Batfam x Fox!Reader
bruce, dead serious at seven in the morning, insists that discipline must be maintained in the household. meanwhile, half of damian’s toast is already gone, and the other half is halfway to being stolen by a fluffy tail.
“you are uncivilized,” damian snaps, trying to reclaim what’s left of his breakfast. the toast thief only grins, cheeks full. “thanks.”
tim stumbles in next, dark circles deep enough to be crime scenes of their own. “who turned off the wifi last night?” a sheepish shrug follows. “i didn’t mean to. i was trying to download fox documentaries.” “on all fifteen devices?”
jason enters, coffee mug in hand, looking one stumble away from violence. “someone’s tail nearly made me trip in the hallway.” “that’s just enrichment for your reflexes,” comes the reply, tail swishing innocently. he eyes the foxian sibling for a long moment, then sighs. “you’re lucky you’re cute.”
dick shows up last, bright and unreasonably cheerful, carrying a second mug. “don’t antagonize him before breakfast.” “i’m not antagonizing! i’m enriching.” “sure,” dick says, smiling. “enrichment enrichment.”
alfred passes by with his usual calm, muttering something about needing to order more coffee beans since a certain fox joined the household.
bruce tries to regain control of the situation, though his voice already carries a hint of resignation. “just… please don’t climb the curtains again.” no promises.
there’s a warm little corner in the manor where the sun hits perfectly in the mornings. that’s where the foxian sibling usually naps, tail curled neatly around them. it’s become something of a family ritual—every passing wayne stops to pet it like a good luck charm.
damian pretends to be disgusted but always leaves snacks nearby. tim uses the tail as a pillow whenever he passes out mid-coding. jason absentmindedly braids the fur while watching tv. and dick, of course, has taken to calling them “our little lucky fox.”
bruce doesn’t say much, but one morning, the foxian’s favorite scarf reappears—freshly cleaned, perfectly folded, and faintly smelling of his cologne.
movie night at wayne manor isn’t scheduled—it just happens when everyone’s too tired to argue and alfred bribes them with popcorn.
the lights are dim, the couches are too soft, and there’s an entire blanket fort situation going on that dick swears is “structurally sound.” (it isn’t.)
jason’s sitting in the corner, pretending not to enjoy the disney marathon that somehow won the vote. damian’s trying to act above it all but keeps making commentary like a film critic. tim’s half-asleep, probably running on caffeine fumes and spite.
the foxian sibling? sprawled across the middle of it all, tail draped over whoever’s closest.
“can you not use me as a pillow?” damian grumbles, even as he adjusts the blanket to cover both of them. “you’re warm,” comes the sleepy response, muffled and unapologetic. “i’m going to train after this,” he warns. “mmm. okay.”
tim blinks blearily. “you’re purring again.” a quiet vibration hums through the air. “no i’m not.” “yeah, you are,” jason says, smirking. “the surround sound’s impressive.”
dick tosses popcorn at both of them to stop the teasing. “let them be. happy fox, happy house.” “that’s not how that saying goes,” bruce mutters from his chair, but there’s the smallest twitch of a smile threatening to give him away.
the movie keeps rolling—something about talking animals and friendship—and slowly, the room goes quiet.
damian’s asleep first, head tilted toward the foxian’s shoulder. tim follows a few minutes later, slumped forward with his laptop sliding from his lap. jason’s next, still holding his mug but clearly gone.
alfred appears like a phantom, gathers stray cups, and tucks the foxian sibling’s tail closer to keep everyone warm.
by the time the credits roll, the only sound left in the manor is the faint rustle of fur and the even breathing of a family who, for once, gets to rest.
bruce stays just a little longer before turning off the lights, glancing back at the pile of his children and the bright gleam of a tail tip peeking out from under a blanket.
he doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks it— home looks good like this.
rain always sounds different in the manor. it hits the old windows like a heartbeat, steady and soft, echoing through the halls. thunder follows soon after, low and rolling, the kind that makes the lights flicker and everyone collectively groan because great, patrol’s cancelled.
tim’s the first to suggest making it productive. “we could update mission logs—” he’s cut off by a flash of lightning and the sudden disappearance of the foxian sibling.
five minutes later, they’re back, dragging an absurd number of blankets across the hallway. the pile is taller than damian.
dick blinks. “...what are you doing?” “surviving.”
ten minutes later, there’s a nest forming in the living room—pillows, blankets, soft lighting, and one very determined foxian sibling burrowing right in the middle.
damian stands at a safe distance, scowling. “that’s ridiculous.” they pat the spot beside them. “warm, though.” he hesitates. lightning cracks again. he sits down, pretending it’s out of pity.
tim wanders in next, half-asleep, laptop in hand. “wifi’s down again.” “then stop working and come here.” he mumbles something about ‘inefficiency’ but still ends up curled under the tail fifteen minutes later.
jason shows up with popcorn. “we nesting or what?” “yes.” he drops the bowl into the pile like a peace offering and sinks right in.
by the time dick joins—with cocoa and a playlist of soft songs—the living room looks like a fox den. even bruce eventually gives up trying to keep order, standing in the doorway like he’s not entirely sure how his life led to this.
“as long as no one destroys the furniture,” he says, and walks off before someone can hand him a blanket too.
the storm keeps going outside, rain tapping against the windows. inside, there’s warmth, soft breathing, the sound of damian’s book pages turning, and a quiet hum of contentment.
alfred passes by, sees the heap of tangled limbs, tails, and blankets, and simply adds another throw over the pile with the efficiency of someone who’s seen far too much to be surprised.
later, when thunder shakes the windows again, the foxian sibling stirs, tail curling tighter around everyone. a soft instinctive rumble fills the air, something protective and comforting all at once.
none of them mention it in the morning, but no one forgets how warm it felt.
it starts as a joke.
dick, sprawled across the couch, says, “we should play hide and seek.” jason snorts. “what are we, five?” “come on, we never get to do normal sibling things.” “normal siblings don’t have grappling hooks,” tim mutters. the foxian sibling perks up immediately. “i’m in.” “oh no,” damian says flatly. “absolutely not. not with your instincts.”
ten minutes later, everyone’s in. (peer pressure and boredom are a dangerous combo.)
the first round goes fine. dick finds tim because of the blinking light on his tablet. jason finds damian because Titus sold him out. easy.
then it’s the foxian sibling’s turn to hide.
five minutes pass. ten minutes. twenty.
“this is getting ridiculous,” damian grumbles. “they’re not that clever.” “they are literally part fox,” tim replies, already scanning blueprints of the manor. dick’s using detective vision like it’s a game of arkham asylum. bruce looks mildly concerned, which for bruce means very concerned.
jason cups his hands around his mouth. “hey! game’s over! come out before bruce files a missing person report!”
no response.
an hour later, the manor’s in full search mode.
tim’s set up drones. damian’s using motion sensors. bruce: “how do we lose a person in our own house?” dick: “it’s not that big.” tim: “the house has ninety-seven rooms.” bruce: “…”
and then, jason stops mid-step, looks up, and sighs. “you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
everyone follows his gaze.
there, curled up in the chandelier, high above the dining hall, tail wrapped neatly around themselves—fast asleep—is the foxian sibling.
dick just bursts out laughing. “oh my god, they napped through the whole search.”
bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “how did they even get up there?” “climbed,” jason says. “obviously.” “you think they’ll wake up if we call them?” tim asks. “no,” damian says. “i tried. twice.”
eventually, dick climbs up (with a grappling hook, obviously) and gently pokes them awake. they blink blearily, confused.
“...did i win?”
the collective groan that follows can be heard across the entire manor.
later, they establish a new rule: no hide and seek unless alfred supervises. the foxian sibling just yawns, tail flicking lazily. “fine. but you can’t top my record.” damian glares. “you didn’t win. you slept.” “still wasn’t found.”
patrol ends late. the city’s quiet for once, the sky just starting to pale, and everyone’s running on that strange mix of exhaustion and adrenaline.
back at the manor, the foxian sibling’s tail looks… bad. rooftop dust, tangles, something that might be dried paint (don’t ask).
“what happened to you?” jason asks, tugging at a twig stuck near the tip. “gotham happened.”
they flop down on the couch, tail splayed out dramatically, looking like they’ve just survived the apocalypse.
dick appears with a brush. “you can’t just leave it like that.” “i was gonna clean it later.” “uh-huh.” he sits down behind them, already sectioning off fur like he’s prepping for a spa appointment.
tim peers over his mug of coffee. “you sure you know what you’re doing?” “i grew up with damian’s haircuts. i can handle this.”
it starts practical enough—gentle brushing, careful detangling. then jason joins in “for science.” then tim. then, inevitably, damian.
the foxian sibling’s protesting at first—“you’re all weird”—but the moment someone hits that sweet spot near the base of their tail, they just… melt.
a low, rumbling sound fills the room. tim looks up. “are you purring?” “no.” “that’s definitely purring,” jason says, grinning. “i can feel it through the couch.”
dick’s quietly smiling, still brushing through the fur. “see? teamwork. one clean tail.” “you’re enjoying this way too much,” damian mutters, but he’s still helping, movements careful, precise.
by the end of it, the tail’s fluffier than ever, shining under the lamplight. the foxian sibling’s half-asleep, eyes droopy, soft hums escaping without them realizing.
“you’re like a therapy animal,” jason teases. “you’re gonna lose a finger,” they mumble, too tired to sound threatening.
when alfred walks in later, the scene is… oddly wholesome. the foxian sibling passed out on the couch, tail stretched across the floor. dick, tim, jason, and damian all sitting around them, quiet for once, looking content.
alfred just smiles faintly. “tea, anyone?” no one answers—they’re all too busy pretending not to be family.
it starts small—just a little sneeze during breakfast.
by lunchtime, the foxian sibling has disappeared entirely. a pile of blankets, strategically arranged, occupies the living room. ears peek out occasionally, twitching at every sound. tail flicks impatiently at anyone who gets too close.
“where is—?” tim starts, tracking temperature spikes on the sensors he insists on keeping. “they’re fine,” damian says flatly. “probably.” “probably isn’t a diagnosis,” jason mutters, shoving a thermos of soup toward the pile. the foxian sibling hisses. soup stays.
dick kneels by the blanket mound. “come on, it’s just soup. you can’t hide forever.” a muffled growl is the only reply.
alfred enters, hands on hips, shaking his head. “i believe we may have underestimated the illness.” bruce, from the hallway: “how bad can it be?” tim’s voice floats over, frantic: “i’ve tried reasoning with them. they won’t even sit up.”
so everyone resorts to plan B: babying.
dick drapes a soft blanket over them. jason perches nearby, offering small snacks. damian fusses, muttering under his breath about “disgraceful weakness,” but keeps a watchful eye. tim sets up a small humidifier and adjusts the room’s temperature to perfection.
the foxian sibling curls tighter into their tail, nose nuzzling the warm blankets, a soft, rumbling noise escaping. “you’re purring,” jason observes. “not purring,” comes a weak mumble. “definitely purring,” tim whispers, smirking.
hours pass.
the storm outside is gone, replaced with a calm evening. inside, the pile of blankets shifts occasionally as the foxian sibling stretches, sniffles, and lets their tail brush over someone’s arm. the room smells faintly of soup, blankets, and the quiet comfort of family.
alfred quietly refills the water and tea, muttering, “they are far too spoiled,” but the corners of his mouth twitch. bruce leans against the doorway, watching silently. no one’s getting hurt, no one’s breaking anything. just… warmth.
and the foxian sibling? safe, tucked, and instinctively surrounded by family, tail curled protectively around each of them.
it starts innocently enough—patrol through the usual alleys, rooftops, and abandoned warehouses. but the foxian sibling has eyes everywhere. ears twitching, tail flicking, whiskers quivering.
“did you hear that?” they ask, stopping abruptly. “hear what?” jason grumbles, juggling grappling hooks. “that mew.” tim sighs. “it’s probably a rat.” they’re already sprinting down an alley.
thirty minutes later, they return. and they are not empty-handed.
one tiny kitten. a scruffy little crow that insists on perching on their shoulder. and some unidentifiable fluff that’s glaring at everyone like it owns the place.
“you cannot bring all of them inside,” bruce says flatly, standing at the manor entrance. the foxian sibling pauses, tail flicking innocently. “why not?”
cut to two days later.
five cats are now prowling the manor. the crow has taken the chandelier as its personal throne. the foxian sibling curls up in the corner of the living room, tail wrapped around them, humming softly while three kittens climb over their lap. jason and dick are trading popcorn for cat approval. damian is grumbling about disease control. tim has constructed an elaborate feeding schedule.
alfred sighs. “i have never once had such a bustling household… and i’ve been here forty years.”
bruce simply shakes his head and mutters, “we’re never going to get the foxian sibling to stop.”
and honestly? no one wants to.
the house is loud. chaotic. full of purring, flapping, tiny claws, and mischief. but it’s also warm. and that’s exactly how the foxian sibling likes it.
the plan was simple: blend in. the target: a shady gotham warehouse. everyone: dressed inconspicuously. the foxian sibling: trying very hard to be “normal human,” tail tucked, ears flattened.
for… about ten minutes, it’s working. they’re chatting, mingling, looking like they belong. jason’s smirking behind them, obviously enjoying the chaos brewing.
and then.
something mildly annoying happens. a door slams. the foxian sibling’s ears pop straight up, swiveling like radar dishes. tail flicks reflexively. whiskers twitch.
silence.
the suspect: “uh… nice ears.” jason: facepalm “oh no.” tim: whispering into his comms, frantic: “abort! abort!” dick: “they’re—no. just keep going.”
the foxian sibling freezes, realizing all eyes are on them.
and that’s when it happens.
someone pulls out a phone. the flash goes off. “#gothamfox,” someone whispers. by the time the team exits, the internet has already exploded. memes, edits, “fox ears infiltrate gotham warehouse” gifs—everything. bruce: “social media is banned. indefinitely.” alfred: “i warned you about letting them go on patrol unsupervised.” jason: “worth it.”
the foxian sibling? slightly embarrassed, tail flicking nervously. but also secretly proud. the ears, after all, did look cute.
dick rolls his eyes, muttering about “teamwork,” while tim frantically wipes any footage he can reach. damian glares at everyone for daring to laugh at the foxian sibling. and jason? still filming for… posterity, obviously.
gotham has a new meme hero. the foxian sibling did not volunteer for it.
it starts innocently enough. everyone’s piling into the batmobile for a routine patrol. the foxian sibling hops in, tail casually swishing.
jason, already halfway in, glances back. “watch your—”
too late.
the tail gets caught in the door.
a yelp. a screech. the entire car stops.
“what happened?” dick asks, turning in his seat. “tail. door. now.”
bruce: sighs through teeth “is anyone injured?” the foxian sibling is fine, sitting there with one ear flicking, tail slightly squished. “i’m fine,” they insist.
jason: “that’s not fine.” tim: “that’s a medical emergency.” damian: “how could you let this happen.” alfred, already pulling ice packs from god knows where: “i cannot believe this.”
everyone else is panicking as though the foxian sibling’s tail is a national treasure, and maybe it is, because the fussing is… impressive.
the foxian sibling sits calmly, licking a paw, tail slowly flicking. “you’re enjoying this,” jason accuses. “absolutely not,” comes the innocent reply.
half an hour later, the tail’s free. everyone’s exhausted from the adrenaline. the foxian sibling curls their tail around themselves, basking in the warmth of attention.
“hot cocoa?” dick offers cautiously. “yes,” comes the faintest purr. alfred mutters something about “overstimulated drama,” but pours the cocoa anyway.
bruce leans back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “i swear, that tail is going to be the death of me one day.” the foxian sibling wiggles it just enough to make him flinch.
and honestly? they’re loving every second of it.
