s hard not to be sucked into him, allowing him to move you however he wants.
A whisper on the air makes you shiver, and before you can even register what was said you’re being lifted, large palms cupping the swell of your ass as his mouth travels down your jaw, feet carrying you both with ease.
Higuruma kisses you like he’s been starving for it, and his touches don’t help his case. The second your back meets the plush mattress he’s on you, hands slipping under your shirt with expert ease, teeth nipping at your throat.
Despite the low ringing in your ears you hear Nanami’s voice, soft and smooth in the heated air. “You can take it off, mhm, just like that.” Cool air makes you shiver as your t-shirt is pushed over your head, leaving you in nothing but your shorts. “I didn’t know the night would take this turn,” up admit sheepishly. You cover your breasts despite how much you want him to see you, you’re just so nervous.
“C’mon, Doll,” Nanami hums, voice a ghost in the room, “do you want this?”
God do you.
You nod, head turning to the side. Your husbands perched next to the bed, legs spread and cock straining against his slacks as he watches— no— instructs.
“Then let him see you.”
Before you can move your hands you feel Higuruma wrap his around your wrists, gently sliding your hands away from your chest. “You’re so beautiful.” The words leave his lips before he can stop them. Nanami just chuckles, the sound a husky rasp, “Isn’t she?”
Rustling of fabric is lost on you as heat pools in your belly, body trembling when his fingers gently caress your skin. Eager tips trail up your arms, soft swirls leaving goosebumps in their wake until his palms kneed at your breasts, nipples grazing his rough palms. It makes you whimper, thighs rubbing together until he moves. “You gonna tell me what you like or do I have to figure it out myself?” He hovers over you, leaning down till his lips meet your navel, peppering soft kisses all the way up to your chest. You can’t help but giggle, “What, not having any fun?” You could tell him what you wanted. Maybe you could tell him to just slip his hand in your panties already, or to bite the juncture of your neck while he pinched your hard nipples between his fingers— but you want him to explore your body with curiosity and adoration. And he does just that.
Higuruma’s wet mouth envelops your nipple, teeth gently gracing the hard bud while his hand slides up and down your side, nails skimming over your soft skin. The feeling of his lips makes you squirm, rubbing your thighs together as your panties grow wetter and wetter with each passing second.
You want more.
You need more.
Trembling fingers tug at his dark locks, “Ruma—“ your voice sounds so small in your own ears, but to them it’s the most beautiful melody, “I need more… please.”
Just like earlier you’re excluded from the heated gaze Nanami and Higuruma share over your writhing body, words spoken in glances and nods until you feel hands tugging at your shorts. “Nanami told me you were needy,” he breathes against your chest, teeth grazing your saliva coated nipple with each word, “to think I was nervous you wouldn’t be that way with me.”
It’s embarrassing how much wetter those words made you, clit twitching as your shorts were pulled down your thighs and tossed to the side without a second thought.
“Fuck—“
The sight before Higuruma is better than anything he’s dreamt of. Your panties are soaked through, making the fabric outline the folds of your pussy in perfect detail. Cool air against your slick skin makes you shiver, and so does the sight of him between your thighs, eyes laser focused on your nearly naked cunt.
Wet dreams are nothing compared to you, Higuruma thinks as he leans in. Lips press reverently against your plush inner thighs as he spread you wider, forcing your lips apart with a soft squish. It’s so quiet you don’t even hear it, but he does, and the sound makes him throb.
“Ruma~” you whimper, brows pinched in frustration when all he does is look, “c’mon—ngh!” He flattens his tongue against your pantie clad pussy, tasting your slick through the fabric before pulling it aside with his teeth. You want them off— now— but you don’t get that luxury just yet.
Thick fingers slide through your slick folds, pressing gently against your aching clit before circling your entrance. “Please—“ you breathe, the words caught in your throat. “Nanami, tell him to hurry! I need more I-I need it—“ you beg, gut twisting into knots.
“Tell him yourself, honey. You can still use your words.”
He’s so frustrating it makes you groan, the sound pitchy and desperate as you claw at the sheets below you. “Ruma— p-please I need more…”
Nanami tsks softly from his seat, “Tell him what you need.” He watches you with lidded eyes, palming his aching length as he watches his best friend taste his wife. Higuruma’s lips wrap around your clit while you whine. It’s not what you were asking for but the pleasure makes you sputter, toes curling and thigh tensing— and it only gets better as his mouth travels lower.
The wet heat of his tongue slipping inside makes you choke, the tip of his nose pressing against your hard clit. Each time he moves his jaw— tongue lapping your juices into his mouth as if he was dying of thirst— his curved nose presses harder against you. “H-holy shit—“
The tinkling of Nanami’s belt is a fuzzy sound, hardly registering in your mind until you hear the soft hiss of his zipper and the way he sucks in a breath. “Tell me,” he pants, hand wrapping around his dick, thumb rubbing lazily over his leaky slit, “how does his mouth feel? Is it how you dreamed?” A grin evident in his tone. All he can think about are the nights you’d cum in your sleep, lips trembling as you whispered a name that wasn’t his. 
By the way your hips roll up against his face, chasing the feeling of his tongue, Nanami already knows your answer, but he loves the way your words crack when you answer him, head thrown back in pleasure. “S-so good! H-his nose keeps—“ Nanami hums, a soft ‘mhm’ as you tilt your head, glassy eyes meeting his, “keeps hitting… hitting my clit—“
“Does it feel good?” You just whimper in response, eyes rolling back as a thick finger is slowly pushed inside. “S-so fucking good!”
The air is thick with lust— between the heat pumping in his veins and the cloying scent of your cunt Higuruma can hardly keep himself still. He wants all of you. Your lips on his, your hands in his hair, your wet heat wrapped tightly around him— but he also craves his friend’s praise and permission. He pulls back for a moment a thin string of saliva connecting you as he pushes his fingers into your sopping hole. You look ethereal below him— skin flushed and slick with sweat, hair a halo of soft strands, as saccharine moans spill from your kiss bitten lips. And Nanami? He’s a sight all the same. Strong legs spread as he leans back, blond locks falling into his eyes as his chest heaves with each ragged breath— and his large veiny hand wrapped tightly around his cock, gripping the base as if he’s afraid he’ll cum too soon.
It’s almost too much for Higuruma’s senses. He wants to touch and taste and feel.
“What’s with that face?” Nanami’s voice is like a velvet caress, shivers traveling down Higuruma’s spine as you clench so delicious around his fingers. “Nothing—“ he pants, pressing the heel of his palm down against your clit, cock throbbing when you moan in response. The sound is so sweet, a breathy exhale that make him swallow.
It’s impossible to not notice when Nanami stands, a shadowy figure that stalks towards you both like a predator.
“Then why don’t I believe you…”
Through your lashes you watch, stomach twisting into knots as Nanami walks behind Higuruma, hovering for a moment before his hands slide around his friend’s waist. Your lips part as you watch the way deft fingers undo Higuruma’s belt, the leather and metal clattering to the ground.
“What happened to just watching?” Higuruma grits out, cheeks flushing a pale shade of pink as his friend palms his aching bulge. Nanami chuckles as he leans in, chest pressing against Higuruma’s back— the soft hiss of metal teeth filling the momentary silence, “Forgive me for taking pity on you,” he hums, fishing Higuruma’s aching length from his pants, Adam’s Apple bobbing when he feels him pulse. “Didn’t you know you were grinding against my bed?” The question holds an edge, “Or were you too lost in the taste of my wife?”
They’re friends— good friends— and yet Higuruma can’t help the way his body and mind melt into his touch. His fingers flex, digits curling inside you, grinding against that spongy spot that makes you mewl so sweetly. You watch the way their bodies press together and wonder if they’ve both been secretly craving the same thing. The feel of one another and the intimacy that comes with sharing you. It’s a perfect cocktail— an aphrodisiac that makes your blood sing in your veins. You could watch them like this forever.
To Higuruma all of Nanami’s touches felt purposeful and demanding— but you knew him, and his touches were anything but. Nanami was being cautious, fingers barely gripping his friend’s cock as his lips ghost over the skin of his neck. He wants more, but he’s so unsure of how to take it— how to ask for it.
“Ruma—“ you whimper, hips bucking up against his palm. “I need you… p-please—“ His hips stutter, sensitive length twitching as Nanami strokes him from base to tip.
Your panties are still clinging to your folds, sticky with slick and saliva but none of you seem to care about that. Not when their shirts are half buttoned, pants still on and stained with pre cum.
Higuruma growls your husband’s name, head lulling back against his shoulder as skilled fingers wrap around the swollen red tip of his cock before he just… lets him go. Nanami lets his hands slide to Higuruma’s hips, guiding him to sit firmly between your spread thighs.
His cock is big. Bigger than you imagined. Veins curling around the shaft, mushroom tip pulsing like it has a heartbeat of its own as it lays snug between your glistening lips.
You reach up, hands gripping his forearms as Nanami’s lips graze the shell of his ear. “You’re both so touchy.” Higuruma huffs as Nanami laughs, lips curled against his skin as his hands disappear beneath the crumpled fabric of his shirt. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” voice so low you can barely hear it from were you lay.
You’re tired of waiting for them to keep going, so you do it yourself by pressing a hand against his cock, sandwiching it between your palm and your cunt, grinding your hips up slowly. It’s euphoric— but not nearly enough.
Nanami can’t tell who wanted this more— you or Higuruma. You’re leaking like a facet and Higuruma’s muscles ripple beneath his skin each time his fingers trace shapes into his flesh.
Your bedroom smells like sweat and heat, your bodies alive and senses heightened with each ragged breath. When your clit bumps against Hihurumas tip his resolve finally snaps. He pries your legs farther apart, grip bruising against your skin. He spreads you till your pelvis aches, pained whimpers spilling from your lips as he prods your hole. Each time his head catches against you a soft squelch fills your ears. It not even inside you and yet your body is so tense it feels like you’ll break.
Pleasure holds you captive, tendrils of ecstasy squeezing at your heart and gut in anticipation.— you want to cry. Waiting is torture and neither of them seem to care! “Fuck me!” You choke out, tears wetting your lash line,“Pleasepleaseplease!”
“C’mon~” Nanami murmurs, his own cock leaking against the cleft Higuruma’s ass, “let go,” he grinds, pulling his hips back against his, letting the rough material of his pants rub against his flushed cock, “Fuck. Her.”
The breath is ripped from your lungs as you’re split apart, body tearing at the seams. Your pussy aches, thighs twitching and hole burning as it tries to force him back out.
Growling and moaning is nothing but a faint sound in the back of your mind— all you can focus on is the pounding of your heart. A loud thump, thump, thump that makes you quiver.
Nanami’s voice is rough, “There you go!” body blanketing Higuruma as he thrusted into you. He felt the way his friend went weak in the knees as your gummy walls enveloped him.
You’ve never seen Higuruma like this before, his usual lazy expression gone— but he’s so much more handsome this way. Damp hair sticking to his forehead, his thick brows furrowed and his nose crinkling at the bridge like a wild animal holding back with all their might.
Nanami has a new air about him too. He’s always so attentive in bed, always hands on and aiming to please you, but this is different… His eyes don’t leave the juncture or your thighs, watching with an insatiable hunger as Higuruma starts to pump in and out of you.
Each inhale feels like it’s not enough as his tip presses snugly inside. He stretches you wide, each vein rubbing against your slick inner walls in a way his fingers and tongue couldn’t. “H-Holy shit— holy shit!”
It’s beautiful the way you cry out, fat tears coating your thick lashes as he pulls out and pushes back in. “Feelin’ good?” Nanami asks. His voice is nothing but a deep rasp now, low and hot in Higuruma’s ear. Signals are crossed and Higuruma answers the question for you as sweat beads off his nose and onto your squirming body below. “So good— how do you leave her here alone all day? She’s so t-tight and wet and— fuuuuck!” He growls the last word, the ‘K’ trapped behind clenched teeth. Your stomach flutters and your chest heaves, words catching in your throat as you cry out their names.
You want to touch Nanami, but he’s so far, dark eyes tracking the way your breasts bounce and jaw hangs slack, body completely giving into the pleasure.
Something in him is clawing out as he tugs on Higuruma’s jaw, forcing him to watch the way you move below them. “Look at our good girl,” he purrs, chiseled cheek pressing hard into Higuruma’s neck, feeling the vibrations of his moans as he fucks you into the mattress.
You whimper to yourself, body tensing and thighs trembling. You want so desperately to clamp them shut and push him out— not because you aren’t enjoying yourself, but because you’re too close to cumming. It’s only been a few minutes and yet the knot in your gut pulls tight, threatening to snap if he keeps going. “I’m gonna cum— I don’t-I can’t!” But it’s futile.
Nanami’s whispering something into Higuruma’s ear, a soft “keep going,” that you can’t hear over the slapping of his hips meeting yours. And he does— not that he planned on stopping anyways. You were going to cum around his cock at some point in the night, it just so happens to be sooner than anticipated.
“Look at how good you’re making her feel,” Nanami moans, teeth nipping at his friend’s neck, grinning when he feels his shoulders tremble and then tense. He licks a stripe up his throat, tasting the salt of his sweat as he laps at his skin. His teeth tug at his earlobe, cock jerking when he hears him gasp. Nanami’s so close and he hasn’t touch himself since walking over here, all he has is the hard pressure of Higuruma’s ass against his crotch, each thrust making him press back into his stiff length.
That scent of mint and musk fills your lungs as you gasp, choked little sounds that force their way past your lips as your cunt clenches around him. You’re so wound tight, body a live wire of sensation that’s hurtling over the edge of ecstasy as Higuruma lands the final blow.
His hand moves from your thigh to press hard against your achy clit. The pad of his thumb is rough against your neglected bundle of nerves and the sting of pleasure is what does you in.
You gush around him, body spasming as he keeping fucking into you, pace punishing as you cry out. Higuruma isn’t far behind, especially with the way your sloppy cunt is squeezing around him, walls rippling. Panic flares in his chest for a second, realization washing over him like ice water— he can’t pull out in time.
“Oh fuck—“ he gasp, “I can’t— M’sorry!” Tears cloud your vision as you feel the first warm jet of cum pour into you, filling you beyond your limits. “M’sorry—“ he feels pathetic as he trembles between the both of you. He was so lost in his own pleasure that he couldn’t even stop himself from spilling inside.
This isn’t what him and Nanami discussed, not even close.
“I’m so—MMPH!” His hips still, body tensing as his face is jerked to the side, soft lips pressing against his as he floods your already fully pussy.
Nanami’s tongue parts his lips, swallowing down the moans that Higuruma feeds him— and you watch it all as tears of pleasure cool against your cheeks, clenching helplessly around him. “No fair…” you whine.
Nothing went the way it should’ve. But that’s what made it feel so good. Nanami was supposed to sit still. He was supposed to conduct you both while he watched from his perch. And yet his hips stutter against Higuruma’s, cum staining his backside as his tongue curls around his friends— all while you complain below them.
“And she’s always this needy?” Higuruma asks between gasps, lips quivering.
“Always.”
“Hey!” You thrash, foot landing against Nanami’s stomach in a light tap, “I can hear you!”
Sunlight flitters in through cream colored blinds as you nuzzle farther into the warmth surrounding you. Hard muscle curls around your waist from both sides. “Mmmm— Ken can you close the blinds?” You mumble, face buried in Higuruma’s bare chest. “Why can’t he do it?” Nanami mumbles against the nape of your neck, fingers flexing against your stomach as he pushes closer.
A groggy chuckle rumbles in your ears as Higuruma cracks open an eye, grinning at the way Nanami stares back at him. “Because I don’t live here.”
The way they bicker makes you groan. It’s too early for them to be picking petty fights, you think. Dramatically you flop onto your back, pushing yourself up with sleep logged arms. “Uuugh, forget it. I’ll do it myself.”
As if they’d let you get far.
Nanami grabs your waist, pulling you back down between them, Higuruma leaning in to pepper your face with soft kisses.
You could get used to this kind of treatment. And so could they. Maybe that dream wasn’t as embarrassing as it seemed… in fact it might’ve been the best thing to happen to all three of you.
“Go back to sleep,” Higuruma’s voice is still gravely with sleep as he buries his face into the crook of your neck, arm curling around your body to rest against Nanami’s, fully sandwiching you between them once more. “Nice to see you have a good idea every now and then.” Nanami tsk, face buried in your hair as you digh.
Thank you so much for a thousand followers?? I genuinely love it here and writing has become fun for me again, I’m glad I get to share my fics with people who seem to enjoy reading them as much as I love writing them ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
A/N; i took my time with this fic LOL i hope you guys like it!!
You step into the teen team base nobody’s there.. thank god
You don’t bother changing your clothes you walked straight into your room and collapsed onto your bed.
Sleep comes almost instantly, talking to Bruce drains your energy.
By the time you woke up, the morning sunlight was shining through the window.
You yawned, you still have to go to school. great just great.
you change into your uniform and walked to school you already late but that’s better then everyone seeing Bruce Wayne’s daughter flying to school.
By the time you arrived, It was second period.
You spotted mark by his locker and walked over.
“Hey y/n!” He looked you up and down “you look like hell!”
“Wow thanks mark.. you really know how to make a girl feel special..” you rolled your eyes
He winced.
“..sorry?”
“I got into a fight with Bruce.”
You shrugged.
“I’m staying at the teen team base for now.”
Mark frowned.
“Hey.. you can always stay with me.”
“Thanks mark, But if I stay with you, Bruce’s gonna figure it out.”
You sighed
“right now I just need to avoid Tim or Damian. I can’t stand seeing either of them… or Bruce.”
Before you could say anything else mark suddenly grabbed your arm and shoved you inside his locker.
“HEY—“
“Shh!” He quickly shut the door
“lockers don’t talk! Tim’s coming.”
You could hear Tim’s footsteps.
“Mark, right?”
That was Tim.
As mark nodded “yeah… yeah, uh y/n brother right?”
As Tim nodded. for a second, neither of them said anything they looked at each other awkwardly.
With that Tim coughed
“Uh… y/n ran away from home last night…”
Your heart dropped, their already trying to find you?
“we couldn’t find her anywhere.” He hesitated. “Has she called you?”
“What?” Mark did a surprisingly good job of looking confused.
“No..no, why’d she run away?”
As Tim looked around awkwardly “not really my place to say”
He pulled a small piece of paper out of his pocket.
“if she texts you call me please.” He handed mark the note.
As mark nodded. “I will.”
Tim gave one last glance down the hallway before walking away.
The moment he disappeared around the corner, mark opened the door.
And you practically fell out as you coughed “it smells like axel body spray In here!” You fanned the air
“Not important! Tim might be onto us.”
You bust yourself
“They don’t call him the world greatest detective for nothing.” mark added
“That’s Bruce.” You say rolling your eyes
“..right..”
You sighed “but still. I can’t stay here they’re bound to find me. Wanna skip school with me?”
“Hell yes!”
____
The two of you ducked behind an alley.
Pink energy surrounded you.
Mark slipped into his suit.
Within seconds, Atom Eve and Invincible shot into the Gotham skyline.
“Anything on Cecil’s radar?” you asked.
Mark checked his phone. “Just one.”
“What is it?”
“Mister Twister.”
You blinked. “…That’s his villain name?”
“I know.”
“That’s awful.”
“I know.”
“I could’ve come up with something cooler.”
“You absolutely could’ve.”
The two of you arrived just as a massive tornado ripped through the middle of downtown.
Cars flipped.
Windows shattered.
People screamed.
“Well…” you cracked your knuckles. “Let’s get to work.”
You created giant pink platforms, catching falling civilians before they hit the ground.
Mark punched through the swirling winds, aiming straight for Mister Twister.
“You think you can stop the storm?” Mister Twister laughed, the wind around him growing stronger.
Mark didn’t answer.
He just flew straight at him.
Yeah… talking wasn’t really his thing.
As Mark’s fist connected with Mister Twister’s chest, sending both of them crashing through the side of a building.
“Invincible!”
He pushed himself out of the rubble with a groan. “I’m okay!” Mark wiped the blood from his lips
You formed dozens of pink chains, wrapping around the tornado and slowly pulling it apart.
Before you could finish
CRACK.
Lightning exploded overhead.
Five more heroes landed nearby.
Kid Flash.
Wonder Girl.
Red Robin.
Superboy and Arrowette.
Kid Flash looked around.
“Whoa.”
He pointed at you.
“I’ve never seen you guys before.”
“I’m invincible, she’s atom eve.” Mark answered.
Bart snorted
“Invincible?”
Mark signed “.. yeah.”
“Bit confident, don’t ya think?”
Superboy floated beside you, folding his arms.
“Nice constructs.”He glanced at your pink constructs before looking back at you.
“Thanks” you glanced at him “.. you trying to compliment me?”
Superboy rubbed the back of his neck, “maybe?”
Wonder Girl rolled her eyes.
“Connor.”
“What?”
“We’re fighting.”
“Oh.”
“Right.”
Red Robin didn’t say a word.
Instead… He just stared at you.
Again.
God.
Could this guy stop looking at you?
“What?” you asked.
“…Nothing.”
You decided to let it go, you knew Tim wasn’t dumb. He was the opposite.. but because he never really talked to you or really hanged out with you he never knew you were atom eve. You weren’t planning on telling him anyways.
Kid Flash suddenly zipped between the two of you.
“Can we save the introductions? The tornado guy is still very much a tornado guy.”
Red Robin blinked “..right”
“Stop talking! “ Arrowette interrupted, already drawing another arrow.
The seven heroes charged together.
Wonder Girl smashed through chunks of flying debris.
Arrowette fired cable arrows around collapsing buildings to keep them standing.
Kid Flash evacuated civilians before they even realized they were in danger. Perks of being fast.
Superboy punched straight through the eye of the tornado.
Mister Twister crashed into the pavement, then he smiled, with one violent twist of his arms, the cyclone exploded outward.
Your heart stopped, you could hear kids scream in a school bus but, mark was caught in the tornado.
He slammed through the side of a building before disappearing beneath a cloud of concrete and glass.
“SHIT— INVINCIBLE!”
No answer, your eyes darted between the bus and..
mark.
The bus..
Mark..
The bus…
Your hands clenched.
Damnit.
You flew towards the bus.
A giant pink platform caught it before it could hit the ground.
The children cried as the bus slowly floated back onto the street.
“You’re okay.” You whispered to the kids
“Thank you, atom eve.” One kid said between crys.
You smile as you turn, shit it might be to late.
“INVINCIBLE!” Before you could fly over, a fist burst through the rubble. Mark came out stumbling, coughing.
Relief hit you so hard your knees almost gave out.
“Thank god..” you let out the breath you’d been holding.
Mark wiped the dust off his suit.
Before mister twister could recover, you thrust both hands forward. Massive pink constructs shot from the ground wrapped around his arms, legs, and torso.
He struggled. The restraints only tightened.
“invincible!”
“I’m on it!”
Invincible flew like a missile.
BOOM.
His punch landed square in mister twisters chest.
You looked down at the unconscious villain for a moment.
“..well.”
You rubbed the back of your neck.
“That was way harder than it needed to be.”
Superboy landed beside you, dusting the dirt off his gloves. “You fight pretty well.”
“I know.”
A small smile tugged the corner of his mouth.
“And humble too.”
“The humblest.”
before you could say anything else Kid flash zipped past.
“Can we finish talking after we deal with the clean up?”
As wonder girl nodded toward the unconscious mister twister
“We should probably help with that.”
As Superboy glanced back at you.
“..Right, yeah” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’II see you around… I guess.”
“Maybe.”
As mark landed beside you just as superboy walked off
“You know him?”
“He’s Tim best friend, Connor. he’s a Kent”
“He seemed nice.”
You look over as Connor helped move debris with wonder girl.
mark bumped your shoulder.
“C’mon. Cecils probably wondering where we are.”
You nodded “let’s go” you both flew up, it’s getting pretty dark.
—-
Red Robin hadn’t stopped watching you once.
Something wasn’t adding up.
And he intended to find out what it was.
As you and invincible flew off, Tim pulled out his phone and he opened Bruce’s contact.
Tim:
“B, do you have a file on atom eve the superhero?”
A few seconds later, Bruce replied.
Bruce:
“I can check, why?”
Tim:
“No reason”
He slipped his phone back into his pocket as he helped his team with the clean up, There was something about you.. he couldn’t put his finger on it.
summary: Damian comes back into your life to open wounds that have never quite fully healed, and brings out a side of you that you had desperately tried to forget until now. Thankfully, the Kents are here to show you a part of you that you would've never thought existed.
pairing(s): conner kent x al ghul!batsis!reader, batsis!reader x platonic batfamily, batsis!reader x platonic al ghul family
word count: 24.8k (good luck, longest fic yet)
warnings: this is a batsis fic under the false pretense of a conner one, reader and damian are both haunted by their similarities to talia and ra's, possible spoilers from the year of blood comic (which inspired this), also inspired by the son of the demon comic (read with an adblock if you don't want to be flashed pls), heavily implied suicide, daddy issues, mommy issues, grandpa issues, brother issues, ISSUES!!, implied post partum depression, they're all fucked up, how did this even start as a crack fic?, some brutalia sprinkles, bruce wayne is NOT a bad dad (he just needs a little shaping), i may have imagined conner as tom welling, reader has no descriprion but is said to look like various characters, if your name is martha no it's not, FEELINGS. a lot of them. talia is kinda evil, but she has every reason to be. that's all! (i think...)
author's note: this monster sucked my SOUL outta me. i don't want to hear a word about conner ever again. thank you to my glorious @lechelovestoyap for beta-reading this cuz I would've NEVER found the strength to read it twice!! also, this might just be my favorite batsis ever ngl...
that girl is corrupt | could you raise her to love me, maybe?
NANDA PARBAT — THEN.
When Damian still has to be born, your mother brings you to meet him.
You’re a little over eight years old during this time, but the grotesque sight of a fetus being lab-grown doesn’t even make you flinch. Instead, you tap softly on the glass and murmur, “Hi, Damian, I’m your sister. You’ll learn everything you’ll know from me.”
And so it goes — when he’s finally ready to get out of the tube where they were growing him, unlike the many other failed attempts before him, you’re the first one your mother passes him to. You stare down at him blankly, wondering what exactly the warmth you feel in your chest is and if you should call for the doctor, but every doubt you have is completely forgotten about when he makes an undistinguished noise and wraps his hand around your index finger.
You stare at his chubby digits, then back at his face, still crumpled with sleep. “You’re so ugly, Damian,” you mutter to him. “I like you.”
You’re there when he takes his first steps — ready to teach him which traps will ensure his death and which ones are simply a dishonor to fall into. The first syllable of your name is the first actually understandable thing he manages to say, and he does so while tugging a strand of your hair violently against his chest. As it is your duty as an older sister, you smack his hand and tell him you’ll cut it off if he does it again.
He does so anyway. His hand stays attached to his arm.
Damian grows up to be at least twice as spiteful as you are. While your mother is sure that he’ll be the perfect heir, your grandfather still stands by his resolve to make the eldest bear this role, and makes sure his decision is taken seriously by bringing you to every function where the matter of a successor might be talked about.
You and your brother still love each other very dearly. It’s you he takes his mannerism from, even if he multiplies it to the max, as well as your predilection for sharp blades and stubbornness regarding everything you want. He learns to be just as spoiled as you, because in Nanda Parbat there’s nothing to ask for, and everything to be demanded — at least from someone your ranking, anyways.
Damian, convinced by your mother, fights you day and night. The sibling love the two of you share is nothing in comparison to the throne either of you will have to inherit, and Talia knows that well. She constantly turns him against you for the smallest of things, but as he’s still a child and you are older than him, his attacks look like playdates. Unfortunately, you’re well aware that he won’t stay a kid forever.
Talia’s love is not won by bravery, nor achievements — it’s much more than that. It’s won by resemblance — resemblance towards a man you’ve met once in your whole life, and who has never been involved in raising you. You know everything about Bruce Wayne, about Batman, but no matter how much you study footage about him or listen intently to your grandfather’s stories about ‘The Detective’, you can’t seem to get anything right the way he does.
During this same period, Ra’s pays Lady Shiva to become your instructor regarding your Year of Blood, which you’ll have to pass in a year. At eleven, the perspective sounds exciting. At thirteen, after surviving the Year of Blood thanks to a dive in the Lazarus Pit, the scary thought of not wanting to kill anymore crosses your mind for the first time.
GOTHAM CITY — NOW.
“Stop, Damian!”
At ten years old, he’s more of a psychopath than he ever was at six — when you had last seen him — and he doesn’t even hesitate to lunge at you with everything he’s got. When you’re slowed by the rubble behind you, he manages to slice your jacket before Conner lasers both of his katanas into flaming puddles on the ground and gives you time to escape.
You take a few steps back, hurrying your torn fur coat off your shoulders, your heart pounding in your chest. Your brother stares at the molten swords and the sheathes still in his hands, dropping them down, then at Kon, then back at you. “You’ve gotten yourself an alien dog now?”
“Asshole,” Tim manages to wheeze.
Damian lunges again, but this time you’re prepared — and you dodge without a struggle every time. You know those moves he’s making, because your mother taught you those, too; and if the way he’s trying to strike for your pressure points says anything, it’s that he’s positively trying to kill you, and in the best case, he means to only injure you permanently.
He’s grown for sure; that is clear in your eyes, and in his every movement. You can read your mother’s influence in the way he attacks, in the nerves he targets first and in and in the way he has absolutely no defense mechanism ready — he’s presumptuous, and probably figured a long time ago that people never dared try to strike him unless they were paid for it. Clearly, he has not listened to your grandfather’s lessons about how some people simply don’t care about rank.
When he tries to strike again, you strike back — just to remind him who’s still in charge — dodging his palm to the side with one hand and slapping him across the face with the back of the other. It’s nothing too harsh — you know for sure you’ve hit him harder in the past — but he looks dumbfounded, nonetheless. Tim, delirious at this point, giggles a bit from the echo of the hit. Damian’s eye twitches, his cheek probably still stinging. “Oh, I’m gonna kill you now.”
He can try all he wants — you’ve got seven, almost eight years of experience over him, which in the assassin world means a whole lot of a difference. It’s the difference between your mother and Shiva, or the latter and Deathstroke — so to say, it’s a lot.
He lets out a frustrated yell when you keep on dodging and avoid attacking, “Just let me kill you if you have no intentions of fighting back, coward!”
A knife emerges from under his sleeve, but before he can try anything Conner is between the two of you — eyes glowing red and ready to fire, Tim slung over his shoulder — and Damian’s knife is slapped out of his hand, his wrist in Superboy’s tight hold. “Calm your hoots, pipsqueak,” he holds him up by his wrist, ignoring his protests, “to get to her, you’ll have to pass through me.”
The glare your brother sends him could wipe out whole mountains, “Ah, so you’re her whore.”
Kon gasps dramatically, “If you think that’s an insult, I’ll have you know, kid, I take pride in being her–”
“He’s a friend of mine, Damian,” you interrupt him, “could you please stop insulting him?”
Superboy turns to look at you, a grimace on his face, “Damn, girl, try to avoid friendzoning a guy for once, will ya?”
You’re as confused as one can be. “Friendwhat?”
“I think you should just give up,” comes Drake’s very helpful advice, “she’ll never get it anyways– ow!”
Damian kicks and punches Conner, hitting Timothy in the process. “Let me go, monkey!”
“No,” Kon chastises, “you’re in air jail now. Get used to it.”
“I am Damian Al Ghul!” Your brother screeches, “I am the son of the Bat and the Heir of the Demon, and I will not tolerate such disrespect from a measly clone–”
You scoff, “He was made in the same exact way you were, Dami.” maybe not the same exact way, but the concept of merging two DNAs to create a human out of them is still the same. They were both raised in a test tube, anyway.
He turns purple, “Don’t call me that!” his scream is shrill, “And don’t compare me to this… this specimen!” He says it like a slur, which added to the fact that he’s three apples and a penny tall and is currently being held up in the air like a feral cat just makes him look like a gnome very pressed about who enters his yard.
“Help,” Tim groans from over Conner’s shoulder. You blink — you totally hadn’t forgotten about him, no, no. He was your priority, sure. Right after fighting Damian. And slapping him just to remind him who the older sibling is. And picking on him just because– “He did something to Alfred.”
You snap back into attention. “Alfred?” you press — you hadn’t even thought about him, or his absence. You had just guessed he had gone to look for Bruce, or had already gone to sleep. He is getting a bit old, after all. “Where is he?” A look over to your brother, “Damian, what did you do?” The phrase feels awfully familiar, but you don’t have time to worry about that. The glare he sends your way is everything you need to know.
NANDA PARBAT — THEN.
You don’t remember dying, nor being submerged into the Pit. You don’t remember the week of madness your grandfather talks to you about, and don’t recognize the great honors he says you have accomplished. All you see are your hands, dirty with blood, and what waited for you — what’s still waiting, maybe — beyond the wall between life and death.
You don’t even recognize your body anymore, nor the way the servants carefully move around you like you’re a twig moments away from snapping. You’ve always had scars, but these just don’t feel like yours — they’re not ugly and protruding anymore; the Pit has transformed them into something kinder on the eyes: thin, pale scratches that decorate your skin like they’re not the result of innumerous atrocities and attacks to your own life.
But out of all the scars, there’s one you don’t recognise at all — the one over your thigh. It’s the only one that’s still a bit ugly, and considering the fact that it’s right above the femoral vein, you know that nobody could have ever gotten even remotely close to it. It’s a vital spot in the body, and a bullet there could cause you to die due to blood loss in a few minutes; it’s always either covered by armor or by your impenetrable defense.
The glances of the servants, their hushed whispers, your mother’s blank stare when she looks at you, Damian’s sudden softness — it soon dawns upon you that the only person who could’ve gotten close to injuring that part of your body was you. And if you did, then maybe there’s a reason why you don’t remember how you died.
Ra’s knows the look in your eyes too well — it’s the same look he’s seen many times in the mirror over the course of centuries, that of doubt and forlorn. The one saying, am I doing the right thing? Is this really for the best for humanity? Why do I have to do it? Can’t anyone else worry about it?
It’s why he takes you aside one evening after dinner, and holds his hands over your shoulder in that way that doesn’t mean for rebuttals to be heard. “We have a duty,” he tells you, “and we owe it to the world — just think about what you could build.”
He gestures to the dark mountains you can see outside the window, “There’s a whole planet out there that’s just waiting for you to emerge from my shadow. You excelled in the Year of Blood — that little slip up you had on the last day? Midnight had already struck. The Year of Blood was already over when you died; hear my words, and see this as your rebirth, rather than defeat.”
You stare blankly at the mountains, and then the most dangerous of thoughts escapes your mind. “Grandfather,” you say, your tone flat and lost. “What if I… I don’t want any of this?”
You’d thought a lot about it. You grew up looking at photos — happy-looking ones — of your father, pictures that your mother had forbidden for you to look at. You’re sure that all those smiles he gives the cameras are fake, but some of those — the ones he shares with Richard Grayson and Jason Todd — look sincere. You can’t help but think that he stares at them with no expectations, and you wonder if he ever compares them to someone he wants them to be so badly.
(You know your mother always looks for your father in you. Maybe that’s why she could never bring herself to properly love you, like she did for Damian. You’ve always been told you look astonishingly like her; it’s no surprise that when your brother, who had your father’s same exact nose and lineaments, was born, she immediately claimed him as her favourite between her children.
Theoretically, you shouldn’t know that. Practically, Shiva told you that in the year before the Year of Blood. It is known she has eyes and ears in the whole League, and while you normally wouldn’t believe an assassin and eventual teacher for hire, you’re fully aware that your mother would be able to say something like that.)
Ra’s blinks, like what you just said is simply madness. “But why wouldn’t you?” he presses, “Think of it– the whole world, at your mercy. Doesn’t it sound beautiful?”
You fight back a grimace — how do you tell a man who’s spent the last eight-hundred years building an empire that you don’t want to rule it after his death? “…It does,” you end up replying, “maybe I’m just… just under the weather, grandfather. I’m sure I will be feeling better in a matter of days.”
You never really start feeling better, and pretty much everyone notices.
Even Damian stops listening to your mother and slows his relentless attacks down — actually, completely forgets them. He turns into your most relentless bodyguard, assuring himself that you’re eating and training properly, making sure to nag you about it continuously if you don’t. This gives you the opportunity to remember the sweet boy you had almost forgotten about — the chronic waddler who always snatched flowers from your mother’s greenhouse for you to press into your books and wrote your name on every piece of paper he could get his hands on as soon as he learned how to write.
(Before your mother turned you two against each other, sure that coexistence between two heirs couldn’t be possible. Sure that one of you would have had to, inevitably, overturn the other, and that settling for the male heir surely would have meant victory, because that’s how things had worked for her.)
GOTHAM CITY — NOW.
Alfred has a bruised wrist and is a bit disoriented, but overall, even Damian must know to treat old people with at least a bit of kindness. He blinks when you slap him on the face repeatedly — not too hard, just to understand if he was still alive or not — and groans when you say, “Alfred– Alfred, can you hear me?”
”My hearing is still in perfect condition, Miss,” he hisses, a hand going to hod his head in utter pain, then gasps, “young master Damian–”
”Is down in the Batcave,” you nod to the broken grandfather clock in your father’s study, and the hacked panel behind it. “I let Conner handle him. Tim’s in bad shape, though– any chance I can fix you up, and then you fix him up?”
He scoffs a little — clearly, the fact that you hadn’t told him about Damian has ruffled his feathers, to say the least, but he’s still Alfred, so manners come first. “No thank you, Miss,” he waves your hands away, “I tended to your father in far worse conditions than these.”
He struggles a bit to get up, but stubbornly refuses your help. He goes through the broken entryway and you sigh, putting your hand over your forehead, wondering how the hell you’re going to get through this.
“Tim’s been hit by the grenade with full force,” Kon tells you when you finally come back down to the Cave, the slow beep coming from the operating table a painful reminder of what your brother did — of what he has become. If Superboy’s offended by the fact that you haven’t told him about Damian, he doesn’t show it. “And let’s not forget, the glass of the display case was thick. He must’ve been thrown around pretty badly.”
You’re listening, but you’re not even looking at him — your eyes are locked in the confinement glass cage on the other side of the Cave, where your brother is sitting, brooding. Kon puts a hand over your bicep, “You don’t have to keep an eye on him,” he whispers, “the cage should be enough, until your dad comes back.”
You shake your head, “You don’t know him like I do — he’d be fully capable of escaping as soon as he gets an opportunity to.”
He has to fight back a grimace. “Listen, I know you haven’t had a very happy childhood — growing up with assassins and all of that — but don’t you think you’re… exaggerating a little? He’s just a kid.”
”He just tried to murder your best friend.”
A scoff, “Please, who hasn’t tried to kill Tim at least once in their entire life?”
His hand, still over your arm, is warm. You miss when just an hour ago you were at the fair, and you had no problem in holding his hand — your heart squeezes, because you know that with Damian here, you’ll probably never allow yourself to feel that normal anymore. God knows what Talia or Ra’s would be able to do if they found out you actually proved any kind of affection towards Superboy.
Not unkindly, you try to shake his hold off. “You’ve been really helpful, Conner,” you start, “but maybe it’s best if you go back home now. We can take it from here.”
You still haven’t looked at him, and he’s clearly troubled by that. “Hey,” he murmurs, gently, “I know we have never talked about what you went through with the League, but you know you can trust me, right?”
No response — you’re still looking at your brother. “Hey,” he presses, taking your face in his hands and forcing you to look at him, “you know you can tell me anything, yes? C’mon, at least look at me when I talk to you.”
His eyes bore into yours for a blissful moment, but your gaze soon drops down to the floor. “We’ll take things from here on. I’ll make sure to tell Tim to let you know when he wakes up.”
Conner sighs. “You’re never going to tell me anything, are you?”
The scar over your thigh burns. You start scratching your hand nervously — how is it that you can handle hours of torture, but staring into his eyes feels too difficult? “You wouldn't want to know,” you tell him in the end. “You… you’d never look at me the same way.”
That dumb, unworried stare he always gives you — like you’re just a teenage girl serving no danger whatsoever, even if you definitely do — would be gone, and you’d spend the rest of your life missing it. And as he looks at you — unable to raise your eyes at him, fiddling with your hands even if it’s usually you who makes others uncomfortable — he understands that right now, nothing he can say will ever make you budge. He could tell you how much he doesn’t care about what you did or what they made you do all he wants; the truth is that you’ll never believe him. Not now, at least.
“Okay,” he relents. You hate the way your face feels cold as soon as he pulls his hands away, and hate that you feel this way — the last thing Conner needs is to be dragged into your family’s madness, both sides of it.
He hesitates a bit before going home. He tries to press a kiss over your cheek — something that feels appropriate enough for friends and considering that you’re in the freaking Batcave — but abandons the mission when you jump at his closeness, surprised, finally looking at him like you have no idea what he was about to do. Fair, honestly. He isn’t one for self reflection, but he guesses that yeah, this is not the time for a nice kiss, even if it’s just a peck on the cheek.
(Were you even ever kissed on the cheek? Or kissed at all?)
Defeated, he turns back towards the landing platform — ready to sulk and whine to Ma Kent, who even at this hour of the night will hopefully make one of those blueberry pies he likes so much just to help his morale. God knows how many she has made in the last months, just to try not to have a brooding teenager around the house once again–
“Conner?”
He stops, his feet coming back down to the floor, turning to look at you — a bit hopeful, but he can’t help that. “Yeah?”
Your arms are crossed over your chest, but it looks like you’re hugging yourself more than anything. All the tough facade you always flaunt seems gone. “Thank you,” you murmur, coming close to him, “for… tonight. I had fun.”
Kon scoffs, amused. “You puked three times and accused a random guy of cooking dogs.”
You shrug, “You have no idea of what fun entails for me.”
Your hand comes to the collar of his jacket, tugging him down, and he feels himself pale a bit. He wonders if you’ll be nicer and avoid throwing him against the batarangs stock, or if you’ll be crueler and push him down into the water just below the landing platform, and what exactly did he say this time to make you snap. He was nice, he’s sure of it, even respectful–
A fleeting contact over his cheek — your lips against his face. It’s barely there, something that tells him that if you have ever received kisses then they weren’t enough, and the fact that you let go of your hold over his jacket and straighten it like it’s nothing just makes him even more dumbfounded — barely a peck, and you’ve already got him drunk off you. He’s ruined for life.
“What?” you say defensively when he keeps staring at you, acting like your cheeks aren’t on fire — they absolutely are, by the way. “Don’t look at me like you didn’t want to do that earlier.” a slap over his shoulder — ah, there she is; good, old, violent you. He was almost getting used to your softer version. “Now, go home, Conner.”
It’s weird having Damian in the Batcave —by now, you’d figured he enjoyed the Al Ghul ways at least as much as you did at his age, and since he’d never had to experience the Year of Blood, you doubt he’ll ever develop the same questions about your family's methods like you did.
“Damian.”
He’s still small for his age, but you bet he’ll have a growth spurt in a few years. Crouching in front of the confinement cage, you tap on the glass and lean your head. “Why did you come here?”
He crosses his arms and spits over your general direction. “I don’t speak to traitors.”
Deadpanning, you sigh. “Do you want me to come over there and show you who’s the oldest again? We both know you’re safest in there — I’d beat you to a pulp without Conner around to protect you.”
A scoff, “He was protecting you. Besides, father wouldn’t allow such treatment of me.”
You hum, as calm as ever, “Father isn’t like Talia. I highly doubt you’ll get to play favorites around here. Besides, do you see father around here?”
He glares, and you despise how he looks so much like your mother in doing so — it’s not the warning glare you and Bruce by now share; it’s the one full of hatred she had passed down to you before you met your father. What makes you hate it is probably the fact that, as much as Talia likes to deny it, you and Damian look a lot alike, and it’s like seeing you at his age. “Then the same goes for you, sister.”
NANDA PARBAT — THEN.
After the Year of Blood, it became established that you’d be the Heir of the Demon — even if the truth is that the deed was already done after you were born. Ra’s never cared for Damian or Talia as much as he did about you, and by now, he’s spent thirteen years making sure you’re cut out for the role he’ll eventually pass down onto you.
When Talia was born, her mother insisted on raising her with love, and somewhat normally — considering how you and your brother have been raised, anyway. He had expectations of her, but those were quickly broken by your father’s entrance in their lives, and thus her wobbling trust for the League’s cause.
He began hoping for a child from them — someone he could raise without anyone to meddle into his affairs; someone with the same blood as the Detective’s and his, who would surely prove to be a prodigy. So when he found out that Talia was pregnant following her and your father’s wedding, he was ecstatic. Much less so when he learned that she had already told Bruce the news.
The League was already in a bad position at the time — he could’ve managed to raise back up their standing, but doing so without both a daughter and an heir would’ve been nearly useless. And as the Detective had already expressed his disinterest over the matter of the Al Ghul family affairs, he had no choice but to convince your mother to first tell Bruce that she had tragically lost the baby, and then leave him.
She cries and begs him not to do this — she tells him that she’ll convince your father to become the heir he wants so desperately, that the baby that she’ll give birth to will surely be the son he’s always wanted — but she still has to accept that this isn’t a matter about sons. It’s about who’s fit to be heir, and she — always torn between Batman and your father — isn’t.
In the end, Talia follows his plan, and she never really forgives him for it.
If you were born a son, maybe she would’ve tried harder to be proud of you — to imagine your father’s features instead of hers over your face. But the hard truth is, you look like her. And she hates how she can see herself in everything you do, because as soon as you’re born, you take the place that should’ve been hers by birthright.
Ra’s holds you with a care he’d never spared for her. He presents you to the troops as his successor even if you’re nothing more than a newborn that does nothing but eat, shit and cry, and soon, when she looks at you, she can only see what she should’ve had.
Talia knows Bruce was hoping for a girl — he’d given her Martha’s diamond necklace when she found out she was pregnant because of that. And as much as the nursemaids try to convince her that it’s just the effect the birth has had on her — that sometimes women after pregnancy develop some kind of aversion to the baby — she can’t help but feel like you’re getting the life she deserved to have.
You don’t know your father, but he would’ve loved you without you ever needing to prove yourself. Even Ra’s — the same man who screwed her life more than once under the pretense of having her best in his mind — has preferred you, a brat, over her, who’s been loyal to him even after he took her happiness away.
As you grow up, she starts seeing you as a parasite. Sure — there are moments where she suddenly feels some sort of affection towards you, like she should protect you instead of despising you, but you don’t look enough like him for her to find it in herself to fully appreciate you. Your face is the same she sees everyday in the mirror, and thus, she takes it upon herself to bring justice, and let you have the same treatment she did.
(Otherwise, what would it all have been for? All those years of pain, and she just wasn’t enough? It’s much more simple to believe that it’s something she can’t control, like being a woman, and Ra’s getting older and desperate. She thinks that he had wanted her to be a son, and to make things even between the two of you, she will deliver him a son.)
Having Damian was a decision — one taken without your father knowing, obviously. They had just gotten married — by your traditions’ standards, anyways — when she got pregnant with you, but things had changed since then. Bruce was hesitant to even get too close to her, let alone be happy for a whole baby.
So she takes the matters into her own hands, and just creates a son — in that unnatural way that no normal mother would ever think of creating one. Damian Al Ghul is carefully crafted in a lab, the product of many other failed attempts that she pretends never existed, nurtured in a test tube like some kind of alchemy-made humunculus — and even after this, Ra’s pretends that nothing’s changed.
Damian enters your lives when grandfather’s already started training you as his heir, and when his training can finally start, your Year of Blood has already been announced. And it’s known to all that the Year of Blood is a once in a generation occurrence preserved only for the heir.
Talia starts openly resenting you — she tries to make your life harder, because in her mind, that place isn’t yours; if it is, then it should be hers, and if it isn’t, then it should be Damian’s. And training, even after the Year of Blood, becomes hell.
You lost count of how many times you ended up on the ground, vomiting or spitting blood from all the hits she made sure you took, and how many of the scars you have have her name on them. As a kid, you took it really bad — you couldn’t understand why mother, who was always so careful with Damian, had started treating you like that. At thirteen, you see her spite for what it is — a temper tantrum because neither her nor her favourite child got the throne she had dreamed about since she could remember.
You should probably feel worse about it than how you actually feel, but the truth is, she’s not the only one with favourites in the Al Ghul household. And Ra’s, as much as he’s never tried to pit you and your brother against one another, has never hidden his predilection for you.
It’s always, ‘Granddaughter this, granddaughter that’, and never, ‘Grandson’. And while you suffer for your mother’s favouritism, Damian suffers for your grandfather’s, because Talia has promised him greatness and a leading role in the future of humanity, but no matter how good he is, Ra’s seems to only have eyes for you.
And while you love your brother — as does he you — love never seems to be enough for anything, or anyone, in Nanda Parbat.
GOTHAM CITY — NOW.
When your father steps out of the Batmobile, the Batcave starts feeling even more cold than it did before.
Tim’s stable now — a few scratches, burns and a mild concussion, but he’s had worse. Alfred still refuses to look or talk to you as he carefully sets everything back into place in the med bay, Drake under heavy sedatives on the cot sitting in the middle of the room. The silence starts feeling deafening as Bruce removes his cowl, then looks at Jason’s costume's broken display case, then to Tim lying unconscious in the bed, then to Damian in his cage.
In the end, his eyes land on you, his face full of anger and something you can’t quite pinpoint. He gestures to a more secluded area of the cave, “A word?”
You prepare for the worst. You prepare for yelling, screaming, maybe even a slap — God knows what Talia would’ve done in his place — but none of it comes. His voice is eerily quiet and his brows are furrowed when he asks, dully: “Why?”
You realise then that anger’s not the dominant emotion as of now — it’s disappointment. You’ve spent the last four years dedicating your life to his mission, following his stupid rules and compromises, and he’s got the nerve to be disappointed because of one single thing. Maybe it’s just how Wayne brains work, but you feel anger start bubbling in your chest. “Why?” you repeat, voice trembling with restraint. “Why, father? Have you seen him? He tried to kill Tim — with a grenade. He fought Alfred.” You tap your temple, “Talia got into his head in a way she never managed with me. He’s as sick as her.” you don’t really mean it, but you’ve never managed to handle disappointing someone well.
“Don’t call her Talia,” your father hisses, “she’s your mother, and I won’t stand you disrespecting her.”
Clearly, his resolution to stay calm isn’t working, because of course the two of you are far too similar for it to work. The smallest raise in his voice and you get riled up, and vice versa. “What do you even know about her?” you ask him, “For all you know, she hid two of your kids from you — and you still defend her?”
“I don’t trust her,” his index finger points at your chest accusingly, “but I trusted you. I’ve kept you under my wing for the last four years and taught you everything I know — only for you to hide the fact that you had a brother this whole time. Talia told me you knew about him — and I didn’t believe her because I trusted you, but the look you had on your face? It told me everything I needed to know before I could even ask you about it.”
You glare at him, “You don’t know Damian — you have no idea what he’s capable of.” It's not about what he can do — it’s about not having a sprinkle of loyalty in his blood, if not for himself and your mother. Ravi surely knows a lot about it.
“He’s a kid,” Bruce is trying not to yell, and it’s easy to tell. “He’s a kid — like you were when you came to me — and he’s surely no better than what you were then. You had no right to hide him from me — I didn’t raise you to be this way.”
That’s what makes you snap. “Oh, raised me, daddy dearest?” his eyes flicker — he’s said the wrong thing, and he knows it, but nothing in his stance says he’s going to back down. His glare stays firm. “And tell me, how exactly did you raise me? And when? Because I don’t remember you being there when we were born, or when I was growing, or when I killed for the first time. Where were you when mother beat me to a pulp everyday until I vomited blood, huh, Bruce?”
“I wasn’t even aware of your existence,” he grits out.
“But you were!” you scream. “Talia made sure of it! You knew of me, and you still decided I wasn’t worth saving until I came to you!”
“It wasn’t my decision–”
“It was! I’ve watched you find kids in less than thirty minutes after they were declared missing, and you couldn’t find me in more than five years!” you hate the way your voice breaks, and the way your eyes burn with unshed tears. “I tried everything to make you find me! I left clues, signs of my passing and every single fucking thing that came to my mind in every mission of the League I participated in because I knew that once I came back home, you’d be on the scene to investigate and try to dismantle the Shadows’ operations, but you never came!”
Now nothing more than a puddle of anger, you try to shove him in the chest, but he doesn’t even budge — like for everything else. He stands on that untouchable pedestal your mom put him in, immortal, the Detective, unreachable in abilities and everything else, even after all these years away from her. “And I waited, Bruce! I waited five years for you to come and save me — only for you to never show your face to me again!”
“I was looking for you,” his voice is smaller than you’ve ever heard before as he tries to intercept, “At first I wasn’t sure if you were mine, but I looked for you. Between cases, every free moment — more than you’ll ever know.”
The chuckle that comes out of your mouth sounds maniacal. “So I wasn’t a priority, huh? Looking for me between cases, ‘cause you weren’t sure I was yours?”
“That’s not true,”
“Oh, yeah? Judging from how you never let a case go cold, to me it looks like you never even took the time to look at my case properly.” The glare you’re giving him is one he’s never seen — one full of pure, unadulterated hatred. It’s not a thing that builds up in the moment; these are years of resentment, and seeing them in the same eyes that his mother had makes him die a little on the inside. “And what do you want to know about how I was raised, now?” you spit on his feet. “You don’t even know me. How could you know just how I was raised, huh?”
NANDA PARBAT — THEN.
“How’s father?” Damian asks you one late night, cleaning his sword on your bedside as you read a book. You hum, “I wouldn’t really be able to tell you anything. Grandfather and mother are the ones you should ask about these things.”
He snorts, “They are biased. You, however, are not.”
You lean your head, pausing. In the end, you opt to say, “When mother told him I was his daughter, he didn’t believe it. Everything in his body said so. But then he understood that she wasn’t lying, and he turned desperate.”
You had just celebrated your eighth birthday when you met him for the first and only time. A common espionage operation turned into something more, and before you knew it, your mother was ripping your mask away from your face and shoving you into an empty hallway with her, telling you to keep quiet and avoid any kind of confrontation. You had followed her, and eventually, the Bat himself showed up.
Even years after the fact, you still remember that first encounter as clear as day. He had looked between you and your mother, the movement evident even through the white lenses over his eyes, and then, “I never thought you’d bring a kid into all of this.”
Your mother had huffed, calling out for you. She had set you in front of her, her hands holding you by the shoulders as you stared at your father so deeply one might think you were looking right into his soul. “You did, didn’t you?” Neither of you misses the way he flinches — Jason Todd is probably in the Batcave right now, waiting for him to come home. “She’s yours, by the way.”
Bruce stares at her, then at you, then back at her. “I’m not falling for it. What, did you kill this kid’s parents? Just to come here and make this sick joke, hoping to get a reaction out of me?”
Talia’s hum is one of pure scorn. “No, no,” she chuckles, taking your chin in her hand and raising your face toward the light — making sure he can see every single one of your features and engrave every detail in that mind of his. “See those eyes? Aren’t they familiar? I had hoped for a son that would have looked like you, but I wasn’t so lucky, and all she got from your side of the family were those. A shame — they don’t even look like yours, Beloved.”
As his eyes bore into yours, you can see the exact moment everything snaps into place for him. “No,” he whispers.
“Yes,” your mother sing-songs.
“You’re sick,” he hisses, “right into the head.” But his arms open wide, as if inviting you into them, “Give me the kid. I’ll make sure she’s raised right– she’ll be free from your father, I swear it.” The way his voice turns pleading right after is almost pathetic, “Talia, please. I know he’s forcing you to do this. Just– hand me the girl, and I’ll close an eye on this operation. Act like nothing ever happened.”
“Please,” Talia leans her head, “we both know you’ll never do that. Besides, who told you that my father made me do this? She’s here as nothing but a token of our love — the proof that it existed, and it still does. And why would I ever trust her in your hands? You’re always so doubtful about our connection.”
One of her palms comes up to your hair, brushing them in a way that feels almost loving, “Don’t worry, Bruce, I’m already making sure she’s raised right. And trust me, she’ll grow up to be the one who finally kills you.”
Back to the present, Damian snorts. “Desperate?” The disdain in his voice is as clear as day, “The Batman, desperate? You must’ve gotten it twisted, sister. There’s no other explanation.”
You shrug, “Believe what you want. I know what I saw.” He had followed you and Talia until his body rendered it impossible for him to, and even then, he kept screaming from behind you about how you didn’t have to do this and he just wanted the best for you. And as you got on the helicopter supposed to bring you home, you were surprised not to find any trace of smugness in your mother’s face. “I thought it would have been funnier,” she muttered, “he got all desperate instead. Such a shame.”
And even if you don’t know whether he was looking for you or not, leaving behind something from you in every mission you participated in became the norm — knowing that he’d eventually come around to where you were stationed, looking for any kind of clues he might find, and maybe guessed that you’d been there. You made mistakes that even a toddler wouldn’t do — left a strand of your hair on the scene, a number indicating the years since he’d last seen you, or the age you were now. You tried anything to make him find you, and when he didn’t, you understood that you had to take matters into your own hands, because as much as your father loved to spend all his free time saving others, maybe his daughter just wasn’t a priority.
The breaking point comes when Damian has just turned six.
You know he did not mean to break that vase — and if you were in a normal household, it would probably be a most unremarkable thing, something your parents reprimand you about and proceed to forget in the next week. But in Nanda Parbat, where every step is carefully calculated and every error a mark of shame, a broken vase, as measly as it sounds, could become the difference between life and a fate worse than death. Especially for an original, 600-year-old Ming Dynasty vase.
Damian knows this — he also knows that his status grants him a far more lenient punishment than the one reserved for servants and common soldiers. He still chooses to blame Ravi — the servant appointed for his care between lessons — for the broken vase.
You get a word of what’s happening too late — you had seen your brother’s guilty look as he stared down at the ceramic pieces laying on the ground, patted his shoulder while saying, “I’m sure mother will be as understanding as she can be,” and then went your way, figuring that if you were still alive with all the vases you broke at his age, he wouldn’t be punished too harshly. And when you reach the room where this is happening, your mother’s standing as stoic as ever with Damian by her side, watching silently as Ravi lays on the floor, his hands over his eyes, thrashing around he holds back screams of pain.
“Damian,” comes your frantic call, “what did you do?”
“What did he do?” your mother repeats, “He did nothing but his duty. Ravi knew punishment would have come for his error.”
“Damian,” you ignore her, looking at your brother, “I asked, what did you do?” he won’t meet your eyes, and that tells you everything you need to know.
“Your brother chose the punishment he thought to be best,” Talia hisses, pushing you back, “it is not your place to judge whether it is appropriate or not.”
You look at Ravi — kind, loyal Ravi, who taught you every poem you know and hid sweets for you to eat when you were a kid. The same Ravi who kept being nice to your brother despite his constant insults and rudeness, and made sure his art supplies were always stocked even when your grandfather kept snarling at his paintings. Ravi, who is now lying on the ground, blind.
You kneel down at his side, taking him by the arms and trying to get him back onto his feet. “Ravi– Ravi, can you hear me?”
His voice is trembling and broken when he finds the strength to answer, “My lady? Is… is that you?”
“It’s me, Ravi. Come on — I’m taking you to the infirmary, get up.”
“Too nice,” he utters, barely coherent, his hands finally leaving his face to get up; the sight of his injured eyes makes you want to throw up. “You’re too nice, m’lady.” You cast one last glance at your brother, staring blankly at you and the servant, before disappearing into the hallway while helping the man on his footing.
It’s when the healer tells you that Ravi will never see again that you understand that you can’t stay in Nanda Parbat anymore. Damian may still be your little brother, but his need to always be better than you is causing harm to not only himself but others, too. And for what? For a throne you didn’t want in the first place? You need to leave, and you need to make sure he doesn’t follow you, because God knows what he would be able to unleash out there in the world if he just had the chance.
That night, Damian startles awake to find a blade pressed tight against his neck. When his hand goes for the dagger hidden under his pillow, he finds nothing there. “Don’t even try to scream,” you hiss, crouched over him in his bed. He looks at your stance — the same one he’s never managed to overthrow — and knows that if you truly want to kill him, there would be no escape.
Slowly, scaredly, he nods. “I will go far away from here,” you whisper, your eyes cold as they stare into his eyes — those same eyes he got from your mother. “You will never look for me. You won’t follow me, because if you do, I will kill you. You will stay here and become the heir our mother wants. Understood?”
His breath catches. “Sister–”
“I said, understood?”
Frightened, he nods again, but your hold on the blade doesn’t falter — if anything, you just press more against his neck, enough to draw blood. Up until now, he’d never thought you’d be able to kill him — Talia had always told him you were too soft on him. Guess she doesn’t really know to which extents you’d go just to keep your peace. “You stay here,” you hiss at him one last time, your nose crinkling in disdain in that same way mother’s always does, “and don’t you dare try to ever see me again.”
TITANS TOWER — NOW.
“Are you gonna eat that?”
By no means are you a member of the Titans — but that doesn’t mean you don’t have access to the Tower. And considering that you really didn’t feel like explaining the whole situation to Dick, nor Barbara, it was the only place you could think of going to; your father’s probably raiding all your safehouses, anyway — if he’s not too engrossed over your brother or is even giving two fucks about you going away from the Manor, that is.
Right after the fight you two had, coming here looked like a smart idea, since none of the Titans stay here during the Christmas holidays. Now, it looks like a death sentence by annoyance.
“I faid, avh you gonna eaf dat?” Bart Allen, out of all the members of the team, has to be the dumbest one. He’s also the only one who could be found in the communal kitchen at two am in the morning, cooking six packs of Buldak ramen in a far too small pot.
You grimace as he spits out bits of sauce as he asks again, then look down at your measly sandwich, suddenly not so hungry anymore. He ate six packs of ramen in under twenty seconds, the vacuum. “Have it,” you push your plate towards him, but before it even comes to his reach, the toast is gone, and he’s downed it in two bites. You’re half disgusted and half impressed, but you try to keep a stern face as you look at his stained mouth and the crumbs all over his shirt. “That’s disgusting. How do you even do that?”
“Super speed,” he’s back in the kitchen in the blink of an eye, taking out of the pantry some bread. “That sandwich was great. I think I’ll make a dozen more — I feel like having a snack.”
Deadpanning, you stare at him as he moves quickly between the bread slices, mayo spoonfuls and six cans of tuna. “And you manage to hold that down into your stomach well enough?”
He’s already scarfing down on the first two sandwiches, “Why, can’t you?”
Well, most people don’t have his metabolism, nor the storage capacity of his stomach. Frustrated, you sigh, “What are you even doing here? Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, be asleep?”
He shrugs, his meal already finished, and goes for the fridge for the umpteenth time. “I was hungry, and Max has started locking up the kitchen after dinner after that one time when I ate the whole Thanksgiving menu.”
You blink. Is this guy well? What exactly is his problem? “‘Sides, I should be asking you why you’re here. It’s two am for everyone.”
You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at him. “Do you really want to know about how I hid my brother from my father for four years?”
For the first time in half an hour, Bart pauses. Then he’s on the seat in front of you, legs crossed and a pack of pre-made popcorns on his lap, sitting like the most undistinguished gentleman ever. “I’m allllll ears, sweetcheeks.”
You’re not really sure how trash-talking your family with Impulse ended up with the both of you falling asleep on the communal couch with Cars 2 playing on the television, but here you are.
Bart’s snorting so loudly beside you that you wonder how you managed to sleep throughout the whole night, but he’s not your concern right now. Your concern is who woke you up–
“You guys had a movie night and didn’t invite me?!”
Conner sounds more jealous than betrayed, and you look at him, still half-asleep but not surprised by his dramatics at all. “Shut up,” you croak, tugging him down on the couch by his sleeve, “it’s early.”
Dumbfounded, he sits beside you and tries not to burst into a million particles as you curl up beside him, cheek on his shoulder, warm and almost purring. He surely didn’t think this would happen when he first thought about doing a check-in at the Tower this morning. “So…” he mumbles, trying not to sound too awkward, “how’d things with your father go?”
The memories of last night dawn on you, and blissful sleepiness turns into the dread of waking up immediately. You grumble, turning on your side and giving him the cold shoulder, muttering something about men not understanding any cue. He blinks, “…Not good?”
“Bad,” you agree. You don’t care about what Bart thinks about you, but you do care about what Kon thinks, and you really don’t feel like explaining everything to him. Impulse probably already forgot, anyway.
Conner fiddles with his fingers anxiously, “What about Christmas?”
You perk up — you had completely forgotten that it was in… what, four days? It wasn’t something you were raised celebrating, and even at the Manor, you never really felt what Tim called ‘the Christmas spirit’. You shrug, “Who cares? I’ll spend it here and wait for my mother to get Damian back to Nanda Parbat. She never did well when she knew him to be far away.”
Talia Al Ghul with separation anxiety was not an image Conner was ready for. He looks over to his side, to Bart still dead asleep, and finds his heart squeezing at the thought of you spending Christmas alone. “You could come with me to Smallville,” he mumbles quietly — Martha Kent has always accepted strays in her house. “Ma wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of someone spending Christmas alone — and besides, Clark’s already coming from Metropolis. The farm’ll be cramped anyways.”
You think about it for a moment, then turn your head to look at him for a moment. “…You want to bring me home. With your family. For Christmas.”
His foot is tapping nervously on the ground. “Yeah. Think of it as… I don’t know, a vacation away from all your problems. The farm is really different from the chaos of Gotham City.”
And the truth is, you couldn’t even imagine how right he was.
That same evening you park your car — Tim’s, technically, but just because it was the only one available at the Tower, and it was bought with your father’s money anyways — in front of the Kent’s farm, the little spare clothes you kept at the Tower in the backseat and Conner buzzing with excitement in the passenger seat. You raise an eyebrow at him, “Thank the Founding Fathers or whatever you guys born here believe in that Smallville and Jump City aren’t that far from each other.” You had reached the Tower via Zeta-Tube, but unfortunately, the Kents have vehemently refused to have one in their home — no brainer, if they were to ask you. Having an inter-dimensional door in your house sometimes is a bit scary.
Snow crunches under your soles as you exit the Mercedes, staring at the dimly lit porch of the farm and all the Christmas ornaments hanging on it. There’s a wonky garland hanging over the door, probably handmade, and multicolored lights over the railing and roof. Conner — hypno-glasses and civilian attire on — swings your bag over his shoulder and pokes your side, “C’mon, Ma’s waiting for us.”
You blink, “You’re telling me, this is where Superman grew up?”
The farm is not shabby by any means, but it looks well-lived, and very different from any place you’ve ever stayed at. For a guy who will be remembered in every millennia to come, Clark Kent surely grew up in the most unremarkable place ever.
Kon doesn’t knock — he just swings the door open (and for a moment, you wonder how could an elderly couple just leave their door open when it’s dark out with such carelessness) and yells, loudly, “Hi Ma, hi Pa,”
You shuffle awkwardly behind him, dragging your feet, wondering if this was a good idea — you literally don’t know these people, and as much as Conner said that they didn’t mind and had already prepared a bed for you to sleep. That is until Ma Kent — a plump, kind-looking woman in her late 60s that smells like pie and nice things — comes to view.
“There you are!” Conner bows down a little as she engulfs him in a hug, and you stare at her up and down with worry — she doesn’t look like the old people you’re used to. You can’t find similarities between her and Ra’s’ faint wrinkles, her back is slightly more curved than Alfred’s, and the sides of her mouth crinkle in a way Aunt Harriet’s never did. She looks like she actually has her age, and somehow fragile, like getting old didn’t do her no good like it did to Ra’s or just made her more stern like Alfred. This woman looks like it has made her softer. “Pa’s in the living room — you know him, nothing will ever make him miss a freshly baked pie, and I bet that he’s getting his fill now… oh, and there she is!”
Her hug is a surprise, mostly because one, you don’t know this woman, and two, it actually feels nice. She’s soft, and warm, smells like pastries and somehow feels like you’ve always imagined your mother would if she was kinder. “It’s so nice to have you here, dear,” you can feel the barely contained excitement in her voice, “Conner talks about you a lot,”
“Ma!” the guy scolds, blushing, “Come on!”
“Sorry, sorry,” she chuckles, her arms still around you, and you find yourself not wanting the hug to end. “It’s just so nice to have one of Connie’s friends here — he never brings anyone home for us to meet.”
“Connie?” you repeat — this is so going in your blackmail folder. Martha nods, oblivious to your machinations, “Yes, yes– isn’t he such a sweet boy?” she links her arm in yours, “Please, make yourself at home — would you like a slice of pie? I just took it out of the oven. You must be starving, so I’m sure it won’t affect your appetite when dinner’s ready.”
Pa Kent is a quiet contrast to his wife, and just gives you a grunt of acknowledgment before shaking your hand. Martha scolds him a bit for his rudeness — does she know your father’s the epitome of antisocial behavior when he wants to be? — but you shrug it off, mostly because it’s his home, and he’s right to presume that you know his name. It’s not like you’re the most extrovert person ever, either.
The Kents’ house is weird. The atmosphere doesn’t feel tense, and the sense of peace in the air doesn’t seem temporary — like it always is at the Manor, where every moment spent in civilian clothes is one robbed from your vigilante identities. Martha Kent doesn’t properly measure ingredients for dinner like Alfred does, but rather considers the quantity of each ingredient by pure instinct and practice. They speak of pleasantries rather than ongoing and cold cases, and you still don’t understand if you like it or not.
“Clark and Lois’ll come tomorrow after lunch,” she hums while stirring a pot over the stove, “Lois said that they were supposed to come in two days, but Jonno was getting too restless about not seeing his grandpa,”
Pa Kent puffs his chest with pride. “‘Course he is,” he huffs, “I bet he can’t wait to spend some time with us.”
It feels mundane. Like their first adopted son isn’t an alien from a faraway planet that exploded, and their second adopted son isn’t his clone, or their guest isn’t an ex-assassin with a humongous kill count. You wonder how they manage. Martha fills your plate with definitely too much food while Jonathan asks you about your studies, and you guess that’s how dinner goes.
Later that night, as you’re standing in Conner’s room, you look around and think that it feels very much like him. Music posters scattered all over the walls — with some blank spaces suggesting that he definitely had some other things hanging up that he didn’t want you to see — a couple of football trophies from his old school and some photos with the Kents or the Titans here and there.
“This was Clark’s old room,” he says a bit awkwardly, “um– Ma’s changed the sheets on my bed for you to sleep in, since Clark and Lois will take up the guest room. I’ll just sleep on the floor.” A cheesy grin, “Unless someone doesn’t mind sharing the bed–”
You flick his forehead, making him let out a little ow. “Don’t get weird ideas in your head, habibi,” you yawn, “keep the floor. That bed’s mine.”
He gasps, “Don’t tell me you’re insulting me — under my own roof! — in a language I can’t even understand!”
A raised eyebrow, “Why, haven’t I done that before?” God, he’s so stupid you could just eat him up.
Kon whines, arms going slack over his sides, “You’re mean,”
“And you’re being unreasonable. Go grab your pillowsack or whatever, scout boy, and make yourself at home on the floor.”
His shoulders slump. “Yes, ma’–”
The door swings open. Ma Kent stares at the two of you, bewildered, then smiles like nothing happened, patting the handle. “The door stays open,” she says, glancing menacingly at Conner — in a way that says ‘no girls will be deflowered under my roof’. “Just in case. Goodnight!”
She leaves; amused, you side-eye Kon, whose ears are flaming red. “Just what exactly did you tell her about me?”
“I’ll quote you on this one,” he grumbles, “‘you don’t want to know’.”
You don’t have many clothes with you, so shorts and tee it is for sleeping for now. You brush your teeth in the bathroom as Conner stares, gaping, and you gurgle, “What?”
“It’s freezing,” he hisses, “aren’t you cold?”
Well, it is December, and it is snowing, but you’ve survived worse. After rinsing your mouth, you shrug, “You should see how cold it is in the Himalayas — that’s where Nanda Parbat is, by the way.”
He doesn’t even try to hide the way he’s checking your legs out with a lot of interest. He points at your upper thigh, “How’d you get that scar?”
“I fell,” you grumble, tugging the hem of your pants down to hide it.
Conner’s bed is soft — a little too much so, even. You stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars over your head — surely one of Clark’s last standing pieces of decor — and hold onto the hem of the blanket a little tighter. “Your parents are nice,” you mutter into the silence. Are they his parents, or does he see them more like grandparents? Caregivers? Trusted adults? You wouldn’t know.
From his place at the foot of the bed, Kon yawns in agreement. “They’re awesome. I mean, they act a little old sometimes, but I guess that’s fair.”
You knit your eyebrows, still staring at the plastic stars. “My grandfather isn’t as nice. I would’ve preferred he acted a little old rather than be how he is.”
A pause. Then, “What about your mom?”
You sigh. “Talia never really felt like a mom,” you whisper, “she felt more like a jealous sister than anything. She had her moments of softness, but… I think either having me or Damian just broke something in her. It’s like she can’t see anything beside what she wanted for herself and was denied.”
He doesn’t know the full story, but he still hums in understanding like he does. “Well, that sounds pretty bad. If it helps, my dad had me grow up in a test tube and then tried to use me as his personal one man army.”
You scoff, “Man, just how do we get in these types of situations?”
He sighs, a little defeated, “Bad luck and pure spite from the universe. Good thing we ended up meeting each other, huh?” he holds a hand up, making sure you can see it from the bed, “Wanna hold hands?”
You stare at his hand for a moment, and then — a little reluctantly, but only on the outside — you take his palm into yours. The moment is quickly broken by his girlish scream, and it takes every single ounce of self control you have in your system not to snatch your hand back. “…Never do that again.”
“Yes, sorry,”
A moment of silence passes. “Conner?”
“Yeah?”
“Is that offer about being able to tell you anything still up?”
Softly, he replies, “Always.”
You go on by telling him about your brother, and how you were raised — even if you do spare him the more gruesome details, such as the Year of Blood. Even after being told the watered down story, his hand doesn’t leave yours for the entirety of the night.
“Move it, Conner, we still have to find a gift for Lois–”
“I'm trying — can’t you see how these bags slow me down?”
Late Christmas gifts shopping is a terrifying concept. In your four years of living in America, you’ve never had the chance to see it for yourself because in the Wayne household gifts are bought and wrapped a month before Christmas, but now, you’re living the nightmare.
The mall is packed. There’s a long-ass queue for taking a picture next to Santa, and you’ve already had to distract Kon five times to avoid him seeing it and begging you to take one together. Everywhere you turn, people are arguing — wives to their husbands when they dare to say that their arms are hurting from all the shopping bags, kids screaming at the playground because they don’t want to go home yet, old people complaining about how back in their days, everyone had their gifts ready by Thanksgiving.
This feels like the farthest thing ever from the supposed Christmas Spirit everyone talks about during this time of the year. However, it does feel astonishingly close to Nanda Parbat on a good day, so you’re not that phased.
By now, you’ve bought a Chanel coat for Martha Kent, new tractor tires for her husband — Conner insists that tractors are his passion; you don’t even know how you found tractor tires in a fucking mall, all the while — and a tailored Armani suit for Clark. You’re missing a gift for Lois and Jon, and trinkets for the multitude of the Kents’ other relatives coming just for Christmas.
(Technically, you still have to buy Conner a gift, but you need to get him off your tail first — guess Santa and the long-ass queue to take a picture with him will come in handy.)
The guy in question is following you blindly around the mall, shopping bags — he’s lucky the tractor wheels will be sent directly to the farm, because otherwise, he’d have to carry those around, too. And let’s not forget about the real heavy lifting — all the clothes you’ve just bought for yourself, with the excuse that you didn’t have enough spare changes to survive Christmas. How many times you change outfits in one day, Superboy doesn’t want to know.
He also doesn’t want to know just what is your budget for people you don’t know — you don’t even look at the price tags as you shop, you just bother to swipe your black card at the checkout and that’s it. He’s never even seen as many zeroes as he’s done today. If this is what your shopping looks like, then he can only wonder what your father’s shopping must be like.
All the bags barely even fit inside of your car, and he’s never seen so many designer bags in one place. He’s happy enough with his Santa picture not to think too hard about it, and he snickers at the thought of Jon reacting to all the toys you’ve bought for him.
The latter, Clark and Lois arrive right after lunch, just like they said they would, and now there’s no way not to feel like an outsider. They’re all Kents, after all, while you’re just the latest addition to the party — one that some of them don’t even know.
Lois shakes your hand with a small smile while Jon, shy, hides behind her legs. Clark just pats you on your shoulder and whispers, “I’ve talked to your father. He says it’s okay if you stay here for a while.”
Not that it would’ve changed anything if he wasn’t okay with it — you wouldn’t have come home to the Manor anyways, and his judgement is clouded by the thought of your loyalty to him if he thinks so.
You’re loyal to your father, but you’re most loyal to your sanity. And if being a little awkward at the Kents’ farm is the price to pay to avoid Damian, then so be it.
Jon is a shy kid, all bashful smiles and big hugs. The reason behind his timidness towards you is quickly revealed when he comes up to where you and Conner are talking to Lois on the couch, and offers you a flower that was clearly stolen from the vase on his grandma’s kitchen counter. “Why, thank you,” you’re not good with smiles, but you try to offer him one, and he swoons.
By the time the sky outside becomes dark and card games are taken out of their cupboard, little Jonathan is ù basically sprawled on top of you, cheek smushed to your shoulder as he plays a little with your hair and babbles. “And– and then Lucy tried to take it from me but I told her no, that’s my pen, and– and she called the teacher like I did something wrong. But it was my pen–”
He’s got a bit of a stutter, but honestly, you find it cute. He kinda reminds you of Damian when he was younger — and nicer. He should be about two or three years younger than him, but considering the fact that he was raised normally, he acts like a normal kid.
Wanna know who else is acting like a kid? Yeah, Conner.
He’s been visibly sulking ever since Jon climbed beside you on the couch, and now that his — cousin? Nephew? Half-brother? — is that close to you he doesn’t even try to hide his jealousy anymore. “Manners, Jonno,” he hisses at the literal seven-year-old, “I’m sure she doesn’t like you bugging her — why don’t you go play with Krypto?”
Jon looks at you with his big, big eyes, and you nudge Conner. “He’s not bothering me. It’s pretty cute, actually.” It almost feels like holding Damian in your arms again.
Satisfied, the boy settles back on your shoulder, poking his tongue out at him. Kon crosses his arms, glaring at you, “Why does he get cuddles when I barely get to hold your hand?”
“He’s seven,” you empathise, patting Jon’s back as the Kents bicker while playing Uno. “And he’s cute. You’re barely decent and stink.”
He sighs, “Still better than that weird insult you threw at me yesterday,”
You raise an eyebrow. “You mean habibi?”
“What’s that mean?” Jon asks sleepily.
Conner nods profusely. “Yeah!”
You deadpan, looking down to Jon. “I almost forgot — he’s also dumb.”
When it’s time to go to bed, Jon almost throws a tantrum — apparently, he’s used to sharing Clark’s old room with Conner when he visits, but since you’re sleeping there, he’ll have to share the guest room with his parents. That means, sleeping on the same bed as them — like a kid, he says.
“I’m not a kid!” he insists, “I’m a grown up! I can handle a sleepover!”
You’re sure that Clark and Lois’ concern is not the sleepover, but rather, that you and Conner will be sharing a room, and knowing the guy, they don’t want their kid traumatised even if by accident. You sigh and pat Jon on the shoulder — nothing’s going to happen with the door open, anyways. “C’mon, Jonno– we can share the bed, but you have to be nice and let me sleep through the night.”
He lets out a loud yahoo!, already going upstairs to change into his pajamas, while Kon lets out a little gasp. “What?” you ask, unbothered.
Clark slaps him on the back of the head before he can say anything incriminating. “I’m sure he just didn’t expect it from you,” he improvises, “as you’re, well…”
He trails off, leaving it all in the air. Raised by assassins? A little violent during missions? Evidently emotionally unavailable? Possibly all three and more. You shrug, not really offended. “When we were little, my brother and I used to share a bed all the time. It was fine, I guess. I can handle it. I can always tumble him down to sleep with Conner on the floor.”
Clark and Lois share a worried look, but eventually agree, just to keep the peace. And as you step up the stairs, Conner continues to mutter, “Incredible, you told no to me but yes to the kid… he literally still eats his boogers…”
You hum, “Ah, so you don’t?”
You can tell he probably still does by the way he immediately gets riled up. “That’s not the point!” In the end, he crosses his arms, looking all offended. “Never ask me to hold your hand ever again!”
You roll your eyes — is he forgetting he was the one begging for your hand just last night? “Whatever you say, big guy.”
The coward ends up still asking you to hold your hand as soon as you and Jon are tucked in bed. You comply just because you feel particularly nice while the gremlin you agreed to share the bed with starts yapping again, plushie held tight in his arms like it’s going to escape, going on and on about some comic book guy named Science Dog.
You try not to think about how his presence next to yours feels a lot like Damian’s once did. You fail miserably.
NANDA PARBAT — THEN.
“Sister.”
Four year olds are weird. They’re loud, demanding and are in that stage where they’re not fully coherent yet but somehow understand everything better than adults. Unfortunately, this four-year-old is your brother, and he’s since learned how to pick on the lock of your door even if he can’t even reach the handle. At the moment, he’s also the biggest threat to your life, considering how many times your mother has convinced him to try to kill you.
You muffle a tired groan into your pillow. A glance at the clock on your bedside — three in the morning. Huh — the hour of the witch. Does mother have some curse planned out for me or something? “What is it, Damian?”
He sounds smaller than he usually does when he says, “I had a nightmare.”
You huff — you love him, you really do, but if this is one of your mother’s schemes to let him get near you voluntarily to then stab you in the back it’s not going to work. “Go whine to mother, Damian. Or just find the nursemaid. That’s what grandfather pays her to do, y’know — to take care of you.”
Quieter than before, “Fatima’s dead.” You perk up. “Mother killed her. Said she was dampening our relationship.”
Now, it’s not uncommon for servants to be killed in the Al Ghul household, but nannies? You remember Fatima. She’s been alongside Damian ever since he was born, keeping an eye on you when it was your time to play with him — for God’s sake, she’s the one who taught him how to write. And she’s dead.
Even in the darkness, you look into your brother’s eyes and find nothing. It’s the look of someone too young, forced to do things he doesn’t want to and to see atrocities he can’t stop. He’ll learn to live through it — just like you did — but for now, your brother’s four years old. He barely reaches your waist. He had a nightmare, and he’s scared to tell the woman he has to call mother because she just killed someone he loved.
Sighing, you hold up the blanket and motion for him to hop on the bed, just hoping he has no knife hidden in his clothes. “Just… come here, Dami.”
Nobody ever asked you to be a big sister, much less taught you how. The only thing you know is that there’s this kid that’s smaller and weaker than you in an environment that was never meant to be neither particularly happy nor safe, and you feel like you want to protect him.
So, just for tonight, you wrap your arms around him and let him whisper his nightmare into the dark, hoping that he won’t grow up as messed up as you did with his big sister around.
SMALLVILLE — NOW.
“So, what is it between you and Conner?”
You’ve never had a Christmas eve quite like this. It’s pure chaos — kids running around the living room, followed by Clark and Kon playing the bad guys as most of the other adults sit comfortably on the couch, laughing and chatting. Apparently, the Kents went all out this year, even inviting some relatives from Midvale; that’s how you and Lois ended up in the kitchen alone after clearing the table, as she washes the dishes and you dry them trying not to break anything.
(You have never in your entire life helped wash the dishes before. You guess that’s the price to pay to give Ma Kent a little peace after a morning spent cooking.)
You grow a little, “What do you mean?”
She shuffles, maybe a little awkwardly. “I mean… you guys seem close. He surely looks at you in… you know,” she trails off, “that dumb stare men sometimes make.”
Blinking, you stare at the blue roses painted on Martha’s good ceramic. “Dunno,” you mumble in the end, “he’s great and all, but I don’t think I’d be any good for him.” You sure like to pretend that you are, though. Calling him habibi is a little risky, but he really is dumber than you thought he was, and still hasn’t figured out the real meaning. You don’t even know why you’re telling that to Lois in the first place, considering you had never met her before this trip.
The smile she gives you is a little sad. “Clark told me about your mother. He didn’t exactly go over the details, but for what it’s worth… I’m sorry.”
You shrug. “It happened a long time ago.” The scar over your thigh itches. “I’ve gotten over it.”
She pauses her sponge over a glass, “You know, Clark also told me that you look like her.”
No reaction from you — must be true, then. “When I first saw you, I thought so, too. You don’t really look like Bruce at first glance, so it’s only fair that you look like your mother. But I think you’re more similar to your dad than any of you realise.”
You bite your tongue to hold back a very rude retort — just who does she think she is? She doesn’t know you. She doesn’t know your mother, and maybe has met your father a few times. You’ve been told your whole life you look like Talia, and now Miss Empathetic comes here to tell you what she thinks you want to hear– “I mean, I don’t know your mother, but by now I think I know Bruce pretty well. And considering what Clark told me about how you grew up, I doubt Talia Al Ghul would bond with a random kid that isn’t hers in the span of ten minutes. But I know Bruce Wayne would.”
You click your tongue — you’re so used to everyone telling you how much you look like Talia that any similarity between you and Bruce feels crafted. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
She hums, “Do you know you carry yourself like he does? Guarded, even if you’re trying to soften up a bit?” You blink, “Those dry responses you give Conner sometimes — you look like Bruce stuck in a bad interview. That glare of yours? Totally his. The way you pretend to be though but always relent at Jon’s requests to play? I’ve already seen that — with your father and Jason Todd. I met him right after he adopted him, and trust me, the resemblance is uncanny.”
You never asked your father about him — you already knew everything you needed to know from the League’s files. From the Narrows. Adopted by your father point-blank. Eventually died thanks to the Joker. The only Robin your mother apparently tolerated. Your father never really came back from the grief, and sometimes, you still catch him staring at Jason’s display case with that blank stare he gets when he’s being haunted by the past.
“And you hid your brother from him,” she murmurs, quiet like she’s afraid to anger you. “And you know what? That’s actually a very Bruce thing to do. He always asks for complete honesty, but never gives it himself. Clark told me he found out about Dick months after your dad took him in.”
“Talia has her secrets, too,” you mutter, eyebrows knotted. “I wouldn’t say that’s specifically a quality of his.”
Lois passes you another mug, “Can I ask you why you didn’t tell your father about Damian?”
You keep your eyes fixated on the rag you’re using to dry the dishes, quiet. “He could be a nice kid, when he wanted to,” you start — you don’t even know why you’re opening up to her in the first place. “Damian, he… we grew up in similar ways, but not identical. He had our mother constantly sprouting nonsense about his claim over the League, and how I was stealing something that should’ve been his. He knew no loyalty to anyone besides Talia. I figured I was doing the both of us a favor by running away — he could have his throne, and I didn’t have to constantly watch my back. Because I knew that if I had let myself get killed, then he probably would’ve spent the rest of his life torn between his guilt for doing so and Talia telling him he had done what he had to. And if our father knew about him, then he would’ve never let him go on to become the Demon Head.” It now seems futile, because Talia brought him to Bruce, anyways — for no plausible reason aside from stressing you out, probably.
The woman nudges you softly with her shoulder, “So, you did it because you thought that was the best for him.”
You pause. “I mean… I figured he wouldn’t have had to go through all the things I did, considering Talia’s favouritism and the fact that I had completed most of the tasks the heir usually has to worry about." That being, the Year of Blood. Ra’s had once told you explicitly that either you or Damian had to take a part in it, and you figured that as you already finished it, your brother could go on and become heir without any of the fuss you had to make.
She smiles. “See? You’ve got your father’s big heart under that tough facade you keep.”
You narrow your eyes at her — she’s known you for what, two, three days? “How did you do this… this psychoanalysis thing? You don’t even know me.”
She sends you a wink, “I’m a journalist. I need to be really good at understanding people at a first glance.”
Lois’ words sink deep in your chest. When not even five minutes later Jon shows up in the kitchen with a drawing of the two of you, you feel like you could burst.
You’re not content — because this might just be the closest thing to happiness you’ve ever felt.
The kids insist on seeing you do a somersault when Conner tells them you’re some kind of acrobat, and you comply — multiple times. They’re lucky your training taught you how not to be dizzy a long time ago. At some point the girls somehow manage to convince you to participate in their princess tea party and paint your nails with glitter pink nail polish — to which you make sure to let them know that the colour choice was exquisite. They tackle you to the ground in response.
You don’t know how you make it to dinner. You just know that you, Clark and Conner are barely awake, while the other adults are clearly very relaxed, and the kids are unfortunately still very lively. “Where do they even find the energy?” you mutter to Kon, head lolling to the side, “I led war campaigns less exhausting than this afternoon.”
“Thank God they’re going away as soon as dinner ends,” he croaks, head falling over your shoulder. “Another hour of this, and I would’ve melted to a stain on the floor.”
Thankfully, the kids and their not-very-helpful parents go home before midnight — when it’s time to open up the presents, Conner says. You narrow your eyebrows at him, as you’ve always opened presents on the morning of the 25th, but he grins. “You’d really say no to opening the gifts earlier?”
You sigh, “I should’ve known it was just because of your non-existent discipline.”
The one who has more presents out of everyone is, of course, Jon. Not knowing what he liked, you just bought everything you thought to be appropriate for a kid his age, and he ended up with a dozen presents just from you. Clark insists he didn’t need so many things and begs you to return at least a couple of the presents, but you shrug. “Really, man, it’s nothing. I’ve eaten dishes more expensive than all his gifts combined.”
Jon Sr. nearly cries at the sight of the new tractor wheels — who up until now were hiding in the barn — saying something about ‘limited edition tires’. You know nothing of the tractors fandom, but if he reacts like this, then he must’ve liked it.
Your gifts are more for circumstance than anything — you’re not bummed about it, because for people like you, Christmas gifts are mostly useless aside from the thought being put into them. You’ve already got everything you want, and when you don’t, you just buy it; so you thank the Kents for their gifts, put on Martha’s handmade, way-too-big wool sweater even if it has a Superman symbol on the back of it, and — for once in a while — smile. You don’t budge when Ma Kent sees the brand label on her coat and complains about it being too expensive, nor when Conner takes the last one of his gifts with your name on it.
“I thought the Santa picture was your present,” he jokes, hinting at the 20 bucks you had slipped him that day at the mall to take a photo with the Santa impersonator. You narrow your eyes at him, “When have I ever been stingy, habibi?”
The present ends up being a new leather jacket — one he has complained for months that was too expensive for him to buy. Considering that the one he has now is kept together by mere shreds and dreams, you thought the splurge worthy — after all, your job has always been the one to buy, never to look at the price tag.
Kon looks weirdly struck by the gifts. He laughs anxiously, even if you know he’s wanted it for months, then slings an arm around your shoulders and pats your arm nervously. The Kents are still opening their gifts in the background. “It’s beautiful, thank you– it’s just, um… I didn’t get you anything.”
That’s weird — he’s been making hints at your present for weeks. Still, you shrug, “Don’t worry about it, habibi.” you shuffle a little closer to him, curling under his arm as Jon rips open another LEGO set, “I’ve already got pretty much everything.”
By the time everyone decides to go to bed, it’s past one am.
Jon’s passed out on the carpet, both Pa Kent and Lois are wine drunk and you and Conner are definitely too sleepy and warm not to pass out any moment now. Uno is long forgotten on the coffee table, and it’s only when Jonathan almost falls down on the way to the bathroom that Ma Kent makes the right decision to call it a night.
Clark takes Jon in his arms, careful not to wake him up, and pats you and Conner over your shoulders, “This bugger can sleep with me and Lois tonight — the two of you have had enough babysitting for one day.”
Kon nods appreciatively, but you’re way too tired to even make a sound. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you so mushy — you’re completely slumped over his side, legs over his, chin hidden in your jumper. He pats your knee as Ma helps Pa to their room, and Lois starts snoring on the other couch. “C’mon– let’s get you to bed.”
You let out a non-committal noise, arms slinging around his neck, cheek resting on his shoulder. He flushes at the feeling of your hot breath against his ear. “Okay,” he squeaks, “okay.”
He slings an arm under your thighs and hoists you up in his arms, trying not to focus too much on the way you completely melt in his hold. On the way upstairs, he catches Clark as he goes back down to the living room to get Lois, and he sends him a very pointed look. “The door stays open,” he reminds him.
Conner groans a little, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, dad.”
Clark grins, patting him on the back as he disappears down the hallway. “Nighty night.”
Somewhere along the stairs, you lightly protest against his neck. “My present,” you murmur, “where is it?”
He freezes. “I told you, I– I don't have one.”
“That’s a lie.” you yawn, “You talked about it for weeks. Said you were makin’ something.”
Kon stutters, “I– you wouldn’t like it. I’ll just find you something else when the stores open again.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
With the way you’re talking so low into his ear, and you’re pressed so close to him, he not only has to focus not to tumble down, but also to suppress the actually embarrassing boner he’s no doubt about to pop. “I– um– well– it didn’t really turn out like I wanted it to.” Truthfully, it did, he just didn’t expect you to get him something so expensive, and now feels obligated to look for something you may actually want.
Your hum is one of pure aversion. “I want it, though,” you’re whining — he’s never heard you whine before; how could he deny you the gift, if you’re talking like this? “I told you, I’ve already got pretty much everything one could buy. I don’t really care about the gifts — I like the thought behind them.”
He sighs, “Okay,” he relents, “just… try not to look too disappointed when you see it, yeah?”
You get under the covers and onto the bed as he rummages through his wardrobe, only to take out a box roughly wrapped with bright red paper, with little snowflakes on it. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I don’t really know how to wrap gifts.”
Honestly, you didn’t even notice it. You unwrap the thing and open the box, and are met with… well, nothing could’ve really prepared you for this.
In the box, there’s two teddy bears — one is wearing a little black jacket and the Superboy suit, the stitches unsure and a bit uneven, and even has little round sunglasses glued onto his head. The other is wearing what you suppose to be your Batgirl suit, clad of the black cowl and even two inclined stitches in black thread over the forehead to indicate a frown. Given that the teddy has a smile on its face, it looks like an evil smile more than anything.
The cutest thing? They each have a magnet on the inside of their paws. Meaning? They can hold hands.
You stare at the plushies, their hands attached, as Conner rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “Listen, I– I know they kinda suck– I asked Ma to teach me how to sew, but clearly, not even she knows how to make miracles happen– I just figured that a plushie was probably the only thing you never had growing up and– and I couldn’t find plushies of us that I actually liked, and none of them held hands, and–”
“Conner,” you interrupt him, setting the plushies aside.
He stutters. “I– um– yes?”
You take him by the collar — by the way, you should really stop doing that — and throw him on the bed. He lands with a soft huff, and immediately blushes when he notices your face above his. “Thank you.”
The kiss you leave on his lips is soft, warm, and absolutely everything he’s ever dreamt about and more. It feels like it lasts hours and at the same time not enough, and when you part to cuddle against his side, he thinks he could die a happy man here and there.
He’s right. You’ve never had a plushie — not as a kid, nor growing up, as Bruce had figured you were already too old for them. His are the first teddy bears you’ve ever owned. He just did the unthinkable — bought you something you didn’t even know you were missing. “Conner?”
He startles — he always plays a big game, but you know that this is probably the first time he’s ever shared a bed with a girl before by the way he went rigid as a tree trunk. “Do you want to know what habibi means?”
His voice is soft, like he’s afraid to break the moment. “Yeah.”
“My beloved.”
Yes. He could totally die happy just now.
MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! Call me when you have a free moment, I miss you :( met Damian yesterday and I must say, he’s kinda an asshole, but he also kinda reminds me of you. Ugh, I miss when you were so little. Bruce is being Bruce. Tim’s grouchy and Alfred’s barely talking to B. I’m slowly losing my sanity. PLEASE call me!! XOXOXO💋
Dick Grayson is the only guy who could put a kiss emoji after an ‘xoxo’ after spending hours teaching you texting etiquette. He's the only one who talks about your thirteen-year-old self like you were five. He’s also the only one who has reached out from your family after Damian’s arrival and your leave. Cassandra, who’s in the Alps with her girlfriend as of now, probably doesn’t even know about Damian.
Beside you, Conner’s still snoring, sprawled over both his and your side of the bed. He’s holding in an iron grip the plushie of you, who instead looks like she’s plotting his murder, while her Superboy companion sits politely on your bedside table. It’s still early in the morning, around eight am, but no matter how late you go to sleep, the clock that your body has by now assimilated will never let you sleep in.
You stare at your brother’s message until it’s burned in your retinas, the brightness of your phone screen way too high for the dim darkness of the room, wondering just how they spent Christmas Eve. Last year, Bruce was busy dismantling one of Falcone’s operations; the year before, it was the Court of the Owls, and so on. Something always comes up to keep you entertained during the holidays, and from the way you left your father knee-deep in the Black Glove thing, you’re sure that this year was no better. The only difference was… well, Damian.
The worst part of the message is that you know that Dick would love the Damian you once knew. The nicer one, who sometimes complained about having to eat vegetables and missed his nanny, and hadn’t hardened under the League’s training.
Having to leave hurt — because you knew that that side of him would have disappeared in a matter of years, but you had no choice. It was either that, or eventually having him murder you and live the rest of his life in grief and guilt. Unsurprisingly, Dick’s message goes unresponded, but he keeps the texts coming as he notices that you’ve read it.
Good morning!!
Is it a good moment to talk now? No pressure tho
Just wanted to know how things were going over there
I had gotten you a present but I’ll wait for you to come back to give it to you
It’s safely stored in my apartment for now!!! No demon gremlin hands can reach it :D
“What time is it?” Kon groans beside you, woken by the sound of the notifications. He yawns, rolling over and lazily draping an arm around your waist, still high off of sleep. “Too early. That’s what time it is.” His hand gently goes over your eyes, and he whispers, conspiring, “Go back to sleep…”
He falls asleep right after, but you can’t find it in yourself. You pry his hand and arm off of you, phone still in hand, and make way for downstairs.
It’s freezing outside. You put on Conner’s jacket just because it was the first coat over the hanger, and end up slouching over the beaten up bench that sits in the Kents’ backyard. Dick’s voice is chippy but anxious when he replies, not even letting the first ring go through completely.
“Hiii!”
You sigh, “Hi, Dick. Merry Christmas, I guess.”
He reciprocates with the same glee of before, not letting your tired tone tune out his happiness. “So, how’s it going over to the Kents? Rumor has it that Martha’s cooking might just be better than Alfred’s.”
Conversation flows easily with him — it’s a gift he has, really, to somehow put everyone at ease with a chuckle and the flash of a grin. Sometimes you envy how simple it is for him to make friends, or be appreciated by everyone without having to prove anything. What makes him stand out from you, Tim or Damian, is that Bruce openly chose him. He didn’t just sneak into his life like Drake, and wasn’t with him just because they happened to be biologically related.
In theory, you should hate him — God knows how much your mother does — just for this ability of his to attract everyone and anything at any given moment. In reality, you’re not spared from the Grayson pull.
“I met your brother,” he says casually, like he’s trying not to break a really thin line that he sees between the two of you. “He’s… surely something else.”
You hum. “He’s always been like that.” Sure, he had his moments of kindness, but your mother’s influence has always been far too condemning for him. Who knows — maybe your father will be able to do some miracle and at least make him refrain from killing.
The silence on the other end is deafening. “Um, I… Tim asked me to tell you that he’s sorry. He said he kinda blamed you for Damian’s attack — and he also understands why you wouldn’t tell Bruce about him.”
“It’s okay.” You're being as honest as possible, “I tried to kill him once or twice too. It’s only fair that he thought I had put Damian up to this.”
You can hear the nervous taps he’s giving the back of his phone. “Okay. Cool, cool– um, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but B kinda gave Damian an ultimatum. He said he won’t be permitted to wear the Robin suit until he learns to calibrate his violent instincts and you come back.”
Now, that’s surprising. Your father, taking just a step back from his own words? Pigs must’ve learnt how to fly by now. “Did he?” you don’t sound like the usual you — more like a softer, kinder version that just needs some reassurance. Dick asks himself just what is being put into Martha’s food to make you so open to dialogue, and how much she’d want to spill the secret — just to him or Alfred would do.
“He did,” he muses, “he also said that if you want to come home today — even if just for lunch or dinner — Alfred will be adding a plate.”
The backdoor opens with a creak. Ma Kent steps out in the snow, bundled up to the notch, her eyes widening in surprise when she sees you. “Oh, dear,” she mutters, “is that your father on the phone?”
She’s got this weird expression on her face, like she wants to beat him up or something. When you tell her it’s actually your brother, her mood brightens up significantly. “Oh, golly, that’s so nice of him. May I have a word with him?”
A bit weirded out since you don’t know what she could possibly want to say to him, you just pass her the phone, and are surprised to find out that Martha Kent and Dick Grayson actually know each other — at least, from the way they speak like they’re old friends. Thirty minutes and three shared cake recipes later, suddenly the Waynes are invited over for both lunch and dinner, and you have to hold in the biggest scream ever from leaving your mouth. God, she had looked like such a nice old lady — you couldn’t have known that in reality, she was plotting your downfall right in front of your eyes.
You can’t tell her anything, because Alfred still taught you manners, and guests don’t fight with the people that host them. So you just let out a long sigh and don’t even say goodbye to Dick when the phone’s finally passed back to you and his chirping voice comes out the speaker. Why, Martha, why? You thought she liked you.
She doesn’t seem to notice your turmoil, because she still smiles sweetly at you in that way she’s done the last few days and says, “I’m going to feed the stray cats down the street — would you like to come with me?”
Just because she’s an old lady that you thought was nice up until now, and the cat food looks way too heavy for her feeble arms, you say yes.
You’re still in your pajamas and Conner’s coat, but anyways, who’s going to judge you? The stray cats that live in a chicken house and probably are covered in fleas?
There’s snow still falling — little flakes that melt as soon as they touch your skin — and when you say there’s no one around, you mean nothing. No horns blaring, no police sirens, no scuffles. For all you know, Smallville could be Gotham City’s rural, polite reflection.
“How are you liking the farm so far?” Martha asks you, her nose red from the cold. You get reminded again of how much different she is from the other old people you know — you’ve got this strange feeling of protectiveness towards her, mainly because she looks like she could break anytime by falling off the stairs. (Which, in total fairness, she probably would.)
“It’s quiet,” you reply, for a loss of a better word. You look around, noticing the lack of houses and buildings, and wonder just how it is possible that this old lady spent God knows how many years walking down his path and still came out of it unscathed. Were this Gotham, she would’ve had her purse snatched as soon as she got out of the house.
The woman hums, “Sometimes they bring the kids from the town to see the cats that live around here, to see if any of them likes them enough to be taken home. I still haven’t had any luck, but I’m sure that some little fella is going to take a liking to you.” The corners of her mouth crinkle when she smiles, “You’re a really nice young lady, you know? No wonder why my Connie likes you so much. The two of you like to look though, but under all that act are two really big hearts. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come with me.”
The tips of your ears turn red, and it’s not because of the cold. You have decided — you don’t like the way the Kent women see right through you. It makes you feel like a kid who doesn’t know anything about life.
The cats meow happily when they see her coming, exiting their chicken house to rub against her legs, despite the snow around her boots. “My, my,” Martha laughs, “calm down– she’s got enough food for every single one of you, no reason to be so needy.”
The cats may be strays, but by no means do they look cold or underfed — quite the opposite, actually; some of them are positively chonky. Martha and the old ladies of the neighborhood — which in Smallville means everyone living in a five-mile-radius — must take great care of them. They rub against your boots as you refill their bowls, purring loudly, immediately attacking the cat food placed there.
You watch, amused, as they devour their portions, until one little kitten stumbles out from the group, belly full, and tries to climb up your leg. You let her because honestly, she’s so full of food that she’s funny, all wobbly and unsure with her claws. Only when she falls down and meows angrily do you pick her up and scratch the back of her ear, cooing at the way she purrs loudly.
Martha smiles warmly. “That’s Muffin. We found her on the other side of the road, and the other cats adopted her instantly.”
You look Muffin in the eye, and think that it’s a stupid name for a cat. She blinks back and tries to lick the tip of your nose. Ma Kent laughs, her gaze going to some place behind you. “You know,” she mumbles quietly, pointing to the open field behind you, “that’s where we first found Clark.”
You turn to look behind you as Muffin tries to climb up Conner’s coat, and you think that if you try hard enough, you can see a crater covered in snow. Martha’s eyes sparkle. “Oh, he was such a sweet kid. When we found him, he barely reached my knee — he didn’t even know how to properly walk, and didn’t know how to speak our language.”
Oh, God. You know where this is going. If the Kents didn’t have a farm, and Lois didn’t like writing, you think that Martha and her would've gone off to study psychology. “I…” her voice breaks a little, and you think that while you may have thought of her as a fragile being, she had done nothing to prove to you so. She’s done nothing but be up and about these days, and waking up at eight am on Christmas morning just proves your point. This is the first time you hear her sound so unsure. “Parents aren’t necessarily always right. Me and Jon had the luck to raise him almost completely, with all our wrongs and rights. And we have made mistakes, but I like to think that in the end, we raised a good kid.”
Of course they did — that kid ended up being Superman. “It takes a lot to take in a kid who has already been raised — and in a way that some would consider wrong, at that.” She holds her scarf just a little closer as Muffin falls into the hood of your jacket, “I haven’t known you for long, but in the little time I have, I can say that I think your dad did a wonderful job. Parents… we often make mistakes. And I’m sure that like every one of us, yours did many. But I think that where there’s good will, no harm is ever meant.”
She tilts her head to the side. “I know you’re probably angry at your dad, but Clark told me that he loves you — and a lot, at that. But– would you be willing to give him a chance? If not for yours or his, for the sake of this old lady who hates seeing parents and their own children fighting? If you do, I promise I will give him a long lecture about his treatment of you in your place, so that he doesn’t have any more reasons to get mad at you.”
Muffin licks the back of your neck. You sigh. “Well, I guess I can’t be mad at him forever, can I?”
Martha comes up to strangle you in a hug before you can even think it though. “I knew you were a good kid,” she whispers.
You pat her shoulder a bit awkwardly, “I– okay, okay, Martha, careful with the hugging now–”
Muffin ends up attaching her claws to Conner’s coat when it’s time for you to leave, meowing unhappily at your attempts of pulling her away. Ma Kent just laughs, “Maybe you should take her with us,” she says, “we usually leave the cats here unless they really want to go home with us. Sometimes they go back here, other times they stay. That’s mostly how we find them homes.” she raises an eyebrow, teasing, “Think you can handle a kitty?”
You look at her dead in the eye. “I have an alligator back at home.”
She pauses, then blinks. “An… alligator?”
You nod. “I found him in the sewers a couple of years ago. Fed him raw chicken until he got too fat and started clogging the water tubes. He now lives in a pond in our backyard and is probably waiting for a moment of distraction from my father to eat him.” You trail off. “Um, his name is Alsimna. It means obese. I just thought it would be funny since, you know… he’s kinda fat. No hate though.” Now that you think of it, you kinda miss him. He started brumating just last month.
Martha purses her lips. “Muffin is very lucky she already had a name before you came around.”
When Conner wakes up, it’s because of weird cries coming from downstairs. Noticing your absence on the other side of the bed — and feeling like a virgin left alone the night after the deed, even if said deed was just a little peck — he shuffles down the stairs, hair a mess over his head and Batgirl plushie still in his hands, and gapes at the sight of you — elbow-deep in soap water over the sink — and Ma Kent, giving instructions and whatnot.
The sink meows. Kon sputters, finally catching your attention. “Um– what you got there?”
You hold up a drenched black kitty, who protests loudly in your hold. “Muffin.”
“She had a couple of fleas,” Martha explains to him, “we had to wash her.”
He gasps in utter betrayal. “You never let me keep any of the strays I brought home!”
“Because they all escaped as soon as you were out of the room. This one followed her all the way here.”
Muffin snuggles in the warm blanket you wrap her in, purring in your hold. Kon glances at her warily, “You… adopted a cat?”
“Well, she’s cute,” you grumble.
“Don’t you have an alligator?”
“I do.”
He blinks. He stares at the kitten. “Muffin, you’re gonna get eaten really soon.” The latter meows like she has already accepted her fate.
Your father arrives a few hours later — and in a typical show of Wayne dramatics, he's chosen to use the private helicopter instead of the more reserved Zeta-Tubes. Jon gapes at the sight of the aircraft as Clark deadpans, “Did he really have to take out the company helicopter?” he mutters to you.
You shrug, “He does it for longer distances. Be happy he didn’t take the private jet.”
Under Jon’s constant nagging to go see the helicopter from up close, it’s Clark that puts his jacket on to go greet your family, his son bundled in warm clothes just behind him. Muffin stares at you from the kitchen counter like she’s reevaluating all her life’s decisions, and you can’t help but agree with her. Conner pats your arm encouragingly, “C’mon, it can’t be that bad, can it?” he whispers.
He’s wrong, because your father has taken Dick’s invitation like a family reunion — even Alfred is here. And Damian is standing behind him, glaring at Bruce’s back, dressed like a little lord coming straight from Hell. He doesn’t say anything to anyone — just gives you a pointed look and bites the inside of his cheek, looking downright tired of you. In response, you just stare back until he decides to go bother Alfred instead.
Tim has a black eye and a cast. You notice after Dick pulls away from hugging you, and you raise a brow at his injuries. “The grenade didn’t hit you that hard, did it?”
“He tried to kill me two more times,” he grumbles, “I was asleep both times.”
You pat his shoulder, “Get used to it. He does that a lot.” Tim is undoubtedly his obstacle in achieving your father’s complete and undivided attention. He’s also Robin as of now and, well… you grew up with the myth of Batman. You wouldn’t be surprised if Damian wanted to be Robin so badly he was ready to kill Tim for it.
Dick leans his head to the side, looking amusedly at Damian, brooding in weird quietness. You can’t help but think that such silence is not typical of him — normally, he would already have insulted the house three times and the carpet at least six. Instead he’s standing there like a selectively mute kid who has decided that farmers out of all people are not worthy of hearing his voice.
At your inquiring gaze, Dick coughs into his fist. “Bruce apparently told him he’ll let him have a week as Robin if he doesn’t speak unless he has something nice to say for the whole day,” he whispers, barely containing a laugh. “He bargained two.”
“Incredible,” you utter, “he bargained with father?” you can’t help the tiniest bit of pride from seeping into your chest.
“Bruce was at his wit’s end,” Tim grunts, “he didn’t even know which way to turn anymore.”
Dick grimaces. “Yeah, uh… it’s been a rough few days. First, he had to figure out what to do with Damian, then you fled the Manor, then Tim wouldn’t talk to him, then it was Alfred who didn’t talk to him…”
He blinks at the way you and Drake look at him. “What?” he asks innocently, crossing his arms.
“Well, you’re the only one who isn’t angry at him, cowboy,” Tim explains, tapping his hip with his good hand.
“Yeah, what happened to ‘sibling solidarity’ and all that crap you always talk about?” you inquire.
Grayson chuckles nervously. “Look, guys, I– he looked so sad.”
Your eye twitches. “You know what else looked sad, Dick? The Discowing outfit.”
At his outraged gasp, Drake nods. This might just be the first thing you two have agreed on since the dawn of time. “Yeah, dude, it was horrendous. I think you don’t wanna pick sides just because you know that fighting with Bruce will get you into that suit again.”
“I can’t believe you guys are ganging up on me!” Dick shrieks, not getting everybody’s attention on the three of you just because the Kents are particularly sensitive to the awkward tension in the room, even as they speak quietly with Bruce — who still has to say a word to you. He had tried to smile when he got inside the house, but once he saw Dick come hug you, he had preferred to stay in the living room than the kitchen, letting you three have a moment.
Muffin meows loudly as she falls from the countertop to the padded chair near it, and you hush her by taking her in your arms. Tim gives you a look, “Did you get bored of Alsimna? I’m sure he’ll be so heartbroken he’ll try to eat you for the tenth time.”
The kitten tries to scratch him as she hisses, and his shoulders slump. “Why do you all want to kill me? I’m a nice dude!”
“Bro.”
Conner comes from behind him, slapping him on the back. “How’s it going, man? You look rough.”
He’s coming from upstairs — where he just changed — and as soon as he sees him, Jon sprints towards him, shy but so eager to meet your other brothers since Damian didn’t look too appeasing. Kon pats his head, “Jonno, um– these are Tim and Dick.” he gestures to you, “They’re her brothers.”
“Adopted,” you and Drake remind him simultaneously.
Jonathan nods, blushing as Dick excitedly greets him, then decides to just switch one shelter for another and goes to hide behind your legs, holding tightly onto your sweater. Considering you and Conner are the most prone to playing with him, he’s gotten pretty attached to you these past few days, so much so that you’re wondering just where you’ll find the space to hang all the drawings he’s made you. Grayson squeals, “OhmyGod, you got adopted!” he takes his phone out and snaps countless pictures as Jon tries to disappear behind the back of your thighs and holds onto your pinky for safety, “Babs’ never going to believe this–”
You don’t miss the way Damian glares at you from the other side of the room, where Bruce’s still talking to Clark. He continues glaring nonetheless.
Lunch is awkward at best. Martha and Alfred try their best to attenuate the tension, but considering that Damian still refuses to utter a single word and both Lois and Pa Kent are still nursing a hangover, there’s not much to say. The silence is mostly filled in by your father and Clark discussing League matters, or by Jon blabbering to you and Conner. The only ones who look fully comfortable are, in fact, your butler and Ma Kent, who have been discussing the best recipe for casserole as soon as they saw each other.
You’re not sure how you ended up sandwiched between the only two kids in the farm, but here you are. If looks could kill, little Jon would probably lie six feet under the ground dismembered and with a stone with THIS WAS DAMIAN AL GHUL’S DOING written over it. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice his staring, as he’s far too immersed in stuffing his face with food to care.
At some point, Damian mutters, his voice so low that you’re the only one who is able to hear it, “Kan taeam 'umiy 'afdal,” mother’s cooking was better.
You spare a look at him. “'Ant taelam 'anaha lam tatbakh tilk al'atbaq abdaan, 'alays kadhalika?“ You know she never really cooked those dishes, right?
It’s true. You’ve seen your grandfather cook a few times during campaigns, mostly dishes from the times of his upbringing, but Talia usually reserved that duty to servants, only to pass the plates full of food as hers. It’s not about thinking you’re above it — it’s about skills, because your mother truly sucks at cooking. Damian should feel lucky that he’s never had to experience her cuisine.
Bruce watches the interaction quietly — he’s yet to see Damian speak so softly. He can’t hear what you guys are saying, but as long as no fight breaks out, he’s not going to intervene — he wouldn’t want to shatter the already feeble peace that is in the air.
Still in Arabic, Damian grumbles, “You left me.”
“It was either that or having them let you kill me,” you answer earnestly, your mother tongue slipping easily from your lips even after so many years of disuse. “I made sure to leave the road to being heir paved just for you. I would’ve never left you alone in that place without being sure that you wouldn’t have had to suffer what I went through.” He had mother at his beck and call. Surely, she would’ve never let what happened to you happen to him.
Your brother stays silent at that, his eyes downturned to his untouched plate. It’s only when you’ve finished eating, and the table’s cleared, and everyone’s outside playing with the snow that he approaches you, his ridiculously big coat on.
You’re going back to the strays’ chicken house, having begged Martha to please rest a bit after promising you would’ve gone to feed them in her place. Muffin is toddling around your feet as you tie your boots and ask, “And where do you think you’re going?”
“With you,” he grumbles, avoiding your eyes.
You hum, “I’m sure Jon would be happy to have someone his age to play with.”
He scoffs the same way you do, you notice. In fact, you’ve noticed he looks like you more than he ever did, like the distance and the resentment did nothing but convince him to take your mannerism and make it his. “I’m not a kid,”
“Sure you aren’t,” you pat Muffin’s head and take the cans of wet food Ma Kent left out for you. “Come if you want, but don’t try anything.”
“Father doesn’t even let me use kitchen knives,” he stuffs his hands in his pockets, “and even if he did, you wouldn’t let me do anything.” He probably already knows that he was able to hurt Tim just because of the surprise factor and the literal grenade he blew up in his face.
Bruce frowns when he sees you and Damian walking away on a path alone, but he doesn’t say anything nor tries to stop you. You two probably have a lot to talk about, he figures. Maybe even more than what he has to tell you.
Your brother is silent as he follows you down the road, his mouth leaving puffs of warm breath in the air. Then, “You didn’t even ask if I wanted to come with you. You just assumed I wouldn’t have.”
He hasn’t sounded this small ever since he still cried about Fatima’s death, but you haven’t seen him in years, you think. You might not know this Damian at all. “Mother had great things planned for you,” you tell him. “Considering you never backed down from any of her plans, I just thought you liked the idea of becoming the Head of the Demon.”
The chicken house isn’t far — a couple of cats have already spotted you, and carefully throttle in the snow to greet the two of you. “After all, you came here just because Talia wanted you to, no?”
Dumbstruck, Damian blinks, “Is she not our mother anymore?”
He says our like it’s an absurdity to ever think that the two of you don’t share the same parents, even if figuratively. Like he’s ready to start calling her Talia just because you do. You shake your head, “Call her what you want. You don’t have to stop doing anything. Just give father’s way a chance, will you?” Now that he’s here, you know that Bruce won’t let him go anywhere — and who knows, maybe it’s for the best.
The cats all get around the bowls as you pour the wet food in, but Damian seems to barely see them. “You tried to kill me.”
You snort. “I didn’t try to kill you — I threatened you, it’s different. I talked big, Damian, but I would never hurt you.” You relent, “Well, not in a beyond recovery manner. Do you still breathe funny from when I broke your nose?”
He pinches it. “I do.” a dry sniffle, “You have replaced me.”
At this, you pause — turning to look at him, weirded out. “What do you mean? You’re the only little brother I have.”
His arms cross, and his eyebrows twitch. “Back there with that dimwit — John or whatever. Even with Grayson and the other guy. You came here to forget about me — you didn’t even tell father I existed.” his voice breaks a little, but he fixes it before you can address it, “I thought you would’ve. I didn’t know I embarrassed you.”
“Damian,” you breathe out. “You have to understand, you don’t embarrass me. I love you, and nothing changed when I moved to Gotham. Hell– I tried contacting you. I sent you birthday presents even when you didn’t want them.”
He shuffles his feet. “Mother said it was best not to see you. That you weren’t a good influence, and that you probably were looking for me out of obligation.”
You purse your lips, rising to your feet and holding a hand over his shoulder. “I wasn’t,” you whisper softly, “Damian, you’re my brother. My name was the first ever thing you said. I… I didn’t want to leave you there, but after what you did to Ravi, I… I just thought that I needed some time for myself, and that you’d do great with the League — it’s what Talia had you for. I believed you wanted it, too.”
“I didn’t want it,” his reply is so little that suddenly you’re eleven again, and he’s four, and he keeps seeing the limp body of his favourite nanny in his sleep. “Not if you weren’t there for me.”
A silence follows. And just when you start wondering what you should do — hug him? Offer some comfort? You haven’t been a big sister in ages — he speaks again. “I, um… mother convinced grandfather to have me participate in the Year of Blood.”
Your blood runs cold. “…What?” The ringing in your ears is so loud that you’re barely able to hear your own words. This can’t be an ugly joke, and you know it, because nothing in his body tells you that this is a lie. And not even Damian knows how to hide a lie this good — you don’t even know how to, hell.
He swallows the knot in his throat. “Yes, mother had suggested not to tell you. Said you… would’ve reacted badly.”
You don’t know if you kneel because your legs are too trembly to keep staying upright or to look him in the eyes. “The Year of Blood is a once in a generation thing. They… they had no right to– to make you…”
“Mother told grandfather that since you ran away, yours wasn’t valid anymore– that I was heir, and I had to do it to prove that I was at or above your level. Grandfather was sure that you’d be back one day, but told mother to do as she wished — that as soon as you were back home, you’d fight me for your rightful place.” His eyes are teary, and you open your arms so that he can fall into your embrace as you both try not to cry your eyes out. “I… they had me slaughter hundreds, sister. I couldn’t even see clearly when I got to the end of it.”
You hold him tight by the back of his neck as he smothers his cries in your shoulders — you wonder if the last time he cried openly like this was when you were still with the League. In less than a month he’ll be ten, but he’s almost smaller than Jon, and you are once again reminded of how much Talia and Ra’s have failed the both of you.
In a nicer world, maybe you would’ve been brought up by your father and a nicer Talia, and instead of constantly trying to fight each other to death you’d have common squabbles about whose turn it was to watch the TV. In this world, he had to suffer through the same thing that had you killed by your own hands.
The Year of Blood will always be the longest year of your lives — one spent in blood, violence and tyranny, all in the name of Al Ghul. You lost count of how many temples you destroyed, how many armies you ruined, how many profanities for the sake of your place in the family — a place your grandfather had always insisted was given. And Damian — who’s still so short the top of his head barely reaches your bellybutton — had to go through all of that, presumably not long ago.
The way goes from here. You know it’ll be hard — Damian will still have to learn how to refrain from killing those who deserve it — but you can work with this. You can learn how to be a big sister again.
When you come back to the farm, both you and Damian’s eyes are swollen and red from all the crying, and even if he tries to hide it, you know Bruce just took a sigh of relief to see that you both still have all your limbs attached. Your brother’s holding onto the hem of your coat like he’s scared you’ll leave him again, and the tension in the air lightens up when Damian starts talking almost normally — that is, avoiding saying insults by biting his tongue when they threaten to slip out.
“It’s a Christmas miracle!” Dick whispers to Tim. The latter facepalms. “Or just communication, bro.”
It’s just later in the afternoon when Damian’s too busy petting Muffin — purring all over his lap — that your father finally takes you aside to talk.
He looks a bit embarrassed, and it’s what tells you that Martha’s already had a talk with him. “I didn’t know you resented me for not finding you,” he murmurs quietly. He doesn’t say sorry, and he never does, but you guess that it’s fair, since you never say it either.
You shrug, crossing your arms. “Well, when your father can find a random kid perfectly fine on a common Tuesday but couldn’t find you for six years, that’s what could happen.”
“But I looked for you,” he presses, “I really did.” You drum your fingers on the countertop of the kitchen. “You have to believe me.”
After a moment, you say, “I do,” because maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe you just overestimated his abilities with the League and undermined the Shadows’.
Your father presses his lips into a thin line. “You don’t have to tell me everything that happened when you were with the League — I never pressed for that. But when it comes to things like Damian’s existence, you still can't feel like you have to lie to me. I’m your father. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me.”
He opens his arms, gesturing for a hug much like you did earlier with Damian, and even if a bit reluctantly, you still let him pull you in. He’s as warm as you remembered him to be, and his heart is thrumming underneath your cheek. You should probably tell him everything — about how you and Damian were raised to be against each other, the Year of Blood, Ravi — but you can’t help but think that this is neither the time nor the place. He still loves your mother. After you tell him, he will never see her in the same light again, even after all the times he’s forgiven her. But your father deserves a quiet Christmas like this one.
“We should do this more often,” he hums, kissing the crown of your head. “I don’t even remember the last time we hugged.”
You do. It was after a particularly rough run-in with the League about a year after you’d moved to Gotham, which had left you with a broken arm. You’d always refused his hugs before, but even now, you think that you really needed one at that moment.
He brushes your hair carefully, like he’s scared to run over knots and annoy you. “And I know I always tell you how much you look like your mother, but sometimes I forget that for you it might not be a compliment.” he kisses your forehead tenderly, “But I do it because for me, it’s a big compliment, because you’ve always looked like what I had dreamt for her and me — for us. And with you here, it’s like we almost got it.”
That night as they leave to go back to Gotham, Bruce presses an USB in your hands. “I should’ve given you this a long time ago,” he mutters, “I didn’t because I figured you didn’t need to see your father being emotional. But maybe you do.”
You spend hours on Kon’s beaten up computer that night, earphones on as the latter begs you to just go to sleep, but you really can’t find it in yourself — because this feels like a chapter closing. Because there’s a file log for every day your father has spent looking for you.
Bruce looks uncomfortable in front of the camera — cowl off, but Batman costume still on. He’s got scratches on his face and his eyes are bloodshot; he looks as distraught as possible. “Um,” he starts. “Alfred suggested I start these video logs to show the kid after… if we find her. He says it would be good for… establishing a bond, even if I’m not quite sure.”
He coughs into his palm, and goes off to explain. “It’s… March 23rd, five am.” you know that date — this was taken the day after you met him for the first time, years ago. “Talia could be lying, but even if she did, there’s a kid out there that possibly thinks I’m her father, and could be wondering why I’m not there to protect her.”
He sighs deeply, pinching his eyebrows. “Alfred agreed that she had my mother’s eyes after looking at the bodycam footage. I can’t tell if he’s biased — it’s been so many years since she’s been gone that I almost forgot how they looked, and neither the portraits nor the photos ever got them right.”
He tries to straighten his shoulders, maybe trying to look a bit respectable again. “But we’re looking for the kid, that’s it.” His lips purse, and he nods towards the camera. “And that’s all for today.”
“April 7th. A robbery downtown happened this morning — everyone got out safely, but the Mad Hatter seems to be involved.”
Bruce already looks done with this video log thing and it shows — more than two weeks of nothing, when he usually has these types of cases closed in a matter of days at worst. He’s not even sitting on the chair, too nervous to properly stay put. “The kid’s still nowhere to be seen. The Shadows know how to do their jobs, but we already knew that. We’ll keep looking for her.”
Robin — Jason — pops into the frame, waving his hands frantically. A board with the few pictures your father had managed to cut out from the body footage are spread out with mostly incoherent clues and traces, now. “Hi, lil’ sis! I think Martha’s a nice name!”
“Yes, yes,” Bruce, a bit embarrassed, tries to shoo him away. “Um– Jay suggested we give the kid a name, because calling her ‘the kid’ was apparently getting exhausting for him. But…” his eyes drift off to the distance, “naming her Jane Doe felt a little too impersonal, and like we already believed her to be dead.”
His shrug is one of someone who doesn’t want to admit that he’s still thinking about the past. “And, well, since me and Talia once talked about eventual baby names — I figured, Martha it is.”
Bruce’s slouched on the chair in front of the monitor, looking as rough as they make them. “July 6th. We found nothing — like always.” He moves to shut the camera off.
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829
LOG ENTRY: 273
LOCATION: BATPLANE, MALAYSIA
USER ID: B01
“A hair follicle.”
Bruce is holding up a ziplock bag like it’s his ticket to heaven. “The paternity test came back positive — and considering the cameras that depict Martha as part of the leading group for this operation, it’s a given that it’s hers.”
He sighs in despair, his head dropping in his hands. “…We just have to find her. Like we’ve tried for the last…” a peek at the screen, “273 days.” Jason sticks out his tongue to the camera from behind him.
He’s gotten far more desperate as the days go on — because this time, it’s not only his detective abilities that are being put to the test, but also his fatherly ones. He purses his lips, “We’ve got nothing. Sometimes a hideout gets leaked, but when we get to the coordinates, Martha’s never there — they’ve already moved her on to another base, and it keeps on going like this.”
He conjoins his hands. “She’s the living proof that if the League doesn’t want me to know something, then I won’t.” a moment of hesitation, “This also means that Talia made me aware of her existence just to mess with my brain, probably.”
He looks dead into the camera. “But the search goes on, I promise. I won’t have a moment of rest until I find her.”
The video opens with Jason. “Um,” he mutters awkwardly, leaning to look at something out of frame. “Bruce got hit with Fear Gas.”
A scream echoes in the distance — your father, no doubt. He winces. “Dick and Alfred are holding him down. But I, uh, know how much he cares about these logs, so I’m making today’s entry for him.” he looks over to the date signaled on the computer’s screen, “September 23rd. Still no Martha. Still looking for her.”
He tries to smile at the camera, even if it comes out a bit wobbly. “And if you’re watching this– hi, Martha.”
You knew this was coming — the short video logs before this one, talking about how he was looking for Jason and the Joker had told you everything you needed to know. Bruce’s eyes can’t be described as anything if not completely empty. A few long minutes of silence pass before he does anything, and when he does, it’s just moving to shut the camera off. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
Alfred stands poised like he always does, eyes a little red. Behind him, the Batcave looks like a mess. “I’m doing the video log because he’s refusing to take a break from looking for the Joker. I fear I’ll be filling in for him for quite some time.”
He looks behind him to the broken board with MARTHA written on it with bold, red ink, all the evidence that your father had accumulated in two years scattered all over the ground. “I know how much this matters to him. I’ll clean the mess up later. I wanted to make a new entry first.”
He stares at the calendar. “May 18th. Still looking. No new evidence.”
Grayson is a nice change of scenery from Alfred, but he looks even more awkward than Jason had. He’s sitting in front of the camera, but the angle is different, like he just sat the computer on his coffee table and called it a day. He’s not even in his Nightwing suit. “A kid just guessed Batman’s identity,” he says, looking completely lost. “Anyways, I’m just filling in for Alfred since he sprained his ankle yesterday and is on bed rest.”
He tries to fix the camera angle, and instead makes it even worse — you now have a perfect visual to his knees, and he has to lean onto them with his elbows to be properly seen. “It’s, uh, July 5th.” he bites the inside of his cheek, “Not sure if B’s got any new evidence, but I know he’s still looking.”
Bruce looks thinner — unhealthier than he is usually, somehow. “I– uh– didn’t stop looking. But no new evidence.” he leans his head to the side, resting it on his knuckles. “I saw Talia the other day. She said her father had forced her to lie to me — to tell me that she had lost the baby ten years ago.”
Drake looks far too small and scrawny for the Robin suit he’s wearing. He does so with pride anyways. “I’m the new Robin. Bruce got shot and Alfred’s too busy operating him, so I’m doing this. November 24th. Still looking. New evidence: Ra’s said that Lady Shiva’s training her.”
The fact that he’s reading this from his notepad confirms your suspicions — he has written his whole log in like it’s a presentation. “Bruce’s determined to find out what for. I think the answer’s a bit too obvious.”
There’s 1105 more video logs — one for every day you weren’t there. It takes you days to get to the last one.
Bruce’s smile is happiness tinged with something like deep, deep shame. “September 4th. We have stopped looking.”
He sighs, hands on his sides. “Her name’s not Martha. It feels a bit weird not to call her that now, but I’m just relieved we found her.” his eye twitches. “Well, she came to me. I didn’t find her. I couldn’t.”
He bites his lip. “I’ll have to retrain her. Teach her not to kill and tell her not to use long-term damage techniques. But at least we found her.”
When his eyes look into the camera, they’re shimmering with tears, and his voice is shaky. “I’m just happy she’s safe now.”
GOTHAM CITY — A FEW MONTHS LATER.
Bruce decides to open Wayne Manor’s pool for the first time since Jason’s death in the summer.
It’s July and Gotham’s sweltering. You can’t even get out of the house without ending up with all your clothes drenched with sweat — hell, even Muffin, who loves the Manor’s gardens more than anything else, is refusing to go outside. Henceforth the decision to have the pool cleaned out and ready for use once again.
Damian looks at the water gun Bruce has handed to him. “Father, I didn’t expect this from you, of all people. Aren’t we not supposed to kill?”
“It’s not for killing,” you snort from beside him, stretched out on your belly on a sunbed with your new bikini already on. “It’s for throwing water at people.” You point towards the guy carefully putting sunscreen over your back, “Feel free to use Conner as a test drive. He’s not going to get hurt anyways.”
“Hey!” he protests, pouting, “I thought you liked me!”
“I do,” you muse, “but Damian’s thirst for murder has to be contained in some way, habibi. Right, Dami?”
His gun’s already loaded with water when he points it straight in your boyfriend’s face and shoots. When he doesn’t even blink at the spray of liquid, your brother tsks and goes back to Bruce. “Father, I’ll need a more appropriate model of this device. The kryptonian isn’t hurt in any way, and we need to fix that.”
“Why’s he always so intent on murdering me?” Kon grumbles, spreading some more sunscreen over the back of your thighs. “I didn’t do anything to him.”
“That’s common around here,” Tim calls out from his own sunbed. “You’ll get used to it.”
Beside him, Cassandra nods. “He starts respecting you after the fifth failed attempt, don’t worry.”
“Fifth?” Conner repeats. “He’s tried at least eleven times by now!”
She shrugs. “Skill issue, if you ask me.”
Dick swims up to the corner of the pool in his unicorn inflatable donut. “Are you guys sure you don’t want to take a swim? Come onnn. How is it that we’re always whining about the weather and then refuse to take a dip?”
You all jump on him out of pure spite — his poor unicorn soon emerging from the water, unlike his owner, who’s now being held under the surface by Cassandra. “You really need to learn when to shut up, Dick.”
Overall, it’s a nice day. It’s your first time at a pool for fun rather than training, and you end up finding it quite relaxing. Bruce lights up the barbecue for lunch, and Alfred — still in his suit and with somehow no trace of sweat on his body — makes sure the lot of you have enough water and drinks for the whole day.
At some point after eating Alfred’s snacks, you lie beside Conner with a book, resting your head over his chest as you read. Damian — who has spent the entire day trying to find a water gun with a different caliber, not even knowing that they don’t make water guns with calibers — whistles innocently and goes to take a seat on the sunbed beside yours.
“So, Kent,” he starts, “has my sister told you that the woman’s consent is the only thing needed for marriage in our culture?”
Conner blinks at him, then down at you. “Is that supposed to scare me off?” he whispers, trying not to have Damian hear. You pat his chest, “Don’t worry, I’d never force you into marriage.”
Your brother grumbles, “Well, did she tell you that they carve the man’s eyes out if he looks at another woman?”
Now a bit worried, your boyfriend looks down to you again. Your hum is a non-committal one. “Oh, yeah, that I’d do. I’ve already got the Kryptonite spoon ready.” you glance up at him — a warning. “Just in case, of course.”
Conner gulps. “Just in case,” he repeats, blanching.
Dick grimaces at the conversation. He turns to Tim and whispers, “Shouldn’t we, I don’t know… help him?”
He bursts out laughing. “Help him?” he hisses. “Dick, look at him– that guy’s right where he wants to be.”
Grayson deadpans. “I fear our sister and her mother have the same taste in men.”
Cassandra nods. “Guys who let them bully them into a relationship. We understood that years ago, Dick. Welcome to the club.”
congratulations! you've reached the end of the fic :) have some memes:
Not heroically like the rest of your family would, or peacefully, or even surrounded by your family.
You died in a damp, cold basement of starvation and pneumonia after the low level kidnappers who’d taken you for ransom declared you a lost cause after all the familial contacts in your phone had left you on voicemail.
The last memory you remember of being alive was of coughing, of thinking you were so hungry, of telling yourself that you would wake up in just a bit, and then everything went black.
The GCPD found your body, what, two days later? You couldn’t really tell. Or be bothered. Your starving body was rotting on the floor while your soul stared at it as a ghost. It was natural, and perfectly reasonable, you assumed, to freak out.
The body had been unable to be identified.
Turns out, when a body rots in a damp basement, along with nearly a month of starvation and pneumonia and broken bones, without any person items that hadn’t been sold off, it was hard to tell who a body was related to.
And bodies with souls that haven’t moved on, as it turns out, rot much faster.
So you followed your body. You watched your own autopsy, the gentle dissection of your body, watching a specialist determine you were still a child, that you died of starvation and pneumonia and lingering blunt force trauma.
Your body was put into storage, a cold, dry coffin on a wall of cold, dry coffins, that left your soul feeling nothing but a cold that couldn’t be shaken.
You spent most of your days roaming the streets after that. You were anchored to these few sections of Gotham, the rich district, the precinct, and the few streets in between.
Dogs could see you. As could cats, squirrels, birds, most animals, interestingly enough.
Just not human beings.
You stayed at the manor most. Not because you enjoyed it, no.
But because every single day, you held out hope that maybe, just maybe, someone would check their phone for your messages, someone would ask where you were, someone would identify you, and you would be able to move on.
You watched as everyone went along with their lives, and whenever someone asked where you might be? Brushed off.
It was always the same 5 rotating excuses.
After school program.
Studying.
Asleep.
At a friend’s house.
Out, you’re old enough to take care of yourself.
You missed living. You missed being warm. You missed being able to feel and cry. You missed at least being slightly acknowledged when you were in the house.
Now the only living things who knew you existed in the manor were the crows in the trees, Ace, Titus, Alfred the Cat, Lucy, Batcow, and the bats in the cave.
That seemed to be it.
And then Duke came along.
You didn’t care for him.
Not at first.
It felt like he was there to replace you, to fill the unconscious void you left in the family that none of your family seemed to realize existed.
And then he saw the family pictures on the mantle for the first time.
“Hey, Tim? Who’s… that? In between Jason and Dick?”
Tim looked up from his maybe 4th coffee for the day, glancing at the photo Duke was staring at. You weren’t smiling in the photo. You were sitting in between Dick and Jason, smushed in between them, looking like you’d be anywhere else. Your clothes weren’t half as nice as the suits everyone else was wearing, and you had bags under your eyes. It was supposed to be a candid photo, everyone chatting and arguing and adjusting their clothing, while you… just stared at the camera with unfocused, tired eyes.
“Oh. That’s B’s kid. First biological one. 2 years older than Damien, I think.”
Duke blinked, staring at the photo, unintentionally ignoring Tim’s voice. He hadn’t seen anyone that looked anything at all like you these past few days.
“- never home anymore. I wouldn’t bother looking.”
“Please look for me.”
“Hey. You… heard that, right?”
“Heard what?”
“Nothing…”
Duke swore he was hearing voices. He’d been told over and over again that it was just the manor settling. Just someone getting home late from patrol. The manor was too safe and secure for anyone to come and live inside.
No one else seemed to notice it.
Well, besides the animals. They’d bark or whine or purr or moo at something that didn’t even seem to be there.
He’d caught both Titus and Ace, on multiple occasions, barking at absolutely nothing, and curled up, whining. Though the later was nearly exclusively Ace. Titus just barked.
But either way, Duke heard that one voice nearly every night. And, unfortunately, tonight was just like any other.
“I hate you, you know? I die and not even a day later my replacement moves in.”
And normally, Duke wouldnt talk back. He tired a few times, and it never worked. But tonight was different.
Midterms were about to start, and as a result, teachers at Gotham Academy had been piling on hesr more and more work to get grades in.
“I’m no one’s replacement. And I’m trying to study. Can you please just shut up for a few hours?”
The voice, thankfully, went silent for a moment, before, “Oh. Oh my god. You can hear me. How can you hear me?!”
That, in all honesty, wasn’t the reaction he was expecting. But the voice rambled on.
“No one’s even noticed I’m gone, no one can hear or see me, well besides Ace I think, so no human can see me, but either way, do you realize how huge this is for me?!”
Wait. What?
“Am I the first to be able to hear you?”
“Yes!”
“Wait. Were you the one on the photo on the mantle? The one that looked like…” Duke trailed off, remembering your features the best he could.
“Yes!” Duke could swear the owner of the voice seemed to be jumping for joy. “Thats me! That was… me.”
“Was?” He asked, cautiously, waiting for a reply, one that was instead met with silence, a slight creak in the slightly open door, and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the room.
It seems whoever was speaking to him… was gone.
Your cries were haunting Bruce. Nearly every night, for an entire month, he’d be tormented by the same sound from sundown til sunrise.
A child, crying, begging for their father to come save them.
Every hour, the cries got quieter. Fainter and fainter, changing from wails of pain and pleas to be let go to begs of mercy and to not be abandoned, and finally, around sunrise, soft, almost inaudible cries of forgiveness, with wet, painful coughs echoing during any seemingly empty stretches of sound.
He swore he knew who the voice belonged to, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
It wasn’t Duke or Damien’s, nor was it Cass or Stephanie’s, not Tim, Jason or Dick, not even Barbara’s.
The only person that left was you.
You, who he clearly remembered allowing to go to a friend’s house and stay the night for as long as you wanted.
You’d basically moved out, at this point, though Bruce figured that a call every once in a while would be nice.
And yeah, he did see your voicemail. All 30 of them. One per day, every day, at the exact same time. But your friend’s mother hadn’t called and you never got into any trouble, so you were most likely fine. Of course, he was slightly concerned when, after 31 days exactly, the voicemails stopped, but he’d check them later.
When Duke had asked at dinner how the person who haunted the house died, the rest of Bruce’s children, along with Bruce himself, of course, looked at the newest addition to their household in confusion.
Duke then clarified. “The person on the mantle in that one photo? The really dusty one in the left corner? Right in the middle?”
Damien clicked his tongue, saying your name like it was a curse. “The elder biological child? Why would you assume that they have died?”
Bruce nodded slowly. “Right, you two haven’t met in person yet. I’ll call them over tonight, you can see them tomorrow morning. They basically live at one of their friend’s houses.” Of course, Bruce would never admit he didn’t know the name of said friend.
It started with an M.
Mia? No.
Maia? Nope.
Ah, right! Mylanie!
“I swear I heard a voice though.”
“I’ll call tonight and you can meet them in the morning and see that they are, in fact, not dead, if it’ll help. Now. How long have the voices been going on?”
“Just since I saw the photo. But I swear, I-“
“Duke, that was nearly a week ago.” Tim spoke up, looking genuinely concerned. “You’ve been hearing what you think is a dead person’s voice for a week?”
And the conversation devolved from then, and Bruce ignored the sinking feeling in his gut that something was very, very wrong.
Jason knew a lot about death, speaking as someone, who, well, had been brutally murdered.
But even so, that didn’t ease the pain in his heart as he finally listened to those 31 days of voicemails after ignoring them for nearly a month.
Last time he’d seen you, you’d both argued. Or was it just him yelling at you while you tried to defend yourself, like a cornered, starving dog. He assumed you’d be fine. That 31 voicemails was you being dramatic and too apologetic and that you needed to toughen up.
And now he was hearing 31 days of you being starved and beaten and tortured, everything getting progressively worse and worse every day, until on the 31st day, the kidnappers simply… gave up. Said you’d die within 20 days max if you didn’t get help and hell, they gave the damn address.
Which Jason then searched up hoping in his heart that someone alive had been found there to see what he could find. And to his despair, there was something.
Multiple articles. Dated back weeks ago. All the same story.
UNKNOWN BODY FOUND AT KIDNAPPING SITE. BODY HAS YET BE TO IDENTIFIED BY CORONERS OR POLICE. IF ANY INFORMATION IS AVAILABLE, PLEASE ALERT THE GCPD.
Jason felt like he couldn’t breathe.
This was a joke.
It had to be.
You were supposed to be the one thing in his life that wasn’t touched by violence. You were the one kid is this godforsaken family that took care of yourself and cooked and did homework and got on the honor role instead of being a vigilante who got bruises and broken bones.
conner kent and tim drake eating you out at the same time. ˚.✦
You love testing your boyfriend's egos, you love how their own fragile masculinity made them end up laying on their stomach, fighting for a taste of your pussy.
One of Conner's hands is pushing your right thigh open, Tim is pressing the left one, making it impossible for you to spread more for them. At this moment, Tim is focusing on your clit, his tongue doing tight circles around the bundle of nerves while Conner pumps two fingers in and out of you and, oh wait! They switched, Tim pushed Conner's fingers out and now he's the one curling three inside of you.
"Dude, c'mon! I was busy there!" Conner flickers his tongue, rolling his eyes before bringing his thumb to your clit, returning the pressure you lost there.
You’re already a trembling, dripping mess, thighs shaking under their iron grips, and they’re still finding new ways to turn this into a goddamn competition.
Tim’s mouth is back on your clit the second he shoves Conner’s fingers aside, sucking hard enough that your hips buck involuntarily. A high, broken whine rips out of you.
“Fuck, Tim!”
“See?” Tim mumbles right against you, voice smug and muffled, lips vibrating. “Told you she likes the suction. You were just flicking around like you’re trying to win a staring contest with her clit.”
Conner snorts, not even bothering to lift his head from where he’s licking long, filthy stripes up the side of your folds, catching the slick that Tim’s ignoring.
“She’s clenching harder on my fingers now, genius. Maybe because I actually know how to find the spot instead of just bullying her clit like it owes me money.”
He crooks those thick fingers again, deeper this time, and you practically levitate off the mattress with a strangled “Ngh—ah! God!”
Tim immediately retaliates by flattening his tongue and dragging it up your entire slit in one obscene pull before sealing his lips around your clit again.
“She literally just said ‘oh god’ when I did that. You heard it. I have witnesses.”
“You’re the only witness and you’re biased as fuck,” Conner fires back. He noses in closer, shouldering Tim half out of the way so he can suck one of your inner lips into his mouth, tugging gently. “There we go, baby. That’s it. You like it when I’m messy, don’t you? Yeah you do.”
You’re trying to speak. You really are.
“Both of you, shut t-the fuck—shut up—” It comes out slurred, pathetic, more moan than sentence.
They both pause, just long enough to look up at you with matching shit-eating grins, chins shiny, pupils blown.
Conner’s the first to break. “Nah. You’re cute when you’re mad and wet.”
Tim hums in agreement, then pointedly drags the flat of his tongue over your clit again while maintaining eye contact. “And you’re cuter when you’re crying about it.”
You try to snap your thighs closed out of pure overwhelmed spite.
They don’t let you.
Conner’s forearm pins your right leg wide, Tim’s hand clamps down harder on the left, and suddenly there are two tongues trying to occupy the same space at once.
It’s uncoordinated. It’s obscene. It’s so fucking much.
Conner growls when Tim’s tongue accidentally slides over his. “Bro. Personal space.”
“You’re literally nose-deep in my girlfriend’s pussy with me, don’t ‘bro’ me right now.”
“She’s my girlfriend too, asshole!”
You let out a desperate, laughing sob. “You’re both—fucking idiots—please—”
“Please what, princess?” Conner purrs, finally giving you a reprieve by kissing the crease of your thigh instead. “Please make you come? Please stop arguing? Please admit I’m better?”
Tim snorts against your clit. “She’s gonna come on my tongue first and you know it. Feel how she’s fluttering? That’s for me.”
Conner immediately pushes two fingers back inside you, right alongside the two Tim already has there, and curls them.
Your whole body locks up. A sound you didn’t even know you could make punches out of your throat.
Then Conner grins like a shark. “Hear that? She said ‘someone.’ Not you specifically.”
Tim rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t fall out of his skull, then dives back in with renewed focus—tight, fast circles on your clit while his fingers grind against that spot that makes your vision white out.
Conner matches him beat for beat, thicker fingers stretching you wider, curling harder, the wet squelch of it all embarrassingly loud.
“Fuck, she’s close,” Conner mutters, almost reverent. “You feel that? She’s gripping me so fucking tight.”
Tim’s voice is wrecked. “Yeah. Because I’m the one on her clit, dipshit.”
You can’t take it anymore.
“Both—both of you—shut up and make me come—please—please—”
Conner laughs low against your thigh. “Bossy.”
Tim just hums smugly. “Told you she likes it when I’m mean.”
Then they stop talking.
Tim sucks your clit into his mouth at the same rhythm Conner’s fingers pump into you, and you shatter.
It hits like a freight train.
You scream, thighs trying to snap closed again, back arching so violently you almost throw them both off. Wave after wave rips through you, slick gushing around their fingers, and they don’t let up (not even a little) drawing it out until you’re sobbing, oversensitive, slapping weakly at their shoulders.
When you finally collapse, panting, trembling, they slowly pull their fingers out at the same time.
Both of them lift their heads.
Both of them look far too pleased with themselves.
Conner licks his lips, slow and deliberate. “I think we tied.”
Tim scoffs, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “I clearly won. She said my name first when she came.”
Batfam x Neglected readers that I haven’t seen yet but want to DESPERATELY read:
Batfam x Neglected!Regina George!Reader who runs their school like the damn navy and the only way anyone realizes is when Damien transfers to their school and questions why everyone runs and tells him to keep his head down when Reader walks down the halls. Reader seems pathetic at home, and takes all that anger and resentment out on their classmates.
Batfam x Neglected!Rogue!Reader who genuinely could not care less how everyone treats them at home, usually spending their free time with Harley, Ivy, Selena, Riddler, Freeze and most of Batman’s rogues. Reader seems polite and kind and innocent at home but genuinely wants to the world to burn.
Batfam x Neglected!Ghost!Reader who actually died a while back but were marked as a John / Jane Doe and simply haunts the manor, waiting for someone to notice their absence. Reader is so, terribly sad that their death hasn’t been noticed.
Batfam x Neglected!Done!Reader who eventually gets fed up with Bruce and elopes with their spouse and comes back spoiled, pampered and adored by them, living in Monte Carlo, Monaco, treated like royalty, with 2 kids and a loving family. Reader is just so done with Bruce and the family.
Batfam x Neglected!Q(BSD)!Reader who has an awful power (Dogra Magra. If they become physically hurt, they can essentially curse the person who hurt them, causing the person to go insane and attempt to kill those around them. Only the person who turned it on can deactivate it.) and adores suffering and pain and misery and making people get hurt and go insane and wreaks havoc when told to simply because they get paid and it’s fun. Reader seems quiet and fine, but adores seeing people suffer because it’s all they know.
"Again?" he laughs, that bright, easy laugh that made you fall for him in the first place.
Oh god oh fuck you're horny again.
Don't get him wrong, he's not complaining. He's never complaining. He loves you. He worship you. He gets off on making you cum.
But his dick is literally chafed and he's running on two hours of sleep and a protein bar he ate between round three and round four and—
You're already tugging at his belt.
His belt. Which he just buckled. Thirty seconds ago.
He's hard again.
How?
How is he hard again?
He's not twenty anymore, he's pushing thirty, his knees click when he does certain positions, he pulled a hamstring last week doing that thing you like where he folds you like a pretzel—okay, he has been slacking lately BUT it's your fault because you don't even let him leave the house—
"No, no, baby, I'm— I'm not complaining," he says, already breathless, already getting to his knees because you've got that look, with glassy eyes, and pouty lips, "I just— hah— give me five minutes? Ten? I need to rehydrate, I need to—"
"You don't want me?"
What?
The words hit him like a bullet to his chest.
No. No no no no. Don't ever say that. Don't ever think that. He wants you. He wants you so much it's ruining him. He wants you when he's asleep, wants you when he's awake, wants you when he's bleeding out on a rooftop wondering if he'll make it home in time to taste you before patrol—
He's already got his mouth on you. Already. Didn't even make a conscious decision. His body just moved because his body wants you and your pleasure, your smile, the little gasp you make when he gets it just right—
"I want you," he mumbles into your thigh, "I want you, I want you, I want you, don't ever say I don't, I'll— I'll prove it, I'll stay down here all night, I don't need sleep, sleep is for people who aren't dating a goddess, I'll just—"
You pull him up by his hair. He whimpers. He whimpers like a puppy because his girlfriend touched his scalp.
God, he's pathetic.
He loves it.
He loves you.
"You were saying something about rehydrating?" you ask, and your voice is teasing but your hand is wrapped around him and his vision goes sparkly at the edges.
"Who cares—ah fuck," he hears himself say, "I-I don't...ugh... Give a f-fuck."
And later, when he's lying on top of you, every muscle screaming, a single tear is rolling down his cheek, because fuck he's overstimulated, He press his lips to your sweaty forehead.
"You're gonna break me someday, you know that?"
You smile.
"That's the plan,"
His dick twitch again, and he'll laugh hysterically into your hair because he's the luckiest man walking in the entire goddamn world.
JASON TODD
He doesn't get it.
He doesn't fucking get it.
You— you— want him? All the time? Every second of every day? You, with your soft hands and your pretty smile and your laugh that sounds like something he doesn't deserve to hear— you want Jason Todd, the dead Robin, the black sheep, the one with blood under his fingernails and a body count longer than his book collection?
"Again, sweetheart?" he rasps, and his voice cracks, actually cracks, because his throat is raw from moaning your name, and his thighs are shaking, and there's a bruise forming on his hip from where you grabbed him too hard and he didn't even notice because he was too busy moaning like a whore.
You nod. Just nod. Like it's nothing. Like you're asking him to pass the salt.
His heart lurches.
He's scared. Not of you— never of you— but of the moment you realize you can do better. The moment you wake up and think why am I wasting my time with this broken, angry, fucked up excuse for a man when I could have someone better?
So he fucks you like his life is depended on it.
Every time. Every single time.
"Alright," he says, rolling on top of you even though his arms are jelly, even though he came so hard ten minutes ago he nearly blacked out, even though he's so tired he gonna pass out at any moment— "Alright, c'mere, I got you, I got—"
"Jay." You catch his face in your hands. "You're crying."
What? No he's not. He's not— shit.
He scrubs at his eyes, pissed, embarrassed, and you're looking at him with that soft, worried expression and he can't handle it, he can't handle this.
"I'm fine," he lies, "I'm fine, I just— I got something in my eye, it's fine, do you wanna do it from behind this time or—"
"Why are you crying, baby?"
Baby.
The word break something in his chest. Something that was already cracked. Something that's been held together with spite and rage and the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he's allowed to have nice things.
"I-I don't know," he chokes out, and now he's really crying, ugly sobs tearing out of his throat, "I'm just s-so overwhelmed and I-I *sob* I don't d-deserve you *sob* you should be with someone who isn't a—a—a—"
You kiss him.
You kiss him through the tears and the snot and the self loathing, and you don't pull away, and you don't look disgusted, and your hands are so gentle on his scarred skin, and he just— he just breaks down.
But it's just because he's overwhelmed by sex, okay?
He buries his face in your neck and sobs and you hold him, you hold him like he's something precious, something worth keeping, and his stupid dick is still half hard against your thigh because he doesn't know what else to do.
"I want you," you whisper into his hair, "just you, Jay. Always."
"...Promise?"
"Promise."
He pulls back, eyes red, face blotchy, looking like a mess.
And then he laughs— his cracked, broken laugh.
"Okay," he says, "okay. But if you're gonna kill me with sex, at least let me grab some water first. And maybe a snack. I'm not dying of dehydration before I make you come again."
You grin.
Yeah his girl's so pretty.
"Alright."
He's still crying a little. He's still hard. He's still certain he doesn't deserve this.
But you're here.
And you want him.
So he'll keep going until his heart gives out, because dying in your arms sounds like the best way to go.
TIM DRAKE
He has a spreadsheet.
No, wait, hear him out— it's not weird, okay? It's organized. It's practical. It's what any rational person would do when confronted with a girlfriend who wants to have sex literally all the time and he needs to make sure he's— that he's—
Meeting expectations.
Performing adequately.
Being a good boyfriend.
Column A: date. Column B: time of day. Column C: position. Column D: duration. Column E: number of times you said his name (sub-column for "just Tim" vs. "oh god Tim" vs. the rare, precious "Timmy" that makes his whole body shudder). Column F: notes. (You like it when he flick his tongue. You didn't like when he tried to flip you over and almost dropped you. He needs to work on his upper body strength. He'll add more pull ups to his training regimen. Done. Noted.)
He's on his third coffee and it's 3 AM and you're asleep next to him— finally, finally asleep, worn out after four rounds and a fifth that he had to tap out of because his vision started doing that staticky thing—
And he's updating the spreadsheet.
Because he loves you. And love means making sure you're comfortable. Love means making you happy. Love means making sure he's the best possible version of himself for you, that he's anticipating your needs, that he always make you cum, that he never, ever falls short—
"What's that?"
Oh fuck him.
You're awake. You're squinting at his laptop screen. He slams it shut, but it's too late, you already saw the color coded tabs, the pie chart (yes, there's a pie chart, he was curious about the distribution of positions, sue him).
"Tim." Your voice is still sleepy and it does things to him, weird things, his body is already responding and he just finished updating a row that said he couldn't go again, scientifically, medically, his body has limits—
"It's nothing."
"Timothy Jackson Drake."
Full name. He's in trouble. He's so in trouble. His stomach flips and his dick twitches and god, why does you being like this make him harder—
"It's— a spreadsheet."
"Of our sex life."
"...Yes."
...
Why aren't you saying anything?
You're in shock aren't you? You're in so much shock you can't even talk.
Of course. You just saw your supposed normal boyfriend as the obsessive freak that he is.
"I'm sorry," he blurts, "I know it's weird, I just— I wanted to make sure I was doing a good job, that I wasn't missing anything, that you were— satisfied— because you want it so often and I thought maybe I wasn't enough and I had to do something—"
"Tim."
"—and I know it's creepy, I'm creepy, I'm a creepy insecure little bitch who can't just enjoy things—"
"Tim."
He shuts up.
You're smiling. A soft, fond, adoring smile.
"You want to know if you're doing a good job?"
He nods, throat too tight to speak.
"Come here."
He crawls into your arms and you pull him against your chest and he can hear your heartbeat and it's the most beautiful sound in the world.
"You're doing amazing," you murmur, stroking his hair, "you're perfect. You're so good to me, Tim. The best."
Best.
The words hit his bloodstream like a drug. He makes a sound— a high, needy, embarrassing sound— and presses his face into your collarbone, his whole body trembling.
"I love you," he whispers, "I love you so much, I'm sorry about the spreadsheet, I'll delete it—"
"Don't you dare. It's hot."
"...What?"
"Knowing you put that much thought into making me cum is honestly..." Your hand slides lower, and he sucks in a breath. "The sexiest thing anyone's ever done for me."
What the fuck?
"You— really?"
"Mmhmm. Now... you said that you couldn't go again, but maybe we should test that hypothesis?"
He's already kissing you before you finish the sentence.
He's going to need a new row. And a new coffee. And possibly a medical professional.
Worth it.
DAMIAN WAYNE
This is absurd.
You are absurd. Your libido is absurd. The fact that he— Damian al Ghul Wayne, heir to the League of Assassins, Robin, the son of the Batman— is currently hiding in the bathroom like a coward because his Beloved crooked her finger at him for the seventh time today is—
"Damian~"
Tt.
He clenches his jaw. His body betrays him instantly, heat pooling low in his stomach, his cock stirring traitorously against the zipper of his tailored slacks.
He is not a beast. He is not ruled by base urges. He was trained from birth to master his desires, to transcend the weakness of the flesh—
"Habibti, please, if you need release I will happily provide it, I am more than capable, but we have already—" his voice drops to a whisper, "—six times today, and I have a Wayne Enterprises board meeting in an hour—"
"And?"
And. You says and like it's nothing. Like his legacy, his reputation, his carefully constructed facade of cold professionalism isn't crumbling around him because of a woman who looks at him like he's a three course meal she hasn't finished.
He emerges from the bathroom.
Big mistake.
You're on the bed. His bed. Dressed in nothing but his shirt— the one with his family crest embroidered on the pocket, the one he wore the first time you fuck him— and you're looking at him with those lustful eyes—
"I missed you."
"You saw me twenty minutes ago."
"Too long."
He's already walking toward you.
Why is he walking toward you?
He should be walking away. He should be asserting dominance. He is a master of seventeen forms of martial arts and he cannot, for the life of him, make his feet move in the opposite direction of you.
"I have a meeting," he says, but his voice is pitiful, needy, and he hates how much he wants you, hates how you've turned him into this— this creature who craves your touch more than anything—
"Cancel it."
"I cannot cancel a board meeting, Beloved, there are protocols—"
"Tell them your girlfriend needed you."
"They will not accept that as a valid excuse—"
"Then make them."
Make them.
The sheer, casual authority in your voice sends a shiver down his spine.
You speak like you own him. Like he should do as you say. Like he should obey every order, as if—
He has his phone out before he can stop himself.
"Pennyworth. I will be... indisposed this afternoon. Inform the board the meeting is postponed."
"Very good, Master Damian. Shall I prepare a nutrient rich smoothie? You've been quite occupied lately."
He can hear the amusement in Alfred's voice.
Very amusing Pennyworth. Very amusing indeed.
He wants to die. He wants to crawl into a hole and never emerge. But then you're crooking your finger again and all thoughts of dignity evaporate like morning mist.
"I canceled the meeting," he says, approaching the bed, trying to maintain some shred of dignity, "I hope you are satisfied—"
You grab him by the tie and pull him onto the bed.
He yelps. He yelps. Like a startled cat. Like Titus when the vacuum cleaner turns on. And then you're straddling him, pinning him down with your body, which shouldn't be possible given his training but his muscles have apparently decided that being pinned by you is exactly what they want—
"I am never satisfied," you murmur against his lips, "not when it comes to you. You know that, right?"
His heart— his cold, closed off, carefully guarded heart— warm up a little.
"Beloved..."
"You're mine, Damian. Every inch of you. Every minute of your day. And I'm going to enjoy what's mine. Understood?"
He swallows hard.
"...Understood."
"Good boy."
His face flushes a deep, humiliating red, and his whole body trembles with the desperate need to hear those words from your lips, to know that he has pleased you, that he is worthy—
One day, he'll tell you. One day, he'll confess how much he needs your approval, your praise, your love. One day, he'll stop pretending he's above these feelings.
But not today.
Today, he'll just lie back and let his Beloved have her way with him for the seventh time, and he'll bite his lip until it bleeds to keep from begging, and when it's over he'll hold you like you're the most precious thing in the universe—
Damian Wayne is the clingiest sleepy boyfriend imaginable. though, he'd never admit that. every night he is practically your body guard.
The manor was quiet in the way only deep nights could be — the kind of silence that made every creak of the old floorboards feel louder than it should. You woke up slowly, blinking against the darkness, your throat dry and your mind fuzzy from a half-remembered dream. The clock on the nightstand read 3:42am. You’d only been asleep for a few hours, but your body was already demanding water.
You tried to slip out of bed quietly, careful not to wake Damian. He was curled up beside you, one arm draped possessively over your waist even in sleep, his breathing deep and even. His dark hair was messy against the pillow, his face relaxed in a way it rarely was during the day. You smiled softly, brushing a stray strand from his forehead before easing out from under his arm.
The second your feet touched the floor, he stirred.
“Mm… where are you going?” His voice was thick with sleep, rough and low, but his hand reached out immediately, fingers brushing your wrist.
“Just getting water,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right back.”
He made a small, discontented sound, but his eyes stayed closed. You padded to the bathroom, the cool tile under your feet a relief. You filled a glass from the sink, sipping slowly, listening to the quiet drip of the faucet. When you turned to leave, Damian was standing in the doorway, hair even messier, eyes half-open, wearing his sleeping shorts and an old t-shirt.
You nearly jumped. “Damian? What are you doing up?”
He shrugged, stepping closer. “Making sure you don’t hurt yourself." fall in the toilet.”
You stared at him, trying not to laugh. “I’m not going to hurt myself getting water. I’m a grown woman.”
He crossed his arms, looking adorably stubborn even half-asleep. “The floor is slippery at night. And you’re tired. I’m just… being cautious.”
You smiled, setting the glass down and stepping into his space. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. His chin rested on your head, warm and solid.
“You’re clingy when you’re sleepy,” you teased softly, fingers tracing patterns on his back.
“I am not clingy,” he muttered, but his arms tightened around you. “I’m… protective. There’s a difference.”
You laughed quietly, nuzzling into his neck. “Sure. Protective of me falling into the toilet or something at 3am.”
He huffed, but didn’t let go. Instead, he walked you back to the bed, still holding you close, and pulled you down with him. You ended up curled against his chest, his arm draped over your waist, leg tangled with yours. He pressed a soft kiss to your hair, already drifting back to sleep.
“Stay,” he mumbled. “Please.”
You smiled against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He made a small, contented sound and held you tighter.
The next night, it happened again.
You woke up around 2am, needing the bathroom. The second your feet hit the floor, once again; Damian stirred beside you. This time he didn’t even pretend to be asleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction.
“I’ll come with you,” he said, voice gravelly.
You turned, smiling in the dark. “Damian, I can go to the bathroom by myself. I’ve been doing it for years.”
He frowned, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “The hallway is dark. And cold. You might trip.”
You laughed softly, but let him follow you anyway. He walked beside you the whole way, one hand on your lower back like he was ready to catch you if you stumbled. When you reached the bathroom door, he waited outside, leaning against the wall until you came out. Then he took your hand, leading you back to bed without a word.
Once you were both under the covers, he pulled you against his chest again, arms wrapping around you like a shield. His chin rested on your head, breath warm against your hair.
“I'll say it again. you're clingy,” you whispered, smiling.
“I am not,” he muttered, but his hold tightened. “I’m… ensuring your safety. That’s all.”
You kissed his collarbone. “Well I love your version of safety.”
He made a small, pleased sound and fell back asleep almost immediately, holding you like you might vanish if he let go.
It became a pattern.
Every night, no matter how deeply he slept, the second you moved, Damian was awake. If you got up for water, he followed, standing in the doorway like a silent guardian. If you had a nightmare and sat up gasping, he was there instantly, pulling you into his arms, murmuring soft reassurances in Arabic until you calmed down. If you simply rolled over, he’d reach out, hand finding yours under the covers, lacing your fingers together like he needed the connection to stay asleep.
During the day, he was the same reserved, slightly arrogant Damian Wayne the world knew — blunt, focused, keeping everyone at arm’s length. But at night, in the quiet dark of your shared room, he was soft. Clingy. Needy in a way he’d never admit.
One particularly cold night, you woke up shivering. Before you could even reach for the extra blanket, Damian was already moving. He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms and legs around you like a human blanket, his body heat seeping into yours. His face pressed against your neck, breath warm and steady.
“Cold?” he mumbled, half-asleep.
“A little,” you whispered, smiling as you snuggled into him. “You’re warm though.”
He made a small, contented sound, nuzzling closer. “Stay close then. I’ve got you.”
You fell back asleep like that — wrapped up in Damian Wayne, his arms around you, his leg thrown over yours, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you.
In the morning, he’d wake up first, as always. He’d slip out of bed quietly, pretending the clingy boy from the night before had never existed. He’d make coffee, set out your favourite mug, and act like nothing had changed. But you’d catch him watching you with that soft look when he thought you weren’t looking. And when you’d smile at him across the table, he’d blush faintly and look away, ears pink.
But at night, he’d reach for you again. Every single time.
Because no matter how much he denied it during the day, Damian Wayne was the clingiest sleepy boyfriend in the world. And you wouldn’t have him any other way.
A/N: lil guy so cute I love him sm. sorry for constantly disappearing im lowkey setting up a queue rn
r/aita for saying my girlfriend gained weight u/saeitoshi10
current conflict: my girlfriend is super sensitive — beyond what i expected. i feel like a total failure because of it.
solution: ask this subreddit on their thoughts of the situation, may receive feedback worthy enough to enact on
situation at display: my girlfriend is more sensitive than i thought. it was a couple days ago, i had just come back from a trip out of the country for my career. my girlfriend is completely aware of how career-oriented i am, so the distances are well managed. i admire her for that.
though, upon getting back, i noticed she just looked a bit different. it was a one-off comment; an observation. no insulting, no belittling … so how could she get so mad that she started yelling at me? i kept my composure, as an adult would, and told her to relax. and yet, still, it didn’t prove any effect.
i am just utterly confused and honestly drained from this. it’s not something i want to put energy into. i just have to know, am i really as bad as my girlfriend is making me seem?
| u/bumblingbachirahehe: my mom ALWAYS told me that doing something like this is something only idiots do! 😅😀 maybe apologize? suck up your pride! yta! 🙂
| u/NOTrinitoshi: remember when u got caught watching footballer buttcheek jiggle compilations on the family computer
| u/karasu.endsu: this is reddit why’s this written like a lab report and why is no one questioning it at all?!
| u/teddyknightnotbear: i mean innit love im british or whatever ive only been in 2 chapters of the manga
> u/Chris.Princeisonline: Teeeddyy what’d I tell you about not breaking the fourth wall! 😅
| u/aikugota.snakeinhispants: DUDE NOOOOOO u do not bring up weight around ppl YTA that’s crossing a line
| u/sheloves_sendou: give me your girlfriend
| u/themichaelkaiser: Fact #5 about women — their opinions carry zero rationality. Find out more on tonight’s episode of my podcast “The Blue Rose Blooms Again”.
> u/poof!itsness: YAY kaiser we love you <333 everyone tune in!!
> u/cheetahprint..chigiri: bitch no
| u/isagiyoi.11: No. This is awful. Villainy . . . please apologize to her. YTA.
| u/shidouisdeepinside: well i mean u guys are basically broken up now so how abt u answer that dm i just slid u? 😏
| u/NOTrinitoshi: YTA YTA YTA YTA YTA DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE END UR LIFE
> u/itzcharleschevy: im ctfu
| u/xnagisei: nta i think
> u/reoreoreo03: NAGII howd the FaZe Clan audition go
> u/xnagisei: gud
> u/reoreoreo03: im so happy youre branching out<3 remember to come to the field at 4:00 !
> u/xnagisei: 👍
> u/saeitoshi10: ? my comments arent a private chat. i need answers.
| u/julianloki.therealest: bruh i mean ur obv the asshole but i am very intrigued by u 🤔 youre quite the specimen
> u/itzcharleschevy: julz why u texting like that
> u/julianloki.therealest: hugo’s rubbing off on me 😞
| u/iggybunny: lmfao wait that’s ur girlfriend? she’s with me rn. we’re reading this together. 😭🤣 yta btw
