also hit the "tell me something!" for requests, comments, etc :)
Damian
dami x reader series:
Damian meeting reader
Damian and readers first date
Damian and readers first kiss
Damian and reader play Uno! ~~ sorta nsfw
Damian and reader 'get serious'
Damian and reader go to a wayne gala
Damian and reader AND jon have a snow day! ~~ sorta nsfw
Damian introduces reader to Dick
Damian tells reader the truth
Damian and reader take a break
Damian and reader's new years eve
Damian and reader and Steph and Jason?!
Damian and reader's 'perfect' date
Damian and reader: the breakdown
Damian and reader's first ~~ nsfw !
Damian and reader and the batfam!
Damian and reader: the move ~~ sorta nsfw
Damian and reader get domestic
Damian and reader and the babysitter
Damian and reader get violent
Damian and reader: the safehouse
Damian and reader and the daughter of the demon
Damian and reader: the voyage
Damian and reader: captive pt. 1
Damian and reader: captive, pt. 2
Damian vs. reader
Damian Wayne headcanons
Jason
Jason Todd headcanons
Dick
Childhood Friends to Lovers Series:
Chapter 1: The Monkey Bars
Chapter 2: The Manor
Chapter 3: The Concert
Chapter 4: The Suspension
Chapter 5: The Promotion
Chapter 6: coming soon !!
continuation of my previous post
masterlist of all dami/batfam posts here
starting commissions for batfam content you'd like but haven't seen yet.. DM me if you're interested !!!
warning depictions of violence & major character death. please DNI if these are potential triggers
dami's pov !!
"Dame, that's enough for tonight," Tim says.
"No."
"It's been hours," Dick adds. "Nothing's changed."
Damian's next inhale is sharp. Like a blade piercing through.
Nothing's changed.
"You don't know that," he says. Trying to believe it. Will it to be true.
Eyes strained from staring at the computer. Going over the little evidence he had. Unable to stop replaying their last conversation in his head—
Just stay with me.
I can't do this without you.
Please don't go.
Most days were like this. Tim and Dick spinning his vigil into obsession. His father dragging him away from criminals on patrol. Stopping him before he can cross the line. Jason telling him to consider the worst. Cass's silent solidarity and Steph's optimism.
All of it too much.
Then he'd drag himself back to the apartment in the mornings. Walk past the "Still Missing" posters taped at every intersection. Torn now. Dirty. Most of them covered by more recent news.
Inside the apartment, plastic is taped where the windows should be. Shards of glass and wood still on the floor. Only her belongings kept tidy. Everything in place for when she came back.
He'd curl on their bed for a few hours. Sometimes to sleep. Most days, to smell her scent come up from the sheets. Fading now. The imprint of her body next to him.
"Damian," Dick puts a hand on his shoulder, "I understand this is hard—"
"Shut up," he slaps his hand away. "You don't understand a thing. None of you do."
"The entire Justice League put out a search for her," Tim says. "That included outer space and the bottom of the ocean. Damian, maybe..." He can't seem to finish that sentence.
"She's out there," Damian insists. Fists clenched. Knuckles white. "It's my responsibility to find her."
Tim surrenders first. Leaves. Then Dick.
Alone in the dark cave. Wasting away. A punishment he feels deserving of. For failing his grandfather and mother. Failing her.
Then, the computer flickers with its own volition. Black for a second, before a set of numbers type themselves out.
Coordinates.
"Qalbi?" he whispers to an empty room.
Copies the coordinates rapidly into the GPS. Somewhere along the southern border of Australia. Buried within the forests.
Suddenly, he's on one of the Batplanes, unable to recall how he got into his suit, how he took off into the air. Only one thing on his mind—
I'm coming, Qalbi.
I'll be there this time.
"Damian?" His father's face appears on the control panel monitor. Tired. Grayer. "The coordinates were sent directly to the Batcave. They're in our systems. Rushing towards them headfirst is exactly what they w—"
"I don't care," Damian says, gripping the yoke. Voice uneven. "I don't care, Father. I have to try."
"We can rendezvous with you three clicks from the border," Bruce says. "You don't have to face them alone."
"Don't you understand we can't wait any longer?" Damian argues. Then his voices quiets. The desperation slips through. "Even to see her for just a second...."
"Will mean nothing if you can't bring her home." Bruce sighs. "Son... whether she's alive or not, you're walking into a trap. Let us help you."
He considers it for a brief moment. Softens himself to the idea of accepting help. Of saving her with his family at his side.
But the thought is fleeting. The rational forgotten as Damian turns the call off and sets the plane for radio silence.
I'm coming, Qalbi.
Everything is oddly quiet within the forest. No security systems or hidden assassins to bypass. No traps or locked doors.
Thirty miles of greenery and freshly swept pathways. The Null base spiraling down into the dirt using cobblestone. An old temple or fortress hollowed out for their own purposes.
Doors open when he arrives. Welcoming, even.
The long hallway at the entrance is covered in crimson silk. Candlesticks lit. Shadows lining themselves up along the walls. Unmoving as Damian passes—not so much the turn of a single head.
The hall opens up to a stone cylinder of a room. Doors closing behind him—thud of a lock.
They stand on a platform against the back wall. Three of his mother's former proteges. Traitors. Psychopaths. Demons. Whatever you want to call it, Damian didn't care.
All he wanted was to rip them apart with his bare hands. Deep, seething anger bubbling through his veins, until—
A wooden side door cracks open. The last of the four—taller than Damian, forehead covered in a greasy sheen of sweat—is ushering her forward.
No apparent shackles or restraints. No obvious injuries on her face or otherwise. She looked healthy, strong. Above all else, she was alive.
Damian hears himself gasp. Like breathing air for the first time in a year.
Her head shifts, wanting to look up, but stops when her captor whispers, "Not yet."
Neck bent. Facing the floor.
"Sit," he says, as if speaking to a dog.
And she listens. Kneeling down at the center of the room. Legs tucked neatly beneath herself.
"Good," he says. Sets down a thin sword and a gun before her. "Remember who you are. What you're capable of."
He leaves her. Joins the others on the platform.
"Impressed?" The brunette woman remarks. Not the youngest of the bunch, but the smallest. "Our League will make hundreds like her. Followers, who believe in an equal world."
"Since when are belief and coercion the same thing?" Damian says, teeth grit. Eyes still on her. The hands she holds in her lap. The gaze she won't lift from the floor.
Docile.
"They won't all be like her," she answers. "For there to be choice, there can no longer be you." A wicked grin grows on her face. "She will make sure of that."
Damian watches as she takes the sword into her hand. Slips the gun into her belt.
Tries to call out to her, "—You don't have to do this. We can go home." But even her name doesn't seem to register.
She's unrecognizable when she moves. Faster than the typical trainees the League spat out. Stronger. An amalgamation of Cass's technique and something less graceful, more ferocious.
Damian remains evasive. Redirecting her kicks and punches. Backing away until he nearly hits the door.
The Null's plan is clear. Train her to the point that she can't be subdued. Not without hurting her. Something Damian would never do.
She obviously doesn't feel the same way.
The first strike she lands radiates needles along Damian's jaw. Taints his tongue with the taste of metal. The second tears the leg of his uniform open. A long cut dripping down into the floor, deep enough to sting.
The fight lasts an hour at least. Damian letting her back him into different corners. Rip his uniform to shreds. Hit him each time he's in reach.
It's cathartic almost. Makes him feel like he's paying even a percentage of the price for what he's put her through.
It feels like love in the Al Ghul's own twisted image.
Her sword shoots forward, close to his ear. Like a reflex, he seizes her wrist and disarms her. The sword clatters to the ground, and that's when one of the Null leaders shouts, "Quit toying with him!"
She steps back and rips the gun out from her belt. Steady between her hands. Barrel aiming between his eyes.
Damian exhales. Lifts his hands up slowly. "Qalbi."
Her brows furrow. The word familiar, but the meaning seemingly lost.
Carefully, he peels his mask off. "If this is what you really want then I won't stop you."
The others are talking amongst themselves on the platform. The brunette woman saying, "It's not going to work."
The greasy man responding, "Just give her a second."
Damian takes a step closer. Sees her grip readjust on the handle. Legs and breath not as steady as before.
"It's okay," Damian says.
She's frowning now.
He takes another step.
"Don't," she shudders. Gripping down on the gun. Warning him. "I waited for you."
Damian thinks of all the excuses. The year of sleepless nights and turning the world upside down trying to find her.
None of it means a thing. "I know."
One last step.
The metal of the barrel connects with Damian's forehead.
He inhales. Closes his eyes. Accepts death so long as it comes from her hand.
His father is already on the way. His brothers too, most likely. They'll take care of her. Atone for all the ways he's failed.
"Damian."
His eyes peel open. See the tears streaming down her beautiful face.
She whispers, "I wouldn't have done anything differently."
Words don't come fast enough. Screams and cries for her to stay still. To not rip the barrel away from his forehead.
She turns on her heel. A single hand firing two precise shots. One into the greasy forehead of the Null who walked her inside. Another through the leg of the brunette woman.
The remaining man on the platform—the biggest of the group, the one he remembers his mother boasting of—throws a knife before she can fire the third shot.
He knows it's too late. Knows that when it slips into her chest, it's struck the center of her heart.
She's gone before she can even hit the floor.
Before her blood can fill the cracks between the cobblestone.
continuation of my previous post
masterlist of all dami/batfam posts here
comment if you want to be added to the taglist
warning there will be themes of violence, both mental & physical abuse. please DNI if these are potential triggers
Gravel's feet shift on the mat. Pointing in line with your shoulder. Weight on her bigger toe. Right shoulder curved.
You catch her left hand halfway through the motion. Sweep her ankle close to the smaller toes. Catching her off-balance. Driving her down to the mat.
Her voice booms when she curses. Angry when the others begin to laugh.
"That's, what? The fifteenth fight you've lost?" Creep mocks, stepping onto the mat. Grabbing your waist as his lips press to your neck. Licking sweat.
You know better than to try attacking. Learned the hard way that he can't be overpowered. So, you let your body go limp. Eyes drifting off towards one of the walls.
"Jesus," Red groans. Real disgust drawn on her face. "You're slobbering all over her."
"I can't help it." Creep grabs your chin, shifting your face to see you from whatever angle he pleases. "She's so beautiful."
"Well, when you're done groping her—" Grease heads for the door. Hair down to his shoulders now. Too occupied with only your progress. "I need her in the lab."
It's common for them to talk like this nowadays. Like you're not actually there. Not human anymore. Something different. Born and molded in this very place.
And it's hard to disagree. To see yourself as anything different from a machine moving from room to room.
The days that came before this—a year ago now... maybe longer—are hard to picture. What it felt like when Talia died. Damian's voice. The smell of the apartment you shared.
Often you find yourself doubting any of it happened.
"Him and his lab," Creep scoffs. Hand beneath your shirt. "Bet he hasn't seen the sun in weeks."
Lips to your neck again. Like he's pushing up blood from your chest with his calloused hands. Sucking it out through his teeth.
Your eyes are on a fern in the corner now. Red pot. Leaves browning. Dying.
How lucky.
"Do you really have to touch her like that?" Gravel says, scowling at the edge of the mat.
He comes up for air. "Nobody told you to watch."
Red stands at Gravels' side by the edge of the mat. Arms folded, rubbing her elbows. "Maybe you could give her the day off... since tomorrow—"
"Who the fuck is gonna stop me?" Something shifts in him. The same darkness that spilled out the first time he slapped you. "You two?"
They go quiet. Red glancing over her shoulder again and again as they leave. No other choice—if such a thing exists at all.
Creep will kill them. Could do it easily.
You've seen it. Him snapping bodies in half with a single hand. Using guns and swords and knives at his leisure. Overly enthusiastic in one moment, then furious in the next. Too fast and strong to stop.
Talia considered him a potential leader of the League, Red told you before. Then shared in whispers his fall from grace because despite his physicality, "there's something off inside of him."
"Finally, we're alone," he breathes into your skin.
You get to the lab an hour later. Gun loaded. Waiting.
Woman sitting across the room. Blood rolling down her temple. Crying.
You fire before she can scream. Before the terror of inevitable death can crawl up her throat.
It feels like mercy.
But mostly, it doesn't feel like anything at all.
"Good," Grease says. Close to a smile, but not quite. A lizard showing its teeth. "You did that—"
continuation of my previous post
masterlist of all my dami/batfam posts here
starting a taglist in the comments, leave a comment if you'd like me to include you so you can get a notif for the updates
warning: there will be themes of violence, both mental & physical abuse, and brief emetophobia. please DNI if these are potential triggers
It didn't take long for you to realize that for each of them, you served a different purpose.
For Red, as you'd begun to call her, you were a friend. Someone to sit with during meals. To walk beside in the small, overgrown garden tucked between concrete walls.
She wasn't deterred by your silence. If anything, it encouraged her.
Long, winding tangents about all the hurt the Al Ghuls have inflicted. About the Null.
"A correction," she'd describe them, "A chance for something better."
A Bandaid for the cut Damian's family had left on the world.
"Ask me anything," Red would say, over and over. "I won't keep you in the dark like they did."
The words slipped from you. Flat. Distant.
"They never threw me out of a window."
Red smiled.
"The ones who did that were still blinded by the old way of doing things," she said. "Our orders were clear from the start. You were always meant to come here alive."
The other girl, Gravel, had no interest in being your friend. You were a nuisance. An obstacle standing between her and her destination.
Something she could use to make herself better.
Twice a day, she threw you into a padded room and forced you to fight. No warm-up. No warning. Just impact. Her fists. Your ribs. The mat catching you when your legs gave out.
Sometimes the others watched. Silent. Observing.
"Again," she'd snap, hauling you back up by your shirt.
She talked while she hit you. About your stance. Your reach. About "Shiva's influence".
"You hesitate," she said more than anything else. "That's what will get you killed."
Again.
"You leave openings."
Again.
"You think too much."
Again.
"Stop waiting for someone to save you."
The taller, broader man only ever came to you when you were alone.
Creep, you called him.
In your head. Every time you saw his face.
He liked to bring you new clothes. Expensive silks and linens. Nothing that belonged in a place like this.
Watching you closely when you took them.
"I admire you," he told you once.
He had let himself into your room without knocking. Knelt at your bedside.
"Your resilience," he said, looking up at you like a deity. "The loyalty you hold for Wayne."
His hand wrapped around your knee before you could pull away. Stomach turning.
"I hope," he continued softly, "you'll feel that way about me soon."
Your voice trembled as it came out. "You know what I hope?"
He leaned closer. "Tell me."
You swallowed.
"I hope when Damian gets here he kills you first."
The strike came fast. Your head snapped to the side. A sharp ring in your ear.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly. Smiling widely. "I didn't mean to do that. I'm not used to not getting what I want."
His hand lingered a moment longer before finally releasing your leg.
"But I'm working on it."
Your skin crawled.
"That's what this is, isn't it?" he added. "You and I—we're getting better."
The days passed like that. Red talking. Gravel hitting. Creep watching. And slowly, you were losing your will to push back.
Between it all, there was Grease.
He'd take you into this room with no windows. Just a desk and two chairs. A single overhead light that made his skin shinier. Like deep down he were actually a reptile.
At first. he asked questions. About your past. About Damian. Things you've done or felt. Watching when you answered. Watching even closer when you didn't.
Always. Always layering in the same things—
"He knows where you are."
"He has the resources."
"He hasn't come."
"Nobody is looking for you."
"You're still here."
Some days, you found yourself finishing the thought before he did.
He's not here.
When the questions stopped working, he switched to puzzles. Boxes with hidden latches, long riddles.
Taking things from you when you failed.
Sleep.
Food.
Fresh air.
And when you'd succeed—
"Look how you perform without him."
Another box. Key locked in the center.
"You're sharper like this."
A pattern hidden between a thousand numbers.
"Stronger."
Your hands began to move faster. More certain.
"This is what you are," he said, watching you solve something in half the time it took before. "Not what he made you."
The worst of it was the violence.
Images first. Bodies torn apart in ways you can't unsee.
Then real ones.
Cold. Rotting. Close enough to smell.
He made you look. Made you stay. Turned each one into something clinical—causes, effects. Until all of it blurred together.
The first thing he asked you to kill was an ant. Simple press of your finger onto the table. Even then you hesitated, but followed.
Then a rat with a hammer. You cried. He didn't stop you.
A dog with a sword. You looked away. Another one was brought in. And another. Another. Each time worse than before.
When he brought in a man, he covered his head with a sack. Fastened him to a chair. Put a gun in your hands.
"I can't," you whispered.
"You can," Grease said.
Your arms felt too heavy to lift. Barrel waving as you shook.
"I can't."
"You can do anything."
The words echoed. Unsettling in your mind.
You raised the gun anyway.
The man sobbed beneath the sack.
Your arms dropped. "I can't."
The shot rang out before you could react. Grease's gun. The body jerked, then slumped.
Still.
Your stomach heaved. Collapsed and clawing at the floor.
"Please," you choked. "Please—I can't do this anymore."
Grease crouched in front of you. Grabbed your hair to force your head up.
"Nobody's coming to save you," he said quietly. "So save yourself."
Looking up into Grease's eyes, the body folded over itself behind him, you finally faltered.
For the first time, you accepted that five months had passed and he wasn't here. Damian won't come.
Tim: okay so i think a moment that REALLY shaped my brain was reading a superbat hate-love fanfic a week before becoming robin and then years later learning that Jason was the author and the reason the updates stopped was because he died.
Jason: i only wrote it was cause bruce pissed me off a lot , i had started one where i made him get pregnant , it was a batman x bruce wayne too,,,,,, i wonder if i still have the draft somewhere..
Barbara: you know what. this explains why you two are they way that you are
Dick: was it batman or bruce that was pregnant?
Jason: why do you want to know..?
Barbara: answer the question, coward
part2 kinda
continuation of my previous post
masterlist for all dami/batfam posts here
warning: in the next few chapters the plot is going to get significantly darker. there will be themes of violence and both mental & physical abuse. please DNI if these are potential triggers
When you wake, you're already moving.
Low, constant hum all around. Bones vibrating. Too groggy at first to understand you're aboard a plane.
Your back aches from being folded too long in your seat. Neck tilted at an angle that makes your spine throb.
Eyes drift out the window. Nothing but open ocean. For a moment, you just stare. But there's voices ahead. Soft, easy laughter. Your four captors in the cockpit.
Nauseous. The panic returns. Feeling too. Pins and needles creeping into limbs that don't feel like yours.
You try to lift your hand, but a sharp metallic scrape stops you.
CLINK.
Your gaze drops. Cuffs wrapped tight around your wrists and ankles, fastening you to your seat.
That's when you notice the clean gauze around your hands. Fresh over old wounds. One of them has taken the time to tend to you.
Your stomach churns harder.
"She's up."
The words are barely louder than the engine.
One of them glances back. The redhead.
Your arms and legs struggle against the cuffs as she gets to her feet. Approaches you. The freckles are more prominent now. Faint scars cutting through them.
A bottle presses to your lips before you can react. You flinch, turning your head, but her hand steadies your jaw.
"Easy."
Speaking to you like an animal.
"Drink."
You hesitate. But the burn in your throat is so great. Tongue like sandpaper against the roof of your mouth.
A small sip. Then another. Body betraying you as you greedily swallow every ounce.
"Good."
Maybe an animal is all you are at this point.
You shrink back into the seat as much as the cuffs will allow. "Where are you taking me?"
She smiles faintly. Scars crinkling along her nose. "You'll understand soon."
None of them speak to you again for hours. Or maybe minutes. Time's lacked meaning since you came to the Box.
Engine humming. Ocean stretching out forever. Thoughts circling the same things over and over—blood and pierced flesh. Still, green eyes.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
Don't think about it.
Don't—
"Hey."
Your eyes snap open. Not her this time. One of the two men. Tall and lanky. Presence heavier than the rest. He hunches over himself so that you're eye level. Skin overly pale and shiny.
His voice is thin, breathy.
"I heard you were capable of close range combat." Stares down at your bandaged arms. "You hurt people."
"I didn't mean to," you say. As if in confession. As if telling this stranger will change what's already been done.
"No one ever does at first."
Your body shifts unnaturally. Eyes wides. Breath catching.
And he watches that reaction carefully. Catalogues it. Then walks away, like he's gotten what he wanted.
Silence again for some time. Only the engine and nightmares chasing from close behind.
The landing is sudden. Ears popping painfully as the plane roughly hits the ground.
They unbuckle you efficiently. One of them unlocking the cuffs, only to replace them with a tighter grip around your arm.
"Up," the gravel-voiced woman orders. Unmasked now. Round face and even-tanned skin. An angry look painted permanently across her face.
Your legs buckle the second you try to stand, but the redhead catches you. "Not too quickly."
The air outside is cold, thin. Salt musking the air.
Before you can make sense of any of it, you're pushed across a narrow stretch of metal and into something else.
Darkness. Cold metal. Whiff of oil.
A submarine.
Pushed through low ceilings and narrow corridors. Sense of pressure against every inch of your body.
They don't bother restraining you this time. Instead you're locked in a small compartment. Rusting walls and a bolted bench. Faint red light glowing directly above your head.
Trapped for long enough to fall asleep and wake. To count to five thousand so your head won't spiral towards the worst.
You try calling out once, but no one answers. Pretend to have a conversation with Damian to make yourself feel better. Mock his even tone. His rigid thinking. Convince yourself he also occupies the room.
Eventually, the door opens heavily. And you expect to see him. To save you. But it's only the lanky, slimy one from before. Passing food and water in a blur.
The next time you're moved, it's daylight outside. Blinding. Your eyes squint as you're pulled onto a small riverboat. Sweat rolling down your spine from the humidity.
By the time your feet touch land, everything is dense green. A jungle. Uneven, moist ground. Animals and bugs whistling above.
Weaker than you've ever felt before. Struggling to find the will to keep yourself upright.
"Keep up," the gravel-voiced woman would bark every now and then. Pushing you. Letting roots catch your feet.
And the same hand catches you every time. Red-hair. Always.
"It's alright."
"Watch your step."
You want to pull away. Exhibit any ounce of disgust. But your body can't muster it. Not anymore.
Another plane waiting for you deep in the jungle. Smaller, older. By the time you board, you've stopped trying to ask where you are. Stopped wondering.
They know that. That's why you're not restrained anymore. Not locked away.
The landing brings you somewhere unlike all the others. Paved pathways leading to an air-conditioned fortress. Concrete walls, painted with symbols and caricatures of demons. Bright lights and woven tapestries.
One of the four begins to walk in step with you. Arm pressed to yours. The other man. The only one who hadn't spoken to you throughout the travel.
Taller and broader than all the others. Average face. Average voice.
Yet, it sends a chill down your spine when he tries speaking to you like someone he's always known. When he so enthusiastically tells you, "This is your home now."
i do notice the sweet readers who always interact with my posts, whether that's liking, reblogging and even commenting. but there's also been a recent influx of rude comments and even ppl cussing me out in my inbox just because they don't like my characterizations or bc i'm adding tags they don't want me to include. it is not hard to just keep scrolling and go on with your day without being cruel. we're talking about batman fanfiction here, it's not that deep okay ðŸ˜
I want DC to continue the trend of Jason just having really outlandish side quests that are just almost never brought up in canon after they run their course. The All Blades. His training before coming back to Gotham. Owning the Iceberg Lounge. Yes, Dick, Tim and every other Bat goes through this but I don't know why, but it's funnier when it's Jason.
Bruce: We need to contact Queen Hippolyta about Diana. But all of the Amazons are-
Jason, dialing a flip phone: Hey, Your Majesty. Bruce has something to ask. Yeah, sure, yes, totally, I can arrange that too. I'll hand you over and get that done.
Bruce, covering the phone: how do you have the Queen of Themyscira's phone number.
Jason: All residents of Themyscira do? I lived there for six months last year? I worked as Hippolyta's assistant? I told you this?
Bruce: But... There's no men allowed-
Jason: It was when I got hit with that gender thing from that guy in Zatanna's apartment. God, you don't fucking listen to a thing I say.
continuation of my last post
masterlist of all dami/batfam posts here
warning: in the next few chapters the plot is going to get significantly darker. there will be themes of violence and both mental & physical abuse. please DNI if these are potential triggers
"Do as I say. Yes?"
A heavy swallow rolls down your throat. Nodding quickly before her hand wraps around your elbow, tugging you through corridors and rooms you had no idea existed in the Box.
Her other hand twists at the head of her cane. Prying the emerald free. A blade slides out from it, long and thin.
A final room. A dead end.
She all but throws you inside as a bookshelf shifts sideways with a quiet hiss. "Get in."
"You're not coming with me?"
She straightens her robe. Calm. Certain "I am the daughter of the Demon's Head. I will not hide—not anymore."
"It could be Damian," you rush. "Or Jason."
"No," she says. "Not this time."
A sharp pinch on your shoulder forces you back into the narrows space. Metal plating. Drywall. Rotting wood.
A coffin.
Talia pulls the shelf back into place. Long fingers curled around the edge.
The last sliver of light catches a single emerald eye. Her voice lowers, "You'll take care of him."
The finality of it twists your stomach. Then the light disappears. Swallowed in darkness as you wait. Trying not to tremble as footsteps echo through the bunker.
Voices follow. Men and women muffled through the wall.
Fragments drift through.
"...hypocrisy—"
"...destiny—"
Tension builds. Tightens.
Then metal scrapes.
A body hits the floor.
Grunts. Sharp and violent.
Wood splinters.
Something wet. Tearing.
You clamp a hand over your mouth. Masking every breath. Training even the sweat rolling down your spine to stay quiet.
A body slams into the wall beside you. Rattling the bookshelf. Raining dust into your hair.
Then everything goes silent.
Your mind spirals.
Where is she?
Where's Damian?
Why does everyone keep leaving?
Seconds stretch into what feels like hours.
Then—
A hand bursts through the wall. Seizes your collar and yanks. The world explodes into splintered wood and dust as you're dragged through.
The ground feels sharp and wet where you land. Eyes open.
And meet hers. Green. Unmoving.
Talia's still body at your side. Blood pooling beneath her, soaking into your clothes where you've landed.
For a moment, you don't understand.
But once you do, a scream tears out of your throat.
You scramble back, splinters biting into your palms. Blood smeared across your side.
"No," you choke. "No, no—no."
Four masked figure stand over you. Swords strapped across their backs. Black tactical gear torn in places. Clean, precise cuts where Talia must have struck.
Three more bodies lie scattered across the room.
One of the four steps forward.
You scream again.
"Hey—hey, it's okay." She pulls off her mask. Released a wild, red mane. Young and freckled. Scars cutting across mistakenly kind features. Big front teeth. "We're not going to hurt you."
She reaches for you. You flinch violently, curling in on yourself. Still sobbing. Still calling for Talia to wake up.
"You're scared," she says gently. "I understand. But I promise your life is protected." Juts her gloves hand a little further. "You're as much a pawn in the Al Ghul scheme as the rest of us."
"Enough small talk," another voice hisses. Female. Rough. "We're out of time."
The red-haired girl nods once. Her hand lowers.
A syringe appears between her fingers. Yellow fluid catching the light.
"You'll understand soon," she says.
There's nowhere left to go. The needle pierces your neck with a sharp sting. Breath stuttering. Slow.
Voices blur. The room tilting until everything is swallowed in darkness.
continuation of my previous post
masterlist of all my dami/batfam posts here
"Mother," he calls her again. Introduces you.
You look into her eyes. Like Damian's but colder. The gaze he wore when he attacked those Null people.
They flicker down at your hands. Pink now despite Jason trying to clean them. All over your clothes too.
"I take it that's not your blood," she says.
You hide them behind your back. Scared of the new knowledge—what you're capable of. Putting a knife through flesh, hurting someone.
Maybe Damian can carry that weight, but you can't. Can't even justify it with your life at stake.
"Does she speak?"
Damian sighs, "She's been through an immense ordeal today. No thanks to you."
"If you mean resorting to violence, I did not teach her that." She rolls the cane in her lap. Engraved wood wrapped in gold wire. An emerald set into the head. "That was all you, my son."
Damian's jaw tightens as Jason cuts in, "Let's save unpacking the family trauma for another day." He grabs your elbow. A firm pinch. "You need to rest."
"Even you coddle her, Jason?" she says. "You, whom I once considered a candidate to lead the League?"
Jason pauses.
"You know better than most the necessity of violence," she goes on. "And in turn what violence requires of us."
"She's not like us, Talia," Jason argues.
She looks at you like you're small. One of a million flies on the metal wall. "Obviously."
Damian's voice hardens. "That's enough."
"Rethink your values, Damian," she leans back in her seat, emerald of the cane glinting as it turns. "It would be better for you both."
The pinch on your elbow shifts. Not Jason anymore, but Damian pulling you away from the living space. Down another corridor and into a small room with a bed and desk—no chair.
"You can stay here until I sort everything out." He lets go of your arm. Distances himself. "Mother does her best to come off cold, but should anything occur, she'll protect you."
You hug yourself. Frightened again. Exhausted from the fear fluttering in and out of your stomach. "You're leaving?"
"Any room we're in together is not safe," he says. "I can't risk leading them to you again. Or to my mother."
"How do you know they won't find me and your mom while you're gone?" you argue, mind racing.
"Their objective is erasing the Al Ghul line. And as far as they are concerned my mother has been dead for more than a year."
Your chest throbs. A year of ongoing threat. Of hiding underground like this.
How long is he willing to hide you here?
Your lips part again and again. Looking for a reason, a way out. "What about Titus? Can he stay here?"
"I had to leave him at the manor when I heard you were in trouble."
Something within you snaps. Tears stream down your face, salt burning fresh cuts. You seize Damian's wrists.
"Damian, please."
He tries to pull away, but your grip tightens. Squeezing with all your might. Maybe even hurting him.
"I'm sorry, Qalbi."
"Don't say you're sorry," you sob, "Just stay with me, please. Please."
Defeat settles across his face. "I...I can't."
You crumble to the floor. Scared, tired, abandoned. Unable to understand in the slightest what to do besides wait—to be killed or saved. Tossed out of a window or caught.
On your hands and knees. Tears drip onto the cold floor. "I can't do this without you. Please. I can't."
The room fills with nothing but your crying. A small puddle gathers beneath you.
Then you see his feet shift.
He crouches beside you, hands sliding beneath your arms. Lifting you gently.
You sag against him, arms wrapping around his neck even if it hurts beneath the bandages.
Carefully, he lowers you onto the mattress. Sheets cold as he removes your shoes.
You reach for him again. "Please don't go."
He stills, eyes wavering on yours. But he only pulls the blanket over your body.
Then steps away.
The hours trickle by slowly. There's no way to know for certain. No phone or clocks nearby to tell you the time.
Each time you drift off you wake with a start. A shift in the walls or squeak in the vents.
Unable to feel safe in this cold, dark box. Dragged through that window again each time you close your eyes. Using that knife like it was second nature.
You push the blanket aside and crawl out of bed. Barefoot, moving through the dark corridor. Motion lights flickering until you reach the living space.
Talia at the stove. One hand stirring a pot, the other resting on the cane. Wrapped in a silky, green robe. Brown hair slicked back into a knot at her crown. A streak of gray peeking out near her temple.
The air is rich with tangy spices. The source of all Damian's skills with food.
You clear your throat, "I didn't get to introduce myself properly before."
She doesn't turn away from the pot. "I know who you are."
You sit at the table anyway, hands folded in your lap. Shivering every so often.
Looking around now, the place feels more lived in than you noticed before. Books stacked along the shelves. Old movies piled beside the television. Blankets and throw pillows gathered on the couch. A stocked fridge and medicine cabinet.
Homey for a bunker.
A bowl is set in front of you. What you recognize as Ful Medames from the times Damian's made it.
"You look gaunt," Talia says, sitting across from you with her own bowl.
"Thank you."
Spooning through it. Forcing every bite despite your lack of an appetite.
"When this is over," she says calmly, "I think you should leave my son."
Your spoon stills mid-bite. "Excuse me?"
"You are not suited to the kind of life he leads," she says. "It requires a certain resilience you do not possess."
Your spoon drops back into the bowl with a quiet clink. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"For now." Her gaze remains steady. "But you misunderstand the danger."
She folds her hands around the bowl. "Damian will place your safety above his own. Above all reason."
Your stomach twists.
"And that hesitation," she says, "will get him killed."
Her eyes flick briefly to the bandages around your arms.
"Your weakness becomes his weakness."
She lifts a small spoonful of fava to her mouth. Chews delicately. Swallows.
"I will not allow my son to die for someone as inconsequential as you."
Talia resumes her meal casually. Graceful in each movement. Measured.
"When you are done, you'll wash the dishes and sweep the corridors," she says.
"Excuse me?"
"I hardly imagine Damian chose you for the way you sit and tremble," she says. "There must be some use for you."
Despite the deep offense, you scrub the bowls and sweep the floors to perfection. And despite Talia's obvious dislike for you, she insists on routine.
Scrub the dishes, clean the bathrooms.
Rest until she's rapping her cane against your door for breakfast.
Alphabetize the books. Wipe down the entrance ladder.
Yoga.
Meal.
Hand-wash the laundry.
Yoga.
The days pass like this. Weeks.
Talia remaining cold, yet oddly insistent on your well-being. Keeping you strong, occupied. Even making you take supplements while you're stuck underground.
"What happened to your leg?" you eventually ask.
"The tendon was severed in the Null's second siege on Nanda Parbat," she says, watching you do the dishes. Small clicks of her tongue when she isn't satisfied with your work. "It will not heal until another Pit is established."
"Pit?"
Her lips curls. "It seems my son does not tell you everything."
You snort lightly. Past the point of her words distressing you. "I'm sure he could give you a very long list of everything he doesn't tell me."
"Does this hurt you?" she asks.
"Does what hurt me?"
"My son's secrets."
You look over at her, expecting to finally see pity. Warmth. But her eyes still wear that same glaze. Searching for weakness, studying them.
"Sometimes," you answer.
She hums quietly. Then tells you about the Lazarus Pit from her seat. Her father's history and the legacy of the League. Damian's legacy.
"...The pit has even brought Damian back to life on occasion."
Your hands still. "Does he die often?"
"More than the average person, yes."
You look down at your soapy hands. The cracked skin along your knuckles. Sickened as you picture Damian taking his last breath. Forcing life in and out of his body.
"The Null possessing the Lazarus Pit in Nanda Parbat places us at the center of their design," she states.
Faucet off. Hands drying in a towel, scratching at the skin of your knuckles. "Doesn't the League belong to your family?"
Talia rests her cane against the table, elbows down on the hardwood. "The League is made up of sheep, who flock to the strongest shepherd."
"And right now..." You hesitate. Fearful at the thought of something stronger than Damian and his family. "...that's the Null?"
"For the moment," she says. Not panicked like you are. Irritated.
"They were once a small division within the League," she tells you. "Operatives I personally trained."
You think back to Damian's words when you arrived. The blame he tried to place. "...no thanks to you..."
