Kon: So, I'm taking Tim out for-
Wally: Wait. Out as in dating? Romantically?
Kon, annoyed: Yeah, so?
Roy: And you, uh, cleared it with the big bat?
Kon: Bruce? I mean, he knows, I guess. I didn't ask him for permission.
Wally: He's cooked, Roy.
Kon: He's chill.
Roy: Yup. Cooked.
Kon: I know he's the Batman and all that but he's not like that. We always get on.
Wally: Yeah, so did we. Then I woke up one night and he was sitting on my bed. He wanted to talk about the open door policy he had the Manor.
Roy: He ran me off the road just to "talk". Next thing I know, he's lecturing me about respect and how I should keep my hands to myself.
Wally: To be fair, you could tone down the PDA.
Roy: I literally patted Jay's leg before I got up to get him a beer. Bruce blew out my back tires and left me stranded on the freeway at 4am
Kon: Well, that's you two. Bruce has always been on my side. We-
*muffled footsteps on the roof*
Kon: What the-
Wally: That's either Santa Claus or Bruce "Touch my boy and I'll gut you" Wayne. And it's fucking July. See you around, buddy.
Roy: Imma head out.
Damian: Why are there several of you here?
Kon Kent, shrugging: Dunno.
Wally West: Dick invited me.
Roy Harper, holding a sleeping Lian: Jason said something about family dinner.
Jon Kent: You said we were doing something.
Hal Jordan: Bruce said we should come over, also about a family dinner.
Selina Kyle: Right.
Damian, looking over his shoulder, shouting: YOUR GAYS ARE HERE!
Tim was first: Kon, you made it!
Kon: Yeah, Jon made sure I did.
Jon: You're welcome!
Jason was second: My gay? What about your little thing with superboy two?
Damian: Shut up!
Roy: Hey baby.
Jason: Sup?
Damian: Gross, gross gross. Go away.
Jason, cackling: You got it, baby bird.
Bruce was third: Don't call them that, Damian.
Damian: You are the only person here who took offense to that. Hal is literally gay, and Selina is Bi. You're a pansexual mess!
Hal: He has a point, Spooky.
Selina: Leave the kid alone, bat. He's having fun.
Bruce, sighing: Right, right.
Dick was last: Wally! You're on time.
Wally: Why was everyone invited here?
Dick: It's a yearl-
Damian: It's pride month, idiot, Alfred has a huge feast for the start of Pride Month to assure to the family that he loves us and supports us unconditionally.
Dick: That. We're to invite our partners for it too.
Jon: Even if someone in the family is straight, like Duke, Alfred loves to make sure he invites his partners.
Damian: I think Duke actually came out as Bi?
Jon: Did he? Congrats to him. Unlucky he's single though.
Damian: Whatever.
Alfred: Come on, now, boys, dinner is ready.
Damian: Thank you Pennyworth.
Jon: Happy Pride Month everyone!
In which: Bruce Waynes daughter, Y/N Wayne is a full time party girl. Club hopper, party animal, hedonist. Whatever you want to call it. To full the void her father left, she turns to nightclubs, dingy bars and basement raves.
Chapter 4- Awful.
Fic masterlist!
Cw: Reader has insecurities, references to death, grief, unhealthy coping mechanisms, classism, underage drinking/underage smoking, reader has abandonment issues- I do not condone underage drinking or smoking- stay safe stay in school
(think this is the longest chapter yet so I hope ur hungry!)
Each minute of the ride home felt longer than the last. Alfred could tell something had happened between the two of you, but he chose to stay silent. You were both old enough to talk it out, he hoped.
You stared out the window, counting the streetlamps and watching every face that zipped past. Fingers picking at the loose threads of your coat. How foolish you looked. Getting all dressed up, trying to look like a real adult, just to be publicly shamed by a child. The makeup you wore to look more mature made you feel like a clown now.
“Can you pull over please?” your voice sounded sharper than you wanted but you didn’t want to dull it yet. Alfred wordlessly obliged. The car slithered to a halt outside the corner store. “I need to grab something. I’ll be five minutes.”
No one questioned it. It was easier to pretend they didn’t know your downward spiral was happening right in front of them. They know what's going to happen tonight. At least this way they have time to prepare. You leave your handbag in the car, only taking your wallet inside.
The bell above the door jingles sweetly when you walk in, a serenade only for you and the owner. She greets you wordlessly, just waving her hand, eyes glued to her newspaper.
The back of the shop is not foreign territory to you. It hasn’t been for a long time. You knew just where to go. Back shelf, top right. No need for a shopping list. You knew it off by heart. Two bottles of white and about three or four premixed cocktails.
When you reach the register, the owner still doesn’t look up at you. Her attention fully on the paper. You peek down at the paper and scan the headline.
FIVE MISSING. THREE DEAD.
“Whats that about?” you ask with pseudo nonchalance while you rifle through the candy bars at the counter. Without asking, you pick one up and open it like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Roxie, the owner, is used to this by now. She just adds it to your total. “You not heard about this?” she asks without moving, “It’s like a ghost or something. People keep going away and not comin’ back.” Her cynical tone didn’t shock you, she never seemed bothered by anything. “I’m telling you, it’s always sex, money or drugs. The big three. Someone goes missing, or turns up dead, its sex, money or drugs. Sometimes it’s all three.” she muses.
You hold out your fake ID, and she waves it away. “Don’t insult my intelligence.” Her laugh is airy and dry, like it’s something she can’t afford to spend frivolously. Money changes hands, you get a plastic bag and a receipt.
“You stay safe now. Don’t get into any shady shit, y’hear?”. You only know three things about Roxie. One- She doesn’t like big dogs, or small dogs, only medium dogs allowed around here. Two-her husband runs the laundromat down the street. Three- she was in the same school as Mother, in the year above her.
“Yes ma’am” you say, still facing her as you wall out, pushing your back against the door to open it. When you open the car door, you try not to let the two bottles clink against each other, still trying to maintain the innocent illusion.
After an eternity, the car finally makes it home. No one speaks. The three of you walk in as if you’re all strangers. Making a beeline to your room, the bag rattles and clinks all the way up the stairs. Tonight you’ll talk to him. Not Bruce, Alfred, Tim or Damian. Him. Jason.
On your second week at your new home, you asked Alfred about the door that never opened. He froze for a moment, but when he saw which direction you were pointing, he softened. As gently as he could, he explained Jason’s story. Although he avoided certain phrases or words, afraid he might send you back to the night everything changed. The watered down version you got went something like this.
He was a kid, like you but Jason was at the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong people. There was a big, terrible accident, and then he was gone.
But the word accident rang hollow. You didn’t believe in ‘accidents’. Dropping a glass, that's an accident. Throwing a woman into the road because she said no, that's not an accident. You knew better than to push and ask what happened, but by the silence in the air, you knew ‘accident’ meant. Sometimes you wondered if you went to the same school without knowing. Did he ever walk past you? Did his Mom know your Mother?
In a strange way, that made you feel a little guilty, you found comfort in knowing you weren’t the first street kid to step foot inside. At night, when they couldn’t hear you, you’d whisper to him. Or rather, you’d whisper into the vast emptiness that was your room. You didn’t want anyone to hear you and think you were mental, but you didn’t want to feel alone. Yes, you had Tim, but he didn’t get it. He didn’t get how scary the change from borderline poverty to being in the upper crust was. Tim wasn’t afraid of having the rug pulled from under his feet and landing right back where he started. He didn’t hide food under his bed, in fear that it would disappear one day. Maybe Jason would’ve got it.
You’d tell him about school. About how you refused to move to a different one. About how the teachers treat you differently now. The way the numbers all melted into one big black inky puddle on the page. Every class felt like an eternity. Your friends were the same, but different. They all looked the same, but they acted different. They talked to you like you had become stupid overnight. Each whisper a confession you dare not tell anyone else.
Tonight, you were telling him about the presentation. About the way the students walked like they owned everything, and you supposed they did. In a way. Those little shits would grow up and inherit their parent’s wallets, and use that money to make the lives of people like you and Jason unlivable.
“You should’ve seen those snotnosed brats. God, just insufferable.” you laughed dryly as you cracked the cap off the second bottle. It tasted bitter in your mouth, but therapy came in many forms, this one just tasted a little sour. “And this bitch sat next to me, and tried to size me up. She didn’t say it but I know what she was thinking. They all think the same thing. Who let you in here?” You made an exaggerated, nasally voice to capture her essence.
Pregaming alone isn’t as fun as you pretend it is.
“Okay, well, I should get ready. I’ll talk to you later. I love you.”. You pull yourself up and dust yourself down.
There’s something freeing about washing off the masks you wore to impress those snooty preppy bastards, and returning to your regular party look. Heavy mascara, eyeliner, dark lips and a pair of false lashes. Getting changed and wearing clothes that Damian once said were from a “tramp’s wardrobe.”
You felt like you.
Looking in the mirror, you felt your heart sink. You felt like you. You had to accept that you would never feel comfortable trying to be like them. This was you. Messy. Tired. Out of place.
To console yourself, you chug the rest of the bottle and grimace at the burn in the back of your throat. The cocktails are shoved into your handbag, along with your phone, keys, wallet- and fake wallet. Before going out, you make your rounds. Same as all ways.
First it’s Tim.
Knock, open the door, say I love you, then goodbye. He asks you to stay. You say you’ll think about it. You never do. Say I love you again, say goodbye again.
Then Bruce. If he opens the door. He won’t. But you still try. After waiting two minutes behind a closed door, you crouch down to the keyhole. Say I love you, say goodbye.
Alfred sees you in the hallway. You say goodbye, tell him you love him. Hug him before you go.
You put the last one off as long as you can. Right now he’s the last person you want to see, but you have a moral compass. It has to be done. You knock on his door. He doesn’t answer at first. “Damian, I know you’re in there.”. Silence again. “Okay fine. I tried. I’m heading out. Bye.” you want to leave it at that, to go out and forget this entire day ever happened. But you don’t. Not yet. “I love you.”
The record store is halfway across the city, in the middle of a terrible neighbourhood. Your uber driver makes a comment about hating this part of the city, and all you can say is, “I’ll drink to that.” But let's be honest, you’d drink to anything right now. And you do. Cracking open the last cocktail and guzzling it as quickly as you can. He wants to kick you out, but all your reviews are five stars, you tip very well. Bruce’s allowance. It makes you feel like a child spending their pocket money at a toyshop.
He stops and offers to get the door for you. You tell him you got it. It turns out, you don’t. You struggle with the handle until it’s painful for him to watch. It opens from the outside and you thank him profusely. There’s a line to get in and you audibly groan until you see a familiar face. Well not quite familiar. You still don’t know his name, but the gay with facial piercings is here. The same one who tried to talk to you last night.
“Heyy! Oh my god, what’re you doing here?” You saunter over to him with a soft giggle. This isn’t new, you’ve done it before to other guys, and it works nine out of ten times. He looks taken aback by your approach. In this light you get a better look at him. He’s tall, maybe a head taller than Tim, and his hair has a slight curl to it. It’s hard to tell what colour his eyes are on account of his sunglasses. What kind of idiot wears sunglasses at night?
“Just here for the opener.” His eyes trace your body with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. He jerks his head up and looks at the front of the line, then the back. Trying to look unbothered, he shrugs his shoulders. “You waiting for anyone? Cus my friends are already inside and the line gets lonely.” he must think that's smoother than silk, judging by the shit eatingly smug grin on his face.
“That’s so weird, my friends are in there too. Mind if I join you?” doing your best ‘wow that's sooo interesting, tell me more’ voice. For a moment he looks shocked, like he didn’t think it would work. Sucker.
“I didn’t get your name last time I saw you.” he raises his voice as the line gets louder.
You don’t like giving people your real name when you’re out. If they know your name, you’re letting them know you. Last time you let someone know you, the real you, they end up drifting away. Your friends from college felt like a new family at first. The four of you clicked instantly. But when you dropped out, they stopped texting, and calling. It wasn’t the abandonment that stung the most, it was the embarrassment. It was painful to watch you wait by the phone for calls that never came.
You give him a fake name, similar to your own, but not quite. Once you used a super outlandish name, and then forgot it halfway through the night. He said it suited you. Phoney.
“I’m Kon.”
You manage to get in after fifteen minutes of waiting. Fifteen minutes of pretending everything he said was mesmerising, pretending he was funny (well, he wasn’t unfunny, but he wasn’t a comedian).
The band is yet to start, so he hasn’t left your side. Kon keeps saying he’ll go find his friends when the music starts, but you think he’s just putting it off. Instead he keeps talking about himself, saying anything he thinks will make him sound cool. He says he’s only here for a few days, then he’s back home.
“Huh. I pegged you for a local.” you admitted.
“Thank you?” Kon sounded like it was a weird thing to say. Something in his tone irked you.
“Whats wrong with being a local?” At first you planned to ditch him when you got inside, but this was a point of pride.
“Well I mean c'mon, it's Gotham.” His laugh is laced with arrogance and sleaze. Now that you don’t have to keep him happy, you let him have it.
“Take your chopped ass haircut and get the fuck at out my face.” you bark. Storming off before he can get another word in, you try and search for Blue hair club girl. In the dim lights it's hard to see clearly, so you check your phone to see if she sent you another message.
Blue hair club girl
Heyyy girl. Rlly srry but I can’t come out 2nite, my other boyfriend is sick so imma stay w him. Lots of love x. I’ll buy you that drink next time i promise!!!
You groan and roll your eyes. Whatever. You don’t need her. The music starts without warning. It’s not what you’re used to, but it isn’t bad. Another drink will make it sound even better.
It only takes you ten minutes and a vodka redbull to start dancing. A group of girls adopt you into their dance circle and you do the usual “you’re so pretty- I love your fit”s. But it’s not insincere. When you drink, you find yourself seeing either the best or worst in people. You saw the worst in whatshisname- you saw him as egotistical, boastful and sleazy, but these girls were kind, friendly, and wild.
You melt into the music, letting it take you over. Nothing matters right now. That presentation doesn’t matter. Your lack of accomplishments doesn’t mean anything to these people, because they don’t know you. Here, you don’t have to be anyone. You can just be another face in the crowd.
That nagging voice in the back of your head gets harder and harder to hear with each drink you throw back. It vanishes entirely when a girl in the bathroom offers you her poppers.
It’s a rush. From head to toe. A lightning bolt of pleasure. You feel on top of the world.
The night goes on and so does the music. You tap one of the girls on the shoulder and hold two fingers to your lips. Telling her ‘I’m going for a smoke’ without actually saying anything. When you open the door you’re hit with cold air. A welcome change from the dense, sweaty atmosphere. Tonight you can see the stars.
They make you feel small. Uncomfortably small. No one’s going to remember you. You don’t matter. No one sees you. Why would they? What do you have to show for yourself? A long string of failure. To prove your own point, it takes you five tries to light your cigarette. How are you so bad at this? You’ve been practising for ages, any normal person could do it. Why can’t you just be normal.
Smoke wafts up and hits your eye. Once it starts watering it won’t stop. So you don’t bother trying. You aren’t the first drunk girl to cry in the smokers, and you won’t be the last. You let it all out. Everything about today sucked. Right now you need to be held. The inner debate lasts all of five minutes before you’ve made up your mind. You’re gonna do something you’ll regret tomorrow. If you can remember it.
You find him inside. By the bar. Bar is a loose term. Its two overturned collapsible tables with a big guy in a beanie behind it. He’s only holding one cup. Good. He’s by himself still. When you approach, he turns around before you can speak. It weirds you out a little, it should be impossible to hear anyone coming- with all the music- but somehow he did. Freak.
“Hey.” your voice is deceptively sweet. In the reflection of his sunglasses you see your face. The mascara has run a little but the rest of your makeup is mostly intact. Good enough. “I’m really sorry about earlier. I’m just…” the fake pause always works, “I got dumped last week and it’s just a lot.” Perfect. Now he thinks he can be the rebound.
Kon doesn’t look convinced. “Really?”. He quirks his brow and for a moment it makes you feel uneasy. Why wasn’t this working? Was he some kind of mindreader? Or did his stupid, corny sunglasses have a built in lie detector.
You get another drink from the ‘bar’ and start nursing it without hesitation.
“I guess I just lashed out cus you look sorta like him,” this one normally works too, but to pull it off you have to add the perfect coy little giggle, “you’re a little cuter though.”
Yet, his gaze doesn’t yield. It pisses you off more than you already were.
“So you gonna say something or just stand there?”. Not as tactful as your last comments, but somehow that seems to break him. It gets a laugh out of him, a real one. Now it’s time to start.
Taking him by the hand, you lead him back to the crowd of dancers. It’s mostly drunk people jumping up and down off beat, but they’re having fun. You both move out of sync at first, but eventually he finds your rhythm and matches it.
It's fun. He twirls you round a couple times but you make sure his hands stay where you can see them. When the final song ends you make your move.
He’s not the best kisser you’ve ever had, but at least he’s putting effort in. It’s just something to keep your mind busy, to keep you from going back to those dark places. His hands travel up and cup your face. It feels sort of nice to be held like that. As if you’re precious. Like you mattered.
The main lights come on and flashbang you. When you see his face under the fluorescent lights you get a better look at him. Fair play, he is handsome. Maybe not your exact type, but he isn’t an eyesore by any means.
Your lips detach without fanfare and you’re already pulling out your phone to call a cab.
“Do you wanna ride home?”
You look up at him and scoff. “You think you’re good to drive right now?”. It doesn’t sound as smooth as you meant it to, your tongue falls over itself and slurs the last half of the sentence.
“I could get us a cab-”
“I already called one.” you wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t seem to get the hint. “For me.”
“You’re weird.” His voice is clear and pointed, which confuses you because you saw him drinking. Granted he wouldn’t be as bad as you are, but it shouldn’t be so controlled.
“No I’m not, you are. Chopped ass haircut, stupid sunglasses. We’re indoors dipshit, why are you wearing sunglasses?”. Your voice stops and starts like a bad car engine, but you’re determined to finish.
You head toward the door, following the crowd, but he shadows you.
“Second time you’ve called me chopped, y’know I’m starting to think you don’t like me.” he tries to slide his arm around your shoulder but you twist away.
“I didn’t call you chopped, I said your hair was chopped. Now leave me alone, I’m tryna go home.”
The cab arrives and you duck in. Kon, still not taking the hint (can it even be called a hint at this point?) motions for you to roll the window down. You decide to do it, just so you can slap him in the face if he tries something.
“Am I gonna see you again?”
“Not if I see you first.”
For some reason, that finally does it. He takes his leave and starts walking away down the street. The cab takes off in the opposite direction. You’re relieved when you realise it’s a familiar face.
“How was the party?” Alex asks, catching your eye in the rearview mirror. Your head slumps against the window because right now it feels like it’s going to fall off your shoulders at any moment.
“Fine. Didn’t like the band though.”
“That's a shame. You could’ve spent the time getting some school work done.” You know it’s supposed to be kind, but you can’t help digging your fingernails into the palm of your hand.
“Actually, can you drop me off somewhere else?”
Every time you come here it’s the same thing. You’ll hover outside, too drunk to stand upright without swaying, and just stare up at the window that used to be yours. Sometimes the light is on, and you try to get a peek inside. Most of the time it’s off, and the windows are drawn. You’re sure they’ve seen you.
But who could blame you for coming back home? Isn’t that what everyone wanted, when they felt sick and tired of everything?
One time you got really brave and made it all the way to the buzzer. But when you rang it, it wasn’t the voice you wanted to hear. It wasn’t Mother. Why would it be?
You knew he’d be around here somewhere. It’s like a sixth sense. Red Hood always knows when you’re loitering around outside. Like a bloodhound. Until he was here, you opted to sit on the curb with your head in your hands. You wanted a smoke more than anything, but you knew that another one would make you feel sick. And you didn’t want him to see you covered in your own mess.
Eventually he came. Pulling you up like you weighed nothing. And so you began the walk home. The same routine you always did when you came here. He wouldn’t walk you to your door, but he’d go as far as you asked him to. You never really understood why. It’s not like you were any different to the other Gothamites.
He was easy to talk to. You two just clicked.
On the way home, you told him, as best you could given your current condition, about Damian’s presentation- although you changed all the names. About how embarrassed you were about the whole thing.
“I think… he’s… ashamed… of me.” you admitted, pausing to hiccup or take a breath. “And… I kinda… I like, I see why. Cus… he’s right. I’m a screwup.”
Red Hood kept his hand on your shoulder, guiding you along with a grip that felt strong but not overwhelming. “Says who? You’re gonna let them decide what you are?”. Talking to him made you feel seen. It confirmed that you weren't loosing your mind. You weren't crazy, they were.
The time flew by, and before you knew it, you were at your usual drop off point. You thanked him and wished him well. He told you to get back safe, as an order, not a wish. Out of habit, you said ‘Bye, love you.’
He stood still for a moment, just watching you walk into the dark. You'd be fine, he was sure of it, but it left him feeling uneasy.
As you embarked on the last part of the journey home, you thought about Jason. You think he’d like Red Hood. Maybe not the Red Hood you heard about on the news, the one that left trails of violence and destruction behind him, but the one that walked you home and made you feel safe. You wondered what could’ve happened if Red Hood was there when Jason was a kid. Maybe he’d still be here.
You don’t remember opening the door or climbing the stairs, and yet here you are outside Tim’s room. You whisper a quick “night, love you” through the crack in the door and then shamble to your own bed.
The second your head hits the pillow, you’re out.
AAAA oh my god I can't believe I've already written five chapters!! And I can't believe how mucb you guys like it! I'm genuinly so happy you guys are enjoying it- I hope you like this one- I think it's been my fav to write so far.
Taglist (currently closed but openeing again on wed)
Inspired by all the Omega Bruce angst, @occasionalauthoring, my beloved (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)
None of his kids will go inside Bruce’s nest, and he’s not allowed in theirs either, mostly due to misunderstandings that have persisted through the years. He wants it, he's tried, he's been rejected
However, one day, Wally comes over because Dick said he’d be over at the manor to hang out with Damian or something. He’s early, or Dick got caught up with something, and now Bruce and Wally are in a room together
One thing leads to another, and suddenly Bruce is happily purring while grooming Wally’s curly hair and cuddling happily in his nest. He's known Wally since he was just a pup, so he's pretty comfortable with the speedster
He thinks it’s a fluke and Wally will never do it again by the angry and confused look he gets from Dick, but Wally absolutely loves cuddling, and Mr Wayne is so big and warm he simply can’t resist
But it doesn’t stop at Wally
Jon comes over, and Bruce dotes on him the most because he’s just a pup, and Damian doesn’t allow him to. Having an unpresented pup that smells like milk and honey after so long just makes him elated; he's just chirping happily and purring up a storm
Kon even likes relaxing in his nest. He was wary at first, but quickly melted into a puddle when Bruce showed him some undivided attention. He loves it more when Jon’s there, so he doesn’t feel embarrassed to also smother his younger brother with affection
Even Roy is partial to letting Bruce scent him. They've had their disagreements, but he's also known Bruce since forever and a half. He even forced Bruce to scent a sweater to bring home, and Oliver texts him later, demanding to get a scented sweater as well, which makes Bruce feel so happy to be getting back in touch with his old friend
Bruce doesn't notice, but his kids are getting jealous. Like, really jealous
It's to the point where the Batkids are actively ignoring their friends or becoming downright hostile to them in some situations. Bruce is just happy that some people actually want to come into his nest
Um, something something, and the Batkids are confronted by their friends for being kinda shitty to Bruce and being hypocrites. They adopt Bruce as their mama and refuse to let the Batkids near him until they sincerely apologize and realize the reason why Bruce is distant is that they've pushed him away for years
