This blog specifically focuses on yanderes! I also write dark content, nsfw, and other specifics which will be tagged on posts, general advice is dead dove do not eat. 18+, this blog is not appropriate for minor consumption.
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ā DC MASTERLIST
ā INTERMEZZO MASTERLIST ( reader x platonic yan! batfam)
ā GENSHIN MASTERLIST
ā RECENT WORKS
- HURT / COMFORT (yan! batfam x reader headcanons)
- CABIN FEVER (yan! tim drake x reader)
Author's Recommendations :
- FOCAL POINT (yandere tim drake)
- MISERY AND COMPANY (sagau! yandere dottore)
WOWOWOOW love the new headcanons post ! was very curious on your take on cassandra its a lot different but i really liked it!! kudos to you op
Hello Anon!
Thank you for your kind words!
To be honest, I'm not entirely sure how Cassandra is portrayed in other Tumblr fanfictions. When I write her, I mostly try to stay as true to her character as possible. I've only read a handful of her comics, so I wouldn't call myself an expert, but if I had to describe my interpretation of Cassandra, it would be something like this:
Cassandra is the type of person who wears her heart on her sleeve. Despite how some people perceive her, she isn't cold or uncaring. Because she spent most of her life isolated, she can sometimes come across as blunt, awkward, or even rude, but beneath that she's incredibly compassionate and caring. Her sense of humour can be unconventional, but it's always good-natured. She enjoys teasing the people she cares about and throwing out the occasional bit of snark. She may have poor table manners, and she's definitely picked up Bruce's habit of appearing and disappearing without warning, but she always means well. Because of her past, Cassandra carries a tremendous amount of guilt. Any death that happens on her watch weighs heavily on her conscience, even when there was nothing she could have done to prevent it. She holds herself to impossibly high standards and often takes responsibility for things that aren't truly her fault.
It's also well established that Cassandra struggles with language, both spoken and written. People often simplify this by saying she can't read or write, but it's more accurate to say that body language is the form of communication she understands best because it's what she grew up relying on. Early in her character arc, she tends to speak in short, halting phrases, often using single-word responses or repeating words back as she processes them. That doesn't mean she's mute, though. As she spends more time with the Batfamily and becomes more comfortable around others, she gradually begins speaking in full sentences. In fact, Cassandra can be quite talkative around people she trusts. She may still come across as blunt, but she's also one of the most genuinely kind-hearted characters in DC, in my opinion at least.
Of course, that's just my interpretation of her character.
i love your writing so much! would u ever consider writing for cass or steph?
Hello Anon!
Thank you for your kind wordsāthis actually reminded me that Iāve had a 'Hurt/Comfort' headcanons fic sitting in my drafts for a while, which does have Cassandra and Stephanie included, so Iāve gone ahead and posted it.
SYNOPSIS : Relationships are built on give and takeāyou comfort them when theyāre hurting, and they do the same for you. But sometimes, they become unbalanced, when one person ends up loving the other more than they should, and giving more than they get back.
WARNINGS : Soft Yandere, Yandere Behaviour, Obsessive and Possessive Behaviour, Unhealthy Attachment and Relationships, Dark Romance, Implied Captivity, Implied Drugging, Psychological Horror, Co-dependency, Toxic Relationships, Gender Neutral Reader
CHARACTERS : DICK GRAYSON, JASON TODD, TIM DRAKE, STEPHANIE BROWN, CASSANDRA CAIN
INTERACTIONS AND REBLOGS ENCOURAGED!
DICK GRAYSON
Dick tried to keep a hold over his emotions, because he knew better than most what happened when they were allowed to take control. There had been a time in his life when anger, grief, frustration, and hurt dictated far too many of his decisions, when every wound felt fresh no matter how much time had passed and every slight seemed to demand a response. He had spent years learning that there was a difference between feeling something and acting upon it, that emotions themselves were never the problem but allowing them to steer the course of his actions often was. Age had given him perspective where youth had given him recklessness, and while he would never pretend that the journey from one man to the other had been easy, he was proud of the progress he had made.
Because changing was always harder than staying the same. Anyone could continue being the person they had always been, could keep falling into familiar patterns and blaming circumstance and trauma for why they never moved beyond them. Real growth required something far more difficult, it demanded that you stand in front of a mirror and look beyond the reflection staring back at you, beyond the face everyone else saw, and examine the parts of yourself you would rather ignore. It was painful work, often thankless work, and sometimes it felt like taking two steps backward for every one step forward, but it was still necessary.
Dick understood that better than anyone. He had been shaped by tragedy from an age far too young to understand it, his childhood torn apart in a single terrible moment. There were parts of him that would always carry that loss, always remember what it felt like to have the ground pulled out from beneath him, and there had been years where that pain threatened to become the foundation of his entire identity.
Most of the time, that effort came naturally. Most days he could shrug off an insult, let frustration fade before it settled too deeply, and walk away from situations that would have provoked a younger version of himself into an argument. But no amount of growth erased the fact that he was still human, and every human being had limits. Every now and then something would catch him at exactly the wrong moment, slipping past the walls he had spent years building and irritating him just enough to make control feel more difficult than usual. It was rarely anything significant. Whatever the cause, there were moments when irritation would settle beneath his skin and linger there, refusing to disappear no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.
He could have allowed it to pervail. There had been moments when he came dangerously close to doing exactly that. Yet every time he looked at the man he was becoming and found something he didn't like, he forced himself to change it. Because of you.
Somewhere along the way, without either of you realizing exactly when it had happened, you had become one of the reasons he kept trying. You had become one of the reasons he continued putting in the effort even on the days when it felt exhausting, one of the reasons he believed that the future could be something more than a collection of old wounds and unfinished healing. When he thought about the life he wanted, the version of himself he hoped to grow into, you were there in every image his mind created. The thought was all-consuming. He wanted to be better because he wanted to deserve the happiness he had found with you, and because every day spent at your side reminded him that the work was worth it.
Being with you felt almost therapeutic. The noise in his head, the frustrations that clung to him throughout the day, tand all the weight of every responsibility pressing down on his shoulders, all of it seemed to dissolve the moment your lips met his. It was as if every kiss gave him permission to set those burdens aside, if only for a little while. He kissed you with a desperation that was gentle rather than frantic, pouring every difficult emotion he refused to place upon you into the affection itself. Instead of burdening you with his worries, he transformed them into something softer, something warmer. His hands found you instinctively, drawing you closer as though proximity alone could soothe every ache he carried. The kisses came endlessly after that. Brief presses of his lips against your temple, lingering brushes along your cheek, a trail that wandered down the curve of your jaw. He kissed the corner of your smile when it appeared, the slope of your cheek beneath his palm, the delicate hollow of your throat whenever he could reach it. Every inch of you seemed precious to him, worthy of quiet devotion.
And somewhere amidst those stolen moments, a realization settled over him.
His life was good. Not perfect, never perfectābut good.
For so long, he'd moved from one problem to the next, always focused on what was missing, what was difficult, what still needed fixing. He had spent years carrying the expectation that happiness was something distant, something he would earn later. Yet here you were, warm beneath his touch, smiling at him as though he was someone worth loving, and suddenly he could see it. He could finally appreciate the life he'd built and the future that stretched out before him. The tension that had lived between his brows softened, the familiar furrow of irritation disappeared, replaced by a grin that spread so naturally across his face it seemed impossible not to mirror it. His lips lingered against yours, smiling into the kiss, and for once there was no trace of the exhaustion that usually followed him. His hands cradled your face, your hips, your shoulders, anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could keep you close. There was a quiet desperation in it, not born from fear of losing you, but from the simple desire to remain in this moment for as long as possible. He held you as though you were an anchor, something steady and certain in a world that often felt overwhelming.
And as he poured every ounce of affection he possessed into each touch and kiss, he felt something inside him finally loosen. For the first time in what felt like forever, he could simply breathe.
JASON TODD
Jason's breakdowns were few and far between nowadays but the traces they left behind were always the same, their broken remains spread haphazardly across the hardwood like the aftermath of a disaster that had come and gone hours ago, glass shards glittering beneath the low light and catching against your vision whenever you moved, each fractured piece reflecting distorted fragments of the apartment around it. Some frames had merely fallen, their corners cracked and splintered, while others looked as though they had been ripped from the walls and hurled to the ground with enough force to leave spiderweb fractures spreading across every inch of glass. The photographs themselves were scattered amongst the wreckage, corners bent, edges curled.
Despite how many times you had witnessed the aftermath of one of these episodes, your body reacted the same way every single time. Your muscles tightened beneath your skin until your shoulders ached from the tension, your heartbeat settling into an anxious rhythm that seemed far too loud in the silence of the apartment as you carefully navigated around the debris. Reason told you there was no immediate danger, that Jason had never once directed his anger toward you, but instinct had never cared much for reason. It was difficult to silence the part of yourself that remained poised for escape, always anticipating the moment something might finally change. Not that there was anywhere to run, you see that was the cruel irony of your situation. For all his faults, for all the ways he had twisted your life around himself until leaving had become little more than a distant fantasy, Jason had never harmed you. His temper was frightening, his moods unpredictable, and his emotional regulation seemed to hang together by frayed threads on the best of days, but somehow the line had always stopped there.
Your gaze drifted downward as you stepped over a cluster of shattered glass, only to falter when a familiar photograph caught your attention. The frame surrounding it had splintered completely, leaving the picture exposed amongst the wreckage, and even from where you stood you immediately recognized it as one of Jason's favourites. It was a photograph of the two of you, one he had insisted on hanging himself months ago after spending nearly an hour adjusting its position by fractions of an inch. You remembered standing in the hallway watching him work, listening to him mutter under his breath before finally stepping back to admire his handiwork with a rare, almost sheepish smile. Now the photograph lay discarded on the floor. Jason's side was crumpled almost beyond recognition, deep creases distorting his features beneath layers of folded paper, but yours remained intact. Not untouched, exactly. The edges around your image had been carefully smoothed flat, every wrinkle pressed away by rough fingertips, and even from a glance you could tell it hadn't happened accidentally. Someone had taken the time to fix it.
You already knew what tomorrow would look like. By the time you woke up the hallway would be spotless, every shard of glass swept away and discarded before you could accidentally cut yourself. New frames would appear where the broken ones had been, every photograph returned to its designated place on the wall with the same meticulous care Jason devoted to anything involving you. If a stranger walked through the apartment tomorrow afternoon, they would never know anything had happened at all.
Swallowing against the knot forming in your throat, you stepped over the photograph and continued down the hallway, following the thin strip of light spilling from beneath the bathroom door at the very end. When you finally reached the doorway and looked inside, you found him exactly where you expected. Jason was curled into himself in the far corner of the small bathroom, folded up awkwardly against the wall with his arms draped over his knees and his head bowed low. The sight always struck you with the same strange contradiction. He was a man built to take up space, broad shoulders and heavy muscle making him seem larger than life in most rooms, yet here he looked impossibly small, compressed into the corner like a nestling that had fallen from its nest and lacked the strength to climb back. In the cramped confines of the bathroom the image bordered on absurdity, and under different circumstances, in another life occupied by different versions of yourselves, you might have laughed at the sight of a man his size trying to disappear into a corner that clearly could not contain him.
Instead, your chest tightened. His shoulders were hunched so severely that they nearly touched his ears, every line of his body curved inward as though he were attempting to protect himself something only he could see. The rhythmic drip of blood echoed faintly throughout the room, slow and steady enough that you could count the seconds between each drop. Your gaze followed the sound to his hands, where split knuckles rested loosely against his forearms, fresh blood trailing down his skin before gathering at his fingertips and splashing onto the white tile below. Crimson smeared across the floor in uneven streaks, and although you didn't ask, you could piece together enough of the story yourself. Patrol had gone badly.
He didn't look at you.
He never did after nights like this.
Your gaze drifted to the mirror hanging above the sink, or what remained of it. Jagged fragments still clung stubbornly to the frame, cracked pieces protruding at odd angles like broken teeth. The rest littered the counter and sink basin below, reflecting fractured slivers of the room whenever the light caught them. It was expected. Just another thing to replace tomorrow morning alongside the picture frames in the hallway. Jason hated mirrors in a way that bordered on superstition. He avoided them whenever possible, glanced away from reflective surfaces before they could properly catch his face, and rarely lingered long enough to study his own reflection. Sometimes you thought he feared what he might find staring back at him., you thought he genuinely believed the mirrors would confirm every terrible suspicion he carried about himself, that they would reveal the ugly truth beneath the skin and prove that whatever had clawed its way out of the grave all those years ago had come back wrong.
You remained in the doorway for a moment, your shadow stretching across the tiles and falling over his hunched form, and were struck once again by the strange reality of your situation. There wasn't anything soft about it anymore. Whatever tenderness could have existed between captor and captive had long since been strangled beneath deadbolts and locked windows, buried under the weight of years spent confined to an apartment where your freedom ended at the front door. The only sunlight you received came through the living room window, filtered and distant, a reminder of a world that continued moving without you. Sometimes Jason hated that reality. On days when he hated everything, he hated the apartment, hated himself, hated the fact that he had allowed his need for you to grow into something uncontrollable. He hated how attached he'd become, how thoroughly your existence had embedded itself into the hollow spaces inside him until your name felt less like a memory and more like a splinter lodged deep within his soul, impossible to remove without tearing something vital apart in the process.
Yet despite all of that, despite every ugly truth neither of you could ignore, the moment you stepped forward and lowered yourself onto the cold tiles beside him, whatever resistance remained inside him dissolved almost immediately. His body tensed for only a fraction of a second before giving way beneath your touch, and then he was leaning into you with a quiet desperation that never failed to twist something painful in your chest. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders and back, and Jason folded into the embrace as though it were the only thing keeping him upright, pressing his face against your chest until his forehead rested beneath your chin. The resistance always ended the same way. With his breath catching sharply in his throat as though he'd forgotten how to breathe altogether, followed by the faint tremble that worked its way through his body despite his attempts to suppress it. His fingers curled against your shirt, bunching the fabric tightly in his fists.
Beneath the anger, beneath the obsession, beneath the grief and violence and ugliness he believed defined him, there was love. Twisted and possessive and often deeply selfish, perhaps, but love all the same. It clung to him with the same stubborn persistence as a heartbeat, surviving every attempt he made to bury it, and on nights like this, when the rest of him had been stripped raw, it was the only thing left keeping him together.
TIM DRAKE
Tim Drake valued his mind more than anything else.
Not because he was arrogant, nor because he believed himself superior to the people around him, but because he understood exactly what his mind had given him. It was the reason he had survived for as long as he had in Gotham, it was the reason he could keep pace with people older and more experienced than him. While others relied on strength or fear or sheer force of will, Tim relied on the thing he trusted most: his ability to think. When Tim Drake was exhausted, mistakes happened, details slipped through the cracks, patterns were overlooked. In his line of work, mistakes were not inconveniences. They were liabilities, end of.
That was why he knew, long before it actually happened, that eventually something in his life would have to be sacrificed.
The conflict between his relationship and his responsibilities had not appeared overnight. It had grown gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, into the fabric of his daily life through a thousand small moments. Missed calls because patrol had run longer than expected, cancelled plans because Gotham had decided to implode at the worst possible time, excuses became explanations, explanations became half-truths, and half-truths eventually became outright lies. Tim delayed making a decision for far longer than he wanted to because a selfish part of him kept insisting there had to be a solution he simply hadn't found yet. There was always a way to balance competing priorities if he thought hard enough. He wanted to believe he could keep you while maintaining everything else. But the longer the relationship continued, the more obvious the flaws became. Eventually you would begin asking questions he couldn't answer, questions about his disappearances, about the bruises and injuries that appeared without explanation, about why he was always tired, always distracted, always leaving in the middle of conversations to deal with emergencies he could never fully explain. The excuses would become repetitive. The lies would become transparent. Worse still, there was always the possibility that someone else would notice first.
That possibility was what ultimately made the decision for him. Gotham was filled with people who specialized in finding weaknesses. If somebody discovered who he was, truly discovered it, then your relationship would immediately become a vulnerability. Tim knew better than most what happened to the people caught in Gotham's crossfire. From a purely logical perspective, there was no decision to make at all. The relationship had to end. The problem was that logic failed to account for what happened afterwards.
Tim expected heartbreak and he expected loneliness. What he did not expect was how quickly everything else began to deteriorate. His sleep schedule, something he had spent years refining through sheer necessity, collapsed almost immediately. The carefully timed naps that had once come so easily vanished, nights stretched endlessly into mornings spent staring at glowing computer screens while exhaustion settled deeper and deeper beneath his skin. The dark circles beneath his eyes became permanent fixtures, energy drinks stopped being a convenience and became a requirement. Worse than the exhaustion, however, were the mistakes made on the job. It took him far longer than it should have to identify the cause because the answer was absurd. Embarrassing, even. Every aspect of his life felt slightly off-balance, as though removing you had shifted some invisible foundation he had never realized existed. The realization unsettled him in a way few things ever had. He still loved you. That had never changed. If anything, the distance had only clarified that fact. He loved you enough to leave, loved you enough to sacrifice his own happiness because he believed it would keep you safe. Yet loving you from a distance introduced an entirely different problem. He could no longer see you.
The absence of information bothered him more than it should have. He no longer knew whether you were sleeping properly. He no longer knew whether you had eaten that day. He no longer knew who you spent your time with or what routes you took home. Information that had once existed effortlessly at the edge of his awareness had vanished overnight, leaving behind gaps that seemed to grow larger with every passing day. Tim told himself it was concern. The kind anyone would feel for someone they loved. But concern gradually transformed into frustration, and frustration eventually transformed into something much more dangerous.
The thought arrived during one particularly sleepless night while he sat alone in front of his computer, exhausted enough that the glow of the monitors made his eyes ache. He understood immediately that he was standing at the edge of a line he had never intended to cross. He understood exactly what it represented and exactly how easily one decision could carry him beyond it. The frightening part was not that the thought existed. The frightening part was how reasonable it sounded.
After all, his relationship with you had always been built on deception to some extent. The secret identity itself was a lie so enormous that everything else seemed insignificant in comparison. Looking back, Tim found himself wondering when exactly honesty had stopped being the foundation of the relationship and become merely another tool he used to maintain it. So as he sat there in the quiet glow of his screens, staring at a problem that refused to resolve itself, Tim found his thoughts circling the same question over and over again. If he had already crossed so many lines for the sake of protecting you, for the sake of maintaining some semblance of control over his life, then what truly made this one different? And if crossing it was the only way to keep you safe, to keep you close, and to silence the growing chaos that had consumed his life since losing you, then perhaps it wasn't a line at all. Perhaps it was simply the next logical step.
And he knows exactly what he's doing.
He's never been under any illusions about that. Tim understands every line he has crossed with perfect clarity. He understands the implications of every decision that brought him here, understands that if anyone else were sitting in his place he would immediately recognize the behaviour for what it was. Tim has always been practical, always willing to make difficult decisions if he believed the outcome justified them, and he loves you. That part, at least, remains simple. It is love that brought him here.
In a life tangled with aliases, responsibilities, and impossible expectations, you became the one thing that belonged solely to him. Around Bruce he was a soldier, a detective and a son all simultaneously struggling beneath expectations he could never quite meet. Around the rest of the family he was constantly shifting between roles, adapting himself to fit whatever situation demanded. With you, however, there was no performance. Here, within the walls of the penthouse he had purchased through channels impossible to trace back to him, he was not Red Robin or a Wayne or a Drake. He was simply Tim, just Tim.
The adjustment period had been difficult. He knew that. The confusion in your eyes during those first weeks had lingered longer than either of you wanted, uncertainty clouding every interaction as you struggled to make sense of a reality that refused to fit within any reasonable explanation. You adapted because people adapted to almost anything eventually. Tim hated himself for being grateful about that, but he was. The calmer you became, the easier everything else seemed. It was why he always returned to you.
Whenever a mission collapsed into chaos and whenever Gotham demanded too much from him. Whenever another argument with Bruce left him emotionally exhausted and frustrated beyond words and whenever the noise became unbearable and the pressure inside his chest threatened to crack something vital, his feet carried him back here without conscious thought.
Which was exactly how you found yourself in the situation now.
The weight pressed against your back was impossible to ignore. "Tim," you murmured sleepily, your eyes blinking open as consciousness slowly returned, only to be immediately reminded that you were not alone. Tim was practically wrapped around you, his entire body curved against yours. One arm was draped securely across your waist while the other had somehow worked its way beneath you during the night, trapping you in a cocoon of limbs and body heat. His chest was pressed firmly against your back, his nose tucked beneath your ear, and his legs were so thoroughly tangled with yours that disentangling them would likely require active negotiation. Sometimes you were reminded of those nature documentaries where snakes coiled around prey until the distinction between one body and the next seemed to disappear, or there were times he reminded you of one of those strange symbiotic creatures from old science-fiction films, forever trying to merge himself with a host until they became inseparable.
The sound he made in response was barely coherent, somewhere between a groan and a hum of acknowledgement, but his grip tightened immediately. You could feel the warmth of his breath against the back of your neck as his hands shifted beneath your shirt, seeking bare skin with unconscious determination. His palms settled against your stomach, warm and familiar, and you immediately recognized the habit for what it was. Tim was perpetually exhausted, perpetually cold, and perpetually stealing your body heat whenever the opportunity presented itself.With considerable effort, you managed to turn over within the confines of his hold until you were facing him directly. The movement earned another sleepy noise of protest from s omewhere deep in his chest, though he made no genuine effort to stop you. Your fingertips drifted lightly across his side, tracing absent patterns against the fabric of his shirt in a silent attempt to capture his attention. Slowly, his eyes cracked open. He looked exhausted. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes and the lingering heaviness of someone who had not slept nearly enough in recent weeks, yet despite that he focused entirely on you. Tim stared as though the simple act of looking away had become impossible.
"Five more minutes," he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
You weren't entirely convinced he even knew what you had been asking for. Days with Tim were rarely gentle in the conventional sense. He wasn't affectionate in grand, dramatic displays. Instead, he clung and he burrowed. He attached himself to you with a quiet desperation that seemed almost unconscious. Physical proximity wasn't something he wanted so much as something he required. After difficult nights, especially, he behaved like someone trying to convince himself you were still real.
You let out a slow sigh and eventually closed your eyes again, surrendering the argument before it could properly begin. Experience had taught you there was rarely any point fighting him over things like this. If you succeeded in escaping the bed, he would simply follow. Tim Drake was many things, but subtle was not one of them when it came to you. Most days it was easier to let him have his way than spend hours enduring his increasingly creative attempts to reclaim your attention.
What you didn't see was the way his expression softened after your eyes closed. The tension that seemed permanently embedded into his features eased almost immediately as he watched you settle back against the pillows. His arms tightened around you once more, not enough to wake you but enough to pull you closer, and after a moment he shifted until your head rested comfortably against the hollow of his neck.
For the first time all day, his thoughts were silent. And for now, that was enough.
Tim closed his eyes and held you a little tighter, secure in the certainty that he had you, and he meant it. Even if this was what it took.
STEPHANIE BROWN
Stephanie Brown was exhausted.
Given her line of work, she really should have expected it. Anyone looking from the outside might have thought this was just another night in the life of Batgirl, a long evening spent fighting a psychotic martial arts master holding hostages and making increasingly violent promises. It wasn't even the first time Stephanie had found herself staring down someone like that. Somehow Gotham always managed to produce another deranged genius, another person convinced that killing a vigilante would solve all their problems. By the time she finally made it home, every muscle in her body ached, there were already beginning to bloom beneath her suit, and the lingering adrenaline that had carried her through the fight was fading fast, leaving only a heavy, bone-deep weariness behind.
Still, things were different once she stepped through the door. Inside these walls, she didn't have to worry about being Batgirl. Here, she could set aside the mask and the expectations that came with it. Over the past year, since you had "moved" in with her, Stephanie had discovered something she never expected: being Stephanie Brown was a role she genuinely enjoyed. It wasn't always easy. In fact, it had taken both of you time to adjust to the arrangement. Not that you had been given much choice in the matter. At first, you'd underestimated just how serious she was. What had looked like an ordinary home had gradually revealed itself to be something else entirely, the place was fortified far better than you'd originally thought, layered with precautions and safeguards that made leaving far more complicated than it seemed. Eventually, you learned that resisting outright wasn't worth the trouble. Stephanie could be surprisingly stubborn when she wanted something, and she possessed a talent for enforcing cooperation through annoyingly mundane means. If you refused to play along, necessities had an unfortunate tendency to disappear from the shopping list, toothpaste wasn't replaced, shampoo ran out, and all your basic sanitation products mysteriously failed to reappear once they were gone.
So, over time, an uneasy routine had formed between you. It was a strange thing to consider, looking back on how everything had begun. Which was how you found yourself sitting on the couch with Stephanie sprawled across it, her head resting comfortably in your lap. Your fingers drifted through her blonde curls, slowly combing through the tangled strands. The soft texture slipped between your fingers as you absentmindedly worked through knots and loose curls alike. It was a simple gesture, but one Stephanie seemed incapable of getting enough of. After nights spent fighting criminals and throwing herself into danger, she always melted the moment your hand found its way into her hair. For Stephanie, it was pure bliss. Her eyes remained closed, her expression relaxed in a way few people ever got to see. The steady motion of your fingers through her curls felt soothing enough to make the aches in her body fade into the background. If someone had asked her where she would rather be at that moment, she honestly couldn't think of an answer.
Well, almost couldn't.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips as an entirely different thought crossed her mind, one she wisely kept to herself. Your gaze wandered over her instead. Even now she was still wearing most of her suit, the familiar purple-and-black material clinging to her frame after what had undoubtedly been a long night. There were faint scuffs and smears of dirt visible along parts of the fabric, evidence of whatever near-death experience she'd endured before returning home. Her boots had been kicked up onto the edge of the couch without a second thought, and you were fairly certain there were now dirt marks somewhere on the upholstery because of it. The realization drew a small sigh from you as your attention drifted.
Only for Stephanie to notice almost immediately. The moment your fingers slowed and eventually stopped moving, one of her hands rose without her even opening her eyes. Her grip found your wrist with effortless accuracy. Still looking entirely relaxed, she guided your hand back into her hair and resumed the gentle motion herself.
"Sheesh. Stay focused," she murmured.
The complaint carried no real irritation. If anything, it sounded lazy and content, spoken by someone far too comfortable to put genuine effort into being annoyed. Her eyes remained closed as she settled deeper against your lap, clearly satisfied once your fingers resumed their work. "Sorry," you replied instantly. The apology came more from reflex than any genuine feeling of remorse. Your hand never stopped moving, fingers slipping through Stephanie's blonde curls as you carefully worked out the occasional tangle.
"Got distracted by your suit," you added after a moment.
Your free hand drifted down to her arm, fingertips brushing over the textured material that covered it. The fabric was rough beneath your touch, designed for durability rather than comfort. Up close, you could see the evidence of the night she'd had. There were faint scuff marks along the forearm, streaks of grime caught in the seams, and small abrasions where she'd clearly collided with something harder than herself. Despite all of that, the suit still maintained its striking appearance.
"It's a very bright purple."
Stephanie's eyes opened immediately. "It's not purple," she said without hesitation. The speed of her response suggested this was not the first time she had been forced to defend the color of her costume. "Purple would look stupid."
"What?" Genuine confusion crept into your voice. "Then what color is it?"
For a moment, Stephanie simply stared up at the ceiling. The confidence that had accompanied her immediate denial seemed to falter slightly now that she was being asked to provide an alternative answer. Her gaze shifted away from yours, suddenly finding something very interesting about the opposite side of the room.
"A lady never tells her secrets."
An eye roll threatened to surface, but you resisted it. Somehow, Stephanie possessed a remarkable talent for avoiding even the simplest questions whenever it amused her. Rather than press the issue, you simply shook your head and returned your attention to her hair. Your fingers continued their slow, methodical path through her curls while the room settled back into silence. Stephanie's eyes drifted closed once more. The tension that had briefly entered her shoulders faded as she relaxed again beneath your touch. The steady rise and fall of her breathing became the only indication she was still awake. You had almost forgotten the conversation entirely when Stephanie finally spoke again.
"It's eggplant."
CASSANDRA CAIN
It was something Cassandra had always known about herself.
Long before she had the words to articulate it, before she had met people determined to prove otherwise, she had accepted it as an undeniable truth, that she wasn't good. Good people were raised with love, taught right from wrong, encouraged to dream about their futures. Cassandra had been raised for an entirely different purpose. She had been taught how to kill. Every lesson of her childhood had revolved around violence. While other children learned how to make friends, how to express themselves, and how to live, Cassandra had learned how to break bones and how to end a life before someone even realized they were in danger. Her worth had been defined by what she could do to others, not by who she was.
Living had never been part of the plan. For years, she had drifted through life carrying that belief. She survived because survival was expected of her, she fought because fighting was all she knew. There were stretches of her early life where the future felt like an empty concept, something distant and irrelevant. If she died tomorrow, it wouldn't have mattered. She had no dreams waiting for her and no reason to care what happened next. Then she met you and it happened so gradually that she barely noticed it at first. There were small conversations turned into longer ones, the shared moments became shared routines, the days became weeks, weeks became months, and somewhere in the middle of it all, you quietly settled yourself into every corner of her life. Now, when she thought about her days, you were woven into all of them. The mornings where you exchanged sleepy greetings before either of you was fully awake, all the meals eaten together, the idle conversations that wandered nowhere in particular. By all accounts, it should have become boring but it never did.
If anything, Cassandra treasured those routines more with every passing day. Predictability had become comforting rather than restrictive and she liked knowing what tomorrow would look like. She liked knowing where she would be at the end of the day, she liked knowing that no matter what happened outside, there was always a place she could return to where you would be waiting. For someone who had spent so much of her life merely existing, the feeling was difficult to describe. It felt like she was finally living. And at the center of all of it was you. Before meeting you, Cassandra had never understood why people fought so hard to stay alive. Now she understood completely. That's why she noticed the changes so quickly. Most people wouldn't have seen them. The signs were too small, too subtle. A slightly different tone of voice, slight hesitation before answering a question, a smile that looked convincing enough to everyone except the people who knew you best, there were tiny shifts in behavior that could easily be dismissed as coincidence.
Cassandra noticed every single one. She may be unable to read books but Cassandra could read people better than anyone. Especially you. At first she simply observed. She watched quietly, collecting information the way she always did. She waited to see if the change would pass on its own. Eventually, she asked and your response came immediately.
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
Predictably, you looked surprised.
"What? No, I'm not."
Cassandra's expression didn't change.
"Yes. You are."
A frustrated sigh escaped you. "How do you always know?" The question sounded almost accusatory. You only recieved a small shrug in response to the question. She knew the difference between your real smiles and the ones you forced, the difference between how your voice sounded when you were tired, upset, anxious, or hurting. She knew the habits you slipped into when something was bothering you. She knew you better than anyone. And because of that, when something was wrong, she would always know long before you were ready to admit it.
"I'm a detective."
It ended the way it always did. After enough patient questioning and enough failed attempts on your part to insist that everything was fine, the truth eventually came spilling out. More often than not, it was something that would seem insignificant to anyone looking in from the outside. This time it was a coworker. A thoughtless comment made in passing, perhaps intended as a joke or perhaps not, but one that had lodged itself firmly in your mind and refused to leave. You explained it haltingly at first, embarrassed by how much it had affected you, only for the rest to come pouring out once you started talking. Cassandra listened to every word without interruption. She didn't offer advice immediately, nor did she try to dismiss your feelings by telling you not to worry about it. She simply listened to you. Her attention never wavered, dark eyes fixed entirely on you as though nothing else in the world existed. There was something intensely comforting about being listened to by Cassandra. Most people waited for their turn to speak but Cassandra absorbed every detail with complete focus, treating each word as something important simply because it had come from you.
The conversation slowly gave way to familiarity. Before long, you found yourself wrapped securely in her arms, pressed against her chest as though she could physically shield you from every unpleasant thing the world might throw your way. One arm rested around your waist while the other traced slow, absent-minded patterns across your back. Her chin rested lightly on top of your head, and the steady rhythm of her breathing gradually coaxed the tension from your body. For long stretches, neither of you spoke. Silence had never been uncomfortable between the two of you. In fact, some of your favorite moments together happened when neither of you felt the need to fill the room with conversation. When she eventually did speak, it was with the same blunt honesty that defined so much of her personality.
"You smell like strawberries."
The comment arrived so unexpectedly that it caught you completely off guard. You blinked, pulling back slightly to look up at her.
"What?"
"You smell like strawberries," she repeated with complete seriousness.
You stared at her for a moment before a laugh escaped you. The rest of the evening passed quietly after that. The hurt caused by your coworker's words didn't disappear entirely, but it became smaller. Cassandra had a way of doing that without even trying. Eventually exhaustion caught up with you. The emotional weight of the day combined with the warmth of Cassandra's embrace proved impossible to resist. At some point you found yourselves in bed, the familiar comfort of your shared room wrapping around you just as securely as Cassandra's arms had earlier. Sleep claimed you quickly and Cassandra remained awake. She lay beside you for a long while, watching as your breathing settled. The tension that had lingered on your face throughout the evening had finally vanished. Even in sleep, you seemed more peaceful now than you had when you first arrived home. She reached out once, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face before allowing her hand to linger against your cheek.
Being with you had changed her in ways she still struggled to fully comprehend. Before meeting you, Cassandra's understanding of the world had been simple. Violence had been a language she understood instinctively. Her entire childhood had revolved around it. You had taught her that life itself was precious. Life was shared breakfasts and quiet evenings, it was arguing over what movie to watch and listening to you ramble about your day, it was the feeling of coming home and knowing someone would be there waiting for you. Through you, Cassandra had learned that living and merely surviving were not the same thing.
Because of that lesson, she had made a promise to herself long ago. She would never kill again. That promise remained unbroken. It would remain unbroken tonight as well. Her gaze shifted toward the darkened window as she thought about the coworker whose careless words had left you so upset. Nobody was going to die tonight, but death was not the only form justice could take.
a/n : one of these is longer than the other... and has nothing to do with playing favourites... totally
i just read ur tim cabin fic and WOWWW i adore adore the way you describe the feelings readers going through, especially the fear, uncertainty and dread. itās so immersive and i felt like i was feeling those same emotions. it feels so realistic, especially the feelings of embarrassment and helplessness by the end. and the way timās true self peeks through but reader doesnāt think enough of it until itās too late ahhhhh i love your writing so much ššš
Hello, Anon!
Thank you so much for the kind words. It's always rewarding when I write a fic and it comes across the way I intended. I really wanted to convey the reader's feelings and thoughts more than focus on Tim, so that the story would feel a lot more personal. That said, I'm very glad you appreciated how his true self still managed to shine through!
My favourite part of writing that fic was actually near the beginning, when the reader never mentions staying at a cabin, yet Tim casually brings up the cabin anyway. It's the little things.
I really appreciate you taking the time to send this ask in!
Your Dottore fic Misery and Company was phenomenal! I love how itās so in character. Although I truly felt sad for reader because man, what a terrible and cold (literally) situation with no current outcome.
For a concept, I was wondering how things would play out in a sagau or imposter scenario with Godttore in such a setting. Would having trilunar authority make him hyper aware of the creator since the powers would be primordial and predate elemental ones? Thus beingā¦ ācloserā to the origin of the world in a sense?
Part of this is just me rambling about sagau since thereās so many concepts to roll around with when it comes to recent lore. Regardless, thanks for your writings!
Hello, Anon!
Thank you so much for your kind words. It genuinely means a lot to hear that 'Misery and Company' was so well received. For anyone who's reading this who is unaware Anon is referring to [THIS] fic of mine.
As for the reader's situation, I'm afraid they've found themselves facing what can only be described as the lesser of two evils. Neither path offers freedom in any meaningful sense, only different forms of confinement. When you consider Dottore's own relationship with immortality (particularly through his segments) alongside the reader's presumed immortality as well, it paints a rather grim picture. Perhaps this isn't a choice they're making for a handful of years or even a lifetime, but one they may be forced to live with indefinitely.
This is also the point where I sheepishly admit that I haven't actually played Genshin Impact since Fontaine. Unfortunately, the game's ever-growing size eventually surpassed the small amount of storage space I could spare for it. I still try to keep up with the broader story and major developments from a distance, but my knowledge is definitely secondhand these days. So if any details sound a little off or don't align perfectly with the current lore, I hope you'll bear with me.
Personally, when I think about Dottore ascending to true godhood through the trilunar authority, there are several narrative possibilities that immediately come to mind. One of my favourites is actually completely unrelated to 'Misery and Company' and instead leans heavily into the self-aware elements that are so prevalent within SAGAU settings. Specifically, I find myself drawn to the idea that the Creator has not yet descended into Teyvat at allāor perhaps an imposter has descended in their place.
In a scenario like that, Dottore's position becomes uniquely interesting because he is one of the few characters I can imagine possessing both the means and the willingness to perceive the truth. If he were granted access to a primordial authority, one that predates the current order of Teyvat and reaches beyond the limitations imposed by Celestia and the false sky, then perhaps he would be capable of glimpsing fragments of a reality that was never meant to be seen. I'm imagining it occurring during the very moment he tears apart the false sky itself. Rather than seeing what he expected, he instead witnesses the world unraveling at its seams for only a split moment. The sky splits open into streams of disappearing code, deleted assets, and incomprehensible numerical sequences. For a fleeting instant, before the world corrects itself, he catches sight of something beyond Teyvat entirely.
Perhaps it is only a reflection upon a screen, the outline of hands manipulating a world from afar through a controller, and perhaps it is nothing more than the vague impression of an observer existing beyond the boundaries of existence itself.
What makes this concept so compelling to me is that I do not believe Dottore would react the same way most SAGAU characters traditionally do. In many interpretations of the genre, the discovery of an imposter occupying the Creator's position is met with outrage and betrayal, the overwhelming desire to see justice restored. The false ruler is condemned and the characters become fiercely devoted to correcting the deception. Dottore, however, has never been a man guided by faith, nor has he ever placed much value on concepts such as divine legitimacy. I cannot imagine him demanding justice on behalf of a Creator he has never met, nor can I see him becoming enraged simply because someone else occupies their throne.
Instead, I think his response would be rooted in curiosity. If the real Creator truly exists, and if they are capable of observing events from beyond the confines of Teyvat, then why have they done nothing? If an imposter sits upon their throne and claims their authority, yet remains unchallenged, then what does that imply? Is the deception unknown to them, or is it permitted? More importantly, if they possess the power to intervene and simply choose not to, then perhaps the imposter was never a mistake in the first place, could they be part of the design? Perhaps everything that has transpired was allowed to happen because it serves some greater purpose invisible to those trapped within the experiment.
And that is where I think Dottore's perspective would begin to shift in a way that very few other characters could understand. Standing in the position of a god himself, wielding authority over forces that shape reality, he may begin to recognize uncomfortable similarities between his own actions and those of the distant Creator. Throughout his life, Dottore has observed people, manipulated circumstances, and conducted countless experiments in pursuit of knowledge. Entire lives have become variables within larger equations, entire nations have served as environments in which theories could be tested. If the Creator exists beyond the world and watches Teyvat from afar, then are they truly so different?
From that perspective, the world itself begins to resemble a laboratory. The people of Teyvat become subjects, history becomes a controlled sequence of observations, and the Creator ceases to be an object of worship and instead becomes something far more intriguing: a fellow researcher operating on a scale beyond comprehension.
Reverence requires faith, and Dottore has never been a man of faith. If anything, I think the Creator would serve as an inspiration rather than an object of worship. The mere knowledge that such a being exists would validate everything he has spent his life pursuing. They would represent proof that there is a state of existence beyond mortality, beyond divinity, and beyond the laws that govern the world he inhabits. Rather than looking upon the Creator and seeing someone to kneel before, Dottore would look upon them and see the culmination of his ambitions.
In the context of 'Misery and Company', however, I think the scenario changes quite significantly because Dottore is no longer dealing with the abstract concept of a Creator hidden somewhere beyond the world. He already knows you. He has formed an impression of you long before reaching any sort of godhood, and that familiarity fundamentally alters the way he interprets both divinity and his own ambitions.
After all, Dottore recognizes something of himself in you. He sees someone who was abandoned by the very people who should have cherished them, cast aside and condemned despite possessing value beyond what others were willing to acknowledge. It is a wound he understands intimately because it is one he has carried his entire life. The details may differ, but the underlying experience remains the same. Because of this, I think his perception of you eventually evolves beyond anything as simple as reverence or devotion.
Instead, you become his counterpart, his equal. The relationship begins to occupy a strange space where traditional distinctions no longer seem adequate. Creator and scholar, the observer and observed, subject and researcher. The boundaries separating those roles gradually dissolve until neither of you can fully claim one position or the other. You influence him just as much as he studies you. He dissects your nature while simultaneously exposing his own. The experiment ceases to have a clear beginning or end because both participants are constantly changing under the other's influence.
Ironically, I do not think this makes him any less selfish. If anything, it makes him even more. While Dottore's pursuit of divinity is undoubtedly self-serving, there is one exception he consistently makes, and that exception is you. In his mind, the divinity he strives toward belongs to both of you because he no longer sees the distinction between where he ends and where you begin. Over time, you become integrated into his self-concept to such a degree that your existence feels inseparable from his own. The ascension he seeks is not merely personal achievement; it is the culmination of something the two of you have built together.
That is why I find the idea of him possessing the trilunar authority particularly compelling in this context. Unlike the elemental authorities, which emerged later as part of Teyvat's current order, the lunar authority feels older, stranger, and closer to the world's primordial origins. By claiming it, Dottore is not simply becoming more powerful. Symbolically, he is moving closer to the source itself.
In a way, it becomes another attempt to shorten the distance between you. And it's not because he views you as something unattainable, but because he views you as something fundamentally connected to himself. Every step he takes toward the origin of the world is another step toward understanding you, and every revelation about your nature becomes another revelation about his own. The pursuit of divinity and the pursuit of understanding the Creator become inseparable goals.
What fascinates me most, however, is how this interpretation reframes his eventual death.
When considering Dottore's fate, I cannot help but wonder whether his final experiment would mirror the one imagined with Pantalone. If a person can be understood completely, can they be recreated? If every memory, every conversation, every habit, every flaw, and every contradiction is preserved within the mind of another, is death truly permanent?
The thought feels like something Dottore would inevitably explore. And perhaps, after his death, you become the vessel through which final hypothesis is tested. A version assembled from every observation you ever made of him, every argument, every moment of understanding, every irritation, every rare glimpse behind the masks he spent his life wearing.
The irony of such an ending is almost beautiful in its own twisted way. Dottore spent his entire life fragmenting himself into countless versions, each one representing only a portion of who he was and ending up to be entirely their own people in a way. Yet a recreation born solely from your memories might be the first version assembled into a complete whole. In that sense, the version of himself recreated through your memories might become the one thing he spent his entire life searching forāthe person he always wanted to be, reflected back to him by the only individual he ever considered his equal.
I think I've probably rambled far longer than I originally intended, but you're absolutely right, SAGAU is one of those concepts that feels almost impossible to stop talking about once you start exploring it.
Do you have any recommendations for other yandere fics that you personally enjoy?? I feel like you'd have great taste
Hello Anon! Unfortunately, and I hate to disappoint, I haven't read any yandere fanfiction seriously since I was around fourteen. I do read physical books, though! Sadly, none of them are yandere or dark romance, but recently I've been really enjoying The Garden Against Time. It combines history, horticulture, art, and biography to explore the role of gardens throughout Western culture and history. It moves between both fictional and real gardens, including those found in Milton's Paradise Lost, and I couldn't recommend it more.
On that note, Paradise Lost is a fantastic epic poem, but good lord, Milton can go on about absolutely anything and everything. Sometimes, he'll spend ages discussing something that has very little to do with the section of the poem you're actually reading. There are moments where I genuinely doubt he even knew what he was talking about anymore.
hello jade!!! love your writing and intermezzo,, i was wondering how you write the batfam so accurately while also keeping a lot of depth to them? i dont know if that makes sense but they all are their own people and the writing really makes them seem real meanwhile it also feels really accurate to their characters in canon as well.
Hello, and thank you for the ask, Anon!
When it comes to writing them close to canon, there are definitely a few liberties I take. The first is, of course, that they're yandere now. I do try to keep them as close to their canon personalities as possible (except Jasonāto be honest, the vast majority of his comic runs have been complete disasters. I'm convinced the writers hate him). The way I approach it is by taking their existing traits and amplifying them.
For example, with Jason, his insecurities surrounding his death and his relationship with Bruce become much more pronounced. It's not really about being replaced, it never was; it's about the fear that Bruce doesn't actually want him back after everything that happened and wont accept him. In Arkham Knight, Jason is so angry and so consumed by his own distorted version of events that he genuinely believes Bruce doesn't know what's best for Gotham anymore.
So his character goes from:
Slightly Insecure ā very insecure in a relationship about his worth
Protective ā overprotective, convinced nobody else can keep you safe
It's a little easier with characters like Tim, who already have a history of stalking people and exhibiting some genuinely strange behaviour. There isn't nearly as much that needs to be changed.
If you're trying to make them feel canon, I'd absolutely recommend reading as many comics as you can get your hands on. I think I own almost every Damian comic that's available, which I'm sure shows in my writing for him. There's definitely a bit of favouritism there.
That being said, I'd also caution against focusing too much on making them perfectly identical to their comic counterparts. There are countless comic runs out there, and every run has a different writer bringing their own interpretation of a character and their story. There are even some Bruce-centred comics that I personally struggle to think of as Bruce at all, but that's ultimately that writer's prerogative when approaching the character.
Because of that, comics are a great foundation, but they're not a definitive solution. There isn't one singular, objectively correct version of these characters. What we think of as "canon" is often just a collection of different interpretations layered on top of one another over decades.
At the end of the day, this is your own take on the character. As long as you understand who they are at their core and why they behave the way they do, don't be afraid to change a few things to suit the story you want to tell. Some of the most memorable interpretations come from writers who were willing to put their own spin on a character rather than simply copying what came before.
When I write, I want my dialogue and characters to feel like real people first and foremost. I draw heavily from conversations I've had in real life because it helps the interactions feel natural. It's also why I don't use American slang. I'm not American, and while Gotham is technically in America, I tend to leave that alone. It's a bit like reading a Harry Potter fanfiction where you can immediately tell the author isn't from the UK.
Every character is a person with their own goals, values, flaws, growth, and internal thoughts. Exploring those things naturally in your writing makes it much easier for readers to understand who a character is without having to spell everything out for them.
My biggest piece of advice, though, is to have fun with it. Writing is a skill that develops with practice, and at the end of the day, as long as you're enjoying the story you're telling, that's what matters most.
Thank you so much for the ask, and I hope you continue enjoying Intermezzo!
SYNOPSIS : A winter getaway turns into a nightmare when an unexpected reunion with Tim Drake leaves you stranded in an isolated mountain cabin during a blizzard. What begins as a chance encounter with a familiar classmate quickly unravels into something far more sinister.
WARNINGS : Rape/Non-Con, Sexual Content, Yandere Behaviour, Obsessive and Possessive Behaviour, Kidnapping, Abduction, Drugging, Stalking, Manipulation, Forced Isolation, Psychological Horror, Loss of Bodily Autonomy, Delusional Behaviour, Forced Proximity, Female Reader
a / n : this was meant to be for christmas but so just pretend its not practically summer okay thanks bye
REBLOGS AND INTERACTIONS ENCOURAGED!
āTim?ā
The man pivots at the sound of his name, shoulders tightening as his brows draw together in brief confusion. His gaze cuts down the aisle, sharp, until it finds you. Recognition washes over his features, the tension ebbing like a retreating tide. The hard glint in his eyes softens, shadow warming into something gentler.
āHey,ā he says, his voice a low rumble edged with surprise. His arms are full of grocery bags, sleeves shoved up his forearms, if you squint you think you can make out faint traces of bruises on his arms, but with the amount he's carrying you leave it to be the fault of the plastic bags. āWhat are you doing out here?ā
Whatever brought you to the produce aisle slips cleanly from your mind. You step away from the neat rows of fruit and crisp vegetables, drawn toward him without thinking. You probably shouldāve grabbed something, anything, for your basket. It was your responsibility, after all. The cabin cupboards would be bare without your foresight, and cooking had never been your family's strong suit. But all of that feels distant now, rendered insignificant by the unexpected closeness of him.
āIām just spending a few nights away with my family. Needed a break from Gotham for the weekend,ā you say, the explanation slipping out with a faint huff of amusement. You barely manage to stifle a laughābecause of course youād try to escape Gotham only to run into someone who embodies it so completely. Some things, it seems, cling tighter than distance ever could. Tim nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose, a small, instinctive gesture you recognize immediately. An easy smile curves his mouth, softening the sharp focus he so often wore. The sight loosens something in your chest.
āWhat about you?ā you ask, your voice quieter now.
You and Tim were never close in high school. Different circles. Heād been the quiet, brilliant presence tucked behind a laptop or a tower of textbooks, and youāwell, youād spent those years trying not to draw attention in a school where everything felt too expensive, too carefully curated to ever feel welcoming. Youād shared the same halls, orbited the same space, without ever truly colliding. It wasnāt until university that your worlds finally collided. Somehow, by sheer cosmic accident or the universeās questionable sense of humour, Tim Drake ended up in nearly every one of your classes. After years of never so much as brushing shoulders in high school, he was suddenly everywhere: a row ahead of you, the desk beside yours, offering a quiet nod or a small smile whenever your eyes met.
Your opinion of him shifted gradually, almost without you noticing.
If someone had asked you the day before university began what you thought of Tim Drake, you wouldāve pictured the tall, handsome, undeniably brilliant boy from high schoolāand nothing beyond that. No strong opinions or lingering impressions. Just a sharp-edged presence who moved through the halls like a ghost with perfect grades. But the boy you remembered and the man you came to know were not the same. Where youād once assumed distance and quiet mystery, you found instead an awkward, gentle warmth. A man who listened more than he spoke, who smiled softly when a joke landed a beat late, who pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose every time he grew flustered. And the angles of himāGod, the angles. Time had sharpened them, his frame filling out just enough that when summer came and he dared to wear T-shirts to class, his toned arms were impossible to ignore. The butterflies were new. It felt absurd to experience that magnetic pull toward someone youād barely looked twice at just a few years earlier. He hadnāt been unattractive back thenāfar from it. You just hadnāt been interested. Not until he stopped being an idea of a person and became the real thing: complicated, quietly charming, and standing right in front of you.
He guides his cart a few steps forward to clear the aisle as a couple squeezes past, the wheels clicking softly against the linoleum. When he settles again, heās closerānear enough that youāre suddenly aware of the space between you, or rather, the lack of it.
āItās been a while since we talked, since break started,ā he says, offering that small, earnest smile again. āWhat have you been up to? Itās nice seeing someone from our class.ā
It isnāt exactly an answer to your questionābut the clumps of snow melting into his jacket seams and scattered through his cart say enough. He must be here for the same reason you are: to breathe air that isnāt thick with Gothamās noise. A quiet escape.
āGod, thatās exactly what I was thinking,ā you say, keeping your tone light, easyāthe practised softness of casual conversation. It isnāt awkward, not really. Youāre justā¦ inelegant when things veer unexpectedly personal. Before you can cringe at yourself, something else slips free. āDid I mention you look good? I meanāuhāwhat have you been up to?ā
For a heartbeat, something flickers across his face. It isnāt the reaction you expect. Itās something sharper, something that lands low in your gut with an instinctive jolt of unease. His lips twitch, just barely, the ghost of a smirk. Thereās a fleeting, almost triumphant glint in his eyes, a look that feels like confirmation. Like heās just proven something to himself. Something you were never meant to notice.
Then itās gone.
Wiped clean so quickly you almost doubt it was ever there at all. Blink, and heās Tim again: polite, mild, harmless. Familiar. You tell yourself itās exhaustion, the long drive, the shift in scenery, the mental fog settling in like static. Itās Tim. Youāve known him for years.
āThanksāand nothing much,ā he says easily. āJust work for me too. Finally got a bit of free time, so I figured Iād get away for a while.ā His tone is casual, almost breezy, but something about it feels deliberateātoo smooth, too carefully sanded down. Before you can pull the thread, another shopper shoulders past, casting you both an irritated look for clogging the produce aisle, as if your quiet catching up is an unforgivable obstacle to their urgent vegetable-related mission. You take the hint, lips stretching into a small, apologetic smile. āI get that. AnywayāI should probably finish up before the others get here and empty the pantry with junk food. It was nice seeing you, Tim.ā
His answering smile comes easily, practised warmth softening the sharp lines of his face. His arms uncross, hands dropping to his sides as he shakes his head lightly. āNice seeing you too. Have fun at the cabināand donāt get caught in the blizzard.ā
You dip your head in acknowledgement, already stepping away, retreating toward the next aisle. But before you turn fully, you glance back and offer one last smile. And then youāre gone, leaving behind the faint, unsettling sense that something just passed between youāsomething unnoticedā¦ and very much not accidental.
Itās noon, technically.
The clock on the microwave insists on it, glowing a stubborn 12:07 PM, but outside the cabin windows the sky has already collapsed into something dark and heavy, clouds bruised purple-Gray and rolling low over the trees. Snow drifts sideways past the glass, thick and relentless, blurring the world into a smothered white hush. The phone call comes just as the kettle begins to scream. You fumble to answer, cradling the phone between shoulder and ear while you reach for a mug. Your motherās voice crackles through the line, strained, apologetic. It turns out something had stalled them on the way to the cabin. A burst tire. Everyoneās safe, no injuries, but the carās been towed miles away, and the parts they need are delayed because of the storm. They wonāt be coming. Not today and certainly not tomorrow. A few days, at least. They try to reassure you over the phone, voices light despite the strain beneath it. Theyāll figure something out, get there another way if they can, make the most of the holiday anyway.
āOh,ā you say, stupidly, as if that single syllable might rearrange reality. You reassure them, promise youāll be fine, that the cabinās stocked and warm andā
The call ends with a soft click, the screen going dark in your hand. For a moment, you just stand there, phone still pressed to your ear, as if the conversation might resume on its own if you wait long enough. It doesnāt.
The kettle continues to shriek on the stove, sharp and insistent, cutting through the sudden quiet like a reprimand. You flinch and reach for it, shutting it off a little harder than necessary. The sound dies abruptly, leaving behind a ringing silence that makes your ears ache. You pour the water into your mug, the stream unsteady. Your hand tremblesāonly slightly, just enough that you notice. Tea sloshes dangerously close to the rim, steam curling up around your face, fogging your vision for a second. You manage not to spill, though itās a near thing. A single drop splashes onto the counter, darkening the wood.
Alone, then.
The word settles heavily in your chest.
Not alone aloneāyou remind yourself of that quickly, stubbornly. Your family is coming. Theyāre justā¦ late. Delayed. Stuck an hour out, according to the last text youād received before the signal began to waver. Roads are closing fast, the storm swallowing everything in its path. Youād volunteered to come up early, to unlock the cabin, start the heat, make it feel lived-in before everyone arrived. It had seemed harmless at the time. Responsible, even.
You cradle the mug between your hands, letting the warmth seep into your palms, and drift toward the window. Outside, the snow comes down thick and sideways, driven by a wind that bends the trees until they creak and groan in protest. Branches sway like dark, skeletal arms against the bruised sky, their shadows stretching and distorting across the glass. The cabin answers in kindāsoft pops and groans as the wood settles, adjusting to the cold. The sounds are normal. Expected. And yet each one lands a little too loud, a little too close, in the hollow quiet that follows the call. You take a sip of tea, barely tasting it. Youāre halfway through the mug when the knock comes.
Three firm raps against the door.
Your stomach drops, a cold weight sinking low and sharp.
Donāt be ridiculous, you tell yourself immediately. This is a cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, not the opening scene of a horror movie. There are reasonable explanations. A ranger checking on occupied cabins. One of your family members who managed to get closer than expected before the roads worsened. Still, your grip tightens around the mug as you turn toward the door, heart beating just a little too fast.
"Tim?"
The name escaped you in a breath of unmistakable relief, the tension that had been coiled tightly beneath your ribs easing almost instantly as recognition settled over you. Surprise coloured your voice as you stared at the man standing on your doorstep, and for a brief moment all the unease that had accompanied the unexpected knock at your isolated cabin simply melted away. It was only Tim. Familiar, trusted, and entirely out of place in the middle of nowhere, but nevertheless a far more welcome sight than any of the possibilities your imagination had conjured in the seconds before opening the door.
"Hey."
His response was accompanied by a small smile, his tone carrying an almost absurd level of calm considering the circumstances. There was something remarkably casual about the way he greeted you, as though the two of you had happened to run into one another while shopping for groceries rather than meeting on the porch of a remote cabin during a winter storm.
Snow dusted his dark hair and shoulders, tiny white flakes still caught in the fabric of his coat despite the shelter provided by the overhang above. The cold had painted his cheeks a vivid shade of red, the colour stark against skin that was already pale from the freezing weather. A thick winter coat concealed most of his frame, hiding the details of his physique beneath layers of dark fabric, but it did little to disguise the athletic build underneath. Tim had never been particularly imposing in terms of sheer size, yet there was a quiet strength to him that years of training had etched into the shape of his body. It was clear he worked out. Even beneath the heavy coat, you could still make out the broadness of his shoulders and the subtle definition of muscle beneath the fabric if you looked closely enough.
"What are you doing out here?" you asked, your voice noticeably steadier now that the initial shock had worn off.
The smile lingering on his face widened slightly before he answered. It came easily to him, softening the naturally sharp angles of his features and lending him the kind of approachable warmth he usually held towards you. Yet now that you were actually looking at him rather than simply reacting to his presence, you noticed something beneath that easy charm. The confidence he had displayed when the door first opened seemed to falter ever so slightly, replaced by a faint nervousness that revealed itself through small, almost imperceptible movements. His hands dropped from where they had been tucked against his body, his posture opening up as though he were unconsciously trying to appear less threatening. The shift was subtle enough that most people likely wouldn't have noticed it, but it was there all the same.
"My car broke down a little way down the road," he explained, glancing over his shoulder toward the snow-covered stretch of forest behind him. "I couldn't get any signal, so I figured I'd keep walking until I found somewhere."
For a brief second, the smile on his face seemed oddly misplaced. There was something almost pleased about it, a flicker of an expression that didn't quite align with the story he was telling. The feeling was gone so quickly that you almost convinced yourself you had imagined it. An apologetic smile replaced it a moment later, softer and more natural, settling comfortably across his features. "Pretty ironic that it ended up being your place, huh?" His laugh was quiet, accompanied by a small shake of his head as snow continued to drift down around him. Standing there beneath the porch light, framed by darkness and falling snow, he looked every bit like someone who had stumbled across the cabin by sheer chance. Yet something about the coincidence felt almost too unlikely, even if you couldn't quite explain why.
His hands fell to his sides as he shook his head slightly, sending a scattering of snowflakes from his dark hair. The movement drew your attention immediately, your gaze lingering for a moment on the melting droplets caught amongst the unruly strands. Up close, he looked even colder than you had first realised. The tips of his ears were red from the wind, and there was a stiffness to the way he held himself that suggested he had been outside for far longer than was comfortable.
"Anyways," he said, offering another small smile, "sorry to ask, but would you mind if I stayed here until the signal comes back?"
The question snapped you from the dazed state you had found yourself drifting into since opening the door. Your mind seemed to stumble over itself trying to catch up with the situation, and you quickly stepped aside to make room for him. "Oh! Yeah, of course. Sorryācome in. Let me get you a towel." The words came out in a rush as you ushered him inside, suddenly aware that you had left him standing out in the freezing weather while you stared at him in disbelief. As soon as he crossed the threshold, a gust of cold air followed him into the cabin before the door swung shut behind him, cutting off the howling wind outside.
You took his coat as he shrugged out of it, hanging the heavy, damp garment by the entrance before hurrying down the hallway towards the linen closet. Your movements felt clumsy, driven more by instinct than thought as you rummaged through the shelves in search of spare towels. It wasn't difficult to justify your concern. Tim looked half-frozen, and the last thing you needed was for him to come down with a cold while stranded out here. Being snowed in with a sick classmate in the middle of nowhere, with no phone signal and limited access to help, sounded like exactly the sort of situation you wanted to avoid if possible. By the time you returned to the living room, Tim had settled himself on the couch. He sat with an ease that suggested he was trying not to inconvenience you, despite the fact that melting snow had already begun dripping from his clothes onto the wooden floorboards beneath him.
"Sorry about the mess," he said, glancing down at the damp footprints and small puddles trailing behind him. There was a hint of embarrassment in his voice, accompanied by a sheepish smile.
You dismissed the concern with a wave of your hand.
"It's fine. Trust me, the floors will survive." The reassurance seemed to ease whatever lingering guilt he felt, and he relaxed slightly against the cushions. Outside, the storm continued to rage against the cabin walls, wind rattling the windows and sending snow swirling through the darkness beyond the glass. Just to be safe, you grabbed a few extra towels before heading back into the living room. The trail of melted snow stretching from the front door to the couch wasn't particularly dramatic, but it was enough to make you nervous. The cabin wasn't yours, after all, and if the owners decided to charge an additional fee because water had soaked into the floorboards, your parents would never let you hear the end of it. It wouldn't matter that a snowstorm was currently burying the entire area under several inches of snow or that you had unexpectedly found yourself sheltering a stranded classmate for the night. Somehow, they would still find a way to make the conversation about responsibility and property damage.
With that thought in mind, you set about drying the floor, following the damp footprints and small puddles left in Tim's wake. The task gave you something practical to focus on, which was a relief after the strange whirlwind his appearance had thrown you into. Outside, the storm continued to batter the cabin, the wind occasionally rattling the windows hard enough to draw your attention. Inside, however, everything felt warm and oddly peaceful. The fire crackled quietly, filling the room with a comforting glow, while Tim sat on the couch behind you, the simple presence of another person making the cabin feel considerably less isolated than it had only half an hour ago.
By the time you reached the last traces of water, you had gradually worked your way closer to where he was sitting. Kneeling beside the couch, you focused on wiping away the final damp marks from the wood, only for the sound of Tim clearing his throat to draw your attention upwards. The movement was automatic. Before you could stop yourself, your gaze lifted from the floorboards and settled on him.
Immediately, that familiar fluttering sensation returned.
From this angle, he looked annoyingly attractive. The warmth of the cabin had softened some of the harsh effects of the cold, leaving a faint flush lingering across his cheeks that contrasted against the paleness of his skin. His hoodie, borrowed from the collection of clothes he'd brought for the trip, stretched across shoulders that seemed broader than you remembered, the fabric outlining the shape of his frame in a way that made it difficult not to stare. Tim had never been the kind of person who deliberately drew attention to his appearance, but there was something almost unfair about how effortlessly put together he always seemed. Even after being stranded in a snowstorm and arriving at your cabin soaked through, he somehow still managed to look good.
Your attention drifted higher, settling on his hair. Usually it was kept at least somewhat neat, pushed back enough to keep it from falling into his eyes, but the weather had thoroughly ruined that effort. Damp strands hung loosely across his forehead, darker than usual from the moisture. Tiny droplets of water still clung to them despite the towel you'd given him earlier, and without meaning to, you found yourself following one as it slid downward. The droplet traced a slow path from his hairline, moving across the curve of his cheek before continuing lower. When it finally caught briefly against his lips, reflecting the warm light from the lamp beside him, your gaze lingered for a second longer than it should have.
Far longer than it should have, actually.
The realization didn't fully hit until his eyes lifted and met yours. Heat immediately rushed into your face as awareness crashed back into place. You had been staring. Not absentmindedly looking in his direction. Staring. There was no way around it. Your mouth opened as you scrambled for something to say, some completely normal explanation that would make the last several seconds disappear from existence, but before you could form a single coherent word, the sharp whistle of the kettle suddenly cut through the room. The sound startled you both, though you were fairly certain your reaction was stronger. Relief flooded through you so quickly it was almost embarrassing. Right. The kettle. You had completely forgotten about it after the knock at the door, the water probably having sat boiling for several minutes while your brain occupied itself with far less productive matters.
Clearing your throat, you pushed yourself upright and brushed your hands against your knees, focusing perhaps a little too intently on the now spotless floorboards. "Well, that's the floor sorted," you said, gesturing vaguely towards the area you'd just cleaned before turning in the direction of the kitchen. The comment felt absurdly mundane after the awkwardness of the last few moments, but perhaps that was exactly why you clung to it. Normal conversation was significantly easier to handle than whatever had just happened.
Pausing at the entrance to the kitchen, you glanced back over your shoulder at him. "Do you want tea?" you asked, grateful to finally have something else to focus on besides the fact that you'd nearly been caught admiring your classmate from two feet away.
Arguably, looking at him from above was even worse. From the couch, Tim had looked attractive enough, but standing over him only seemed to highlight every detail your brain insisted on focusing on. Damp strands of dark hair hung across his forehead and occasionally dipped in front of his eyes, no longer styled into the neat, controlled appearance he usually maintained. The remnants of melted snow still clung stubbornly to him despite the warmth of the cabin, tiny droplets visible along his skin as it melted and caught in the ends of his hair. Combined with the faint flush lingering across his cheeks from the cold, it gave him an oddly dishevelled appearance that should have made him look worse. Instead, it somehow had the opposite effect. There was something distinctly unfair about it. The entire look gave him the appearance of a soaked stray cat that had wandered in from the storm, and you were entirely certain there were people on campus who would lose their minds over it. Considering how many people already found Tim attractive under normal circumstances, seeing him looking like this would probably be enough to cause an incident.
"Tea would be nice."
The sound of his voice pulled you from your thoughts before they could become any more embarrassing. You nodded a little too quickly and turned towards the kitchen, grateful for the opportunity to put several walls between yourself and whatever was currently happening to your common sense. The warmth lingering in your face hadn't faded in the slightest, and you were becoming increasingly concerned that it was far more obvious than you wanted it to be. Leaving Tim in the living room, you crossed into the kitchen and immediately abandoned all pretence of composure.
The moment you were out of sight, you leaned forward against the sink and squeezed your eyes shut. Reaching for the tap, you ran cold water over your hands before splashing some across your face. The chill immediately cut through the lingering heat, and you stayed there for a few seconds longer than necessary, staring down into the sink as water dripped from your chin. It was nothing. Seriously, it was nothing. You were snowed in at an isolated cabin with one of the most objectively attractive people you knew. Anyone would be having a slightly unusual reaction under the circumstances. Cabin fever was probably a real thing. If it wasn't, it should be. There was no reason to read into any of this beyond being stuck in a confined space with a classmate who happened to be annoyingly good-looking.
Satisfied with that explanation, or at least willing to accept it for the time being, you straightened up and focused your attention on making the tea.
The process was familiar enough that it required very little thought. You retrieved a second mug from the cupboard before dropping tea bags into both cups, following them with sugar. The kettle was still hot from boiling, and the steady stream of water filled the mugs with a comforting hiss of steam. After allowing the tea to brew for a minute, you removed the bags and added milk, watching the colour shift from dark amber to a softer brown as you stirred. The routine was simple, repetitive, and reassuring. There was something comforting about following familiar steps when everything else felt slightly off balance. Measuring sugar, stirring the tea, lining the spoons neatly beside the mugs; each small action gave your mind something tangible to focus on. By the time you finished, the frantic embarrassment that had sent you fleeing from the living room had dulled into something far more manageable.
At the very least, making tea gave your hands something to do other than stare at Tim Drake.
You had calmed considerably by the time you returned to the living room with the mugs balanced carefully in your hands. The short retreat to the kitchen had given you the opportunity to collect yourself, and the familiar routine of making tea had done wonders for settling your nerves. At the very least, you no longer felt as though every glance in Tim's direction was capable of completely short-circuiting your ability to think.
"Here," you said, passing one of the mugs over.
Tim accepted it with an appreciative smile, his fingers curling around the ceramic almost immediately as he welcomed the warmth. You smiled back automatically, but as your eyes met his, something caught your attention. It lasted only a fraction of a second before disappearing, replaced by his usual easy expression, yet you were almost certain you had seen it. There had been a strange glint in his eyes, something that looked remarkably like satisfaction. Not arrogance or smugness, but the quiet, private sort of triumph someone might feel after succeeding at something they had invested a great deal of effort into. The expression was so out of place that it left you momentarily confused, and by the time you had properly registered it, it was already gone. Deciding you were probably reading too much into things, you lowered yourself into the armchair opposite him and wrapped both hands around your own mug. "So much for getting away from Gotham, right?" you joked, gesturing vaguely towards him with the cup.
A laugh escaped him, soft and genuine. "Apparently not."
The conversation fell into a comfortable lull after that. The fire crackled steadily in the hearth, filling the room with warmth that contrasted sharply with the storm still raging beyond the windows. Snow continued to strike the glass in intermittent bursts whenever the wind picked up, but from inside the cabin it felt distant and strangely peaceful. You took a sip of your tea and allowed yourself to relax into the cushions, enjoying the warmth spreading through your hands.
"Thanks, by the way," Tim said after a moment. "You left your cup over there."
You blinked before following the direction of his gaze. Sure enough, your original mug sat abandoned on the small table beside the window.
"Oh."
A quiet laugh escaped you as you shook your head.
"Thanks. I honestly don't even remember putting it there."
Considering how distracted you had been since the moment Tim had first knocked on your door, it really should not have come as a surprise that you had managed to misplace something as simple as your own mug. Your thoughts had been scattered in every direction at once ever since opening that door, constantly catching on the storm outside, the unexpected arrival of a classmate, and the uncomfortable awareness of just how isolated the two of you were in the middle of it all. If Tim had not casually pointed it out, there was a very real chance you would have gone through the rest of the evening without even noticing its absence, only to eventually find it hours later and feel mildly defeated by your own absent-mindedness.
You retrieved the mug without much fuss and settled back into your seat, allowing yourself to sink into the cushion as the warmth of the drink gradually settled into your hands. The silence that followed was not uncomfortable in the slightest. It sat easily between you both, softened by the crackle of the fire and the distant, persistent presence of the storm outside, which now felt more like a backdrop than a threat. There was something unexpectedly grounding about it, about simply sharing a room with another person without the need to fill every pause with conversation, especially after having spent so much of the day alone in the quiet of the cabin.
Eventually, however, Tim spoke again, his voice cutting gently through the stillness.
āDid you say you and your family were staying here?ā
The question pulled your attention back with ease, and for a moment your mind was transported to earlier that afternoon, to the supermarket aisles filled with bright lights and neatly stacked produce, where the conversation had seemed so casual and unremarkable. At the time, it had been nothing more than passing small talk between two people comparing holiday plans without any real significance. Now, however, it felt strangely distant, almost as though it belonged to a different version of the day entirely, one that had not yet been disrupted by snowstorms and stranded cars.
āOh, right,ā you said after a brief pause, shifting slightly in your seat as you adjusted the mug against your knees. The heat from it grounded you as you briefly searched through the chain of events in your mind, trying to make sense of how quickly everything had unravelled into the current situation. āYeah. Funnily enough, they got caught in the blizzard too.ā
A soft laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it, more from disbelief than humour, as the absurdity of it all settled more firmly in your thoughts. āWe were supposed to meet up here a couple of days ago, but the weather completely ruined those plans. Last I heard, they were stuck further down the mountain waiting for the roads to reopen.ā You shook your head slightly, staring into the surface of your tea as if it might offer some kind of explanation for the situation. āHonestly, at this point I am starting to think this entire trip was cursed from the beginning.ā
āItās the opposite for me,ā Tim replied after a brief pause, his tone shifting into something a little lighter as he adjusted his posture on the couch. He sat up slightly straighter, as though unconsciously mirroring the way you had settled in, giving you his full attention in a way that felt unexpectedly deliberate. There was an easy attempt at humour in the way he continued, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he added that, if anything, he was glad you were here, because otherwise he would have likely frozen to death in the storm outside. The joke was light enough to pass on the surface, but there was a steadiness in his voice underneath it that made you pause without quite knowing why. It was not the kind of statement that sounded entirely casual, even if it was dressed up as one. For a second, the weight of it lingered in the air between you, softened only by the crackle of the fire and the warmth of the room around you.
In response, you found yourself relaxing further into the cushions of the sofa, your body sinking more fully into the unfamiliar softness as the tension you had been carrying without realising began to ease. The material still had a slightly scratchy texture against your clothes, something you had noticed when you first sat down, but now it barely registered at all. Your muscles loosened as you exhaled slowly, letting the comfort of the moment settle in properly for the first time since he had arrived. The tea had cooled considerably now, no longer steaming as it had been when you first made it, but instead sitting at a lukewarm warmth that was still comforting enough to hold between your hands. Nevertheless, your hands made up for the lack of warmth, wrapped firmly around the mug as you let its residual heat seep into your palms. The cabin itself was comfortably warm now, the fire doing more than enough to counteract the storm still raging outside, and you found yourself beginning to feel almost too warm in your own clothes. The thick sweater you had thrown on earlier suddenly felt heavier than necessary, clinging slightly as the heat built beneath it, and you became increasingly aware of the faint discomfort of it sticking to your skin. It occurred to you, distantly and without much urgency, that you probably should have taken it off earlier. The combination of the fire, the tea, and the enclosed space had turned the room into something bordering on stifling, and you shifted slightly on the couch in an attempt to get more comfortable. A thin layer of warmth had gathered beneath the fabric, enough that you could feel the beginnings of sweat at your back and collar, and the thought alone was enough to make you consider finally shedding the extra layer.
You glanced at Tim properly then and offered a small smile, one that came more naturally than the earlier awkward ones had. āWhat are friends for?ā you said, lifting your mug slightly before taking another sip.
If you had been paying closer attention, you might have noticed the way Tim went quiet for a fraction of a second too long. There was a brief stillness in his expression, something unreadable passing across his face before it smoothed itself out again. A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested the beginning of something different from his usual smile, something that he quickly settled into place as though correcting himself.
āYeah,ā he agreed after a beat, his tone perfectly even once more. āWhat are friends for.ā
You had just been on the edge of excusing yourself when exhaustion finally settled over you properly, no longer something you could ignore or outpace. It arrived all at once, heavy and insistent, as though the long day had simply been waiting for a moment of stillness to collapse into you. You had already begun forming the words in your head, something about needing to lie down for a while and letting Tim keep the couch until the blizzard passed, when your phone suddenly rang out in your pocket. The sound startled you more than it should have. You fumbled for it quickly, pulling it out and squinting at the screen as the name of your mother lit up in the dim light of the room. The timing felt oddly relentless, as though the world outside the cabin had decided it could not stop interrupting you. You glanced from the phone to Tim, offering him an apologetic look as you lifted it slightly in explanation.
āIāll be a few minutes,ā you said as he nodded, his expression attentive. His voice followed you softly, telling you to take your time, but you were already ready to get up to move toward the corridor, phone pressed to your ear but it was only when you pushed yourself up from the couch that something in your body shifted sharply. The movement, so simple and ordinary, seemed to tilt the world in a way it shouldnāt have. Dizziness washed over you in an uneven wave, sudden enough that your vision fractured at the edges, dark spots blooming across your sight like ink spreading through water. You reached out instinctively, your hand catching the arm of the sofa to steady yourself, and for a brief moment everything seemed to narrow into the pressure of your palm against fabric and wood.
Behind you, you could hear Tim shifting, the faint rustle of movement suggesting he had stood up or was about to, concern likely pulling him forward before you quickly lifted a hand in his direction without turning fully around. āIām fine,ā you managed, though your voice came out thinner than intended. āI just stood up too fast.ā It wasnāt entirely convincing, even to you, but the sensation began to ebb just enough for you to convince yourself it was manageable. You forced your breathing to steady and continued toward the corridor, each step feeling slightly more deliberate than the last as you focused on the phone still pressed to your ear.
āHey, Mom, whatās going on?ā you asked, attempting a tone of casual normality as you reached the front of the cabin.
Her response came through slightly distorted by the line, but clear enough to make you pause mid-step.
āWeāre just outside the cabin, honey. I donāt see any lights on. Did the blizzard knock the power out?ā
A short laugh left you almost automatically, born more from disbelief than humour, and you shook your head as you reached for the door. āYou need to get your eyes checked,ā you replied lightly, though there was a faint strain beneath it now that you couldnāt quite place. āThe porch light is literally on.ā
Your hand closed around the door handle and turned it, the lock giving way with a familiar click as you pulled the door open. The moment it swung outward, the storm hit you like a physical force. Cold air surged into the cabin, sharp and immediate, cutting through the warmth and pressing against your skin with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. Snow-laden wind rushed past you, carrying with it the soundless weight of the blizzard, and for a moment you simply stood there in the threshold, bracing yourself against the frame as your body reacted to the sudden temperature shift. But something was wrong. Not just cold, not just wind, but a deeper, more unsettling sensation spreading through you as though your body was no longer responding properly to your commands. Your limbs felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else, the strength draining out of them in a way that made no logical sense. The sensation crept upward through your legs and into your chest, numbing rather than weakening, leaving you suspended in an uncomfortable state of detachment.
You tried to focus your eyes beyond the doorway, searching for the familiar outline of the porch, the road beyond it, anything that confirmed the world was still as it should be. Instead, there was only darkness and shifting white, the storm swallowing every recognizable shape and replacing it with endless, chaotic movement.
āMom?ā you called again, but the word felt strange leaving your mouth, distant even to your own ears.
The phone remained pressed to your hand, but your grip on it felt uncertain, your fingers slow to respond as though they were losing coordination one joint at a time. The last thing you registered clearly was the overwhelming sense that something fundamental had shifted beneath you, that the ground was no longer entirely where it should be.
Then the world tilted without warning.
You never felt yourself hit the floor.
You blinked awake slowly, consciousness surfacing through a haze so thick and oppressive that for several long moments you couldn't properly distinguish dream from reality. For a fleeting moment, exhaustion tries to make itself known once more, you found yourself fighting the overwhelming urge to simply close your eyes again. The bed beneath you was warm, the mattress soft, and the heavy comforter draped across both of your bodies seemed determined to pull you back beneath the surface of consciousness. Everything felt distant as though there was cotton packed behind your eyes and beneath your skin. Your thoughts came sluggishly, dragging themselves into coherence one at a time while you stared unfocused at the ceiling above you. A loose strand of hair had fallen across your face at some point, brushing irritatingly against your cheek, and instinctively you tried to lift a hand to move it. The command left your mind but seemed to die somewhere before reaching your muscles. Confused, you tried again, concentrating harder this time, willing your arm to move, willing your fingers to curl, but the effort yielded the same result. Your body felt impossibly heavy, every limb weighed down by a strange numbness that left you feeling disconnected from yourself. A slow pulse of unease began to spread through your chest as you stared upward, struggling to understand why something as simple as moving suddenly felt beyond your ability.
The sensation of a hand against your face finally dragged your attention away from your own body. Warm fingers rested gently against your cheek, the touch soft enough that for a moment your exhausted mind accepted it without question. It wasn't until several seconds later that realization arrived. The hand wasn't yours. Those fingers belonged to someone else entirely. A cold knot formed in your stomach at the discovery, and although every instinct immediately urged you to pull away, to recoil from the unfamiliar touch and put distance between yourself and whoever had placed their hand on you, your body remained stubbornly still. You couldn't even turn your head. All you could do was lie there and feel the weight of the palm against your skin while your pulse gradually began to accelerate beneath it. Awareness came in pieces after that. First the warmth pressed against your side, then the unmistakable weight of another body partially draped over your own, a head was buried against your shoulder, tucked comfortably into the space between your neck and collarbone as though it belonged there, one arm was looped securely around your waist beneath the blankets while a pair of long legs had been carelessly thrown over yours, effectively trapping you beneath their weight. The realization settled over you slowly but completely, each detail making the situation clearer than the last. Someone was lying on top of you, someone had been lying on top of you long before you woke up.
"I missed you."
The words were spoken directly into your skin, muffled by the curve of your neck. Warm breath ghosted across your throat as the voice vibrated softly against your shoulder. Under different circumstances the confession might have sounded affectionate. Sweet, even. Instead, the words settled heavily in your stomach.
"Bruce would've noticed me missing from patrol," Tim continued, speaking with the casual ease of someone discussing the weather. "But I was clearly distracted." There was a subtle shift against you as he spoke. You felt it more than saw it, the faint movement of his jaw against your shoulder and the slight adjustment of his weight as he settled more comfortably against you. His voice softened further when he spoke again, losing some of its amusement and becoming something quieter, more thoughtful.
"It's fine if he comes by. We won't be here."
Until that moment, confusion had still lingered around the edges of your thoughts, clouding your understanding of what was happening. Those few words shattered whatever remained. Panic arrived all at once. It surged through your chest so violently that it nearly made you nauseous, your heartbeat slamming against your ribs hard enough to hurt. The implications crashed together inside your mind with horrifying clarity. You wanted to sit up, to shove him away, to demand what he meant and where he intended to take you. Instead, your body remained motionless beneath him, every desperate command ignored by numb, uncooperative limbs. The helplessness of it was almost unbearable.
Tim, meanwhile, seemed perfectly content. If he noticed the change in your breathing or the way your pulse had begun racing beneath his touch, he gave no indication of it. Slowly, almost lazily, he shifted closer. It shouldn't have been possible considering how little space remained between your bodies already, yet somehow he managed it. The hand resting against your cheek slid away only to travel lower, fingers tracing along the line of your jaw before settling against the side of your neck. His palm curved there naturally, thumb resting beneath your ear while the rest of his hand spread across the opposite side. It wasn't a threatening grip, that was what made it so unsettling. It was the kind of touch that suggested he simply expected to be allowed to hold you this way. The room was silent enough that you could hear everything. The slow rhythm of his breathing and the faint rustle of fabric whenever he shifted. The steady beat of his heart somewhere against your side and time seemed to stretch unnaturally, every second dragging into the next until it felt impossible to measure. Without meaning to, you found yourself counting anyway, one second, then another, then another. The numbers became something to cling to amidst the panic threatening to consume you whole. Somewhere during that endless stretch of silence, you became aware of how dry your mouth felt. Your tongue seemed strangely heavy, unfamiliar in a way that made speaking feel impossibly complicated. Even so, you tried. You forced your lips apart and struggled to form words, desperate to ask a question, to demand an explanation, to say anything at all. The effort produced nothing but a weak, broken sound that barely resembled speech.
The arm around your waist tightened ever so slightly. The hand at your neck shifted too, his thumb brushing slowly against your skin in a gesture that might have been comforting if it didn't make your stomach turn. You kept your gaze fixed stubbornly ahead, staring at some indistinct point beyond the room because you couldn't bring yourself to look down. You already knew what you would find if you did. You could feel his attention on you with an almost physical certainty. It lingered heavily against your skin. The thought alone made your chest tighten because deep down you knew that if you gathered enough courage to lower your gaze, if you finally forced yourself to look at him, you would find Tim already staring directly back at you. "It's fine, you don't need to say anything." His voice was soft, almost unbearably gentle almost as if carrying the careful cadence of someone attempting to soothe a frightened animal. Under different circumstances it might have worked. Instead, every syllable seemed to settle beneath your skin like a splinter. The warmth of his breath brushed against your throat as he spoke, and the proximity made it impossible to ignore how completely he had surrounded you. The blankets, the weight of him, the arm still wrapped around your waist, everything combined into a suffocating reminder that there was nowhere for you to go. Even the comfort of the bed had become something oppressive. "Even if you did, it wouldn't matter." The words were accompanied by the faintest trace of amusement. You couldn't see his face, but you could hear it in his voice and feel it in the subtle movement against your shoulder. It was as though he had shared a private joke with himself.
"Honestly, I feel like you could say anything to me and I'd find a way to love you for it."
For a moment your mouth parted on instinct. A response rose automatically, driven by panic and disbelief, only to die before it could take shape. There was something disturbingly sincere about it, something that made it impossible to dismiss as a joke or an exaggeration. He wasn't trying to convince you. He sounded as though he were simply stating a fact he had accepted long ago.
"You're so beautiful."
The words emerged so quietly that you almost didn't hear it. They felt less like part of a conversation and more like a thought that had slipped free without permission. His attention remained fixed entirely on you, you could feel it as surely as you could feel the arm around your waist. The silence that followed seemed to stretch endlessly. Your pulse thundered in your ears while tears gathered slowly at the corners of your eyes. You hadn't even realized they were there at first, one moment your vision was merely blurred by exhaustion, and the next there was a sharp sting behind your eyelids, pressure building until it became impossible to ignore. You blinked hard, trying to force it away, but the effort only made the tears swell further, fear sat heavy in your chest, tangled together with helplessness and exhaustion until you could no longer distinguish where one feeling ended and the next began. You didn't want to cry. More than that, you didn't want him to see it. Yet the tears continued gathering anyway, betraying you as thoroughly as your own body already had. The room seemed distant and unreal around the edges, narrowed down to the space occupied by the weight of his body. Every instinct screamed at you to do something, to move, to push him away, to make him understand that this wasn't right. But your limbs remained heavy, your thoughts sluggish beneath the lingering fog clouding your mind. Even speaking felt impossibly difficult.
Still, somehow, you managed it. The words clawed their way upward from somewhere deep inside you, rough and uneven from disuse. Your throat burned with the effort. "I don'tā stop." Three small words spoken in a voice so weak it barely sounded like your own. The tears finally spilled over as soon as they left your mouth, warm tracks slid down your cheeks while your vision blurred completely. The effort of speaking had drained what little strength you possessed, but the terror remained, lodged firmly beneath your ribs. Yet even as the words hung between you, fragile and trembling in the silence, a terrible uncertainty settled over you. Because nothing in his tone, nothing in his behaviour, suggested that your refusal would change anything at all. It didn't change anything. If anything, the words seemed to draw Tim closer, as though your refusal had only reinforced something in his mind. He pressed himself further into your space, burying his face against your neck until his breath fanned across your skin in uneven bursts. The desperation in him was palpable, threaded through every movement and every quiet sound he made. It felt suffocating. You had finally managed to force words past your lips, had finally found enough strength to tell him to stop, and yet nothing around you shifted. The room remained unchanged and his arms remained wrapped around you. The weight of his body remained draped over yours.
"Please," he breathed against your skin, the word emerging strained and almost pleading. "I'll be gentle." The promise settled heavily in your stomach.
You kept your gaze fixed on the floor beyond the bed, unable to bring yourself to look at him as you felt his hand dip lower, fingers tracing your folds before pushing in. Staring anywhere else felt dangerous. Your arms remained stiff at your sides, your fingers weakly curled into the sheets beneath you as you fought to maintain some semblance of control over yourself. Panic and exhaustion churned together inside your chest until it became difficult to distinguish one from the other. Every instinct urged you to pull away, to escape, to do something, yet your body felt disconnected from those desires, sluggish and unreliable beneath the lingering haze clouding your thoughts. The worst part wasn't the fear, it was the humiliation. The awful awareness that your body no longer felt entirely your own, that every involuntary reaction filled you with a sense of betrayal you couldn't properly put into words. You wanted to be angry, wanted to direct that anger somewhere, at him, at yourself, at the situation that had led here. Instead there was only a crushing sense of helplessness settling deeper into your bones with every passing second.
Tim seemed completely consumed by you as he eased two digits into your cunt. The distracted quality he'd possessed earlier disappeared, replaced by an intensity that bordered on obsession. It was as though nothing else existed beyond this room, beyond you. The realization made your chest tighten painfully. When your body finally responded enough for movement to return, it wasn't in any way that mattered. Your limbs remained weak, your thoughts sluggish, your strength nowhere to be found. The small motion that escaped you felt less like a decision and more like instinct, born from exhaustion rather than intention. Tim reacted immediately, tightening his hold around your middle and pulling you closer against him, supporting your weight as though you belonged there.
A broken, humiliating sound escaped you before you could stop it, low and strained as it clawed its way from somewhere deep inside your chest. The reaction seemed to encourage him, drawing a noticeable shift in his focus, his fingers curling against something soft inside of you. The worst part was the way your body continued betraying you. Moments ago you had felt trapped inside yourself, unable to command your own limbs no matter how desperately you tried. Now movement returned in frustrating fragments, just enough to make your helplessness feel even more acute. Your back arched involuntarily, your body seeking stability and warmth despite the panic flooding your mind, pressing you closer against Tim's chest before you could stop yourself. The motion was small, barely noticeable, but he reacted immediately. His arm tightened around your waist, drawing you firmly against him as though afraid you might somehow disappear if he loosened his grip for even a second.
"Used to kill me," he murmured quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "Having to stand there and watch you stress without me able to take care of you." The confession sounded old, worn smooth from being repeated silently inside his head for far too long, the only distraction was the way he was fucking his fingers into you. "There were days it was unbearable." His lips brushed your cheek.
A sob escaped before you could stop it, broken and miserable as it left your throat. The sound seemed to affect him immediately. His arms tightened around you, holding you closer, almost protectively despite the fact that he was the source of your distress. The contradiction made your stomach twist. Your eyes squeezed shut. For a moment everything blurred together, the warmth of the room, the pressure of his arms, the tears sliding endlessly down your cheeks, the exhaustion threatening to drag you under once more. By the time the tension finally broke and you came around his fingers, relief never came. There was only a sickening sense of panic in your stomach.
The thought of being trapped out here with him was somehow more frightening than anything that had already happened. What terrified you wasn't the present. The present was awful, but it was familiar. Fear was easier to endure when it had clear boundaries, when you could identify the shape of it and understand where it might lead. Somewhere outside these walls stood a cabin isolated in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by miles of wilderness you had never seen and couldn't navigate even if you were somehow capable of leaving. No one who might hear you if you screamed. The realization settled heavily in your chest because if nobody knew where you were, then nobody knew where to look. Your thoughts drifted unwillingly toward the future, toward all the possibilities waiting beyond tomorrow and the day after that. The questions came one after another, each more terrifying than the last. How long did he intend to keep you here? What had he told everyone else? Had he told anyone anything at all? Was someone looking for you already, or had he planned carefully enough that your disappearance wouldn't raise alarms for days? You couldn't stop imagining the endless number of paths your life might take from this moment onward, each one branching into another until the possibilities became impossible to count.
The future was waking up tomorrow in this same cabin.
That uncertainty frightened you more than anything else. Your exhausted mind continued turning the possibilities over and over until they blurred together, each scenario bleeding into the next. Eventually the effort became too much. Fear demanded energy, and you had none left to give. Every muscle ached with exhaustion. Your thoughts felt sluggish, dragged down by a heaviness that had been pulling at you since the moment you woke. Even your panic was beginning to dull around the edges, worn thin by sheer fatigue. Tim's hold on you loosened slightly, you felt him move, just enough to tilt your chin upward. The gesture was gentle.
A moment later, soft lips brushed against yours.
You didn't respond. Your eyes drifted shut instead, the last fragments of resistance finally slipping through your fingers. The fear remained, lodged deep inside your chest where it would be waiting when you woke again, but for now exhaustion proved stronger. It wrapped around you like a heavy blanket, pulling you steadily downward into darkness. The last thing you were aware of was the steady rhythm of Tim's breathing beside you and the feeling of his arms tightening around you as your consciousness slipped away, holding you close as though he was afraid that even sleep might somehow take you from him.
The Tim Drake fanfic will also be released later today, so thereās something to look forward to.
Now that a few chapters of Intermezzo are out, Iād love to knowāwhatās been your favourite chapter so far? And if you have any favourite moments, feel free to share them.
Iād also ask about favourite character interactions with the reader, but unfortunately the story isnāt quite far enough along for thatā¦ yet.
SYNOPSIS : As the case forces you back into contact with long-lost family members, the investigation quickly deepens when the victimās deliberate mutilation suggests something far more calculated than initially assumed, turning the work increasingly personal. Meanwhile, Tim Drake begins to finally piece together the fragmented clues heās been circling, fixing his attention, and growing obsession, on uncovering the truth.
WARNINGS : Graphic Depictions of Violence, Childhood Neglect, Emotional Neglect, Abandonment Issues, Unhealthy Family Dynamics, Implied Child Endangerment, Blood and Gore, Family Estrangement, Yandere Behaviour, Obsessive and Possessive Behaviour, Trauma, Canon-Divergent
YOU ARE AT [chapter five], click here for [chapter four], click here for the [masterlist]
REBLOGS AND INTERACTIONS ENCOURAGED!
When you had first offered Damian the opportunity to join your investigation, you hadnāt truly expected him to accept. It had been a formality, an acknowledgement of his involvement, nothing more. And yet, here he was.
It was instructive, in a way. A quiet reminder that for all your careful deductions and measured foresight, there were still variables you could not account for. You did not know everythingāno matter how much you preferred to believe otherwise. That realization was what had led you here. Now, you stood upon a rooftop slick with the remnants of frost, the city below still half-asleep in the pale hush of early morning. The horizon burned faintly with the promise of sunrise, but the light offered no warmth, only a cold, distant glow that stretched thin across the skyline. The wind cut sharply through your coat, threading icy fingers beneath the fabric, though you made no move to shield yourself from it. Across from you, Damian simmered in silence, his posture rigid, his irritation almost palpable in the frigid air. You had to resist the faint pull of a smile.
āItāll be fine,ā you said at last, your voice breaking through the stillness. It was calm, steady in a way that tried to suggest certainty, even if it was only half-feigned. āIāll talk to him. Iām the oldestātrust me, theyāll see me as more responsible.ā
āNobody thinks that.ā
You arched a brow, amusement flickering briefly across your features. Damianās expression remained fixed in something that bordered on condescension. His lips parted, as if to deliver another cutting remark, but the moment was interrupted before he could. A voice carried across the rooftop.
āDamianāā
Both of you turned, and there, framed by the dim light of dawn, stood Dick Grayson.
You paused, reconsidering. Noāon second thought, you would absolutely take the small talk.
āāyou canāt just go off alone when youāre taken off patrol, itās notāā
You hesitated in the shadows, half-concealed behind the low wall, something instinctive. You could remain there, let the confrontation unfold without your interference. It would be easier. But Damian bristled at the words, his entire frame tightening and his shoulders squaring up. You exhaled softly, resigned more than reluctant.
āItās fine. Heās with me.ā
The words left you more steadily than you felt, but they landed with a weight you couldnāt ignore. You saw it immediately, the way tension coiled through Dick Grayson like a pulled wire. It was subtle, the kind of shift most people would miss: the slight tightening of his shoulders, the faint sharpening at the corners of his eyes, as though he were bracing for something he couldnāt quite name. But you noticed. You always noticed when it came to him. Instinctively, you folded your arms across your chest, a reflexive shield snapping into place before you could stop it. Just as quickly, you forced yourself to undo it, letting your arms fall back to your sides in an attempt to soften your posture. You didnāt want to look defensive, not now, not in front of him.Ā
He looked at you in that way he always did, and something in your chest tightened in response. It was a look you had spent years trying to understand, a careful, conflicted expression that carried both familiarity and distance . There was warmth there, you were sure of it, buried beneath hesitation, beneath something unspoken. It hovered just out of grasp, like a word on the tip of your tongue that refused to be spoken aloud. You should have understood it by now. You should have learned how to read him. And yet, standing there, you felt as lost as ever. You held his gaze anyway, refusing to be the first to look away. The silence between you stretched thin, humming with everything neither of you dared to say. It pressed in around you, filling the space with something heavy.
āFinally ditched the shorts?ā you asked, the words slipping out in a quiet attempt to fill the space.
For a split second, something flickered across his face, surprise, maybe, or relief. Then his lips twitched upward, the smile coming quickly, almost instinctively, though you caught the way he worked to steady it into something more natural. āThe shorts had it coming,ā he replied, a trace of amusement threading through his voice. It was small, but it shifted something. The air eased, just slightly. The edge of the moment dulled, the tension loosening its grip enough for you to breathe again.
āAre you both alright?ā
The question lingered, heavier than it should have been. It had been so long, too long, since you and your brother had spoken. Longer still since you had stood in the same space, shared the same air, acknowledged each other as anything more than distant figures who shared the same past. The distance between you wasnāt measured in miles anymore. For just a moment, your thoughts betrayed you, pulling you backward to that nightāthe one you tried so hard not to revisit. You could still see it with unsettling clarity: your hand gripping the handle of your suitcase, your heart pounding as you stepped toward the door. You had hesitated then, pausing just long enough to consider turning back. To wonder if someone, anyone, would stop you. But you hadnāt turned around and no one had come after you.
The memory settled over you like a shadow, but you forced it down, burying it where it belonged. That was a different time. Whatever reasons you had, whatever consequences followed, they were yours to carry, and yours alone. Some things were better left untouched. Some things, you reminded yourself, didnāt need to be said out loud. You had already made your choicesāones that couldnāt be undone, no matter how often your mind circled back to them. Whatever chance you might have had to mend things, forā¦ him to mend things, to bridge the distance that had grown too wide to cross, had long since slipped through your fingers. But this didnāt have to end the same way for Damian Wayne. It didnāt have to be another story of missed opportunities and unspoken words. If there was anything left to salvage, it was him.Ā
Your hand came to rest lightly against Damianās back, the gesture gentle but deliberate, a quiet encouragement as you nudged him forward, toward Dick. āWe had dinner,ā you said, your voice even though your eyes betrayed you, flickering briefly between them as if gauging something. āI introduced Damian to the wonders of Gotham diners.ā The faintest hint of amusement tugged at you, something you quickly tried to suppress as Damianās expression shifted into something unmistakably judgmental, his disapproval practically radiating off him. You bit it back, though it lingered just beneath the surface.
Dick, on the other hand, didnāt fare much better at hiding his reaction. For a fleeting moment, his composure cracked, his lips twitching, his face tightening in a way that felt oddly familiar. It reminded you of something younger, something lighter: the look of a boy being told not to climb where he wasnāt supposed to. It passed quickly, smoothed over as his expression settled back into something more controlled, more practisedābut you had seen it.
āYeah?ā he replied, his tone easy enough, though his gaze betrayed a flicker of something else as it shifted briefly to Damian before returning to you. āI didnāt know you were back. How long are you staying?ā Casual words, but they didnāt land that way. It made your jaw tense, a reflexive response you caught just in time, forcing it away before it could settle into something more obvious.
You offered a small, awkward smile in return, one that didnāt quite reach your eyes. āJust long enough for my work,ā you answered. āHopefully before winter comes.ā
You didnāt ask about him. You could haveāyou knew enough, after all. Knew he spent most of his time in BlĆ¼dhaven now, carving out something of his own away from all of this. But asking would open doors you had no intention of walking through, leading to questions neither of you seemed ready to answer. It was easier this way. Still, you could picture it, him in a city like that. It suited him, in a way you couldnāt quite explain. Your hands slipped into the pockets of your trench coat, grounding yourself in the familiar motion as you rocked back slightly on your heels, the movement subtle, almost absent-minded.
āWellā¦ā
Your gaze shifted, settling on Damian instead, deliberately avoiding Dick as you spoke. There had been something in Damianās expression just moments ago, while watching you and Dick converseāsomething you hadnāt been able to fully grasp. It lingered at the edge of your thoughts, just out of reach. Maybe you were tired, maybe you were out of practice when it came to reading people you once knew so well, or maybe it was something else entirely.
āGet back safe,ā you said quietly. āItās slippery out there.ā
Tim told himself the plan would work.
That, at the very least, was the version of the truth he was willing to accept. Even as he stood there trying to convince himself, he knew the truth: the plan was flimsy at best, improvised from scraps of instinct and desperation rather than anything resembling strategy. If he were being honest, he would admit it was nowhere near his best work. But honesty wasnāt helping him right now, and neither was waiting around for a better idea to arrive. This was what he had, and that meant it would have to be enough.
The first step was obviousākeep Bruce Wayne from realizing he was digging. Simple in theory, impossible in practice.Ā
Bruce knew the city in a way few people ever could. Gotham was not just a place to him, it was something breathing, something alive beneath the cold stone. He understood its moods, its silences, the subtle shifts in its pulse. He could feel when something was out of place the same way another man might notice a skipped heartbeat. The city moved with him, and he moved with it. Tim, for all his talent, was still learning that rhythm. He knew enough to understand that anything too direct would be noticed. Any question too pointed would eventually make its way back to Bruce, whether through coincidence or the unnerving interconnectedness of everyone in this house. So whatever he asked had to sound casual. Nothing that could be repeated later with raised suspicion and a narrowed gaze.
Ordinarily, he would have been better at this. Ordinarily, Timās mind worked like a machine well oiled by rest and routine, twelve hours of sleep followed by a relentless, almost dizzying current of thought that carried him through every angle, every possibility, and every hidden variable. But now sleep felt impossible, a distant thing his body had forgotten how to do. Adrenaline still coursed through him, bright and electric beneath his skin. His thoughts kept racing, doubling back on themselves, tangling and untangling in rapid succession. Every answer only seemed to produce three more questions. It left him with the strange, almost hollow certainty that he might never sleep again. It had been a long time since he had felt like this. The sensation was painfully familiar, tugging him backward into memory, into younger years spent crouched in shadows, heart hammering in his chest as he followed Batman and Robin across rooftops, watching them with a kind of obligation.
He didnāt stop moving. Not physically, not mentally and never long enough for stillness to settle into anything meaningful. His thoughts ran in constant motion, one bleeding into the next with a relentless urgency that left no room for pause. It was easier that way. Because if he slowed down, if he let even a moment of quiet take hold, he might have to confront the question lingering just beneath the surface: why.
And that wasnāt an investigation Tim Drake knew how to conduct.
He could trace patterns across a city, reconstruct timelines from fragments, find results from nothing, pull truth out of half-hidden lies with precision that most adults he knew lacked. He understood motives, could map them out, dissect them, explain them in ways that made even the most complicated actions feel inevitable in hindsight. But when it came to himself, when the focus turned inward, everything became indistinct. There were no clear clues and no concrete evidence to follow. Just a vague, persistent pull he refused to examine too closely. Because if he did, he might have to admit something he wasnāt ready to name.
Why was he the one digging into this, chasing a story no one else seemed willing, or perhaps wanted, to touch? The others had let it lie. Accepted the silence for what it was, or at least chosen not to disturb it. Even Bruce Wayne, who rarely left anything unresolved, had drawn a line here.
And Tim had stepped over it without hesitation.
He told himself it was logical. Loose ends didnāt sit right with him, unanswered questions had a way of burrowing under his skin until they demanded attention. This was just another case. A convenient explanation. But it didnāt quite hold under scrutiny, and that was exactly why he refused to scrutinize it. His mind was too restless for that kind of stillness anyway. The moment a thought edged too close to something personal, something uncomfortably introspective, he pushed past it, redirecting his focus onto something external, something solvable.
That same restless energy lived in him now.
āAlfred!ā
The word left him a touch too quickly, sharper than he intended, and Tim lifted a hand in a half-wave to stop the older man in whatever he was up to. Alfred paused where he stood at the sink, a dish still in one hand, the soft sound of running water filling the brief silence between them. He turned with one brow raised in quiet inquiry.
āMaster Tim?ā
āYeahāhey.ā Tim shoved his hands into his pockets, forcing an ease into his posture that he did not feel. He needed to look casual. āI wanted to ask something. If youāre not busy.ā
Alfredās expression remained unreadable, patient as ever. Tim swallowed, then pressed on. āIāve been thinking about what you said,ā he began, letting the words come slowly. āYou knowā¦ about Bruceās first kid.ā
He hesitated just long enough to make the concern seem genuine rather than investigative.
āI was worried.ā
Something shifted in Alfred then, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for Tim. A slight adjustment in his posture, a near-imperceptible stillness settling into the older manās frame. It was the kind of movement that suggested understanding, maybe even anticipation.Ā Maybe Alfred already knew where this conversation was headed. Even so, he said nothing, allowing Tim the space to continue.
āIf theyāre running low on money,ā Tim said, forcing the thought to sound as spontaneous as possible, āsurely we should get Bruce to send some, you know?ā
Alfred turned back to the plate in his hands, drying it with deliberate care, the towel moving in slow, practised motions. He let out a small, thoughtful sigh before answering, the sound carrying more meaning than the words that followed.
āIām afraid they would not accept it.ā
His tone was calm, almost fond.
āThey inherited their stubbornness from their father, you see.ā The words landed with a quietly, but the humour intended in them could still be interpreted and Tim felt something in his mind immediately begin to turn over the implication.Ā
āSpeaking of Master Bruce,ā Alfred added, a flicker of quiet amusement softening the usual composure in his expression, āI do believe he asked you to leave this alone.ā
Tim didnāt pause to consider it, didnāt even pretend to. The response came too naturally, as if it had been waiting at the edge of his tongue long before Alfred had spoken. āWhen have I ever left anything alone?ā he replied, the hint of dry humour in his voice doing little to disguise the certainty beneath it. He shifted his weight slightly, hands slipping into his pockets in a gesture that tried, and failed, to sell nonchalance. āIāll explain it to him later.ā
The thought lingered, heavier than he cared to acknowledge. Explaining anything to Bruce Wayne, especially something Bruce had already, explicitly, warned him to leave alone, was never simple. It wouldnāt be a conversation in any real sense of the word. It would be an interrogation shaped by that unrelenting intensity Bruce carried into everything he did. And yet, avoiding it was never an option. It never had been. Bruce would find out, like he always did. Tim had stopped trying to understand how a long time ago, whether it was instinct, experience, or something far less tangible, but the outcome remained the same regardless.
Still, that was a problem for later.
Tim drew in a quiet breath, clearing his throat, not because he needed to, but because the motion gave him a second to steady himself, to shift his focus back. His fingers brushed against the edge of his sleeve, tugging it into place in a small, habitual gesture before he leaned forward just slightly, enough to signal intent without drawing too much attention to it.
āHowād it happen?ā he asked.
The question hung in the air, heavier than its simplicity suggested. For a brief moment, Alfred said nothing. Tim could see it, the way his mind worked behind the stillness, carefully selecting not just an answer, but the right answer. It was unusual. Alfred was rarely hesitant with his words, rarely needed to measure them so carefully. That alone told Tim more than the silence itself.
āThere wasā¦ an incident,ā Alfred said at last. āA consequence of your line of work, as Iām sure youāll understand.ā
Timās focus sharpened immediately, his thoughts narrowing in on the phrasing, dissecting it even as Alfred continued.
āAnd Iām afraid it caused a divide that could not be bridged.ā
It was too clean. The kind of explanation that answered a question without truly revealing anything at all. Tim could already feel the gaps forming, spaces where details should have been, where truth had been softened or withheld entirely. His mind moved quickly, attempting to fill those gaps, building possibilities only to discard them just as fast. Then Alfredās voice lowered, softer now, almost careful, as though he were stepping into something fragile. He murmured your name in a way that suggested familiarity, something deeply rooted and not often spoken of within these walls.
āAs was said before,ā he added quietly, āit was their choice, Master Tim.ā
Tim felt the faintest twitch in his brow, a reaction he suppressed before it could fully form. The pieces refused to settle into anything concrete. A timeline tried to take shape in his mind, but without details, it remained unstable, more theory than fact. Still, there were patterns he could begin to trace. It had to be early. Early enough that Dick was only just stepping into this world, still new to the weight of it, still learning what it meant to live between identities. Which meant whatever had happened hadnāt just changed one life.
āThey never got in contact?ā Tim asked, his tone carefully even, though the question carried a quiet insistence beneath it.
āAh,ā Alfred hummed, setting the plate down against the marble counter. He paused for just a moment, as if deciding how much more to offer. āOn the contrary. They send me a postcard rather regularlyāfrom wherever their work happens to take them.ā
Tim stilled, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. He wouldnāt have called this a perfect plan, not even close, but moments like this were exactly why he trusted his instincts. Even something loosely constructed could become effective when given the right opening. And thisāthis was more than heād expected to get. If they were travelling, if they were sending postcards, then there was a trail, however faint, that could be followed. Locations, timestamps, habits, that was something tangible, something he could work with. And once he had a starting point, the rest would come. It always did.
Tim leaned forward, resting his elbows against the cold marble of the counter, the chill grounding him as his thoughts accelerated.Ā
āYeah?ā he said, keeping his voice light. āAnywhere interesting?ā
āThe most recent one was from right here in Gotham,ā Alfred said. āIt was almost a surprise to receive it.ā
He lowered his gaze slightly as he reached for another dish, the soft sound of running water filling the space between his words. His movements remained precise, unhurried, as though this conversation existed entirely separate from whatever thoughts lay behind his composed exterior. āOf course,ā he continued after a brief pause, āI was not. With Master Damian having already encountered them here in Gotham, I was aware they had arrived.ā
The words settled heavily, and then everything in Timās mind seemed to focus all at once. Here in Gotham. Not a distant trail to reconstruct, or fragments scattered across cities or countries and not something abstract or out of reach, you were here. Close enough to touch, if he moved fast enough. The realization hit like a spark catching dry tinder, and suddenly every scattered thought heād been juggling snapped into alignment. It wasnāt a perfect plan, not even close, but it didnāt need to be anymore. It had direction now, it was something real to follow. The uncertainty that had been gnawing at him was replaced with something far more dangerous: confidence.
Tim barely registered the moment he thanked Alfred. The words came automatically, paired with a hastily assembled excuse about a case, about Bruce needing him to look into something urgent. It didnāt matter how convincing it sounded. Alfred would understand more than Tim said anywayāhe always did.
But Alfred didnāt stop him and that was all Tim needed.
By the time he reached the Bat-cave, his thoughts had already outpaced him, racing ahead into possibilities, into patterns not yet confirmed but close enough to chase. He moved quickly, purposefully, grabbing his laptop and tucking it under his arm as he crossed toward the Bat-computer. The familiar glow of the screens barely registered. The cave itself, the suits, the quiet hum of machinery, faded into the background as his focus narrowed entirely on what came next. He didnāt even notice he wasnāt alone.
āHey! You werenāt going to leave without saying hi, were you?ā
The voice cut through his momentum cleanly, pulling him back just enough to force him to stop. Tim turned, the shift abrupt, his attention snapping into place as his gaze met Barbaraās.
āHey, Barbara,ā he said, the greeting brief, almost absent-minded.
āYouāve been going nonstop for a bit too long,ā she said, her tone firm but not unkind as she turned back toward the screens. Her fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard. āTake a break.ā
āDonāt need it,ā Tim replied immediately.
The words came too fast, too automatic, and he was already moving again, already turning back toward the exit before the conversation could root him in place. Stopping meant thinking, thinking meant slowing down and slowing down meant losing the thread he had just managed to grasp.
āConsider it an order then!ā Barbara called after him. That made him pauseāif only for a second.
A grin tugged at his lips as he glanced back over his shoulder.āListen, Oracle,ā he called back, voice lighter now, sounding almost playful, āif you need someone to worry about, worry about Damian.ā
There was a brief pause.
āIām about to ruin his whole day.ā
The past few weeks had shifted something in the rhythm of the apartment, something subtle at first but impossible to ignore once it settled in. Sidney had always been attentive in their own way, perceptive without being intrusive, they were the kind of person who noticed the small things and chose carefully when to speak on them. But now that attentiveness had sharpened into something restless. Watching you grow irritated from something you refused, or perhaps couldnāt, explain had unsettled them more than they cared to admit, and it showed in everything they did.
They followed you without meaning to make it obvious, trailing behind you from the living room to the kitchen and back again, as though proximity alone might give them answers you wouldnāt. Their concern spilled out in a constant stream of questions, each one trying to sound casual and failing. Was your forehead clammy? Did you feel nauseous? Were you eating enough? Sleeping enough? It was relentless, circling the same worries in slightly different words. At some point, they had pressed a warm mug into your handsāEarl Grey, steeped just right, with a touch of honey. Exactly how you took it. That, more than anything, made something uneasy twist in your chest. It wasnāt unusual for Sidney to be kind, but this level of familiarity felt different now. if they were trying to take care of you in all the ways they could control, since the one thing that mattered most remained just out of reach.
And that was the part that unsettled them the most. This wasnāt just about you being irritated and different. It was about where it came from. Your family lingered at the edges of the conversation without ever being named, a presence that shaped everything without ever being directly addressed. There had always been an understanding, unspoken but firmly upheld, that they were not a topic to be explored unless you chose to bring them up first. Sidney had respected that boundary, even when curiosity pressed at it, even when concern tempted them to push further. It felt different now, though. Because despite everything, you still kept tabs on them. Sidney had noticed that too, small, telling moments that didnāt quite add up with the distance you claimed to maintain. It painted a picture that didnāt sit right, one filled with contradictions they couldnāt resolve on their own.
Anyone else might have snapped under it eventually, the constant hovering, the endless stream of questions, the way Sidney seemed incapable of letting a single moment pass without checking in on you. It would have been easy, even justified, to grow irritable, to brush them off or tell them to stop worrying over things you couldnāt explain anyway. Most people would have. But you didnāt, because, in a way you didnāt care to examine too closely, their presence steadied you. There was something grounding about it, about the way they moved around the flat. It was almost familiar, reminding you of something you chose not to linger on. When you worked, they worked. When you settled into your usual spot, they followed suit without question, slipping into that familiar rhythm the two of you had built over time. It had never needed to be discussed; it simply was. You would focus on your own tasks while Sidney lingered nearby, half-distracted between their tea and whatever piece they were working on for their coursework, the soft scratch of a brush or pencil filling the spaces between your silence.
It had become a ritual without either of you realizing it, something easy and constant. Which was exactly why the disruption felt so jarring.
Apparently, one of Sidneyās moreā¦ tenuous social connections, a friend of a cousinās cousin, or something equally removed, had decided to have an art exhibition. The kind of obligation that couldnāt quite be ignored, no matter how little it actually mattered. And just like that, your carefully maintained routine had been interrupted.
That was how you found yourself curled up on the couch instead, a blanket draped loosely around your shoulders, a warm cup cradled between your hands. The heat seeped into your palms, a small comfort against the lingering chill that never seemed to fully leave you these days. Across the room, Sidney stood in front of the TV, their attention divided between their reflection in the darkened screen and the outfit they held up against themselves.
āDo you think I could get away with this?ā they asked, lifting the hanger slightly as the emerald silk caught the light, shimmering faintly with the movement.
Your gaze flicked up, taking in the outfit for a brief moment before settling back on them. āYouāre going to freeze.ā
āIāll have a coat with me,ā Sidney countered quickly, though the certainty in their voice wavered just slightly toward the end. āBesides, everyone else will be freezing, soā¦ you know. Solidarity?ā The explanation trailed off, thinner than they probably intended.
You let out a quiet, audible huff, your chest rising and falling beneath the blanket. Sidney didnāt comment on it, not this time, at least, but you could feel the way their attention lingered on you anyway, even if they didnāt turn around.
āYou donāt have to go tonight, you know,ā you said after a moment, your voice softer now.
āItās big for me,ā Sidney insisted, their voice carrying a note of determination. āIāve got to make connections in the industry.ā
You shifted slightly beneath the blanket, the fabric pulling tighter around your shoulders as you regarded them with quiet scepticism. āWhatās the worst that could happen if you didnāt go?ā you asked, your tone even, though there was something more deliberate beneath it. āThis happens every year, Sid.ā
Sidneyās response came in the form of a low, dismissive grumble, the kind that signalled they had heard youābut had no intention of conceding. Having no interest in indulging your brooding. They waved you off with a flick of their hand, already turning back toward the outfit in question. The emerald silk was swapped out for a black polyester alternative, then switched back again moments later, indecision playing out in restless, repetitive motions.
It wasnāt just a party. You knew that, even if Sidney tried to downplay it. It was an art show, one of those curated events that blurred the line between celebration and opportunity. The kind of space filled with spectators who werenāt really there for the art itself, but for what it represented. Investors, critics, people with influence, with connections, with the ability to open doors, or quietly close them. You had known that world once, known how to navigate its careful conversations and impressions, how every glance and introduction could become something more.
For Sidney, this was supposed to matter. This was meant to be their moment, to enjoy what they had built, to let themselves exist in the space they had worked toward while also planting the seeds for whatever came next. And yet, you already knew how the night would unfold. They would arrive with good intentions, with plans to network, to introduce themselves properly, to leave an impression. And then, inevitably, they would fall into familiar patterns, gravitating toward their classmates, losing themselves in easy conversation. The important conversations would slip past unnoticed, opportunities dissolving quietly at the edges of their awareness. Later, they would come home, kicking off their shoes with a frustrated sigh, complaining about how they āshould have tried harderā, how they āmissed their chance againāābefore collapsing onto the couch as though the weight of it had finally caught up to them.
The cycle was familiar. Almost comforting, in its own way.
You hadnāt realized youād drifted that far into thought until the room shifted, subtly, but enough to pull you back. It took a moment for you to notice what was missing. Sidney had slipped out of the room at some point, changed without you even registering it. By the time you looked up properly, they were already back, a tote bag slung over their shoulder, their earlier indecision apparently resolved.
āāKay, Iām off,ā they announced, tone light but hurried, as though lingering too long might give you another chance to talk them out of it. Then, just as quickly, they turned, pointing a finger at you with exaggerated seriousness.
āDonāt forget to take your meds. Be safe. Donāt die.ā
The rapid-fire instructions were delivered like a command. You felt the corner of your mouth lift despite yourself, the smallest hint of a smile breaking through as you gave a slight nod in response.
āI should be the one saying that to you,ā you replied.
It was the silence afterwards that unsettled you.
Not the comfortable kind you were used to, the quiet that settled naturally between you and Sidney during long evenings spent side by side, but something heavier. The kind that lingered too long after the door closed, pressing into the space theyād left behind until it felt unfamiliar. Without their constant movement, their idle chatter, even their unnecessary fussing, the flat feltā¦ still. And that stillness gave your thoughts too much room to breathe.
Your line of work had never allowed for that. It was dangerous by nature, unpredictable and unforgiving, and it didnāt just affect you. It never had. Anyone who stayed too close, anyone who lingered long enough to become part of your life, inevitably became part of the risk too. Maybe not immediately, maybe not obviously, but it always happened. One way or another, they would be pulled in, whether they understood it or not. That had been one of the first rules you learned. Which meant it only made sense that Sidney couldnāt know. You told yourself that often enough that it almost felt like the truth. So it wasnāt completely your fault. That was the logic you clung to, the justification that kept everything neatly contained, that made the choices easier to live with. You werenāt lying for the sake of it. You werenāt keeping secrets out of selfishness. You were protecting them, keeping them separate from something they had no business being dragged into.
And yet, lately, that reasoning hasn't been sitting as cleanly as it used to.
Because the more you thought about it, really thought about it, the harder it became to ignore just how much of your life Sidney didnāt know. Not just the obvious things, not just the parts that had to stay hidden, but entire pieces of who you were, carefully edited out of every conversation, every shared moment. It wasnāt one lie. It was a pattern, lies so carefully weaved it turned into a web. The realization lingered long after you tried to push it away, following you into the quiet hours of the night. Sleep didnāt come easily. You found yourself turning over the same thoughts again and again, unable to settle.Because if you looked at it from a distance, if you stepped outside yourself and examined it the way you would any other problem, it formed something disturbingly clear.
A list. You could almost see it mapped out: every person you had lost, every connection that had frayed or broken entirely, lined up beside the nights you spent out there. If someone were to chart it, to reduce it to something purely analytical, the overlap would be undeniable. Cause and effect, action and consequence.
It wasnāt subtle.
But no one had ever pointed it out and that had always made it easier. Because if no one was looking too closely, then you didnāt have to either. You could keep moving forward, keep your focus where it belonged, on the work, on the things that mattered. You had trained yourself not to linger on anything outside of that, not to dwell on people or connections unless they directly intersected with what you were doing.
It was simpler that way, so why now?
The case, at its core, made no sense. There had been no clear shift in the way people actually behaved, not on the streets, at least. The public hadnāt suddenly turned on the vigilantes who kept them safe in the night. If anything, their reactions were the same as they had always been: wary, grateful, uncertain, but never outright hostile. It was the media that had twisted it into something else entirely. They had taken something subtle and inflated it into a spectacle, feeding it just enough outrage and speculation to make it stick. Headlines painted a narrative that didnāt quite match reality, and yet it spread all the same, louder and faster than truth ever could. It was noise, manufactured, deliberate and most persistent. And the more you looked at it, the less substance it seemed to have. No clear origin and no concrete reason. Just a story being pushed until people started believing it.
You should have ignored it. You had more important things to focus on.
Like the murder case.
That was real. That mattered. A grieving family who had come to you when no one else could give them answers, a first victim whose story had ended too abruptly, too violently. It had started as something straightforward, if anything like that could ever truly be simple, but it hadnāt stayed that way for long. Each new lead had only deepened the complexity, pulling you further in, unravelling into something far bigger than it had any right to be. Until it led you here, to Gotham and then to Damian. Even thinking it felt strange. The word brother sat awkwardly in your mind, unfamiliar in a way that made it difficult to fully accept. It wasnāt just the label, it was everything that came with it. A connection you hadnāt grown up with, a bond that existed more in truth than in actual experience. It felt like something you were meant to understand instinctively, and yet it remained just out of reach.
And still, there was no denying it. He was your brother. Which then made everything harder than it should have been.
Because now your focus wasnāt just on the case. It wasnāt just about finding answers or following leads wherever they took you. Somewhere along the way, your attention had shifted, quietly but undeniably, until you found yourself watching him instead. Not just his actions or the confidence in the way he carried himself, but the things beneath that. The thought then came uninvited, settling heavily in your chest. He deserved better. Better than the life that had shaped him, better than the expectations already placed on him, better than the weight he carried so easily it was almost invisible. And, if you allowed yourself to be honest, even for a moment, better than anything you could offer him. You could see it in him, the restless edge, the barely-contained drive to do more than what he was allowed, what he was told was enough. And as much as you tried not to, you recognised it, maybe recognised yourself. Or at least, the version of you that used to exist. The one who went out night after night without hesitation, chasing something you couldnāt name back then. The one who stood beside Batman, and later alongside Robin, believing, no, knowing, that there was a place for you in that world. That what you were doing mattered in a way nothing else ever could.
You didnāt like thinking about that version of yourself.
So you didnāt.
You told yourself those days were over. Not just behind you, but buried, left exactly where you intended them to stay. Gotham was temporary, it had always been temporary. You would finish what you came here to do, tie off the loose ends, and leave before winter ever had the chance to settle in. That had been the plan from the beginning.
It still was.
Youād go somewhere far enough that the distance would feel real. California, maybe. Somewhere warmer, quieter, somewhere that didnāt breathe like Gotham did, didnāt pull at you in ways you refused to acknowledge. Your work would take you there, like it always did. It was easy to frame it that way, like movement was just part of the job. And yet, despite everything, you held on. To things that didnāt matter anymore, to fragments of a life you had already walked away from. You told yourself they were insignificant, that they didnāt mean anything now, but your grip on them never quite loosened. You could try to forget and you had tried.
But out of everything you carried, the cases, the losses, the heaviest burdens were always the ones you pretended werenāt there at all.
You took one last sip from your ceramic mug, the warmth now dulled, the tea having long since cooled into something faintly bitter on your tongue. The motion felt automatic, more habit than anything else, something to anchor yourself in the present before your thoughts could drift any further. Your gaze lifted back to the television, the muted glow casting soft light across the room as the news continued to cycle through the same rehearsed concern. For a moment, you let yourself focus on it, on the steady cadence of the reporterās voice, on the familiar rhythm of headlines designed to provoke rather than inform.Ā
And just like that, you did what you had grown so accustomed to doing.
You set it all aside again.Ā
It was early morning when you arrived at the morgue.
The city beyond its walls was only beginning to wake, Gotham still suspended in that strange limbo between night and day, but inside the building time seemed to stand still. The fluorescent lights cast everything in a sterile glow, bleaching the world into shades of white and grey. Your boot hovered for a fraction of a second before crossing the threshold, an unconscious hesitation as your eyes adjusted to the familiar sight before you.
Vanessa Mendoza looked up from the examination table.
She was roughly your age, perhaps a year older at most, and easily one of the most capable medico-legal investigators you had ever worked with. Competent wasn't a strong enough word for Vanessa. She was meticulous, relentless, and possessed the kind of sharp analytical mind that couldn't be taught. It was precisely why you had called her to Gotham in the first place, pulling her away from New York with little more than a brief explanation and an urgent plane ticket. Judging by the look she gave you, she had not appreciated the invitation. Not that you'd expected gratitude in the first place. Dark circles sat beneath her eyes, stark against tired skin, and her glare could have cut through steel. The exhaustion was obvious, etched into every line of her posture, but it failed to stir much sympathy from you. This was the job. Long hours, short tempers and endless sleepless nights. Neither of you had chosen careers that rewarded comfort.
Still, something felt off. The familiar scents of the morgue surrounded you, the sharp bite of disinfectant, antiseptic chemicals, cold metal, and beneath it all the faint lingering odour that death inevitably left behind. You knew those smells intimately. This was different. The scent lingered in the air like a ghost, woven between the sterile notes of the room. It wasn't strong enough for someone to be smoking inside, but it was fresh enough to catch your attention immediately. You were still turning the thought over when Vanessa called your name.
"Do you smoke?"
Vanessa blinked.
"What?"
"Do you smoke?"
Her eyebrows drew together.
"No."
"Interesting."
You began to move through the room at an unhurried pace, your hands tucked comfortably into your pockets as though the question you had just asked carried no significance whatsoever. The ease in your posture was deliberate, almost lazy, but your eyes remained active, quietly taking in every detail around you. Stainless steel surfaces gleamed beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting, their polished reflections broken only by scattered instruments and forgotten paperwork.
Across the room, Vanessa watched you with narrowing eyes. Her suspicion was immediate and entirely justified. Years of working alongside you had taught her that this particular brand of casualness was rarely genuine.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
You didn't answer. Instead, you drifted toward one of the counter tops lining the wall. Your fingertips brushed lightly across the surface, barely disturbing the silence. A fine layer of dust clung to your skin when you pulled your hand away. You examined it for a moment, rubbing your thumb against your fingertips before lifting your gaze back toward Vanessa.
"How about we make it a game?"
The reaction was instantaneous. Vanessa let out a long, exhausted groan, tipping her head back toward the ceiling as though searching for the strength to deal with you before lowering her gaze once more.
"No." The answer came without hesitation, delivered with the weary certainty of someone who had already endured far too much of your company for one morning.
"Come on. It'll be fun."
"It won't."
The response was immediate, devoid of even the slightest consideration. Vanessa didn't look up from where she stood, her expression settling into the kind of exhausted irritation that only came from knowing exactly what kind of conversation she was trapped in. The dark circles beneath her eyes seemed more pronounced beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting, and for a brief moment she looked as though she were considering whether homicide would be justified under the circumstances. You smiled anyway.
"I guess the cigarettes you smoke, then you show me the pack."
Vanessa's gaze snapped towards you.
"I literally just told you I don't smoke."
"Humour me."
A silence followed. Not an uncertain silence, nor a thoughtful one. Rather, the silence of someone deciding whether engaging with you would be more painful than ignoring you. Vanessa stared at you from across the room, her eyes narrowing slightly as she searched your face for some indication that this was a joke. Unfortunately for her, you appeared entirely serious. The medico-legal investigator stared at you for a long moment, weighing the possibility of simply throwing something at your head. You continued before she could refuse.
"Green and black packaging. Gold stripe near the top."
Your head tilted slightly, studying her reaction with quiet interest.
"Newports."
Vanessa's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, the smallest flicker of surprise breaking through her irritation before disappearing just as quickly. Her shoulders sagged. Then came a long, suffering sigh. Vanessa reached into her jacket pocket and produced a cigarette pack, dropping it onto the counter-top with enough force to convey her annoyance. The familiar green-and-black box slid across the stainless steel surface, the metallic sound briefly cutting through the quiet of the morgue.
"I genuinely hate that you can do that."
You glanced down at the pack before looking back at her. The smile never left your face.
"Don't worry about it."
"I am worried about it."
"You shouldn't be."
Whatever explanation Vanessa wanted, she wasn't getting one.
The moment passed as quickly as it had come, and you allowed your attention to drift away from the cigarette pack and toward the body lying beneath the harsh glare of the examination lights. The easy humour that had lingered at the corners of your mouth faded almost instantly. There was a distinct shift in the atmosphere as the weight of the investigation settled back onto your shoulders. Work had a way of demanding your full attention.
"So," you said quietly, stepping closer. "What can you tell me about the body?"
Vanessa pushed herself away from the counter and motioned for you to follow. Without another word, she disappeared through the adjoining doorway, and you fell into step beside her. The sounds of your footsteps echoed faintly against the tiled floor as you entered the examination room. The body lay where it had been placed upon the steel table.
Your gaze settled on it immediately. The sight was familiar by now. You had already spent hours examining the scene on the rooftop where the victim had been discoveredāor rather, where Damian had discovered them. Familiarity, however, did not breed comfort. Experience had dulled the initial shock that accompanied most violent deaths, but it had never erased it entirely. Some things were simply too deliberate to become ordinary. This was one of them. The corpse had been purposefully mutilated, every wound inflicted with intention rather than rage. Your eyes were drawn once again to the symbol carved deep into the victim's face. The cuts were brutal in their precision, etched into flesh with enough force to ensure permanence even in death. There was something unsettling about the carefulness of it, the way each line appeared deliberate rather than frenzied. It was not the work of someone who had lost control.
"Well?" you asked.
Forcing your gaze away from the body, you turned toward Vanessa. She peeled off her gloves one finger at a time before tossing them into a nearby disposal bin. The sharp snap of latex echoed briefly through the room. Leaning back against the wall, she folded her arms across her chest and regarded you with the exhausted expression of someone who had already been awake far too long. You preferred this part. Speculation had its place, but assumptions were dangerous things. The longer an investigator spent inside their own theories, the easier it became to mistake possibility for fact. You had seen it happen beforeāgood detectives constructing elaborate narratives from incomplete evidence until they became trapped by their own conclusions.
The post-mortem was objective.
The body could not lie. And if you were being honest, there were certain questions you had no desire to answer through imagination alone. You didn't particularly want to consider whether the victim had still been alive when the carving began, didn't want to picture the knife biting through skin, didn't want to imagine flesh yielding beneath pressure, the unnatural warmth of living tissue, or the wet, sickening sound that accompanied such injuries. Even here, surrounded by antiseptic and steel, the metallic tang of blood still lingered faintly in the air.
"The body was dead for at least thirty minutes before you found him," Vanessa said. "Those are my only preliminary findings."
Your head turned sharply toward her. The questioning look you gave her lasted only a second before Vanessa pointedly gestured toward the clock mounted on the wall.
Right.
She had only just arrived in Gotham.
There were limits to what even Vanessa Mendoza could accomplish in a few hours.
"No identity yet then?" you asked.
Vanessa shook her head. "Just waiting to see if there's a match in the database for their DNA. If not, we'll have to do a skeletal analysis if possible, and you know how long those can take."
A quiet sigh escaped you. Because apparently the universe had decided to be particularly uncooperative. With no wallet, no identification, no obvious personal belongings, no tattoos, no distinctive birthmarks, there was nothing that could offer a quick answer or point investigators in the right direction. Just your luck.
Your footsteps echoed throughout the quiet room, thudding as you circled around the body. "What you're saying is that means there was a high chance the body was moved after death."
"I never said that."
"And if that's correct, then maybe it was a message. The body was put there on purpose to be found."
"Why am I even here?"
You shrugged once more "Because you're always right?" You replied, tone not exactly convincing as your brain still wracked through the possibilities of the death and the finding of the body. Vanessa just let out a short snort, sarcastic in nature as she pushed herself off the wall she was leaning on, walking towards the storage room door. "You mean you're always right," she replied, hand on the metal handle of the door. "I'll phone when there's more to tell you." You waved your hand in acknowledgement, the door closing behind her as you took one last glance at the body, wincing as you do so, before leaving the room.
warnings : yandere behaviour, obsessive and possessive behaviour, non-con, drugging, manipulation, emotional dependency, implied kidnapping and captivity, stalking
Tim Drake knows exactly what heās doing.
Heās never been under any illusions about that. Thereās no self-deception, no comforting lie he hides behind to make it feel cleaner and more acceptable. Itās wrongāhe understands that in the same way he understands a case file or a criminal's motive. But that doesnāt mean he feels guilty. After all, Tim has always been practical. And he does love you. That part, at least, is simple.
You are the only thing in his life that isnāt tangled in aliases and expectations. Not Red Robin, not Batmanās partner, not a Wayne, not a Drake, just Tim. With you, he gets to exist in the quiet spaces between missions, in the fragile moments where the world isnāt ending and no one is asking anything of him. You remind him that there is something beyond the constant noise in his head. So when you come over, books in hand, complaining softly about deadlines and exams, he lets himself have that small, selfish piece of normalcy. You stretch out across his bed like you belong there, notes scattered, pen tapping idly against your cheek while he works at his desk, screens glowing with information he shouldnāt be sharing with anyone and he tells himself itās fine. You trust him.
And Tim would never break something as precious as thatā¦ not intentionally.
He notices the moment your focus starts to slip. The way your handwriting grows messier, the pauses between page turns getting longer, your eyes lingering shut just a second too long. Then the room gets to you, the warmth, the quiet hum of his computer, the soft give of his sheets beneath you. You sink into his bed like itās the safest place in the world. Tim watches as your head tilts, your voice soft and heavy with sleep as you murmur, āWake me up in fiveā¦ā You never last five.
He knows that, he knows you. Knowing you has become second nature to himāeffortless in the way breathing is supposed to be. The spreadsheets help. Organized, meticulous records of everything: your favourite drinks, your routines, the subtle shifts in your mood depending on the time of day, anyone you speak to. He can pick you out of any crowd without trying. He can recreate comfort for you down to the smallest detail.
Including the way you like your drinks.
Including how much it takes to make you sleep.
Timās gaze flickers briefly to the glass sitting on his desk, now empty. He had handed it to you without a second thought, the way he always does. You hadnāt questioned itāwhy would you? Thereās a certainā¦ balance to it in his mind. You need sleep. Youād stay up all night otherwise, pushing yourself past exhaustion, anxiety curling tight in your chest as you try to keep up with everything. This way, you rest properly. Heās helping. At least, thatās the part he allows himself to justify because Tim isnāt stupid. He doesnāt pretend this is purely selfless. Itās easier like this.
When your visits blur together, hours stretching into days under a soft, hazy fog, it becomes natural for you to stay. To drift in and out of awareness in the same space he occupies, always within reach, always there. Exactly where he needs you to be. When the world starts pressing in on him, when a case wonāt crack, when a mission goes sideways, when the tension in the family builds to something unbearable, Tim steps away.
He always steps away, his feet carrying him to the same place every time.
To you, curled up in his bed, breathing slow and even untouched by the chaos that defines the rest of his life. His eyes soften as he looks at you. The noise in his mind, the endless calculations, and the constant vigilance fade into something distant from here. You make it stop.
Tim exhales, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering for only a moment before brushing lightly against your hair, a touch so gentle it would never wake you.
āIāve got you,ā he murmurs, more to himself than to you, and he means it, even if this is what it takes.
jade! i hope the rating authors post didnt bother you too much. excited for the cabin tim drake fic šššš
Hello Anon!
I really appreciate all the love and kind messages Iāve been getting about the rating post. I want to reassure you that Iām completely fineāthereās nothing upsetting me about it at all. The delay in the Tim fic is much more mundane, just the fact that the weather where I am has been lovely and Iāve been spending most of my days at the beach.
That said, Iād rather stay uninvolved in the discourse around the post. Personally, I just donāt think itās worth my time. Iām here yandering stories and characters (a totally legitimate word, of course), and if someone doesnāt enjoy my particular flavour of it, thatās absolutely okay. This will be the only thing I say about the situation moving forward. Iād genuinely suggest directing some of that kindness toward other authors who may have been more affected by the post but I do very much appreciate the concern.
On a lighter note, the masterlist has been updated and tidied up a bit! The Intermezzo masterlist will be updated soon as well, and the next chapter, along with the cabin Tim fic, should be out either today or tomorrow.
Iām genuine so curious on how you make youāre gradients especially the dottore gradient picture! It looks so good
Hello Anon!
Thank you for the ask! Iām glad it looks goodāsometimes I do wonder if it only looks good to me on my own screen.
Honestly, my process is pretty simple: I usually find images of the character Iām writing for on Pinterest, bring them into Procreate, turn them greyscale, and then layer a colour gradient over the top. Itās not anything too complicated, but it does the job, got to make use of the money I spent on the app somehow.
Hi! For some reason I can't read the sagau drabble with Zhongli(really wanted to) , but if you deleted it, its okšš
Hello Anon!
Yes, the drabble has unfortunately been deletedābut for a good reason! Iām planning to eventually turn it into a longer fic about the SAGAU Zhongli situation, so I didnāt want a short drabble with basically the exact same plot floating around in the meantime haha.
Itāll make a comeback one day, just in a much more expanded form!
Somebody tell me why I just logged onto Tumblr to post that yandere Tim Drake cabin full fic, only to find somebody had tagged me in a āranking neglected yan!Batfam authorsā post.
Cāmon, guys. Iām 27 years old, I have no money, no prospects, Iām already a burden to my parents, and Iām frightened. (That is a Pride and Prejudice reference.)
Anyways, Iām lucky enough not to be genuinely bothered by this kind of strange behaviour, but if youāre the person who made that post, or someone supporting it, just know that itās weird. You do not need to put down writers who share their work publicly, for free, out of their own goodwill, just to praise the fics you personally prefer.
Support the authors you enjoy without turning it into a competition. Fandom is supposed to be fun.
The person who tagged me will be blocked. No more free fics for you. āļø
