Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader
Warnings/tags: 18+; stalker-to-lovers, domestic abuse, violence, unstable!Reader, hurt/comfort, angst, suicidal ideation, smut, dead dove do not eat
<<One Good Deed Playlist>>
All Dex needed was one good deed, something to tip the scales of his life and balance everything out a little. Crying, injured, and terrified as you wandered the streets of Hell’s Kitchen late at night, you seemed to check all the boxes of someone in need. But as Dex gets to know you, he realizes he miscalculated what his one good deed would be, and now he's not quite done with you.
Installment List
1:| Killer, Killer, Killer
2:| You Consume Everything
3:| Yours for All the Wrong Reasons
4:| It's Starting to Cave
5:| Look What You've Done
6:| Make Me A Believer
7:| Please Don't Let Me Down
8:| Didn't Mean to Find It In You
Possible trigger warning for mention of death in child birth. It's literally one sentence, and it didn't actually happen. It is the explanation for the twins' nonexistent mother.
“Okay, let me make sure I understand the situation.” Barbra looked around the cave at all of the bats save Damian and Cass. They had even woken Duke up early for this. “None of you knew Tim was in a relationship, let alone married? None of you?” She was frankly impressed with the unmitigated disaster playing out in front of her.
“No we didn’t.” Bruce responded “Why did you? Did he know you would find out regardless and tell you to get ahead of that? Make it seem like we all knew.”
“Okay I should establish something real quick because you are all very lost. Tim was in no way, shape, or form hiding his marriage.” Barbra started then had to speak louder to be heard over the sudden outcry. “Shut up I’ll prove it.” She went over to the computer.
She called Barry Allen. “Hi Barry, it’s Barbra. I need to ask you something to prove a point.”
“Okay? Shoot.” The speedster responded with clear confusion.
“Has Red Robin at any point asked you for relationship advice and if so what for?”
“I’m sorry what?”
“Just answer the question.” Bruce demanded brows furrowed.
“Yeah, about a month into dating Danny. He asked about balancing a relationship with a civilian and how to deal with twin babies as a hero.” He explained. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing important. I’ll tell you later." Barbra said hanging up on him. Barbra called a few other heroes and Lucius fox to prove her point of Tim having been fairly open about his relationship.
“Okay so we’ve established that this was never being kept secret so now let’s figure out how you all missed it.” She looked around the room.
“All of you read Tim’s report on the time stream investigation right?” She asked as she pulled it up. Upon getting agreement from the rest she continued. “Tim met Danny while he was in Chicago meeting Constantine’s contact that got us the information on when Bruce would emerge. Due to the contact, that we only know as Phantom needing access to someone with a close relationship with Bruce Tim stayed in Chicago for two months before giving us the information through Constantine.” She pulled up an alternate identity profile for Alvin Thompson. “Because of how long he was set to stay in Chicago he lived under one of his aliases. Tim didn’t include it in the main report but if you look at the other notable information he talked about what he was doing while in Chicago. While living there he made friends with another teen, Danny. They got pretty close. Danny’s ex girlfriend Melissa was expecting twins and she was going to sign her parental rights away leaving them in Danny and his older sister’s custody.” She pulled up a selfie of Tim and Danny in a skate park. “Tim decided to stay in Chicago even after Phantom got the information about Bruce. He and Danny started dating a month before the twins were born. Melissa had an unknown allergy to a medication used during the birth and passed away. The twins had some health complications that required blood transfusions. Those came from Tim. After the twins were stable enough Danny and sister moved here to Gotham and Tim returned.” She had been pulling up section after section in Tim’s report that explained this situation. That all of them had some how missed.
“Okay to be fair the other information section typically only has things like how many batarangs were used. Not an entire romance novel.” Jason joked.
As Bruce was about to respond to that they were interrupted by a call from Damian and Cass.
Bruce immediately answered with a grunted “Report.”
“Hello Father. We have been observing Timothy and his family and they have over all seemed to be a completely average family. Both Timothy and his husband are attentive to the twins as well as each other. All four seem to be openly affectionate with each other. However we have just observed that both Nightingale and the male twin have the ability to fly.” Damian explained.
“Well yes Danny is literally a known meta. So are both of the twins.” Barbra looked around again disappointed and tired.
“I see.” Bruce said seeming somewhat lost. “Cass what were your observations?”
“They are all happy. I have more but want to wait.” She explained in a short manner.
“Okay I think we have enough. Cass Damian come home tonight after they go to sleep. We will reach out to Tim to talk about this when he gets back to town tomorrow.”
-
Cass waited for Damian to be asleep as she flew the plane to call Dinah. She needed to ask some questions before she talked to her family.
pairings: platonic!batfam x medium!gn!reader (+platonic!john constantine)
summary: they wrote you off as sick, not right in the head. Whispered how your mind shows you things that don't exist. Instead of listening to you when you told them about the ghosts you saw, they upped the dose of your medications. But the ghosts were never fully felt; instead of seeing them clearly, you only saw their shadows, so you learned to keep quiet, worried that the higher dose might end up killing you.
tags: mentions of medication and being high, the family thinks reader is crazy, they're wrong tho, death mentioned? reader is called peculiar in a derogatory way
a/n: there was an anon in my inbox with a cool idea for this reader so I guess we'll have a part three too
part one | part three
The morning after John's visit, you found yourself at your bathroom sink, staring down at the bottle of medication you took since Bruce found out about your 'illness'. While deep down you knew that the man was right about not taking them, which will help along with the research you did years ago on your ability, it helped you realise what is 'wrong' with you, but the doubt still crept in. What if he was wrong? What if you were just being delusional? What if you were actually sick and needed those pills?
"Caught you just in time; don't take those anymore," Bruce spoke up from the doorway, making you turn away. "I'll take them so you don't forget." He reached his hands towards you.
"Are you... sure?" You asked, handing your father the bottle.
"I am," Bruce assured you, slipping the bottle into his pocket. "John can be a bit... weird at times, but he wouldn't lie about this."
The first few days off medication you felt rather fine; the shadows, though present as always, had yet to turn human. The whispers coming from them went unnoticed, as you learnt to ignore them over the years.
Then the changes began to show themselves. Louder voices in empty rooms, some shadows grew bigger, some changed shape.
The family returned from the patrol one night to your scream echoing through the manor. They found you in your room, your back against the headboard, eyes wide and staring off to the side. They couldn't see it, but you were staring right at the ghost that woke you up by shaking your bed and trying to pull the covers off you. Your scream forced him to move away from it, watching the family with anger coming off him like steam.
You soon found out he wasn't the only ghost furious with you. Including Ms Sherry, whom you vaguely remember from your childhood.
All of them are mad that you didn't bother helping them over the years, even when the stronger ones managed to speak to you through your medicated brain.
You began to dread coming to bed and being alone in general. The ghosts were calmer when you were surrounded by people, so you avoided separating from your family.
Your family started taking turns watching over you, worried that the lack of sleep might make the withdrawl symptoms worse. They brought in a second bed into your room for one of them to sleep on.
Bruce had the hardest time watching you at night. You would often beg him with tear-stained cheeks to give your pills back. How right he was about you being sick. How you wished they would go away. That you will be good and not listen to people who would try to convince you that you're not sick.
Your head was constantly pounding; your body was no longer used to the noise of the ghosts around you.
Your family, forced to watch you lose yourself over the things they couldn't see, realised the extent of the damage they had done to you. If only one of them would question the diagnosis. They all had access to your medical records, and yet none of them bothered to actually check them. Brushing you off as mentally sick was easier than questioning the choice of doctor's diagnosis on a child.
Those who knew you before the hospital, before the medication, would often find themselves watching you. Dick and Jason wished they were better brothers, and Bruce could only sigh as he realised that he should've listened when you told him about the ghosts the first time.
John Constantine had just got back from a mission when he finally remembered about you. He checked his voicemails to see if you or your family had contacted him. He was sure that enough time had passed for the meds to wear off.
When John saw that he didn't receive any message from you, he decided to travel to Gotham to investigate your current state.
Even before Alfred opened the door and welcomed him to the manor, John felt the nagger of the ghosts inside. And it didn't take a genius to know who was said anger was targeted towards.
The butler brought him into your room, where Bruce was already with you. You were rocking yourself back and forth, hugging your knees close to your chest. It was clear you were exhausted, the dark circles plastered under your red eyes, your cheeks stained with dried tears.
John expelled the ghosts inside your room and knelt in front of you to see if he could help in any way.
When your eyes finally caught his, John realised one thing.
"They can't stay here," he announced, not looking away. "It's not safe for them to stay here any longer."
"Why?" Damian, who John wasn't aware was in the room, questioned him.
"The ghosts might stay away for now, but soon they will try to actually harm them," John explained, finally turning to the people in the room. "I didn't think they would be so upset over a medicated child."
"So what do you suggest?" Bruce asked, looking past John and at you.
"Let me take them," John stated, glancing over his shoulder. "My house is safe, and if there are any ghosts, they won't be holding a grudge. I will be able to help them control their power and show them ways to protect themselves against the ghosts."
content: contrary to popular belief, the fire lord can't have everything he wants. however, even he’d admit that what he wanted was troublesome in itself, which is why he forces himself to be okay with having you by his side as his advisor.
[tw: MDNI, longfic, angst/fluff/smut, slowburn apothecary diaries coded, so much yearning and longing, porn with plot, there is no power imbalance he’s afraid of your father, zuko’s a little shit tho, we’re already married in his head]
notes: this was supposed to be a oneshot but then ideas kept popping up in my head and i thought, why don't i just turn this into a longfic like defiance?? lol. the plan is to follow these two around throughout a couple arcs, with the first one being them trying to navigate their feelings and attempting to go back to normal while trying to fix the shit show in the silk district.
Clark Kent Inspired Reader. Long running, planned to go through entire canon timeline.
You were fine being an occasional blur that helped out when needed. You didn’t need a flashy suit, or newscasts or paper articles written about you. You were happy where you were.
But as more and more villains show up, and more and more catastrophes threaten Earth. You needed to learn more about yourself and don a suit like all the others.
It’s just unfortunate the boy who captured your attention was a magnet for trouble that rivaled even your own.
summary: Your family had never truly seen and appreciated you. Might as well move on and live your life!
cw: Still some neglect, but the MC remains a bad b. A bit of blood, some probable medical inaccuracies (I am not a doctor. Please don’t do this at home gang)
pairings: platonic!batfam x neglected!gn!reader
word count: 3K
a/n: On request, I have birthed a part two for my first work. I have been a bit overeager, oscillating between super motivated and bored, but here it is! Please enjoy my third born child!
For the first time ever, you were having the time of your life.
Wanting to study medicine and actually practicing it were totally different. The euphoria that came with a correct diagnosis and a job well done was enough to make you feel like you were on cloud nine.
Dr Thompkins had voiced her pride due to your efficiency, clever mind and quick thinking, pleasantly surprised with how fast you learned. Her approval was like fresh water in a desert. You had never realized how parched you were until she offered it so kindly.
Initially, you only worked with Dr Thompkins (“Call me Leslie”), the older woman teaching you the essentials of patching someone up, the most common diagnosis, the best and cheapest medicines to solve these problems. After you flew through your schoolwork, your mind flourished under these details. This was what you were made for.
After two months, Leslie’s glowing approval convinced Bruce to let you start working the cave’s med area. Which is how you ended up here, blinking at the clock that now displayed 10:48, eyebrows furrowed analytically “That’s awfully specific” you voiced out, Bruce looked back at you over his shoulder “It’s the time my parents got murdered”.
Another blink “That’s macabre”. He startled at your bluntness – which made you glad you kept the fact that you found him to cling too much to the past concerning. It was none of your business, after all.
You both walked through the entrance, then down the elevator, until you finally made it into the heart of the manor; the Batcave. The place was grandiose, the squeaking of bats adding to the eerie feeling it gave off. A T-Rex skeleton – for some reason – prizes looted from criminals, a place full of memories that dated back to the beginnings of the Batman symbol. Old uniforms lined up reminded you of soldier memorials, and though you had never truly known your siblings, a pang of grief went through you at the sight of the tiny kid clothing.
They had been just kids when they were brought into this.
Still, Bruce didn’t pause his trek to let you gawk, and unless you wanted to get lost in this massive place, you had to follow him. You rushed to catch up, your eyes wandering. So, this is what they tried so hard to hide from you. For what? You certainly would’ve never dawned those booty shorts to fight crime.
That is irrelevant, you think to yourself, as you arrive at the med area just behind Bruce, not noticing the older man stop right in front of you. You let out a quiet oomph.
He deadpanned at you “You ought to watch where you’re going. Especially around patients” the ‘don’t make me doubt Leslie’s praise, you’re on trial here’ went unsaid, but you both hear it. You pursed your lips “Of course. I just didn’t expect you to stop so suddenly. I’ve never been here before, so it’s all new and unfamiliar to me” a jab back, ‘you left me out, dickbag, don’t complain now’ it retorts, or something along those lines. You wandered into the med area yourself, no longer trailing behind him. You were a big kid now. You didn’t need Bruce to guide you anywhere.
The area was impressively stocked, on par – maybe even better – than Leslie’s clinic. Striking gadgetry years ahead dotted around, things that one couldn’t find in even the fanciest clinics. Gadgets that were perhaps a bit on the illegal side, but you were no snitch – otherwise, the Bats and Birds’ identities would have been revealed long ago. You nodded in approval “This is very well equipped”, one must give compliments where they are due. An indifferent hum “Of course. We can’t go to hospitals while suited up. Gotham needs its protectors, so this is the best way to keep everyone on their feet”
His easy indifference struck you, and as you gaze at what would soon become your new workplace, you couldn’t help but wonder how much of your family’s blood lay on the sheets, the counters, the walls, the floors, the instruments. It made its way down your spine in a small shiver, something that despite his unremarked neglect, Bruce obviously noticed. He did as he had always done with you – remain quiet. It was none of his business after all.
Getting your bearings, you thanked, though it felt more like speaking to a colleague or boss rather than your father. Oh well. He has done what you asked him to. Time to get to work and up to date with the stock of the area.
And get to work you did. You took notes of what you had and didn’t – though the list of things missing was extremely minimal, probably due to running out instead of negligence. It was a relief, because you had gained some more confidence over the years, and even more while working alongside Leslie, but deep down, you were still that little kid who had just arrived at the manor, waiting for their father to look their way.
Nevertheless, you set up shop, and soon enough, you got your first patient.
Your first being Jason Todd. Golly.
Out of all the people you had treated in your small time of (apprentice) doctor, he was certainly the most stubborn. You fought the urge to claw the bullet out his arm and shove it into his nose, but that wouldn’t be professional of you, now would it?
“[Name]- Kid- Just dig the bullet out and let me deal with the rest. This is far ahead your capabilities”
And he was also really fucking rude.
“Jason” you deadpanned “While I could do that, I am here for training. If you don’t care about the state of your body, at least sit still so I can patch you up” you hissed, last words dripping with irritation, he frowned “No need to be a brat about it, acting like the Demon brat-” oh hell no-
With all the strength you could muster in your arms, you pushed him down on the counter, stabbed the tweezers into the hole, and began digging the bullet out with the straightforwardness of a bull. He yelped.
“Woah! OW- Do you treat all your patients like this?! What the-” and if you let your tweezers stray a little bit to stab into the skin, no one will know. It was harmless. You looked at the invisible camera and rolled your eyes so strongly you were shocked they didn’t get stuck. Because to be living through this shit, you must be in some sort of tragicomedy. This was some stupid joke from a higher being. It had to.
The bloody bullet clanked on the tray beside you, and you placed the dirtied tools next to it to clean later “I’m going to start patching you up. Don’t move” you ordered. Jason froze. For a second there, you sounded so much like… His eyes darted to yours as you focus on getting the materials for disinfecting and wrapping the wound. Same eye shape, same nose, same lips. You look just like…
You muttered a quiet “I’m going to start cleaning the wound now” as you poured the hydrogen peroxide on a sterile gauze. Yes, just like Bruce. He hissed at the burn, nose scrunching up. It was grounding, in a way. Having a version of Bruce without all the bad memories and betrayal that came with the man. You were focused, and stern, and so no-nonsense that he felt the urge to do what you said just to avoid your disappointment. But you seemed softer – untouched by Gotham’s real horrors. You hadn’t seen people die in front of you, hadn’t donned the mask. And yet you still wanted to help. It made sense that you were similar to your father – but that urge to help others, that was all you. You hadn’t done this in a ploy for revenge or justice or for approval. You just wanted to…
“Done. I’m wrapping it. Then you can go do whatever you wanted to do” you hummed, beginning to wrap his bicep tightly, but not too tight “Maybe take a shower. Those are relaxing” you stink, is what you wanted to say, but you weren’t going to lower yourself to his level and be rude – especially since he had dialed it down and remained obediently still and quiet while you fixed him up.
The rest of the time was spent in an almost comfortable silence. The soft swish of the bandages wrapping around his arm, the almost imperceptible buzz of the overhead lights, the distant sound of the bats, nocturnal habits that are witnessed in the city’s vigilantes, the Batcomputer’s – what a silly name – keyboard clicking noises reaching even the med area. Jason couldn’t look at you again, even when you started humming absentmindedly under your breath. What would he find if he looked close enough besides then family resemblance. Resentment? Envy? Anger?
You patted his uninjured shoulder when you finished “All done. You’ve probably gotten enough injuries to know that you should try to avoid getting any liquids on it. You can come back tomorrow so I can check up on it” you said, standing up, and Jason already missed your closeness. Odd, since you two had never been close in the first place. But tomorrow was an opening, and contrary to popular belief, Jason could be patient when he needed to be.
He nodded, and stood up as well, hovering awkwardly as you threw away the used gauze, and bandages, placing the bloodied tools on a tray to disinfect later. You frowned at him “You need something? Want a lollipop?” you asked sarcastically, which finally snapped Jason out of his daze. He scoffed “I was going to tell you that you didn’t do to bad. But you could do with treating your patients a little nice. Physically and verbally” he retorted, but it held no venom.
You shrugged “You’re a vigilante. A bit of brute force and honesty won’t kill you”
A laugh threatened to bubble out, so his head moved away “Whatever. See you tomorrow, kid” he waved casually. You rolled your eyes. God knows how Alfred hasn’t strangled some of these people yet.
The rest of the night was quiet, so you took the time to carefully sterilize the used materials that could be reused. Leslie would kill you if she thought you didn’t properly clean your workplace – especially since that had been your first lesson. You shivered at the memory of the intimidating older woman, but your thoughts are interrupted by your only blood sibling. Damian.
The boy was scowling, as he usually does. You sometimes wished you could smooth his face manually, prevent him from making such cruel expressions.
You had met Damian when you were already deep in the throes of your dream to become a doctor. Therefore, you had never paid him as much mind as you had your other siblings. In a way, you pitied him for becoming the youngest, but the relief of it no longer being you overshadowed that feeling.
The relationship you two had was… conflicting, to say the least. You’re pretty sure he tried to kill you when he first got here, enough to garner the attention of your oldest brother – who, after years of ignoring you unintentionally, pampered you enough to keep you silent. Who would’ve thought Dick Grayson would be the type to bribe someone? Then you remembered he was a cop. Huh, that explains a lot.
Anyways, Damian was a spitfire. If you were freezing, he was scalding – opposites in almost every way, but necessary to one another, and so similar in ways that seem invisible to the naked eye. Your little brother tried to kill you, yes, but he didn’t. Not due to lack of planning, or a mistake, or another external factor preventing him, but because when you two made eye contact, he froze, his dagger clattering on the floor.
Sure, he tried to poison your tea afterwards, but that was beside the point – and you were still convinced it was supposed to be Tim’s tea, but that was a conversation for another day.
He was your brother, no matter how much he annoyed you – and unlike the other idiots, he was just a kid. You hated to reduce Damian’s behavior to ‘he doesn’t know better’, but you also knew that he had a good heart. You could see it in the care he put into his pets, in his love for animals, his admiration of art, the softness in his eyes while he took his tea, the gratefulness when Alfred prepared it just how he liked.
So, perhaps you were overindulgent with your little brother – a privilege not given to your other siblings. But it wasn’t as if they paid enough attention to care.
“Damian” you greeted. You should have guessed he would come check up on you, even if it was under the guise of making sur you were not making a mess.
He harrumphed “I see you’ve made it through the night without burning down our medical area” your lip quirked up “Night’s still young. I can still do it if you ask nicely” he scoffed in return, watching you put the last stray things away, organizing the place to your liking – after getting Alfred’s approval, of course.
“You… you shouldn’t introduce yourself into this lifestyle. You’re too weak – don’t have enough training” he said hesitantly just as the silence was beginning to settle. You hummed, closing a cabinet and finally turning to give him your full attention “You worried about me, Dami?” you teased, expression the slightest bit amused.
His scowl deepened, arms crossing defensively “Tt. As if. I am merely stating the facts. You should stick to lazing around with a book instead of ruining the Batcave”
Tilting your head, you bit back a smile – he looked so much like a little prince. You certainly understood why the others called him a brat, but when you looked at him, all you could see was an insecure kid working for approval, doing his best not to fall behind and disappear into the mass of siblings. You saw a kid who had been doing this his whole life, who was worried – as unconscious as it may be – about your wellbeing and the possible consequences of your new little job.
You leaned forward, and his eyes widened incredulously at your uncharacteristic proximity, mouth dropping when you ruffled his hair affectionately. His mouth closed, gathering his bearings, and opened again to gape – you had rendered the Damian Wayne speechless. Good on you. He flushed slightly, “Tt” and looked away, as if he could pretend that ignoring it and not throwing a mini tantrum was due to indifference instead of enjoyment.
“I don’t understand what this family has with messing up my respectable hairdos” you chuckled at his words, eyes crinkling “You’re at the perfect height to do so. Gotta eat your greens and grow some more so we won’t be able to reach you”
He molded his face into a crafted scowl, even if his blush contradicted the expression entirely, and turned around briskly “Whatever. I will grow many a times taller than you are soon. Just you wait”. Then he rushed off. A fond sigh, you washed your hands and left as well, looking back at the med area before continuing your route to the surface. Hesitantly, because this place was an actual maze.
However, you were intercepted by Tim, whose eyebags had eyebags. You raised a brow; he pursed his lips in return “Bruce told me to guide you to your room. And to let you know that you have to write a report about your first week at the medbay” he finally said, breaking the stare off. Thank God, get those creepy blue eyes away from you. The cave was silent now, interrupted by the occasional ruffle of wings – he must have been the one working at the Batcomputer.
You nodded slowly “Alright” you answered simply. He blinked. You blinked back “Are you going to guide me to the real world, or are we going to continue staring at each other?”. His eyes came back into focus, shaking his head and walking away, hopefully towards the exit. What a weird guy – the sleep deprivation must be doing a number on him. You followed, not having any other choice.
Fortunately, he was indeed heading to the elevator, and maybe you weren’t used to late nights working, but your relief was palpable. The silence in the elevator was awkward, and he pointedly looked away from you, perhaps more embarrassed than he let on that he had been caught staring. You shrugged to yourself.
After exiting the confined space, you kept following Tim for some reason. Until he started leading you astray. You stopped him “Uh. My room is the other way” you began, he froze, slowly turning to face you, blue eyes wide “I’ll just… Thank you for showing me the way. No need to worry about it again”. This was probably one of the most awkward situations you’ve gotten yourself into, he looked appalled yet didn’t reply.
You coughed “Well. Good talk. Night” you turned around and speed walked away. What a relief that it was over. You need a good nap.
Your door closed behind you, and with your back against it, you slid down, a giddy smile on your lips. Tonight wasn’t too bad. In fact, you had almost enjoyed it. You’d obviously have to let Leslie know how it went and write a report to Bruce after finishing your first week – which you should probably start now – but overall, it had been a good night.
You looked up, the moon still shining through your window. Your family was probably out there right now, doing what they had traded a relationship with you for. Nevertheless, you couldn’t feel bitter about it – like you had when you first found out about it. No, it didn’t hurt you anymore. Besides, you had your own problems now.
It’s just beginning, but you think you’ll like your new role as the Bats and Birds’ medic. [Name] Wayne, apprentice, will be a doctor in no time. The end of the beginning and the beginning of the end had never tasted so sweet.
a/n: I got carried away with the dialogue, my apolocheese .,_. If you find it weird the MC only got one patient, the others still have doubts! They are all trust issue riddled little creatures, so they'd rather see how the first week/month goes and treat their wounds themselves before letting you deal with it. Thank you so much for reading!!!
𝓐 /𝓝 : I've had this idea for some time now and it won't let my mind rest, so I just gotta write it down before it disappears in my mind and also bc I can't focus on studying bc of this. Might make a part 2 once exam week is over hehe
𝓦𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 ! : child neglect, mentions of blood, animatronics, batfam being neglectful, kinda rushed writing
Alfred Pennyworth considered himself as the grandfather of little miss [name] ever since Bruce Wayne found out that he has a child, adopting you when your mother abandoned you.
Bruce Wayne was a good father to you, constantly there for you, plays with you, and even comforts you in the nights where dreams plague your mind. For your birthday, he gives you ridiculous gifts and things a toddler or child could possibly dream of.
Dick is another member of the family — the big brother. Alfred told you that he was so delighted to have a baby sister when you were brought in the Manor. Unlike Bruce, he was always there, never leaving your side. You want to play? He's there with a bunch of new toys. Color with him? He already has so many coloring books for you two to try.
As for Barbara, she was so happy to have another girl in the Manor. She often braided your hair, styled you, and stuck around you along with Dick. She even called you an intelligent child, that maybe someday you can challenge her own intelligence.
Then there's Jason.
Like Dick, he's also delighted, but not to Dick's level of happiness. He lingered, teaching you some tricks and making you laugh. He's the playful big brother to you. Always making you laugh, sneaking around the kitchen at night — even though you two get caught.
They all suddenly stopped.
It had been three years since they spent time with you properly.
Bruce became distant, Dick no longer visits you much, Barbara became busy, and Jason — you don't know where he is.
Alfred assured you that your father, brother, and sister were just a little busy at the moment and that they will eventually come around and spend some time with you.
But when you run up to your father when he enters the huge doors of the Manor — greeting him and clinging to his leg — he dismisses you, saying that he was too tired to play.
That's what he always says for the past three years.
As for Dick, you often tell Alfred to call him on the phone so you could talk to him. But oftentimes, your voice just goes to his voice mail.
You tried to spend time with your older sister, Barbara, but she was too busy to even respond to you.
Saddened by their sudden distance to you, you asked Alfred with teary eyes if something was wrong. He couldn't bear to see you like that, so he told you that everything will be alright.
Then you asked about Jason, to which he didn't reply. He doesn't know how to tell you that he's gone without you throwing into a fountain of tears.
Maybe he was just on a trip! A vacation! You convinced yourself.
Then, a month later came a fourteen year old boy, Tim Drake.
You were going to greet your father as always, when you saw him, instantly smiling and waving. This time, Bruce acknowledged your presence by simply introducing you to him, saying that this boy is gonna be your big brother.
By this exciting news, you practically lunged your little body at your new big brother, hugging him. His body went stiff, awkwardly reciprocating your hug.
You thought that maybe they would spend some time with you now. They don't look that busy anymore!
Tim spent time with you, asking some basic questions like what's your favorite color? That was a great start for you. But one day, you didn't see him around the Manor until late at night to the early mornings. Then he became distant, often in his room or somewhere else.
You felt sad by this. You wondered how they were always so busy all of a sudden.
And then someone new arrived as well. A blonde girl, probably near Tim's age. Stephenie.
She was like a female version of Dick, all smiles and hugs when you met her. It made you miss your eldest brother dearly, along with Jason. Your time with Stephanie went great, you two laughed, played, and spent time together. But you knew it wouldn't last, since she slowly grew a bit distant.
How silly of you to think they'll have time for you. They're all grown, and you're just a little kid.
Weeks ago, you kept telling them about your birthday so they could celebrate it with you. They said yes, bluntly. And even though the response was cold, your eyes glimmered with hope.
But no. All hope and dreams came crashing down when your fifth birthday arrived.
So here you are, with Alfred — the only one in the family that sees you. The cake mainly went untouched, just a small piece of it gone for the two people to eat.
You sighed. “Why won't they come…?”
Putting a hand on your small back, Alfred once again tried to reassure you. “I'm sure they'll come, miss [name].”
In all honesty, Alfred is tired of reassuring you. He felt that it wasn't enough. Your sad tears challenged him whenever they ignored you. He have concerned the neglectful attitude of the family to Bruce, but he was still engrossed to mourning his second child, forgetting about you entirely.
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
Alfred gave you a camera for your birthday, since you always took his phone to take pictures and take videos of things, mainly recording your life so that you can show Bruce and your siblings what they have been missing, so they could catch up.
Everyday, you hold the camera. To your school, to even small walks or errands with Alfred. You record and take pictures of your life, often talking — informing what you feel, where you are, and stuff.
And one day, a Pizzeria opened up in the gloomy city of Gotham.
Circus Baby’s Pizza World
It attracted many people, mainly children, families, and some freshly new teenagers.
And you, being five years old going to six years old, grew curious about it. One of your classmates mentioned it to you, saying that they went there and it was super fun.
With your upcoming birthday in a few days, you used it as an excuse to Alfred to go there with him and your friends. You'll invite your father and siblings of course, but you doubt that they'll come anyway.
However, by your sudden proposal to go there, Alfred sadly has duties to Batman at that time where you wanna go. Of course, he couldn't tell you that, you know nothing of it.
But your pleading eyes and insistence made him sigh and call one of your friend’s parents to accompany you. Alfred informs them that he'll handle everything financially and might try to convince the pizzeria to have the place all for yourself and your friends.
While he talks through the phone, you run off to your father's office. You knocked until you heard him saying “come in”. You pushed the door open, running to him.
“Daddy! A special day is coming —”
“And?” He didn't even look at you, he only stared at the papers in his hand.
You felt so small in his presence, intimidated by your own father due to the rift in your relationship. “Well… it's gonna be my birthday! I — uhm…” you fiddled with your fingers, trying to find the right words to say to him. Maybe if you manage to at least say something good, he might come. “Can you please come with me? It's in the new pizzeria that opened —!”
“I'm a bit busy, [name]. Go ask your siblings to come with you.” As if he didn't hear the word ‘birthday’. And as always, he dismissed her.
“Oh.”
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
Then you went to Tim's room.
“Timmy!” You knocked, then knocked again when he didn't answer.
And at the fifth knock, he opened the door with a tired look as always — eye bags stretched under his eyes as he looked down at you with a raised brow. As if seeing you made him lose the tiny amount of energy in him.
“Can you come with me to the new pizzeria? It's my birthda—”
“No, [name],” he sighed, exhausted. “I have too many things to do, and I'm exhausted, can't you see?”
All excitement died down as you looked at the ground. “Oh, sorry.”
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
You asked the girls. Barbara shook his head, saying that she had something important to do. And Stephanie said that she might hang out with Cassandra — the new member of the family.
She was quiet and never really interacted with you, only acknowledging your presence by a nod or a quick glance.
You have no hope there.
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
Since you haven't heard of Jason and the family's constant avoidance of answering you about him, the last person you could ask was Dick.
And as always, he was probably in Blüdhaven. When you went back to Alfred, you asked him to make a call.
But to your dismay, it ended up in his voice mail again. This must be at least the 35th time. “Hi, big brother! My birthday is coming up! Uhm… I know you're busy and I'm probably disturbing you — but can you please come with me to Circus Baby’s Pizza World? The others can't come so I figured you could…? I'm going there at 2 pm, see you there!”
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
The day came for your birthday.
Alfred spent the entire morning celebrating your birthday with you while the others… overslept as you know of. He baked a birthday cake for you, just how you like it.
Then when the afternoon came, you dressed in comfortable clothing fit for a birthday girl yet comfortable enough to move around freely.
“I'm ready!” You excitedly exclaimed.
Alfred smiled, kneeling to your level. “You look adorable as always, miss [name].”
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
The pizzeria looks so vibrant in contrast to Gotham. Inside, chairs and long tables with party decorations were arranged nicely. Your friends sat on either side of you, their parents on one side talking to each other.
Suddenly, the lights started to dim. “The show will begin momentarily. Everyone please stay in your seats.” The voice, an eerily calm one cut through the dark.
A single light focused on the stage. And as the curtains of the stage opened up, Circus Baby came into view, singing a birthday song.
Your friends shrieked in delight, clapping at the animatronic and saying happy birthday to you.
You smiled, happy that you can celebrate here. But through the smile and laughter you share with your friends, a pang of sadness struck you. Their family was here, unlike yours.
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
After eating pizza and some other foods, a staff member informed all of you to go to another location in the building — a mini playground. All of you were excited and hurriedly went there, but you stopped in your tracks, holding onto one of your friend's parents.
“Uhm, I need to go to the bathroom for a moment.” You shyly confessed. “Oh, of course dear. Do you want me to go with you?”
You shook your head, saying you'll catch up to the group.
Hurriedly, you sprinted to the nearest bathroom. And by the time you went out, all of them were already in the other room.
You followed suit, but your footsteps grew heavy, as if not wanting to leave yet. The room was slightly dimmed, but the stage lighting remained on the star of the stage — Circus Baby.
You turned to look at it again. Mesmerized by the animatronic. Her head constantly moved, her blue eyes observing the room and eventually landed on you. She tilted her head, and you laughed lightly at how cute the animatronic looks.
Your own legs began to move before you could even process what was happening. Grabbing your camera encircled around your neck, you took it off around you and started recording as you went closer.
She looked down at your little figure as you climbed up the stage, slowly stepping closer.
“Pretty…” you mumbled in awe, and wondered if your own father would give you something marvelous like this, if he would even remember.
You stepped back with a gasp as her stomach opened. “Ice Cream?” A claw extended towards you with an ice cream. Your eyes sparkled as you managed to mutter a ‘wow’ by how well equipped she was.
“Thank you!” You stepped closer, extending your hand to take the ice cream.
But suddenly, she started to shake uncontrollably, dropping the ice cream from the claw. You stepped back, afraid as you clung to your camera. Did you accidentally break it? But you didn't do anything wrong! Maybe you should run, yes, run.
You went to run off the stage, but the metal claw pierced through your back, trapping your waist in its claws and pulling you towards her stomach. You screamed, terrifyingly so that it echoed almost throughout the building before it stopped permanently.
The camera laid on the ground under a table, having been tossed — almost broken yet still alive and recording with bits of blood staining it.
Guess Bruce Wayne won't get greeted by his daughter anymore.
Lex summons a spirit to 'help' him be better than Superman. Danny misunderstood the assignment, and agrees. The magic spell goes weird, and now he is stuck to a new rich fruitloop... Hopefully he is better than Vlad. Right?
Summary: “Secret government experiments.” That’s the phrase that drew them into this mess. An abandoned laboratory in the middle of Hawkins, Indiana was what sent them there. Who knew time travel would be such a hassle?
Word Count: 1k
Warnings: None
A/N: Not my usual content, but I really wanted to write something for myself and thought I'd share with y'all! Next chapter of A New Kind of Normal is in the works. Love y'all! Take care of yourselves!
Charlie isn’t a superstitious person by any means, but the moment they step foot in that backwater town in the middle of bum fuck Indiana, they immediately know that things aren’t going to go well.
“Come on, Charlie!” Their friend, Avery, calls out to them. She’s the reason they were here in the first place. A big fan of government conspiracies and urban exploration. Avery ran a YouTube channel dedicated to it. Charlie was just the one behind the camera. “Don’t forget the gear!”
And…she’s off. Charlie grabs all of their gear from the backseat of the car. Hawkins Laboratory. Its location is common knowledge, although most people avoid it. Chemical leak. Bullshit. It’s been over forty years. “Girl, wait up!” It’s hard to run with a big-ass backpack full of shit.
They have to pick the lock to get into the building. “Set everything up over there.” Avery points to a reception desk. The place is abandoned. Obviously. “Aren’t you excited?”
“Yeah…” Charlie eyes some suspicious stains on the ground. “So excited.” They snap some photos while Avery gets her own stuff set up. “Hey, Avery, I’m gonna record some b-roll. I’ll be back.” Famous last words.
Avery waves her hand and continues to get her stuff set up. “Sure. Don’t get lost.” Eyeing another suspicious stain,
Charlie makes their way around the abandoned building. There’s no graffiti and the power still works. Room after room. It feels like a labyrinth. Unending and relentless. They find a stairwell and descend deeper.
-
“What the actual fuck?” Charlie’s legs hurt like a bitch. They’ve been walking for a while now. The stairs didn’t go down any further. There’s a room. Several, actually. One seems to call to them. Like a siren’s song. Buzzing. Their brain is buzzing. Why is it buzzing?
Bzzt. Bzzt. Oh. Avery’s calling them. They pick up. “Where are you? You’re taking forever, there should be enough b-roll by now.” She’s right. She usually is.
“Sorry, Ava. Got sidetracked.” Charlie’s surprised that the reception still works down here. “I think I found something. I’ll be back up in a bit. This’ll make great content. Love you pookie.”
“Yeah, yeah, love you too. Don’t die, or whatever.” Avery hangs up and Charlie keeps going. It’s within reach. So close.
Dust fills the air as they open the door. Inside is a control room of some sort. Broken glass covered the floor and there’s traces of blood. Old. Very old. A hole in the ground outside of the control booth catches their attention. “Huh.” They suck their teeth. “Chemical leak my ass.” Curiosity gets the best of them in the end as they walk over and investigate.
The dust swirls in the air. Unnatural. Alarming. Taking a photo, Charlie leans over the rim. The dust is all consuming now. Of course it doesn’t really bother them, considering their crippling addiction to flavored air. Although, they are starting to feel dizzy. Like, really dizzy. The buzzing in their head starts again. Charlie feels themself falling forward and everything goes black. Thud.
-
Two things immediately become apparent when Charlie opens their eyes. One, something is definitely broken. Two, they’re definitely not where they’re supposed to be. Not that they were earlier, but now there’s an officer kneeling down next to them, checking their pulse and they’re surrounded by trees. Charlie wakes up fully with a gasp.
“Shit!” The man jolts back. According to his nametag, his last name is Hopper. “You okay kid?”
Kid? Really? “I’m fine, officer.” They go to sit up and immediately lay right back down. “Probably.” Yeah. No. “Got any ibuprofen?”
The man looks concerned. “Kid, you need to go to a hospital.”
“No, I’m fine. I can have my friend come get me.” Charlie goes to take out their phone, only to realize that it’s gone. “Fuck.” It must have fallen out when they fell. Speaking of. How did they get all the way out here? It’s like the Everclear incident all over again. “Can I borrow your phone? I must have dropped mine.”
“Dropped?” He sounded confused.
Charlie looks at him. Really looks at him. “Yeah. Dropped. Do you not drop your phone? Dude, I can barely see my phone screen with how cracked it is.”
He looks even more confused than before. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“What is this, the fucking 80’s? My phone fell out of my pocket. I’d like to borrow yours so I can call my friend.” They’re annoyed now. “Avery is probably worried about me.”
A moment of silence passes before the officer, Hopper, speaks. “What year do you think it is right now, kid?”
“2026? Duh.”
“Shit.” Hopper takes a deep breath, clearly distraught. “You are a long way from home, kid. Around forty-two years long.”
“Oh. Oh shit.” They sit up quickly, ignoring the sharp pain from their ribs. “No. Abso-fucking-lutely not.” Charlie scrambles to their feet and tries to run. To where? They don’t know. “Fuck!” Looking back at Hopper, they panic. “Fuck! Where the fuck am I supposed to go? What the fuck am I supposed to do?” A thought strikes them. “Oh my gods, what if I start a paradox?”
Hopper walks over to them and puts his hand on their shoulder. More pain shoots through their body. “Kid, slow down. You need to get to a hospital. We can worry about your existential crisis later.”
“I’m not coughing up blood, so I’ll be fine.” Charlie waves him off. They had no money, no job, no home, and no birth certificate. Medical care was completely out of the question.
-
In the end, Hopper relents. He ends up renting a hotel for Charlie to stay for a bit while everything gets figured out. It was an odd adjustment period, if they were being honest. The difference in slang alone was driving them crazy. On the bright side, though, a new mall was opening up soon, so they could probably apply for a job. Hopper had also gotten them a birth certificate. Which, like, how the fuck? That’s besides the point. Charlie was adjusting, and that’s all that matters. They’ll be back home in no time.
You were the one that everyone saw. The one that everyone needed, in all the wrong ways.
The therapist friend as the internet said. The therapist sister.
You helped everyone.
Bruce, with trying to understand how the rest of you're brothers and sisters were feeling. Dick and his guilt, that feeling that he wasn't there enough. Jason had anger issues, that made him throw things. Tim, sweet overworked Tim, who never slept and never ate. Steph and her impulsive behaviour. Cass's speech and Damian who never got a childhood. And all of their trauma combined.
It was always you.
But behind that understanding smile in the depths of your bedroom, filled with things that only you -who was only 16- could find.
Antidepressants that you hid in the back of your side table, ones that you'd been prescribed two years ago. A razor hidden underneath you're mattress, that you'd extracted from a pencil sharpener.
In a way, you knew that they would never find it, not because they wouldn't know where to look but because your family would never know what was going on with you behind closed doors.
Three weeks ago
It seemed like a normal day at first.
You'd woken up, swallowed your pills without water as always and had go down for breakfast before getting ready for school.
Alfred was in the kitchen wiping the dishes. "Good morning Ms. Y/N. I trust you slept well." He glanced at your face.
"Of course," You said with a smile. In fact, you'd gotten two hours of sleep last night.
Alfred, you supposed, had a gist of what was going on. But then again you were the master of acting. You'd managed to convince that you were good whenever he started to suspect.
"Is there any juice left, or did Dick drink it all?"
Your eldest brother had been in town these past few days and just so happened to have the same love for juice as you did. You hoped that he hadn't, just so that your day wouldn't start out feeling sour.
"I'm afraid that he did, young miss. I have some chocolate milk if you would like instead." No breakfast today then.
"No thanks, Alfred. Is Jason up yet? He's supposed to drive me to school today." You had already started to walk up stairs.
“Master Jason left early this morning. He appeared to be agitated. Perhaps I can drop you off at school today?” Alfred suggested.
You paused, “No, it’s okay. I’ll have one of my friends pick me up.”
You didn’t have any friends. Not because you weren’t social or just undesirable. Just because being a Wayne didn’t give you time to have friends.
You have galas and elite bruncheons to go to. And when you took in all the emotional problems that your family was having like a vacuum, you didn’t have the energy to hang and talk to anyone of your age anymore.
So in reality, that morning you had called an uber and headed to school where you knew that you’d only be contemplating what tactics you’d use to calm your older brother down when he would get home this evening.
“Miss Wayne!” The sound of your teacher’s ever so angry voice pierced your ears.
You lifted your head from the notebook that looked like one a therapist would have.
“Yes, Ma’am?” You voice squeaked a bit.
“Miss Wayne, would you please look up from that notebook and pay attention. This is the fifth time this month. If you do this once again I will have to talk to your parents.” You felt your face go red.
“Yes, Ma’am.” You nodded weakly, closing the notebook half heartedly.
The rest of class you kept your head up looking at the board while making a whole new sheet of tactics in your head.
At lunch, if there was one place that you actually let yourself be a kid was in the music room.
Before when you weren’t a Wayne, when you were just your mother’s child, you would play the piano. Except you wouldn’t just play, you would live it.
Every stroke of the key and every note that you made happen was like another breath of air. But then at 5 your mother was killed and you became a Wayne and you realized that the big piano in the manor was just for decoration.
Your phone started buzzing then.
The haptics vibration on your hand as you turned the phone around and saw that it was Dick calling you.
"Hello?" You said into the phone.
"Y/N! Hey! We need you back at the manor right now." Dick said franticly. His breath was short and heaving.
"What's wrong? Did something happen? Is anyone hurt?" You panic, because your family is quite prone to getting hurt.
There is loud crash on the other side, like glass being thrown.
"Its Jason. He's angry about something and he's being-" Another crash. "Violent."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes." You practically shout into the phone before calling an uber.
By the time you get to Wayne Manor, it's honestly in a wreck. There are glass shards everywhere, furniture is knocked over and some of the curtains had rips in them.
"What the hell?" You muttered.
Jason, out of all your brothers had the worst temper. He also was the one that was easy agitated and pissed off. But his level of violence stopped at a few rumbles.
This was excessive. Very excessive.
"Finally! You're here!" Steph jogs to you, her hair is a mess and her shirt is wrinkled and a bruise is blooming on her cheek. "He's in the cave. Dick and Bruce are holding him down, but I don't think it will last long."
You run down, not responding to Steph. She follows behind you, down to the Batcave, where Bruce and Dick are sure enough holding Jason down.
Then you see him.
Jason.
Hey Readers! This is Elsya!
This is my first Batfam fic ever. I'm new to tumblr so I don't have a lot of work here but I would love for you to go check my other writing channels like Wattpad and Quotev.
I'm currently working on both Batfam fics (this one), a Marauders fanfic (published on Quotev and Wattpad) and Harry Potter fanfic (not published yet).
I hope you see more of my work soon!
~Elsya
: ̗̀➛ Summary: You get Jason for the second year in a row for the Secret Santa exchange. This time, you decide to get him the Fatson Todd plush.
: ̗̀➛ Word Count: 3.4k
: ̗̀➛ Warnings/Tags: Pure fluff , can be read as a standalone
Part 1 , DC Masterlist
The chances of getting the same person for Secret Santa two years in a row are low. The chances of that person being your boyfriend are even lower. You would've bet every dollar to your name that you wouldn't get Jason for a second year. The universe already did its job, getting you to reveal that you know Jason is Red Hood. Nothing could possibly top what you got him last year. You don't need to get him again.
You got Jason again.
Mentally, you run through the series of events that led you to this moment. You don't even react to the sheer absurdity of the situation. Instead, you stare blankly at the purple slip of paper that reads his name.
Steph grins, her eyes dancing with amusement as she eyes your unreadable countenance. "Imagine if you got Jason again." She passes by you, holding out the top hat out to Cass for her to draw.
Everybody chuckles at her passing comment, and you force a huff of strained laughter from your chest. The laughter sounds fake even to yourself, but nobody catches your momentary slip in composure.
Your hands clutch the slip of paper as if their laughter will rip it out of your hands into their view. You turn to Jason, who is huffing at the prospect. The two of you make eye contact, and he raises an eyebrow as if asking "You didn't get me, right?"
You chuckle softly, the smile on your face growing as you shake your head. While you hate lying to him, it is a sacrifice that will be worth it in the end.
Steph makes her rounds. You idly thumb the side of the paper as you consider what to get him. Perhaps a couple books? He'd always be happy with that. It's not like you can have a repeat of last year. Getting him his own merch loses all its charm if he knows that you're aware of his identity. Your breathing halts, body freezing as the idea streaks through your mind.
It's not like this will become a tradition.
It's a one time deal.
You'll never get this opportunity again. Nobody expects you to get Jason twice, especially after last year's fiasco.
Slowly, you take your phone out of your pockets. It's as if the burden of this task slows your motion. You navigate your phone thoughtlessly, almost automatically, to your notes app. There is a single locked document on it. You click it.
THE plush
The underlined words are meaningless to anybody else, but you understand what they refer to. They are deceptively innocent, and that makes them all the more dangerous.
You click on the link attached to them, loading up the page of it.
You had saved it for "emergencies" (what would constitute such an emergency, you aren't sure). Despite the absolute rage of desire that came over you the first time you saw it, you held yourself back. You understood the potential of this item. All you had to do was buy it at the right moment. That moment being the present.
The plush— marketed as "Rotund Hood," but you affectionately call "Fatson Todd"— stares up at you. His eyes, filled with little to no thought. His tiny arms and legs, dwarfed by his round figure. The little helmet.
"Who'd you get?" Jason leans against the back of the velvet couch. You jump, frantically switching to another app on your phone. He furrows his eyebrows seeing the calculator screen as you turn off your phone.
"How about you tell me first?" You prop your arm up against the back of the couch, leaning your face onto your hand.
He lets out a puff of amusement, "I ain't playing these games again. You tell me first. Not gonna have a repeat of last time."
You scoff, "A repeat? You actually think I got you again?"
He smirks, "Tell me who ya got, and then perhaps I'll believe you. You aren't really helping your case right now, avoiding the question and all that."
You chuckle, clicking your tongue as your eyes shift away from him. "You don't just trust my word?"
He rolls his eyes, "I'm asking for it right now, aren't I?"
You purse your lips. He's not wrong. What are the chances you say that same person he has? It can't be that high. How bad would your luck have to be? Fidgeting on the couch, you accidentally bump into Cass. Instinctively, you turn to face her apologetically.
Her eyes meet your own, unblinking. You frown, muttering a soft apology. Then, slowly, her gaze drifts towards her lap, where her half-crumpled slip of paper lies. Your eyes naturally follow her own. The dark cursive ink reveals Dick's name to you. Cass doesn't look back at you.
You swallow, subtly looking away from her. "…Dick." Your words waver.
Jason raises an eyebrow, "You sure about that?"
Regaining confidence, you nod. "Absolutely. I thought you said you'd believe me if I told you." You tut disapprovingly at him.
Jason narrows his eyes playfully, "I dunno. You paused for a while there."
You narrow your eyes at him, "Yeah to build up anticipation." The unsaid "Duh" hanging in the air.
"Mhm, alright if you say so." Jason hums, patting your shoulder condescendingly.
You lightly swat at his hand, eliciting a quiet chuckle from him. "Who'd you get anyway? It's your turn." You attempt to shift the spotlight away from you.
Jason hunches over, suddenly becoming a lot more serious. He slips the paper into your hand, and you frown at it. He doesn't say a word, but he tilts his head down toward it, silently telling you to open it.
Bruce
You snort, looking back up at Jason who looks most unamused. Coughing, you attempt to hide the laughter rising in your throat. Nodding with a trembling lip, you hand it over to him. "That's great."
He scoffs, crumpling up the paper before shoving it into his pocket, likely never to be seen again. "Care to switch?"
You chuckle, "Nah, I'm goooood. Sorry, Jay." You sit up in your seat to lightly pat his shoulder, mocking his earlier action. He doesn't shove your hand away, but he frowns at the action.
Steph passes by you two, sipping some hot cocoa. "Didn't get Jason twice, right?" She leans against the back of the couch. You force a quick laugh, shaking your head at the preposterous idea. She hums, taking another sip, "Sad to hear," she sighs, resigned. "It was probably the best thing about Christmas last year."
You raise an eyebrow, "The best?"
She nods solemnly, "I don't think I ever laughed that hard during Christmas before."
"It was pretty funny." Tim adds, nodding in agreement as he passes the three of you by.
You chuckle, and Jason crosses his arms. His eyebrows are set downward with his lip jutting out, akin to a pout. You chuckle louder at his face, and he lightly shoves you, causing you to hold onto the couch for balance. "It was funny, wasn't it?" You look up at your boyfriend, still grinning.
"Not that funny." He scoffs.
"Literally everybody was laughing."
"I wasn't." Jason points a finger to himself in emphasis.
"Okay, well it's funny in hindsight at least?" You ask hopefully. Jason stares at you, and you nudge him lightly, "How about kinda funny? Just a tiny bit— like a tiny crumb of humor?" You raise your hand up, pressing your thumb and index finger together to emphasize your point, squinting your eyes.
"A molecule." Jason grunts.
You gasp, turning to Steph, "A molecule." You hold a hand against your chest dramatically.
She mirrors your gesture, "You must be the funniest person in this room."
You wipe an imaginary tear away from your face, "Truly an honor."
Jason looks between you two, evidently unimpressed. "I wish you two never met." You both turn to him in unison, snapping your focus onto him. He flinches, almost holding a hand up in a "Relax" motion. "I'm joking."
"He just can't handle our combined forces." Steph shakes her head at Jason. You join in, shaking your head at him.
"No, I don't think I can." Jason responds dryly.
"He admits it." You smirk, sparing a glance at Steph.
"About time." She grins at you.
Jason rubs his temples, "We're going to leave soon. I have patrol in an hour, and I need to head back."
You frown, "Why not just leave me here?"
Jason looks between you and Steph, "Absolutely not." He sneers, shaking his head. "You both would probably just get more bootleg shit just because you think it's funny."
You tilt your head thoughtfully, an unbidden smile flitting onto your face. "You don't know that."
He purses his lips, "No..?" He tilts his head, mirroring you. "No, I think I know that. I know you." He lightly flicks your forehead, a smirk on his face.
"Evidently not well enough. You didn't even realize I figured you out in that alley." You huff, grinning at him.
He opens his mouth to respond, but shuts it, settling to glare at you instead. He stands up, removing his weight from the back of the couch as he walks to the entrance, "Just meet me at the car." He sighs with fond exasperation. He doesn't even bother saying goodbye to anybody. To be fair, he'll probably see them all later tonight anyway.
You say your goodbyes to his family, and Alfred escorts you out to Jason's car. You open the passenger door, ushering yourself in. "We couldn't have stayed for a bit longer?"
He huffs, giving a silent nod to Alfred before beginning to drive. "That was a bit longer. I wanted to leave twenty minutes ago."
You mentally calculate how long ago that was, "That was… before the drawing?"
He spares you an uninterested glance, as if saying "Really? I didn't know that!"
"It wasn't that bad." You relax into your seat. "I mean— At least this time, you guys didn't have to act all secretive around me."
He huffs, "I suppose." He sighs, "I'm just glad you didn't get me again."
You tense up imperceptibly, digging your nails into your palms as to not react. Fidgeting in your seat, you attempt to keep the unease from bleeding into your tone.
"Yep, me too."
Lugging two presents wrapped in wrapping paper covered in Red Hood's symbol did not go unnoticed by Jason, especially since one of them is massive.
"What is that?" He looks disturbed by the wrapping paper, and he gets a sense of deja vu looking at it. This situation seems very familiar.
"Gifts?" You place the presents into the trunk before closing it.
"What did you get Dick that could possibly be that big?" He presses his face against the back car window, staring at the gifts.
"Oh, you know… Stuff." You wave a hand dismissively, patting his arm. "Come on, we can't be late two years in a row." You walk over to your seat, opening the door and situating yourself inside.
"Did you ever tell me what you got him?" Jason mumbles to himself. You don't think the question is meant for you, but you answer anyway.
"Eh, gymnastics stuff, circus stuff. It's Dick. Just grabbed a few pieces of clothing with questionable fashion." You shrug.
You tilt your head in a small bow towards him, relieved he took the bait. Thankfully, now that you are aware how your… gifts will be received, the worry that loomed over you the previous year is absent.
Now, you're not gonna be cruel to Jason. You also picked up a beautiful copy of The Odyssey and Dune. You knew he'd liked those gifts, so you didn't feel too bad about your other gift. It was lucky for you that Fatson arrived while Jason was out on patrol. You knew he would not have returned for another four hours at least, so you had wrapped it the second it arrived. Jason didn't even know it was delivered.
The wrapping paper was a contingency plan you made last time. If the Batman paper somehow didn't work, you'd use the Red Hood version. You didn't want to use it initially; even for you, that was a bit too on the nose. When Jason forced you to give up the Batman wrapping paper, you had to withhold the grin that tried crawling its way onto your face. After all, you knew that the Red Hood wrapping paper resided in the back of your closet.
Upon arriving at the Manor, Alfred had offered to help you take the presents inside, giving you a knowing look. For a moment, you wondered if he somehow knew who you got before dismissing the inane thought.
Upon entry, you had nearly lost it upon seeing the gifts that everybody carried. Every single one was covered in the Batman wrapping paper you had used the previous year. You cover your mouth, attempting to stifle the giggles threatening to escape you. Jason tosses you a questioning look. You shake your head, but your smile grows. "Surprisingly, I did not tell them to do this." You place your gifts onto your normal spot on the couch, Jason following closely behind you.
Jason huffs, "That's not very surprising at all, actually. I fully expected something like this—" he gestures loosely at the gifts under the tree, "—to happen."
Since you two were not the last people to arrive this time, there was actually a period where you had to wait for the exchange to begin. Steph had burst out laughing at your gift wrapping choice, and Cass gave you a small wink, smiling as she situates herself next to you. Once Jason had moved to his normal spot, you turned towards her. "Thanks for covering for me last time." Your voice is soft.
She nods at you, "Of course." She whispers back, matching your volume.
"Alright! It's time to start!" Steph walks around the coffee table in front of the couch you're on. You lean back into the couch, feeling the familiar excitement cause your heart to race. You tap the top of the gift containing Fatson Todd.
It started off normal.
Bruce had started off, and it had progressed without issues. Then it went to Tim, which went to Barbara. As the number of people remaining dwindled, you couldn't help but find it poetic how you'd be going towards the end. Way to save the surprise for the ending.
Finally, Damian had given his gift to Cass. You shifted, feeling your heart attempt to rip it's way out of your chest with how fast it was racing. While you wouldn't be giving Jason's gift right now, this is when Jason would learn you were lying, leaving him to stew knowing that your gifts are meant for him.
It's a healthy amount of suspense.
"I got Dick." Cass grabs her gift, walking over to Dick, and handing it to him. Dick grins, offering his gratitude as he sits down to open the gift. You smile at the interaction before curiosity gets the better of you. Turning to Jason, you assess his reaction.
He's already staring at you, betrayal evident in his eyes. You smile at him, patting the gift, essentially taunting him. He flinches at the action, mouthing a soft "No." You grin at him before turning back to Dick who is opening his gift. The whole time you watch, you can feel Jason's eyes bore into you. You purposefully ignore him, feeling a sense of twisted joy at his panic.
Of course, Jason's anguished expression only gets worse upon seeing that Dick got you. Honestly, this whole situation has to be scripted. What are the chances you got Jason two years in a row and somehow lied to Jason using the person who was your Secret Santa? Probably not high, that's for sure.
That's for sure. You offer Dick your gratitude for the gift you received, and you feel your eagerness reach an all time high. Placing your gift gently to your side, you turn towards the Red Hood wrapped gifts. Slowly, you raise them up. "The person I got…" You spin around the room, and by the time you reach Jason again, his face looks actually pained. "Jason!" You hold up the gifts higher, in celebration. "For the second year in a row!" You pause, chuckling nervously. "I swear, I was just as surprised as you guys."
Dick covers his mouth to mask his delighted grin, turning to Jason to gauge his reaction. Steph lets out a bark of laughter in the background, yelling out something along the lines of "Holy shit, I called it!"
A quick glance around the room tells you that everybody is suddenly very interested in what you had to offer your boyfriend. Walking over to place the gifts into his lap, you point at the books. "You should open this one first."
He heaves an accepting sigh. "You said that last time."
You nod, "This one is good, I promise. Think of it as emotional support."
Jason's mouth sputters before he narrows his eyes at the books as if they purposefully offended him. "Are you saying I'll need emotional support?"
You grin, winking at him as you make your way back to the couch. "Did you actually get him a normal gift this time?" Duke leans over to whisper to you.
You nod, "I did actually."
The two of you turn to see Jason raise his eyebrows at the unwrapped books. You make eye contact, and he offers you a small smile and resolute nod. His shoulders droop in a false sense of relief.
"And the other one?" Duke asks, the two of you watching as Jason hesitantly opens the bigger box. Dick leans over the back of the couch Jason is sitting on, attempting to peek inside it. Jason sends him a glare, and Dick rolls his eyes before backing off. It seems Duke isn't the only one who is curious.
Jason directs his stare towards you before looking down at the box. Dubiously, he brings the box up to his eye-level, opening the lid just enough for his eyes to peep inside. You can't see his face (as it is covered by the huge box Fatson resides in), but based on the way he closes it and places it to his side, you have an idea.
He rests his elbow on his knee, hunching over to cover his eyes with his hand, before he mutters a single word: "Why?"
It seems that the single word broke whatever restraint Dick had because he reaches for the box. He slowly takes the lid off before turning to you with the most gleeful expression imaginable. Reverently, he hoists Fatson Todd up, presenting the plush to the world.
Instantly, the entire room breaks out into laughter. Steph rushes over to Dick to get a closer look at the plushie. The two of them gently test Fatson's tiny arms. Damian hesitantly approaches it, and based off of his expression, he doesn't appear to share the same excitement for the object as the others do. Barbara has taken a few photos of the small group gathered around the plush.
"Why is his body… a different shape?" Tim asks, struggling in between his laughter.
"He was marketed as 'Rotund Hood.' He just comes like that." You shrug, moving over to get a closer look at their reactions. "I've been calling him 'Fatson Todd,' though."
Duke doesn't bother to hide his snicker at your nickname for the plush, and Jason finally speaks up. "You gave the fat plush version of me a name?"
"It's kinda cute though." Steph raises her phone up above the helmet of the plush to take a point five photo of him.
"Fatson Todd." Jason repeats, appalled. "Fatson— Why would you buy this?" Grinning at your boyfriend, you take the plush away from Steph before settling it onto Jason's lap, "Is he weighted?" Jason furrows his eyebrows at the plush. "Of course he is." He mutters to himself, scoffing.
You grin at him, "He's cute though. He's got a sort of charm to him."
Jason snaps his head to him, "It's a plush."
"Exactly!" You snap your fingers, pointing down to Fatson.
"How is he charming? I'm—" Jason rubs his temples, "You know what, I don't even care, anymore." He closes his eyes as he attempts to tune out the buzzing chatter around him.
"So we're keeping him?" You grab the plush from his lap.
He turns towards you, exasperated, "Somehow, I doubt you'll let me do anything else but keep him."
You grin at him, and that's all the answer he needs.
You're lucky he loves you.
: ̗̀➛ A/N: Chat how do we feel about the art and dividers. Every single divider and the Santa Fatson Todd was drawn by me lol. I've seen procreate longer than I've seen my family for the past couple days.
I didn't actually plan on making a sequel to The Gift of Truth, but a few of you asked about Fatson Todd, and I am very easy to persuade. Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed this small little fic. As always, let me know about any mistakes. Happy New Year everyone! <3
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Summary: While she raced across continents beside metal titans, Gotham’s sons tore through shadows hunting the ghost she’d become.
Words: 5.5k
Content Warning: Violence, Destruction Of Personal Spaces, Gunfire, Emotional Distress, Implications Of Abduction, Themes Of Helplessness, Acute Anxiety, Fear
A/N: This is a concept chapter - I realllyyy couldn't get it out of my head no matter how hard I tried. Sometimes I just be saying shit.
Y/N didn’t plan on bringing an alien home.
She only wanted a ride that didn’t involve waiting forty minutes for the Blüdhaven bus system to decide whether it felt like existing. So when she saw the yellow Camaro parked on the edge of the used car lot, its paint dulled, its hood scorched, its silhouette leaning toward her like it had been waiting, she paused.
The car was wrong.
Not in an immediate danger way. More like the low-level hum in your teeth when you stand under a power line. Something that made the hairs on her arms lift as if the engine was breathing, faintly, steadily, patiently.
Before she could talk herself out of it, the lot owner practically sprinted toward her.
He shoved the keys into her hand with the same energy someone would use to throw a cursed artifact off a cliff.
“Take it. It’s yours. No returns.”
She blinked. “Wait, don’t you need…?”
But the man was already halfway across the pavement, keys long gone from his mind as he disappeared into the kiosk and shut the blinds in one dramatic sweep.
“…Right,” Y/N muttered to herself. “Well, nothing creepy about that.”
Her instincts told her to leave.
Her feet told her to call someone far more capable of explaining this mess. And when Tim didn’t answer.
She took it home.
Well, really, she took it to a garage and called David.
When David finally rolled into the garage, it was in his battered old pickup, the same rust-crowned thing that rattled like a metal skeleton, one headlight dimmer than the other, and the engine coughing its usual protest as he killed the ignition. He climbed out with a tired groan, running a hand through his short, oil-speckled hair. It stuck up in uneven directions, not because he styled it that way, but because exhaustion had long ago won the war.
He was tall in a lanky sort of way, all narrow limbs and perpetual slouch, the kind of man who looked like he’d grown faster than he ever learned to stand straight. Despite it, the years of lifting engines and dragging equipment had carved muscle into his arms and shoulders; wiry but solid, the kind built from long shifts and too many missed meals. His eyes were the most telling part of him: soft, dark, and permanently tired, like he’d been awake three years longer than everyone else.
A cup of gas-station coffee was clutched in one hand, steam curling upward, and resignation hung on him like an oversized coat he never bothered to shrug off.
He stepped into the garage with the slow, familiar gait of a man expecting another mundane night of repairs.
Then he saw the Camaro.
Bathed in fluorescent lighting, polished chrome glowing like gold against the drab cement floor, the car looked absurdly out of place, too fancy for the shabby space, too alive for the silence around it.
David froze mid-step, hand going slack around his coffee cup.
“…What,” he whispered, blinking once, twice, as if waiting for the hallucination to go away.
But it didn’t.
The Camaro shimmered faintly under the lights —almost like it was breathing.
And David, with all his tired eyes and grease-stained hands, suddenly forgot how to move.
“Oh no,” he whispered. “What did you summon?”
“It was free!” Y/N said, lifting her shoulders helplessly.
David gave her a look that belonged in a documentary about people who make bad decisions. “Free cars are how ghosts get you.”
“Cars don’t have ghosts.”
“They can. This one does.”
Despite his complaints, he approached the Camaro with wary caution, circling it like it might pounce. When he finally popped the hood, he inhaled sharply.
“This isn’t… anything,” he murmured. “Not anything human. Not anything manufactured. Not anything I’ve ever seen.”
Y/N peeked over his shoulder. “That bad?”
“It’s… alien,” he whispered.
The moment he said it, the engine hummed.
Soft at first. Curious. Alive.
David lurched backward so fast his back hit a tool cabinet. “Nope. Nope! Y/N, that’s a demon. You bought a demon car.”
“Cars aren’t—”
The headlights flashed.
The radio sputtered.
The chassis vibrated, not like a machine, but like a creature waking from sleep.
Y/N stepped away instinctively. David made a noise between a choke and a prayer.
And then the car moved.
Not forward. Not backward.
Outward.
Panels folded. Tires retracted. Mechanical segments slid into place like a puzzle coming undone in reverse. A metal hand braced against the floor. A face, bright optics glowing blue, lifted toward them from above.
A fifteen-foot robot crouched inside the garage.
“Ohmygodohmygod—” David gasped. “Y/N, get behind me—no, get behind something bigger than me!”
The robot lifted both hands quickly, palms open.
“D–Do not be afraid!” it said, voice stuttering through radio clips. Static. A sports announcer. A soft pop song lyric. Finally, a clearer tone:
“I’m… friendly. Very friendly. Please don’t scream.”
David’s knees buckled. “I’m going to pass out.”
Y/N stepped forward before he could.
Her pulse thundered, terror clawed at her ribs, but something steadier pushed her forward. The robot looked terrified too, optics wide, posture small for something so massive, hands trembling ever so slightly.
“Hey,” she said softly, raising her hands the same way he did. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
He froze, eyes widening with something like hope.
Y/N stepped closer still. “Can you tell us your name?”
The robot’s engine purred nervously. He touched a hand to his chest and cycled through radio static until a clear word emerged:
“Bumblebee.”
David whimpered behind her, “Y/N, please don’t touch the alien.”
She didn’t listen. Her hand reached out, slow and steady, brushing the metal of Bumblebee’s knuckles. The metal shivered beneath her touch.
Bee released a relieved burst of static.
“Friendly humans. Thank the—” static “—universe.”
The moment hung there, fear and awe and something like trust beginning to form.
That was the moment everything in her life tilted.
For the next three days, Bee hid behind the garage, disguised beneath a tarp that could barely cover his hood. Y/N visited him each morning and night, bringing him little things—scraps of metal to examine, questions he answered in clipped radio phrases, even a wireless speaker so he could talk without rummaging through the radio waves.
David oscillated between fascinated and terrified.
One minute, he was lecturing Bee about basic engine maintenance; the next, he was hiding behind Y/N whenever Bee startled at a passing siren.
But something gentle developed between the three of them.
Bee was still on edge, flinching at loud noises, apologizing every time he knocked something over, ducking behind the garage whenever someone walked by, but he warmed to Y/N quickly.
He’d angle his mirrors toward her when she sat nearby, listening to her talk about nothing and everything. He’d brighten his headlights when she approached, like a dog lifting its head when its person returned.
And Y/N… felt oddly safe with him.
Safe enough that for the first time in months, she forgot how messy her life had been in Gotham. Safe enough that she forgot the sinking feeling that always came with missing Tim’s messages. Safe enough to laugh, even lightly, when Bumblebee misused idioms he found on late-night radio.
David, of course, did not forget the danger.
“Something’s going to find him,” he muttered on the third night, quietly twisting a wrench in his hands. “Nothing this weird stays hidden forever.”
Bee stiffened sharply.
His headlights flickered.
He wasn’t wrong to be afraid.
Y/N woke to the sharp, metallic clang of something striking the fire escape outside her window, not the soft rattle of wind or the groan of old pipes, but a deliberate, heavy impact that vibrated through the thin apartment walls. She sat up slowly, heart thudding against her ribs as she strained to listen. The air felt colder suddenly, as though a draft had slipped beneath the door, carrying with it a sense of wrongness she couldn’t quite place. Something was out there. Something too large, too cold, too purposeful.
A prickling sense of dread crept along her spine.
Then a thunderous impact shook her apartment door.
Y/N froze mid-breath. Her pulse roared in her ears as the entire frame trembled beneath the assault. Something was in the hallway; not someone, but somethings, plural, each step sending faint shivers through the floorboards. The hinges groaned under pressure, whining in protest. A mechanical snarl rolled through the cracks of the door, deep and grinding, like metal chewing on metal.
A distorted voice —raspy, modulated, inhuman —slithered through the thin wood.
“Human target… located?”
Her blood turned to ice.
There was no time to think. No time to gather anything or hide somewhere clever or grab a weapon that matters against whatever had just spoken. Survival was instinct, immediate and unforgiving. She spun toward the window, shoved it open, and lunged onto the fire escape just as the apartment door exploded inward in a storm of splintered wood and twisted hinges.
Metal claws tore through her bedroom wall, shredding plaster, ripping apart her dresser, slashing through her blankets as though searching for her in the fabric. She scrambled down the rusted ladder, bare feet slipping on the cold metal rungs. Above her, the sound of destruction filled the night; drawers ripped from their frames, her belongings thrown aside, scanning beams swooping back and forth like hunting dogs sniffing out a trail.
The moment they realized she wasn’t inside, the precision ended.
The destruction began.
Explosions rocked the apartment from the inside out. Furniture, the few pieces she’d saved up for, shattered in deafening bursts. Her shelves toppled, glass fractured across the pavement below like falling stars, and the windows blew outward in a violent spray. Smoke curled out of the broken frame as her home —her safe place, her tiny sanctuary —collapsed under the assault.
Y/N didn’t wait to see more. She ran blind through the alley, stumbling over debris, heart hammering with a frantic rhythm that drowned out the rising sirens. She didn’t know where she was heading, only that she had to get away, far away, before those things realized she had escaped.
She made it two blocks before she heard it: the blare of a horn, sudden and startling, followed by the screech of tires making a desperate turn.
Bumblebee barreled into view like a yellow comet skidding across the asphalt, headlights flaring wide with sheer panic. David was already inside, pale-faced and gripping the dashboard with both hands as though it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
Bee swung toward her and slammed to a stop so abruptly she felt the wind of it against her legs. The passenger door flung open.
Radio static burst through his speakers, sharp and frantic.
“G–GET IN— GET IN— GET IN!”
There was no hesitation, no confusion, no question of trust. She dove into the seat, and Bee’s tires screamed as he shot forward before the door had even shut, the city blurring into streaks of light around them.
Buildings flashed by in fractured smears of brick and concrete as Bee tore through the streets with the terrified urgency of someone fleeing a nightmare. He swerved between cars, cut corners too fast for physics, and let out panicked bursts of radio chatter whenever a turn came too close.
“They found your home—” static crackled “—tracking me—” another burst “—they know you—heat signature—know you helped me!”
“What?!” Y/N gasped, bracing herself against the seat as Bee hurtled through an intersection. “Bee, slow down! Tell me what happened!”
“I told you!” David squeaked beside her, voice climbing octaves under pressure. “I told you weird things follow you — but this is a new level of weird!”
Bee swerved so sharply that David slid sideways, nearly folding into Y/N’s shoulder.
“S–SORRY—SORRY—SORRY—” Bee blurted, his words jumping between radio clips. “**High-stress rescue driving! Actually very good at it! But also—**static —terrified!”
Even through the adrenaline clawing at her chest, Y/N felt a surge of something steady inside her. She reached out, placing a hand on the dashboard.
“Bee,” she said firmly, trying to anchor him. “Look at me.”
His rearview mirror jerked toward her, the glowing blue reflection trembling faintly.
“We’re alive,” she said. “You got to me in time. You’re keeping us safe. You’re doing it.”
Something shifted in the car, subtle as a breath. The frantic edge in Bee’s engine softened; the jolting panic smoothed into something more controlled, more determined.
His voice, still stitched from radio fragments, dropped into a quieter register.
“I… won’t let anything hurt you.”
David swallowed loudly beside her. “Same. Me too. I trust you, man, just maybe give us a heads-up before doing the drift thing again. I nearly died.”
Bee answered with a tiny, embarrassed chirp of static.
They didn’t slow down until the docks came into view. Cranes loomed overhead like skeletal giants, and cargo containers stacked along the water cast deep shadows across the lot. Bee slid between them with practiced skill, reaching a quiet, secluded corner, and jerked open his doors.
“Inside,” he insisted, voice nervous but resolute. “In. Now.”
David didn’t need convincing; he practically threw himself into the yawning darkness of the container. Y/N followed him, breath shaking in her chest. Bee sealed the door behind them, the metal reverberating from the outside impact, and moved beneath the ship’s ramp before anyone could notice him.
The container trapped all the cold, stale air it had, and every sound felt amplified: the creaking chains, the groaning metal as the ship began to rise, the pounding of her own pulse in her ears. David curled up against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, trembling with fear and exhaustion.
Y/N sat beside him, drawing in slow, uneven breaths.
Bee’s voice hummed from the small speaker inside the container, low and quiet, as though afraid to disturb the air around them.
“You’re safe.”
A pause, soft static.
“I promise. I won’t let them find you.”
She didn’t know why those words eased her chest, but they did. Even as her apartment lay in ruins behind her.
Even as her life collapsed in a matter of minutes.
She believed Bumblebee. She trusted him.
And she didn’t know why.
By the time they reached the Himalayas, Y/N’s entire body felt like one bruised heartbeat. Cold stung every inch of exposed skin. Bee drove carefully through the narrow mountain roads, headlights low to avoid detection, tires crunching against frost-covered gravel.
David huddled deeper into his borrowed jacket, teeth chattering uncontrollably. “If…. if I get through this,” he said between shivers, “I’m raising my labor rates by forty percent.”
Bee responded with a jitter of static.
“I will pay whatever you want. Just. Please don’t die. Humans dying makes me… anxious.”
“You’re anxious?” David sputtered, turning toward the dash as if it could glare back. “I’m a mechanic! I’m not built for alien warfare!”
Bee whimpered in agreement, steering carefully around a winding bend.
And then, as they rounded the corner, shadows broke away from the cliffs.
Not shadows.
Giants.
Optimus Prime stepped forward first, an immense figure of cobalt and deep red, illuminated faintly by the thin mountain moonlight. Every step he took vibrated through the ground, but his gaze, steady and ancient, held no threat, only recognition and purpose.
Behind him, the rest of the Autobots emerged: Arcee with her lithe, sharp-edged silhouette; Wheeljack sparking lightly as he fiddled with something on his forearm; Ironhide looming at the rear like a metal fortress.
David went completely still.
“This is it,” he whispered hoarsely. “We’re about to be vaporized.”
Before Y/N could respond, Bee transformed so quickly he nearly stumbled over his own footing, planting himself between them and the towering forms like a frantic guard dog.
His radio sputtered with anxious static.
“Boss—sir—Prime— I brought humans— they’re mine— I mean not mine— they helped— I panicked— I’m sorry—”
Optimus regarded him with the weary patience of someone who had known Bumblebee a long time.
“You did well,” Prime said, voice resonant and calm, like the rumble of distant mountains.
Bee sagged with visible relief.
Wheeljack peered down at the humans. “Huh. Squishy.”
Ironhide snorted. “And small.”
David clung to Y/N’s sleeve, voice breaking. “I want to go home.”
Y/N didn’t look away from the colossal warriors. “We… don’t have one anymore.”
Optimus knelt, lowering himself to their level without haste, without threat. The cold mountain air hummed around them, and his face, metal and light, etched with centuries, softened.
“You are under our protection now,” he said. “Both of you.”
Y/N hadn’t realized how hard she was shaking until Bee gently nudged a thick tarp toward her with the edge of his foot, as though afraid to startle her by moving too fast.
David exhaled shakily and dropped onto a nearby stone. “I was supposed to have a normal week,” he muttered. “Groceries. Laundry. Maybe catch up on that show I keep missing. Not… this.”
Bee crouched beside them, trying to look smaller than he was, an impossible task for something so massive, but the attempt alone softened the air around them.
His voice crackled gently.
“I’m sorry.”
Another flicker of static.
“I never wanted to ruin your life.”
Y/N pulled the tarp closer around her shoulders, her breath fogging in the cold night air. “You didn’t ruin it,” she said quietly. “You saved it. That matters.”
Bee’s optics brightened, a soft glow of warmth in the cold mountain shadows.
“Thank you.”
The exhaustion finally hit her then — heavy, unrelenting — and she lay back against the stone, David beside her, Bee keeping vigil a few feet away with a low, protective hum.
Sleep tugged at her, heavy and unkind, and she let herself fall into it.
Tim Drake didn’t notice anything was wrong at first.
It wasn’t unusual for him to fall off the face of the earth for a while, at least, not in the social sense. He had a way of slipping into tunnels of focus where time became elastic and days stretched together, indistinguishable except for the color of the coffee he was drinking. He’d disappear into case files for hours that turned into days, or stay awake through a string of stakeouts that blurred into insomnia, or lose himself in a coding frenzy until his entire reality narrowed to a blue-lit screen and the throbbing pulse behind his eyes.
Y/N knew this. She’d always known this.
She teased him about it constantly. Threatened to file a missing persons report if he ignored more than three memes, scolded him for his abysmal response times, and sent him dramatic GIFs of abandoned lovers on sinking ships whenever he forgot to text back. But she never actually stopped sending things. Her messages came in little bursts throughout the week: a photo of her lunch, a rant about someone cutting her in line at the store, a blurry cat that reminded her of Damian, a joke she thought Tim would appreciate even if he didn’t see it until three days later. They were small artifacts of her life, and even if he didn’t respond immediately, she always assumed he would eventually.
Which was why, when Tim finally opened his messages after nearly two weeks of burying himself in work, he felt a familiar guilt pinch somewhere deep in his chest, guilt, but not fear, not yet — as he saw the backlog of everything he’d missed.
He scrolled slowly, giving each message a little more attention than usual, as if making up for the delay through care. A photo of a street vendor selling ridiculous hats. A three-paragraph rant about her neighbor’s terrible cooking smells. A meme that made him snort even though he was alone. A picture of two mismatched socks and the caption, “tell me why laundry hates me.” All of it so distinctly her.
Then he reached the end.
The last message was from twelve days ago, a picture of her grocery cart filled with vegetables, frozen dumplings, and instant ramen, accompanied by:
“Tim look at me being an adult (barely)”
He blinked at the timestamp. Then he scrolled again, as if expecting more to appear.
Nothing.
He refreshed the screen, still nothing.
Y/N always sent something even if he didn’t.
Even if he was busy, or unreachable, or drowning in work, she never let the line go slack. She always nudged it, tugged it, threw something across the distance—just enough to remind him she was still there.
But this time, the line was silent. Very silent.
He called her.
The phone rang once before going to voicemail. He didn’t think much of it. Maybe she was out, maybe her battery died, maybe she was talking off everyone’s ears at David’s garage, or lost in some book she refused to let anyone interrupt.
He tried again that night, straight to voicemail.
He told himself it was fine.
He tried the next morning.
No answer.
It wasn’t until the fourth day, after he realized he’d called her twelve times without consciously deciding to, that something sharp and cold settled beneath his ribs. It wasn’t panic, not yet, but it was something heavier than worry. A quiet, creeping weight that whispered This isn’t normal.
His own voicemails filled her inbox: the first casual, the next mildly concerned, the most recent ones clipped at the edges, strained in a way he hadn’t let himself acknowledge.
Still nothing.
No message. No call.
No, “sorry, phone died.”
No, “lol I was busy.”
No, “I’m alive, leave me alone.”
Nothing. Silence.
Something in him tightened, and before he could think too hard about it, he pulled up another number and pressed call.
Dick answered on the second ring.
Blüdhaven apartment buildings always carried the same bouquet of unpleasant scents: mildew that never quite washed out of the walls, old carpet cleaner, reheated takeout, and the faint metallic tang of water lines older than Dick himself. He’d walked this hallway a dozen times before, each visit familiar in its own shabby way.
But tonight, something was wrong.
The air felt… stagnant. Like everything had stopped breathing. The lights buzzed overhead with a dim, uneven flicker, casting thin shadows that stretched across the walls in long, nervous shapes. Dick slowed as he reached Y/N’s door, expecting to knock and hear her shuffling around inside, maybe muttering about him arriving unannounced.
He didn’t expect the door to be ajar.
Not gently. Not the accidental kind left when someone was juggling groceries.
It hung crooked in the frame, angled downward as though shouldered open by something that didn’t care about hinges or locks. Splintered wood framed the latch; pale, raw, ugly, fanned outward in sharp fragments that still clung to the doorknob.
A breath slipped out of him, thin and quiet.
“…Y/N?” he tried, voice low, cautious, tasting the way it disappeared into the silence.
His fingers pressed against the door, nudging it wider. It swung inward with a tired groan.
The smell hit him first; not blood, not smoke, but the stale, unsettled scent of a home violently disturbed. Like something large had moved through too fast, leaving the air unsettled in its wake.
Then he saw the living room.
And for a moment, Dick forgot how to breathe.
It didn’t look like a person had broken in.
It didn’t look like someone had rummaged through her belongings.
It looked like a hurricane had been unleashed inside four walls.
The couch was flipped onto its back, cushions gutted and strewn across the carpet in ragged, cotton-filled heaps. The coffee table was split clean down the center, halves pushed in opposite directions as though shoved with inhuman strength. Her bookshelf leaned against the wall at a precarious angle, half its shelves emptied by force, pages torn out and scattered in heaps, fluttering slightly in the draft from the broken window.
Glass glittered along the kitchen tile like spilled ice. A plate had shattered against the far wall; porcelain pieces clung to it like flecks of snow. The coat rack was snapped. The lamp near her desk was bent in half.
This wasn’t chaos.
This was violence.
Dick stepped inside with careful, deliberate movements, boots crunching over debris. His heart thudded harder with each step as he scanned the room. His eyes tracked corners, shadows, the rise and fall of curtains, listening for breath, for movement, for anything that meant she was still here. Still alive.
Nothing answered him back.
He moved toward the hallway, and that was when he saw it, a dark smear across the plaster, streaked downward in a hand-length arc. Thick. Drying. Dark enough that his stomach twisted sharply.
For one awful second, he felt weightless.
He swallowed hard, dragging a breath into his lungs because the room suddenly felt too small, too close, too wrong.
He reached for his phone, fingers steady though he didn’t feel steady at all.
Tim picked up on the second ring.
“Tim,” Dick said quietly, never taking his eyes off the broken home around him, “you need to get here.”
He didn’t explain. There was no way to explain this over the phone. And Tim didn’t need further detail, not with the way Dick’s voice had thinned.
Dick ended the call, lowered his hand, and stood alone in the wreckage of Y/N’s apartment, the silence pressing in like a second set of walls.
He had seen a lot in Blüdhaven. But nothing like this. Nothing made the night feel this hollow.
Nothing made him feel, for the first time in a long time, scared.
Tim reached Blüdhaven in a time that made Dick mutter something about physics not applying to the Drake family. He didn’t slow down as he crossed the hallway; he barely acknowledged Dick before stepping inside the apartment.
He froze mid-step.
Nothing in his expression shifted, but Dick felt the moment it hit him, a subtle tightening in Tim’s shoulders, a stillness that seeped into the room like cold water. The destruction was impossible to soften or rationalize: the couch overturned and gutted, cushions torn to ribbons; her bookshelf collapsed, half its novels ripped open and strewn across the floor like wounded birds; mugs shattered into glittering pieces; a framed photo smashed face-down, the glass fractured like a spiderweb.
Tim scanned the room with an eerie calm, not dispassion but something far more brittle, focus sharpened to a knife’s edge, the kind used when emotions would only get in the way. He moved slowly, methodically, as though cataloging every wrong thing.
He reached her desk; snapped legs, drawers tossed, papers trampled. He reached her couch; ripped seams, stuffing scattered like snow. He reached the far corner—
And then he saw it.
Her phone lay near the kitchen door, half-buried under torn fabric and broken plastic. The screen flickered weakly, the glow stuttering like a dying heartbeat.
Tim’s breath stilled.
He crouched, lifting it carefully, as if it were something fragile. The screen flickered to life long enough to display her notifications.
Missed calls.
Dozens.
Most from him.
Dick stepped closer, placing a tentative hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Hey… we’ll figure this out. But let’s not jump to conclusions. Blüdhaven’s been dealing with gang issues again. This could be—”
“A break-in doesn’t look like this,” Tim murmured, staring at the cracked screen. “This wasn’t random.”
Dick hesitated. “We… should loop Jason in.”
Tim didn’t object. He just nodded once; short, precise, like flipping a switch.
Dick dialed Jason first. He stepped toward the hallway to take the call, voice low as he explained, “It looks bad. Tim’s here. We need you.”
Jason didn’t even let him finish.
“I’m already across the river,” he said. “Give me ten.”
Dick hung up and returned to Tim, who had coaxed the dying screen just enough to open her voicemail folder. The phone strained, flickered, then finally surrendered to the request.
A list appeared, all from one caller:
David.
Dick swallowed. “Play them.”
Tim did.
David’s voice filled the devastated room, thin and strained but trying, at first, to sound normal.
Voicemail — 6:41 PM
“Hey, Y/N. You home? Something weird’s going on at the garage. Bee’s acting strange, keeps making these… noises. Just, uh, call me when you can.”
His tone wavered with confusion, no panic yet, just concern.
Dick lifted a brow at the mention of “Bee,” but said nothing.
Voicemail — 6:55 PM “Y/N, could you text me? Bee’s reading something out there. I don’t know what. He says it’s close. Just… please call me. You’re probably fine, I just—yeah, call.”
His voice trembled under forced calm, like someone trying to convince himself nothing was wrong.
Tim pressed the phone closer to his ear.
Voicemail — 7:01 PM “Okay, seriously, now I’m worried. Bee says whatever’s moving is big. And fast. He’s never wrong about these things. Just tell me you’re awake. Or home. Or something. Y/N, please pick up.”
The edges of fear crept into his tone.
Dick and Tim exchanged a look, the kind shared when both knew something was spiraling out of control.
Voicemail — 7:07 PM
This message began with noise, a metallic crash echoing behind David, followed by frantic footsteps and the brief, shaky rustle of the phone being fumbled.
His breathing was sharp, uneven.
“Y/N, listen, something’s in your building. I don’t know what it is. Bee’s tracking it floor by floor. You need to move. Don’t go near the hallway. Don’t look out the door. Just move. Now.”
There was no mistaking the fear in his voice now. It wasn’t theoretical or cautious anymore; it was raw.
Voicemail — 7:10 PM Gunshots cracked in the background; sharp, echoing pops that made Dick and Tim both stiffen instinctively. Someone shouted something unintelligible behind David.
“Y/N, get out. I’m serious. Go to the fire escape. Don’t take anything—just move. Bee says it’s almost...”
A sudden thud cut him off, followed by scuffling sounds, muffled cursing—
And then the line went dead.
The voicemail ended abruptly.
The call log showed the rest: thirty-two missed calls.
No messages.
No words.
Just desperate redialing, again and again and again, all within minutes.
Then nothing.
Footsteps approached long before Jason appeared—heavy, deliberate, unmistakably his —the kind of stride that announced itself without apology. A shadow passed across the hallway light, and a second later, Jason stepped through the broken doorway, helmet tucked under his arm and irritation already etched into his features.
His expression didn’t stay that way for long.
The moment his eyes settled on the wreckage, the annoyance drained, replaced by something far sharper. His posture shifted, shoulders locking, jaw tightening. He took in the overturned furniture, the shredded cushions, the collapsed bookshelf, the broken glass, the stains on the wall—every detail catalogued at a glance.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “You weren’t exaggerating.”
Dick gave a short, grim nod. “We hoped it was gang-related. Something simple. But nothing about this fits.”
Jason stepped deeper into the apartment, moving slowly, like someone walking into a battlefield after the smoke cleared. He crouched near the deepest gouge in the wall, fingers brushing lightly along the torn plaster. The cut wasn’t clean. It wasn’t shaped like a blade or a crowbar. It looked… wrong. As if something had torn straight through with a force most humans couldn’t muster.
“No gang did this,” Jason said after a moment. The quiet certainty in his voice sounded almost heavy. “Not their style. Not their patterns. And no human hits walls this hard unless they’re juiced up on something unnatural.”
Dick watched him carefully. “That’s what we thought.”
Jason stood again, dusting off his gloves. “You two clearly know something else. Spill.”
Tim didn’t answer right away. He was standing near the kitchen doorway, the cracked phone still in his hand, his thumb tapping against the edge of the shattered case in a steady rhythm that betrayed the tension beneath his stillness.
Dick exchanged a glance with him before speaking. “We heard the voicemails she got. They paint a picture… but not one that makes sense.”
Jason’s eyes flicked between them. “And you didn’t play them for me why?”
“Because,” Tim said quietly, “you don’t need to hear someone panic for fifteen minutes when they’re trying —and failing —to reach her alive.”
Jason’s expression softened, barely. “Alright. Fair enough. What do we know?”
Tim lifted the ruined phone slightly, as if that alone were the answer.
“Her friend David was calling nonstop,” Tim explained. “Something happened at his garage. Something he couldn’t explain. He warned her that there was movement in her building. Something big. Something that wasn’t human.”
Jason’s eyebrows lifted. Slowly. Not because he doubted them, but because the alternative explanations were all worse.
“And she didn’t pick up,” Jason murmured.
“No,” Tim said. “Not once.”
Jason blew out a slow breath, all traces of sarcasm or annoyance gone now. His voice dropped an octave, the tone he used when things were personal.
“Alright,” he said. “Then we don’t leave this alone. Not until we know what happened, and not until we bring her back.”
Tim nodded once. “We will.”
The conviction in those two words made Jason straighten. Made Dick’s eyes sharpen with determination.
Dick exhaled, steadying himself. “First step is finding David. And figuring out who — or what — ‘Bee’ is.”
Jason grimaced. “Bee? Who the hell is Bee?”
“We don’t know,” Dick admitted. “But David said the name more than once.”
“Then we track him,” Jason said. “Both of them.”
Tim slipped the cracked phone carefully into his jacket, the motion so gentle it looked like he was handling something precious.
“Then let’s go.”
The three of them moved out of the shattered apartment together, slipping into the dim hallway like shadows sharpening into purpose. Their footsteps echoed in unison — a dark rhythm that spoke of urgency, of fear, of resolve.
None of them knew what had taken her.
Not yet.
But they would.
Even if it meant tearing through Blüdhaven inch by inch. Even if it meant stepping into something bigger, stranger, more dangerous than anything they’d seen before.
They would find Y/N.
And whoever had taken her was about to regret ever touching someone the Batfamily cared about.
A/N: I feel like this could be another multi-fic story that I have no business starting
Character Profiles Here:
Y/N: 23 yrs old
Tim Drake: 23 yrs old
David: 23 yrs old
Jason Todd: 26 yrs old
Dick Grayson: 28 yrs old
Damian Wayne: 19 yrs old (idk in any story I feel weird writing about kids unless it's specific to the story - it makes me feel ugh)
As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated, but reposts (ON ANY SITE/BLOG) are not permitted.
idk if the reader is actually a yandere enough, but i wanted to write a fic where the roles were kind of reversed
You never thought about killing the Joker until your brother suggested it.
Why would you? Although you lived in Gotham, you existed in a totally different sphere so disconnected from the maniac clown, you never had to fear him. Your brother didn’t suggest it to you. He never would say such a thing to his precious, innocent little sibling who wasn’t supposed to know about their nighttime secrets. His little sibling who he, along with the rest of the family, did everything to shield from the horrors of Gotham.
It was by chance you overheard him. It was two in the morning and you were lurking in the kitchen, drinking water in the dark. You heard voices and footsteps approaching.
“What do you want Jay?” your oldest brother asked, his voice tired.
“I don’t know Dick,” the second oldest responds. “Maybe the Joker dead.”
An annoyed groan. “What fucking snack do you-” The door slams open and hallway light spills into the kitchen.
You feel like the rats in Ratitouille when the grandma blows open the wall and sees all the rats there and they’re all just staring at each other.
“What are you doing up?” Dick asks, his tone soft with you. His shoulders are slumped and the white t-shirt hangs loosely off his frame. His bare feet poke out from the hem of his blue plaid sleep pants. His black curls are still wet and combed away from his forehead.
You hold up your water bottle in lieu of responding.
Jason bumps shoulders with Dick as he strolls into the kitchen. He ruffles your hair on his way to the pantry. “You drink water like a freaking fish.”
“You don’t drink enough,” you mumble around the rim of the bottle. Jason is too busy rooting through bags of chips and cookie packages to counter your comment.
Dick steps into your space. He smooths the hair back out of your face and presses a quick kiss to your forehead. “Go back to bed, it’s late.”
“It’s late for you too.”
“We’re going to sleep soon,” Dick promises. He gives you a soft smile, one that makes his left dimple poke out and his eyes crinkle at the corners.
You return to your room without much fight, leaving your brothers in a dark kitchen, oblivious to the thoughts brewing inside of your head.
You never really thought about killing someone before. Sure, you’ve made jokes in passing about wanting to strangle your siblings or wanting to blow up a random, inconsiderate stranger on the street. But never in depth, planning it out like a psychopath. Maybe you are a psycho, for putting so much thought and time into this new plan of yours. But for your brother, for Jason it would be worth it. Anything to keep him around the manor more often.
You know something happened. He doesn’t like your father anymore, can barely stand to be in the same room as Bruce for more than twenty minutes before someone explodes. It has to do with Jason’s ‘death’ that really didn’t happen. Or that’s what your dad told you.
You had mourned Jason. You were hysterical during the funeral. That was your brother, and suddenly he was gone. He would no longer read to you at night anymore. The boy who would sneak into the kitchen and grab cookies before dinner was done. He would chase away the kids who teased you at school and teach you how to defend yourself in case he wasn’t there.
You had burned your funeral clothes and didn’t talk to anyone for a week.
And then years later, he returned.
He wasn’t the same, but he was back.
No one would tell you what happened. Bruce would shut down and vanish into his office whenever you tried to talk about it. Alfred would purse his lips and continue on his tasks as if he never heard you. Dick got quiet and still for a moment, and then he would spring back with a burst of fake energy and redirect you. Tim would pretend like he misunderstood your question and gaslight like you never asked him a question in the first place. And you would never ask Damian.
With the few scant pieces, you can sort of piece together something that may have happened. A terrorist, a bomb, a fake body. You would never ask Jason to relive what has to be the most traumatic part of his life. You just know you never want your brother to hurt like that again.
You miss how your family used to be. Sure, Dick was pretty standoffish and reluctant when both you and Jason were introduced to the family, but he eventually overcame that. Bruce used to smile a lot more back then. But you wouldn’t change having everything back like it used to be if it meant not having Tim and Damian as siblings anymore. But if you could do one small thing that would make Jason come around a lot more, to make your family whole again, you would do it in a heartbeat.
The funny thing about being Bruce Wayne’s child raised in the public eye, people forget about how smart Bruce Wayne actually is. They don’t connect the airheaded billionaire who parties every other weekend to the genius billionaire who uses his resources to change the city while increasing his profits. And they don’t realize how smart you turned out, even though your academic record is public knowledge at this point.
It would be ridiculous to assume that after living in the manor for most of your life, you never discovered your dad’s secret. He can try to hide the bruises, the tiredness, the sudden disappearances whenever another criminal escapes Arkham. But he raised you since you were a baby. He can’t trick you with the same methods he taught you. Your dad can create and hide all the secrets he wants. You won’t force him to spill anything unless he wants to. So you have no guilt in creating your own secrets.
You would do anything to keep your family together.
--
On an unassuming Wednesday night, a murder takes place within Arkham’s walls. It would not be discovered until morning.
The official reports and the media will claim it was heart failure.
By mid day, the streets of Gotham are in chaos. People are celebrating the death of the clown that terrorized them for years. It’s a gruesome display of happiness. People shoot off fireworks, beat clown shaped pinatas, and start drinking with their neighbors. Shockingly, there’s not much crime that night. The very few who liked the clown are forced into hiding, too scared by the overzealous displays of celebration. Gotham’s vigilantes have a confusing night of stopping illegal fireworks and public intoxication and not much physical crime.
The next morning, Jason Todd will discover a package on the doorstep of one of his safe houses. When he opens it with trepidation, he finds a glass container with two objects floating in liquid. The eyes seem to be laughing at him.
The coroner won’t discover it was air embolism until a week later. He already discovered the two glass spheres in place where the body’s eyes should be.
The coroner realizes it was a murder, but does not report it. Instead, he deletes the files that would say anything different. He suggests that the asylum burns the body.
No one suspects a thing.
--
Jason doesn’t like it when you drink underage, but he won’t snitch if you suddenly want a drink. And he’s not bad company. Sitting on the rooftop balcony of the manor, he doesn’t question why you texted and asked him for alcohol late at night. Instead, he joins you and goes through can after can of cheap beer. He doesn’t actually enjoy the taste, he confesses to you, but it’s an easier hangover than the hard liquor he got you. A true loving brother, getting drunk alongside you.
Jason lets you lead the conversation. You’re lamenting about how hard it is to buy a birthday gift for Tim’s upcoming birthday. Your brother says he doesn’t want anything, already has a million things, and anything he could want he could buy with his own thousands of dollars.
Jason taps his can against the banister rails before taking a drink. “Don’t get him anything weird. Kid is one strange item away from becoming a mad scientist.”
The alcohol has warmed your body so much you can feel the flush on your cheeks. It’s made your brain turn to mush, almost like it’s alphabet soup but instead of broth there’s applesauce. “Like eyes?”
Jason lowers his can from his mouth. His hand is minutely shaking. His eyes widen at you, green swimming around blue.
You don’t think you were supposed to bring that up.
“…How…” Jason’s voice is faint. “Did you…”
You smile at him, one that makes the corner of your lips curl up like a cat. “What?”
“No! You’re not playing that game with me!” The can in his hand is dented under his brute strength. “How did you know that?”
You tilt your head. “Hm?”
Jason throws the drink to the floor and grabs you by the shoulders, shaking you as if that could release an explanation. “The eyes! How did you know about the eyes?!”
Despite his bulk of muscles, his grip isn’t that tight, you could break free if you wanted. It’s almost like a comforting grasp. Jason isn’t much for physical touch, even less so now that he’s back. You don’t remember hugging him much when you were younger, perhaps you should start now.
You sigh. “I’ve missed having you around.”
The fingers digging into your shoulder fall apart.
You look up at your brother. He looks older than he should be, perhaps its the muscular build or maybe it's the tense aura he carries around him. “I did what I had to, to keep you around.”
Jason swallows, his throat bopping uncomfortably. “You killed him?”
“He died of natural causes.”
“Right…”
There’s not much of your drink left. You debate if you should open another bottle. “I’d do it again too. If I could, I’d make him squirm. I’d give you more than his eyes. I’d do it to anybody that hurt you Jay.”
Jason curls into you, pressing his face against your neck like he’s a child trying to hide from the world. He’s not crying or speaking, but you can feel the minute trembles and random full body shudders that wreck through him. He wraps his arms around your middle, his hands interconnected by your hip bone. One of your own hands is running your fingers through his hair.
It’s a long, quiet night.
The family notices Jason’s sudden closeness to you. It’d be hard not to.
He barely leaves your side for the most part. He’s around the manor more often, usually hovering a few paces behind you. He hangs out in your room a lot, giving unhelpful advice with homework and laying in your bed to watch videos together. Sometimes he drags you to the library and reads aloud to you. Other times you sit on the kitchen counter and watch him cook and help him start baking as a hobby.
Bruce doesn’t question it. He smiles brightly instead every time he sees Jason over your shoulder. He loves seeing Jason in the manor, he loves seeing his kids get along even more. Tim tried to joke about it once when you were helping Jason with a recipe. Your older brother got eerily quiet and just looked at Tim with eyes more green than blue. Tim kept his comments to himself after that, but still pops up at random moments. His flimsy excuses of wanting to take unflattering photos of you and Jason don’t convince you.
Tim must have spoken to Dick about it because in turn Dick starts coming around the manor more. He spends the night often and drives back to Bludhaven in the morning. He crashes the movie nights you and Jason plan, often inserting himself in between you guys ‘in case he got scared’. (As if anyone would get scared watching a dreamworks movie). Jason allows Dick to drag him to the gym or out for a fast food run, but at the end of the day, Jason always ends up back at your side.
Damian slowly starts hanging around you guys more often too, like a cat approaching something unknown. If you acknowledge him and try to include him, he scurries away, but if allowed to approach at his own pace, he’ll join you with no qualms. You enjoy acting like an older sibling to Damian, considering he’s the only little brother you have. You buy tickets to aquariums and museums to take him to, which Jason more often than not, tags along with.
It may have taken an unconventional act, but you managed to glue a small part of your broken family back together. And you would do it again without hesitation.
-----------------
i tried!! reading yandere batfam fics is my guilty pleasure, and there's so many ones with a neglected reader, i thought 'what if the reader actually grew up loved by the batfam and saw how much being a vigilante hurts them and tries to elimate their enemies/things that hurt them'
Gotham's got another thing coming
Tony Stark!batsis!Fem!Reader
It starts out how most things do, with a failed marriage
To the media, its an amicable divorce between Bruce Wayne and your mother, but the two have always been good at smiling for the camera
Custody is split, with your mother getting majority. You're closer to her, anyway. She bends herself soft towards you, cooks you eggs and pancakes in the mornings instead of having the nanny do it. When you're doing homework, she brings you apple slices that she cut herself.
Bruce is more distant after the divorce. Never less full of love. Just, when he sees you, you're a shadow of your mother, and he's a man full of excuses who foresaw this and gave it a chance, but it went to hell anyway. He's never been good with words. He doesn't know how to show or say that he wants the world for you, and that he's never kept a good thing in his life without harming it
so he's at work most of the time. He hears how you're doing from Alfred, from your teachers, from occasional reports from your mother
then she dies and Bruce and you are stuck with one another
car crash, evidently
It's a transition. Slow, yet sudden. You see Alfred more than your own father. The butler and you get along like lemons and salt. By 7 am he's throwing the covers off of you, weekdays and weekends.
"Master Bruce has done a poor job at teaching you to respect your elders, young mistress."
"Yeah, well, two thousand years ago when old people started getting naggy, they'd be left on a desert hill."
"Yes, how unfortunate for the young master, being bugged about their Caribbean Cobb Salad being ready."
You call him a sadist
He says, "Yes, I do take particular enjoyment in it."
After a few months of you ignoring teachers and spending lunch hour in the robotics lab building practical motors, Bruce decides to send you to study abroad. Better schooling, is the excuse he gives you. You'd bet he figured it'd do you some good to be out of Gotham. That, or he was tired of receiving complaints from the school counselors.
You have no idea about the kid until two years later, when Bruce isn't buying your excuses for skipping Christmas dinner anymore
He's in the foyer of the manor, staring up at you with blinking blue eyes that have you craning your head from him to Bruce and back again. Polite and a little wary, he is, even when shrugging him off to hole yourself up in the storage room used to keep your old science projects and procrastinated ideas. It's where you spend most of your time, and Bruce doesn't pry. Dick Grayson, who's name you never ask for but involuntarily learn (a gold mine for teenage jokes, unfortunately for him), is all too curious. Friendly, talkative. Asks about what you're working on and picks parts off of tables to turn them over in his hand with an inquisitive eye. One time he started juggling plyers and screwdrivers just to pass the time.
Secretly clever too, you come to learn. There's not much explaining about what parts do what and how to use each tool. He seems to know already, and if not, watches you for a few seconds before imitating.
It's not as if you dislike him, but you don't get along. No fault on Dick's part, but you're physically incapable of holding your tongue and not make fun of him for his pleated sweaters and general unpopularity at school. Dick never seems too affected by it, though. That riles you up even further.
Then there's the secrecy. Him and your own father get along better than with you, bouncing off ideas, gone during late hours, Bruce invested in Dick's education and sports life. It's like you're watching a play of what your own life should be like. Worst of all, Bruce tries. He tries with you. Comes down to see what you're working on. Asks about boys at school and grades and if you're turning in your homework on time. Most damning of all, he asks if you'd like to come back to Gotham. Stay with him. You weren't able to name why that made you so bitter back then. No word for what caused you to spew hurtful jabs wrapped in sarcasm about how Dick was your cheap replacement and you had no desire of staying. Bruce doesn't react with hurt or anger; you don't know if you want him to. But he places a hand on your shoulder, gives it a squeeze.
Doesn't take you long after seeing the kid in a yellow cape and pixie boots on the news to make a connection. Swift movements, agility you've caught glimpses of in the corners of your eye.
It's whatever, you tell yourself. You go back to boarding school once winter break is over. Not much contact, save for Alfred. Strangely enough, you wonder if you're more of an orphan than Dick is.
University at 14, graduate at 17, whilst Dick and Bruce are playing Knight and Squire in Gotham. Tensions still linger, but you show up for holidays, if only to remind them that you exist. Barbara Gordon joins the fray during all this. Smart and witty, but you take it as a challenge.
Then Dick and Bruce have a split and Dick moves to Bludhaven under a new mantle. You watch it all go down like a comedy. Bruce gets a new protege, some scraggly kid off the streets. You meet him briefly, but it sticks with you. Jason's like a grasshopper, always bouncing here and there, sweet in a way that made you curl your words in more teasing rather than jabs. A superman fan with an engraved glass autograph in his bedroom (showed off to you excitedly). There was a tenseness to Bruce after rare nights out in the field, when he'd be firm, a watchful eye on Jason, a stern talking behind doors, but Jason wasn't Dick even if similar. You found that a good thing.
Still, Bruce takes him in as a son with a quickness you're unsure what to make of. You're stuck thinking that as the blood daughter, you deserve some privilege over Dick and Jason, if only to just have your father to yourself. But he hasn't been much of a father, has he? That's the thing. It's like you were the trial run. Jason's all his to cherish and love.
He's too sincere to garner any lingering hate, though. The kid somehow smooths over some of the rough edges between Dick and you. Dick passed on the Robin mantle to Jason himself, led him and cared for him like an older sibling, and Jason looked up to him and tried to live up to the legend. For some reason, he sees you in a similar light. Like a sister. Someone he wants to live up to and impress. Apparently, he thinks you're super cool for being a genius, and your designs inspire some time of child like wonder within him. Even studies hard so he can understand them. With dedication like that, you only lightly compare him to your robot Dum-E.
He liked writing to you when you were off being reckless around the world, even if you rarely replied.
Not much later, you're showing up to his private funeral hungover, amber tinted shades on, wearing a wrinkled blazer.
You don't remember what you said. Insensitive, probably. A joke made too early. Most definitely, because it made Dick kick you out. No one reached out for a while and there was a twisted sense of relief in that. Freedom from responsibility in the guise of punishment. Because Jason had sent you a final letter before that, more sparse and questioning. You were getting plastered on a yacht off the coast of Monaco when he died.
He's a ghost that lingers and pushes unknowingly. The arguments are frigid. Loud. You hit back with sharp sarcasm and laugh at Bruce's glares. You want to change the trajectory of Wayne Enterprises. Defense, you'd said. That's where all the money is. And you've got ideas. A stockpile of them. You'll turn the company into the forerunner of military defense, almost a monopoly. With weapons like yours, wars will be won before they can even start. And, yeah, maybe there's something about Jason that's pushing you to do this instead of working on anything else.
Bruce's jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache.
No. It's low and bursting, cold as a blizzard. This is not what my parents stood for.
And all you do is tilt your head, the signature sardonic smile that is so much like the guise Bruce dons in public. "Yeah, well, I'm just getting with the times."
There's a shareholder meeting. Bruce is vehemently against your decision. He's composed, hands intertwined on the marble table, black suit pressed and tailored.
You show up late. Grinning. "Hold your applause, gentlemen. I'm here to save you from what I bet is a riveting conversation about just why we shouldn't take the next steps to take over the weapons manufacturing market. All sound, I'm sure. Dear old dad knows how to put an engaging power point presentation together." Your eyes meet and you smile wider. Next you're pressing your watch, holograms shining out. You swipe your hand over them and they connect to the large screen at the end of the room, flaring to life with the presentation title, 'GENESIS'. "Now, I don't consider myself a god," you start, hands in your pockets, sauntering to the head of the room, right behind Bruce. "I'm not that demigod with the red briefs in Metropolis. But if we want to, it'll be us controlling the board."
Bruce figured you would be prepared, but never to this extent.
Potential profits and buyers, he expected. But you're his kid, and thorough when you want to be. When it spites people. There's contacts with the pentagon, an insider in the air force who's interested in what you could sell. Invoices already drafted. Bruce never knew you could put this much work into anything that wasn't in a lab.
And in a room full of shareholders seeking profits? The agreement couldn't come quicker.
Still, Bruce is never one without a backup plan.
As it stands, he's the majority shareholder. Up his sleeve is the second majority, Derek Powers, who Bruce promised a third of his shares so long as he voted against your proposition. Not enough to give Powers the leg up over Bruce, but it brings him closer. A necessary liability that Bruce will have to deal with after this.
When all is said and done, the trump card Bruce had stored away never goes off. Derek Powers votes in agreement with you. Bruce hides the disdain on his face well, like a mask of indifference.
You look at him, shrugging and winking. "Hey, no hard feelings? We're still up for family dinner night on Friday?"
You're putting on your yellow shades, palm on the handle of the glass meeting doors before pausing. Turn your head back. "Oh, by the way. I kinda promised Powers CFO."
"You don't have the power to make that decision," Bruce says.
You snap your fingers. "That's what I was forgetting! Right, right. Guys, can we get on that? Vote to transfer the CEO position to me?"
A majority sweep.
"Cool. Powers, congrats on becoming CFO."
Then you're gone.
Dick, the proverbial son that he is, tracks you down for a talk.
You expected it, which is why you spent the night at the casino, surrounded by security and handsome men trying to buy you drinks once they recognize you. It was that time where you stopped counting your wins and losses.
The atmosphere doesn't scare Dick off. 'Course not. He's a bat.
He's in a well pressed suit of his own. Navy, stripped. Blue tie for a comical touch only him and you can understand.
The ladies in silk dresses take one look at him and bat their eyelashes.
You hold out the dice concealed in your fist. He eyes it, leans down, plays along and blows on them. You roll.
"Would you look at that, the Grayson luck. I think you just saved me from bankruptcy."
"Wouldn't be a good look if you ran the company dry on your first day as CEO." He holds up a cold glass of water. "Snagged you this from the bar."
"Oh, my favorite," you say, taking it and immediately passing it away to your bodyguard, forgotten. There's whisky in your breath.
Dick manages to lure you away for a moment and you're forced to listen to him, sipping dully on a cocktail as he gives you that look that's so much like Bruce under the high chandelier lighting. It's almost funny. Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne's adopted son, and you, his blood daughter. Dick's more like Bruce than you have ever been -- can ever try to be. It's there in his face, the same crease of their brows, same downturn of their mouth.
"An arms dealer?" he asks, an underlayer of something in his tone.
"What, would you rather we end up like Queen Industries and their hippie new business model? I don't look good in their shade of green. That's a lie, I do, I just don't like it."
And he narrows his eyes at you the same way he's done since he was nine and mulling something over. It's less evident now and he's able to hide it when he wants, but there's no need for that when it's just you two. There are traces of that little kid in him still there. Maybe that's what he's seeing as he looks at you right now. "I'd like a serious answer."
"Hey, watch your tone, junior. I'm the oldest, which means you can't criticize me ever and you do all I say. This is the 21st century, Dick. Weapons are needed now more than ever, and I'm securing that Wayne Enterprise's has the lead. You want a peaceful world? Peace means having a bigger stick than the other guy."
"Some would say that's a really philosophical way of saying, war profiteering."
"Not a philosopher, but my mother did read me Dr.Seuss."
The media has a field day.
Bruce Wayne stepping down as CEO is framed by Wayne Enterprises as a heartwarming passing of the baton to his 21-year old prodigy in full earnest. Less amusing than the almost Shakespearean takeover you orchestrated.
The U.S. air force land you Wayne Enterprises' first major contract with your miniaturization engineering work and its possible applications in munitions -- a little something your worked on when you were nineteen and existential.
Six years in as CEO, 27, still a lively nuisance to the general stoics, reporters and journalists swarming you day and night like blood sucking flies.
If they're cute, you take a few questions.
"Ms.Wayne, would you describe yourself as an arms dealer?"
And you're looking at the man with the recorder up and down, adjusting the rim of your sunglasses as you straighten up and lean your hand on the the door of your convertible. "Hey, pretty. For you, I'm whatever you need me to be."
"The people would like an honest answer. Ms.Wayne."
"Huffington Post?"
"Bloomberg, actually."
"Well, Mr.Berg, I'm a representative of the people. Are you planning on reporting the numbers of how ever since taking on government contracts, Wayne Enterprises has dedicated a significant amount of its resources into medical biometric implants, cardiac replacement medicine, and internal analgesic pumps thanks to military funding? Or does that not sell as many click bait subscriptions as affirming the echo chamber of your readers?"
"All research funded by blood money."
"You mean, money that lets Americans sleep at night without having to worry about the other big guys on the side of the world with their fingers hovering over that scary red button. No need to thank me, really. But I do love hearing it."
And the cute reporter is shaking his head in the wrong kind of amazement.
"What does your father, Bruce Wayne, think about the drastic change in direction Wayne Enterprises has taken ever since you've been at the helm?"
You grin. "Jealous he didn't do it first."
You're not all bad, you think. You've heard your father talk about Gotham. How he loves it, sees the good among the waste, wants to save it, even if half the country has given up on it. You're stopping wars. Keeping the country safe. Keeping its allies safe. All military funding finds itself back into social technologies, projects that help the little guy. But tonight? Based off the way this reporters looking at you, you're going to have some fun before you fly off to Afghanistan tomorrow.
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ damian is acting like a prince so you make him sit on your lap.
aka ›››› “…Can you move your knee to the left?” Damian mutters, voice low, begrudging, mortified. “It’s on my crotch.”
You yawn — a soft, lazy sound against his shoulder. “I know”
“I can’t believe you have me doing this…” Damian murmurs, the words slipping out on a breath equal parts disbelief and resignation.
The laundromat hums around you — a low, rattling groan from a machine older than both of you combined. The floor is slick with something you don’t want to identify, the air thick with detergent and damp metal, and the overhead bulbs cast everything in a jaundiced, flickering glow. Hardly the place for midnight errands. And yet Damian stands beside you, immaculate in a suit that...was...tailored so sharply it might cut the air. He's refusing to so much as brush the questionable bench behind him.
“You’re not even doing anything,” you tease, catching his reflection in the streaked glass door as you shove a bundle of clothes inside. The sight of him — perfectly put together and profoundly offended by his surroundings — pulls a soft laugh from your chest.
“I sweet-talked the woman at the counter into letting you in at one in the morning,” he replies, tone blunt, clipped, and unyieldingly proud. “I did everything.”
“Sweet-talked?” You hum, unable to suppress the little giggle that floats out at the end. His brow arches at you, affronted in that way only Damian can manage. “More like bribed.”
“Same thing,” he grumbles, though his eyes flicker toward you, warm despite the dryness in his voice. He watches your fingers dance over the cracked buttons of the machine, as if the entire contraption might explode if you look away.
You had just come from a gala — one of the few he bothers attending, this one for an animal shelter he privately donates to but would never allow fame for. He dragged you to it under the guise of company, though the softness in his gaze when you appeared in the dress he bought told the real story.
You stretch now, undoing the careful up-do he’d fussed over earlier, pins slipping from your hair like falling stars. The laundromat is empty. Just the two of you, the hum of machinery, and the faint scent of detergent clinging to the air. As Damian dragged you to the gala, you had dragged him here—though neither of you expected the night to end like this.
“You smell divine,” Damian had murmured earlier, stretched across your bed with the decadent sprawl of someone born to command shadows and silk alike. He looked almost mythic like that—jacket discarded somewhere at the foot of the bed, the top buttons of his shirt undone just enough to hint at trouble, his slacks unfastened in a moment you must have blinked through. Damian watched you with half-lidded eyes, gaze heavy and hungry, like the gala had stripped him raw and left only the part of him that wants you, always you.
“You should undress as well, fully.” you’d told him, your voice softer than candlelight, peeling the fabric from your shoulders with a grace he once claimed could kill a man. His head tilted, one brow lifting with slow, deliberate amusement, lips curving into a smirk that always manages to undo some essential part of your composure.
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because—” you’d begun, tone practiced and velvety, the sort of lilt that makes him go still, makes him listen, makes the world shrink to the shape of your mouth.
But then—traitorous, cruel, cosmically badly timed—your eyes drifted.
To the laundry basket.
Overflowing. Leaning like a threat. A silent, judgmental monument to domestic neglect.
And all that promise, that coiled heat, that night heading in a completely different direction—
Evaporated.
Midnight.
In a grimy laundromat.
With Damian Wayne in a now wrinkled suit glowering at a washing machine like it personally insulted his lineage.
All because you couldn’t unsee the mess.
You slide a few coins into the slot, the machine shuddering awake with a rattling groan that sounds vaguely like it resents being disturbed. When it hesitates — as if considering quitting on you entirely — you give it a sharp kick. It begrudgingly obeys.
Typical.
Even appliances require intimidation in Gotham.
Your knees ache as you stand, a low groan slipping from your throat before you can catch it—the kind of sound Damian would savor in an entirely different context. You pretend not to notice the way his gaze flickers. Instead, you settle onto the little white bench he’s convinced is a biohazard crime scene.
“Damian,” you say, voice dipped in honey, far too gentle for the command that follows, “sit down, hayātī.”
He cuts a glance at the bench. Suspicious. Offended. Mildly horrified.
“I… think not.”
You tilt your head, lashes catching the sickly orange light in a way that makes even this grimy place bend toward softness. “You didn’t sit down at the gala at all.”
Damian freezes. You say it so innocently — so sincerely concerned — that it disarms him completely. And it’s true. He hadn’t. The moment he saw your bed afterward, sinking into it (and into you) was the only thing on his mind.
“It’s fine,” he says too fast, too sharp, the words slamming out like a door hastily shut.
Your brow lifts — slow, elegant, damning. Somehow you still look beautiful beneath the flickering lights designed to make everyone resemble a corpse. It’s absurd. It’s unfair.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“Sit.”
Damian drags his eyes up to the ceiling, as if appealing to some higher power for deliverance from you, from this, from the affront of municipal furniture.
“Is it…” you begin softly, perceptive in that quiet, dangerous way of yours, “do you actually think it’s dirty?”
He winces — visibly, tragically — the reaction immediate and mortifying. Of course he doesn’t mean to sound like a pampered prince. He’s trekked mountains, waded through mud, fought in alleys slick with blood and rain.
But the gala had left him suffocating in the perfume of false sincerity and silk-gloved hypocrisy. He already feels coated in something unclean. Sitting on this… yellow-ish white bench might be the final straw.
“What a prince,” you murmur under your breath.
He opens his mouth—ready to protest, to insist it’s not like that, to reclaim at least a shred of dignity—but the words never emerge.
Because your hands find his hips.
And you tug him down.
Right onto your lap.
Damian lands without resistance, stunned into perfect stillness, his weight settling against you with an uncertain gravity. His hands hover uselessly, as though afraid to touch anything, but your palms bracket his hips with calm, casual possession.
He blinks, staring not at you directly but at your shared reflection in the washing machine’s glass—him perched on your knee like some brooding, overgrown cat dragged into a bath it didn’t approve of.
The machine whirs.
The lights buzz.
And Damian Wayne, heir to an empire and terror of Gotham’s underworld, sits on your lap in a dingy laundromat at one in the morning, utterly and magnificently undone.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Damian,” you murmur, and before he can brace himself for whatever indignity is coming, you lean into him fully, your head resting against his shoulder as though sculpted to fit there.
“I just needed something to put my head on,” you continue, voice warm with impending sleep. “I’m going to take a quick nap, okay? Be a dear and tell me when we need to move the clothes to the dryer.”
Silence hangs between you—thick, suspended, ridiculous.
Damian goes utterly still.
For a long moment, he simply stares ahead at the humming washer, at the distorted reflection of the two of you melded into one shape. Then, with the slow inevitability of someone accepting defeat at the hands of an opponent who shouldn’t be an opponent at all, he buries his face in his palms.
If he shows even a flicker of emotion—even a single, traitorous twitch—you will never let him hear the end of it. You will drag the memory to your graves. You might carve it into his tombstone. He knows this.
Damian fears it. Damian loves you anyway.
He would have launched himself off your lap and onto the disgusting tile without hesitation, would’ve rolled in the grime just to escape the humiliation tightening around his throat like a silk noose—but you are alone, and your arms around his waist are far too solid to escape without making a scene even he can’t justify.
“...Can you move your knee to the left?” Damian mutters, voice low, begrudging, mortified. “It’s on my crotch.”
You yawn — a soft, lazy sound against his shoulder, your breath warm, your body settling more comfortably against his back. Damian can practically feel the exact moment your mind begins to drift toward sleep.
“I know,” you whisper.
He stiffens. Outraged. Flustered. Perplexed. Entirely defeated.
Damian inhales slowly through his nose, as if he can steady his dignity with breath control alone. He cannot. Your weight settles more fully against him, soft and unhurried, and the laundromat’s dim buzz seems to cocoon you both in a strange sort of peace — grimy, fluorescent peace.
The washing machine whirs, rattling like it’s trying to shake loose from its bolts. A underwear slaps wetly against the glass. Damian stares at it like it personally holds answers.
It does not.
Your breathing evens out, warm against the back of his neck, and with every exhale your arms around his waist loosen just a fraction, only to tighten again when your body relaxes into deeper rest.
He is trapped.
Not by force—Damian could break out of this position with laughable ease—but by something far more binding. By affection. By the warmth of you pressed so trustingly against him. By the undeniable fact that your knee has not moved and, knowing you, wont for some time. Not until you've decided you've tortured him enough.
Damian swallows, clearing his throat with a tiny, cautious sound—a test, a probe, a question asked without words.
You don’t stir.
Nothing.
You’re already gone, slipped into that soft, unguarded sleep he’s seen only in the rarest hours of the night. Your weight settles more fully against him, your breath warm where it ghosts through the collar of his suit. You rest on him like he’s something steady, something gentle, something you can lean your whole world against without fear.
It disarms him.
The jaundiced orange bulb overhead flickers once, dimming the laundromat into a strange kind of tenderness. The harsh light softens, turning your cheek into a quiet curve of gold where it rests on his shoulder, catching on your lashes as they fan against fine fabric. Damian exhales — slowly, carefully — as if even his breath might disturb you.
He should move you.
He should absolutely move you.
He doesn’t.
The minutes slide past in thick, syrupy drips, the kind of time that only exists when the world outside has agreed to pause — Gotham, for once, holding its breath. Damian shifts just enough to save his foot from going numb, and even then the movement is surgical, executed with a precision that betrays his fear of waking you.
Your fingers twitch at his waist.
Then they curl, gentle but certain, gathering a fold of his jacket in your sleep — an unconscious plea not to go anywhere.
Damian looks down at your hand.
He looks away.
Then back again, as if the sight of your fingers clutching him is something he must confirm repeatedly to believe.
When he finally speaks, his voice is barely louder than the washing machine’s steady hum — a quiet, reluctant confession wrapped in irritation he doesn’t truly feel.
“…Ridiculous.”
But his hand rises — hesitant, almost awkward in its gentleness — and settles over yours. Not to shift it. Not to pry your fingers from his dress shirt. Just… to feel. To confirm the warmth of your skin beneath his palm. To steady himself with a quiet, covered cough that fools no one, least of all him.
The washer beeps.
A single sharp, grating note that cleaves cleanly through the hush of the room. Damian’s entire body goes taut, every muscle coiled like he’s preparing for impact. Your breath catches softly against his shoulder.
Your hand tightens.
You do not wake.
The tension in him splinters, loosening with the smallest, shuddering exhale — one he would deny to the grave. His eyes close, lashes lowering like reluctant surrender as he hovers there between irritation and something dangerously tender.
“…You get five minutes,” he mutters, low enough to pass for a whispered grievance, soft enough to pass for a vow.
And against the expensive fabric of his suit jacket, he feels it:
Your smile.
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