Some time ago, someone asked me how old I picture the Core Four being, and although I wanted to answer, I couldn’t — too many post ideas piled up *hides the 13 drafts ready to publish since June* along with personal academic projects, so time passed and I forgot.
I hope everyone who asked and never got a reply can forgive me — I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Nina, if you’re reading this, I swear I’ll answer your question about Days of Future Past in the next few days.
Personally, I imagine them to be in their early twenties — specifically with Bart and Conner being 20, while Tim and Cassie are 21. I estimate these ages based on Damian’s canon age, who, according to Dark Crisis and the ongoing Batman and Robin series, is 14.
And if we remember that canonically it’s been four years since Damian started living in the mansion with Bruce (since he was 10 at the time and Tim was 17 — at least as I recall), then it’s not that hard to do the math, even if DC insists on portraying Conner, Tim, and Cassie as if they were still 17 (and no, I will not comment on how in Impulsepoint and the Flash comics Bart looks like a kid).
Bart and Conner’s ages are headcanons of mine since, to me, they’re a few months younger than Tim and Cassie.
The sky above the Isle is cloudy and grey.
The kind of grey that presses down on buildings, making them look worse than they are. The kind that turns everything into a bruise, yellowed, aching, just shy of rotten. The light that filters through is dim, soft, and makes everything feel like a half-formed dream. One of the bad ones. The kind you wake up from still clenching your fists.
The voices around you are loud, cheers, jeers, angry shouting, but you can’t be bothered to try and understand. Just noise. All of it.
They aren’t cheering for you. They never are.
The boy who tried to take your things is sprawled on the broken pavement. Face swollen, eye already closing, blood leaking from his lip as he spits out a broken tooth. He looks up at you, still angry. Still dumb enough to think he could win.
Stupid.
Your knuckles are bleeding. Your breath is still coming too fast. As you sit up and look down at the boy, you smile. It’s too wide. Too sharp. The blood smeared across your mouth only makes it worse.
“You want my territory? Earn it,” you growl, voice ragged.
He doesn’t move.
Smart.
Too late, but smart.
You give him one last kick to the ribs, not hard, just enough to make a point, then turn and disappear into the nearest alley. You don’t stay for the reactions. They’re already fading, like everything else. Cheers always do.
They aren’t real. Not for you. Only for the fight.
Your boots crunch over broken glass and something wet you don’t bother to look at. The alley stinks like garbage and something chemical. Familiar. Comforting, in a way.
People scatter when they see you. It always hurts, that silence and fear after a fight. It’s like everyone’s asking themselves if they’re next.
Your hand throbs with every heartbeat, warm and slick in your pocket. The metallic taste of blood coats your tongue, and you can’t tell if it’s yours or his. Probably both.
You hate how your vision blurs at the edges. How the buzz in your ears isn’t adrenaline, but exhaustion.
For now, you walk with purpose, even if you don’t know where you’re going. Standing still makes you feel like you might sink into the concrete and vanish.
And if you disappeared? Would anyone care?
Your father wouldn’t, even if he were alive. He was a man with no attachments, had you with some woman he found on a lonely night after he was first thrown onto the Isle. He only ever paid attention to you for training.
So you pushed harder, seeking his attention in training, even when your legs were black and blue, even when exhaustion burrowed deep into your bones and left you in too much pain to sleep.
You thought training was the only time he’d ever talk to you… until your first fight.
You lost, your father’s ways didn’t beat dirty fighting. Two held you by the arms while the third slammed a fist into your stomach.
That was the first time your father spoke to you about anything that wasn’t a correction. Maybe you imagined it, but you swore you saw a flicker of concern in his eyes, quickly buried under anger. But that little bit of concern felt good in a way you didn’t even know you could feel.
You remember the first time he said your name without yelling it. You were eleven, your lip split and blood running down your shirt. He looked at you, not with pride, not even disappointment, just recognition. And that was enough to hook you like a fish.
You started chasing that look like an addict after a fix.
He only noticed you when you came home bleeding, a black eye here, a busted lip there. Suddenly, he was talking to you. Asking questions. Telling you to be careful, to not embarrass him, even if it was through clenched teeth.
That had to mean something, right? That had to count.
He never asked what started the fights. Never asked if you won because you wanted to or because you had to. All he saw was blood. All you saw was that he finally saw you.
So you chased it, getting into more fights, winning them just to see that flicker of pride in Shan Yu’s face. And after his death, you looked for that emotion somewhere else.
Maybe if you got hurt badly enough, someone would finally notice. Finally look. Finally worry.
Worry felt like love. At least to you. It always had.
You wonder what kind of scream would finally get someone to come running. If you drowned yourself in front of Uma’s crew, would they cheer or mourn? Would anyone even lie and say you were strong?
Even if it didn’t feel good, it still felt like something.
You reach the old building near the market and start climbing, your body moving on autopilot. This place has been yours for a while now, one of the only places you can go when you want to be alone, or when you want someone to follow. And right now, you don’t even know which it is.
A shadow moves behind you, fast and familiar.
You don’t think. Your heart thumps in your ears as you spin, blade already drawn, and press it to the intruder’s throat.
You don’t ease up. Not right away.
The edge of the blade rests against skin, not deep enough to cut, but enough to threaten. Enough to say don’t push me. Enough to say I don’t trust easy. Even you.
Then you hear it.
That voice.
His voice.
“Careful, sweetheart.”
Smooth. Unbothered. Like he isn’t just one heartbeat away from bleeding. Like this isn’t the tenth time he’s caught you mid-swing.
You exhale, slow and shaky, the tension draining from your shoulders like a deflating balloon. You lower the knife, but your grip stays tight.
You don’t apologize. You never do.
You look him in the eyes, even with blood still dripping from your nose and bruises along your throat, and straighten, looking him up and down.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on me.”
Jay raises an eyebrow, amused in that cocky, infuriating way only he can be. “You were the one storming off like a rabid wolf. I followed to make sure you didn’t bite someone’s head off.”
You snort, blood still fresh on your tongue. “Too late.”
His eyes flick down to your hands, split, raw, starting to shake now that the adrenaline’s fading. He doesn’t comment, just steps closer. Closing the space like he always does. And like always, you let him.
“You keep doing this,” he says, voice low, “and one day someone’s gonna gut you in your sleep.”
You shrug. “Let them try.”
But he doesn’t laugh. Not this time.
His fingers reach for your hand, slow, careful. Giving you the chance to pull away.
You don’t.
He scans your face, looking for your reaction. His thumb brushes a cut on your knuckle, gentle. You flinch.
“Still hurts,” he says quietly. Obvious.
You look at him. Really look. And something behind your eyes flickers, a crack in the mask. Not weakness. Not regret. Just… weight. The kind that sits in your chest and steals your air.
Something twists in your stomach, a sick kind of satisfaction at seeing him worry. Like proof that you matter. That you still exist.
“Everything hurts, Jay,” you whisper. “I don’t remember the last time something didn’t.”
It comes out smaller than you meant. Like it slipped past your defenses before you could pull it back.
The wind threatens to swallow the words, but he hears them. He always does.
His hand tightens around yours.
“I know.”
And for a second, just one, you lean into him. You let the world fall away. Let the knife hang loose at your side. Let your broken, bloodied hand be held like it’s something worth holding.
You’ll blame it on the adrenaline later. You’ll joke about being dramatic or tired or losing too much blood. But he’ll know better.
You’re running thin.
So when you hug him, really hug him, arms squeezing tight even though it hurts, even though the bruises scream in protest, it’s not a slip.
You think about pushing him away, saying something cruel to cover up the tightness in your throat. But your arms don’t move. Neither does he. For once, the silence isn’t sharp, it’s warm. It wraps around you like a bandage. Like a maybe.
“You scare me when you do this,” he says, voice low. “Because I never know if it’s the last time I’ll see you still breathing.”
You want to tell him you scare yourself, too. That sometimes, when the world goes quiet, the only voice left is the one that wants you gone. You hate needing him. Hate the way his presence makes you feel something other than rage or nothing at all.
But you don’t step back.
Not yet.
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i learned how to write x reader fics, hahaha, english is weird
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Teen, 3k, Complete
Summary:
Tim wordlessly held out the blur of black and white that had been haunting him for the better part of a day.
Bruce took it and stared at the print out for a long moment.
“Tim,” he began, “Who was this image taken from?”
Tim chewed on his lip. “Conner.”
“Tim.” There was a hint of strain in Bruce’s voice. “Please tell me you did not get Superboy pregnant.”
“It’s equally possible that Bart was the one who did it.”
I don’t care what anyone says the core four; Tim, Kon, Bart and Cassie and the rest of YJ are in their twenties to me. It’d make no sense otherwise, it’s their turn to be older mentors to the newer heroes.
Millie's tired of this land of giants, she's tired of being scooped up and carried around and chased by psycho bible men and kissed by huge women (something that surprises her) and nearly being squished and all things considered it's just a whole lot that she doesn't appreciate, particularly.
The lady vampire's theory hadn't checked out so far, because she doesn't feel any less froggy. Moreso, in fact. She ate friggin' gnat earlier.
Blech.
But her search keeps getting waylaid - somebody as beautiful as Jeanette Barclay shouldn't be all that difficult to spot in a room full of people who just aren't as pretty or vibrant or wonderful as Jeanette Barclay, but it's been an endeavor.
Until it isn't.
"Jeanie!" She ribbits out, and then she hops after her, trying to follow her through the tumult. Something has happened, but fuck if she knows what, because she's got one priority right now. But she's too small and everyone's too loud, and she's trying to catch up. "JB!"
The thing that stressed me the most about this episode is that Veronica and Jughead just said it was okay when it clearly wasn‘t. How can cheating on your Girlfriend/Boyfriend with their best Friend be okay? How?!?! And I hated that Jug and Betty never talked about it properly because that‘s what they normally do. I just hate this.😩
“When everything feels heavy, I’ve learned to travel light. But I want to be here, truly to be here, to watch the ones that I love bloom...” ~The Enthusiast: The Adventurer
(Seven: Sleeping At Last)
