PROJECT SHATTERCORE ☣︎
DIRECTORY
bruce wayne x reader, jason todd x reader, dick grayson x reader, damian wayne x reader, tim drake x reader
SYNOPSIS: you were taken so young—too young to remember anything but needles and pain. locked in a lab that never quieted, they amplified every whisper of thought within you, reshaping you into something beyond what you should have been. after endless experiments, your rescuer finally arrives. he’s tall, shadowed by secrets, and undeniably frightening… yet somehow, he offers you a place to belong. in the vast, silent halls of his mansion, you feel invisible—an outsider blamed for every strange glance. but as days pass and walls of stone seem to soften, the people here begin to notice you. they smile. they reach out. and you start to wonder: is this longing in their eyes… normal?
WARNINGS: 18+ only, DEAD DOVE; DO NOT EAT, mild angst, insecurity
PLAYLIST FOR THE CHAPTER: ♫ back to the old house - the smiths listen to this for ultimate immersion
CHAPTER 3: Family
Your hands were clasped politely in front of you, as Alfred stood a few feet away, flattening your sheets. You felt a pang of guilt at the sight of it. You’d officially gotten your room, not just the ghost of one that was never intended for permanent use. Alfred promised he’d get you settled, something about ‘a young master needing space where they can truly relax, something that belongs to them,’ but you weren’t quite familiar with such a concept.
It had been a week in the manor, and you couldn’t figure out why something about Mr. Wayne was off. His neural buzz felt familiar; you had a slight buzz that lingered around people, like their very own aura. It wasn’t identifiable, merely a vacant echo of a presence. It carried a sentiment you could never quite quiet down.
It felt familiar, like one you had sensed before. But certainty wasn’t your strong suit, so all you could do was zip your lips, palms pressed into your sides as you contemplated the unease of existing in a place that was not quite familiar, nor truly your own.
“There we go, this should do quite well for you, Young Master.” He sighs in content, back straightening as he beams at you in silent gratification.
The room wasn’t the biggest, but you were accustomed to much smaller. The gratitude you felt oozed out of your body like a reverent prayer. Your eyes meet his in a way that makes Alfred want to give your shoulder a comforting squeeze; he settles for a warm smile instead.
“Thank you... ” Your voice is quiet, but steady, your fingers fiddling with the frayed hem of your sweatshirt. Unsure of what kind of words you were supposed to use in this situation.
It had only been a week here, but it was a stark contrast from the emotionally devoid compound you were raised in.
At least, that’s what you told yourself.
You were supposed to meet Mr. Wayne’s other wards, a sort of family they had you were never really permitted to. You didn’t know how to feel; your chest tightened with every thought of what might go wrong, how they might see you, how they might see the real you.
The terrified child who carried no worth beyond being a vessel for pain.
Despite your age, you felt smaller than you were. Your voice cracking whenever someone tried to speak to you, a tremor in your hands at the sight of any authority figure. But this was normal. You knew it was because it was almost your entire life. It was all you had known.
So you swallowed the lump in your throat, ran your hands through your hair and let out a shaky breath.
You lingered by the staircase longer than anyone really should, hiding inside the shadows that provided little comfort from the warm lights of the dining hall. Your irises were locked onto the figures in front of you.
There was, of course, Mr. Wayne, but there were about two other figures that you could make out. One had a smaller frame and spiked up black hair; from what you could tell, the other had hair parted down the center, and his frame was only slightly larger than the former's.
Your head tilted inquisitively as you watched them interact with each other.
“You drank the last of the coffee. Again,” The younger one’s voice is sharp and accusatory. He narrows his eyes at the older one sitting at the counter, lazily taking a sip from his mug.
The older-looking one stares deadpan as he takes his sip.
“You never fail to frustrate me, Drake.” The younger one tuts and rolls his eyes.
“You don’t need this much coffee at your age, kid.” The one labelled Drake quips back.
“We are not that far in age.” His voice is lighter, but still steady. Your chest tightens, the scene in front of you seems to have an edge to it, but there’s a familiarity between them. You feel like an intruder. Your digits scratch at your exposed clavicle as you debate revealing yourself from the shadows.
You end up attempting to retreat into your room, although you nearly get lost; the hallways stretch on for days, and despite the gothic lighting, it’s never bright enough to dissipate the tenebrous aura this mansion has.
Your auricles thrum under the new environment, as your feet come to a halt. You take a look at one of the ornate frames lining the hallway, eyes catching onto the photo enclosed. It’s unmistakable, Mr. Wayne's family—your breath stilled as you take in the sight.
You recognize the billionaire, of course, and the two boys you’d just overheard. But there are two more of them there—one with half-contained frustration glaring into the camera and another with a smile so bright it nearly blinds you.
That’s the kind of smile you can’t imagine wearing; your mandible tightens as your hands cradle your jaw. You’re in true awe of the photo; you find yourself staring at it for longer than you’d care to admit.
It feels so human, so utterly human. Unlike this mansion, which feels unoccupied and colder than you thought it’d be.
Someone begins to approach the hallway. You can hear their distant footsteps, but you cannot seem to peel your eyes away from the photo. Stuck in a daze of thoughts and half-filled dreams.
The footsteps are heavy—someone with more weight to them, you think. You can thank your childhood spent stuck in a compound of doctors and nurses for that. You had to mentally prepare yourself to be in the presence of anyone.
You hear a male voice let out a small groan, and your eyes find their way to the figure approaching. He doesn’t notice you at first—partially because you’re still kinda far away and partially because he seems caught up in his thoughts.
He’s the frustrated one from the photo—you wonder if you should introduce yourself to him.
You gulp down the lump in your throat as he gets closer. Eventually, he does take notice of you, his teal eyes look you over like a threat.
It takes everything in your body not to flicker the lights; tension runs through you like liquid fire, igniting every bone inside.
He pauses, his expression morphing from something soldier-like to something more unreadable, more human.
Your mouth parts, something tries to make its way out of your throat, words that could maybe tether you to this place.
“Hi.” Your voice is small, aching to say more, anything that would ease the strain weighing your bones down. But you falter, he looks you over and speaks, voice gruff.
“Who are you?” His eyes narrow slightly—just enough to be off-putting, but not enough to make you want to bolt.
Just as he speaks, someone rounds the corner of the eerie hallway, steps weighing heavily, shattering the tension in the room.
“They’ll be staying here from now on, Jason. We decided it’d be best.” Bruce’s voice rings in the halls, and you aren’t sure if you’re supposed to feel relaxed now. You pick at your fingers, wondering if it was worth it to try and speak more.
Bruce walks down to meet you two at the spot in front of the framed pictures. His face is worn, but there’s still a mask you see him adorn, something plastered over that tired face.
He places his hand on your shoulder gently, and the man named Jason grumbles before giving a nod of understanding.
“Good luck on your search, B.” He speaks before walking away, hand shoved into his pockets. You observe him as he retreats into the dark halls of the mansion.
Bruce ushers you forward, and you allow him as you shrink in on yourself. You couldn’t stop thinking about the exchange between those two boys from before. Something in you wanted to meet them, feel it out, if they could be your friends. The other part of you was terrified, like the very thought of trying to do something so bold made you sick.
Eventually, there is an introduction. You’re in the only clothes you own, a black sweatshirt and some cargo shorts. They had offered you an alternative, but you felt safer like this. The real you on display, whatever that looked like.
You’re led into a living room. The boys from the framed picture are all there, scattered in positions most comfortable for each.
Bruce is sitting at his desk, half-focused on something else, eyes flickering between you and the document he holds.
Alfred clears his throat gently, stepping in.
You quickly introduce your name. Then Alfred takes over again.
“Everyone, please welcome them to the manor.” He speaks in a light and practiced tone.
He gestures with his gloved hands as he continues.
“This is Master Damian, the youngest,” he nods to the boy standing by the fireplace, and you recognize him instantly, stiff posture and all.
“And this is Master Tim.” Alfred continues gesturing to one of the couches beside him, Tim’s eyes darting between a phone and you.
“Master Dick, the eldest.” He nods to the one lounging on the far end of the couch, giving you a lazy, easy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“And lastly, Master Jason.” Alfred finishes, motioning towards the wall. The tallest leans on it, arms folded, and gaze steady as he looks you over.
You nod stiffly, the back of your neck prickling. Feeling the weight of being categorized. Appraised and quietly filed away.
Mr. Wayne looks up from his files and rests his chin on his palm.
“I want you to know that while I may be busy most of the time, you can always reach me in my office, or contact Alfred if you need anything else.” His tone is almost warm, and a strange feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. Something that doesn’t quite fit.
You shyly nod as your eyes drift across the room, looking over all the boys.
Dick is the first to speak, and you breathe a sigh of relief—grateful someone broke the tension before you
“It’s nice to see a new face around here,” he says, offering a sheepish smile. “Hopefully, you’re in better shape than the rest of us.”
You nod your head in acknowledgement, offering him a smile of your own; you’re only half sure it’s genuine.
Dick stands up and crosses the room, placing a grounding hand on your shoulder.
“It takes time,” he says, voice light, but kind, “But we’re basically like a family here.” You look up at him, something sparking in your chest like a frayed wire. The word family tucks itself there—deep and warm, closest to your heart.
You hear a light scoff come from where Damian stands. He goes still when you make eye contact with him, his own eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His gaze sharpens, cold and callous. You offer a small, uneasy smile like a fragile truce, hoping for something softer than a glare.
You’re unsure if he accepts it, he casts you one last look over before exiting the room like a shadow.
Your eyes trail over to where Tim sits on the couch, legs curled underneath himself. You hesitate before lowering yourself down next to him on the plush pillows. He doesn’t startle—just licks his lips slowly as he eyes his phone screen. When he feels the couch shift, his gaze rises, brows raising, as if mildly surprised you’re real.
“What’cha up to?” You inquire as you peer sideways at his screen. Your lips press together, partially guarded.
“Just looking for some info for a school project.” He replies flatly, and you flinch, barely, but enough. It’s a tone you’re accustomed to, so you press.
“How’s school like?” You ask, keeping your voice gentle, as you tilt your head.
Tim shrugs without looking up. “Same as always, I don’t find it hard, luckily.” He pauses in thought as he finally meets your gaze
He hasn’t caught on to the meaning of your question. You had never been to school.
You were raised under humming lights and the smell of rubbing alcohol; knowledge came in many forms. Dr. Sun believed in education—drilled it into your head like gospel. But there were no lockers, bright hallways or laughter in disrupted classrooms. More of an echoed silence and a sterile desk.
“Will I get to go to school?” Your digits absentmindedly trace patterns on the couch as your gaze drops.
Something clicks in Tim’s head, like a puzzle piece.
“I’m pretty sure everyone in this house usually does,” He answers eventually. He lets out a small breath of air before sharing a knowing look with Alfred, a silent prompt passed between the two.
“Of course, young master.” Alfred pipes up.
You look up and feel your heart stutter at his reply. Something close to hope swirls around your insides. Bruce’s ear twitches as he hears the exchange and looks up for a moment, eyeing the scene. His eyes flicker back down at a buzz from his phone, and he sinks back into his work with a sigh.
“You look like you’ll figure it out.” Jason throws the words over his shoulder to you as he makes his way out. You look up, startled, and unable to respond as he’s already gone.
This was, perhaps, the most eventful birthday you’d ever experienced in your fifteen years of life.
You eventually make your way back into your room with some help from Alfred, and when you lie in the soft sheets that night, your heart pounds against your sternum. Silence so loud, it leaves your ears ringing.
The introduction went well—at least that's what you thought. You replayed it in your head like a broken record, wondering about what each of them thought of you. Your hands run over the skin of your arms in a desperate attempt for comfort.
But something was twisting your insides, unfurling in the pits of your stomach. Hope alone wasn’t nearly enough to withstand something this cumbersome.
The heaviness in your chest, the toiling in your head, a message that felt like it was from the angels themselves. As if heaven itself had chosen to condemn you for existing at all.
This wasn’t right.
It couldn’t be right.
You weren’t created to feel this way; you can hardly imagine you’d ever belong in a house like this. Stitching yourself into something already half-woven, already fraying at the edges.
Even when you spoke in front of them, the words felt wrong. Barely practiced, something born of fiction, not reality.
Never reality.
And if someone were to show you an ounce of something— anything—that resembled hope, it would slip through the cracks of your fingers, like sand through an hourglass. That was always how kindness was given to you.
You lie there helplessly, clinging to the sheets in a manor you’ve never truly belonged in. Under the watch of a man you never really knew.
How different was this from your life before?
At least there you made people…happy.
An injection straight into your already overworked blue veins, a rush of adrenaline racing beneath your skin, mingling with the sharp sting of bile oozing out of your mouth.
But then someone would look at you.
There would be a glint in their eyes, an excitement, like they’d unwrapped an unexpected present.
Dr. Sun.
When he smiled, you could breathe. For a moment, the pain became worth it.
Your hurt was the key to success—the key to happiness.
How could you ever live in a world beyond that?
What even existed beyond that?
A/N : hope you enjoyed!!! we are getting further into the story now finally exploring dynamics :3 let me know what you think !!
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