⏤ (✿) in bloom
request hey can I make a request of the batfamily with a magical reader creature, like without having the human appearance. preferably an elf with very long limbs, with only four claws fingers, with the appearance of a flower or tree, very long and extremely tall hair and with eyes of a single color, all that weird combo. Imagine can be as you want.
content bruce wayne x elf-like!reader, gn!reader, xenophobia, discrimination based on nonhuman appearance, fear and dehumanisation of magical beings, paranoia, contingency plans for incapacitation or death, discussions of mortality and lifespan differences, grief, implied past loss, emotional repression, self-isolation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, references to violence and vigilantism, magical injuries, burns, body horror elements involving plant growth and seasonal bodily changes, scars, implied trauma, fear of abandonment, discussions of death body insecurity, pressure to make oneself smaller or less noticeable, references to prejudice and verbal insults, grief, parental loss, abandonment issues, fear of being left behind, discussions of eventual death and outliving a partner, nightmares implied through trauma references, vigilante violence, danger and injuries, reckless acrobatics, references to scars and loss, seasonal lethargy/dormancy, mild body horror involving flowers, bark, thorns and bodily seasonal changes, emotional angst, crying, hurt/comfort, reassurance, and eventual acceptance
characters bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne, duke thomas, stephanie brown
masterlist | bruce masterlist | dick masterlist
bruce wayne, 3.3k
Bruce first hears about you through reports that do not make sense. People in Gotham begin talking about a creature in Robinson Park. Not attacking anyone, exactly, but appearing at strange hours. Witness descriptions contradict each other badly enough that Bruce initially assumes there are several different beings involved. One person describes something impossibly tall standing between the trees, with arms hanging nearly to its knees and fingers ending in black claws. Another claims they saw a woman made of flowers. Someone else insists it was a demon with glowing eyes and hair longer than its body.
The only consistent details are the height, the eyes, and the flowers.
Naturally, Bruce begins investigating. His first theory is Pamela. His second theory is magic. His third is that he hates magic.
You, meanwhile, have absolutely no idea Batman has built an entire case file around you. You are considerably more preoccupied with Gotham’s plant life, which you find deeply upsetting.
The soil is poisoned. The roots of trees twist around pipes and concrete. Plants grow despite pollution, chemical spills, and an almost impressive lack of direct sunlight.
You find Gotham fascinating. Bruce finds your interest in Gotham deeply suspicious.
Your first real meeting is not particularly romantic. Bruce follows you for nearly three nights before confronting you. He watches you move through the park, too tall and strangely proportioned to ever be mistaken for human. Even when you crouch, your limbs fold awkwardly around you, all elbows and knees hidden beneath layers of vines, bark, petals and fabric. Your hands have four fingers each, long and clawed. Your eyes are entirely one colour, glowing faintly in the darkness with no visible pupils or whites. Your hair trails along the ground behind you in thick, impossible waves, branches and flowers occasionally caught within it.
Bruce prepares for almost everything. He does not prepare for you looking directly at the gargoyle where he is hiding and saying, “You may come down.”
Batman does not move. You wait. Several seconds pass.
“I know you are there.” Still nothing. You tilt your head, flowers shifting softly along your shoulders. “You are not particularly subtle.”
Bruce takes that personally. He drops down in front of you and immediately starts asking questions in that calm, controlled Batman voice. “What are you doing in Gotham?”
You stare down at him. Bruce is not used to people making him feel short. He discovers that he dislikes it. “Walking.”
“Why?”
“Because remaining still would make walking difficult.”
There is a long pause. You have been in Gotham for less than a week and are already testing the limits of Batman’s patience.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Then ask a better question.”
Bruce nearly decides on the spot that magic is worse than aliens.
Bruce does not trust you quickly. Even after establishing that you are not actively harming anyone, he continues monitoring you. There are too many unanswered questions. Where did you come from? How old are you? What exactly are your abilities? Are you affected by iron? Fire? Magic? Poison? Do the plants growing from your body have their own defensive properties? Can you control plant life, or simply communicate with it? What would happen if you were injured? How quickly can you heal? Can you die?
You tolerate the questions for a while. Eventually, during one particularly clinical conversation in the Cave, you slowly turn your head towards him. “You wish to know how to kill me.”
Bruce goes completely still. The atmosphere changes. Even your hair seems to move more slowly. Bruce considers denying it, but lying would make things worse. “I need to know what can hurt you.”
“Why?”
“Because if something does, I need to know how to stop it.”
That answer surprises you. Bruce can tell. You study him for a long moment, your expression difficult for a human to read. Then some of the flowers near your collarbone slowly unfold.
Bruce does not understand what that means yet. He will eventually.
At the beginning, Bruce is much more unsettled by your appearance than he ever admits. It is not because he finds you ugly. He simply does not understand your body. Humans are easy for Bruce to read. Heartbeat, pupils, breathing, body language. He has built his entire life around noticing microscopic changes in people.
You disrupt almost all of those systems. Your eyes have no pupils to dilate. Your facial structure is humanoid but not entirely human, and expressions do not appear in exactly the same ways. Your heartbeat is slow enough that he initially thinks something is medically wrong. Your body temperature changes with the environment. When you become anxious, the leaves growing along your body curl inward. When angry, thorns emerge from your skin. When happy, flowers open.
Bruce has to learn an entirely new language. Naturally, he does. Quietly. Obsessively.
He keeps notes. You discover this accidentally. Not his case notes. Those are locked away. These are different. Practical.
Flowers at temples close when overstimulated. Prefers indirect sunlight after injury. Hands become stiff when dehydrated. Does not like being approached from behind while sleeping. White flowers indicate embarrassment. Possibly irritation. Further observation required.
You stand in front of the Batcomputer reading them. Bruce enters the Cave. He stops.
You look at him. “Further observation required?”
Bruce stares at the screen. “Those are incomplete notes.”
“Clearly.”
“You weren’t supposed to read them.”
“They concern me.”
“That does not mean—”
Several white flowers bloom near your ears.
Bruce stops speaking. He looks at the flowers. Then at you. Then back at the flowers.
“Embarrassment,” he says.
You bare your claws. “Delete the notes.”
He does not.
Bruce is incredibly careful about touching you. At first, he rarely does so unless necessary. He does not know which parts of you are sensitive or whether touching certain flowers might cause pain. He has dealt with beings whose bodies operate under magical rules, and Bruce refuses to make assumptions. The first time he asks permission, you barely realise what he is doing. You have been injured during a fight, a deep burn spreading across one of your arms where magic struck you. Bruce kneels beside you.
His gloved hand hovers just above your wrist. “Can I touch you?”
You look at him. “You have touched me before.”
“Not here.”
You glance down at the damaged bark and burned flowers. Something in your expression softens. “Yes.”
Bruce’s hands are astonishingly gentle. That surprises you more than anything else about him.
Once Bruce becomes accustomed to your appearance, he becomes almost dangerously unfazed by it. Everyone else reacts when your hair begins moving on its own. Bruce continues drinking coffee. Your fingers lengthen slightly when you use magic. Bruce barely looks up from the Batcomputer. You appear in the kitchen at two in the morning with enormous antler-like branches growing from your head because you are entering a seasonal phase of your life cycle.
Bruce looks at you. “Those are new.”
“Yes.”
“Are they permanent?”
“No.”
“Will they damage the ceiling?”
You stare at him. “That is your concern?”
“The ceiling is original.”
You grow thorns out of pure irritation.
Bruce takes another sip of coffee. “Please don’t scratch the counter.”
You initially misunderstand Batman entirely. In your culture, clothing inspired by predators usually communicates territory, social status or threat. Therefore, after observing Bruce for some time, you come to the perfectly reasonable conclusion that Batman is some kind of territorial guardian creature.
Bruce is not pleased. “You believe Gotham belongs to me.”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Then why do you patrol its borders?”
“I don’t patrol borders.”
“You mark territory.”
“I do not.” You gesture towards the Bat-Signal. Bruce looks at it. Then back at you. “That is not a territorial marker.”
“It is a large glowing symbol that warns others of your presence.”
Bruce opens his mouth. Closes it.
You continue. “You also decorate your shelter with the same symbol.”
“That’s different.”
“And your offspring wear variations of your markings.”
Bruce’s expression becomes deeply tired. “They are not my offspring.”
You stare at him.
Bruce sighs. “Not all of them.”
Your relationship with his children is one of the reasons Bruce starts trusting you more deeply. You are patient with Damian, even when Damian is anything but patient with you. You listen when Dick talks. You do not treat Jason differently when you learn what happened to him. You tolerate Tim’s endless questions. You sit quietly with Cass without demanding conversation. You let Duke manipulate light around your flowers because he is fascinated by the reaction. You allow Steph to put small decorations in your hair, although Bruce suspects you occasionally pretend not to notice things because it makes her happy.
Bruce sees all of it. You become part of the Manor gradually. Not because anyone formally invites you to stay. You simply start appearing more often. First for dinner. Then after patrol. Then in the library. Then asleep in the greenhouse. Eventually, Bruce realises there are things of yours around the house. A book beside one chair. Strange seeds stored in the kitchen. A cloak hanging near the entrance. Flowers growing in places flowers absolutely should not be growing. You have become part of the house without either of you noticing.
The Manor is profoundly unsuitable for someone built like you. You duck beneath almost every doorway. Chairs are uncomfortable because your legs are too long. Your hair catches on handles and corners. Standard beds are effectively useless. The first time you spend a night at the Manor, you sleep curled tightly on the floor of the greenhouse because it is the only place large enough and warm enough to be comfortable.
You never complain. This makes Bruce feel worse.
Renovations begin several weeks later. Quietly. Certain doors become taller. One guest bedroom is completely redesigned. The furniture is custom-built. The shower is modified. UV lighting is installed for winter months. The temperature controls become unusually precise.
You discover the changes one by one. Bruce refuses to acknowledge why they happened.
“The house required renovation.”
You stand beneath a doorway that is now almost three feet taller than before. “This doorway was functional.”
“Barely.”
“For humans.”
Bruce looks at his tablet. “The change is practical.”
You move closer. “Bruce.”
“The Manor requires regular structural maintenance.”
“Bruce.”
He does not look up. “The discussion is over.”
You gently place one enormous clawed hand over his tablet and lower it. Bruce finally meets your eyes. Tiny flowers are blooming through your hair.
“Thank you,” you say.
Bruce looks away first.
Bruce pretends he dislikes how much plant life follows you into the Manor. This is a lie. At first, he complains about roots damaging the stone. Then he discovers you repairing old trees on the property that have been dying for decades. You revive Alfred’s herbs. You grow flowers in places Martha Wayne once had gardens. One spring morning, Bruce walks outside and discovers a section of the grounds blooming exactly as it did in photographs from his childhood.
He stops walking. You are kneeling nearby, hands buried in the soil.
“Alfred showed me photographs,” you explain. Bruce cannot speak for several moments. You look over. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No.” His voice is quieter than usual. “No. You haven’t.”
He never tells you how long he stays outside after you leave.
Bruce struggles with the difference in your lifespans. He does not bring it up for a long time. You are ancient by human standards, although you refuse to give an exact number.
Bruce tries asking once. “How old are you?”
“Older than you.”
“That isn’t helpful.”
“Older than Alfred.”
“Still not helpful.”
“Older than Gotham.” Bruce pauses. You smile faintly. “That helped.”
It did not.
Once Bruce loves you, the concept becomes more difficult. He is human. You are not.
One night, he asks quietly whether your kind lives forever. You tell him no.
“But longer than humans?”
“Yes.” Bruce is silent. You understand the fear beneath the question. You reach down and take his hand carefully between your clawed fingers. “A short life is not a lesser one.”
Bruce looks at your joined hands. “Easy for you to say.”
“No.” Your voice softens. “I have watched mountains change shape. Do you think that makes losing one person easier?”
Bruce looks at you then. “It does not.”
Bruce is intensely protective of you, but never because he thinks you are weak. He knows exactly how dangerous you are. He has seen you tear metal apart with your hands. He has watched roots split concrete when you become angry. He knows your claws can cut through armour.
None of that matters. Bruce protects people he loves.
Unfortunately, he also develops contingencies. You discover this eventually. You are angry. Genuinely angry. Thorns cover your shoulders, arms and back. Vines move through the Cave. Bruce stands his ground.
“You created a plan to kill me.”
“A plan to stop you.”
“There is very little difference.”
“There is to me.” You stare at him. Bruce’s voice drops. “I have plans for everyone.”
“Your children?”
His jaw tightens. “Everyone.”
You realise then that his paranoia is not evidence that he loves you less. It is one of the uglier scars left by everything he has survived.
You do not forgive him immediately. Bruce does not expect you to.
But he gives you the file. Not just access. The physical file. “You should know what I know.”
You look at it. “That is trust?”
“For me?” Bruce’s mouth twists bitterly. “Yes.”
Sleeping beside you is initially complicated. Mostly because you are enormous. Bruce is a large man. This means absolutely nothing when compared to you. You can curl around him completely.
The first time it happens, he wakes abruptly because something is covering his chest. He reaches for a weapon. Then realises it is your hair. Several metres of it. You are asleep beside him, one long arm around his waist, your claws resting carefully against his stomach without applying pressure.
Bruce lies completely still. He should move. He has meetings in two hours. He has patrol reports. He has things to do.
Instead, he stays there. Your body smells faintly of rain and cedar. For once, the Manor is quiet. Bruce closes his eyes again.
Bruce loves your eyes. It takes him a long time to say it. Humans often find them unnerving because they are a single uninterrupted colour. Gold. Green. Blue. Whatever colour they are, there are no whites and no visible pupils, just an endless field of colour that catches light strangely. Bruce looks into them often.
Eventually, you notice. “Humans normally dislike my eyes.”
Bruce frowns. “Why?”
“They find them difficult to read.”
“They’re expressive.”
You stare at him. “You spent several months learning how to read them.”
“That doesn’t make me wrong.”
You lean closer. “What are they expressing now?”
Bruce examines your face. The slight tilt of your ears. The relaxed position of your shoulders. The tiny white flowers beginning to emerge through your hair. “Embarrassment.”
You immediately cover his face with your hand. “You are intolerable.”
Bruce kisses your palm. Your entire hairline bursts into flowers.
He actually smiles.
His favourite thing about you is not your magic. Not your appearance. Not even the fact that you can make the Manor grounds look alive in ways they have not for decades. It is your patience.
Bruce is difficult to love. He knows this. He disappears into himself. He forgets meals. He works until exhaustion. He pushes people away when frightened. He weaponises silence.
You never mistake patience for permission, though. You wait when he genuinely needs space. You confront him when he is simply running away. There is a difference.
One evening, Bruce tells you, “I need to be alone.”
You study him. “No.”
He looks up sharply. “No?”
“You wish to punish yourself. That is different.”
Bruce’s face hardens. “You don’t know what I want.”
You sit beside him. The chair complains beneath your weight. “Perhaps not.” Your shoulder presses against his. “But I know what loneliness looks like.”
Bruce says nothing. You remain.
Eventually, his head rests against your arm.
He develops a habit of bringing you things. Not gifts, according to him. Samples. Interesting objects. Historical books about forests. Jewellery shaped to accommodate your unusual hands. Seeds from rare plants. Small fragments of meteorite because he wants to know how your magic reacts. A seventeenth-century botanical text because it contains a sketch that looks vaguely like you.
“You bought this at auction?”
“It was relevant.”
“Bruce.”
“The historical inaccuracies are interesting.”
“You paid forty thousand dollars for it.”
“That’s not relevant.”
You stare at him. Bruce Wayne, billionaire vigilante and world-class detective, has apparently decided the hill he will die on is pretending expensive gifts are research materials.
You terrify Gotham’s social elite. Bruce secretly enjoys this. He would never admit it. The first gala you attend with him is chaos. No human clothing looks entirely natural on you, so you wear something designed around your body: flowing fabric, exposed bark-like skin, flowers woven through your enormous hair.
Everyone stares. Bruce offers you his arm. Your claws could wrap around his entire forearm.
“They are frightened,” you whisper.
“Yes.”
“Should I leave?”
Bruce’s expression changes instantly. “No.”
“But—”
“Let them be uncomfortable.” You look at him. Bruce calmly walks you further into the ballroom. “It might improve their personalities.”
You laugh loudly enough that half the gala turns around. Bruce looks deeply pleased with himself.
There are moments when the difference between you becomes painfully obvious. Sometimes Bruce wakes and finds you standing outside in the rain, perfectly still. You can remain that way for hours. Listening, you say. To what? Everything. Roots. Water. Wind. Things Bruce cannot hear.
He watches you and remembers that, despite your laughter and your place in his home, you belong to something older than cities.
Sometimes you look at Bruce and feel the opposite. His life burns quickly. Human and bright. Every year matters. Every injury matters. Every night he survives matters.
Perhaps that is why you love each other so fiercely.
Bruce has spent his life trying to control time. You have lived long enough to know it cannot be controlled. Somewhere between those truths, the two of you meet.
Bruce eventually becomes the person you trust enough to see you change with the seasons. In autumn, leaves fall from your body. Your flowers disappear. Parts of your skin become rougher, darker. You become slower. More tired. The first year this happens, Bruce thinks you are dying. His reaction is, predictably, terrible. Medical equipment appears. Zatanna receives multiple messages. Constantine receives several threats.
You wake from a nap to find Bruce taking a sample from a fallen leaf.
“Bruce.” He freezes. “Put it down.”
“Your cellular activity has changed.”
“It is autumn.”
“Your heart rate has decreased.”
“It is autumn.”
“You’ve been sleeping more.”
“Bruce.”
“What?”
“I am a tree.” Silence. “Partially,” you add.
Bruce closes his eyes. “You could have mentioned seasonal dormancy.”
“I assumed it was obvious.”
He looks at you. You are covered in orange leaves. “…Fair.”
Loving Bruce does not make him less paranoid, less stubborn or less difficult. Loving you does not make you human. Bruce never asks you to shrink yourself. Not physically. Not magically. Not emotionally. The Manor grows around you instead. Doorways become taller. Gardens become stranger. A greenhouse light burns through Gotham winters. Your claws leave marks on furniture that Bruce pretends to be annoyed about. Flowers appear in the Cave. Roots occasionally interfere with electrical systems and Barbara threatens both of you.
Life finds its way into the cracks of Bruce Wayne’s world. He spent years believing love meant losing people. Then you arrive, strange and ancient and impossible, and teach him that sometimes love looks like roots breaking through stone.
Slowly. Quietly. Completely.
dick grayson, 4.8k
Dick’s first reaction to seeing you is not fear. Which, honestly, should probably concern you more than fear would.
You are standing in the middle of Blüdhaven at night, impossibly tall and distinctly inhuman, with limbs too long to belong to any creature Dick recognises and clawed hands curled loosely at your sides. Your hair spills almost to the pavement in thick, wild strands, tangled with vines and small flowering branches. Your eyes are one solid, luminous colour, reflecting the neon signs around you without any visible pupil or white. There is blood on one of your claws.
Dick lands on the rooftop opposite you. You look at him. He looks at you.
There is a long silence. Then Nightwing says, “Okay. You are really tall.”
You blink. That is not the response you expected. “Is that relevant?”
“Not really. I just thought someone should acknowledge it.”
You stare at him for several more seconds.
Dick smiles. “Hi.”
You immediately decide this human is either extremely brave or extremely stupid.
As it turns out, the answer is yes.
Dick does not immediately assume you are dangerous simply because you look frightening. He is cautious, obviously. He has been doing this for too long to walk directly towards a creature with claws capable of cutting through brick without at least considering the possibility that he might be disembowelled.
But his caution does not feel cruel. He does not bark orders at you. He does not demand that you explain what you are. He does not look at you like you are a problem waiting to happen.
Instead, he glances towards the unconscious men behind you and asks, “Did they attack you first?”
You look down at them. “Yes.”
“Cool.” Dick rolls one shoulder. “Then I’m guessing they deserved whatever happened here.”
“I did not kill them.”
“That’s also cool.”
You look at him carefully. “You do not seem afraid.”
Dick’s smile softens slightly. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t scream if you suddenly lunged at me.”
You tilt your head. “Would you like to test this?”
He laughs. “See, that was funny.”
You did not mean it as a joke. This becomes a recurring problem.
The first thing Dick notices about you is how carefully you try to occupy space. You are enormous. There is no graceful way around that fact. Doorways are too small. Furniture is fragile beneath you. Your hair catches on everything. Your claws make people nervous, even when your hands are relaxed.
So you make yourself smaller. You crouch instead of standing fully upright indoors. You hold your arms close to your body. You sit on floors rather than risk damaging chairs. You tuck your hair around yourself so nobody trips over it.
Dick notices all of this almost immediately. He hates it.
Not you. The fact that you feel like you have to do it.
One night, you are sitting on the floor of his apartment while Dick is on the couch He looks at you. “You know you can sit up here, right?”
“The couch is not designed for me.”
“Neither am I, and I sleep on it constantly.”
“That explains much.”
Dick puts a hand dramatically over his chest. “Wow.”
You continue sitting on the floor. Dick sighs and gets down beside you.
You glance at him. “What are you doing?”
“Sitting.”
“There is furniture.”
“Yeah, but apparently we’re a floor household now.”
After that, he starts adapting. Cushions on the floor. An enormous beanbag he buys specifically because he thinks you will find it funny. A mattress in the living room during movie nights. He cannot redesign the entire building, but he can make sure you never feel like the inconvenience in the room.
Dick is probably the first person to tell you directly that he thinks you are beautiful. Not interesting. Not impressive. Not exotic.
Beautiful.
The distinction matters more than he realises.
People stare at you constantly. Some are frightened. Some are fascinated in a way that makes your skin crawl. Some look at the flowers growing from your body and forget that they are connected to you.
Dick never does.
One afternoon, you are complaining about the difficulty of navigating crowded places without causing panic.“Humans dislike unfamiliar things.”
Dick is lying across the couch upside down. “Humans are dumb.”
“You are human.”
“Exactly. I’m an expert.”
You give him an unimpressed look.
He rolls upright and looks at you properly. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re beautiful.”
You go very still.
Dick keeps talking, unaware that every flower along your shoulders has begun opening. “Like, objectively. You look incredible. Kind of terrifying, obviously, but in a cool way.” He pauses. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No.”
“Your flowers are doing a thing.”
“They are not.”
“They absolutely are.”
You turn away.
Dick’s eyes widen. “Oh my God.”
“Do not.”
“Did I make you bloom?”
“Grayson.”
“That’s adorable.”
You threaten to throw him off the balcony. Dick points out that he can fly. You tell him falling creatively is not the same as flying.
Dick is fascinated by your appearance, but he is unusually good at knowing when curiosity becomes invasive. He asks questions. Lots of questions. But he asks permission first.
“Can I ask you something weird?”
You look at him. “You never ask ordinary questions.”
“Fair.” He points towards your hair. “Does it hurt when flowers grow?”
You think about it. “No.”
“Can you feel them?”
“Somewhat.”
Dick’s expression changes immediately. His hand, which had been drifting towards one of the flowers near your shoulder, drops.
You notice. “You may touch them.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He reaches out carefully. His fingertips barely brush the petals. The flower closes.
Dick freezes. “Did I upset it?”
“No.”
“Did I upset you?”
“No.”
“Then why did it—”
“It is nighttime.”
There is a pause.
“Oh.”
You stare at him. “Richard.”
“I’m learning.”
He looks genuinely embarrassed. You laugh. Dick immediately forgets his humiliation because making you laugh is his favourite sport.
Dick absolutely loves your hair. It is ridiculous. Several metres long, impossibly thick and prone to behaving according to emotional states you cannot always control. When calm, it drapes like silk and willow branches. When agitated, it lifts slightly around you. When furious, thorned vines occasionally emerge between the strands.
Dick thinks all of this is amazing. He is also the only member of the family reckless enough to lie directly on it.
The first time, you stare down at him in horror. “You are on my hair.”
“It’s comfortable.”
“Move.”
“Five more minutes.”
“Richard.”
“You’re basically a heated blanket.”
“I will strangle you with it.”
Dick closes his eyes. “See? Multifunctional.”
You should hate him. Unfortunately, you do not.
Once you trust him enough, Dick starts helping you care for your hair. It takes hours. Human brushes are useless. You have your own tools, some made from polished bone, wood or material Dick cannot identify.
The first time you allow him to help, he becomes unexpectedly quiet. You sit on the floor, your hair covering almost the entire room. Dick sits behind you and carefully works through it section by section.
Usually he talks constantly. That night, he does not.
His hands are gentle. He untangles vines without breaking them. Removes dead leaves. Separates flowers from knots.
Eventually, you ask, “Why are you silent?”
Dick smiles faintly. “Didn’t want to ruin the moment.”
You turn slightly. “By speaking?”
“I have been told that’s a risk.”
You smile.
After that, it becomes one of your rituals. Dick comes home from patrol. You sit together. He talks about his day while slowly working through your hair. Sometimes he braids parts of it. Sometimes you fall asleep. Sometimes he finds a tiny beetle living inside it and spends ten minutes arguing with you about whether he can name it.
He is obsessed with decorating you. You make the mistake of letting him braid one ribbon into your hair. It escalates immediately.
Blue ribbons. Small silver clips. Tiny charms. Flowers that Dick insists look good with the flowers already growing there.
During Christmas, he wraps battery-operated fairy lights around part of your hair.
You look in the mirror. “I resemble a festival.”
Dick beams. “Exactly.”
“I do not think that was your intention.”
“It absolutely was.”
You walk into the Manor. Bruce looks at you. Then at Dick.
“They’re battery-operated,” Dick says quickly.
Bruce rubs his forehead. “That was not my question.”
Damian calls the decorations humiliating. Cass says they are pretty. Steph adds tinsel. The situation deteriorates rapidly.
Dick is incredibly physically affectionate with you. This creates logistical problems. Dick hugs everyone. You are nearly nine feet tall.
At first, he wraps his arms around your waist. Then he complains that it feels impersonal.
“You’re hugging me.”
“Yeah, but your face is approximately in another postcode.”
“A what?”
“Never mind.”
Eventually, Dick just starts climbing you. He will hook an arm around your shoulders and pull himself up.
You catch him automatically. “What are you doing?”
“Hugging you.”
“You have climbed my body.”
“Adaptability.”
“Get down.”
“No.”
You carry him around the apartment for twenty minutes because he refuses to release you. Dick considers this a victory.
Dick also develops the dangerous habit of using your limbs for acrobatics. He sees your long arms. He sees an opportunity.
The first time it happens, you are standing on a rooftop. Dick runs towards you. Before you can react, he catches your arm and swings around it to change direction. Your body reacts instinctively. You nearly throw him across the roof.
Dick lands in a roll. He immediately stands up laughing.
You are horrified. “I COULD HAVE KILLED YOU.”
“You didn’t.”
“THAT IS NOT THE POINT.”
“That was amazing.”
“DO NOT DO IT AGAIN.”
He absolutely does it again.
Eventually, you start helping.
Dick develops an entire series of manoeuvres that involve using your height and reach.
Bruce watches footage of this once. He slowly removes his cowl. “Absolutely not.”
Dick gestures towards the screen. “But look how cool that was.”
“No.”
“You didn’t even—”
“No.”
You quietly leave the Cave. You do not want to be part of whatever argument follows.
Dick learns your emotional tells faster than you expect. Unlike Bruce, who approaches the process like a detective solving a puzzle, Dick learns because he watches people constantly.
He notices when your ears lower slightly. He notices when leaves begin curling inward. He notices which flowers appear when you are embarrassed. He notices the subtle way your claws flex when you are overwhelmed. Eventually, he can tell what you are feeling before you consciously recognise it yourself.
“You’re anxious.”
You look at him. “No.”
“Leaves.”
“It is dry.”
“The humidity is sixty-eight per cent.”
You narrow your eyes. “Why do you know the humidity?”
Dick smiles. “Weather app.”
You glare. “Stop changing the subject.”
You consider growing thorns.
Dick points at you. “See? Defensive.”
“I am going to eat your phone.”
“That seems bad for your digestion.”
Dick is not always sunshine with you. He is charming and bright and funny, but you eventually learn that much of that brightness is something he creates deliberately.
Dick can be sad. Angry. Bitter. Exhausted. Sometimes there are parts of him that feel almost painfully old despite his young face. You understand old things.
One night, after a terrible patrol, Dick sits beside you on the roof and says nothing. You wait.
Eventually, you ask, “Do you wish to speak?”
“No.”
You nod. “Do you wish to be alone?”
Dick hesitates. Then, “No.”
So you remain.
Your hair pools around both of you. Dick leans against your side. Minutes pass. Then an hour.
Eventually, he says quietly, “Everyone thinks I’m okay.”
You look down at him. “Are you?”
Dick laughs once. There is no humour in it. “Not always.”
You rest one clawed hand over his. “Then do not always be.”
Dick closes his eyes. He does not say anything else. He does not need to.
You are one of the few people Dick feels comfortable being silent around. Most of his life has involved performance in one form or another. The circus. Robin. Nightwing. The eldest son. The responsible brother. The charming one.
With you, silence is not failure. Sometimes you spend entire evenings together without speaking. Dick reads. You care for plants. His feet rest in your lap. Your hair covers half the floor. Every so often, Dick looks up and smiles at you.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are staring.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
“You are strange.”
“You’re a giant tree person.”
“That is irrelevant.”
“Sure.”
Dick loves introducing you to human things. Not because he thinks your culture is primitive. He genuinely just wants to share the things he loves with you.
Movies become a whole thing. You do not understand why people in horror films repeatedly enter obviously dangerous rooms.
“Do humans lack self-preservation?” Dick has to pause the movie because he is laughing too hard.
You hate rollercoasters. Not because they frighten you. Because you think building machinery to imitate falling is ridiculous.
Dick is personally offended. “Falling is fun.”
“You have been concussed many times.”
“Unrelated.”
“I believe it is deeply related.”
He introduces you to cereal at midnight. You introduce him to fruit that technically went extinct centuries ago.
Dick takes one bite. He looks at you. “Can you grow more?”
“Yes.”
“I would die for you.”
“You say that often.”
“I mean it more now.”
Dick becomes very protective when people treat you like an object. He can handle fear. Fear is understandable. You are eight or nine feet tall, covered in bark and flowers, with claws longer than some knives. But fascination without respect? That irritates him.
At a Justice League meeting, someone asks whether they can take a sample of one of your leaves.
Dick’s smile does not change. “You could ask them instead of asking me.”
The person looks embarrassed.
You look at Dick. He shrugs. “You’re sitting right there.”
Another time, someone tries touching one of the flowers growing from your arm without asking.
Dick catches their wrist. Still smiling. “Don’t.”
His voice is light. His eyes are not.
You realise then that Dick’s anger is often quiet. Dangerous in a way his brightness can hide.
Strangers calling you monstrous is a different problem entirely. Dick has heard similar words before. Freak. Circus animal. Monster. Dangerous. He knows exactly what it feels like to have people decide what you are based on appearance.
The first time someone calls you a monster in front of him, you barely react.
Dick does. “Hey.” You glance at him. He is still smiling. This is not reassuring. “You want to try that sentence again?”
You touch his shoulder. “Richard.”
“No, seriously.”
“It does not matter.”
Dick turns towards you. His expression softens instantly. “It matters to me.”
You do not know what to say.
Dick does. “You don’t have to care what they think. But I’m allowed to care that they hurt you.”
Flowers bloom quietly through your hair.
Dick smiles. “There they are.”
You shove him.
Dick is delighted when he discovers you can carry him easily. He pretends this is practical. It is not.
After patrol, he will lean dramatically against you. “I’m exhausted.”
“Then sleep.”
“Can’t walk.”
“You walked here.”
“Used my last bit of energy.”
You stare at him. Dick stares back. You sigh and pick him up.
He immediately gets comfortable. “Thank you.”
“You are manipulating me.”
“I would never.”
“You are smiling.”
“Because I’m happy.”
“You are impossible.”
Dick rests his head against your chest. “And yet.”
You continue carrying him home.
He genuinely finds your claws beautiful. Other people are nervous around them. Dick holds your hands without hesitation once he knows you well.
Your palms are enormous compared to his. Four long fingers. Dark claws. Bark-like ridges across your knuckles. He traces them absentmindedly.
“You know these could remove your hand.”
“Yeah.”
“That does not concern you?”
“Are you planning to remove my hand?”
“No.”
“Then we’re good.”
You stare at him. “Your survival instincts are poor.”
Dick grins. “Good thing I have you.”
You hate how effective that answer is.
Dick is the person most likely to encourage you to stop hiding your nonhuman traits. Sometimes you try to imitate humans. Not successfully. Your height alone makes blending in impossible. But you learn to hide flowers beneath clothing. Tie your hair back tightly. Keep your claws tucked into your palms. Avoid speaking when your voice sounds too strange.
Dick notices. “Why are you doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Trying to disappear.”
You look away. “Humans find me easier to tolerate this way.”
Dick goes quiet. Then he steps closer. “I don’t want you to be tolerated.”
You look at him. “What?”
“I want you to exist.” His expression is serious now. “Completely.”
You do not answer.
Dick touches your hand. “You spend all your time making yourself smaller so people feel comfortable.” His thumb brushes carefully over one claw. “They can survive being uncomfortable.”
After that, you start letting yourself stand at your full height more often. Dick always looks delighted.
He loves watching you move through the city. There is something almost surreal about it. Blüdhaven is metal, concrete, neon and rain.
Then there is you. Flowers growing from your shoulders. Hair moving like willow branches. Claws clicking softly against rooftops. Sometimes plants push through cracks in the pavement after you pass. Dick thinks you look like the natural world has personally decided to invade his city.
One night, you catch him watching.
“What?”
Dick smiles. “Nothing.”
“You are staring again.”
“You look cool.”
“That is a vague compliment.”
“You look like nature’s revenge.”
You consider it. “Better.”
The first time you visit Haly’s Circus with Dick is unexpectedly emotional. He talks about it constantly before you go. The trapeze. His parents. The people who raised him. By the time you finally see it, you feel like you already know the place.
The performers are initially wary of you. For approximately five minutes.
Then Dick introduces you. That changes everything. Circus people are used to unusual. Used to bodies that move differently. Used to people staring. Used to making family out of whoever needs one.
You fit surprisingly well.
An older performer looks at you and says, “You’re dating Johnny and Mary’s boy?”
Dick groans. “Please don’t say it like that.”
“He was naked backstage until he was four.”
“I am begging you.”
You slowly turn towards him. “This is valuable information.”
“No.”
“Please continue.”
Dick realises with horror that his family likes you. You realise with delight that they have stories. It is a wonderful day.
Dick teaches you trapeze. This goes exactly as badly as you would expect. Your proportions are not designed for human equipment. Dick thinks this makes the challenge more fun.
“Trust me.”
You look down from the platform. “You have said that immediately before several disasters.”
“Name one.”
You begin counting on your claws.
Dick interrupts. “Okay, fine.” He holds out his hands. “Trust me anyway.”
You do.
The first attempt ends with both of you tangled in the safety net. Dick is laughing so hard he cannot breathe. You are furious.
“Your entire species is ridiculous.”
“You loved it.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
A flower blooms near your ear. Dick points at it. “Evidence.”
You consider biting him.
Dick loves dancing with you. There are obvious height differences. He does not care. Sometimes he stands on furniture. Sometimes you lift him. Sometimes he dances around you while holding one of your hands.
The first time he convinces you to dance at Wayne Manor, you are reluctant. “I do not know human dances.”
“Neither does Bruce, and no one stops him.”
“I heard that,” Bruce says from across the room.
Dick ignores him. “Come on.”
You allow him to take your hand.
Dick guides you slowly. You are awkward at first. Your limbs are too long for the movements. Your claws make you afraid of hurting him.
Dick steps closer. “Stop thinking.”
“That is terrible advice.”
“Okay. Stop worrying.”
“Also terrible.”
“Just follow me.”
You do.
Eventually, the tension leaves your shoulders. Flowers open quietly along your hair.
Dick looks up. “You’re happy.”
You narrow your eyes. “Continue dancing.”
He smiles. “Yes, Boss.”
You nearly step on him.
Dick struggles with the fact that you might outlive him. Unlike Bruce, he asks directly. There is no long investigation. No careful research.
One night, while lying with his head in your lap, he says, “How long do you live?”
Your hand stops moving through his hair. “Why?”
Dick looks at the ceiling. “Just thinking.”
You know him too well to accept that answer. “About?”
Silence.
Then, “Whether you’ll still be here when I’m not.”
The question hurts.
You are quiet for a while.
Dick continues, “Sorry. That was depressing.”
“Do not apologise.”
“I kind of ruined the mood.”
“Richard.” He stops. You carefully cup the side of his face. “Yes.”
Dick looks at you. “Yes, what?”
“I will likely live longer than you.” His expression tightens. You continue before he can joke. “That does not make your life smaller.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Dick does not answer.
Your thumb brushes his cheek. “A song does not become meaningless because it ends.”
His eyes close briefly. “That was disgustingly poetic.”
“You are crying.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.” “Your plants are releasing allergens.”
“My plants do not—”
Dick sits up and hugs you before you can finish.
He worries that you will leave. This is different from worrying that you will die. Dick has spent his life losing homes. The circus. Gotham. Relationships. People. He is very good at pretending he does not fear abandonment.
You notice anyway.
Whenever you leave for long periods, he becomes strange. Not clingy. Almost the opposite. Too casual.
“You’ll be gone long?”
“A month.”
“Cool.”
You look at him. “Richard.”
“What?”
“You are unhappy.”
“No, I’m not.”
The lie is terrible.
You sit beside him. “I will return.”
Dick smiles. “I know.”
“You do not believe me.” His smile fades. You lean closer. “I will return.” This time, you make him look at you. “Say it.”
Dick swallows. “You’ll come back.”
“Yes.”
Something in his shoulders loosens.
Dick is the person who teaches you that home can be a person without making that idea feel like a cage. You have known forests. Ancient places. Hidden kingdoms. Rivers that no longer exist. You have lived in places humans would call beautiful beyond language. None of them prepared you for Dick Grayson.
Dick, who leaves cereal boxes open. Dick, who talks during movies. Dick, who steals blankets despite sleeping beside a creature who produces body heat. Dick, who will wake up at three in the morning and whisper, “Do you think fish get thirsty?”
You stare at him in the darkness. “Go to sleep.”
“But do they?”
“Richard.”
“I’m asking scientifically.”
“You are banned from speaking.”
Home becomes something strange. Bright. Loud. Sometimes irritating. It looks less like a forest and more like blue clothing abandoned on the floor.
Dick loves the parts of you that other people call frightening. Your claws. Your height. Your glowing eyes. Your sharp teeth. The way your hair moves when angry. The thorns. All of it.
Not because he romanticises danger. Dick has spent enough time around danger to know better. He simply refuses to believe that something must be soft to be beautiful.
One night, you ask him, “Do I frighten you?”
Dick thinks seriously. “Sometimes.” You stiffen. Then he continues, “But not because of how you look.” You look at him. “You scared me last month when you almost got yourself killed protecting me.”
“That is different.”
“Not really.” Dick takes your hand. “You’re beautiful when you’re gentle.” His thumb traces one claw. “You’re beautiful when you’re not.”
The flowers across your body open so violently that Dick begins laughing.
“Do not.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“Your face is saying enough.”
Dick is hopelessly fascinated by the fact that your body changes with the seasons. Spring is his favourite. You bloom everywhere. Flowers appear in your hair faster than you can control. Pollen becomes a genuine household problem.
Jason sneezes every time you enter the Manor. “I hate spring.”
Dick is sitting beside you, weaving flowers into a crown. “You’re just jealous.”
“Of what?”
“Natural beauty.”
Jason stares at him. “I’m going to shoot you.”
Dick puts the flower crown on your head. “See? Gorgeous.”
You look at him. “You have added flowers to the flowers already growing from me.”
“Layers.”
“It is redundant.”
“Fashion.”
You stop trying to understand.
Autumn worries Dick the first year. Your leaves begin changing colour. You become slower. Quieter. More tired.
Dick knows you are not dying. You explain this several times. He still watches you closely.
“I am fine.”
“You slept twelve hours.”
“I require more rest during this season.”
Dick touches a brown leaf gently. “And this is normal?”
“Yes.”
“And that one?”
“Yes.”
“And—”
“Richard.” He goes quiet. You soften. “I am not leaving.”
Dick looks at you. He smiles faintly. “I know.”
He still keeps every leaf you lose that season. You discover a box months later.
“Why do you have these?”
Dick looks guilty. “Sentimental value?”
“They are dead leaves.”
“Sentimental dead leaves.”
You cannot argue with him.
Winter is harder. You become lethargic. Flowers disappear. Your colour dulls.
Dick compensates by becoming aggressively cosy. Blankets. Warm lights. Soup. Films. He drags you into bed even though neither of you technically fits properly.
“I do not need this many blankets.”
“You’re cold.”
“I am dormant.”
“You’re cold and dramatic.”
“I am not dramatic.”
Dick looks at the giant creature currently lying across his apartment floor while lamenting the absence of sunlight. “Sure.”
You throw a pillow at him.
Dick takes thousands of photographs of you. Unlike Tim, who documents things for information, Dick takes pictures because he wants to remember.
You sleeping in sunlight. You covered in spring flowers. You with a butterfly sitting on one claw. You standing in the rain. You wearing sunglasses Steph bought despite the fact that your eyes function completely differently from human eyes. You looking irritated after discovering Dick has placed a tiny Nightwing mask on one of the flowers growing from your hair.
One day, you find an entire album. You flip through it slowly.
Dick walks in. Stops. “Oh.”
You look up. “You kept these.”
Dick becomes strangely shy. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I like looking at you.”
You stare at the photographs. In every one, you look alive. Not strange. Not monstrous. Alive.
Loved.
Dick’s love for you is loud. Not necessarily public. But constant. He says your name often. Touches you whenever he passes. Leaves notes. Brings snacks. Sends pictures of dogs he sees. Complains when you disappear into forests without phone reception. Calls just to hear your voice.
There is very little ambiguity with Dick. This is frightening in its own way.
You are ancient enough to know that love often hides itself. Dick does not.
One night, you ask, “Are you never afraid of loving things openly?”
Dick’s expression changes. “All the time.”
You blink. “Then why do you?”
He looks at you for a long moment. “Because I’ve lost people without getting enough time to love them.” His voice softens. “I’m not wasting what I get.”
That is the moment you understand him completely.
Loving Dick means learning that joy is not ignorance. You initially mistake his brightness for innocence. It is not.
Dick knows grief. Rage. Violence. Loss. He chooses joy anyway.
That fascinates you. You have watched forests burn and return. Rivers dry. Cities rise and fall. You understand resilience in nature. Dick teaches you what resilience looks like in a person.
It looks like laughter after grief. It looks like movement after pain. It looks like wearing bright blue in cities built from shadow. It looks like someone looking at a creature humans call monstrous and saying, You’re beautiful. Then saying it again. And again. Until one day, when you look at your reflection, you believe him.
Dick never asks you to become smaller. That is perhaps the most important thing. He does not ask you to hide your claws. Cut your hair. Cover the flowers. Lower your voice. Bend your spine.
He climbs onto counters to kiss you when necessary. He sits on rooftops beside you while your legs hang several floors down. He dances beneath your hands. He learns your seasons. He loves your silences. He lets your hair take over his apartment despite finding leaves in places leaves should never physically be capable of reaching.
Dick Grayson has spent his life defying gravity. Loving you feels strangely similar.
Impossible to other people. Reckless from the outside. Terrifying when you first let go.And then—suddenly, you are not falling.
You are flying.
