His small hands were engulfed in two welded twin cuffs connected to a short chain on the ground, forcing his arms behind his back. His knees burned from where they stayed kneeled on the ground, raw skin grinding up against the rough stone at every movement he made, sending a sharp stinging sensation up his thighs and down his calves.
A thick liquid continuously spilled down his shoulders and ran down his arms into his cuffs. It would have been useful for slipping out of them, had he been wiser just six days before. There was time to dislocate his thumb six days ago. Time to press his tracker. Time to let someone, anyone know where he was. But he was stubborn. No, he was trusting. Trusting that they'd find their way to him with the clues they were collecting over the case. There was no need to take the risk of losing his tracker to his captor when his family consisted of the smartest detectives alive.
It was the seventh day and they hadn't found him. And now Damian’s hands were completely out of order, numb and sticky. Useless.
He had stood for the first two days. It was a way to maintain control, a way to taunt his captor while being so exposed. The knife could slice his back, stab his shoulders, or trace his neck. The taser could ram into his ribs, spark over his bicep, or jab against his spine. The cuffs could tighten, the chain could move lower, the ceiling may start spinning. His shoulder may snap, his ankle might swell, his chest may contract. But he continued to stand until his knees shook. Until his captor used the same method he used for his shoulders on his thighs and shins. Until he kneeled.
Damian was cold. Cold from the blood drying on his skin, cold from the air vents that never turned on, cold from the nonexistent wind echoing throughout the room. He was cold.
Damian was cold. Cold from the people that hadn't shown up yet, cold from the trust that was fading after it was built up for so long, cold from the memories that hurt his already pounding skull. He was cold.
His eyes were turned towards the ground. Well, his eye. His forehead had a nasty cut that split down the left side of his face, rendering that eye useless. Useless.
He was fading in and out of an almost dissociative state. Until he zoned back in after thinking of a particularly interesting memory. He remembered something. Something juvenile. Something he would've screamed at his past self for had he remembered its existence. His mask.
His mask, if pressed on the side, activated another tracker. He had another tracker. An accessible, emergency tracker.
Damian's hands could not press it, nor could he reach it with his incapacitated shoulders, however…
He felt the stone against his back again. The sensation suddenly gives him an idea, the most clear thought he's had in days. The wall.
Damian turned his head to the side, and slammed his face against the wall. He immediately felt disoriented, the room seemingly growing darker and brighter all at once. But he heard the “beep!”. He felt something shift in his mask, a mechanism. And he saw a blinking light at the corner of his eye.
It turned green. Green indicated someone was on the way. That someone caught his signal.
Somebody was coming for him.
ooc// hello!! this is the first open rp on this account, so I'm going to say some stuff first. first of all, this starter is pretty dang long, but I WILL match your style the best I can. if you write in short sentences, I'll try and match that. if you write in novel, I'll also try and match that. secondly, this rp does work best for vigilante/hero accounts. anyone can interact, but make sure to read it before interacting because it IS harder to do it with non-hero accs. thirdly, this does contain trigger warnings. I'm going to be pretty descriptive about injuries, so if that bothers you please either tell me or possible refrain from interacting. I'm making it seem like there's a shit ton of rules but there really isn't, I do NOT care that much😭😭
He was furious with Bruce, for letting Damian get taken. He was furious with Dick, for being out cold for two days and unable to provide any useful information. He was furious with Jason, for not showing up when Bruce called for backup. He was furious with all of them, because they let Damian down.
But most of all, Tim was furious with himself. If he had been faster, if he’d fought harder, if he had seen the trap for what it was, if he’d done more, maybe Damian would be standing next to him, poking fun at his haircut. But he didn’t. And Damian wasn’t here.
For all Tim knew, his brother was dead in a ditch somewhere. But he couldn’t let that be an option. Damian had to be alive. The little prick would never let himself get killed like that. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
They all got… obsessive, when one of their own was captured, but Tim took the word to a new level. His eyes were bloodshot, bouncing between screens at an almost inhuman speed. His hands shook as he tested location after location, cross-referencing and double-checking and coming up with absolutely nothing.
How could they let this happen? How could Tim let this happen? Where the fuck was his little brother?
He could count the number of times he’d been out of uniform in the last week on one hand, and he hadn’t the faintest idea when he’d last slept. He had to be ready. He had to be there for Damian when they found him. Because they would find him. And Tim would never let Damian down again.
Seven days. Damian had been gone seven days and a whole family of detectives couldn’t find him. But failure wasn’t an option. If Tim had to tear apart the entire city to find his brother, he would. With no hesitation.
All this to say, Tim was obsessive. Especially over this. Especially when it came to family. Especially when it came to Damian. This obsessiveness meant he was the one staring a little too intently at the Batcomputer’s screen when the emergency tracker lit up, marking Damian’s location.
Tim nearly fell out of his chair. His mask was on and he was out of the window in seconds, knocking over a desk on the way out. He didn’t think to alert anyone else, leave a note or a message. The only thing that mattered at that moment was getting Damian back. Anything beyond that was insignificant.
Tim was on autopilot, taking out guards with barely a glance in their direction. His brain was focused on one goal. He didn’t stop to think that the low amount of security was odd, especially with how well hidden the place was.
Finally, finally, a figure came into view. Tim felt his heart wrenching in his chest, and his staff clattered to the ground as he rushed forward. Damian did not look good. The smell of blood assaulted Tim’s nose as he got closer. The scent was nauseating. Tim had never seen Damian look so defeated. It felt… wrong, to see him like this. A pang of guilt washed over Tim. This should have never happened.
Tim knelt in front of his brother and reached out to gently cradle Damian’s face in his hands, “Fuck, Dami, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s okay. I’m here now. It’s gonna be okay.”
There's thumps around Damian, bangs, crashes, and blunt objects being smashed into skin and fabric. There's sounds of bodies falling to the ground, yells that are soon muffled and curses that turn gargled. He knows those sounds well. He's familiar with these sounds. These sounds mean that someone is there with him. Battle.
But are they here to save him, or to hurt him? What if they're a rival business to the one he was captured by? What if they take him for ransom? What if they're worse? What if they just leave him there, chained up and vulnerable? He can't trust it. No. Damian shouldn't trust anything until he knows for sure. He can't depend on emotional instinct here. He has to know. He has to be positive. He has to be cautious.
The sinking in his chest deepens. It physically hurts him, the more he thinks about how long he's been there. How naive he felt—feels as the hours go by. Someone is there. He can not give in to them. He can not let them win.
Not when he already grew too comfortable. Too hopeful. Not when he knows what happens when you do.
Damian tries to stay alert, but as the fight continues, his eye starts to flutter. Unconsciousness bites at his thoughts, his fingers beginning to fully untense, and he feels himself droop. The defense mechanism forced into him dims, the fight or flight in his system fading until the only thing he can defend himself with is his speech. Even then, his tongue is heavy and covered with marks from his teeth. He feels pathetic.
There's scraping against the floor in front of him. Damian doesn't even remember when it all went quiet. A metal clang is heard, whatever was thrown rolling across the bumpy floor halts against something sturdy. His head is still lulled against his chest when he suddenly feels two hands softly cup his cheeks. The heel of the hands holds up his head, while the palms and fingertips cradle him gently, as if one wrong move will send him crashing down.
There is desperation in the voice he hears. It's scratchy from little use. He's never heard a voice sound wet and dry at the same time. It's heavy with familiarity.
Nonetheless, the touch is foreign, the voice buzzing in his ears and against his skull. He harshly throws himself back against the wall with a small, croaking, barely audible "No.." The chains clink, and his legs scream at him to stay still, yet he needs to get away from them. He doesn't know who they are, he doesn't know that texture, he doesn't know that scent, he doesn't—he doesn't know anything.
His breathing is slow and difficult to force out, his arm placement making his lungs constrict uncomfortably. Yet, in the moment, he needs air. He needs to breathe. He can't breathe. His legs are burning and his shoulders are bleeding, and he's so, so frustrated.
Damian forces an eye open, a small mercy on himself even as it burns his eyes. He is met with a sight he had at some point never thought he'd see again. A sight he nearly accepted he'd never see again.
"T—" His tongue fails on him for a moment, disbelief willing it back into use. "...T'mthy?"
Drake's eyes are bloodshot and slightly watery, from emotion or dryness he can not tell. His eyebrows are furrowed. He is frustrated. Is Drake frustrated with him? He may be. That would be unfair. Damian had a plan. He had something that could've been helpful, and he did it. There shouldn't be any harm in doing what he thought was right. That's what they do every day. That's their job. Stupid Drake. Stupid family. They don't know what they're doing. They have no right to be mad at him.
...even if Drake was mad at him, he was still there. Looking at him with so much emotion that Damian felt himself choke. He tried to will himself to talk, but it just leads to nonsense spilling out of his lips in a rushed attempt at english, and his brother is here, in front of him, looking at him with this look, and Damian is gone. His body drops almost fully, the adrenaline of survival starting to be replaced with the feeling of relief, and his body leans forward towards Tim, his way of reaching out without the limbs to do so.
Tim freezes as Damian throws himself away from his hands, and as much as he aches to reach out again, he forces himself to stay put. Damian is a wounded animal, and in his eyes, Tim is just another threat.
A pang of guilt washes over Tim as he looks at his little brother, cowering against the wall as if waiting for the next assault or injury. Who could be cruel enough to beat the spirit out of someone as defiant as Damian? He was by far the strongest out of all of them. Tim was furious.
He manages to snap himself out of his emotional spiral to automatically do an injury check. It was easier to tap into his training, when feeling was too overwhelming. Bloodshot eyes quickly scanned over Damian’s small, shaking body, blinking away tears that threatened to spill over. He needs you.
Nasty gashes covered the top half of his body, including multiple stab wounds, some of which were still bleeding. His shoulder was definitely dislocated, and his arm was bent at an odd angle. His knees were scraped raw, and his ankle was horribly swollen. Bruises and cuts littered his body, and his eyes were stubbornly squeezed shut, from injury or exhaustion Tim couldn’t tell.
All in all, his condition was not good. Tim needed to get him out of here, fast. He needed to grab Damian and take him somewhere far, far away, where no one could hurt him ever again. He needed something real. He needed to know that Damian was really alive, that he was here. The rise and fall of his chest was shallow— too shallow.
He was pulled from his internal train of thought as Damian cracked an eye open, seeming shocked to see him, his voice painfully scratchy and too quiet.
“Yeah, I’m here,” Tim whispered, traitorous eyes welling up again, “I’m never going to leave you again.”
He scrambled forward as Damian’s small body began to lean towards him, barely managing to catch him as his little brother collapsed into his arms. The stone room around them disappeared as Tim clung tightly to Damian, his whole world narrowing down to his little brother. He began to rub his back, murmuring quiet reassurances without realizing he was even speaking out loud.
Father simply just... doesn't care about alternatives to a situation unless it pertains to him. The world's greatest detective somehow can not think of any other reason to why I may be "misbehaving" or "acting out" besides immaturity. I am not immature. I wasn't even misbehaving! Or acting out!
I simply want to leave for a few days. I can take care of myself. I am not a child.
B is good at a lot of things, and i’m speaking from experience when i say that talking to 15 year olds is not one of them.
and dames, i believe that you can take care of yourself, but who’s gonna take care of me? what will i do without you here to tell me exactly what’s wrong with my outfit and that jason put 12 batarangs in my bed??
Are you admitting that you can't take care of yourself? Really, Drake. Of all your methods. You are more than capable of taking care of those things on your own. besides the outfit part. Throw away the polos I know you have behind your dress shirts.
... I am almost in the city, Timothy. It would take longer to get to Gotham than it would here. Father has yet to call. Or send a message. Or communicate in any way that he has noticed my departure. And until I get the apology I deserve, I am staying right here in the city.
Unless you have a way of getting me back to Gotham quicker. Though, going by car is far longer than by train. It's not worth wasting your brain power on. You need all you can get.
i’ll talk to bruce but i’m still coming to get you, okay? B just needs to get his head out of his ass. i’m sure he already feels bad that you fought—he’s probably trying to give you space.
though i will say; taking a train out of the city just because you’re upset is not helping your argument against B calling you immature.
Father simply just... doesn't care about alternatives to a situation unless it pertains to him. The world's greatest detective somehow can not think of any other reason to why I may be "misbehaving" or "acting out" besides immaturity. I am not immature. I wasn't even misbehaving! Or acting out!
I simply want to leave for a few days. I can take care of myself. I am not a child.
B is good at a lot of things, and i’m speaking from experience when i say that talking to 15 year olds is not one of them.
and dames, i believe that you can take care of yourself, but who’s gonna take care of me? what will i do without you here to tell me exactly what’s wrong with my outfit and that jason put 12 batarangs in my bed??
🧺 : what life skill was the hardest for your muse to learn once they were out on their own?
definitely cooking. tim has the unusual talent of managing to fuck up even the easiest of dishes so for the first year or so after moving out he would absolutely avoid ovens and stoves like the plague.
he lives on a diet of exclusively microwave ramen, cereal, and takeout for that first year, plus the occasional homecooked meal he bums off of his friends that can actually cook. he probably can make like. pasta. and thats it.
eventually he would lock in and teach himself to actually cook but i don’t think he would ever get over being an absolute mess in the kitchen but so organized and put together in the rest of his life.
🎁 : how does your muse respond when they don't like a gift they've received?
tim is absolutely the type to awkwardly go “oh… thanks….” if he doesn’t like a present.
like he’s not going to tell you he doesn’t like it to your face but its kind of obvious. he’ll try to be nice about it and pretend he doesn’t care but he very much wears his emotions on his face when he’s feeling hurt.
on the flip side, he’s really bad at expressing gratitude for gifts he actually does like. give him a nice new notebook and he will accept it with the most indifferent expression and an awkward “thanks” but he will be using the SHIT out of that.
💍 : does your muse carry any good luck charms or other memorable trinkets? what makes this item significant to them?
tim’s good luck charm is actually his key to the manor. at this point he mostly enters the house through the batcave or his bedroom window, so he doesn’t really need to take it everywhere with him, but he does anyway.
when bruce first gave tim the key, he was absolutely terrified of losing it, so he basically turned it into a necklace. he’s worn it like that for so long it feels wrong to go without it. he’s made a habit of grabbing hold of the key before a particularly difficult battle. it reminds him of his family.
💖 - Do you have any blogs you really enjoy writing with?
okay get ready guys this is a long list, imma js say the muns I like rping with
first I obviously have to say @bat-children-in-the-vents cause they're literally amazing at writing, especially for the Jons (Superboy and Scarecrow), and also he's literally the best.
Next, @risetherivermoon my twin, literally amazing and I love you brother.
@m-ozzy for an amazing Damian and your art is literally scrumptious
@verdant-star (idk your main sry) for their Oliver and their Zatannas
@riddles-redux (also don't know your main off the top of my head) I adore your writing just like. In general lol
@echoesofwayne you're amazing and your art and everything dude. just all of it
@super-sunburst I LOVE KONNIE SO MUCH AUGHHHH
and anyone else I've ever interacted with, I love you all too. ALL OF YOU.
His small hands were engulfed in two welded twin cuffs connected to a short chain on the ground, forcing his arms behind his back. His knees burned from where they stayed kneeled on the ground, raw skin grinding up against the rough stone at every movement he made, sending a sharp stinging sensation up his thighs and down his calves.
A thick liquid continuously spilled down his shoulders and ran down his arms into his cuffs. It would have been useful for slipping out of them, had he been wiser just six days before. There was time to dislocate his thumb six days ago. Time to press his tracker. Time to let someone, anyone know where he was. But he was stubborn. No, he was trusting. Trusting that they'd find their way to him with the clues they were collecting over the case. There was no need to take the risk of losing his tracker to his captor when his family consisted of the smartest detectives alive.
It was the seventh day and they hadn't found him. And now Damian’s hands were completely out of order, numb and sticky. Useless.
He had stood for the first two days. It was a way to maintain control, a way to taunt his captor while being so exposed. The knife could slice his back, stab his shoulders, or trace his neck. The taser could ram into his ribs, spark over his bicep, or jab against his spine. The cuffs could tighten, the chain could move lower, the ceiling may start spinning. His shoulder may snap, his ankle might swell, his chest may contract. But he continued to stand until his knees shook. Until his captor used the same method he used for his shoulders on his thighs and shins. Until he kneeled.
Damian was cold. Cold from the blood drying on his skin, cold from the air vents that never turned on, cold from the nonexistent wind echoing throughout the room. He was cold.
Damian was cold. Cold from the people that hadn't shown up yet, cold from the trust that was fading after it was built up for so long, cold from the memories that hurt his already pounding skull. He was cold.
His eyes were turned towards the ground. Well, his eye. His forehead had a nasty cut that split down the left side of his face, rendering that eye useless. Useless.
He was fading in and out of an almost dissociative state. Until he zoned back in after thinking of a particularly interesting memory. He remembered something. Something juvenile. Something he would've screamed at his past self for had he remembered its existence. His mask.
His mask, if pressed on the side, activated another tracker. He had another tracker. An accessible, emergency tracker.
Damian's hands could not press it, nor could he reach it with his incapacitated shoulders, however…
He felt the stone against his back again. The sensation suddenly gives him an idea, the most clear thought he's had in days. The wall.
Damian turned his head to the side, and slammed his face against the wall. He immediately felt disoriented, the room seemingly growing darker and brighter all at once. But he heard the “beep!”. He felt something shift in his mask, a mechanism. And he saw a blinking light at the corner of his eye.
It turned green. Green indicated someone was on the way. That someone caught his signal.
Somebody was coming for him.
ooc// hello!! this is the first open rp on this account, so I'm going to say some stuff first. first of all, this starter is pretty dang long, but I WILL match your style the best I can. if you write in short sentences, I'll try and match that. if you write in novel, I'll also try and match that. secondly, this rp does work best for vigilante/hero accounts. anyone can interact, but make sure to read it before interacting because it IS harder to do it with non-hero accs. thirdly, this does contain trigger warnings. I'm going to be pretty descriptive about injuries, so if that bothers you please either tell me or possible refrain from interacting. I'm making it seem like there's a shit ton of rules but there really isn't, I do NOT care that much😭😭
He was furious with Bruce, for letting Damian get taken. He was furious with Dick, for being out cold for two days and unable to provide any useful information. He was furious with Jason, for not showing up when Bruce called for backup. He was furious with all of them, because they let Damian down.
But most of all, Tim was furious with himself. If he had been faster, if he’d fought harder, if he had seen the trap for what it was, if he’d done more, maybe Damian would be standing next to him, poking fun at his haircut. But he didn’t. And Damian wasn’t here.
For all Tim knew, his brother was dead in a ditch somewhere. But he couldn’t let that be an option. Damian had to be alive. The little prick would never let himself get killed like that. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
They all got… obsessive, when one of their own was captured, but Tim took the word to a new level. His eyes were bloodshot, bouncing between screens at an almost inhuman speed. His hands shook as he tested location after location, cross-referencing and double-checking and coming up with absolutely nothing.
How could they let this happen? How could Tim let this happen? Where the fuck was his little brother?
He could count the number of times he’d been out of uniform in the last week on one hand, and he hadn’t the faintest idea when he’d last slept. He had to be ready. He had to be there for Damian when they found him. Because they would find him. And Tim would never let Damian down again.
Seven days. Damian had been gone seven days and a whole family of detectives couldn’t find him. But failure wasn’t an option. If Tim had to tear apart the entire city to find his brother, he would. With no hesitation.
All this to say, Tim was obsessive. Especially over this. Especially when it came to family. Especially when it came to Damian. This obsessiveness meant he was the one staring a little too intently at the Batcomputer’s screen when the emergency tracker lit up, marking Damian’s location.
Tim nearly fell out of his chair. His mask was on and he was out of the window in seconds, knocking over a desk on the way out. He didn’t think to alert anyone else, leave a note or a message. The only thing that mattered at that moment was getting Damian back. Anything beyond that was insignificant.
Tim was on autopilot, taking out guards with barely a glance in their direction. His brain was focused on one goal. He didn’t stop to think that the low amount of security was odd, especially with how well hidden the place was.
Finally, finally, a figure came into view. Tim felt his heart wrenching in his chest, and his staff clattered to the ground as he rushed forward. Damian did not look good. The smell of blood assaulted Tim’s nose as he got closer. The scent was nauseating. Tim had never seen Damian look so defeated. It felt… wrong, to see him like this. A pang of guilt washed over Tim. This should have never happened.
Tim knelt in front of his brother and reached out to gently cradle Damian’s face in his hands, “Fuck, Dami, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s okay. I’m here now. It’s gonna be okay.”
its harder than it sounds to get a working spleen without people asking questions
i still probably could, it just… hasn’t come up, i guess. i’d rather get MY spleen back rather than go to the hassle of finding a suitable new one anyway.
