Says Knockout as he and Starscream continue their futile argument. It’s been hours since everyone got back to base but half the time for the two to find a problem with one another. There’s less chaos than usual, nothings broken and only a few medbay tools being thrown around, and you have to commend them on their self control, granted it might be because you were here and was deemed a “fleshling” among the first encounter with the decepticons. But after months of settling in with the supposedly “tyrants of the galaxy”, arguments have become a normal occurrence.
“Of course they’ll take my side, it’s only fit for the second in command of the future leader of the decepticons!” Starscream boasts.
“Second in command?! That was supposed to be my rank!”
“Geez, they’ve been at it for hours. How’d we even get here in the first place? …I better tell lord Megatron.” Y/N mumbled worriedly. Without another word they sneak off to the command center hopeful in their search of finding the leading tin can of the bunch.
“You can’t just give away my position and- huh? Where’d they go?” Knockout, who has finally come to his senses, notice the absence of a certain earthling. They both pause to look around the medbay in hopes of finding out where their little friend has disappeared to but have no luck. Only then have they realized that the door is open and that can mean only one thing:
“THEY’VE BEEN KIDNAPPED-“
“THEY’RE GONNA TELL LORD MEGATRON MY PLAN-“
Both Cons halt and send each a puzzled look with their red optics, deeply disturbed by the others programming. Starscream is the first to gather his thoughts and start to hightail it towards the command center, Knockout quick on his tail.
When reaching the command center, neither bot successfully scanned for Lord Tin Can or the tiny human. This quickly sent them into panic mode. They made it their goal to find Y/N before anything bad could happen. As they zipped through the ship, the two boys stumbled upon the throne room, and to Knockout’s surprise and Starscream’s horror, there in the middle of the room sat the very individual they were looking for. Turns out Y/N ventured off to find Lord Megatron but instead of the worst possible outcome, the tiny human has set up fort on the shoulder of their fearsome leader.
After closer inspection, the tiny human was complaining about their two robot buddies, calling them overgrown, childish rust buckets who in their eyes ‘can’t keep the peace for too long’. Whilst eating away at a tub of ice cream and being comforted by their Overlord, who in turn, threatens to dismantle the Cons if they can’t get it together.
While staring at the scene that has captivated them, the duo suddenly doesn’t know if they should be more scared of the threat or the display in front of them.
Knockout turns to Starscream and quietly states:
“If you would’ve just agreed with me this wouldn’t be happening.” While Knockout then proceeds to high tail it out of there.
Cue an angry Starscream, ready to dismantle the street race fanatic decepticon.
what if they’re genuinely fed up with all the crime and are sorta pissed about being bitten,
and once they genuinely start patrolling, they’re just webbing everyone up, and asking them why they were committing crimes,
maybe if there’s like a group of thugs they web whoever’s ‘talking out of line’
months later they present the fact-based pie chart to a random interviewer,
i’m thinking
“so what’s that in your pocket?”
*wips out a whole bunch of graphs of why people were out doing crimes*
“so i’m just saying, if i don’t see any billionaires giving money to charities, i might find dirt and sue”
WAIT THIS IS SO FUNNY. Going off your idea, I feel like it would be a little like:
Spider-Person accidentally develops a reputation among Gotham criminals as being worse than Batman for entirely different reasons.
Batman breaks your ribs
But this Spider Person has "crime satisfaction level" surveys
There are grown men in Blackgate who would rather take another concussion than answer "and how did that make you feel?" while suspended thirty feet above the ground in industrial-strength webbing
The first time Batman actually witnesses one of these interrogations, he expects intimidation tactics
But instead it goes down like:
Thug: "What are you doing."
Spider-Person: "Exit survey."
Thug: "Exit what."
Spider-Person: "On a scale from one to ten how satisfied were you with your criminal career."
Thug: "WHAT."
Spider-Person: already writing
"Strong emotional response. Interesting."
The rogues absolutely hate them
Because the Spider person somehow manages to escape every bit of the theatrics. Riddler spends three weeks designing a complex puzzle and Spider-Person solves it by accidentally finding the answer key while looking through public records.
Riddler has never recovered from that.
Joker tries doing his usual monologue and the Spider-person starts taking notes
Joker: "What are you doing?"
Spider-Person: "This is fascinating."
Joker: "What is?"
Spider-Person: "You're the only respondent who selected all fourteen warning signs."
Joker: "What warning signs?"
Spider-Person: "The warning signs. The mental illness ones. Congratulations, you have fourteen."
Joker: "What does that mean???"
Spider-Person: "I'm making a graph later. You're welcome to swing by..haha..see what I did there?"
Tim becomes obsessed with proving Spider-Person's data collection is flawed and ridiculous because he, himself, overcomplicated things.
Tim is furious.
"You cannot just walk around doing sociology."
Spider-Person: "I can and I am."
Gotham's billionaires eventually learn that if Spider-Person approaches them smiling, they're about to go up on a chart somewhere
Every annual report just gets worse
The first one is professional, something like Appendix A
The second one is concerned, something like Gotham's (rather poorly hidden) issue
And by the third they give up and start naming it things like..
"Respectfully, What Are We Doing Here?"
"I Have Explained This Before."
"See Previous Graph."
"For The Love Of God."
If they meet a billionaire genuinely helping people, they move on. Whatever. It's cool.
If they meet a billionaire doing absolutely nothing..congratulations! You're on appendix C. Nobody wants to end up on Appendix C.
Bruce ends up in Appendix C once. It is the most humiliating experience of his life.
Spider-Person titled it "Sir, You Have The Resources."
The Batfamily finds this so funny they never let him forget it. Especially Jason who likes to wait patiently for Bruce to fuck up.
Jason pulled a Regina George and printed copies of Appendix C. He plastered it all over the Manor.
They. Were. Everywhere.
Spider-Person eventually starts recognizing repeat offenders too & this creates a bizarre dynamic
"Kevin."
"Please don't."
"Kevin, we talked about this."
"PLEASE DON'T."
"We literally made a budget together."
Batman, watching from a rooftop: "…did they make a budget together?"
Nightwing: "Apparently."
At one point Spider-Person genuinely helps a low-level criminal find a job. And then another. And another. And it becomes a thing.
Entire sections of Gotham's criminal underworld start viewing them as some weird combination of probation officer, social worker, and cryptid
Nobody knows what category they're supposed to fit into
I think COmissioner Gordon would find this hilarious though, because hey, whatever helps the city
Summary: Justice League having to work with the demon! reader that they accidently summoned. It's proving to be very hard, but they wouldn't have it any other way.
TW: Rape very very briefly mentioned. Reader kills one. So beware?. I wouldn't say this is nsfw, but reader does make sex jokes. Reader is just very immature in general.
To you, the Justice League’s official handbook is nothing more than toilet paper.
you don't do "stealth," and you certainly don't do "holding back." Your entire combat strategy is a mess which drives the heavy hitters up the wall because it actually works.
The biggest point of contention is, obviously, the "no kill" rule. You understand the concept of morality about as well as Batman understands a joke. To you, taking out the trash is just more efficient
Because why would anyone want to keep a rapist alive???
Batman's tried to explain the whole "it'll lead you down the dark path" thing but you're straight from hell. So it doesn't really get any darker than that. Also, that ship is far sailed.
The Watchtower’s comms are frequently treated to the exact same argument every single week.
Batman will be brooding at the monitor "Reader. I explicitly said you cannot kill the cartel leaders. We needed them for interrogation."
You will literally pout, crossing your arms "But Bruce! They hurt kids! I did the world a favor. You should be thanking me, you're WELCOME, Reader" you mock
The League eventually had to create a literal "Days Since Reader Committed Mid-Tier Homicide" whiteboard in the cafeteria.
It rarely makes it past three.
Superman usually just sighs, rubs his temples, and says, "At least they're filtering for the genuinely horrific ones…" while Batman ages a good decade from sheer stress.
Being a demon means you possess an almost unfair supernatural level of physical attractiveness that breaks human brains too
You know it, you abuse it, and you use it as a shortcut for everything.
Why spend three hours hacking a mainframe or staging a complex stakeout when you can just look at a security guard, and have them handing over their keycards
and credit cards, which the league doesn't need to know about. You've got a very expensive shopping habit to pay for. It's your human hobby.
The Flash will be running around trying to evacuate a collapsing building, and he’ll look over to see you leaning against a piece of rubble, casually twirling your hair, and giving a terrified but intensely aroused mother your number.
"Hey babe, if we survive the alien invasion, you should show me around Gotham. I hear the villains suck, but I suck harder"
Your loudest and most frequent complaint while lounging around the Watchtower is the utter lack of "spiciness" in the universe
You will literally crash a high-level briefing about Darkseid just to groan loudly into the table
"Ugh, Bruce, this planet is dry. Where are the sluts? Why is everyone so repressed? I went to Central City yesterday and the most exciting thing I saw was an ankle. I'm starving. I need a real, degenerate night out or I'm going to start biting people."
Your approach to conflict resolution makes Batman want to launch himself into the sun
BATMAN: " Joker has secured three bombs across the tri-state area. We need a three-pronged approach to dismantle the triggers simultaneously…"
READER, swiveling in chair: "Or… I could just make him fall
in love with me, Bruce. We don't need to do all of that."
BATMAN: "He is a homicidal psychopath."
READER: "Sounds like a great lay"
You have tried this on multiple villains.
You once casually mentioned that Poison Ivy "could get it if she stopped trying to kill everyone for a few hours," which led to an incredibly awkward silence where Green Arrow had to physically restrain a disgusted but slightly flattered Ivy.
You also treat comms like something to talk about your day to
Half the time, Martian Manhunter has to mute your feed because you're broadcasting graphic descriptions of what you want to do to various famous people (Black Canary, Richard Grayson, Oliver Queen, the list goes on)
"I want to *@#%^&*@#&^%@!%6 on that table &^*#@^% night along, %$^&*@#$ she's so hot, the way I'd %$^*$%^"
Diana is absolutely horrified.
Batman finds a way to string your ass from the ceiling for telling him you'd bang his oldest son.
You're strung up again once you let him know that you'd also do the second.
You're either talking pure thirst on comms, or you're narrating your experience with human foods
"Guys, I ate something called a 'Chipotle burrito' and I think my stomach plans to explode. Clark, if I die, tell that cute barista on 5th street I loved her. And the guy who deals drugs in Crime Alley. He gave me some free coke. Oh! And the pretty girl at the mall. Please. And the fling from the bar. And the--"
"Reader, how many people are you dating at the same time ??"
You refuse to wear a standard uniform. "Spandex makes my ass look flat and it suffocates my energy," you claim
Which is not an issue for Nightwing, but you're not him unfortunately.
Instead, you fight crime in outfits that look like they were stolen from a high-end lingerie boutique or a heavy metal video shoot.
Diana spends half her time trying to adjust your top so you don't give the evening news a completely different kind of show during a live press conference
Despite the fact that you are a walking HR violation and PR disaste you are completely indispensable
When the chips are down, your demonic magic bypasses standard physics
You can rip open portals through hell dimensions to bypass alien shield
Your raw strength rivals Wonder Woman's when you're angry, and you have a weirdly fierce loyalty to the League.
You might call Batman a "repressed old virgin" to his face every morning, but the second someone tries to take a swing at him from behind, you will literally tear their soul out through their throat before they can blink.
summary: the justice league thinks bruce has lowkey lost his mind when he hosts a pool party at the manor, but hey, who are they to turn one down?
cw: swearing, silly siblings
a/n: shoutout to @/ragingbookdragon, i read their pool party fic in the first few months of getting tumblr and it was so fire. idek why im writing this tbh it's winter in australia rn.
You told your dad a pool party would be fun, and after a significant amount of convincing him, he relented.
The first time Bruce announced the idea at dinner, the entire table went silent.
“So kids, me and your sister were talking, and I’m planning on hosting a pool party.”
Jason blinked. “You mean like… socially?”
“Yes.”
Damian slowly lowered his fork. “Why?”
Bruce sighed deeply. “It’s for the start of summer.”
Tim looked up from his coffee. “You’re willingly inviting the justice league into the manor.”
“Correct.”
“Voluntarily.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m beginning to regret sharing ideas with you people.”
The League thought Bruce had finally snapped too.
Hal laughed for like five straight minutes when Clark told him.
“Bruce?” Hal wheezed. “Hosting a POOL PARTY?”
Diana smiled knowingly though. “It was probably Y/N’s idea.”
Clark nodded instantly. “Absolutely Y/N’s idea.”
Pre-planning for the pool party starts like it’s a military operation. Bruce genuinely makes spreadsheets. Colour-coded ones.
Barbara somehow gets dragged into organising RSVPs because apparently nobody else is “capable of answering messages like functioning members of society.”
“I need final numbers by Friday,” Barbara says into the Justice League official WhatsApp group chat (look me in the eye and tell me they wouldn't have one c'mon)
Wally replies instantly: put me down for 3
Barbara: Why three.
Wally: idk im hungry
The family group chat, on the other hand, becomes unbearable within hours.
Dick: Can I invite the Titans?
Bruce: They were already invited.
Jason: Can Roy bring his weird grill
Bruce: No.
You: Do you think we can hire one of those huge inflatable water slides
Bruce: Also no
Costco shopping day is genuinely catastrophic.
Alfred takes you, Steph, and Cass because Bruce “doesn’t trust the boys to grocery shop responsibly.”
Which is fair because Dick once bought jalapenos and cream cheese to make jalapeno cream cheese takis but actually forgot the takis (my brother did this once)
“Guys we need mozzarella sticks.”
“My dear Stephanie,” Alfred says calmly, “we already have three boxes.”
“Okay but what if people want MORE mozzarella sticks?”
You and Cass disappear for twenty minutes and come back with enough chips to survive the apocalypse.
Alfred looks at the trolley.
Looks at both of you.
Then simply sighs in tired acceptance.
Cass records Steph trying to lift the giant catering-sized tub of potato salad and immediately dropping it.
“WHY IS IT SO DENSE?”
“Because,” you laugh, “it’s potato salad.”
You and Alfred spend the night before the party making food together in the manor kitchen.
Sandwich platters. Fruit trays. Sliders. Pasta salad. Desserts. Mocktails. Fancy lemonade. Literally everything imaginable.
Meanwhile outside Dick and Tim are in charge of chairs, lights, and decorations.
Dick tries making things aesthetic.
Tim tries making things practical.
They argue the entire time.
“The fairy lights go HERE.”
“Nobody cares about fairy lights.” ("nobody cares about TIIIM Drake" type shit)
“You have no vision.”
“You spent forty minutes arranging cushions.”
“Because pillow decor matters, Timothy.”
Jason gets assigned floatie duty because Bruce refuses to let him near “anything expensive or explosive.”
Unfortunately, Jason takes the floaties VERY seriously.
There are giant flamingos, sharks, an inflatable Batmobile, a dragon the size of a sedan.
He’s outside sweating with an industrial air pump muttering angrily.
“If one more damn inflatable swan deflates I’m ending it all.”
Damian gets stuck wrangling the house pets into the manor before guests arrive.
Which sounds easy until you remember: Titus exists, Ace exists, Alfred the cat exists, and Elizabeth exists
Damian walks into the kitchen carrying a lot of leashes and visible irritation.
And finally everyone starts showing up, getting the party started.
The driveway becomes ridiculous.
Cars everywhere.
Bikes everywhere.
Somebody parked a spaceship nearby
Alfred starts tweaking at the sight of the horrific parking jobs the fucking Justice League of America have done.
The energy shifts instantly once everybody arrives.
Music starts booming through the speakers, of which you are in full control of because everyone agrees you have the best music taste (and spotify premium).
People jump in the pool immediately. Conversations overlap everywhere. Somebody’s laughing every five seconds.
Kori and Donna end up securing the hot tub and camp there for a significant amount of time until Dick successfully bribed them out with food
Bruce stands near the patio watching everyone anxiously for a moment before you walk over handing him a drink.
Jonathan and Damian screw off to play Cheese Vikings
Chicken fight is going on and shit hits the fan in the water.
Jason spends most of the party throwing people (mainly Damian) into the pool
Bruce spends most of the afternoon yelling about running and sunscreen and it drives him up the wall.
"STOP RUNNING."
Nobody listens.
"I MEAN IT."
Still nobody listens.
The sunscreen situation becomes a coordinated operation.
Bruce, Diana, and Dinah have all agreed that nobody is escaping.
Nobody.
You try.
Naturally.
"I'm literally fine."
"No."
"Dad."
"No."
Ten minutes later Bruce is physically holding your face still while applying sunscreen.
The water gun war starts because of you (Bruce confiscated Damian's nerf guns moments prior to this)
It always starts because of you.
You, Tim, and Steph form an alliance.
A dangerous one.
Mostly because all three of you are unbelievably annoying together
Steph shoots first.
Tim immediately follows.
You get Bart directly in the shoulder.
"BETRAYAL."
"You were never on the team."
The backyard descends into war.
Then Steph makes a horrible decision.
A truly horrible decision.
She sprays Bruce.
Silence.
Bruce slowly lowers the martini he was holding.
Everybody freezes.
Steph immediately realises. "...Oops."
Bruce disappears into the main garage.
Nobody likes that.
Nobody likes that at all.
Three minutes later he returns carrying a garden hose.
The screaming is immediate.
"OH MY GOD."
"WHAT THE FUK HE'S GOT THE HOSE."
"RUN."
Bruce absolutely hoses down every single person involved.
Including you.
"DAD."
"Consequences."
"I WASN'T EVEN THE ONE WHO STARTED IT."
"You were encouraging her."
In the kitchen, you and Cass slather vegetable oil over the melon so you guys can play Greased Watermelon and that was a complete flop when Jason tried to take the melon away from Roy and in an attempt to score, threw it out of the pool and it cracked.
Your earring falls in the water (rip)
Whenever any water games were going on, everyone would get scared and scream in terror when Arthur, Garth or Kaldur entered the pool lmao
"Can we boycott Atlanteans from water games"
"Yo I lowkey second that"
You threw a beach ball at Hal and lied and said it was Barry so for the remainder of the day he had a vendetta against the poor man.
You, Dinah, Steph, Diana, Cass and Lois end up playing volleyball for a short while but Diana absolutely volleymogged everyone (#amazonianthingz)
Eventually Bruce makes the mistake of asking you to order more food.
Specifically because the heroes have somehow consumed enough food to feed a village.
"Can you order more pizzas?"
"Sure."
Your brothers gather around to listen because nobody trusts you to make phone calls normally.
"Hi, yes."
"..."
"How many pizzas?"
You look around.
"How many people are here?"
Dick starts counting.
Gives up halfway.
"Like fifty?"
"Sixty."
"Seventy if Wally and Uncle Barry eat."
"Fuck okay," you tell the employee. "Hi! Can I please get twenty pizzas?"
Silence.
"Yes."
"Two zero."
"Twenty."
The employee genuinely thinks it's a prank.
"No ma'am, I swear this is real."
"Yes, people are actually going to eat all of that."
"No, I'm not hosting a school."
"Can I get 4 barbecue, 3 vegaterian, 4 meat lovers, 2 Hawaiian and a couple of pepperoni please"
"Thank you, that'll be to 1007 Mountain Drive, Crest Hill, Bristol Township."
Bruce genuinely spazzes out trying to get you, Dick and Jason to stop jumping out of the second floor window into the pool.
"Do you kids not value your lives."
"Chill out Bruce we jump from skyscrapers like every night"
Your siblings get on your nerves normally, but today it was particularly worse when Tim decided to run upstairs to your room and use a spare bikini of yours to catapult grapefruits at Damian from your balcony and you get your dad to yell at him.
"TIMOTHY STOP USING YOUR SISTER'S CLOTHES TO SLINGSHOT FRUIT AT YOUR BROTHER"
"SORRY BRUCE"
At one point Titus ends up escaping the manor when the door to outside is left open and goes and steals food and you have to stop him from jumping in the pool.
"DAMIAN COME GET YOUR DOG"
Bruce considers the day a total disaster because his blood pressure was through the rood, but everyone else thinks it was a success.
He'll probably get pressured into doing this again next year or some shit.
But it was definitely worth it seeing the smiles on everyone's faces <3
A/N: So much of this shit was based off me and my family and extended family. I am always put on food duty when it comes to parties at my house no lie.
← BACK. ♯┆ [bruce wayne x justice league wife!reader].ᐟ
⤿ BRUCE WAYNE doesn't mind working with his wife, and surprisingly you two didn't meet through work. Unfortunately, you have to hear your real identities constantly name dropped.
!! fluff. came from a goofy ahh idea. fem reader. established relationship. no real warnings. innuendos. i love bruce x wife reader dhmu. i have a different version of jealous husband bruce w the justice league. also this is not entirely lore accurate just go with it pls. ENJOY.
The Watchtower's briefing room hummed with its usual low energy as you settled into your seat, the metallic chair cool even through your suit. Another successful mission wrapped up, another debriefing complete. You'd been a member of the Justice League for years now — long enough that these post mission wind downs felt routine. Comfortable, even.
As a hero, you commanded the very essence of storms themselves. Lightning that danced at your fingertips, winds that bent to your will, rain that fell at your command. Your suit had become a symbol of hope in several cities. The tabloids that followed your civilian life so religiously would never recognize you here, masked and powerful, sitting among Earth's greatest heroes.
Batman stood near the console, cowl firmly in place, posture rigid as always. To anyone else, he looked exactly as he always did — stoic, unmovable, focused. But you'd been married to Bruce Wayne for two years. You knew the microscopic tells like the slight relaxation in his shoulders that meant he was content with how the mission went, the barely-there tilt of his head that indicated he was listening more carefully than his stance suggested.
"Great work today, everyone," Clark said, his bright smile a stark contrast to the dark space visible through the Watchtower's windows. "That could have gone much worse."
"Could have gone better if someone hadn't tried to punch a robot made of literal electricity," Barry quipped, grinning at Green Lantern.
"I was testing its defenses," Hal shot back, but he was smiling too.
You felt yourself relaxing further. These moments when the team wasn't facing down world-ending threats were your favorites. Just heroes being people.
"So," Wonder Woman said, and something in her tone made you glance over. She had that mischievous look that Diana sometimes got, the one that suggested she'd been spending too much time around the Flash. "I was on monitor duty last week, and I may have overheard some of the staff discussing something called 'FMK.'"
Your stomach dropped.
"Oh no," Hal groaned, but he was laughing. "Did you really just bring that up?"
"I'm curious about human games," Diana said innocently. Too innocently. "They were quite passionate about their choices."
Superman looked confused. "What's FMK?"
"Fuck, Marry, Kill," Flash supplied helpfully with a dutiful nod. "It's a game where you pick three people and decide which you'd... well, the name's pretty self explanatory."
You felt Bruce's attention sharpen beside you, though he didn't move. You kept your own posture carefully neutral, grateful for the mask that hid your expression.
"That seems rather crude," Superman said, frowning slightly.
"It's just a game, Boy Scout," Hal said. "Usually people play it with celebrities, or like, a fictional character. Totally hypothetical."
"The staff members were discussing three women," Diana continued, and you realized with growing horror exactly where this was going. "One was that actress... Margot Robbie? The second was the singer, Beyoncé. And the third..." She paused, and you could have sworn she was enjoying this. "Was Mrs. Wayne. Bruce Wayne's wife."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees, though that might have been your imagination. Or possibly your powers responding to your emotional state. You very carefully did not look at Bruce.
"Oh, I remember when that wedding happened," Flash said, leaning back in his chair. "It was everywhere. Every magazine, every news site. The tabloids went absolutely insane."
"She's very beautiful," Diana nodded matter-of-factly. "I've seen her photographs."
"Beautiful is an understatement," Hal said, and you felt rather than saw Bruce's infinitesimal stiffening. "I mean, have you seen her at those galas? Wayne's a lucky bastard."
You studied your gloves with intense focus, trying to keep your breathing steady. This was fine. This was totally fine. You'd known that marrying Bruce would put you in the public eye, had accepted that your face would be on magazine covers and gossip sites. You just hadn't expected to be sitting in the Watchtower while your colleagues—while your husband's colleagues—discussed whether they'd hypothetically sleep with you.
"So what did the staff members decide?" Superman asked, sounding reluctant but curious.
"The consensus seemed to be marry Mrs. Wayne, fuck Margot Robbie, and kill Beyoncé... though they felt very guilty about that last one," Diana reported. "There was quite a heated debate."
"Killing Beyoncé is a crime," Barry gasped oh so seriously. "That's the wrong choice."
"You can't kill any of them, it's hypothetical," Hal pointed out.
"I'd marry Beyoncé," Flash continued, ignoring him. "Fuck Mrs. Wayne, I mean, obviously.. and sorry Margot, but you're getting killed in this scenario."
You were going to die. You were going to spontaneously combust right here in the Watchtower, and they'd never know why. You could feel heat creeping up your neck, and you were grateful — so incredibly grateful — for the high collar of your suit.
"I don't think I want to play this game," Superman said uncomfortably.
"Batman, you're being quiet," Hal said, and you nearly choked on nothing. "What's your take?"
There was a pause. A long pause. You still didn't look at him, but you could feel his presence like a physical thing beside you.
"I don't engage in speculation about civilians," Bruce said finally, his voice flat and controlled. The perfect Batman response. But you caught it.. the slight edge to his words, the quiet possessiveness that no one else would notice.
"Of course you don't," Barry grinned. "You don't engage in anything fun."
"Mrs. Wayne seems like a lovely person," Diana said. "From what I've read, she does considerable charity work. The Wayne Foundation's programs for underprivileged children have expanded significantly since their marriage."
"She's also apparently really down to earth," Hal added. "My brother met her at some charity thing in Coast City last year. Said she was genuinely nice, not fake nice like some celebrities. Actually talked to people like they were people."
Something warm bloomed in your chest despite the awkwardness of the situation. You worked hard at those events, tried to use your unwanted celebrity status for good. It meant something that people noticed.
"Wayne definitely married up," Flash said. "I mean, the guy's rich and all, but she could have had anyone."
"Speaking of Wayne," Hal started, and oh no. Oh no. "Did you guys see that article last week? About him supposedly dating three different models at once before he got married?"
You pressed your lips together hard. You'd seen that article. You and Bruce had laughed about it over breakfast because all three "models" were actually undercover intelligence agents he'd been coordinating with on a case.
"The man has a reputation," Diana spoke, in that sort of vague diplomatic way that only she could pull off.
"Had a reputation," Barry corrected. "From what I hear, he's been completely faithful since the wedding. No scandals, no rumors, nothing. It's actually kind of weird."
"Maybe he actually loves his wife," Clark suggested, and you could have thrown yourself into his arms.
"Or maybe he's just better at hiding it now," Hal raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Guys like that don't just change."
You felt Bruce shift slightly beside you. His hand, resting on the table, curled almost imperceptibly into a fist.
"I met him once," Diana said thoughtfully. "At a museum fundraiser in Gotham. He was... charming. Very smooth. But there was something else there. An intelligence he kept hidden behind the playboy smile."
That was more accurate than she knew. You'd been at that fundraiser too, and you had watched Bruce play the billionaire fool while mentally cataloging security weaknesses and potential threats.
"I still can't believe people find him that interesting," Clark said, a bit too honestly to the point you almost laughed. "He's a rich guy who throws parties."
"A rich guy who's married to a woman way out of his league," Barry groaned and rubbed a hand down his face in jealousy. "Seriously, what does she see in him? Besides the obvious money and looks and charm and-... okay, I'm answering my own question."
"Maybe she sees something the tabloids don't," Bruce said quietly, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.
"Deep," Hal deadpanned sarcastically. "Very philosophical, Batman."
"I think it's romantic," Diana smiled, her arms folded over her chest in finality. "A powerful man brought to his knees by love. It's very classical."
"It's very something," Flash muttered, his eyes flicking to you then doing a double take as if he had entirely forgotten you were there. "You've always got opinions." He prompted, hoping you'd give some insight that would prove his point over the others'.
Every eye in the room turned to you. You felt Bruce's attention sharpen, though he still didn't look directly at you.
You cleared your throat. "I think," you started carefully, "that celebrities are still people entitled to their privacy. And that speculating about their personal lives is exactly what the tabloids want us to do."
"Wow, okay, shutting down the fun," Flash booed, but he was smiling. "You sound like Batman."
If only he knew.
"She's right," Superman sighed in relief, his head tilting and the curl bouncing perfectly into position on his forehead. "We should focus on actual important matters."
The conversation shifted then, moving to scheduling and upcoming missions and the usual logistics. You felt the tension slowly drain from your shoulders, and Bruce's hand uncurled on the table.
The meeting wrapped up twenty minutes later. You filed out with the others, maintaining careful distance from Batman as always. No one could know. No one could ever know that you and Batman went home to the same house, shared the same bed, knew every inch of each other's bodies and souls.
The secret was what kept you both safe. It was also, occasionally, absolutely hilarious.
By the time you had arrived home, you found Bruce already in the Cave, cowl pushed back, sitting at the computer. He'd beaten you by minutes, which meant he'd driven fast even by his standards.
"So," you drawled, the amusement in your voice echoing slightly in the vast space as you descended the stairs. "That was fun."
He turned in his chair, and the look on his face made you burst out laughing. Bruce Wayne — Batman, the Dark Knight, terror of Gotham's underworld — looked utterly exhausted.
"I'm never going to unhear that conversation," he spoke flatly.
"Which part?" You were grinning now, pulling off your mask as you reached him. "The part where Green Lantern said I was beautiful? Or the part where Flash said he'd hypothetically fuck me?"
Bruce's jaw tightened. "All of it."
"You're jealous," you teased delightedly. "The Batman is jealous of a hypothetical game."
"I'm not jealous." He caught your wrist as you moved past him, pulling you down into his lap. His arms wrapped around your waist, solid and possessive. "I'm... irritated."
"Uh-huh." You ran your fingers through his hair, still damp from the cowl. "Is this the same irritation that made your hand curl into a fist when they suggested you were still sleeping around?"
"He called me 'guys like that,'" Bruce muttered against your shoulder. "As if I'd ever-..."
"I know." You cut him off and kissed his temple. "I know you wouldn't. Although I have to say, I enjoyed Diana's assessment of you. 'Charming. Very smooth. But there was something else there.'"
He pulled back to look at you, one eyebrow raised. "You enjoyed being discussed like a piece of meat?"
"Oh, absolutely not," you corrected without missing a beat. "That was horrifying. I thought I was going to have to blow one of them out of the room." You paused. "Although Hal's brother apparently thinks I'm genuinely nice, so that was good to hear."
"You are genuinely nice," Bruce's eyes set on yours with an intense truth and love behind them. "You're also brilliant, brave, powerful, and far too good for me, which is what I wanted to say when Flash suggested you'd married me for my money and looks."
"You do have very good looks," you teased. "And the money doesn't hurt."
He squeezed your sides, making you squirm and let out a small laugh. "I'm serious. Sitting there, listening to them talk about you like they had any right to..." The frustration was seeping through his voice.
"They didn't know," you reminded him gently. "They were just talking. People talk about celebrities. It's what people do."
"I don't like it."
"I know, me neither." You cupped his face in your hands. "But you know what I do like? Coming home to you. Being the only one who knows that Batman, the great stoic detective, gets possessive when his teammates play fuck, marry, kill with his wife."
"I'm not possessive," he grumbled, but his arms tightened around you.
"Sure you're not." You kissed him softly. "For the record, I'd marry you every time, in every hypothetical game, and definitely in every universe."
His expression softened in that way it only did for you, the hard edges of Batman melting away to reveal Bruce underneath. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You smiled. "Even if you are a rich guy who throws parties."
His head dropped onto his shoulder again and you saw his shoulders shake gently, and the chuckle that came from him rumbled against your neck. "He has no idea."
"None of them do." You rested your cheek against the top of his head. "That's what makes it perfect."
"And terrifying," he added. "If they ever found out, it would be everywhere."
"They won't," you assured firmly. "We're too good at this. We've been doing it for years."
"You almost lost it when Flash said he'd fuck you."
"You almost lost it when they said you'd married up."
"Because it's true," Bruce said seriously. "I did marry up. Significantly."
You kissed him again, longer this time, pouring three years of partnership and two years of marriage and a lifetime of love into it. When you pulled back, you were both smiling.
"We should probably get out of these suits," your voice was quiet enough that only he could hear, even though there was no one else around. "Alfred will have dinner ready soon."
"In a minute." Bruce's thumb rubbed gentle circles on your hip bone, his hands splayed firmly against you to make sure you stayed put with him. "I just need a minute to remember that you're mine. That I get to come home to you."
Your heart melted. This was the Bruce that no one else got to see — vulnerable, open, deeply in love. This was worth every awkward conversation, every secret kept, every careful distance maintained in public.
"I chose you," you confirmed softly. "I choose you every day, every mission, every ridiculous conversation about celebrity gossip. It's always you, Bruce."
He kissed you again, and for a moment, there was no Justice League, no secret identities, no tabloids or paparazzi or hypothetical games. There was just you and him, wife and husband, partners in every sense of the word.
"Come on," you whispered eventually, standing and pulling him up with you. "Let's go be normal people for a few hours."
"We're never going to be normal people," Bruce pointed out, but he had a smile tugging at his lips as he followed you toward the stairs.
"Fine. Let's go be our version of normal people. The kind who eat Alfred's pot roast and pretend we didn't spend the evening listening to our coworkers debate our fuckability."
And if Bruce was a little more possessive than usual when you made it upstairs, well.... that was between you, him, and the soundproofed walls of Wayne Manor.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bruce wayne x wife!reader (+ batmom!reader x platonic!jason)
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: bruce had promised he would always come back to you, his last mission makes his word difficult to keep. when news spread of mrs. wayne being all alone, suitors and trouble start to appear. all while your husband is trying to return to your side!
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: angst, crack, fluff, violence, happy ending, sexual innuendos, diana + clark + dick cameo, pervy men, bitchy women, a little bit of everything, bruce being the #imissmywife final boss, 11k words, this was absolute HELL to edit so if there are mistakes please tell me and i’ll happily fix them! REALLY recommended to play somethin’ stupid by frank + nancy sinatra, you’ll know when to play the song trust, also idk if the format is weird PLEASE tell me if it is
THE artificial hum of the Batcave buzzes around you, the only glow coming from the massive screen of the Batcomputer, its harsh glare in the dark making you squint.
You wrap your robe closer to yourself, softly rubbing the silk between your fingers for more comfort. In the late hours of night, the steel walls and long shadows of the cave don’t feel familiar— the glint of metal or the actual depths of the place make it all feel more distant.
Your eyes get used to the screen’s light and you make out the message that’s written in a computer font.
COMPLICATIONS IN MISSION. DEEP SPACE. MAY BE ANOTHER MONTH. I LOVE YOU.
Your heart drops and you’re all too aware of the cold in your body, not the one that comes from the chilly breezes of the place. No; it’s the coldness you get when the other side of the bed is empty, the cold bathroom without its vapor because no one has used it before, the cold that comes when you miss an essential part of your being.
Luckily, crime has been low. Dick and his hero friends have taken over patrol and are doing a fantastic job. Jason tags along for the easier missions. He’s not getting into any dangerous situations under your watch any time soon, thank you very much.
You pinch the silk again, but it slides through your digits. You had forgotten to bake brownies for Dick and his friends. Oh well, you can do it now— there’s no point coming up to bed again— you haven’t been getting much sleep anyway.
You check the time: 3:29. With a small sigh, you go up to the kitchen, careful not to wake Alfred. By four, there’s a fresh batch of fudgy, crusted-top but gooey-inside brownies. You bite one; the hollow feeling in your stomach is still there. You take another bite, it just feels like throwing crumbs into an empty space.
I love you too.
Next morning you’re in a chirpier mood, humming a familiar tune under your breath (Frank Sinatra). Jason is grumbling sleepily beside you, stuffing his mouth with toast and eggs and really everything else on the table— including the no-sugar cookies he claims taste like cardboard. That kid will eat about anything, and with Flash speed.
You open the morning paper before pushing your plate of eggs towards Jason.
“No, Ma, it’s your breakfast.”
You smile softly, brushing some of his loose curls, the end of the newspaper flopping forward. “It’s okay, baby, I’m not very hungry.”
Jason doesn’t look too convinced, but after a bit more insisting he happily gobbles them up.
Your stomach drops when you read the heading of today’s article.
IS THE WAYNES’ FAIRY TALE LOVE STORY OVER?
Bruce Wayne hasn’t been seen in Gotham for over a month, and despite Wayne Enterprises claiming it’s for business reasons, close sources to the family confirm this is a lie. Apparently, he and Mrs. Wayne are undergoing a long and tumultuous divorce. For some reason— yet to be uncovered— he’s left their adoptive son (Jason Todd-Wayne) and the ancestral Wayne home under her care. Something doesn’t add up, and this reporter will find out what! While I personally rooted for the young couple, life happens and it is often not easy…
The article continues, droning on about possible reasons why the divorce might have happened and blah blah blah. You finish your coffee and turn to the economy section; the gossip always makes your stomach churn. It has gotten better with time, of course, but this particular topic… there’s not much you can do about it, only choosing to ignore it.
Besides, who reads the gossip section of the Gotham Gazette?
Apparently, everybody.
While you drop Jason off at school, the other mothers look at you with a mixture of pity and thinly veiled disgust. You just give them a polite smile before getting into your car again. Inside— and hidden by the tinted windows— you pinch your nose and put on some more Frank Sinatra. The weekend can’t come soon enough.
You start the car and secretly stare at the other mothers from the rearview mirror; they’re still huddled amongst each other, their designer purses brushing as they lean closer to talk in hushed tones. One of them glances at your car and her lips turn into a mocking smile while she laughs with the others.
You drive away.
When you’re going through Old Gotham— where the trees are more naked and time is more evident on the wasted bricks of buildings and the gothic elements crowning certain places— Lucius calls you.
The music halts at the same time as the light turns red.
He greets you with your name. “I assume you’re on your way.”
“Yeah, I’ll be at the office in five.” The light turns green. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” the man sighs, “two of the board members were acting a bit… weird— it’s probably nothing, but I thought I’d tell you just in case.”
“Weird how?”
“Whispered conversations mostly. Again, it’s probably nothing. But with Bruce out of town they might get funny ideas.”
Shortly after the League was funded, Bruce created a protocol; if he had to be away for more than three weeks, all of his power as owner and CEO and major stockholder of Wayne Enterprises would go to you. You insisted it had to be Lucius, but it was legally easier for it to be you. The downside is the other board members don’t respect you as much as they respect (or fear?) Bruce. But so far they haven’t been out of line.
You hope they don’t start now.
“Thanks, Lucius. I’ll be on watch just in case.”
You say your goodbyes as the familiar Wayne building comes into view; bright, sleek, impossibly tall, with that massive W looking down at you.
The moment you enter the office you feel the stares, from interns to higher-ups. People at the Wayne building always react the same way to you. Just like clockwork, you think.
They’ll look at the length of your legs, settle on your hips, climb a little higher and— oh. Finally, your face and a soft smile that greets them.
Some try to initiate conversation, but you don’t want to be late, so you just make polite small talk before continuing your path to the elevator. The moment the metallic doors close, the outside world, and your smile slips, you blink at the metal and press the button for the last floor.
You’re looking at your phone— checking if either Alfred, Dick or Jason need something— when the doors slide open.
The neutral female voice announces the floor the person clicked. Huh, the same as yours. You lift your eyes from the screen and meet his.
You immediately recognize him; medium build, blonde fine hair, an elongated nose, and startling blue eyes like two pale beams. Nolan Morrison, one of the main shareholders of the company.
“Mr. Morrison,” you greet, “good morning.”
He grins, a phony thing that makes your eyes narrow. “Mrs. Wayne.” His eyes study your figure. “Looking as good as ever.”
You flash your ring, the great rock catching the light of the elevator. “You’re too polite.”
He laughs. “Oh, don’t be modest. You surely know the effect you have on people.”
Your stomach starts tightening and you don’t allow yourself to look at the rising elevator numbers, just pray the doors open.
Nolan doesn’t notice your discomfort.
“That’s probably why Bruce married you, huh?”
Your eyes snap back. “Excuse me?” Your tone lacks all of its characteristic warmth.
He still grins— that stupid, stupid grin— he must think himself very smart. “You’re still hot.” He laughs, amused by himself. And you’re too in shock to put into words everything you want to say to this man. “I don’t mind you being someone’s seconds, is all.”
“Mr. Morrison,” you snap, “I’m still very happily married, thank you very much.” You force yourself to slow down and flash your ring— oh honestly! How do you miss a ring that big?— “You’d do well in remembering that until Bruce comes back, which he is, I’m your boss. So either you treat me with respect or I’ll be forced to take action.”
Nolan opens and closes his mouth, his grin wiped off, and you internally smile. However, it’s quickly replaced with a sneer and the upward tug of his mouth.
Before he can reply, the doors finally slide open; smiling softly is Lucius, a cup of coffee in each of his hands. He greets you by your first name, and you reciprocate with an even brighter smile.
Your heels click against the floor, and you don’t even spare Nolan Morrison a glance.
“Oh, Nolan, hello.” Lucius hands you one of the coffees. “The rest are already there. Why did you leave?”
You look at him, waiting for his response, but he doesn’t dare even flick his eyes your way. “Just stretching my legs.”
“Good, good.” Lucius turns to you again and you both leave for his office, leaving a very humiliated man.
When you’re out of earshot, Lucius’ voice drops. “Did something happen?”
You snort. “He’s just unbelievably rude, that’s all.”
Lucius doesn’t look calmer. If anything, his eyebrows sink even further. “He’s one of the two I saw whispering.” He opens the office doors for you.
You hum and step into the familiar space. “Figures.”
After revising some shared notes on the meeting and other miscellaneous matters, you and the man go to the main room where the shareholders’ meeting will be held.
Everyone is already seated, chatting amongst themselves, but the noise quickly dissipates as you two step inside.
Lucius takes the seat closest to the door, while you have to walk the length of the long table until you reach your seat.
You neatly set your notes down and take out a nice blue ink pen, clicking it open. “Where should we start?”
First comes the heavy-loading company numbers and more technical matters. You write clean notes on your pad and the rhythm of comments and feedback flows seamlessly.
Then comes the new integration to the multinational insurance plans for outside Gotham.
“So,” you look at your printed notes, “we now cover alien damage in Metropolis?”
Margaret, the shareholder in charge of the project, nods. “We cover what LexCorp covered, with the addition of pet and emotional damage.”
You smile. “Perfect. How are the results coming along?”
Margaret shares the numbers, and they’re actually really good.
“But what about Queen Industries?” someone else asks. “They’ve also gotten into the insurance business.”
You wave your hand lightly. “We’re Gotham-based. Anything happens in this city on the daily and we survive. People buy our insurance because we have a credible background— the worst thing that can happen in Star City is if a cat gets stuck in a tree.” The whole table laughs and nods in agreement. You obviously know this is not true; Oliver works incredibly hard to keep his city safe, but a little humour doesn’t hurt anybody. “Plus, our packages are cheaper.”
Things go well until the last point on the agenda comes up; the Martha Wayne scholarships. You and Bruce had started the initiative a few years ago, and apparently its success was… rocky at best.
You have a stack of a hundred papers or so in front of you, not a single corner out of place, just simple crisp white papers. But your gut is tugging down.
You try to read the first page, but it’s only a simple compulsory introduction for legal requirements. The wrongness in your gut expands to your stomach.
“Is there something wrong?”
You snap your eyes away, but you don’t move to grab your pen and sign. “Not at all, I’ll just sign them later. Let’s go back to this month’s numbers,”
you dart at your notes despite knowing there’s nothing amiss, “the IT department could ease up on the company’s spending on that nearby bakery.”
You miss the worried glances (everyone else does, as a matter of fact), and the uncomfortable feeling in your body hasn’t left you.
Your dress glitters like moonlight and flows like the sinuous waters of a river. Beside you, Jason tugs at his tie.
He huffs. “I hate these stuffy galas.”
You laugh and crouch down to his eye level. “We just have to be here for an hour and then we can go back home.”
“And we can continue reading Emma?” he asks excitedly.
You smooth his tie and kiss his forehead, slowly rising again. “Mm, no. You have school tomorrow.”
He groans. “Why can’t Bruce be here to deal with this?”
“He’ll be back soon enough,” you reply easily.
Jason hums, and the topic quickly shifts to his day at school. People greet you both, pinching his too-rosy cheeks and assessing your figure. As always, pleasantries are exchanged until the next batch of people arrives.
But tonight is unlike past galas; you feel more… stared at. Jason has disappeared to the dessert table and you talk with some shareholders, but you can’t ignore the looking and whispering.
You internally roll your eyes. It appears everyone does read the gossip section of the Gazette.
You politely excuse yourself and go to the bar. As you make your way there, you see one of the moms from school whispering to another group of women. You meet her eyes and she smiles brightly at you.
“A martini, please.”
The bartender nods and begins mixing your drink.
“Mrs. Wayne?”
A chair scrapes beside you and a man sits down. You recognize him as one of the company’s seniors.
“Mr. Carlisle, hello.” You greet.
He smiles, pleased to be recognized. “I just wanted to thank you in person.”
The bartender slides your drink over to you, the stem cold under your fingertips. “For what?” you smile curiously.
“The Martha Wayne scholarship,” he replies with a slight blush, “my daughter is studying medicine thanks to it.” He smiles. “She’s in her second year now.”
You feel light in your chest. “That’s great! Does she know what she wants to specialize in already?”
He nods. “Yes, yes. She wants to be a paediatrician.”
You are about to reply when suddenly the entire room falls silent.
“And you don’t get to say that about my Ma!”
Your back stiffens; you recognize that voice. You rush a goodbye to Mr. Carlisle and hurry toward Jason.
The people are still frozen, almost caught in a spell, as they watch Jason shout at a man.
You have to shove a woman aside to reach him.
“What is going on here?” you glare at the man and squeeze Jason’s shoulder, your hand settling at the small of his back.
The man scoffs, his face red and the flute of champagne in his hand dangerously empty. “Tell this kid to respect his elders.”
“Maybe his elders should learn to behave first.”
Someone gasps behind you.
“Let’s go, Jason.”
Jason’s chest is rising and falling too quickly, the anger practically radiating off him. The moment the cold air of the street hits your skin, you text Alfred to pick you up.
“Jason,” you meet his eyes, “what happened?”
“Nothing,” he bites out.
“Jason,” you say softly. “Things are easier when you share them.”
He sighs, and the rhythm of his heart slows. “They were saying mean things about you,” he looks down at the pavement. “And I got angry.”
You wrap him in a hug, his small head pressed against your stomach. He hugs you back. You tighten your hold and press a kiss to his hair. “People always have something to say. The best thing we can do is ignore it. They’ll eventually get bored.”
He pulls back slightly. “But it’s wrong— what they were saying. It doesn’t matter if they stop or not, they can’t say that stuff.”
You’re not going to ask what they said. “You already fight as Robin. I don’t want you fighting for me too.”
He hugs you again. “I love you, Ma.”
Your eyes sting, and your heart is practically going to burst with the love you hold for this boy. Your son in everything but blood. “I love you, Jay.”
You sit crossed legged in Bruce’s chair, the cold leather sinking under your weight. The scholarship papers are spread out before you. Your pijamas— which consists of one of Bruce’s shirts and a pair of sweatpants— are losing their scent, you inhale the cotton and realise his perfume is much fainter now than a month ago.
You perk up the moment the study’s door open, thinking it’s Alfred again reminding you to sleep. It’s not, it’s Jason. Rubbing his eyes and hair sticking in odd angles, he comes up to you.
“How long have you been here?”
“A little while only.” About an hour give or take. “You should be sleeping, baby.”
He nods, now reading the papers. “Yeah well, you should too.”
You laugh but don’t reply. “See anything interesting?”
A beat passes. “Yeah actually,” he points at one of the papers, “this neighbourhood doesn’t receive the Martha Wayne scholarship money.”
Your stomach falls. “What?”
He notices your worried face. “No, no. I say it because they don’t need it. This neighbourhood is under Penguin, and a year ago some of his senior goons unionised.”
“Penguin has to deal with unions?”
Jason nods. “Yup. So anyways, he now offers funding for those kids who have great grades.”
You blink slowly and pick up a bright yellow highlighter, you swipe it evenly through the name of the neighbourhood. “That’s actually really helpful.”
“So I can help you?” His eyes light up.
“Hah, no way.” You pick up your computer and the papers. “But we can move to the couch, you sleep and I finish this.”
He pretends to think about it. “I think it’s a deal.”
When you call Lucius to cite an emergency board meeting for this same afternoon, you’re actually in a better mood than yesterday.
Luckily, you don’t bump into Nolan into the elevator. But when you step into the room, he and the others look slightly worried.
“Good afternoon,” you sit in your place, “this is about the Martha Wayne scholarships, and I understand the entire board has to be present for this.” You look at the woman from legal, she nods.
You pull the stack of papers down. “I will not be signing none of these until I see the evidence that the money is going where it’s needed.”
You show them the third page. “Everything that’s in yellow are the discrepancies, I’ve already sent the copies to the department.”
“But that’s going to take us another week,” one of the shareholders says— Conrad, you think. “We don’t have time.”
“Time for what? Last time I checked your department is in charge of energy.”
He goes red. “I’m just saying.”
“Well, this is what is going to happen.” You look at Nolan. “I understand your department does this sort of thing.”
He nods slowly. “We do, but Conrad is right, time is tight.”
You pinch your eyebrows. “Don’t we have interns? It’s a simple task. Just check that the money is going where it needs to.”
Nobody else says anything, and you internally smile.
You and Nolan are the only two people in the elevator. And again, it’s moving far too slowly.
You’re staring at the elevator doors, painfully aware of his eyes trained on your face. Someone else comes in, you sigh in relief, they come out again.
“Is something wrong?” You ask, finally acknowledging him.
He works his jaw. “There is.”
You’re two seconds away from getting off the next floor. “Is something related to Wayne Enterprises? Our HR department—"
“You’re an absolute bitch,” he snaps and grabs your wrist. His thick hand exerting pressure on your skin and bones.
You immediately bring your knee to his crotch while simultaneously, with his free hand, you punch his throat. “Don’t you even think about touching me.”
Nolan is gasping, knees crouched and a hand on his heaving chest. You slam the button for the next floor, desperate to get out as blood rushes in your eyes.
But the moment a thread of light slowly appears, Nolan hits you cold in the head.
The first time Bruce was in space, he found it magnificent. Now? He’s two seconds away from gauging his eyes if he sees another fantastical boulder.
Everyone is working at their full capacity to make the ship work, but the damage is big and the distance to Earth— to you— too large.
Bruce inhales, taking up precious oxygen. He doesn’t really mind. He’s focussed on stepping away from a moment, go behind that massive boulder and take out the only thing that has been keeping him sane for this past month.
The moment he knows he’s alone, he greedily grabs the picture. It’s a dog eared thing about the size of his outstretched hand. In it, Alfred, Dick, Jason, Bruce and you. You’re all smiling at the camera, your arms wrapped around him, the picture doesn’t show it, but his hands were settled on your hips.
He has a small smile gracing his lips, eyes locked on your face. Alfred is looking all softly at the camera, Dick and Jason are both grinning but he remembers they were shoving each other and bickering for the past five minutes.
His eyes meet yours— or well, the picture version of yours.
He feels your absence like a ghost limb. A cold, hollow, feeling lives in his chest and isn’t going anywhere until he sees you. His hold body feels submerged by absolute cold and in the depths of the night, his mind doesn’t stop playing you— your voice, your scent, your face, your jokes and your quirks— until daylight comes. Then he has work to do in order to come back home. It's exhausting, he's exhausted.
“Bruce.”
Clark and Diana are there, with a swift movement he hides the picture. “Any news?”
Diana shakes her head. “No, we just came to check up on you.”
Clark nods slowly. “You’ve been acting… strange, during this past week. Disappearing a lot.”
“Hal was convince it was to—" She shakes her head. “That’s not important. What’s important is that you’re our teammate, our friend, and we’re here to help you.”
Bruce stares at them without making a sound.
Clark rubs the back of his head. “Are you going to say something?”
Another beat of silence. Then a long sigh. He decides to give up.
“I just want to go back to Earth.”
Clark watches him carefully, his arms are folded across his chest, cape resting heavy against his back.
Diana tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing. Her gaze is not unkind, just assessing like it usually is.
“You miss your family,” she says finally. It’s not phrased like a question, its ’s a fact. Her voice is even. “Your wife.”
Bruce doesn’t respond immediately.
His gaze stays forward, fixed somewhere past the bulkhead. His hand rests beside him. He appeares calm but his posture is too rigid, too precise.
Clark notices the tension in his posture immediately. The way his shoulders sit just slightly too sharp for someone standing still.
Bruce exhales through his nose; slow and controlled, but he isn't really feeling calm. His fingers flex once against the great boulder's wall. A small movement, but it’s enough to show pressure building somewhere underneath. The gaping hole in his chest flutters.
Bruce finally looks at them.
“You are not as alone as you behave,” Diana says. “Stop acting as if you are.”
Clark nods once, small but firm. “We’ve got your back,” he says simply. “But you don’t get to vanish on us and call it fine, Bruce.”
The man exhales slowly through his nose again, deeper this time. “I know how to get back,” he suddenly says.
Diana’s gaze sharpens instantly. “Then stop standing still,” she replies.
The three of them quickly move to join Barry and Hal again, impatient to get to work.
Bruce can’t wait to have you in his arms again.
The ropes burn against your skin, your head is heavy and there’s a slow but strong beat of a drum inside it— shaking up all of the bones of your crane.
You try to remember what had happened; cooking with Alfred, picking up Jason from school, the meeting, Nolan—
“What the fuck are we going to do?” A voice snaps. “This is Mrs. Wayne, for crying out loud. Everyone will notice her being gone.”
“Oh relax, we’ll figure something out.”
“You messed up Nolan,” a familiar voice says, “she saw your face. What do you think she’ll do if we let her go?”
“She didn’t see ours,” the first voice says, “we still have a chance to get out.”
You screw your eyes tight, before relaxing them trying to appear still unconscious.
Nolan lets out a sharp laugh. “If I’m going down you’re going down with me.”
You hear footsteps against concrete but before you can think of anything else, a sharp crack resonates through the room as the skin of your cheek flares up with pain
“Dude!” A gasp. “You don’t hit girls!” A voice calls through the sharp ringing in your ears.
Your eyes snap open and see three men staring down at you; Nolan, the shareholder that questioned you at the meeting, and the man from the gala’s bar…
Nolan rubs your painfully raw cheek, nothing about the caress is comforting. If anything it makes bile rise up your throat. “Morning.”
Your head is blaring with panic and fear— and pain, but you desperately try to keep your composure.
Nolan sighs. “You just had to sign the scholarship papers like Bruce does.” He mock pouts and takes a step away from you. “Now you’re here."
“You’re stealing from children who need it,” you rasp out and look at the others, “why? You already have money.”
Nobody says nothing for a moment, then the other shareholder shrugs. “You can never have enough.”
“So,” you swallow painfully, “what’s going to happen now? Are you going to kill me?”
Mr.Carlisle winces. “You just have to sign the papers.”
Immediately, a plan forms in your head.
You let your body go slack, like something in you has snapped clean in half. Your breathing stutters, shallow and uneven, and you drop your gaze to the floor, watching the faint smear of dirt dragged across the concrete by the shareholder’s shoe.
“Fine,” you whisper, voice thin, fraying at the edges. “I’ll sign it.”
Silence follows.
Nolan studies you, eyes narrowed, but greed wins— it always does with men like him.. You see it in the way his shoulders loosen, in the slight curl of his lip.
“Thought so,” he mutters.
Carlisle hesitates. “Untie her.”
The ropes scrape as they loosen, fibers dragging harshly over your skin. It burns; sharp and raw, like your wrists have been peeled open. You swallow the reaction, biting it down until it settles somewhere deep and sharp like little crystal shards.
Your hands fall into your lap, numb for a second before the pins and needles start— violent, prickling, almost worse than the ropes.
They shove the papers in front of you. Those damn papers, with the Wayne name stamped across the top mocking you.
A pen follows, cheap and plastic, nothing like your elegant ones. You take it, but your fingers slightly tremble and this is not part of the act.
“Right there,” Nolan says, tapping the line with the tip of his long and bony finger.
Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs open. You lean forward slightly. A small pause, pretending they buy your dizzy act.
Then—
You move.
It’s fast enough but the angle is wrong and desesperation curls out of you like a bad stench. The pen lurches forward with everything you have, jamming into the soft space just beneath Nolan’s jaw.
For a split second, reality stops. You just feel like a puppet with your limbs being tugged by a strange entity your adrenaline made up to save you.
There's some resistance from the skin at first, before the initial force and despondency do the job. Then it gives. Nolan chokes— a wet, broken sound— stumbling back as his hands fly to his neck, eyes wide in shock more than pain.
Nobody moves, the other two men simply stare in absolute shock.
You shove yourself up, legs screaming in protest, and slam into Carlisle’s shoulder hard enough to knock him sideways as you run past.
“What the—?!”
You’re already out the door; your footsteps echo— loud and uneven, the pattern is all wrong. Behind you—
“GET HER!”
You run like you've never before. Your lungs burn almost immediately, your calves ache and dragging in air feels too thin, too sharp on your frail lungs. Your legs threaten to fold with every step, muscles shaking from disuse and adrenaline. But you force yourself to not look back.
You don’t—
A hand claws on the flesh of your back, near your hip. You let out a raw, animal sound.
It yanks you sideways, slamming you into the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of you. Lights flash in your vision and you gasp with pain.
Nolan.
There’s blood— too much of it— slicking his pure white collar, his hand pressed desperately to his neck, but his other hand is on you, fingers now digging into your throat.
“You—” he gasps, voice wrecked, “you fucking cunt— think you can—”
His grip tightens, you gasp.
Your vision sparks. Your hands claw at him, nails scraping, trying to pry him off, but he’s heavier, stronger, fueled by something frantic and dying— And then he’s gone.
Not pushed or pulled. No, literally ripped away from you. Your neck goes from the extreme pressure of his hold to cold, you sofly rub it with your fingertips as you greedily breathe in air.
He hits the ground hard, dragged back by something that moves too fast to track. Your heart recognises him before your eyes do.
Batman.
He doesn’t hesitate.
The first punch lands with a sickening crack, snapping Nolan’s head to the side. The second follows instantly. Then another. And another.
Nolan tries to fight back, but it’s sloppy and the hits-- if you can even call them that-- land weak, his limbs and movements futile against the assault.
Batman grabs him by the front of his shirt and slams him into the wall.
Again.
And again.
The sound echoes down the hallway and reverberates through the walls.
“Stop—” Nolan chokes, barely conscious now.
Batman does not stop.
His grip tightens, gauntlet curling into fabric and skin like he might just—
“Batman!” Your voice tears out of you, still raw.
He freezes. So subtle is almost not there, but just enough to reprieve Nolan of the next hit.
His head turns slightly toward you.
“Don’t,” you manage, pushing yourself upright, your legs shaking violently, he notices and his hold around the man tightens. “Please don’t do it.”
A beat too long.
The tension in him coils tighter— then breaks; he lets Nolan drop.
The man crumples, barely more than dead weight now.
Batman turns to you fully. And in two strides, he’s there. For the first time in months, you feel all of the cold fizzle away, for the first time in months, you relax.
His hands are on you instantly; checking, grounding, moving over your arms, your shoulders, your face like he needs to confirm you’re still in one piece. Oh his touch, so delicate and tender... despite the cool texture of his suit, you feel eneloped in a cocoon.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine,” you breathe, even though your throat burns and your wrists feel flayed open and your whole body is trembling. “I’m okay.”
He pulls you into him. He holds you tight, almost desperate— steals the air from your lungs in a completely different way. You can't feel his hearbteat, but its thundering in his chest just as yours is now.
Your hands fist into him without thinking.
For a moment, everything else falls away. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you.
And then he kisses you.
It’s not soft or careful. It’s quick, urgent— like he needs to make sure you’re real, not a figment of his imagination, that you’re really here and alive.
Your breath catches.
“There’s more,” you say, voice still uneven, pointing weakly back toward the room. “Inside. The other two.”
“Stay.” He commands, but the tone is... off. Was Batman put out by a kiss?
You nod, sinking back against the wall as your legs finally give out beneath you.
He’s already gone.
The hallway swallows him in seconds.
Then— noise. Thuds and some shouting. The sharp, controlled rhythm of a fight that doesn’t last too long. It ends quickly as it usually does.
Sirens split the air open, their jarring noise ricocheting through the hallway.
Red and blue lights flood the space, washing over everything; Nolan’s unconscious body, the blood, you. You’re sprawled against a cold wall, trying to calm your heart and quiet your head.
Batman doesn’t come back; he’s not there as the paramedics rush you into the ambulance, or as the cops flood the scene like ants around honey.
You desperately search for his figure in every face, every dark crook. At some point, you ask where he is. The paramedics reply that your family are on their way.
“Mom!”
You look up from where you’re sitting. Rushing through the crowd are Jason and Dick.
Immediately, Dick scans you for any possible injuries the paramedics might have missed. He hugs you, and you melt into him.
“Is your hair longer?” You ask.
“Mom,” he frowns.
You brush a rogue strand from his face, just like he did when he was much younger. “Dick.”
Jason is on you like a tiny leopard, clutching your body like it’s a lifeline.
“Uh, Jay, Mom is a bit—”
He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck. “I don’t care.” He looks up at you. “We were so worried. We thought—”
You rub soothing circles on his back. “I’m okay now.”
Jason hides again.
Your eyes spot a worried Alfred walking in your direction, his breath slightly uneven.
Your eyes meet his above Jason’s body.
“My dear—”
You soften immediately. “Hi, Alfred.” You frown. “You don’t have to worry,” you look at Dick too, who is still looking at you like you might disappear if he blinks, “I’m fine now.”
His eyes flick over you, taking everything in. “We shall have words about your definition of ‘fine,’” Alfred says gently. He mutters something about you and Bruce being annoyingly stubborn.
You almost smile.
But then the entire world— the whole of planet Earth with its billions of inhabitants and thousands of living creatures— stops. Everything stops the moment his voice reaches you.
“Where is my wife?”
Bruce’s voice is nothing but stern and demanding. Both Dick and Jason turn toward the source.
Jason unpeels from you and goes to stand between Alfred and Dick.
Your eyes find Bruce’s instantly, and before you even realize it, he is in front of you, cradling your head in his hands, consuming you with a kiss.
You’re alive. You’re here. I didn’t lose you. I love you.
He tries to say with just the language your lips and his can speak.
“Hello to you too, Bruce,” Dick says.
Bruce’s forehead is pressed against yours, the kiss broken but his face still close. “Children.”
He spins around, and before anyone can say anything else, he pulls Dick and Jason into a tight hug.
“Let go!”
A laugh rumbles in his chest. “Can’t.”
You four end up at Batburger; huddled in one of the booths at the back to avoid people staring.
Bruce hasn’t left your side for a second, even on the ride there. It was Alfred who drove. Jason and Dick ordered enough food to feed an army, while Alfred pretended to disapprove and only ordered a glass of water. You weren’t really hungry, but occasionally dipped your spoon into your Mr. Freeze ice cream.
Bruce has an arm around your waist, your body and his impossibly close. So close he can hear your heartbeat— though you suspect that’s one of the reasons why.
As Jason and Dick steal fries from each other, Alfred laughs, and you and Bruce finally allow yourselves to rest against each other.
The pier is mostly quiet, aside from the soft lapping of waves at the shore and the chatter and laughter from nearby restaurants.
You and Bruce walk under the moonlight, your bodies sharing the same warmth. Alfred, Dick, and Jason have already headed home, but you two needed this alone time.
“I missed you,” he says.
You laugh, a soft and crystalline sound ringing through the night. “I was about to say the same thing.”
“I thought I had arrived too late,” he confesses. “I saw his hands on you and I just lost it—”
“But you didn’t. You stopped, Bruce.” You rub his knuckles with your fingers, your wedding ring brushing against his, a testament to your love.
Suddenly, a soft familiar song begins playing. You cannot see the source, but it’s probably one of the street musicians that roam Gotham, especially near restuarant areas.
Bruce perks up. “That’s our song.” He softly grabs your hand, the other settling around your waist.
You smile and begin swaying to the music.
The time is right, your perfume fills my head, the stars get red.
Bruce spins you, and you cannot help the laugh that bubbles out of you. His small smile widens into something rare and honest; his blue eyes sparkle, and you wonder how anyone can love someone the way you love him.
Frank Sinatra’s voice continues as you let your bodies do the talking. It doesn’t feel like just flesh and bones— it feels like your souls are intertwining, his soul not only touching yours, but kissing, craddling, caressing, it too.
content batfam x gn! reader, references to human trafficking/attempted kidnapping, references to organ selling/illegal organ harvesting, medical trauma (hospitals/clinics/body part loss), mentions of fear toxin (hallucinations, panic, near-death experiences), references to cults (blood oaths, religious manipulation), mentions of homelessness/running away from home, implied childhood neglect/poverty/debt-related exploitation, violence, threats, dark humour as a coping mechanism for trauma, implied exploitation of minors
masterlist
characters bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne, duke thomas, stephanie brown, cassandra cain
wordcount 3.4k
bruce wayne
Bruce is used to Gotham horror. He has files. Statistics. Case histories. The names of victims carved into the back of his skull.
He is not used to you saying, very casually over dinner:
“Oh, I hate lemon antiseptic smell. Reminds me of the clinic where they bought my kidney. Anyway, pass the rolls?”
Bruce freezes.
Not dramatically. Not outwardly.
But everyone who knows him sees it. His hand stills on his fork. His jaw tightens. His eyes go cold in that dangerous, quiet way that usually means someone in Gotham is about to discover why billionaires can afford lawyers and surveillance satellites.
He asks, very softly, “Who bought it?”
You blink at him. “My kidney?”
“Yes.”
“Bruce, this was years ago.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Bruce becomes almost painfully gentle with you afterwards. Not pitying, because you would probably bite him for that, but attentive.
He starts noticing things.
How you sit with your back to walls. How you always check exits. How you flinch at hospital scenes in movies but laugh it off before anyone can notice. How you know which streets to avoid, which churches aren’t churches, which clinics don’t ask questions, which “charity vans” are not charity vans.
He asks if you want help.
You shrug. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”
Bruce hates that answer.
Because it sounds too much like Jason. Like Dick after pretending the circus didn’t haunt him. Like Tim after losing too much sleep to feel real. Like every Gotham child who learned survival before multiplication tables.
If you’re dating him, he becomes deeply protective in a way that is both tender and terrifying.
He does not cage you. He knows better.
But Gotham quietly shifts around you.
The clinic that hurt you? Shut down.
The men your mother owed? Suddenly under investigation for tax fraud, smuggling, kidnapping, and six other crimes they absolutely committed.
The street where you were nearly trafficked? A new Wayne Foundation shelter opens two blocks away with security, food, transportation, and counsellors who actually know what they’re doing.
You catch on eventually.
“Bruce.”
“Yes?”
“Did you emotionally cope with my trauma by restructuring an entire neighbourhood?”
A pause.
“…No.”
“Bruce.”
“A little.”
His care is quiet but enormous. He does not always know how to hold you, but he knows how to build a world where what happened to you becomes harder to repeat.
And when you make jokes like, “It’s fine, I only have one kidney, but I have twice the personality,” he doesn’t laugh at first.
Eventually, though, when he knows you want him to, he gives you the smallest, saddest smile.
“You do have an alarming amount of personality.”
“Thank you. It’s where my second kidney would’ve gone.”
He sighs like he’s suffering.
But his hand finds yours under the table.
dick grayson
Dick’s first instinct is to laugh because you said it like a joke.
Then the words actually process.
“Yeah, I don’t go near that alley anymore. Almost got grabbed there when I was sixteen. Super embarrassing. I dropped my fries.”
Dick’s smile dies so fast it practically leaves a chalk outline.
“You almost got what?”
You wave him off. “It’s fine. I stabbed the guy with a broken umbrella and ran.”
Dick looks like he has just been shot, resurrected, and shot again. “You were sixteen?”
“Maybe fifteen. Gotham birthdays are more of a vibe than a record.”
Dick gets emotional. Like, visibly.
He’s the one who says your name in that soft, careful way that makes your defences go up immediately.
You try to dodge.
“Don’t do the concerned forehead wrinkle thing.”
“I’m not doing a forehead wrinkle.”
“You’re literally making the face nurses make before telling you insurance doesn’t cover anaesthesia.”
That makes him look worse.
Dick is a fixer, a hugger, a bleeding-heart acrobat with too much love and not enough self-preservation. He wants to wrap you in blankets and personally suplex Gotham into the sun.
But he learns quickly that you don’t want to be treated like glass.
So instead, he matches your energy—but gently.
You say, “Fun fact, don’t talk to those guys on 9th. They’re a cult. They tried to get me to marry a sewer prophet once.”
Dick, without missing a beat, says, “Was the sewer prophet cute?”
You grin. “Honestly? Great bone structure. Terrible theology.”
He laughs, but his eyes stay sharp. Later, Nightwing absolutely checks out the “cult guys on 9th.”
If you’re together, Dick becomes your safe place in a very physical way.
Not smothering. Not controlling. But he always offers his hand before crossing certain streets. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk. He texts you when Scarecrow escapes Arkham, even before the news breaks.
When fear toxin gets mentioned, his whole demeanour changes.
You once say “I hope Scarecrow chokes on his own gas. Last time I hallucinated my dead neighbour crawling out of my sink for six hours.”
Dick goes quiet.
Then, carefully, “You went through a Scarecrow attack alone?”
“Mostly. A raccoon was there.”
“A raccoon?”
“Emotionally, he did his best.”
Dick does not know whether to cry or kiss you.
Possibly both.
He is the one who helps you relearn joy without making it feel like homework. Rooftop picnics. Bad movies. Trips outside Gotham where the air doesn’t taste like rainwater and crime.
He loves your humour. He just wishes it didn’t have teeth marks in it.
jason todd
Jason gets it. That’s the problem.
The first time you casually drop something horrifying, he doesn’t freeze like Bruce or panic like Dick.
He goes still.
Deeply, dangerously still.
“Hospitals are gross. Last time I was in one, they removed an organ and paid me like it was a pawn shop transaction.”
Jason’s eyes lift to yours. “What organ?”
You shrug. “Kidney.”
“Who?”
“Jay, this is not a murder quest.”
“I didn’t say murder.”
“You thought it very loudly.”
Jason understands dark humour as a survival language. He speaks it fluently. So when you joke, he doesn’t immediately tell you to stop. He knows sometimes joking is the only way to pick up the memory without it burning your hands.
But later, when you’re alone, he says, “You know that was messed up, right?”
You snort. “No, really?”
“I mean it.”
And that’s when his voice changes. Rougher. Lower. Not angry at you. Never at you.
“You shouldn’t have had to make that normal.”
That gets you.
Because Jason doesn’t say it like pity. He says it like someone who knows exactly what it means to survive something and then get treated like the survival was proof it didn’t hurt.
If you’re dating Jason, he is fiercely protective, but he respects your autonomy more than anyone expects.
He won’t baby you. He won’t tell you that you can’t go somewhere.
But if you say, “Don’t walk down that street after eleven,” Jason hears an entire case file in one sentence.
The next week, that street has Red Hood presence.
Not flashy. Not obvious.
But people vanish from corners. Traffickers get nervous. Cult recruiters stop loitering. Predatory clinics discover that someone has burned their records and mailed copies to every law enforcement office, journalist, and victim advocacy group in the city.
You look at him over breakfast. “Did you threaten a cult for me?”
Jason sips his coffee. “No.”
“Jason.”
“I threatened a cult for Gotham. You just inspired civic engagement.”
He’s also the one who can sit with your worst stories without flinching. He might look like he wants to tear the city open brick by brick, but he won’t make you comfort him for your pain.
When fear toxin comes up, though?
Oof.
You say, “Yeah, Scarecrow gas got me once. Saw my own body hanging from the ceiling. Zero stars. Would not recommend.”
Jason’s face goes blank.
He has nightmares that night.
Not because he thinks you’re weak.
Because he can imagine too well what it did to you.
He holds you differently afterwards. Like you’re not fragile, but precious.
And when you make some awful joke like, “At least Scarecrow helped me discover I’m creative under pressure,” Jason mutters, “You’re sick.”
“You love me.”
“Yeah,” he says, too fast. Too honest. “I do.”
Both of you freeze.
Then you whisper, “That was grossly sincere.”
Jason groans into his hands. “Forget I said it.”
“Never. I’m putting it on a mug.”
tim drake
Tim’s reaction is delayed because his brain immediately starts building a conspiracy board.
You say, “Oh, avoid the blue-door clinic near Sheldon Park. They buy organs, but only if you’re desperate enough not to ask for paperwork.”
Tim looks up from his laptop. “…What?”
You keep eating cereal. “Yeah, sketchy. Bad magazines in the waiting room, too.”
Tim slowly closes his laptop.
That is how everyone knows something terrible has happened.
“Can you repeat that?”
“The magazine thing?”
“The organ thing.”
Tim is horrified, but his horror is very analytical. His eyes sharpen. His voice gets careful. He asks specific questions. Dates. Locations. Names. Descriptions.
You eventually squint at him. “Are you making a mental spreadsheet?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“It’s more of a relational database.”
“Tim.”
“I’m coping.”
Tim does not do well with the randomness of your trauma. Not because he judges you, but because he can’t stand unsolved harm.
Someone hurt you. Someone profited. Someone built a system that made it possible.
And Tim wants names.
If you’re dating him, he becomes quietly obsessive about making sure you are safe in ways you might not even notice at first.
Your phone mysteriously gets better security.
Your routes home become “accidentally” optimised away from dangerous areas. A WayneTech-funded investigation into illegal clinics begins after Tim “just happens” to mention some suspicious data to the right person.
He does not push you to talk unless he thinks you’re in current danger. But when you do talk, he listens like he is taking testimony from the last surviving witness of a buried city.
He remembers everything.
You once say “Oh, those guys? Yeah, they’re a cult. Don’t make eye contact. They love eye contact. That’s how they got Marcus.”
Tim pauses. “Who’s Marcus?”
“Guy from my old building. Nice. Bad at boundaries. Accidentally joined a basement religion.”
“Did he get out?”
“Physically? Yeah. Emotionally? Unclear.”
Tim does not sleep that night.
The next day, he has a file labelled Basement Religion???
Steph sees it and goes, “What the hell?”
Tim says, “Gotham has patterns.”
Tim’s care is practical and almost invisible. He’ll leave food near you when you’re spiralling. He’ll stay awake when fear toxin incidents are on the news. He’ll sit beside you in silence because he knows questions can feel like knives.
But sometimes your casual delivery cracks him open.
You joke, “Honestly, selling a kidney was easier than applying for college aid.”
Tim stares at you.
Then he says, very softly, “I’m sorry no one helped you.”
And that one lands.
Because beneath all the caffeine and case files, Tim knows what it is to be alone in a mansion-sized life with no adults looking closely enough.
He loves you like a promise he’s terrified to break.
damian wayne
Damian does not understand casual trauma at first.
Not because he lacks trauma.
Because in the League, pain was either weakness or instruction. You did not joke about it. You endured it. You became sharper. You buried the body and the feeling beside it.
So when you say, “Oh, I know that symbol. Cult. Big cult. Super into blood oaths and soup kitchens. Weird combo.”
Damian stares. “You were involved with them?”
“Nah. Almost. They tried recruiting me when I was homeless for a bit.”
“You were homeless?”
“Yeah, but only in the normal Gotham way.”
His face darkens. “There is no normal way to be homeless.”
You blink because, wow, okay, that was unexpectedly compassionate and now you’re emotionally cornered.
Damian gets angry.
Not loud angry. Not tantrum angry.
Cold, princely, sword-edge angry.
He sees your trauma as an insult to your dignity. He is furious that Gotham took pieces of you and then expected you to keep walking around like nothing happened.
If you’re dating him, his protectiveness is intense but awkward.
He’ll say things like, “You will inform me if anyone attempts to harvest your organs again.”
And you’re like, “Dami, babe, that is not usually a recurring social appointment.”
He scowls. “Do not deflect.”
He struggles with your humour the most.
You say, “Scarecrow gas gave me hallucinations so bad I apologised to a vending machine for being born.”
Damian looks genuinely stricken. “That is not amusing.”
“It’s a little amusing. The vending machine forgave me.”
“It did not.”
“You weren’t there.”
He has to learn that sometimes your jokes are pressure valves. If he tries to shut them down, the whole room gets heavier.
Eventually, he develops his own dry responses.
You: “I almost got trafficked on that street.”
Damian: “Then we shall not use that street.”
You: “I mean, it was years ago.”
Damian: “Then the street has had years to repent and failed.”
That one makes you laugh so hard you almost choke. Damian looks proud for three days.
His care shows up in strange, beautiful ways. He trains you—not because he thinks you’re helpless, but because he believes you deserve the confidence of knowing exactly where to strike if someone touches you wrong.
He walks with you through the city and quietly asks about landmarks.
“Bad memory?”
“Neutral.”
“And that one?”
“Cult-adjacent.”
“Noted.”
God help anyone Damian notes.
When he loves you, he loves like a blade placed between you and the world.
Still learning softness. Still learning jokes. Still learning that your survival is not a battlefield report.
But trying.
So hard.
duke thomas
Duke understands Gotham from the civilian side more than most of them. He knows what it means to be a regular person in a city where monsters make headlines and ordinary cruelty hides in the footnotes.
So when you casually say, “Yeah, I avoid that block. There was this guy offering runaway kids ‘jobs.’ Translation: bad news with a van.”
Duke’s whole expression shifts.
Not shock, exactly.
Recognition.
He says, “Yeah. I know the type.”
That makes you pause.
Because Duke does not react like you’ve revealed some impossible darkness. He reacts like Gotham has names for this kind of thing and he hates that you know them too.
Duke is steady. He does not overwhelm you. He does not interrogate you. He just steps closer in a way that makes the world feel less tilted.
If you’re dating him, he becomes your grounding force.
When your jokes get too sharp, he notices.
You say, “Fear toxin? Been there. Screamed so hard I lost my voice. Kind of peaceful afterwards, honestly.”
Duke doesn’t laugh. He gently says, “That sounds terrifying.”
You shrug. “It was Tuesday.”
He nods. “Still terrifying.”
That’s his gift. He doesn’t let Gotham normalise what happened to you. But he also doesn’t make you feel weird for having normalised it yourself.
He’ll walk with you through places that scare you if you ask. He’ll avoid them completely if you don’t. He’ll bring snacks, because Duke believes snacks are a valid emotional support system and honestly? Correct.
He also gets quietly furious. Especially about cults.
You tell him about a group that targets kids after school, offering food and shelter and “family.”
Duke’s eyes go hard. “They’re still active?”
“Probably. Gotham’s like mould. You think you cleaned it, then boom. Basement prophet.”
Duke exhales. “I’m checking it out.”
“Please don’t get culted.”
“I’m not getting culted.”
“That’s what Marcus said.”
“Who’s Marcus?”
“Exactly.”
Duke has the best balance of humour and care. He can joke with you without letting the joke erase the wound.
And when you wake up from nightmares, he doesn’t demand details. He just turns on a soft light and says, “You’re here. I’m here. Nothing from back then gets to touch you tonight.”
Simple. True. Solid as sunrise.
Duke loves like morning after a city-long blackout.
Not blinding. Just enough light to remember the world is still there.
stephanie brown
Steph’s reaction is loud because Steph’s heart is loud.
You say “Hospitals freak me out. Sold my tonsils once. Long story. Very weird Craigslist energy.”
Stephanie drops whatever she’s holding. “YOU SOLD YOUR WHAT?”
“My tonsils.”
“Can you even sell tonsils?”
“Gotham finds a way.”
“That is the worst sentence anyone has ever said.”
Steph is horrified. Furious. On the verge of tears. Also, immediately making a joke because she, too, has the sacred Gotham coping mechanism: clownery over collapse.
She points at you and says, “Okay, first of all, no more selling body parts without me.”
You grin. “You want commission?”
“I want to commit arson.”
“That’s illegal.”
“So is organ theft, babe. Keep up.”
If you’re dating her, she becomes fiercely, messily protective.
Steph knows what it’s like to have people underestimate your pain because you’re funny. Because you’re pretty. Because you’re loud. Because you keep moving.
So your casual trauma dumps hit her hard. Especially when she realises you’re not trying to shock anyone. You genuinely think these are normal anecdotes.
You say “Oh, don’t go into that community centre after dark. Cult. Very smiley. Bad vibes. They once tried to convince me my blood had moon debt.”
Steph stares. “Moon debt?”
“Yeah.”
“Your blood?”
“Apparently.”
“I hate this city.”
“Valid.”
She starts a note in her phone called Your Horrible Gotham Yelp Reviews.
Entries include:
“Blue door clinic: illegal organs, bad magazines.”
“9th Street cult: moon debt???”
“Corner near Sheldon: trafficking, avoid.”
“Scarecrow: little freak, kill on sight emotionally.”
Steph is the one who validates your anger.
When you say, “I hope Scarecrow chokes,” she says, “Same. I hope he steps on a Lego first.”
When you say, “It wasn’t that bad,” she says, “Liar, but cute.”
When you say, “I survived,” she says, “Yeah, and you deserved better than survival.”
That one shuts you up.
Steph will hold your hand in public and swing it between you both like you are just two normal people in a normal city, even if Gotham is rotting around the edges.
She makes you laugh without making you feel like your pain is the punchline.
And if someone from your past shows up?
Stephanie Brown goes full glitter-covered vengeance.
No hesitation. No mercy.
cassandra cain
Cass notices before you say anything. She sees the way your shoulders tense near certain streets. The way your breathing changes around medical equipment. The way your smile turns too bright when people talk about Gotham “resilience.”
So when you finally say something casually, Cass is not surprised.
But she is hurt.
Quietly. Deeply.
“Oh, yeah, I hate that smell. Fear toxin residue smells kind of sweet before it ruins your life.”
Cass looks at you. Really looks.
You smile like it’s nothing.
Cass reaches for your hand.
That’s it. No interrogation. No dramatic gasp. No “why didn’t you tell me?” Just her fingers around yours, warm and steady.
Cass understands bodies better than words. She reads the story your mouth tries to turn into a joke.
If you’re dating her, she becomes the safest silence in your life.
You can tell her things badly. Out of order. With humour. With no emotion. With too much emotion. With your eyes fixed on the wall.
She accepts every version.
You say “Almost got taken on that street once. Running away from home. Rookie mistake.”
Cass’s face changes. “Not mistake.”
You blink.
She says, firmer, “Not yours.”
It is four words, and somehow they hit harder than anyone else’s paragraphs.
Cass is careful with touch. She always asks without asking: a hand held out, a pause before stepping closer, a look that gives you room to say no.
If you flinch, she does not take it personally. If you joke, she lets you.
Sometimes she even jokes back, very softly.
You: “Cult guys. Smile and nod, then run.”
Cass: “I can scare them.”
You: “You can scare everyone.”
Cass, tiny smile: “Good.”
Cass is terrifying when protective.
Not loud. Not showy.
One day, the people who made you feel hunted simply begin avoiding you.
You do not know what Cass did. No one knows what Cass did.
Cass brings you tea and looks deeply innocent, which is how you know she absolutely did something.
Her love is not about fixing your past. It is about teaching your body that not every hand reaching for you is a threat.
With Cass, healing feels less like confession and more like breathing.
content requsted viltrumite-bug alien! reader, gn! reader, alienation, dehumanisation, implied xenophobia, body-related insecurity, nonhuman anatomy, violence, vigilante violence, combat, blood/injury references, emotional repression, fear of being used as a weapon, identity struggles, sensory overload, implied past displacement from home/planet
characters bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake here, damian wayne here
masterlist
word count 8.9k
Half Viltrumite. Half insectoid alien. Big dark bug eyes, no nose, antennae, breathing through tiny spiracles in your skin, multiple arms, terrifying strength, and the deeply concerning belief that most fights would be easier if everyone simply stopped being so sentimental about murder.
You are not subtle. You are not human. You are not soft.
Except around them.
And that becomes everyone’s problem.
tim drake, 4.2k
reader feeling objectified or studied, scientific/clinical language, accidental dehumanisation, invasive curiousity, csensory discomfort, alien biology being researched, fear of being judged, apology/repair after harm, and emotional vulnerability around being perceived, soft enemies to lovers, mutual pining(?), tim needs to learn social skills
Tim Drake gets off on the wrong foot with you so badly it almost becomes impressive. Like, statistically.
A masterclass in fumbling the alien.
Because the first time Tim sees you, his brain does what Tim’s brain always does when confronted with something impossible. It starts cataloguing.
Instantly. No hesitation. No social buffer. No little voice whispering, hey, maybe don’t stare at the terrifying alien person like they’re a lab discovery with legs.
Just pure, bright, sleep-deprived analysis.
You are standing in the Batcave under the cold white lights, still damp from Gotham rain, all huge dark insectile eyes and twitching antennae. No nose. Spiracles fluttering along your skin. Multiple arms held half-ready, half-defensive, like you cannot decide whether the room is a threat or a cage.
Bruce is speaking to you carefully. Duke is watching Bruce carefully. Jason is watching everyone like he is hoping someone makes a bad decision so he can feel morally justified about being annoying.
And Tim? Tim is staring.
Not with fear. Not with disgust.
With fascination. Which somehow feels worse.
His gaze moves over you too quickly. Too precisely. Eyes. Antennae. Hands. Shoulders. Spiracles. Posture. Muscle density. Breathing rhythm. Flight balance. Threat response. Unknown species markers. Viltrumite traits mixed with insectoid anatomy. Potential weaknesses. Potential strengths. Potential—
“Your respiration is distributed,” he says suddenly.
Everyone stops.
Your antennae stiffen.
Tim takes one step closer, eyes bright in a way that immediately makes your skin prickle.
“Do the spiracles work independently, or is airflow regulated through a central nervous response? Also, your antennae—are they sensory, communicative, balance-based, or all three? Wait, do they respond to electromagnetic fields? Because if they do, that changes—”
“Tim,” Bruce says.
Tim does not hear him. This is, unfortunately, very Tim.
He is not trying to be cruel. He is not trying to make you feel small. But that does not matter much when you are standing in an unfamiliar cave in an unfamiliar city, surrounded by humans in armour, and one of them is verbally dissecting you like a mystery he cannot wait to solve.
You go very still. A dangerous stillness.
The kind even Jason notices.
Your spiracles close halfway. Your extra arms draw inward.
“You speak as if I am not here.”
Tim stops. Finally.
His expression flickers, but the damage is already breathing between you. “I didn’t mean—”
“You are cataloguing me.”
Tim’s mouth opens. Closes.
He should say no.
He does not. Because Tim is honest in the worst possible moments.
“I’m trying to understand.”
Your antennae flatten. “You are trying to classify.”
Duke mutters, “Oh boy.”
Tim’s face tightens. Defensive now. Embarrassed, which makes him sharper. “You dropped into Gotham with meta-level strength, alien physiology, and lethal combat instincts. Understanding matters.”
“And does your understanding require staring at every part of my body?”
Tim flinches. Then, because he is tired and has sixteen bad coping mechanisms in a trench coat, he says the wrong thing. “If I don’t know what you are, I can’t know how dangerous you are.”
The Cave goes silent. Even Bruce looks like he wants to rewind the last ten seconds and delete them from the timeline.
Your huge eyes fix on Tim. No pupils he can read. No expression he knows how to translate. Just your antennae, rigid and low.
“What I am,” you say quietly, “is standing in front of you.”
Then you turn and leave.
You avoid Tim after that.
Not dramatically. Not loudly.
You just become very good at not being where he is.
If Tim enters the Cave, you leave through the upper platform. If he joins a briefing, you stand behind Jason or Duke, far enough back that his gaze cannot catch on your spiracles or the strange movement of your extra hands. If he speaks to you, you answer with brutal efficiency.
“Pass the med gel.” You pass it.
“Did you see which way the suspect ran?”
“North.”
“Are you injured?”
“No.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Then your question was unnecessary.”
Jason absolutely loves that one.
Tim does not.
Tim tries to apologise twice. Both times are disasters.
The first time, he finds you in the training room and starts with, “I’ve been reviewing my notes.”
Your antennae lift like knives.
Tim hears himself. Regrets being alive.
You walk out.
The second time, he says, “I think I understand where the miscommunication happened.”
You stare at him for four full seconds.
Then say, “You are very bad at this.” And leave again.
Tim stands there holding a peace offering protein bar like an idiot.
It becomes a whole thing.
Not enemies, exactly. You are never enemies.
Enemies are simple. Enemies are targets. Enemies can be fought, defeated, understood.
This is worse. This is awkward. This is charged. This is Tim glancing at you across the Cave and you immediately saying, “Stop studying me.”
And Tim, because he is incapable of shutting up when flustered, muttering, “I’m not.”
“You are staring.”
“I was thinking.”
“At me.”
“You were in the direction of the thought.”
“You are a terrible liar.”
“I know.”
It would be funny if it did not hurt.
Because you assume the staring is judgment.
Of course you do. Humans stare at you all the time. At your eyes. Your lack of nose. Your antennae. Your arms. Your breathing holes. The shape of you. The not-human wrongness of you.
You assumed Tim’s staring was the same thing wearing smarter clothes. Analysis as distance. Curiosity as cruelty. Fascination as another word for disgust.
And Tim never denies it correctly. Because he is studying you. He is always studying you.
Just not in the way you think.
After that first fight, Tim cannot stop thinking about it. About your words.
You speak as if I am not here.
It keeps him awake. Not that Tim needed help with that.
He replays the moment over and over, each time finding some new way he messed it up. His tone. His posture. The way he moved closer without asking. The way he turned your body into information before he treated you like a person.
Tim knows what it feels like to be overlooked. He knows what it feels like to be reduced to usefulness.
Detective. Robin. Replacement. The smart one. The one who figures it out. The one who does not get to fall apart because someone needs to keep the case moving.
And somehow, with you, he did the same thing.
So he starts researching. Quietly. Obsessively.
Not because Bruce asks him to. Not because there is a mission file.
Because Tim needs to understand how to do better.
He digs through Justice League databases, alien contact archives, old Titan reports, off-world medical references, anything he can access without tripping twelve separate alarms. He learns what little there is about Viltrumite physiology. Even less about your insectoid half.
So he starts building from observation.
Carefully this time. Not touching. Not asking invasive questions. Watching from a distance and hating himself because even his attempt not to study you has, technically, become studying you.
But the focus changes.
Less what are they? More what hurts them? What helps?
He notices you avoid bright Cave lights, so he adjusts the settings in the rooms you use most. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough that your eyes stop narrowing when you enter. He notices smoke clings badly to your spiracles after patrol, so he designs filters thin enough to sit beneath your armour without blocking airflow.
He notices your extra arms never seem comfortable in standard chairs, so he modifies one in the Cave with a wider back and adjustable side space.
He notices you linger near warm vents after long nights, so he installs radiant heating in the corner of the training room you pretend not to favour.
He notices that certain frequencies make your antennae twitch in distress, so he rewrites part of the comm system to dampen the sound.
And because Tim is Tim, he does not tell you. Because telling you would mean admitting he is trying. And also because some part of him thinks you would reject it if you knew it was from him.
So the gifts appear like ghosts.
A new chair. Softer lighting. Gear attachments. A small, heated perch-like seat near the Batcomputer that no one comments on, because Bruce has weaponised silence and the whole family learned from the worst.
You notice, obviously. You notice everything.
At first, you assume Bruce did it. Bruce does not correct you, because Bruce is also emotionally impossible.
Then one night, you find Tim in the Cave at 3:17 a.m., hunched over a workbench, soldering something delicate beneath a magnifying lamp.
You almost leave. Then you see your name written on the side of the project file.
Not your species. Not “alien subject.” Not “bug meta.”
Your name.
You go still.
Tim does not notice you at first.
He is muttering to himself, hair a disaster, coffee untouched beside him, fingers moving with careful precision.
“Needs to flex more around the lower joint. Can’t restrict the spiracles. Maybe if the mesh anchors here…”
You step closer. “What is that?”
Tim startles so hard he nearly drops the tool. “Jesus—don’t do that.”
“I am not Jesus.”
“I know, it’s an expression.”
“What is that?”
Tim looks down at the armour piece. Then back at you. Then down again.
He looks, for once, caught. “It’s… a filter layer. For your suit.”
“My suit already has filters.”
“Not good enough ones.”
You stare at him.
The Cave hums around you.
Tim clears his throat. “Gotham smoke particles are smaller than standard urban pollutants because of all the chemical runoff, fear toxin residue, old industrial waste, and whatever Ivy did to the East End in March. Your spiracles were inflamed after the last warehouse fire.”
“You saw that?”
Tim winces. “Yes.”
Your antennae tilt back. “You were studying me again.”
“No.” Then, immediately, “Yes. Kind of. But not—” He drags a hand through his hair. “Not like before.”
You step closer. Tim does not move away.
Good. Brave.
Stupid.
“What is the difference?”
He looks at you for a long moment. All the jokes leave his face. “The difference is I should have asked.”
That stops you.
Tim sets the tool down. Carefully. Like he does not deserve to hold something sharp during this conversation.
“When we met, I treated you like a discovery before I treated you like a person,” he says. “I got excited. That’s not an excuse. I do that sometimes when something is new and impossible and fascinating, but you weren’t a something. You were standing right there, and I made you feel like an experiment.”
Your spiracles flutter.
He heard you.
That is inconvenient.
“I’m sorry,” Tim says.
Not defensive. Not rushed.
Just sorry. Real sorry.
“I wasn’t judging you,” he adds, quieter. “But I get why it felt that way.”
You cross all six arms, mostly so your hands have somewhere to go. “You stare often.”
His face goes pink. Just a little. “I know.”
“You never denied it.”
“I couldn’t.”
Your antennae lift.
Tim looks like he wants the floor to develop mercy and swallow him.
“I like researching,” he says, then laughs once at himself, tired and small. “That’s probably obvious.”
“Yes.”
“But with you…” He pauses. Swallows. “I think I kept telling myself I was just trying to understand your biology. Your abilities. Your risks. But that wasn’t all of it.”
You do not move.
Tim looks up at you.
His eyes are dark and exhausted and painfully honest.
“I study you more than I study anything else because I notice you more than anything else.”
Oh. That lands somewhere soft and unarmoured.
You hate that you have soft places. Your people would call this vulnerability inefficient. Your human teammates would probably call it having feelings.
Both are terrible.
Tim keeps talking because he is nervous, and nervous Tim is a train with no brakes.
“I notice when your antennae angle toward people you trust. I notice that you hold your lower-left hand still when you’re trying not to show pain. I notice you hate the Cave lights but like the computer glow. I notice you always stand near exits unless Duke is in the room, and you stand near Jason if you think a fight might break out, and near Bruce if you’re pretending you don’t want approval.”
You stare. “You notice too much.”
“I know.”
“Is that why you made these things?”
“Yes.”
“To make me more useful?”
Tim’s face changes fast. Hurt, then horror, then guilt.
“No,” he says. “No. To make you more comfortable.”
You do not answer.
He looks at the armour piece. “I thought… maybe if Gotham felt less hostile, you wouldn’t feel like you had to be ready to fight all the time.”
Your arms loosen. A little.
Tim’s voice softens. “I wanted you to have something that felt like home.”
That is the worst thing he could have said. The best thing. The thing that makes the whole Cave go blurry for half a second, though you refuse to acknowledge that.
You look away. “I do not know what home feels like anymore.”
Tim says nothing.
For once, thank every star, he says nothing. He just stands there with the half-finished filter between you, looking like someone who would build you an entire planet if he thought he could get the atmosphere right.
You step closer. Pick up the armour piece.
It is good work.
Of course it is. Flexible. Thoughtful. Precise. Not restrictive. Designed around you instead of despite you.
Your antennae curl before you can stop them.
Tim sees. He tries not to smile. Fails slightly.
“Do not look pleased,” you say.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m relieved.”
“That is worse.”
He does smile then. Small. Nervous. Devastating.
“I can stop,” he says. “If the modifications bother you. Or I can show you everything first. Ask permission. Actually communicate like a normal person.”
“You are not a normal person.”
“Fair.”
“You may show me.”
Tim blinks. “What?”
“You may show me. The things you made.”
His face opens like sunrise through a dirty window.
Not bright exactly. But hopeful. Dangerous.
You should leave.
You do not.
That is how it starts shifting.
Not all at once. You do not suddenly trust him because of one apology and one piece of alien-friendly armour. You are not that simple, and Tim would not insult you by expecting it.
But you stop leaving every time he enters the room. Mostly.
You let him explain the chair modifications. You sit in it. It is comfortable.
You accuse him of witchcraft.
Tim looks delighted.
You let him adjust the comm frequency. The static that had been irritating your antennae for weeks disappears.
Your whole body relaxes before you can stop it.
Tim notices.
You glare.
He looks away, smiling into his coffee like a criminal.
You let him ask questions now. With rules.
One question at a time. No touching without permission. No medical scans unless you agree. No calling anything about you “specimen,” “sample,” or “data set,” even jokingly.
Tim looks horrified. “I would never call you a specimen.”
“You called my skin texture ‘structurally fascinating’ during our second meeting.”
He covers his face. “I am so sorry.”
You find you enjoy making him apologise for things he has already apologised for. Only a little.
As enrichment.
Your dynamic becomes strange.
Still prickly. Still edged. But warmer underneath.
Tim looks at you too long, and now when you say, “You are staring,” it is not always a warning.
Sometimes it is an invitation.
Tim, doomed, always blushes.
“I was thinking.”
“At me?”
“Near you.”
“You are a terrible liar.”
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep lying terribly.”
Then one night he says, very quietly, “I was thinking you looked beautiful.”
The Cave does not explode. The world does not end.
You do, however, forget how to respond for several seconds.
Your antennae curl.
Tim’s eyes flick up. Then he looks away immediately, like he is trying very hard not to make you feel watched.
That is what gets you.
Not the compliment.
The restraint. The effort. The way he is learning.
“You may look,” you say.
Tim’s gaze returns slowly. Carefully. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He looks at you then.
Not like an experiment. Not like a threat assessment. Like a person he is almost afraid to want.
Your spiracles flutter.
Tim’s voice drops. “Still beautiful.”
You turn and leave before your dignity can fully die.
Behind you, Tim whispers, “Okay. Great. Smooth.”
You are smiling for the rest of the night.
Unfortunately, Jason sees. Even more unfortunately, Jason has a mouth.
It becomes lowkey enemies-to-lovers in the sense that neither of you were ever enemies, but both of you are stubborn enough to make basic emotional progress look like a competitive sport.
Tim offers you a new wrist guard.
You say, “Trying to improve your experiment?”
He winces.
You immediately feel bad.
Then he says, “Trying to protect someone who keeps blocking bullets with their forearm.”
You say, “My forearm is durable.”
“Your pain receptors disagree.”
“You researched my pain receptors?”
“I researched injury responses generally.”
“Liar.”
“Okay, yes, yours specifically.”
You should be annoyed. You are.
You are also touched. Horrifying.
One night, during a mission, everything goes wrong.
Because Gotham. Because of course.
Smoke bombs. Hostages. A collapsing floor. Too many moving parts, too many screams, too much noise striking your antennae until the whole world becomes vibration and threat and heat.
You freeze for half a second. Just half.
But half a second in combat can become a lifetime.
Tim’s voice comes through the comm.
Not loud. Not frantic.
Soft, steady, perfectly filtered through the frequency he built for you.
“Hey. Focus on my voice.”
Your spiracles flutter.
“Too much sound,” you manage.
“I know. I’m dampening the channel. Three hostiles to your left. Two civilians behind the forklift. You don’t need to solve the whole room. Just the next step.”
The next step.
That you can do.
You move.
Tim guides you through it, not controlling, not commanding. Translating chaos into pieces small enough to hold.
Afterwards, when the civilians are safe and no one is dead, you find him outside the warehouse.
He is bleeding from the temple.
You are instantly furious. “You are injured.”
“Small cut.”
“You should have told me.”
“You were busy.”
“You are not allowed to become injured quietly.”
Tim blinks.
Then, softly, “You were worried.”
You glare.
His mouth curves. “About me.”
“I am leaving.”
“You came over here.”
“To assess damage.”
“To me.”
“You are very irritating.”
“I know.”
You do not leave.
Instead, you reach out with one hand and wipe blood from his cheek, carefully, with the edge of your thumb.
Tim goes still.
Your extra hands hover uselessly at your sides, unsure what to do with the size of this feeling.
“You helped me,” you say.
His voice is quiet. “You let me.”
That is the thing, isn’t it?
You did. You let him into the chaos. Into the sensory overload. Into the place where your body becomes too much even for you.
And he did not make you feel like a malfunction. He made you feel understood.
The first kiss happens later.
Not on the battlefield. Not in the Cave.
In the lab, because of course it does. Tim Drake’s romance settings are either rooftops near death or fluorescent-lit workspaces at 2 a.m. There is no middle ground.
You find him asleep at the workbench, face pillowed on his arms, surrounded by parts for your new comm attachment.
A small note sits beside him.
Ask before installing. Do not be weird. They are a person, not a project.
You read it three times.
Something inside your chest hurts. Softly.
You touch his shoulder. “Tim.”
He jerks awake, blinking. “I’m up. I’m—oh. Hi.”
“You wrote a note.”
His gaze drops. His face goes red. “That was private.”
“It had my name on it.”
“Not the point.”
You lean closer. “You remind yourself?”
Tim looks away. “Sometimes I get too focused. I don’t want to mess it up again.”
“You have not.”
“I did.”
“Yes,” you say. “But not recently.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth. “That’s the most romantic performance review I’ve ever gotten.”
“I am being sincere.”
“I know.”
You study him now. The tired lines beneath his eyes. The ink on his fingers. The careful hope he tries to hide because hope is embarrassing and dangerous and terribly human.
“You stare when you care,” you say.
Tim goes still.
Then nods once. “Yeah.”
“I thought you stared because you were judging me.”
“I know.”
“Were you?”
His answer comes immediately. “At first, I was assessing risk.”
Your antennae lower.
Tim continues. “Then I was trying to fix what I’d done wrong.” He looks at you. “Then I just couldn’t stop looking at you.”
Oh.
You should have something sharp to say. Something defensive. Something safe.
Instead, you reach for him.
Slowly, so he can move away.
He does not.
Your hand touches his jaw.
His breath catches.
“You may kiss me,” you say, because subtlety is for people with fewer emotional problems.
Tim’s brain visibly crashes. “I—what?”
“You may kiss me.”
“I can?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Preferably.”
“Oh. Okay. Great. Yes. I can do that.”
“You are rambling.”
“I’m aware.”
Then he kisses you.
Gently. So gently it almost hurts. Like he is asking with every second. He remembers the first time he got too close without permission and is determined never to make that mistake again.
You answer by wrapping one arm around his waist. Then another around his shoulders. Then another hand against the back of his neck.
Tim makes a soft sound against your mouth.
You immediately decide you need to hear it again.
The romance after that is quiet and ridiculous and painfully sweet.
Tim still studies you. He always will.
But now he asks.
“Can I look at your antennae response to this frequency?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
A pause.
“…Can I show you the frequency first?”
“Yes.”
Progress.
He builds things for you constantly.
Better armour. Softer clothes with room for all your arms. A sensory-safe corner in the Cave with dim lights and warm surfaces. A custom keyboard so you can use all your hands at once, which turns out to be a mistake because now you type faster than him and he is personally offended.
“You’re cheating,” he says.
“I have superior equipment.”
“You have four extra hands.”
“Yes. Superior equipment.”
He is so proud it makes him stupid.
You catch him watching you work one day, chin in hand, eyes soft and unfocused. “You are staring.”
“I know.”
“You are not going to deny it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
His smile is small. “Because you said I could look.”
Your antennae curl so violently that one of them bumps a hanging cable.
Tim tries not to laugh. Fails.
You threaten him with bodily relocation.
He says, “Flirting.”
You hate how Jason was right about that word.
Tim loves you in details. That is his language.
Your favourite lighting settings saved in every system. Nutrient bars reformulated so they no longer taste like “compressed dirt with ambition.” A program that tracks your stress signals and quietly asks if you want reduced sensory input instead of announcing it to the whole Cave like a betrayal. His hand slipping into yours beneath the briefing table when someone says something that makes you feel too alien.
One hand at first. Then another. Then another, until he is holding three of your hands and pretending this is normal.
It becomes normal.
That is what gets you. Not the grand gestures.
The normalcy.
Tim no longer makes you feel like a strange thing in the room. He makes room strange enough to fit you.
And when you tell him that, one night, he goes quiet.
You are sitting together on a rooftop, Gotham humming below, your antennae tilted toward him because his heartbeat is familiar now. Comforting.
“You made the Cave less hostile,” you say.
Tim looks over. “I tried.”
“You made Gotham less hostile.”
His expression softens. “I don’t think I can take credit for all of Gotham.”
“You may take partial credit.”
“Generous.”
You look at him. “You made yourself safe.”
That hits him hardest.
You can tell.
Tim looks down at your joined hands. All three of them.
“I wanted to be,” he says.
You lean in and press your forehead to his.
Careful. Gentle.
“Tim.”
“Yeah?”
“You may study me.”
His breath catches.
You continue, because now you understand the difference.
“But not as a subject.”
He squeezes your hands.
“No,” he says. “Never again.”
“As what, then?”
Tim looks at you.
Really looks.
Like you are not an experiment. Not a threat. Not a problem to solve.
Like you are the question he is grateful to spend his life answering.
“As someone I love,” he says.
Your spiracles flutter.
Your antennae curl.
Tim smiles, barely. “Good reaction?”
You kiss him before he gets too smug.
But he gets smug anyway.
Because he is Tim. Because he knows you now. Because you let him.
And because somewhere between bad first impressions, secret inventions, late-night apologies, and all those stolen glances you mistook for judgment, Tim Drake stopped studying the alien in Gotham and started learning how to love you properly.
damian wayne, 4.7k
childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, childhood displacement, reader being called a monster, being hunted/feared in Gotham, child violence, trauma from violent upbringings, LOA parallels, alien cultural conditioning against love/attachment, fear of abandonment, p
You and Damian meet when you are both thirteen. Which is, arguably, the worst possible age for anyone to meet anyone.
Thirteen is all teeth. All rage. All unfinished bone and pride too big for the body holding it.
Damian is thirteen and already thinks he has survived enough to be considered ancient. You are thirteen and not human enough for Gotham to know what to call you.
So Gotham calls you a monster.
That is how Batman first hears about you. Not through a Justice League alert. Not through some clean, official extraterrestrial report. Nothing useful. Nothing kind.
Just whispers.
Something crawling along rooftops. Something with too many arms. Something with huge black eyes that reflect headlights in the alleys. Something with antennae and no nose and skin that breathes through tiny fluttering holes.
Something strong enough to tear open dumpsters and bend street signs and throw grown men into brick walls when they get too close.
A monster haunting the East End. A monster stealing food. A monster attacking first.
Batman finds you in the rain. Of course it is raining. Gotham has a flair for dramatic cruelty.
You are crouched in an alley behind a closed bodega, soaked through, all your arms wrapped around yourself except one hand clutching a dented can of food you cannot open correctly. Your antennae are flat. Your spiracles are fluttering too fast. Your huge eyes catch the white slits of Batman’s cowl and go sharp with panic.
He takes one step closer.
You launch at him. No warning. No hesitation. Just thirteen years old and already convinced that everything reaching for you means harm.
You hit him hard enough to crack the brick behind him.
Batman does not hit you back.
That enrages you.
You swipe at him with claws or fingers or whatever your strange young body has made of fear. You snarl. You try to bite. You move with ugly, desperate force, all instinct, all hunger, all the violence your people taught you was survival.
Batman pins you eventually.
Carefully. Too carefully.
You scream at him to fight properly.
He looks down at you, rain sliding off the black shape of him, and sees what Gotham refused to see.
Not a monster.
A child. A starving, terrified, furious child with too many arms and nowhere to go.
And Bruce Wayne, because his heart is a haunted house with every light still on, brings you home.
Damian hates this immediately. Naturally.
He stands in the Batcave when Bruce brings you in, arms crossed, chin lifted, green eyes sharp with judgment.
You stare back from behind Bruce, antennae angled aggressively forward.
Damian looks you up and down. “What is that?”
You hiss.
Bruce says, “Damian.”
Damian’s mouth curls. “It tried to bite you.”
“I can hear you,” you snap.
“Excellent. Then you can understand when I say your technique is abysmal.”
You lunge. Damian lunges too.
Bruce catches both of you by the backs of your shirts like two feral cats.
That is the beginning.
Not pretty. Not soft. Not some instant soul-deep understanding.
You and Damian begin as a war crime in progress.
You fight constantly. Not always physically, though, yeah, also physically. A lot.
You fight over training space. Over food. Over who gets to stand closer to Batman during briefings. Over whether your claws count as weapons. Over whether Damian’s sword is “compensating for having only two arms.”
That one gets you thrown into a mat.
Worth it.
Damian calls you undisciplined. You call him small. He calls you beast. You call him blade-child.
He pretends not to like that.
He absolutely likes that.
But the strange thing is, beneath all the insults and sparring and mutual threats of bodily harm, you understand each other.
Not fully. Not yet.
But enough.
You both know what it is to be young and already trained for violence. You both know what it is to have adults look at your hands and see future blood. You both know that being called dangerous feels better than being called helpless.
At thirteen, you are bloodthirsty in a way that frightens the others.
You do not understand why Batman pulls his punches. You do not understand why criminals get to keep breathing after hurting people. You do not understand mercy as anything but a tactical delay.
Damian understands that.
That is why he hates you at first. Because looking at you is like looking at a version of himself no one has polished yet.
Raw. Hungry. Certain.
When you say, “Killing him would be easier,” Damian does not flinch.
He says, “Obviously.”
Bruce’s head turns.
Damian continues, scowling, “But Father becomes intolerable when we suggest efficient solutions.”
Bruce closes his eyes.
You decide Damian is the only sane human in the Cave.
This is concerning for everyone.
Bruce works hard with you. So does Alfred. Quietly, gently, with warm food and soft towels and no sudden movements. Duke is kind first. Dick is friendly first. Tim is curious and then apologetic. Jason calls you Bug within forty-eight hours and gets hissed at for his trouble.
But Damian is the one who grows beside you.
Not above you. Not around you.
Beside.
You are both thirteen when Bruce starts building Gotham into something like a home for you.
He cannot send you back to your planet. No signal. No safe route. No surviving contact he can verify. Nothing. You are alone in a city that thinks you are something from a nightmare.
So Bruce does what Bruce does. He makes systems.
A room in the Manor with dim lights because bright ones hurt your eyes. Custom clothing with space for all your arms. Filters for your spiracles because Gotham air is basically soup with crime in it. Training routines to help you control your strength.
Strict patrol rules.
No killing. No maiming unless absolutely necessary. No eating evidence.
That one has to be added after an incident. Damian laughs about it for weeks.
You throw a pillow at him with enough force to dent the wall.
Alfred bans both of you from “unstructured cushion warfare.”
You grow up in the Manor like some strange, sharp shadow.
At first, you do not believe it can be home.mHome is not stone halls and ancient portraits and a butler who somehow knows your preferred food temperature. Home is not Batman watching you through training footage and pretending it is not worry. Home is not Damian sitting beside you in silence after you nearly kill someone during patrol and saying, without looking at you:
“You stopped.”
You glare at your hands. “I wanted not to.”
“I know.”
“It felt weak.”
Damian is quiet.
Then he says, “It is not weakness to deny what trained you.”
You look at him.
He looks furious, like tenderness has personally insulted his bloodline. But he means it.
That is when friendship begins for real.
Not loud. Not named.
It creeps in like ivy through stone.
Damian starts saving you a seat in the Cave. You start taking the patrol route closest to his, even when no one assigns you there. He learns how your antennae move when you are overwhelmed. You learn that Damian’s silence has different textures: angry silence, thinking silence, injured silence, sad silence.
He teaches you blade forms. You teach him how to fight someone with more than four possible attack angles.
He mocks your footwork. You mock his height. He tells you humans do not moult, and you stop asking, reluctantly.
You tell him your people view attachment as a liability, a psychological weakness, because love makes warriors hesitate.
Damian looks away. “The League believed similarly.”
“Were they correct?”
He is quiet for a long time. Then he says, “They were afraid.”
You remember that.
Years pass. Not smoothly.
Nothing with either of you is ever smooth.
At fourteen, you nearly kill a trafficker who threatens a child. Damian is the one who stops you, stepping between you and the man with his sword lowered, not raised.
“You will regret this,” he says.
“I will not.”
“You will.”
“I am not you.”
His face shutters.
“No,” he says. “You are not. So learn from me and spare yourself the humiliation.”
You hate him for that for three days.
Then you sit beside him in the library without speaking.
He slides half his snack toward you. You eat it.
Forgiveness, apparently.
At fifteen, Damian loses control during a spar and cuts too deep.
You do not flinch from the blood.
He does.
His hands shake afterward.
You cover the wound with one of your palms and say, “It is shallow.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
He snaps, “I am not afraid.”
You stare. Your antennae tilt. “You are lying.”
He storms out.
Later that night, you find him in the animal enclosure with Titus curled against his legs.
You sit nearby.
Do not touch him. Do not demand words.
Eventually, Damian says, “I do not want to become what I was made to be.”
You think of your own hands around a criminal’s throat. Your own pulse singing for blood. “Neither do I.”
He looks at you then.
Something between you settles.
At sixteen, Gotham stops calling you a monster as often.
Not because Gotham becomes kind. Gotham is still Gotham. It would hiss at a sunrise if it looked too cheerful.
But people start recognising you.
The many-armed figure who lifts cars off trapped civilians. The dark-eyed alien who carries children out of burning buildings. The terrifying thing in the alley that only hurts people who hurt others first.
You still scare them. But sometimes they say thank you.
The first time a little girl gives you a sticker after you save her from a collapsed fire escape, you stare at it like it is a holy object.
Damian sees.
He says, “It is crooked.”
You almost hit him.
But later, when the sticker starts peeling off your armour, he seals it in a protective case without telling you.
You find out anyway.
You always do.
At seventeen, you and Damian are inseparable in a way everyone notices, and no one is brave enough to comment on without protective gear.
Dick calls you “the murder twins.”
Bruce says, “Do not call them that.”
Jason says, “No, no, let him cook.”
You and Damian, in perfect unison, say, “Do not.”
The Cave goes silent.
Steph whispers, “Oh my god, they’re synced.”
Damian turns red at the ears.
You have no idea why that matters. Yet.
Because for you, Damian has always just been Damian.
Your first friend. Your fiercest rival.
The person who knows what your silence means. The person who will stand close when strangers stare, not in front of you like you are weak, but beside you like the world is simply wrong.
The person who has watched you become less bloodthirsty and somehow never made you feel less strong for it.
You do not realise when friendship starts changing.
Damian does. Of course he does. He notices everything he wishes he would not.
It happens slowly, which he finds humiliating.
At eighteen, he starts noticing the way your antennae tilt toward his voice. The way you relax when he enters a room. The way your extra hands, so dangerous in combat, are absurdly careful when adjusting a bandage on his wrist.
The way you say his name differently than anyone else.
Not “Wayne.” Not “Robin.” Not “Damian” like a challenge.
Damian like home.
It is unbearable.
He tries ignoring it. This fails immediately.
He tries training more. Also fails, because you train with him.
He tries being colder. You notice within six hours and corner him in the greenhouse.
“You are displeased with me.”
“No.”
“You are lying.”
“I am busy.”
“You have sharpened the same blade for twenty-seven minutes.”
Damian looks down. The blade is, admittedly, very sharp.
You step closer, antennae angled with concern. “Did I do something wrong?”
And that is what destroys him.
Not your strength. Not your face. Not the frightening beauty of you under the greenhouse glass, all alien angles and midnight eyes and too many hands held uncertainly near your chest.
Your concern.
The fact that you, who once attacked Batman in an alley because the world taught you everything was a threat, now worry that you might have hurt him.
Damian looks at you and thinks I love you.
The thought is so clear that he nearly drops the sword.
He does not tell you. Obviously.
Damian Wayne is many things, but emotionally straightforward is not one of them. He treats feelings like assassination contracts: privately researched, extensively planned, and preferably executed with no witnesses.
So he plans. For months.
He writes and rewrites what he will say. Not in public, never that. Somewhere private. Somewhere meaningful. The old rooftop where you both first patrolled alone together. Or the library where you sat after your first real fight. Or the greenhouse, maybe, because it is warm there and you like warmth even though you pretend not to.
He thinks about telling you everything. That when you arrived in Gotham, he saw a beast because he was still too much a blade to recognise another child.
That growing up beside you taught him there was no honour in becoming what others designed.
That every time you chose not to kill, it made him believe he could keep choosing too.
That you are not his weakness. You are the proof that tenderness did not ruin him.
He wants to tell you that. He wants to say it perfectly.
Which is stupid, because you have never needed perfection from him. You have only ever needed true.
Still, he plans.
He writes one version that is too formal. One that is too short. One that sounds like a military commendation and makes him briefly consider throwing himself into the harbour.
He asks Dick, indirectly, hypothetically, how one might confess romantic feelings to a long-standing companion without “creating unnecessary emotional spectacle.”
Dick cries.
Damian leaves immediately.
He asks Bruce nothing, because he would rather die.
He almost asks Alfred, but Alfred looks at him once over tea and says, “Perhaps sincerity may accomplish what strategy cannot, Master Damian.”
Damian realises with horror that Alfred already knows.
So does everyone, probably. Including Titus.
Humiliating.
Meanwhile, you remain oblivious in the most devastating way possible.
You spar with him. Sit beside him. Steal food from his plate. Ask him to fix the clasp on your armour because your lower right hand cannot reach it at the proper angle. Fall asleep in the library chair beside his while pretending you were “resting your eyes for tactical reasons.”
Damian watches you sleep sometimes.
Not in a creepy way. In the way a person watches something precious and remembers the world is not gentle.
Your antennae twitch faintly in dreams. Your spiracles flutter slow and even. Your arms, once always ready to strike, rest loose around you.
He wants to touch your hand. He does not.
Not yet.
He will tell you first. He will do this properly.
Then the transmission comes.
It is late. The Cave is blue and quiet. Rain taps against the stone above. Bruce is at the computer. Tim is half-asleep over a tablet. Damian is reviewing mission footage beside you, pretending not to be distracted by the way your shoulder brushes his.
An alert cuts through the Cave. Unknown extraterrestrial frequency.
Your antennae snap upright.
Every head turns.
Bruce stiffens. Tim is suddenly fully awake.
The message comes through broken at first. Static. Distortion. A language you have not heard in years.
Then a face appears.
Not human. Not familiar to the others. But familiar enough to make you stop breathing through every spiracle at once.
A relative. Alive. Older than you remember. Worn by distance and war and time.
They say your name.
Not the way humans say it.
The real shape of it. The one Gotham never learned.
Damian feels the air leave his lungs.
Your relative speaks of routes reopened. Of conflict settled enough for passage. Of survivors. Of home.
Home.
The word lands in the Cave like a blade.
They say you can return. Not immediately, perhaps. Not without arrangements. But soon. Safely. Finally.
You can come home.
Everyone looks at you.
Damian does not. He cannot.
Because devastation is already moving through him, cold and precise, before you even make a decision.
That is the humiliating part.
You have not said yes. You have not said anything.
And Damian is already grieving.
It is irrational. He knows this.
You deserve the choice. You deserve answers. You deserve your planet, your people, your history. You were taken from it too young and dropped into Gotham’s teeth. Of course you should want to know. Of course you should want to go.
Damian knows all of that. Knowing does nothing.
His planned confession turns to ash in his chest. Every sentence he had built, every careful word, every memory he wanted to lay before you like proof—gone. Useless. Selfish.
How can he tell you now? How can he say stay when no one should ever have had to make Gotham home because the universe gave them no other option? How can he ask to be chosen over a world you thought you lost?
He cannot.
So he says nothing.
The transmission ends with promises of further contact.
The Cave stays silent.
You are still staring at the blank screen. Your antennae are trembling.
Damian sees that and hates himself for thinking of his own heart first.
Bruce speaks gently. “We’ll verify everything before any decisions are made.”
You nod once, but you look far away. Farther than Damian can follow.
He leaves before anyone can look at him.
You find him in the greenhouse.
Of course you do. You always find him.
He is standing among the plants, hands clasped behind his back so tightly his knuckles ache. The air is warm and damp. You like it here because it is easier on your breathing. He likes it because you do.
You step inside quietly for someone with your strength. “Damian.”
He closes his eyes.
There it is. Home and wound in one word.
“You should be in the Cave,” he says.
“So should you.”
“I am not the one receiving life-altering transmissions.”
“No,” you say. “You are the one fleeing after them.”
His jaw tightens. “I do not flee.”
“You strategically retreated emotionally.”
He hates that you learned humour from his siblings. He hates more that it almost makes him smile.
Almost.
You move closer. “Are you angry?”
“No.”
“Do not lie to me.”
He turns then, sharper than he intends. “What would you have me say?”
You still.
He regrets the tone immediately.
But the wound is open now.
Damian looks at you—at the person who came to Gotham with blood on your hands and fear in your teeth, who grew beside him, who learned mercy with him, who became woven so deeply into his life that he does not know where friendship ends and breathing begins.
His voice drops. “You have been given back something you thought impossible. I would not insult you by being angry.”
Your antennae lower. “That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I can give.”
“Why?”
Because I love you. Because I have loved you for longer than I knew what to call it.
Because I planned to tell you. Because I was a coward and wanted the words to be perfect.
Because now anything I say might sound like a chain.
Because if you leave, I do not know what Gotham looks like without you in it.
Because if you stay only for me, I will never forgive myself.
Damian says none of that.
He says, “Because this is your choice.”
You look at him for a long moment.
Your face is still difficult for most people to read.
Not for Damian. Never for Damian.
“You are upset before I have chosen,” you say quietly.
His silence betrays him.
Your spiracles flutter. “You think I will leave.”
“I think,” Damian says carefully, “that you have the right to.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“No.”
“You think I will leave,” you repeat.
Damian looks away. “Yes.”
There. A small, ugly truth.
You absorb it like a blow.
“I have lived here for seven years.”
“I know.”
“You are here.”
“I know.”
“Bruce is here. Alfred. The others. Gotham.”
“I know.”
Your antennae tremble, anger or hurt or both. “Then why do you assume I would choose elsewhere?”
Damian’s composure cracks. “Because it was stolen from you!”
The words hit the glass walls and come back softer.
He breathes once.
Then again.
“You were a child,” he says, quieter. “Alone. Hunted through alleys by people who called you monster. Father did what he could, but Gotham was never supposed to be your cage.”
You stare at him.
He continues because stopping now would be worse. “I will not make myself another reason you feel obligated to stay.”
Your whole body stills.
Something changes in your eyes.
“Is that what you think you are?”
Damian says nothing.
You step closer. All your arms are loose at your sides. No threat. No defense.
Just you.
“An obligation?”
His voice turns rough. “I do not know what I am to you anymore.”
The confession is not the one he planned.
It is not elegant. Not dignified. It has no structure, no carefully chosen memories, no perfect transition from childhood to now.
It is just the truth, bleeding through his teeth.
You look at him as if he has finally spoken a language you understand. “Damian.”
He cannot bear how soft your voice is.
“I had a plan,” he says suddenly.
You blink. “What?”
“A confession.”
Your antennae lift.
He looks mortified, but there is no retreat now.
“I planned it for months. It was going to be…” He scowls. “Better than this.”
You stare.
Then, very softly, “A confession of what?”
He gives you an incredulous look despite the fact that he is actively dying.
“Do not make me say it badly.”
“I want you to say it honestly.”
That shuts him up.
Because of course.
Of course that is what you would ask.
Not perfect.
True.
Damian looks at you. Really looks. At the huge dark eyes Gotham once feared. The antennae he has learned like punctuation. The extra arms that once reached first for violence and now reach for him when nightmares come. The person who grew beside him, not away. The person who knows every ugly part of his history and stayed.
“I love you,” he says.
Simple. Severe.
Terrifying.
Your spiracles stop.
Damian’s heart beats once. Twice.
Then your antennae curl inward, overwhelmed.
Oh.
He knows that response. He has known it for years.
Hope hurts worse than dread.
“I did not want to tell you like this,” he adds quickly, because panic apparently makes him verbose. “I did not want it to influence your decision. I still do not. If you choose to return, I will not stop you. I will not ask you to stay out of guilt or sentiment or—”
You kiss him.
It is not graceful. You have too many arms and he is standing too rigidly and one of your antennae bumps his cheek and Damian makes a sound so startled it would get him mocked for the next decade if anyone heard it.
But then he kisses you back.
And all the years between you seem to fold inward.
Every sparring match. Every insult. Every rooftop silence. Every time one of you chose not to kill because the other was watching. Every moment of growing away from blood together.
Your hands come up slowly, carefully. One at his shoulder. One at his jaw. One at his waist. Others hovering like you are afraid to hold too much.
Damian catches one of them and presses it against his chest.
His heart is beating fast. You can feel it.
He lets you.
When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, careful of your antennae.
“You are terrible at timing,” you whisper.
His laugh is almost soundless. “Yes.”
“I was not going to leave without you knowing.”
His eyes close. Pain and relief move across his face, too quick for anyone else.
Not for you.
“You still might leave,” he says.
“I might visit.”
His eyes open.
You tilt your head.
“I might need to see where I came from.”
“You should.”
“I might need answers.”
“Yes.”
“I might need to know whether any part of me still belongs there.”
Damian’s throat works. “And if it does?”
You look at him like he is being particularly foolish. “Then I will have more than one home.”
He goes still.
You touch his face with two careful hands.
“Damian. Gotham became my home because Bruce gave me shelter. Because Alfred fed me. Because the others tolerated me.”
“Tolerated is generous.”
“Yes,” you say. “But you became home because you grew with me.”
His expression breaks. Just slightly.
Enough.
“You were there when I was monstrous,” you say.
“You were a child.”
“I wanted blood.”
“So did I.”
“We became different.”
“Yes.”
“Together.”
Damian cannot speak.
So he kisses you instead.
This one is better.
Still trembling. Still raw.
But better. Like a promise made by two people who had to unlearn violence one choice at a time.
After that, nothing is magically solved.
The relative contacts again. Bruce verifies.
Tim researches possible travel routes and contingency plans until his eyes look haunted. Dick tries to be supportive and only cries twice.
Jason says, “If they give you trouble on your home planet, call me. I’ll start an interstellar incident.”
Steph designs a “space trip but make it fashion” packing list.
Cass hugs you silently for a long time. Duke tells you that having more than one home does not make either one less real.
And Damian?
Damian stays close.
Not clinging. Never that.
But close.
He helps you prepare questions for your relative. He researches customs he can find, even the sparse ones. He trains with you when you are restless. He sits beside you when you are quiet.
Sometimes he still looks devastated.
You call him on it.
“You are grieving me while I am standing here.”
He looks annoyed. “I am preparing.”
“For what?”
“Every possibility.”
You take his hand in yours.
Then another.
Then another.
“You cannot prepare for all of them.”
“I can try.”
“You can stay with me while I decide.”
His fingers close around yours.
“That,” he says quietly, “I can do.”
And maybe that is what love becomes for both of you.
Not a cage. Not a chain. Not the weakness your people warned you about. Not the sentimentality the League tried to carve out of him.
Love is not what keeps you from choosing.
Love is what makes choice possible.
You may go to your planet. You may come back.
You may learn that home is stranger than memory. You may learn that Gotham, ugly and rain-soaked and impossible, has sunk too deep into you to ever fully leave.
But Damian will not ask you to stay. He will only stand beside you, jaw tight, heart open in the only way he knows how, and trust that the years between you matter.
That he matters. That what you built together is not so fragile it can be undone by distance.
And when you tell him, one night under the greenhouse glass, “I love you too,” he looks away like the words are too bright.
“You should have said that sooner,” he mutters.
“You confessed during an emotional crisis.”
“I had a better version planned.”
“I liked this one.”
“It was undignified.”
“It was honest.”
He sighs.
You lean closer, antennae brushing his cheek. “Also, you made a small noise when I kissed you.”
His face goes scarlet. “I did not.”
“You did.”
“You are mistaken.”
“I have excellent hearing.”
“I will deny it under interrogation.”
You smile. It is still not a human expression.
Damian finds it beautiful anyway.
Then he takes your face in his hands, careful and certain, and kisses you like he is not asking you to stay. Like he is telling you that wherever you go, whatever you find, whatever name your first world calls you by—
You have already been loved here.
Not as a monster. Not as a weapon. Not as a lost thing Gotham claimed because it was too stubborn to let go.
hello goat ! Maychance could I get a hobbie brown mention 🙏🏾
"SO NOT PUNK ROCK"
Spider-Punk!Hobie Brown x neglected WB!reader
It’s safe to say your father doesn’t like your boyfriend at all. His reasons sound valid to everyone else in the house, but to you, they’re just a bunch of jibber-jabber.
“He’s always causing mayhem,” Bruce says, like he doesn’t do that almost all the time himself running around in that ginormous bat suit while hiring orphaned children to do his bidding.
“His methods are a bit too much,” Dick adds, which isn’t even an answer. You’ve seen the kind of crap he pulled in Blüdhaven stuff that would make the most seasoned criminals repent, swear off crime, and check into rehab.
“The kid seems fine to me,” Jason thinks, but he can’t say that out loud. Instead, he mutters, “He’s… not muscular?” You know he said it with that questioning look while everyone else at the table glared at him.
And so what if your boyfriend’s a bit on the skinny side? He still has muscles just a sleeper build. One time, after coming out of an underground punk show, a villain attacked, and Hobie picked up a Ford F-150 with his webs, slamming it into the vandalizer. So yeah, your boyfriend is anything but weak. Hobie’s the strongest man you know.
“I mean, he’s a rockstar. Wouldn’t he, like, cheat on you with some broad from who knows where?” Tim asks. Typical. He’d know a thing or two about cheating. But every girl knows to stay away from your man. Why? Because on his spider suit, he painted it with your favorite colors his way of telling the world he’s already taken. Even when he’s far away, he’s still repping you.
“He’s a threat to everyday society,” Damian mutters, like he has any room to talk. You can count on both hands how many times he’s bitten a socialite at a gala. And when he first came into the manor, he was on his John Wick murder spree. But Hobie smashes a couple of dumbasses’ heads in with his guitar, and suddenly he’s a public threat? Come on.
“I don’t know, [Name]. A guy like him just seems like a player,” Duke says. You want to glare at him so badly maybe even wring his neck for that nonsense. Because Hobie? He would never.
Sure, he’s not consistent he’s happily inconsistent. He DIYs his favorite shirts twice, but inconsistency doesn’t mean complacency. It doesn’t mean he’s uncaring. He’s just a little ADHD, and that’s exactly how you like him. Just because his schedule doesn’t always line up doesn’t mean his heart doesn’t. You two are one and the same if not more.
And yeah, he might look like a player, but that man is a total lover boy. He literally stopped by the manor with roses beat-up ones, sure, because he had to stop mid-mugging but still, roses.
He literally has three songs named after you. If that isn't love or commitment, I don't know what is. Also, why are you getting romance advice and romantic comments from these dweebs?
Bruce likes to date mentally deranged women who like to steal from museums, or whose fathers want to literally destroy and reshape the entire world.
Dick hasn't been in a stable relationship since the 90s, and no, Barbara does not count that's basically a work relationship if anything.
Jason's probably just forever celibate, either by choice or by his face. Not only that, but in his words, "romance books are better than the real thing." Can't wait to see him catch a girlfriend.
Tim has not been in stable relationships and Steph? Even then, he shouldn't be talking. He literally fumbled too many baddies. He should not be speaking on your love life.
Duke says anything about his relationships. He keeps things under tight wraps and lock and key. You wouldn't be surprised if he has an entire family all the way up in Calabasas that he doesn't even speak about.
Damian? Well, he's just like Bruce. He's into women who like to kill him, who are also very much into leather and fishnets and dark eyeliner. Need I say more?
"I'm still going to date him."
And all you hear from the room is exasperated sighs. That's what they get.
thinking about Bruce Wayne x bat mom!reader angst where the two of them are getting a divorce.
This is Dick’s somewhat early mid life crisis.
This is Jason’s quarter life crisis.
Tim is playing investigator but getting nothing out of Bruce since Bruce is to busy getting himself drunk.
Cassandra hovers by your side like a pet dog knowing its owner is leaving for work.
Duke has been pestering Alfred for answers for hours.
The youngest—Damian—is 17 and is still calling Talia to figure out what happened. Talia is compleatley on your side and offers you to come live with her. Damian hangs up the phone.
content bruce wayne, clark kent, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne x hanahaki!gn!reader, blood mention, one-sided love, self-sacrfice (damian's), choking, suffocation/inability to breathe mention, emotional neglect, angst
masterlist
word count 5.8k total, i lowkey wrote a small fic for each character instead of headcannons :/
bruce wayne
the first time bruce sees it, everything stops.
you've tried to hide it—even the thought of the batman returning your feelings was insane—but bruce notices everything. the slight hitch in your breathing. the way your hand curls too tight when you cough. and then—
a petal.
soft. fragile. wrong.
there’s a moment—just a flicker—where fear cracks through him so violently it almost looks like anger.
and then he moves. fast. precise. controlled in that terrifying way where it’s obvious he’s barely holding it together.
within hours, he’s pulled every medical file on hanahaki, contacted specialists (and… less legal experts), cross-referenced experimental treatments
he treats it like a war. because losing you is not an option.
but here’s the thing—
when he realises why it’s happening? that it’s love? that it’s unreturned love?
something in him goes very, very still.
he doesn’t ask right away. he won’t corner you. won’t make you confess under pressure. but he starts watching you differently.
closer. carefully.
and if—if—there’s even a chance it’s him? he spirals in the quietest way possible.
because bruce wayne has built his entire life around control… and now your life is slipping through his fingers over something he’s afraid to name.
when he finally does speak i’s low. steady. too controlled.
“you don’t have to protect me from the truth.” except what he means is tell me it’s me so i can fix it. tell me it’s not so i can still save you.
either way—he will not let this take you. even if it means breaking every rule he’s ever made for himself.
clark kent
clark knows before you even finish coughing.
not because he’s guessing, because his senses don’t miss things like this.
he hears the shift in your lungs—the wet, uneven catch of breath that doesn’t belong. he hears the obstruction before it surfaces, something soft and wrong where air should be clean. he smells it too—the faint, impossible sweetness of petals where there should be nothing but oxygen.
by the time the flower actually falls into your hand? clark has already gone still.
focused. the kind of stillness that means every part of him is paying attention to you.
his hand is warm at your back, steadying. not restraining. never that. just there, grounding you like gravity decided to be kind for once.
he doesn’t panic out loud. that’s the thing about clark—he feels everything, but he filters it through gentleness. you don’t see the fear spike in his chest, don’t hear the way his heartbeat stutters for half a second when he realises what this is.
because he knows what this is. of course he does. he’s seen it before. heard it in other people’s lungs. seen what it does when it’s left too long.
and now it’s you.
he swallows that fear down so fast it almost looks like nothing happened.
“breathe with me, okay?” he murmurs, voice low and calm, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “slow. wou’re alright.”
he helps you through it like it’s routine. like he’s done this a hundred times. careful, patient, never making you feel fragile—just held.
hnd here’s the part that hurts: he doesn’t assume. not even for a second.
because in clark’s mind, the idea that you—you, who he sees as bright and good and endlessly deserving—would be suffering like this over him? it doesn’t even cross his mind as the first option.
instead, his concern turns outward.
who did this to you?
who made you love them so deeply it’s carving flowers into your lungs—and then didn’t love you back enough to stop it?
clark is soft, but he is not passive. the next time it happens, he’s already prepared.
water. a place to sit. his hand at your shoulder, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles like he’s trying to anchor you to the moment. and somehow that makes it worse, how caring he is, how attentive he can be. it makes your feelings all the more stronger, all the more painful.
“hey,” he says again, quieter this time. “you don’t have to hide it from me.”
and when you don’t answer—when you look away, like the truth is something heavy—you see it.
just for a second. something sharper beneath the softness.
“…do they know?” he asks.
clark doesn't center himself in your pain. won’t make it about him, even if some small, quiet part of him is… hoping. wondering.
but his jaw tightens just slightly. because if someone out there knows you feel like this—knows it’s hurting you—and still hasn’t stepped forward?
that’s not something he can ignore.
“you deserve better than that,” he says, and there’s steel under the warmth now. not anger at you—never—but at the idea of someone taking your heart and treating it like it’s optional.
he exhales slowly, like he’s choosing his next words carefully.
“…if you want,” he adds, softer again, “i could talk to them.”
it’s almost hesitant. careful.lLike he doesn’t want to overstep—but he will, if it means helping you.
“i won’t… push. or anything like that,” he says quickly, because the last thing he wants is for you to think he’d force someone’s feelings. “but i could make sure they understand.”
and there it is. clark kent, the strongest man alive, offering to have a stern, polite conversation with the person unknowingly breaking your heart.
because in his world, maybe—just maybe—it’s a misunderstanding. maybe they don’t realise how much you’re hurting. maybe if someone just explains it properly, it’ll fix everything.
(it’s such a clark solution it almost hurts.)
he looks at you like this is solvable. like love isn’t something that slips through your fingers—it’s something you can reach if you try hard enough.
and still—he doesn’t consider that it might be him. not really.
because that would mean you’re looking at him with all that quiet feeling, all that softness, and clark has spent his whole life being careful not to take things like that unless they’re freely given.
so he waits. stays close. every time you cough, he’s there before you can call for him. every time your breathing stutters, his hand is already steady at your back, grounding, reassuring, gentle in a way that makes it impossible to panic.
and when you finally tell him?
when the truth slips out—soft, hesitant, terrifying—that it’s him?
clark doesn’t move at first. mot because he’s rejecting you. because he’s processing.
“you… me?” he says quietly, like the words don’t quite fit in his mouth yet.
there’s no disbelief in a cruel way—no “how could you?”—just a kind of stunned softness, like the world tilted and he didn’t expect it to.
because clark doesn’t think of himself as someone people fall for like this.
not you. not in a way that hurts you.
and then it hits him. all at once.
rvery look you’ve given him. rvery moment he brushed off as coincidence. rvery time you stayed close, every time you said his name like it meant something more.
and underneath that?
guilt.
“i didn’t realise,” he breathes, and it’s the quietest thing you’ve ever heard from him. “i’m so sorry—i would’ve—”
he cuts himself off, because there’s no version of this where he lets it keep hurting you.
his hands come up—not grabbing, not overwhelming—just gently framing your face, like he needs to be sure you’re real, that you’re here, that he hasn’t lost you already.
“you should’ve told me,” he says, but it’s not a reprimand. it’s soft. almost aching. “you don’t have to carry something like that alone.”
and then—finally—clark kent stops holding himself back. in the quiet, certain way he does everything that matters.
“i do,” he says, simple and steady. “care about you. a lot more than i let myself say.”
and it’s not rushed. not panicked.
it’s real. like sunlight breaking through something heavy
and when your breathing finally evens out—when the petals stop—clark stays right there, forehead resting gently against yours, like he’s grounding himself just as much as you.
“next time,” he murmurs softly, a hint of warmth returning, “you tell me first, okay?”
because if there’s one thing clark kent refuses to let happen, it’s you suffering in silence.
not when he’s right here.
dick grayson
dick doesn’t clock it immediately. not because he can’t—but because the moment is so normal it feels impossible for something to go wrong.
you’re laughing. he’s mid-story, hands moving, grin easy and bright—and then you choke on your breath.
he’s still smiling when he reaches out automatically, instinctively—“whoa, easy—”—but then you cough again.
and something soft hits your palm.
the smile drops. not fades—drops. like a switch flipped.
“…hey.” it’s quieter now. careful.
dick steps in close, one hand already at your back, the other hovering like he doesn’t want to startle you. he doesn’t touch your hand yet—doesn’t look at the petal right away.
he looks at you.
“breathe,” he says gently. “slow. Iive got you.”
now, dick's good in a crisis. not just physically but emotionally as well. he knows how to make things feel lighter, safer, even when they’re not.
so he softens everything. his touch is warm, steady. his voice low, grounding. he angles himself just enough to block you from anyone else noticing, instinctively protective.
only when you’ve caught your breath does he glance down.
at the petal. at the pattern.
and then—
Oh.
Oh.
dick knows what this is. he’s seen it before. heard stories. maybe even helped someone through it once or twice.
but it’s different when it’s you.
you can feel the shift in him—not away from you, never that—but deeper. focused. like every part of him just recalibrated around keeping you okay.
he doesn’t say it out loud yet. doesn’t want to scare you.
instead, he keeps things light—just enough.
“…okay,” he says, exhaling a quiet breath, like he’s steadying himself. “so. that’s… not ideal.”
there’s a tiny smile there. not a joke, just familiarity. like he’s trying to meet you where you are.
he walks you somewhere quieter and sits you down. brings you water. stays close, closer than usual, like distance suddenly feels wrong.
and he watches. not in a creepy way—just attentive. careful. like he’s cataloguing every little sign your body gives him.
you cough again later. another petal.
and this time he doesn’t look away.
“…hey,” he says softly, crouching in front of you now so you can’t avoid his gaze. “uou wanna tell me what’s going on?”
there’s no pressure in it.
just concern. real, open, honest concern.
if you deflect? he lets you. at first.
because dick understands space. he won’t corner you. won’t force you to say something you’re not ready to.
but he doesn’t drop it.
he checks in more. texts you random things just to keep you talking. shows up more often, under the excuse of “just passing by.” keeps you laughing when he can, keeps you grounded when he can’t.
and slowly, he pieces it together.
dick grayson notices everything that matters.
the way your eyes linger on someone. or don’t.
the way your voice shifts when certain names come up.
the way you go quiet when he asks just the wrong question.
and eventually, he asks it.
“…do i know them?”
it’s not accusatory. it's not even filled with any hate.
it’s careful. because dick is already preparing himself for both answers.
if it’s someone else? he swallows whatever weird, twisting feeling hits his chest and immediately pivots to support mode.
“okay,” he says, nodding once, steady. “alright. we can work with that.”
and he means it. he’ll help you figure it out. talk it through. even—if it comes to it—help you approach them. because your happiness matters more to him than anything he’s feeling.
but there’s a flicker in his eyes. just a flicker.
because part of him… wants it to be him.
he doesn’t let himself sit in that thought long. because what if it’s not?
he won’t make this harder for you.
but if it is him? if you hesitate just a little too long—if your eyes flick to his and then away—
dick goes still.
quiet.
“oh,” he breathes.
and it’s not shock, exactly.
It’s… realization.
everything clicking into place all at once. every moment. every glance. every time you stayed a little closer than necessary, every time your hand lingered in his.
and suddenly, he feels a little stupid.
for not seeing it sooner. for not asking sooner.
“hey,” he says again, softer now, stepping closer, hands coming up like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t anchor you somehow. “why didn’t you tell me?”
there’s no anger in it. just a kind of aching confusion.
because in dick’s world, love is something you share. something you say out loud, something you don’t let sit in silence until it hurts you.
“i’ve been right here,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
and then—because he’s dick, because he doesn’t wait once he understands— he closes the distance.
“i care about you,” he says, voice steady now, grounded in something real. “More than i’ve probably been letting on.”
his forehead presses lightly to yours, a soft, grounding touch.
“you don’t have to do this alone, okay?” he adds quietly. “not with me.”
and the thing about dick grayson?
he doesn’t just fix the problem.
he stays.
through the recovery. through the awkwardness. through the shift from almost to something real.
he keeps you laughing, even when your chest still aches. leeps you close, like he’s making up for every moment you spent hurting in silence.
and every time you breathe a little easier?
you can feel it; the quiet promise in the way he holds you now.
He’s not going anywhere.
jason todd
jason notices too late and that’s what destroys him.
at first, it’s background noise. you coughing. turning away. brushing something off your sleeve like it’s nothing. he clocks it—but not as important. not as urgent. not as this.
necause if it were serious, you’d tell him… right?
(that’s the lie he tells himself.)
then one night, you don’t turn away fast enough.
a petal hits the ground. not soft and pretty like in stories.
crushed. streaked with red.
jason freezes. actually freezes.
“…what the hell.”
it comes out low. dangerous. not loud—never loud—but the kind of quiet that means something’s about to break.
you try to brush it off. say it’s nothing. say you’re fine.
and jason—jason snaps.
“don’t.” his voice cuts sharp. “don’t you dare say you’re fine when you’re coughing up—” he gestures, frustrated, furious, “—that.”
he steps in close, too close, like he’s trying to physically block whatever’s hurting you.
his hands hover—he wants to grab your shoulders, check you over, make sure you’re real—but he stops himself at the last second, jaw tight.
“who is it?" there’s no hesitation. no softness in it. just anger, raw and immediate and protective. “who’s got you like this?”
because in jason's head, this is simple: someone made you fall for them hard enough that it’s killing you. and they’re not here fixing it.
that’s a problem. a him problem.
you don’t answer. or you deflect. or you say it doesn’t matter.
and jason's temper spikes.
“doesn’t matter?” he echoes, incredulous, pacing now like a caged animal. “you’re coughing up bloody flowers and you’re telling me it doesn’t matter?”
his hands drag through his hair, breathing sharp.
“give me a name,” he says again, voice dropping—dangerous now. “i just wanna talk.”
(he absolutely does not just wanna talk.)
and here’s where it gets worse.
because jason doesn’t think it’s him. not even a little. not even on the list of possible people.
because in his mind? you are—
good.
bright.
soft in ways the world didn’t ruin.
and he is—
not.
so no, it’s not him. it’s some idiot out there who doesn’t know what they have.
and jason is already planning how to fix that.
he gets worse about it. more protective. more present. shows up unannounced. walks you home. stays too long, leaves too late. watches you like if he blinks you’ll disappear.
and every time you cough? every time another petal shows up?
it eats at him.
because you’re getting worse.
and whoever it is, isn’t doing anything about it.
“unbelievable,” he mutters one night, after you nearly choke on another bloom. “uou’re— you’re this—” he gestures at you, frustrated, like he can’t even put it into words, “—and they’re just letting you—”
he cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
“they don’t deserve you.”
it comes out sharp. immediate. certain.
because that part, at least, he believes.
and then, it begins to click.
not all at once. not clean. just… wrong.
you don’t talk about this person. you don’t mention them. don’t get defensive the way people do when they’re protecting someone else.
instead, you go quiet around him. you hesitate when he gets too close. your breathing stutters when he says your name too softly.
and jason—
jason starts to feel something cold settle in his chest.
“…no,” he mutters to himself once, pacing, running the pieces over and over. “no, that’s not—”
because it doesn’t make sense. it can’t make sense.
until it does.
you’re mid-cough again. worse this time.
there’s blood. more than before. petals sticking to your lips, your fingers shaking as you try to hide it.
and jason is right there—too close, too fast, panic bleeding through the anger now.
“hey—hey, breathe—” his voice cracks, hands finally grabbing your shoulders, grounding, real.
your eyes meet his.
and there’s something there. something he’s been ignoring. something he’s been too stupid to see.
“…it’s you.”
it’s barely a whisper. you don’t even mean to say it out loud.
but jason goes still.
not angry. not explosive.
gone, for a second.
“…what?”
it’s quiet. too quiet. like all the sound in the world has turned into a dull buzz, blocking out everything but this moment.
you don’t repeat it.
you don’t have to.
because now he sees it. all of it.
every look. every hesitation. every time you stayed just a little too close and he didn’t question it.
every time you coughed and he didn’t understand.
“…no,” he breathes, shaking his head like that alone can undo it. “no, that doesn’t—”
because how? how does someone like you look at someone like him and feel anything worth dying for?
“you’re telling me—” his voice breaks, rough, disbelieving, “—you’re like this because of me?”
and suddenly all that anger he had? it turns inward.
violent. sharp. relentless.
“jesus christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face, pacing again but it’s different now—frantic, unsteady. “i’ve been right here. i’ve been right here and you’re—”
his voice catches. he looks at you—really looks at you—and sees how bad it’s gotten.
the blood. the shaking. the way you’re trying to downplay it. and something in him just—
shatters.
“i let you get this bad,” he says, low, horrified. “i let you—” he gestures helplessly, like he can’t even process it, “—you got to this point and i didn’t— i didn’t see it?”
he laughs once. bitter. self-destructive.
“great job, todd. real observant.”
and then he’s back in front of you again, hands gentler now—careful, like you’re something fragile he might break if he’s not paying attention.
“why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, softer, but it’s not blame—it’s hurt. “why didn’t you say something before it got—”
this bad.
before it got to blood.
but he already knows the answer.
because he wouldn’t have believed it. would’ve brushed it off. made a joke. pushed you away “for your own good.”
and now? now you’re paying for it.
“…i'm an idiot,” he mutters under his breath.
not fishing. not dramatic. just… true.
he exhales, shaky, then looks at you again—really looks. and this time, there’s no confusion. no denial. just something raw. real.
terrified.
“you’re not—” he starts, stops, tries again. “you don’t get to— to feel like this and just— not tell me.”
his voice is rough, but there’s something else under it now.
desperation.
“could’ve fixed this,” he says, quieter. “could’ve— i don’t know— figured it out, done something, anything before you started coughing up blood—”
his hands tighten slightly on your arms, not hurting—just grounding himself.
and then, finally, jason todd does the one thing he’s been avoiding this entire time.
he doesn’t push you away. he doesn’t make it a joke. he doesn’t run.
he stays.
close. solid. real.
“…you’re not dying over me,” he says, voice low, firm in a way that leaves no room for argument. “not happening.”
and it’s not a threat. not to you.
to the situation. to himself.
to the universe that let this happen in the first place.
because yeah, jason will still threaten the idea of the person who hurt you.
still hates them. still wants to fight them.
but now he knows it was him. and somehow?
that’s worse.
because now it’s not about fixing someone else. it’s about fixing himself.
fast enough to make sure you’re still here to see it.
tim drake
it doesn’t start dramatic. no sudden petals. no cinematic collapse.
just… time.
because loving tim drake is a slow burn.
it’s late nights in the cave, both of you half-awake over glowing screens. it’s coffee going cold because he forgot to drink it—and you quietly swapping it out for a fresh one. it’s him saying your name absentmindedly, like it’s part of the background noise he relies on to function.
and you? you fall somewhere in the middle of all that. softly. quietly.
like it doesn’t matter. like it won’t hurt.
except it does.
because tim always chooses the mission.
not intentionally. not cruelly.
just… inevitably.
you see it in the way he leans toward the comms instead of you. the way his focus sharpens when gotham needs him—and blurs everything else out.
including you.
the first petal shows up on a random tuesday.
you’re alone, wwhich feels fitting.
you stare at it for a long time before you even react.
“…right,” you murmur, like this is just another thing to deal with. like your heart quietly trying to kill you is just… inconvenient.
you don’t tell him. of course you don’t. tim already has too much on his plate. you’ve seen what happens when he overloads—how he stops sleeping, stops eating, stops being anything but the mission.
you’re not adding yourself to that list.
but tim notices.
not immediately. mot cleanly. but he does. because he knows you, better than anyone.
it’s small things at first. you’re quieter. slower to respond. you cough and brush it off too quickly. you miss a message—then two—then you apologise like it matters more than it should.
tim files it away. observes. waits.
until one night, you don’t brush it off fast enough. a petal slips from your hand and lands on the keyboard between you.
tim freezes. “…what is that?”
it’s not fear, not yet. just confusion—sharp, focused, already analysing.
you try to laugh it off, which you know is a bad move. even if tim's always focused on the mission, he is a detective and he knows you better than anyone.
tim leans forward immediately, eyes narrowing—not at you, but at the problem.
“how long has this been happening?” his voice is calm, too calm. the kind of calm that means his brain is already running ten steps ahead.
you hesitate.
and that’s all he needs.
“okay,” he exhales, running a hand through his hair, already shifting into problem-solving mode. “okay, we can fix this. we just need to—”
he cuts himself off.
because he knows what this is.
“…hanahaki,” he mutters.
and now there is something else in his voice. not panic.
but something close.
“what stage?” he asks immediately. “how frequent? any blood?”
you answer reluctantly, and with every word, his expression tightens just a little more.
but here’s the thing: tim doesn’t ask who. not at first.
because in his mind, that’s not the priority. fixing it is.
he throws himself into research. sleepless nights. files open. medical contacts pinged. he builds timelines, probabilities, outcomes.
he treats it like a case. like if he just thinks hard enough, he can outsmart it.
and you watch him. you watch him choose this—choose solving you—over actually seeing you.
and it hurts in a way the flowers can’t even compete with.
eventually, you say it. quiet. careful. “i'm thinking about the surgery.”
tim doesn’t look up at first.
“mm,” he hums distractedly. “that could work. it’s—uh—high success rate, minimal physical complications—”
“i’d forget them.”
that makes him stop.
“…what?”
you swallow.
“the person i love,” you clarify. “it erases the feelings. completely.”
tim stares at you now, really stares. and for the first time, he asks.
“…do i know them?”
you don’t answer. but something in your expression—something quiet and resigned—makes his chest tighten.
“…is that what you want?” he asks slowly. and it’s not clinical anymore. not detached. “to forget them?” he presses, softer now. “just like that?”
you look away.
“…it’d stop hurting.”
and that, that hits him wrong.
because tim drake understands pain, but choosing to erase something that matters?
that doesn’t sit right with him.
“they must be important,” he says carefully. “if it got this far.”
you let out a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “they are.”
tim hesitates.
something in him pulls—some instinct he can’t quite name—but he pushes it down.
because it doesn’t make sense. because it couldn’t be—
“…you should be sure,” he says finally. “before you make a decision like that.”
it sounds logical. reasonable.
it breaks your heart.
because what you hear is he’s not stopping you.
so you nod.
and you make the appointment.
tim doesn’t realise what’s happening until it’s too late. not really.
he notices you’re quieter. that you stop lingering. that your messages get shorter.
he tells himself it’s fine. that you’re handling it. that the surgery is a solution. until someone—dick, jason, maybe both—looks at him like he’s the dumbest man alive.
“you seriously don’t get it?” they say.
tim frowns. “get what?”
and then they tell him. not gently. not kindly.
“it’s you.”
everything stops.
“…what?"
“they’re in love with you, idiot.”
and suddenly, everything clicks.
the way you look at him. the way you hesitate. the way you stay, even when he doesn’t. and the surgery—
“…when?” he asks, already moving.
“they left.”
that’s all it takes.
tim is gone.
no suit. no plan.
just fast. urgent. wrong in a way that doesn’t matter anymore.
because for once, the mission isn’t gotham.
it’s you.
he finds you just in time. of course he does.
he always does.
“wait—!”
his voice echoes down the hallway, breathless in a way you’ve never heard before.
you turn, surprised.
and tim—he looks wrecked. hair a mess. jacket half on. breathing like he ran the entire way.
“you can’t—” he starts, then stops, trying to catch up with himself. “don’t do it. not yet.”
you blink. “…tim—”
“i didn’t know,” he says quickly, like if he doesn’t get it out now, he won’t at all. “i didn’t— i should’ve— i just thought—” he cuts himself off, frustrated. “you don’t get to just erase something like that,” he says, softer now. “not if it matters. not if they matter.”
you look at him. careful.
“…they do,” you say quietly.
tim swallows. “…yeah,” he says. “i know.”
and for once, tim drake doesn’t calculate. doesn’t plan. doesn’t wait for certainty.
he just steps closer.
“they should’ve told you,” he says, voice steadier now. “that you weren’t alone in it.”
your breath catches. “…tim—”
“i’m saying it now,” he interrupts, softer. “before you forget. before you decide you don’t want to remember.”
and then, finally—“it’s me.”
not a question. no confusion.
“i didn’t realise,” he admits, quieter. “but i— i don’t want you to lose that. not because i was too slow to catch up.” he exhales shakily. “so don’t go through with it,” he says. “not yet. not when this isn’t one-sided anymore.”
and maybe it’s messy. maybe it’s late. maybe it should’ve happened sooner.
but Tim drake is here now.
and for once, he chose you first.
damian wayne
damian never thought about love. not romantically. not softly. not in the way stories describe it.
love, to him, was duty. loyalty. obligation sharpened into something unbreakable. It was earned, weaponised, withheld.
he did not need it.
he certainly did not expect it.
and then there was you.
gotham academy—years ago now. you, loud in ways he found inefficient. annoying, at first. persistent. unafraid of him in a way that felt… incorrect.
you talked to him like he was normal.
he didn’t like that.
(he stayed anyway.)
it started small.
sitting beside each other because no one else would. trading insults that slowly lost their bite. you stealing his sketchbook once and discovering page after page of—
you.
he took it back immediately. scolded you. told you it was practice.
you believed him.
he told himself that was enough.
you became… constant.
not dramatic. not overwhelming.
just there. walking beside him. talking when he did not. sitting in silence when he needed it. challenging him in ways no one else dared.
damian did not name it. he did not have to.
you were his.
not in possession—but in certainty. in permanence.
and you?
you fell. slowly. inevitably.
doomed from the start.
because how could you not? yhe way he noticed everything about you—the smallest shifts in your mood, the way your voice dipped when you were tired. yhe way he cared—not loudly, not gently—but in precise, deliberate actions:
a book left on your desk because you mentioned it once. a corrected paper you never asked him to look at. a quiet, “you should rest,” when you pushed too far.
he never said he cared.
he never had to.
and that was the problem.
because damian wayne did not think about love. not like this. not something soft. not something shared.
so you never let yourself hope.
when the first petal came, you understood immediately.
you didn’t cry. you didn’t panic.
you just… sat there, holding it, staring at something beautiful that would eventually kill you.
“…of course,” you murmured.
you didn’t tell him. you never would.
because this—this love—was never meant to be returned. it wasn’t something you wanted to burden him with.
damian had never been given love freely, you wouldn’t make yours a weight he had to carry.
so you chose something else.
you chose to love him quietly. completely.
until the end.
you stayed by his side, same as always. laughing. arguing. walking beside him like nothing had changed.
even as your lungs filled with petals.
even as breathing became harder.
even as the blood started.
and damian noticed. of course he did.
“you are weaker,” he said bluntly one afternoon, eyes sharp as they tracked your movements. “your endurance has declined.”
you laughed it off. “i’m fine.”
he didn’t believe you.
it escalated quickly. coughs. hesitation. the way you’d turn away just slightly too late.
and then, he saw it.
a petal.
damian froze.
not visibly, but internally, something shifted.
“…explain.” his voice was sharp. controlled.
you didn’t.
that was your first mistake.
damian investigated. aggressively.
he cornered people. threatened them. interrogated anyone who had looked at you too long.
“who is responsible?” he demanded, tone lethal. “tou will answer me.”
because in his mind, this was simple; someone had done this to you. someone had made you weak. someone had made you suffer.
and he would destroy them.
but no one fit. no one made sense. no one matched the way you looked—
not at them.
at him.
it took too long. far too long. by then—
you were fading.
your laughter softer. your steps slower. your breaths… shorter. and still—
you smiled at him.
like nothing was wrong. like this was enough.
that smile would haunt him.
one night, you coughed. harder than before.
blood. petals. too many.
damian caught you before you hit the ground.
“idiot—” his voice broke, just slightly, hands tightening around you as if he could force you to stay. “why did you not inform me sooner?”
you smiled.
“it’s okay,” you whispered.
it was not okay.
“who is it,” he demanded again, quieter now. desperate in a way he did not understand. “tell me. i will fix this.”
you looked at him. soft. tired.
certain.
and that’s when—finally—it clicked.
not because you said it.
because you didn’t.
because of the way you looked at him.
like he was everything. like he had always been everything.
damian went still. “…no.”
the word came out fractured. wrong.
“it is… me?”
you didn’t answer; you didn’t have to.
and suddenly, everything made sense.
the way you stayed. the way you smiled. the way you never asked for anything in return.
you had been dying—
for him.
“…impossible,” he breathed, shaking his head like he could undo it. “you—you are… you deserve—”
not him.
“i did not—” his voice broke again, sharper this time, angry now—at himself. “i did not see it.”
you were slipping. right there in his arms.
and damian—damian, who had been raised without softness, without gentleness, without love—felt something inside him crack open.
“Iidespise this,” he said, voice trembling with something dangerously close to grief. “i despise that something so weak could—could—”
kill you. take you from him.
too late.
far too late.
"i will not allow this,” he snapped, like sheer will could rewrite reality.
but it was already happening.
your breathing faltered. your body going slack.
still smiling. for him.
and damian finally understood love. not as theory. not as obligation.
but as something real.
something yours.
something he had never been given—
and yet, you had offered it freely.
without expectation. without demand.
“…beloved,” he whispered.
the word unfamiliar. fragile.
his hand came up to your face—gentle, for once, like you might break.
“i am… unworthy of this,” he said, voice unsteady. “of you.”
your eyes fluttered. fading.
damian refused.
"no,” he said, sharper now, desperate. “you will not leave. not now. not when i—”
he stopped.
because the truth was there.
clear. undeniable.
“i love you.”
the words felt foreign. heavy.
too late.
but he said them anyway.
and then, he kissed you.
not perfectly. not gently.
desperately, like he was trying to give something back that you had been giving him all along.
for a moment, nothing happened. and then—
you gasped. air rushing back into your lungs like you’d been drowning.
the petals—gone.
the weight—lifting.
your eyes opened.
damian stared. frozen. disbelieving.
“…you remain.”
his voice was quiet. reverent.
and, something in him settled.
not calm. not peace.
something stronger.
a vow.
his forehead pressed to yours, breath still uneven.
"you will not be rid of me,” he said softly. “i will not allow it.”
possessive. certain.
unyielding.
"i am yours,” he continued, like it was the most natural truth in the world. “as you have always been mine.”
Summary: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.
Pretense was part of the uniform, one of the many accessories that came with being married to Bruce Wayne. There was the public smile, the attentive nod, the light laugh at jokes that were more networking than humor. There was the practiced patience of standing beside Gotham’s favorite billionaire philanthropist while donors praised his generosity and reporters angled for the most flattering shot.
Central City was no different.
The exhibition hall glittered with glass, an architectural marvel overlooking the bay. Artifacts rotated slowly under museum lights, historical pieces saved from war zones, sculptures donated by impossibly wealthy patrons. All of it in the name of charity. All of it surrounded by security that looked impressive enough to reassure civilians, but flimsy enough that you felt Bruce’s hand rest a fraction more firmly at the small of your back as you walked.
You leaned slightly toward him. “You look tense.”
Bruce’s smile didn’t falter. His eyes, however, tracked the exits, the balconies, the structural beams overhead. “Occupational hazard.”
“You’re not on duty tonight,” you murmured. “You’re allowed to relax.”
His mouth curved, barely. “I’ll try.”
He looked unfairly handsome in his tailored black suit, hair brushed back, cufflinks catching the light. The tabloids had long since moved on from calling him Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. A couple of years married, and the narrative had softened. Settled. Reformed. Lucky.
They were not wrong about the lucky part.
You accepted a glass of champagne from a passing server and turned to watch a small knot of people arguing amiably near a display case.
Bruce squeezed your hand once, quick and grounding, before letting go as someone approached to greet him. You listened to the polite exchange with half an ear, already cataloging the room the way Bruce had taught you, without ever meaning to. Old habit.
You were reaching for another sip of champagne when the lights went out.
For half a heartbeat, there was only confusion. A collective intake of breath. Then the alarms screamed to life, harsh and metallic, and the floor shuddered beneath your feet as something heavy struck the far end of the hall.
People began to panic.
“Bruce...” you started, already turning toward him.
He was gone.
Not vanished in a puff of smoke or a blur of motion but absent nonetheless. The space beside you where he had been was suddenly empty, and your pulse spiked with a familiar mix of irritation and resignation.
Of course.
You didn’t have time to dwell on it. The display cases along the walls shattered as masked figures dropped in from the ceiling, weapons humming with energy you very much did not want to be near. Someone screamed. Security scattered like startled birds.
You set your champagne down carefully on a nearby table and straightened your spine.
Fine. Showtime.
You moved the way Bruce had taught you, calm and efficient, guiding people toward the exits, keeping your voice low and steady. “This way. No running. Watch your step.”
The air crackled, and suddenly there was a red blur tearing through the hall, lightning snapping at his heels.
“Okay!” Barry Allen’s voice echoed, far too cheerful for the circumstances. “Everyone stay calm, we’ve got this under control...whoa!”
A green construct slammed into the floor, blocking a blast aimed at a cluster of civilians. Hal Jordan hovered above them, jaw set. “You guys pick the worst places to rob.”
The villains snarled back, emboldened but clearly unprepared for two members of the Justice League.
You allowed yourself a brief exhale. Good. Backup.
Then the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
It wasn’t literal. It was presence.
A shadow detached itself from the far wall, resolving into something tall and armored and unmistakable. The cape unfurled like a living thing, and suddenly Batman was there, moving through the chaos with terrifying precision.
Barry skidded to a stop mid-run. “Uh. Hi?”
Hal’s eyes widened. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Batman didn’t answer. He never did, not when it wasn’t strictly necessary. He disarmed one attacker with brutal efficiency, sending them sprawling, then pivoted seamlessly to shield a group of fleeing civilians.
Your heart did a small, treacherous flip.
There he was. In his other skin. Cold, unyielding, myth made flesh.
And then his head turned, and the white slits of his cowl locked onto you.
Everything else receded.
He crossed the distance between you in seconds. He stopped just close enough that you could see the faint scuff marks on his armor, the subtle rise and fall of his chest.
“Are you injured?” he asked.
The voice was different. Deeper. Filtered. But you heard what lay beneath it all the same.
Concern.
You shook your head. “I’m fine.”
He scanned you anyway, gaze flicking over you with a thoroughness that would have looked invasive if anyone else had been watching closely enough. His gloved hand hovered near your elbow—not touching, not quite, but ready.
Behind him, you could practically feel Barry and Hal’s eyes widen.
Batman nodded once. “Stay behind me.”
“As if I wouldn’t,” you murmured, just for him.
Something in his posture eased. Just a fraction.
He guided you toward the nearest secure exit, positioning himself so that his body blocked you from the worst of the chaos. A blast went off somewhere to your left, and he shifted instinctively, cape flaring to shield you.
Barry’s jaw dropped. “Is...is he…being gentle?”
Hal squinted. “Is that Bruce Wayne’s wife?”
Barry blinked. “Yeah?”
Batman stopped at the edge of the hall, where emergency lighting cast everything in stark red shadows. He turned to face you fully.
“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll clear the rest.”
You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing his armored forearm. The contact was brief, easily missed, but his hand closed over yours for a heartbeat.
“Be careful,” you said softly.
His thumb pressed once against your knuckles, hidden from view. “Always.”
Then he was gone again, swallowed by smoke, vengeance personified as he tore back into the fray.
You leaned against the wall and let yourself breathe.
From your vantage point, you watched Barry and Hal regroup, their expressions oscillating between focus and bafflement as they fought alongside Gotham’s Dark Knight. The villains were subdued quickly after that, no one was stupid enough to stick around once Batman had joined the party.
Within minutes, the hall was secure.
Emergency responders flooded in. Civilians were escorted out. The adrenaline drained from your system, leaving you pleasantly tired.
Batman reappeared at your side as if summoned by the thought alone.
“Still all right?” he asked.
You smiled. “Told you. Hard to scare me.”
A huff of something like amusement escaped him before he could stop it.
Barry stared.
Hal stared harder.
Batman inclined his head to you. “You should rejoin your husband.” Then he straightened, already retreating behind the mask. “Excuse me.”
He disappeared into the night as efficiently as he’d arrived.
The moment he was gone, Barry rounded on Hal, eyes bright with excitement. “Did you see that?”
Hal crossed his arms. “Oh, I saw it.”
“You think...”
“I think,” Hal said slowly, “that Batman has a thing for Bruce Wayne’s wife.”
Barry made a face. “No way. He’s not...he wouldn’t...she’s married.”
“So?” Hal shot back. “Since when does having principles mean you don’t have feelings? Did you hear his voice? He sounded like he was one bad day away from writing poetry.”
Barry snorted despite himself. “Batman doesn’t write poetry.”
“In the Batcave,” Hal said darkly. “Crying. Surrounded by bats.”
Barry hesitated. “He does always get weird when Bruce Wayne comes up.”
“Exactly!” Hal jabbed a finger in the air. “Brooding vigilante hates billionaire playboy who somehow landed a smart, self-made woman and settled down. Classic.”
Barry glanced toward you, then back at Hal. “You think he’s been pining?”
“I think he sees her face on billboards and charity galas and tells himself it’s fine,” Hal said. “It’s not fine. Look how miserable he is all the time. I've always wondered what's wrong with him.”
Barry winced. “That’s…kind of sad.”
“Juicy, though.”
You returned to Bruce Wayne not long after, finding him emerging from a different corridor, tie loosened, expression carefully arranged into concern.
The night ended the way these things always did: with sirens fading into the distance, reporters swarming like carrion birds, and Bruce Wayne reappearing at your side with a perfectly calibrated expression of concern.
You took his arm as cameras flashed.
“Mr. Wayne,” someone called, breathless with excitement. “Can you tell us how it felt to have Batman personally assist in evacuating your wife?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His hand rested warm and steady over yours.
“We’re grateful no one was seriously injured,” he said smoothly. “That’s all that matters.”
You smiled on cue, letting the attention roll off you. Somewhere behind the press barricade, you caught a glimpse of red and green disappearing into the night.
You didn’t see the looks they exchanged.
Barry Allen had replayed the footage in his head at least a dozen times by the time he and Hal Jordan regrouped on the Watchtower.
Not the fight. Not the villains.
The way Batman had moved toward you.
“Tell me you noticed it too,” Barry said, pacing. “Because I feel like I hallucinated that.”
Hal leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “I noticed.”
“He didn’t even hesitate.”
“Nope.”
“And the voice...”
“Way too soft.”
Barry grimaced. “It was…intimate.”
Hal scoffed. “Don’t say intimate.”
“I’m saying intimate.”
Hal’s jaw clenched. “He had his hand on her elbow like...like he was afraid she’d disappear.”
Barry stopped pacing. “Okay, now you’re making me sad.”
“I’m making me angry,” Hal shot back. “He’s always lecturing us about boundaries and civilians and keeping emotion out of the job, and then he pulls that?”
“Maybe it was just...” Barry hesitated. “Concern?”
Hal stared at him. “For one specific civilian. Who happens to be Bruce Wayne’s wife.”
Barry rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean…Batman doesn’t exactly like Bruce Wayne.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Hal said. “Every time Bruce Wayne’s name comes up, he shuts down like someone insulted his mother.”
Hal leaned forward. “He hates him.”
“Because...”
“Because Bruce Wayne has everything he can’t,” Hal said flatly. “Charm. A public life. A wife who looks at him like that.”
Barry swallowed. “You really think he’s in love with her.”
Hal didn’t answer immediately.
Then: “I think he’s been in love with her for a long time.”
They decided, very reasonably, they thought, to investigate.
Not in a creepy way.
In a professional way.
Batman didn’t appreciate it.
They found him in the Batcave satellite hub on the Watchtower, reviewing holographic schematics with his usual grim focus.
“Hey, Bats,” Barry said brightly. “Got a minute?”
Batman didn’t look up. “Make it quick.”
Hal exchanged a glance with Barry. Showtime.
“We were just curious,” Hal began, casual to the point of falsehood, “about why you were in Central City.”
Batman’s fingers paused over the controls. Just for a fraction of a second. “Unrelated investigation.”
“Right,” Barry said. “Totally. Makes sense.”
Silence stretched.
Barry pressed on, gently. “So, uh…Bruce Wayne.”
Batman’s shoulders went rigid.
“What about him?” Batman asked, voice cool.
“You’ve worked with him before,” Barry said. “Charity stuff. Gotham initiatives. Just wondered what you think of him.”
Batman turned slowly, cape whispering against the floor.
“Why.”
It wasn’t a question.
Hal raised his hands. “No reason. Just small talk.”
Batman’s gaze flicked between them, sharp and assessing. For one awful moment, he wondered if this was it, if Superman had finally said something, if the walls were closing in.
“Bruce Wayne is irrelevant,” he said briskly. “And his personal life is none of my concern.”
Barry blinked.
Hal’s mouth twitched.
“Got it,” Barry said quickly. “Didn’t mean to pry.”
“Then don’t,” Batman snapped. “Focus on the mission.”
He turned back to his work, dismissing them.
They left.
The moment the doors sealed behind them, Hal let out a low whistle.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “He hates Bruce Wayne.”
Barry winced. “Or he’s jealous.”
Hal shot him a look. “That’s worse.”
The final nail went in a week later.
Batman was supposed to be reviewing mission reports, metahuman sightings, arms trafficking, things that mattered.
Instead, when Barry breezed by unannounced, he found Batman standing utterly still in front of a floating screen.
On it: you.
You were mid-interview, seated elegantly at a Gotham charity luncheon, hands folded in your lap as you spoke about education reform and community rebuilding. You smiled when the interviewer laughed, eyes bright, posture composed.
Batman hadn’t realized anyone was behind him.
Barry followed his line of sight, then froze.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
Batman shut the screen down instantly. “This is not what it looks like.”
Barry didn’t move. “You were watching Bruce Wayne’s wife.”
Batman’s jaw tightened. “I was monitoring public coverage.”
“Of…her?”
“She is frequently present at high-risk events,” Batman said, defensive now. “Awareness is prudent.”
Barry’s voice softened. “You don’t watch anyone else like that.”
Batman said nothing.
Barry left without another word.
That night, he found Hal.
“He watches her interviews,” Barry said.
Hal’s eyes went dark. “Of course he does.”
Barry sank onto the couch. “That’s…that’s really rough, man.”
“Rough?” Hal scoffed. “It’s inappropriate.”
Barry frowned. “I think it’s just sad.”
Hal rounded on him. “He’s Batman. He’s always on us about professionalism. And now he’s pining over a married civilian?”
“Unrequited love isn’t a crime.”
“It’s a scandal waiting to happen,” Hal snapped. “Bruce Wayne’s wife? You know what the media would do if they even suspected something?”
Barry hesitated. “He’d never act on it.”
Hal crossed his arms. “You sure about that?”
Barry looked down. “I just think…being Batman in Gotham is already hell. Loving someone you can never have on top of that?”
Hal didn’t soften. “He doesn’t get a pass just because he’s miserable.”
They cornered Red Robin a few days later.
Tim Drake landed lightly on the Watchtower platform, mask still on, clearly expecting a briefing, not an interrogation.
“Hey,” Barry said, trying to sound friendly. “Got a question for you.”
Tim stiffened immediately. “About what?”
Hal smiled in a way that made Tim’s instincts scream. “Bruce Wayne’s wife.”
Tim’s head snapped up. “What about her?”
Barry raised his hands. “Easy. We were just wondering...have you ever met her?”
Tim’s spine went rigid.
You flashed through his mind instantly: the way you’d insisted he eat more, the way you’d sat with him after nightmares, the hand on his shoulder that had felt safe when nothing else did.
“She’s a great woman,” Tim said sharply.
Hal’s brows shot up. “So you do know her.”
Tim realized his mistake too late. “I mean...I don’t know her well.”
Barry tilted his head. “But Batman does.”
Tim hesitated.
Batman’s orders rang loud and clear in his head.
Protect the mission. Protect the secret.
“I’m still pretty young,” Tim said finally, carefully. “Batman…knows her better than I do.”
Hal’s eyes gleamed.
Barry’s mouth fell open. “He talks about her to you?”
Tim bristled. “That’s not what I said.”
But it was too late.
Hal laughed, sharp and triumphant. “Oh, he pines.”
Barry groaned. “Oh my god, he pines so hard he’s briefing his sidekick about her.”
Tim stared at them, baffled and increasingly alarmed. “You’re reading way too much into this.”
Hal clapped him on the shoulder. “Kid, you’ll understand when you’re older.”
Tim watched them walk away, unease curling in his stomach.
Somehow, impossibly, they had come closer to the truth, and still missed it entirely.
Back in Gotham, you poured Bruce a cup of tea and kissed his temple as he passed you, already slipping into shadow.
“You look tense,” you murmured.
“Just work,” he said.
You smiled, unaware that half the Justice League was currently convinced your husband spent his nights in the Batcave, brooding over you from afar: a tragic, noble fool in love with Bruce Wayne’s wife.
The universe had an impeccable sense of timing.
On the one day the Justice League was away, negotiating a fragile ceasefire on a red-skied planet whose sun hummed wrong in human bones, you were scheduled to speak in Metropolis.
Bruce hadn’t argued. That alone should have warned you.
“You’ll be fine,” he’d said, calm in the way that always meant he was anything but. “Metropolis is one of the safest cities on the planet.”
You’d smiled, adjusted his tie, kissed him. “I’ll be surrounded by reporters and security. What could possibly happen?”
He hadn’t smiled back.
Lex Luthor struck fifteen minutes into your panel.
It started with the lights.
They dimmed, not out, just low enough to make people uneasy. The massive screen behind you flickered, your face fracturing into static before resolving into a familiar, smug expression.
Lex’s.
The audience gasped. Security surged forward.
You didn’t move.
“Good evening, Metropolis,” Lex purred, his voice amplified and everywhere at once. “And good evening to Gotham’s most beloved philanthropist by marriage.”
Your jaw tightened.
Somewhere across the galaxy, Bruce Wayne felt his blood turn to ice when he received a distress message.
Batman didn’t hesitate.
Protocols shattered. Priorities reordered with brutal clarity.
He fired off encrypted signals faster than conscious thought.
On my way.
Already en route.
I’m five minutes out.
It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
By the time a jet tore through Metropolis airspace, the city was already in chaos. Lex’s private security, augmented, armored, overconfident, had locked down the perimeter around the conference center.
Nightwing dropped in from above, escrima sticks flashing. Batgirl disabled the building’s internal systems. Red Robin coordinated evac routes, his voice steady even as his eyes scanned for you.
For one suspended second, the world narrowed to the sight of you standing there: unhurt, furious, very much alive.
His shoulders sagged, just barely.
“You all right?” he asked.
You nodded. “Lex talks too much.”
Lex was apprehended within the hour.
The aftermath, however, was messier.
Hal Jordan arrived late.
Too late to be useful. Too late to feel anything but sidelined.
Lex was cuffed, the civilians safe, and Gotham’s vigilante family standing shoulder to shoulder like they’d planned this for weeks.
Hal hovered above the scene, incandescent with irritation.
“Oh, come on,” he snapped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He called the League so they could watch it live.
Batman didn’t look at him, only at the footage.
“…Okay,” Barry said slowly. “That feels excessive.”
Hal descended, fists clenched. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”
Batman finally stepped into the camera's view. “If you have something to say...”
“You called your entire crew,” Hal cut in. “For one civilian.”
Barry frowned. “A very important civilian.”
Hal shot him a look. “She’s not League. She’s not military. She’s not even in Gotham.”
Batman’s voice went cold. “Watch your tone.”
“Oh, so now you care about tone?” Hal snapped. “You’re always lecturing us about professionalism, about emotional distance. And then you pull this? This is getting out of hand.”
Batman didn’t argue.
That only made it worse.
They didn’t confront him that night.
They started following him instead.
Hal didn’t even feel bad about it.
Batman thought he was alone, back in the Watchtower’s auxiliary hangar, exhaustion finally settling into his bones.
He activated a secure line.
Hal slowed his breathing. Barry stilled time just enough to listen.
Batman’s voice, unguarded and low, carried easily.
“I just needed to hear your voice.”
Barry could not believe his ears.
“I know it’s late. I won’t keep you.”
A pause. Softer.
“I wish I could see you.”
Hal’s jaw clenched.
Another pause. A faint exhale.
“Who cares about that. It doesn’t matter to me.”
Barry swallowed. “Oh no.”
Batman closed his eyes.
“I’m fine,” he said quietly. “I just…missed you.”
The line disconnected.
Silence slammed down.
Barry stared at Hal, horrified. “That’s…that’s really bad, right?”
Hal’s face was thunderous. “He’s trying to seduce her.”
Barry’s voice wobbled. “What if she doesn’t know?”
“Then it’s worse.”
They argued until morning.
The intervention was a disaster.
They cornered Batman in the briefing room the next day, both of them grim, resolved, utterly convinced of their moral high ground.
“This stops now,” Hal said without preamble.
Batman stared. “Excuse me?”
Barry folded his arms, clearly uncomfortable. “We heard the call.”
Batman froze.
The blood drained from his face so fast Hal nearly missed it.
“You were listening,” Batman said carefully.
Hal took that as confirmation. “So you admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“That you’re emotionally compromised,” Hal snapped. “That you’re pursuing a married civilian.”
Batman stared at them.
Actually stared.
“…Are you insane?”
Barry winced. “He’s not denying it.”
Batman’s voice dropped to something lethal. “Explain. Slowly.”
Hal launched into it: every look, every moment, the call, the words. The imagined affair. The impending scandal.
Batman listened in silence.
Then he laughed.
Once. Sharp. Disbelieving.
“You think,” he said slowly, “that I’m trying to get Bruce Wayne’s wife to cheat on him.”
Hal crossed his arms. “You said ‘I miss you’.”
“I did say that.”
Barry’s eyes widened. “You...”
Batman pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because she’s my wife.”
The rhythmic click-clack of Bruce’s boots echoed down the metal stairs of the Batcave. His cape trailed behind him like a shadow. Computer screens cast a dim glow in the dark, highlighting the deep lines on his face—stress carved in stone.
But it wasn’t a new Gotham crime that stopped him.
It was you.
Curled up in the swivel chair, knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in a Wayne Enterprises hoodie. Alfred’s blanket hung from your shoulders, trailing nearly to the floor. Your hair was messy, your face relaxed in sleep. A book was slipping from your fingers.
Bruce paused, arms crossed.
He should say something—wake you, send you to bed, launch into a lecture about sleeping in the cold—but instead, he just… watched.
You had that effect on them. On all of them.
You were the youngest of the Wayne family. The only one who hadn’t watched her parents die in an alley, who hadn’t been raised by the League of Assassins, who hadn’t spent years molded by trauma. You were light, still glowing in the midst of darkness. You laughed too loud in the hallways, wore fluffy socks to family dinners, and hugged Jason just to annoy him—even though he called you “brat” every time.
And yet, Jason always hugged you back. Every single time.
◉◉◉◉
“She fell asleep in the cave again,” Damian muttered from the top of the stairs, arms crossed, katana strapped to his back. “Tt. Father never indulges me like this.”
“Probably because you tried to decapitate Tim at breakfast,” Tim replied, not even looking up from his tablet.
“It was a warning strike.”
“That still counts.”
Your sleepy voice echoed from below: “Don’t fiiiight…”
You stretched your arms up, the sleeves of your hoodie swallowing your hands. With one big yawn, the Batcave—cold and intimidating—suddenly felt like home.
Jason appeared too, in his worn leather jacket, tired eyes warm with recognition.
“Hey, kid,” he said, tossing you a protein bar. “Weren’t you supposed to be studying for your chem exam all night?”
“I was. I blinked, and suddenly three hours passed.”
Jason chuckled. “Been there.”
You gave him a drowsy smile. “Am I late for patrol?”
“You’re not even allowed on patrol, remember?” Dick reminded you, dropping from the ceiling with ease and ruffling your hair. “Not until your grades improve.”
“I hate math,” you grumbled.
“I offered to tutor you,” Tim chimed in. “You bit me.”
“That was one time!”
“You drew blood.”
“Just a little!”
Laughter filled the cave, layering over the hum of machines and dripping water. You were fully awake now, swinging your legs in the chair. A warm feeling blossomed in your chest. You weren’t a hero—not like them. But you didn’t have to be.
You were the reminder.
Of normalcy.
Of safety.
Of something worth coming home to.
◉◉◉◉
Later, upstairs, you were curled up between Dick and Jason on the couch when Alfred brought hot chocolate. Damian sat rigidly in an armchair, but he kept glancing at you—clearly waiting for you to invite him over. When you patted the space beside you, he scowled, but stood and sat down anyway.
Bruce stood in the doorway, watching. His children—fractured, healing, chaotic—wrapped in blankets and smiling with you.
“You gonna stand there all night, Dad?” you asked, tilting your head.
The library in Wayne Manor was your favorite place in the entire world, though you'd never say so out loud. Words felt heavy in your mouth these days, like stones you had to push past your teeth. So you stayed quiet, curled up in the corner behind the large leather armchair where nobody ever sat, your knees pulled tight to your chest.
You'd been living here for three weeks now.
Three weeks since the social worker with the kind smile and tired eyes had brought you through those massive doors. Three weeks since Mr. Wayne—Bruce, he'd said to call him Bruce, but that felt too familiar, too assuming—had knelt down to your level and told you that you were safe here.
Safe. The word echoed strangely in your head.
You traced your finger along the spine of a book you'd pulled from the lowest shelf. You couldn't read all the words yet—you were only seven, after all, and the last school you'd attended had been... well, it had been a while ago. Before everything got bad. Before Mom stopped coming home. Before the apartment got cold and the cupboards stayed empty and you learned that being quiet, being invisible, meant being safe.
"There you are."
You flinched, jerking your head up so fast your neck cracked. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird.
Dick Grayson stood in the doorway, still in his police uniform from his day shift. He had that smile on his face, the one that was supposed to be comforting but made something in your stomach twist instead. Too bright. Too much.
"Hey, sorry, didn't mean to startle you." He held up his hands, taking a step back, and you noticed—he always noticed. Noticed when you tensed. Noticed when you pressed yourself further into corners. Noticed when your breathing went shallow and quick.
You didn't respond, just watched him with wide eyes, your book clutched against your chest like a shield.
"Alfred's got dinner ready," Dick continued, his voice softer now, careful. Like you were something fragile that might shatter. Maybe you were. "Thought you might be hungry. You didn't eat much at lunch."
You had eaten lunch. Three bites of sandwich, half an apple. It was more than you used to get in the before-times, when meals were whatever you could find in the back of the cabinet. Stale crackers. Ketchup packets from fast food restaurants. Once, you'd eaten dry pasta, crunching it between your teeth because there was nothing else.
Three weeks of regular meals still felt surreal. Like a dream you'd wake up from.
"I'm not hungry," you whispered, and even those three words felt like too much, like you'd given away something you shouldn't have.
Dick's expression shifted, something sad flickering across his face before he hid it. "Okay. Well... would you want to come sit with us anyway? You don't have to eat. Just... be there?"
You shook your head quickly. Too many people in the dining room. Bruce at the head of the table, reading something on his tablet. Tim typing on his laptop between bites, always working. Damian making cutting remarks about everyone's table manners. Cass watching everything with those knowing eyes. Duke trying to make conversation. Jason showing up sometimes, his presence loud and overwhelming even when he was being quiet.
Too much. Too loud. Too many eyes that might see you, really see you, and find you wanting.
"Alright," Dick said, and he didn't push. That was something you appreciated about him, even through your fear. He didn't push. "I'll have Alfred bring something up here for you, okay? Just in case you get hungry later."
You wanted to say no, wanted to say you didn't need anything, didn't deserve anything, but he was already gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway.
You let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding and turned back to your book, but the words blurred together now. Your hands were shaking.
They were always so nice. All of them. And that was what scared you most.
In the before-times, you'd learned the rules quickly. You had to, to survive.
Rule One: Stay quiet. Noise attracted attention, and attention was dangerous. When Mom's boyfriends came over, you made yourself small, silent, invisible. When the yelling started, you pressed your hands over your ears and hummed inside your head where no one could hear.
Rule Two: Don't ask for things. Asking meant being a burden, and burdens got left behind. You learned to ignore the hunger pangs, the cold, the fear. Needs were weaknesses.
Rule Three: Take up as little space as possible. Physically, emotionally, existentially. Be a ghost. Ghosts didn't get hit. Ghosts didn't get screamed at. Ghosts didn't get forgotten because they were never really there to begin with.
Rule Four: Don't trust touch. Hands could hurt. Hands could grab, could shove, could hit. Even gentle hands could turn violent without warning. Better to avoid them altogether.
Rule Five: Don't get comfortable. Comfort was temporary. Safety was an illusion. Everything could change in a moment, and you had to be ready to run, to hide, to disappear.
Wayne Manor didn't follow these rules. Nobody here seemed to know them at all.
Alfred appeared in the library doorway twenty minutes after Dick left, carrying a tray with a sandwich cut into small triangles, apple slices, and a glass of milk. He didn't comment on your hiding spot behind the chair. He simply set the tray on the small side table nearby and gave you a gentle nod.
"Just there when you're ready, Miss," he said, his British accent making everything sound proper and safe. "No pressure at all."
Miss. He called you Miss, like you were someone important.
You watched him leave, then stared at the food. Your stomach growled—betraying you, always betraying you—but you didn't move. The sandwich would still be there in an hour. Food didn't disappear here like it used to. That was something you were slowly learning, though the lesson never quite stuck.
Later, when the sky outside the tall windows had gone dark and the manor had quieted, you crept out from behind the chair and ate the sandwich in quick, furtive bites. The bread was soft, not stale. The apple was crisp, not bruised. The milk was cold and fresh.
You cried while you ate, and you didn't know why.
You woke up on the library floor.
You'd meant to go back to your bedroom—the bedroom they'd given you, with its big bed and soft blankets and the nightlight Bruce had installed without asking after he noticed you sleeping with the bathroom light on. But sometime after eating the sandwich, you'd pulled down a few cushions from the couch, made a nest in your corner, and fallen asleep there instead.
The bedroom was too big. Too exposed. Here, behind the chair, with your back to the wall and a clear view of the door, you could breathe.
"Morning, kid."
You jerked awake fully, your heart catapulting into your throat. Jason stood in the doorway, leather jacket on, helmet tucked under one arm. He must have been out all night—he did that sometimes, though no one talked about where he went or what he did.
He took in your makeshift bed with a long look, and you waited for the lecture, the disappointment, the anger. You'd made a mess. You weren't in your proper room. You were being difficult, ungrateful.
But Jason just shrugged. "Library's a good spot. Better than some of the places I've crashed." He moved to one of the shelves, running his finger along the spines until he found what he was looking for. "You like the classics?"
You blinked at him, confused by the turn in conversation.
He pulled out a worn copy of The Secret Garden and tossed it gently so it landed on your cushions. "Try that one. It's about a kid who finds a place that's just hers. Thought you might relate."
Then he was gone, just like that, leaving you staring at the book like it might bite you.
You didn't touch it for three hours. But eventually, curiosity won, and you opened to the first page.
When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen.
You read until Alfred found you and very gently suggested that perhaps some breakfast would be nice, and maybe you'd like to wash up a bit first?
It happened on a Tuesday.
You were in the kitchen—a rare venture out of the library—because Alfred had promised to show you how to make chocolate chip cookies. You'd watched from the doorway for ten minutes before he'd noticed you, and instead of shooing you away, he'd simply tied an apron around his own waist and asked if you'd like to help.
You did. You really did. Even though helping meant being visible.
You were carefully measuring flour, your tongue poking out in concentration, when Duke came in from his morning run. He was sweaty and breathing hard, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.
"Hey, little bit!" he said cheerfully. Duke was always cheerful, always sunny, like his name. "Whatcha making?"
"Cookies," you whispered.
"Awesome! Can't wait to try them." He moved past you to get to the sink, and his hand—just meaning to be friendly, just a casual touch—landed on your shoulder.
You dropped the measuring cup.
It shattered on the tile floor, flour exploding everywhere in a white cloud, and you were suddenly back in the apartment, back in the before-times, and someone was grabbing you, and you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't—
"Hey, hey, it's okay!" Duke's voice, but distant, like he was speaking underwater. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
You were on the floor. When had you gotten on the floor? Your back was pressed against the cabinet, your knees to your chest, your hands over your head. Protecting. Always protecting.
"Don't touch her." Alfred's voice, sharp in a way you'd never heard it. "Step back, Master Duke."
"I didn't—I wasn't—"
"I know. Step back, please."
Footsteps retreating. The kitchen went quiet except for your harsh breathing.
Then Alfred's voice, soft and low, from somewhere above you. Not close. Not touching. "You're safe, Miss. You're in the manor. No one will hurt you here. You're perfectly safe."
Safe. That word again.
It took fifteen minutes for your breathing to slow. Twenty before you could lower your hands. Alfred stayed the entire time, sitting on the floor across the kitchen from you, just... present. Not touching. Not crowding. Just there.
Duke had left. You felt bad about that later, when you could feel anything other than terror.
"I'm sorry," you finally whispered.
"Whatever for?" Alfred asked, genuinely puzzled.
"The mess. The cup. I'll clean it up. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Miss," Alfred said, and his voice was so gentle it made your chest ache. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all. We'll clean it together, and then, if you'd still like, we'll make those cookies. Does that sound acceptable?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
Alfred smiled, soft and sad and kind. "Splendid."
You hadn't meant to eavesdrop.
You were in your usual spot in the library—you'd been spending even more time there after the kitchen incident three days ago—when voices drifted down the hallway from Bruce's study. The door must have been ajar.
You should have made noise, should have alerted them to your presence. But old habits died hard, and you knew how to be quiet. How to listen. Information was survival.
"...can't keep walking on eggshells." That was Damian's voice, sharp with frustration. "The child flinches every time one of us enters a room. It's been nearly a month."
"She's been through trauma, Damian." Dick's voice, patient but strained. "We knew this wasn't going to be easy."
"I'm not saying send her back to the system," Damian retorted. "I'm saying we're clearly not equipped for this. We're vigilantes, not therapists. Perhaps a specialized facility—"
"No." Bruce, firm and final. "She stays."
"Bruce, baby bird's got a point, kind of." Jason, and hearing him agree with Damian about anything was surprising. "We're messing this up. She won't eat with us, won't sleep in her room, won't let anyone within five feet of her. Duke's still beating himself up about the kitchen thing."
"That wasn't his fault," Tim interjected. "Or hers. It's a trauma response. I've been researching—"
"Of course you have," Jason muttered.
"—and everything she's displaying is consistent with severe neglect and possible physical abuse. She needs professional help, Bruce. More than we can give her."
Silence. You pressed your hand over your mouth, keeping your breathing shallow and quiet.
Then Cass's voice, quiet but clear: "She stays. She needs family. Not facility. Needs home."
"Cass—"
"We learn. We adapt. We help. She stays."
More silence.
Finally, Bruce spoke. "Cass is right. We're her family now, and family doesn't give up. We'll do better. We'll get her professional help, but she stays here. With us. That's not up for debate."
"Then what do we do?" Dick asked. "Because I don't think any of us can handle watching her hurt like this."
"We give her time," Bruce said. "Space when she needs it. Patience. And we make sure she knows, every single day, that she's wanted here. That she's not a burden. That she's ours."
Your throat closed up. Ours.
"Alfred's been making progress," Tim offered. "She helps him in the kitchen sometimes now. Just... from a distance."
"And she read the book I gave her," Jason added, sounding almost defensive. "I saw her with it."
"Small steps," Bruce said. "That's all we can ask for. Small steps."
You left before you could hear more, creeping back to your corner on silent feet, your heart doing something complicated in your chest.
They wanted you. They wanted to keep you.
You didn't know what to do with that information.
The nightmare came, as it always did, around three in the morning.
In the dream, you were back in the apartment. The one with the broken heater and the smell of mildew and the sounds of fighting through the walls. You were hungry—so hungry your stomach hurt—and Mom wasn't home. She hadn't been home in days, or maybe weeks, time got fuzzy.
You were trying to be good, trying to be quiet, trying to be invisible, but someone was there. Someone was angry. Someone was reaching for you with hands that meant hurt, and you couldn't run, couldn't scream, couldn't—
You woke up sobbing.
Not in your bedroom, because you never made it to your bedroom anymore. You'd dragged your blankets into the library days ago, made a permanent nest behind the chair. No one had commented on it. Alfred just started leaving your pajamas in there, neatly folded.
You were curled into a ball, tears streaming down your face, your whole body shaking. The fear was so real, so present, that you couldn't remember where you were. Manor or apartment? Safe or danger?
"Hey. Hey, you're okay."
You gasped, scrambling backward, but your back hit the wall. Trapped. You were trapped.
"It's just me. It's Tim. You're safe. You're in the manor."
Tim. Tim who was always typing, always working, who looked exhausted all the time but still smiled when he saw you. Tim who left interesting books on the side table for you, who never asked you to talk.
Your breathing was too fast. You couldn't slow it down. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't—
"Okay, panic attack," Tim said, and his voice was calm, clinical. "That's okay. That's totally normal. I get them too. Can you—okay, you can't answer. That's fine. I'm going to count, and I want you to try to breathe with me. Just try. No pressure."
He started counting. Slow, steady. "In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four."
You tried to follow. Failed. Tried again.
"That's it. You're doing great. Again. In, two, three, four..."
It took a long time, but eventually, your breathing slowed. The panic receded to a manageable level of terror.
"There you go," Tim said softly. He was sitting on the floor, you realized, but far away. At least six feet between you. Not crowding. Not threatening. "You're okay. It was just a nightmare."
"I'm sorry," you whispered automatically.
"Don't be. Nightmares suck." He paused. "Do you have them a lot?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
"Yeah. Me too." He was quiet for a moment. "You know what helps me sometimes? Alfred's tea. And having someone nearby. Not, like, touching or anything. Just... present. Would you want that? I can stay over here, work on my laptop. You don't have to talk or anything. Just... not alone."
You considered it. Being alone after nightmares meant the fear lingered, meant the shadows stayed menacing. But having someone close meant being vulnerable, meant risk.
But this was Tim. Tim who understood panic attacks. Tim who stayed far away without being asked.
"Okay," you breathed.
He smiled, small and genuine, and pulled out his laptop. "Cool. I'm just going to be over here, super boring, working on this case file. You try to sleep. Or don't. Whatever feels right."
The soft glow of his laptop screen and the gentle tap of keys became a strange sort of comfort. When you finally closed your eyes again, the nightmare stayed away.
It started with Alfred, because of course it did.
You were helping him fold laundry—a new routine that had developed over the past week. He folded, you handed him things from the basket. Not much talking required, just quiet companionship.
"May I ask you something, Miss?" Alfred said as he folded one of Bruce's shirts with military precision.
You tensed but nodded.
"You seem to find comfort in the library. Might I inquire what it is about that particular room that appeals to you?"
You handed him a towel, thinking. In the before-times, you wouldn't have answered. Answering meant being known, and being known was dangerous.
But this was Alfred. Alfred who left you food without comment. Alfred who'd sat on the kitchen floor with you. Alfred who never, ever pushed.
"It has walls," you said quietly. "And I can see the door. And nobody goes there much. So it's... it's quiet. And safe."
Alfred's hands paused in their folding. "I see. That's quite sensible. Everyone needs a place where they feel secure."
"In the before-times—" You stopped, surprised you'd said it out loud.
"The before-times?" Alfred prompted gently.
"Before here. When it was... bad. There wasn't anywhere safe. Not really. So I'd hide. In closets, mostly. Or under beds. Places where I couldn't be seen."
"That sounds very frightening," Alfred said, and there was no pity in his voice, just understanding. "I'm glad you don't have to hide like that anymore."
"But I still do," you whispered. "Hide, I mean. Behind the chair."
"Ah, but there's a difference." Alfred resumed folding. "Before, you were hiding from danger. Here, you're choosing a space that makes you feel comfortable. That's not quite the same thing, is it?"
You'd never thought of it like that.
"You're not hiding, Miss," Alfred continued. "You're simply taking up residence in a place that suits you. There's nothing wrong with that. Master Jason often sleeps in the library as well, you know. And I've found Master Tim in there more times than I can count, fallen asleep over his books."
"Really?"
"Indeed. We all need our sanctuaries. Yours simply happens to be behind a rather comfortable leather chair, surrounded by books. I can think of far worse places."
Something in your chest loosened, just a little.
"May I tell you something, Miss?" Alfred asked.
You nodded.
"We're very glad you're here. All of us. I know the adjustment has been difficult, and I know we're not perfect. But this is your home now, for as long as you want it to be. And that means you get to make it yours. If that means sleeping in the library, so be it. If that means eating meals alone until you're ready to join us, that's perfectly acceptable. You set the pace. We'll follow."
Tears pricked your eyes. "I don't know how to do this," you admitted, your voice breaking. "I don't know how to be here. How to be... wanted."
Alfred set down the shirt he was folding and looked at you with such gentleness it hurt. "My dear child, none of us truly knew how to be a family when we started. Master Bruce was a traumatized young man who could barely take care of himself. Master Dick was an angry boy who'd lost everything. Master Jason was a child from the streets who trusted no one. And on it went, each person bringing their own wounds, their own fears. But we learned. Together. And you will too."
"What if I can't?" you whispered. "What if I'm too broken?"
"Then you'll be broken here, with us," Alfred said simply. "And we'll help you pick up the pieces. That's what families do."
You cried then, really cried, and Alfred handed you tissues and let you sob without trying to fix it, without telling you to stop, without touching you.
When you finally quieted, he simply said, "More laundry?" and you nodded gratefully and went back to work.
Damian terrified you.
He was small for his age, but he carried himself like someone much larger, much more dangerous. His eyes were sharp and assessing, and he rarely smiled. He spoke precisely, formally, and he seemed to have no patience for weakness.
You avoided him more than any of the others.
So when you rounded a corner in the manor and nearly collided with him, you gasped and immediately flattened yourself against the wall, making yourself as small as possible.
Damian stopped, studied you with those piercing eyes, and frowned. "You're afraid of me."
It wasn't a question, so you didn't answer.
"I haven't done anything to you," he continued, sounding almost... offended. "I've barely spoken to you. Your fear is irrational."
Fear usually was. But you didn't say that.
Damian's frown deepened. Then, with a huff of annoyance, he sat down. Right there in the hallway, cross-legged on the floor, looking up at you.
"There. I'm smaller than you now. Less threatening. Will you stop cowering?"
You stared at him, confused.
"I'm trying," Damian said, and for the first time, he sounded uncertain. Not like himself at all. "Father says I need to be more... approachable. Grayson says I have to show that I'm safe. I don't particularly understand why I must prove myself when I've done nothing wrong, but apparently, this is how families function."
Slowly, carefully, you slid down the wall until you were sitting too, still pressed against it but no longer looming above him.
"I'm not good at this," Damian admitted, and the confession seemed to cost him. "I was raised to be a weapon. Emotions were... discouraged. Vulnerabilities were punished. I'm trying to be different here, but it's difficult. I don't always succeed."
You understood that. Different rules in different places. Different versions of yourself for different situations.
"You don't have to be good at it," you whispered. "Being... being here."
Damian's head snapped up. "You speak."
"Sometimes."
"Hm." He considered this. "I heard you had a panic attack in the kitchen. Todd mentioned you don't like to be touched."
You tensed, waiting for mockery or dismissal.
"I don't like to be touched either," Damian said instead. "Most of the time. It feels like an invasion. Like someone is taking something from me without permission."
"Yes," you breathed. "Yes, exactly."
"The others don't always understand. They're very tactile. Grayson especially—he hugs everyone. It's exhausting." Damian's nose wrinkled. "But they're learning that I have boundaries. And they'll learn yours too. You simply have to be clear about them."
"I don't know how."
"You say 'no.' Or you move away. Or, if you're feeling particularly direct, you tell them that touching you without permission is unacceptable and will not be tolerated."
The idea of saying that to any of them—to Dick with his kind smile, to Duke with his friendly energy—seemed impossible.
"It becomes easier with practice," Damian said, as if reading your mind. "And they will listen. That's the difference between here and... wherever you came from. Here, 'no' means something."
You wanted to believe that.
Damian stood, brushing off his pants. "I have training. But if you'd like, you may sit in the library tomorrow at three o'clock. I'll be there to read. We don't have to talk. We can simply... coexist."
Then he was gone, leaving you sitting in the hallway, something warm and fragile blooming in your chest.
Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
Three months in, and you could eat breakfast in the kitchen if no one else was there.
Six months in, and you'd spoken full sentences to Alfred, Tim, and Cass.
Nine months in, and you'd watched a movie in the theater room with everyone, sitting in the back row where you could see all the exits.
Progress, Bruce called it during your weekly meetings with Dr. Huang, the therapist who came to the manor because you couldn't handle the idea of leaving, of being in public, of being seen by strangers.
Progress, but not linear. Never linear.
The setback came on a Tuesday.
You were in the library—always the library, your sanctuary, your safe space—curled up with a book, when a sound made you look up.
A man stood in the doorway. Not one of the family. Older, wearing a suit, with calculating eyes that swept the room and landed on you.
"Well, hello there," he said, and his smile didn't reach his eyes. "You must be Bruce's newest stray."
Every alarm in your body screamed danger.
You couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. You were seven years old again but also frozen at every age you'd ever been, every moment someone had looked at you like that, like you were nothing, like you were prey.
The man took a step into the room.
"I'm Ra's," he said, like you should know that name. Like it should mean something. "An old friend of Bruce's. Or enemy. Depending on the day." His smile sharpened. "And you are?"
You pressed yourself into the corner behind the chair, your book falling from numb fingers.
"Not talkative, I see. That's all right. I prefer children who know when to be quiet."
He moved closer.
"STOP."
Damian appeared in the doorway like a small, furious storm, his hand on the sword you didn't know he'd been carrying. "Step away from her. Now."
"Damian. My grandson." Ra's didn't seem bothered by the sword. "Still so dramatic."
"I said step away." Damian's voice was cold, deadly. Nothing like the boy who sat with you in the library and read in comfortable silence. "You have no business with her."
"I was merely introducing myself."
"You were frightening her. Leave."
More footsteps, running. Then Bruce was there, and Dick, and Jason with a gun you'd never seen him carry inside the house.
"Out," Bruce said, and his voice was Batman's voice, the one that made criminals flee. "You're not welcome here, Ra's."
"I came in peace—"
"You terrorized a child. Out. Now. Or I'll remove you myself."
The man—Ra's—looked at you one more time, and you felt that look like fingers around your throat. Then he smiled, bowed slightly, and left.
The silence after was deafening.
You couldn't stop shaking.
"Is she—" Dick started.
"Don't," Damian snapped. "Don't crowd her. Give her space."
But you didn't want space. For the first time since coming here, space felt dangerous. That man had been in your space, had invaded it, had taken your sanctuary and made it unsafe.
A sound escaped your throat, high and wounded.
"It's okay," Bruce said, and he was kneeling on the floor now, but far away, not close. "You're safe. He's gone. He won't come back."
"How did he get in?" Jason demanded. "How did he get past security?"
"We'll find out," Bruce said grimly. "But right now—"
"I want—" Your voice cracked. "I want—"
You didn't know how to finish. Want what? What did you want?
Cass appeared in the doorway, and she looked at you, really looked, and then she sat down on the floor. Just sat, cross-legged, her hands in her lap, her expression calm and open.
She patted the floor next to her.
An invitation. Not a demand.
You don't know what made you move. Maybe because Cass had never scared you, even from the first day. Maybe because she barely spoke, like you, and seemed to understand silence. Maybe because her eyes were kind.
You crawled out from behind the chair and sat next to her, not touching but close. Closer than you'd been to anyone in months.
Cass didn't say anything. She just sat with you, present and solid and safe.
One by one, the others sat too. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Damian, Tim appearing from somewhere. All of them on the floor, none of them touching you, just... there.
Your family, you realized with a jolt.
Your family, sitting with you in your broken moment, not trying to fix it, just being there.
You cried then, messy and ugly and loud, and no one told you to stop.That night, you couldn't sleep.
You lay in your nest behind the chair—your nest, Alfred had started calling it, which made it seem more intentional, more okay—and stared at the ceiling.
You'd thought you were making progress. You'd thought you were getting better, getting stronger, learning to be here.
But one stranger, one moment, and you'd fallen apart.
"Can't sleep either, huh?"
You jerked upright. Jason was in the doorway, holding two mugs.
"Hot chocolate," he said, holding one up. "Alfred's special recipe. And before you ask, yes, I got permission to bring it to the library. No, I won't tell him you're still sleeping in here—he already knows. And no, I'm not going to sit close to you or do anything weird. I'm just going to sit over here—" he gestured to the couch across the room "—and drink my cocoa. You can do whatever you want with yours."
He set your mug on the side table and went to the couch, sprawling out like he owned it.
You looked at the cocoa. At Jason. At the cocoa again.
"Ra's is gone," Jason said conversationally. "Bruce tracked him all the way out of Gotham. Put every security measure we have on high alert. He won't get in again."
"But he did before," you whispered.
"Yeah. He did. And that's on us, not you. We should've been more careful."
You picked up the mug, letting the warmth seep into your hands.
"You know what I think?" Jason continued, staring at the ceiling. "I think you were incredibly brave today."
You almost laughed. Brave? You'd frozen, panicked, fallen apart.
"No, really," Jason said. "You stayed in that room even though you were terrified. You didn't run. You didn't hide. That's brave."
"I wanted to run."
"But you didn't. And then, after, when we were all there? You sat with Cass. That's the closest you've been to any of us. Do you know how huge that is?"
You hadn't thought about it like that.
Jason sat up, looking at you seriously. "Listen, kid. I'm going to tell you something, and you can believe it or not, up to you. But here it is: healing isn't linear. You're not going to just get better and better in a straight line. Some days will be good. Some days will be shit. Some days you'll feel like you've made progress, and some days you'll feel like you're back at square one. That's normal. That's how it works."
"How do you know?" you asked quietly.
"Because I've been there." Jason's smile was bitter. "I died, came back, lost my mind for a while. Had to relearn how to be human. Had to figure out who I was all over again. And some days, I still don't know. Some days, I still want to hide. Still want to run. Still don't trust that this—" he gestured around "—is real."
"But you... you're so... strong," you said, unable to finish your sentence.
Jason was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath before speaking. "Looking strong is easy. Everyone’s strength shows up in some form. But that doesn’t always mean it’s real strength. True strength comes in being able to admit how weak you are."
For a while, you both sat in silence, looking at each other. Jason looked like someone who couldn’t fully trust himself, yet somehow managed to project confidence.
"So... you're still... healing?" you asked, gathering a bit more courage.
Jason smiled, but it was a bitter smile. "Still. Sometimes it’s a step forward, sometimes it’s just a second of standing still. But every day, I take one more step."
For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. There were so many questions in your head, so many thoughts, but somehow, all you wanted was to sit there quietly and share the moment with him.
"Thank you," you said finally. "For saying that."
Jason nodded slowly. "Sometimes, having someone understand you makes all the difference. Everyone’s scared of being alone, but no one really is. You just have to remember that."
You both sat there for a while longer. Jason finished his hot chocolate, you kept holding yours, but without any rush. All the feelings inside you were slowly, patiently fading.
The night was quiet, with only the rustling of the wind outside and the distant, ghostly sounds of the city. But in that moment, here, in the library, neither of you were alone.
This was actually an old song I wrote two years ago. I hesitated a lot about whether to share it or not, but I finally shared it to add some activity to my account. Maybe the lyrics will come later...
Request:Can I request a Yandere platonic batfam with a neglected reader who is a dancer, maybe a ballerina and they don't realise they bought tickets to see her in a show like swan lake and they realise
Broken ballerina
Yandere Platonic Batfam x Neglected Ballerina Reader
In the shadows of Wayne Manor, lost in the endless chaos of Gotham, you had been forgotten for years. You tried to get their attention, to make them see you, to remind them that you were there—but it was never enough.
They were heroes, always busy.
And you… were alone.
But you had built your own world. Every time the feeling of abandonment swallowed you whole, you escaped to the stage. Dance was your freedom. Even when your bones ached, even when your feet bled, it was the only place where you felt truly alive.
And one night, without even realizing it, they came to watch.
---
The opening night of Swan Lake was a grand event. For the Wayne family, it was just another prestigious Gotham cultural affair. Alfred had secured the tickets and practically dragged them there. None of them had a particular interest in ballet, but they understood its importance.
Then, the curtain rose.
And there you were.
The breath caught in their throats.
Your delicate frame, your perfect posture, your graceful turns… Silent as a ghost, fragile as a porcelain doll, yet glowing under the stage lights. The way your arms fluttered, the way you glided across the stage like a swan in flight—every movement was mesmerizing.
Something inside them shattered.
Bruce’s fingers clenched around the armrest. How had he missed this? How long had you been dancing? Why hadn’t you told him?
Dick’s eyes filled with something close to guilt. He could read it now, the expression they had ignored for years: Freedom. You looked ready to fly away.
Jason’s brows furrowed. This wasn’t right. You standing there, exposed to the world, to strangers’ eyes—it felt wrong. Every cheer, every clap of the audience… it was as if they were stealing you.
Tim’s mind was racing. How had he overlooked this? How had he failed to notice? This was a massive mistake.
Damian’s face darkened. These people didn’t know that you were theirs.
Cassandra’s heart clenched. You were telling them everything through your movements. And what she saw made her sick—on that stage, you were happier than you had ever been with them.
They couldn’t accept that.
When the final act ended and the curtain fell, something else was just beginning.
---
That night, they were waiting for you backstage.
A chill ran down your spine when you saw them. The weight of their stares, the intensity in their eyes—it was suffocating.
You hesitated. Why were they here? After all this time, after years of ignoring you, why now?
Bruce stepped forward. “How long have you been doing this?” His voice was soft, but there was an edge of danger beneath it.
You gave a vague answer. Jason let out a low growl. Dick placed a hand on his shoulder, but his own eyes were burning with questions.
"Why didn’t you tell us?" Tim’s voice was deceptively calm.
You took a slow breath, steadying yourself. Then, with a quiet strength that left no room for doubt, you spoke:
"I did."
Silence.
You had told them. Years ago. Again and again. You had told them that you danced, that the stage was your home, that this was everything to you. But they had never listened. They had always been too busy.
"We’ll talk later," they had said. But later never came.
And now? Now they saw you only because you shined under stage lights?
Bruce’s jaw tightened. His gaze never wavered. “You should have shared this with us.”
A bitter laugh escaped your lips. “I tried.”
Dick stepped closer, his tone almost pleading. “We just… didn’t notice. But we can fix this.”
Your eyes narrowed. Now? Now they wanted to fix it?
Jason crossed his arms, scowling. “We didn’t know you were this alone.”
Tim’s fingers twitched in frustration. How had he let this slip past him? How had he not seen the signs?
Damian’s voice was sharp as a blade. “You can’t be on your own. Being on stage doesn’t make you strong.”
Cassandra said nothing. But her expression spoke louder than any words. You won’t leave us, right?
But you had already made up your mind.
You inhaled deeply, shaking your head. “There’s nothing to fix.”
Their eyes widened.
"You saw it, didn’t you?" You lifted your chin. "I don’t need you."
And that—
That was their breaking point.
That was the spark that turned their guilt into something far more dangerous.
Because they could not accept that they had neglected you.
They could not accept that they had lost you.
And one thing was certain—
From this moment on, they would never let you slip away again.
The Curse of Clumsiness: The Youngest Member of the Justice League
Joining the Justice League was a dream come true for you. At 16 years old, the youngest member of the team, you had the opportunity to protect the world alongside Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, and other legends. But there was one problem…
You were incredibly clumsy.
Seriously, on a disaster level.
Today was just another example of that. While training in the exercise area, you simply wanted to grab a water bottle. What happened? Your foot got caught in some cables, you tripped backward, and fell. But it wasn’t just a fall. On your way down, you hit a control panel.
And one second later?
The whole base went into lockdown.
Red lights were flashing. Huge screens displayed "EMERGENCY MODE ACTIVATED." Doors locked, defense systems were engaged. And the worst part, Superman’s heavy training robots were activated.
Batman rushed to the Batcomputer. "Who triggered the alarm?" he asked, narrowing his eyes
You were still sitting on the floor, head down, quietly raising your hand
Everyone turned to look at you.
Flash barely held back his laughter. "Again?" he asked.
Wonder Woman rolled her eyes. "Seriously, how many times has this happened?"
Superman glanced at the screens showing the robots’ location. "Alright, I’ll need to shut down a few of these," he said, quickly heading out.
Green Lantern crossed his arms and flashed a slight grin. "I think this should be considered a skill. I mean, I’ve never seen someone trip and accidentally activate base-wide defense systems on their own."
Batman finally deactivated the alarm, took a deep breath, and gave you a sharp look.
"I’m going to have to prepare a special training program for you."
Your eyes widened. "Extra training?! But I already spend half the day in training!"
"You’ll be spending the whole day on it now," Batman replied in his usual serious tone.
Flash chuckled. "I think we should design a special costume for you too. Maybe we could put ‘Danger Bells’ on the back?"
You sighed and buried your face in your hands. "If you’re going to do that, at least write ‘The God of Clumsiness.’"
Wonder Woman lightly tapped your shoulder. "I think this is your power. Creating chaos. But maybe you should create a bit more controlled chaos."
Just then, Superman returned, adjusting his cape and raising an eyebrow as he pointed at you. "I had to disable three of the robots. If something like this happens again…"
"Are you going to kick me off the team?" you asked, feeling a bit panicked.
Batman shook his head. "No. But like Flash said, you’ll be wearing a costume with ‘Danger Bells’ written on it."
Everyone burst into laughter.
And you? You thought to yourself, "Maybe living in a bubble would be a better idea."
charm, and the ability to influence others… But none of that meant being truly loved. Your siblings at Olympus saw you as superficial. Even at Camp Half-Blood, people focused only on your appearance and magic. No one had really tried to get to know you.
You didn't remember exactly how you got to Gotham. Maybe a mission, maybe just a search for escape… But the same cycle continued here too. The Batfamily had taken you in, but they didn't really seem to care about you either.
Bruce was always busy. Instead of taking care of you, he was watching you from afar like a shadow, but never emotionally connected. He kind of adopted you, but you didn't really feel like one of the family.
Dick was friendly at first, but his interest waned over time. He only came to you when he needed to. Jason was already dealing with his own issues and didn't seem to care much about you. Tim was constantly on the computer, and Damian found you inadequate.
You were suffering in silence. You were neglected again, forgotten again in the background. They didn't feel like family just because they were around. No one was really seeing you.
Until you realize you want to go.
Things changed one day when he considered leaving Gotham. You thought you were insignificant, but in their eyes you were an owner. Maybe they ignored you at first, but the idea of losing you... that was unacceptable.
Dick suddenly started to be with him at every opportunity. Jason increased his protective attitude. Tim got up from his computer and started following you. Damian was colder but more possessive. Even Bruce was starting to check on you more often than before.
The Batfamily, who seemed indifferent to you, was not at all willing to let you go. If you tried to escape, you would be blocked. Emotional manipulation, threats, even physical measures… They would do whatever it took. Because now they were you.
And once you were "it" in Gotham, you could never be free again.
