summary: your friend group finds out something shocking about you, Hogwarts's biggest heartthrob.
wc: 1.5k
cw: undertones of remus x reader, talks of sex, suggestive(?)
A charming smile that swept boys and girls alike off their feet. Confidence that had teachers and students agreeing with any word that came tumbling out of your mouth. Luring eyes attracting prey after prey into your arms, whether it be at a party or from across the library. A roster of people lining up in front of you that had Sirius Black intimidated. Everyone wanted you, and not a single person could deny that.
Some people were genuinely intimidated to approach your friend group, and you weren't surprised. Why wouldn't they when you had the two heart throbs, the scariest student at Hogwarts, both Head Students, and a raging lesbian? That’s why everyone left your favourite spot in the common room empty, whether you were there or not. And it was always available for after parties like this one. You slumped down on the couch next to Remus, snatching his bottle of beer and taking a sip before pulling a face. Sometimes you were intoxicated enough to forget you hated beer — this was not one of those times.
“He a good kisser?” Asked Marlene from the armchair she was vacating, watching as you waved goodbye to the Hufflepuff you'd been making out with. You shrugged, letting the smile drop from your face when you turned back around. “Just enough.” “Not enough for you to take to bed?” Questioned Sirius, hiding his smirk from behind his own beer bottle. “You say that as though I sleep around.” You didn’t mean to get the entire group laughing, but you couldn’t help the smile on your face at their cluelessness. “Right, because how many people have you slept with? One? Three hundred?” You threw your head back with a laugh at Lily’s comment, eyes attracted to where she and James held hands tightly.
“Why, how many have you slept with Sirius?” You asked, suddenly curious. He winced, lips moving silently as he counted the numbers in his head. “Like twelve?” You hummed apprehensively. “Thought it would be more.” “More? Lady, you’re really scaring me here.” He shot back, eyes wide in shot. “Genuinely sweetheart, how many is it?” Pushed Marlene.
You turned to Remus, now holding you snug against him by the arm around your shoulders. The boy smiled at you, noticing the mischievous glint in your eyes. “They’re not going to believe me when I tell them.” Remus chuckled at your loud whisper, watching as you started giggling to yourself. “Oh I can’t wait to see your faces when I tell you.” You announced, feeling your cheeks heat up as you continued laughing. Remus swallowed thickly, trying not to think about the number. Lily, sat directly facing you on the warm rug with her boyfriend, looked terribly concerned for your wellbeing.
“Okay, ready?” You asked, scanning the group one last time. “Wait!” Yelled Sirius, “Let’s place bets!” You nodded, seeing Remus roll his eyes from your peripheral vision. “Is that appropriate?” He rubbed your arm softly, and you turned to him again, telling him “Let them.” He was confused for a moment. Were you under the impression he knew how many people you slept with?
“Okay,” Marlene announced, “I want twelve, I’m matching Sirius’s count. Lily says seventeen, James says seven, okay odd man out. Sirius?” “Twenty three.” You gasped loudly, putting your hand out towards Sirius in a theatrical gesture. “I think you’ve had enough to drink, Mr. Black.”
“Oh just spill, will you?” He countered. “Okay, here we go.” You took a deep breath, taking one last look at each of your friends’ faces before finally saying. “I’m a virgin.”
Marlene screamed, standing up and pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You’re a fucking liar is what you are.” Said Sirius with an unimpressed look on his face. “Zero?” You heard Remus mumble. He just wished you didn't sense the relief in his voice. “And I wasn’t hiding it either. If you’d asked, I’d have told you.” Marlene shook her head.
“Lies, because when I asked last week how it was with Rosier, you said-”
“Good. I said it was good.”
“And then I asked if it was mind blowing and you said-”
“Not really… Because what’s so mind blowing about a good make out sess?”
Lily suddenly gasped. “You sneaky little- so just because we’ve never said the word sex in the questions, you didn’t - oh my godric.” You shrugged, a smile on your face. “Wait so how has the entire castle been fooled?” Asked James, looking at you with genuine interest. “I mean boys in the Quidditch locker rooms talk about you all the time.”
“People exaggerate things. I’ll give a hand job here and there, and when they can’t get it up again I’ll just say it was shame and they’ll leave. I guess they’re just too embarrassed to reveal those details. And you’d be surprised by the amount of guys who cum in their trousers from a little kissing and grinding.” You heard Remus’s breath hitch in his throat. “You’re joking, right?” Clarified Sirius. You shook your head. “I’ve never tried hiding the fact that I’m a virgin. Thought you’d know.” You turned your head towards Remus, finally looking at him in the eyes.
“When I asked if you slept with Malfoy, you said no. Said you didn’t sleep around. I thought you meant you didn’t sleep around much. When you came back from Davies’s dorm, I asked you about it and you said ‘these boys are disappointing. A little kissing and they’re done for.’ I thought you meant kissing while fucking. Jesus, it’s been right in front of our faces.” Remus ranted breathily, looking at you with a confused expression.
“So Hogwarts’s number one heartthrob is a virgin?” Gasped Sirius. “Kissing enough guys made people think you’re sleeping with them all?”
“I’m good at what I do, Sirius, there’s no denying that.” His face flushed red, and from across the couch, you saw his eyes flicker down to your lips. "Mind blowing kisser, in fact." “You see - that!” Marlene cried, sitting back down. “You’re so confident, and you could have anyone. So - so why haven’t you?”
You leaned your back against the couch, stealing Remus’s beer from him again and taking a long sip. “I just - I enjoy kissing people, you know? And I don’t want to have sex with any of these guys who are only interested in that. Like they all hope they’ll sleep with me and then steal my heart so they can be the ones to break it. I want-” You huffed, downing the rest of Remus’s beer. The boy huffed, pushing you to the side in mock annoyance. You laughed lightly. “I want someone I have a genuine connection with. An emotional commitment before a physical one.”
Your eyes followed Remus as he got up to fetch another beer, and you saw him grab a pre-mixed cocktail. He opened both bottles, handing you the watermelon flavoured drink, and you smiled at him softly. A long silence fell on the group, watching as you thanked him with a loving look in your eyes.
“Godric,” started Sirius, breaking the comfortable silence, “You must masturbate like-” “Never.” You cut in. It was his turn to scream now, and even James and Lily’s jaws dropped. You started laughing again as you took another sip of your drink. “Not my thing.” “But you have, right?” Asked Marlene, a desperate look in her eyes. You shook your head.
“So the biggest heartthrob at Hogwarts isn’t only a virgin, but has never had an orgasm.” You nodded at Lily’s shocked words. She was discovering a whole new side of her best friend. “Hogwarts’s biggest heartthrob is actually Hogwarts’s biggest prude.” You grinned, almost proudly, at Sirius’s words.
You stood suddenly, putting your drink down on the table and stretching your back in an exaggerated manner. “Well, I’m going to go have another peaceful, virgin night’s sleep.” Marlene cackled at your comment, and you squeezed Remus’s outstretched hand as you passed by. It was easy to notice how relieved he was to know that you didn't sleep around. That maybe, his amateur skills in bed could impress you.
“Hey y/n?” You spun around, hand still holding Remus’s. You hummed at Sirius’s call, tossing your hair out of your face. “I’m not drunk enough now, but next time, I’m finding out just how good of a kisser you are.” You winked at your friend, missing the glare Remus sent his way. You bent down, pressing a kiss on Remus’s forehead. The unsuspecting boy jumped at the feelings of your soft lips on his forehead, and he turned to wave bye at you, but you had already turned your back to him and were halfway up the stairs.
Once you were out of earshot, Sirius laughed loudly, clutching his sides. “Oh, should’ve seen his fucking face! Chill out, Remus, I am not stealing your girl.”
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, settings, or franchises mentioned in this fanfiction. All rights belong to their respective creators and copyright holders. This story is written purely for entertainment and non-profit purposes.
You had been kidnapped by your 'father' for four months now. You were barely allowed to do anything. Everything you wanted to do is deemed inappropriate for a 'child'.
He keeps insisting that you are a child even though you are in your twenties. Fully grown adult.
The house you are in is in the middle of a forest. There is no signal at all. The reason why you know that is because you sneaked into Leon's room and opened his phone in an attempt to call for help.
Whenever you stare outside the window all you see is trees, the sun peeking above the trees, and sometimes animals walk by.
I mean sure, he was nice and all, but you miss your old life. Your old independent life. The way you would wake up in your appartment, get out of bed, make yourself breakfast, go to college/work, and then get back home to have a relaxing evening.
It wasn't perfect, but you had some sort of autonomy. Which you don't have here. From the moment you wake up to the moment you fall asleep, he has to be next to you. He even follows you to the bathroom when you take a shower. He said it was okay because you can close the curtains and he will just sit by the sink and talk to you about the plans he has for you for that day.
The plans usually consist of watching a movie, buidling Legos (that's a new thing he picked up from a coworker who had a child, said that it helps keep children entertained.), and board games.
You just reached your limit. You wanted something for yourself only, without him being included.
You were sitting in the living room, watching one of the cartoons he 'approves' of. "Hey buddy, what are you doing?" He said, kneeling down in front of you with a soft expretion on his face.
"Watching," you said, while rolling your eyes because it was obvious that you were watching TV.
"That sounds fun!" He said, patting your knee. "Dad needs to pick up some things from the grocery store and will be back quickly, so stay here and behave while I'm gone, okay?" He said while standing up.
"Is Uncle Chris coming?" You asked Leon. Uncle Chris, as he liked you calling him, was actually fun to hang around with. He didn't treat you like a child, more like a teenager, which was a nice change. He also sneaked some stuff Leon didn't approve of to you.
"No, unfortunately he has some work to do. I will be quick, don't worry, okay?" He said giving you a sympathetic look. You nodded.
"Good kid," He leaned down and kissed your forehead. "I'll make sure to get you gummies with me if you behaved."
With that he left the house. But something was off. You didn't hear the usual loud click of the lock when he left.
You got up and went to take a peek at the door and, to your surprise, you can see that it was not locked. You felt a sense of euphoria just looking at that unlocked door. He must have forgotten to lock it in a hurry.
You decided that it wouldn't be wise to escape immediately after he left, so you waited ten minutes just in case. The grocery store is so far from here, it takes about thirty to forty minutes just to get there. You were practically jumping just looking at the clock and counting how much time left until you are free.
When the ten minutes was up you sprinted towards the door, grabbed the handle, and used all of your strength to open that metallic, thick door.
You opened the door and you were immediately hit with the scent of the forest and the cold, night air.
Your legs started running before you even thought about it. The air going through your hair, the feeling of dirt on your feet. For the first time in those four months, you felt alive.
You started thinking about your old life again, and started imagining going through your routine just like before you were kidnapped.
Suddenly, you felt a small pinch in your back. You didn't think much of it because it could have been just a tree branch. But then you felt weak.
Your legs gave up first, falling to the ground. Then your eyes started getting foggy. You tried to reach back to see what the hell was in your back. Before you can even touch it, someone yanked it off.
You shrieked in pain, and then looked back to see who it was. To your surprise, it was Leon.
"I thought we were past this stage, I thought you finally started to see me as you father. Seemed too good to be true. I needed to make sure I was right. It seems to me that my hunch was on point" He said, kneeling down to pick you up.
You were feeling your body go limp bit by bit as the seconds go by, but you managed to put the pieces together. This was a test.
"I'm sorry I had to hurt you with this scary needle. But you didn't behave as I asked you to, and something needed to be done about that.
You started to feel yourself slipping out of consciousness, and the last thing you saw was Leon looking down at you while he was carrying you back to the house.
Author's Note: this was requested! I'm so sorry for anyone that wanted to request but couldn't because the request was closed. For some reason I thought it was open. Its open now :)!
Luffy x Reader, Zoro x Reader, Sanji x Reader, Nami x Reader, Usopp x Reader (separate)
summary: what each straw hat does for fun to pass time on the ship.
a/n: was watching the anime while writing this so it might have influenced some of their behavior but it’s mostly still based on the live action!
cw: fluff, silly fun, more character focused, platonic but some are a bit playful (y’all saw the amount of eye fucking that happened in s2), can be read as non-platonic idc, mentions of alcohol.
you know him, all he does is joke around and eat, always in the kitchen eating something or at the deck just watching the sea; enjoying being a pirate.
he naps, a LOT, well not as much as Zoro, but still, he’ll sleep anywhere and anytime he feels like it, and it often happens with or around you, just napping and cuddling together, something cozy he loves doing when he’s got nothing else to do.
hanging around Usopp to help out with whatever plan he’s got for the night, whether it be game night, movie night, or just telling stories, Luffy would happily set up the area while Usopp deals with the ‘technical’ stuff, he’d be running all over the ship grabbing pillows and blankets if it’s a little chilly out, setting it up so it’d be a fun and comfy night for everyone.
bugging Sanji about what he’s cooking, every night, asking all kinds of questions, asking if he could add on more and more to the menu, just bugging him until he’s finally got some good im him giant mouth.
as the night goes on the guys would be drunk singing sea shanties as loud as possible, dancing all silly, luffy spinning you around, making you laugh.
be so fr, all he really does in his free time is exercise, clean his swords, and nap.
he’s a simple man with simple wants and needs, he likes his routine as it is, why do anything else when he can practice his sword fighting and make himself stronger.
but on the occasion he will just go along with what the others are doing.
taking naps with you and Luffy, listening to whatever story Usopp’s got for the day, or just hovering around him when he’s working on his weapons.
but mostly he just likes getting drunk with the crew while he watches y’all make asses of yourselves being goofy and silly.
of course he loves simply cooking in his free time, making amazing dinners for the whole crew, but when he’s not cooking.
he likes to do party games, like beer pong or whatever, but his favorite is spin the bottle, getting drunk with the crew and playing truth or dare, but spin the bottle is mostly an excuse to kiss you or Nami if he’s lucky enough, but to his dismay he mostly just gets dared to wax his legs or chug a whole keg of beer.
there was one time he was lucky enough to be locked in the pantry with you after having convinced the crew to play 7 minutes in heaven, getting to be so close to you was heaven enough, really wanting to kiss you or something in there, but still he was respectful of your space not making you feel like you had to to anything you didn’t want, when there was about 30 seconds left of your time in there you’d quickly give him a peck on the cheek, he’d walk out of there with the biggest grin on his face, the crew almost started to think you actually did something in there.
operates the bar every night, making everyone drinks whenever he’s not participating in the games and relaxing.
usually just ends the night with a smoke watching the moonlit waves, then going to bed since he’ll have to get up early in the morning to prep the meals for the day.
i feel like she’d like just reading or drawing when she’s got nothing else to do.
sat on the deck with a cool drink, just reading a book about maps or a fiction novel.
playing cards with the crew and always winning, trying to convince everyone to put money on the games cause “it’s so much more fun when there’s risk in the game” with a slight smirk on her face.
you two doing each other’s hair every night before going to bed, like combing it or braiding it, making sure it stays healthy and clean for longer since a shower isn’t quite accessible on this ship with so many people on it.
her having some wine with you and just gossiping or talking about life for hours, it’s simple but she loves the calm moments on the ship a lot.
definitely the one to set up movie nights and all that, gets Sanji to make popcorn and snacks, and asks Luffy to set up the tarp while he works on the projector.
Luffy, Sanji and him fighting over which movie to watch, Luffy wanting a action filled move about pirates, Sanji wanting a romance, and Usopp wanting a cool fantasy, all the while Zoro and Nami just rolls their eyes.
once the movie is on they’ll get cozy and comfortable, you wouldn’t get too far into the movie until Usopp starts talking and going off on some random thing mentioned in the movie, while Zoro just asks what’s happening as if he’s not watching the same movie as the rest of you.
arguing over who has to refill the snacks after luffy inhaled it all, it becoming increasingly heated if it’s during a critical moment of the movie “get the fucking snacks, i can’t miss this!” Usopp would yell, his eyes glancing back and forth from the movie and Sanji, “well neither can i doofus, get it yourself!”.
every time, without fail, will he start making up stories about the movie you’d seen that night once it’s done, dragging the plot on longer, just because he can, and it’s not like anyone in the crew will stop him unless if it’s in the middle of the movie.
You, Bruce Wayne's youngest daughter, two years old. You who are currently sitting on your father lap while he is on a Zoom meeting with the rest of the justice league.
@heynyxiepixie credit for the fuck Ai
Thinking, thinking, thinking...
It was supposed to be a normal meeting. Chat a little about upcoming missions and all, until you decide you didn't want to hang with Damian or Alfred no. No, you wanted Dada.
You had thrown the biggest tantrum, kicking and screaming until Bruce had picked you up and made his way down to the cave with you in hand. Which brings us to now.
You had been a very squirmy baby, so it wasn't a surprise that you were a very active toddler. You couldn't sit still for even a minute, which meant a few into the meeting, you was stood on your father's lap as he held your little waist. You were now facing him, running your hands all over your father's deadpan face, squashing his cheeks together.
Bruce, on the other hand, was trying to focus, but it was kinda hard when your two year old was basically squeezing the life out of your face. One of Bruce's hands left go of your waist to reach up and grab your hands instead, pulling them away from his face. He wrestled with you for a moment before sitting you back down on his lap.
"Stop moving, or yiu can go back to Dami." You whined, kicking your legs back and forth, you heels hitting Bruce's knees, which didn't do much. Bruce had one arm wrapped around you, keeping your arms to your side. All of a sudden, you swung your head back, the back of your head making contact with Bruce's nose.
A 'pfft' came from the monitor in front of Bruce, causing the man who had one had over his nose, and the other swung over his toddler to look up. Hal was leaning off to the side of his camera, obviously laughing by the way his shoulders were shaking up and down.
Bruce sighed, lifting the arm around you up to let you free. With your newfound freedom, you immediately jumped down off your father's lap and ran further into the cave. Bruce looked at the ceiling, already feeling the headache forming.
request batfam who meet kids that remind them of their past selves | split up as i ran out of blocks :/
characters bruce wayne here, dick grayson here, jason todd here, tim drake here, damian wayne here, duke thomas here, stephanie brown here, cassandra cain here
content batfam x platonic! child reader, gender neutral! reader, orphan!reader
masterlist
damian wayne, 7k
child abuse, cult upbringing, assassin training, child soldier, dehumanisation, emotional abuse, conditioning, obedience trauma, child endangerment, implied violence against children, discussion of being ordered to kill another child, references to dead/missing children, blood/injury mention, knives, threats of violence, attempted kidnapping/recapture, nightmares, identity loss/name loss, grief, dissociation/emotional shutdown, food permission issues, touch permission/boundary issues, recovery from abuse, therapy implied, emotional hurt/comfort, protective pseudo-sibling/pseudo-parent dynamic, no graphic violence
Damian found you in the greenhouse with a knife in your hand.
Not a large knife. Not one of his.
A small gardening blade, its wooden handle worn smooth by Alfred’s hands long before Damian had inherited the greenhouse as one of the few places in the Manor that still knew how to be quiet without feeling dead.
You stood between the tomato vines and the lemon tree, barefoot on the tile, rainwater dripping from the hem of your black tunic. You were small. Seven, perhaps eight. Too thin. Too still. Your hair had been cut with practical cruelty, short enough to deny anyone the advantage of grabbing it. Your posture was perfect.
That was the first thing Damian noticed.
Not the blade. Not the blood on your sleeve.
The posture. Feet balanced. Knees soft. Shoulders relaxed. Chin lowered just enough to protect the throat. Eyes fixed not on his face, but on his center of mass.
Someone had taught you to expect attack before greeting.
Damian went very still.
The greenhouse hummed around you, warm and green and alive. Rain tapped against the glass ceiling. Titus, who had been dozing near the potting bench, lifted his massive head and gave one deep warning bark.
You did not flinch.
That was the second thing Damian noticed.
Children flinched. Civilians flinched. Even trained fighters reacted, if only in the eyes.
You simply adjusted your grip on the gardening knife.
Damian recognised that too.
Not fearlessness.
Conditioning.
His voice, when he spoke, came out colder than he intended. “You are trespassing.”
Your gaze flicked once to the door behind him. Once to the windows. Once to Titus. Calculating.
Then you dropped to one knee.
Damian’s breath caught.
The movement was so familiar that for half a second he was not twenty-three years old standing in Wayne Manor. He was a child again in Nanda Parbat, spine straight, head bowed, waiting to be corrected.
“Forgive me,” you said.
Your voice was flat. Formal. Too controlled to belong to someone missing their front baby tooth.
“I entered seeking shelter. I did not know this territory was claimed.”
Territory. Claimed.
Damian’s hand curled at his side.
“Stand,” he ordered.
You did.
Immediately.
Too immediately.
Titus growled, low and uncertain.
Damian lifted two fingers. “Stay.”
The dog obeyed, though his eyes remained fixed on you.
You looked at Titus for the first time with something almost like curiousity.
Then you looked back at Damian.
“If the animal is yours,” you said, “I will not harm it unless commanded or attacked.”
Damian felt cold spread through his chest. “The animal has a name.”
A small pause.
“What is its designation?”
“His name,” Damian said, sharper now, “is Titus.”
You absorbed this as if names were tactical data.
“Titus,” you repeated.
The dog’s ears twitched.
Damian studied you. League-adjacent, certainly. Not League proper. The stance was close, but not exact. Your tunic bore no mark he recognised, but the stitching at the collar resembled a mountain sect Talia had once dismissed as “fanatics who mistook deprivation for devotion.”
A splinter group. A cult with assassins’ manners and zealots’ discipline.
His stomach turned.
“Who sent you?” Damian asked.
“No one.”
“Lies are inefficient.”
“I was not sent.”
“Then why are you here?”
A beat.
“I ran.”
That word did not belong in your controlled little voice.
Damian heard it anyway. Behind the cold. Behind the training. Behind the impossible posture.
A child. Running.
He stepped forward.
You raised the knife.
Titus surged to his feet.
Damian held up a hand.
You were not holding the blade correctly for intimidation. You were holding it correctly for use.
Seven years old. Maybe eight. Barefoot in his greenhouse, prepared to die over a gardening knife.
Damian hated you instantly.
Not you.
The mirror. The brutal little echo of himself standing in front of him with rain in your hair and obedience carved into your bones.
“Put it down,” he said.
Your face remained blank. “Will I be punished?”
The question struck him harder than any blow.
Damian’s first instinct was anger. Not at you. Never at you. At the world. At his mother. At his grandfather. At every master who had ever praised a child for silence and called it strength.
“No,” he said.
You did not move.
“Put it down,” Damian repeated, forcing his voice lower. “You will not be punished.”
Still, you hesitated.
Not because you did not understand. Because you did not believe him.
Damian crouched slowly and placed his own dagger on the tile between you.
Your eyes sharpened.
“A trade,” he said.
“You would disarm yourself?”
“In my own home? Hardly.”
That confused you.
Good. Confusion was better than terror. Confusion meant the old rules were failing.
He nudged the dagger away with two fingers.
“Put down the gardening blade. I will not approach.”
For a long moment, rain was the only sound.
Then you lowered the knife and placed it on the tile with reverence, as if surrendering a sacred object.
Damian wanted to be sick.
Titus padded forward, slow and cautious.
You froze.
The dog sniffed your sleeve, then your bare foot, then huffed warmly against your hand.
You looked down at him. Your entire body remained still, but your eyes changed.
A fraction.
“Does he bite?” you asked.
“Only people I dislike.”
You looked up at Damian. “Do you dislike me?”
The honest answer was complicated.
He disliked the way you stood like a weapon waiting to be assigned a target. He disliked the hollowness beneath your calm. He disliked that when you asked about punishment, some buried part of him had already known the shape of your fear.
“No,” Damian said.
Titus licked your hand.
Your eyes widened like the dog had performed magic.
Damian watched your fingers twitch, uncertain what to do with gentleness.
Then, slowly, you touched the top of Titus’s head.
The dog’s tail wagged once.
You looked startled.
Damian he took out his phone.
“Father,” he said when Bruce answered. “There is a child in the greenhouse.”
A pause.
Bruce’s voice changed immediately. “Injured?”
“Yes. Not severely.”
“Dangerous?”
Damian looked at you, small and bloody and patting Titus with the stiff uncertainty of someone handling a foreign weapon.
“Yes,” he said.
Then, after a breath, “But not in the way you mean.”
Everyone expected Damian to be good at it.
That was the absurd part.
Because you were League-adjacent. Because you spoke the language of obedience and violence. Because you knew how to hold a blade and how to disappear in a room. Because you stood at attention when Bruce entered and went still when Jason raised his voice and watched Cass with wary recognition.
They assumed Damian would know what to do.
This was stupid. Damian had survived his childhood. That did not mean he understood how to heal from it.
He knew how to teach you four methods of escaping a wrist hold. He knew how to correct your stance. He knew which poisons your splinter sect likely used, which prayers they forced into children’s mouths, which pressure points they prized, which punishments they called refinement.
He did not know how to ask if you wanted toast.
The first morning, you sat at the breakfast table with your spine straight and your hands folded in your lap.
A plate sat untouched in front of you.
Eggs. Fruit. Toast. Tea that was mostly milk because Dick had claimed “kid tea” needed “training wheels.”
You stared at it.
Damian watched from across the table, arms folded.
Bruce watched Damian watching you. Jason watched Bruce watching Damian watching you.
Stephanie, with the blatant self-preservation instincts of a lemming in a cape, whispered, “This is like a trauma terrarium.”
Damian realised too late how sharp his voice had been.
Your fork hovered above the eggs. Your eyes lowered.
“Forgive me,” you said. “I misunderstood.”
Jason’s expression changed. He looked like he wanted to break something.
Bruce leaned forward. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
You did not look at him.
Damian pushed his chair back, stood, and walked out.
He made it as far as the hall before Dick caught him.
“Dami.”
“Do not.”
Dick stopped a few feet away. That, at least, he had learned over the years. Damian did not always want to be touched when he was unravelling. Sometimes proximity was already an act of trust.
“You okay?”
Damian laughed once. It sounded ugly. “No.”
Dick nodded. “They’re scared.”
“I know that.”
“They remind you of—”
“If you say me, Grayson, I will put you through a wall.”
Dick’s mouth closed.
Damian stared at the portrait-lined hallway. At Wayne ancestors who had done nothing to deserve watching this family become a shelter for traumatised strays.
“They ask permission to eat,” he said.
His voice came out quiet.
Dick’s face softened.
Damian hated that too.
“I know.”
“They sleep sitting against the wall. They catalogued the exits in every room before drinking water. They called Titus an animal and asked whether they were permitted to use his name.”
Dick swallowed. “They’re a kid.”
Damian turned on him. “They are a weapon.”
Dick did not flinch.
“No,” he said. “They were made into one.”
Damian’s anger died so abruptly it left him empty.
That was the truth, wasn’t it? The difference people had once tried to teach him.
Not what you are. What was done to you.
Damian looked away.
“I do not know how to be gentle with them.”
Dick’s smile was sad.
“Yeah,” he said. “None of us did at first.”
“I was not asking for comfort.”
“I know. That’s why I gave you honesty.”
Damian exhaled through his nose.
From the dining room, Titus barked once.
Then you spoke, quiet but clear.
“May I feed him a piece of toast?”
There was a pause.
Then Bruce said, very carefully, “You may ask Damian.”
Damian closed his eyes.
Dick’s eyebrows lifted.
“Go on,” Dick murmured. “Your emotional support dog is calling.”
“He is not my emotional support dog.”
“Sure.”
Damian returned to the dining room.
You were still sitting straight-backed, toast untouched in your hand. Titus sat beside your chair, tail sweeping hopefully across the floor.
You looked at Damian. “May I?”
Damian stopped beside you.
His first instinct was to say yes.
His second was to say, “You do not need permission.”
But you did.
Not because you should. Because no one had ever taught you what to do without it.
So he said, “Yes. But only a small piece. Too much bread is not good for him.”
You tore off a precise corner and offered it to Titus on your palm.
Titus took it with extreme gentleness.
Your eyes widened again.
Damian sat beside you, rather than across.
“You may eat your own toast now,” he said.
You blinked.
“Unless you dislike toast.”
You stared at him as if he had asked whether you disliked gravity. “I do not know.”
There it was again. Another tiny wound.
Damian picked up his own toast and took a bite, mostly to avoid showing his face.
“Then find out.”
You watched him.
Then took the smallest bite possible. Chewed. Considered.
“It is acceptable,” you said.
Stephanie whispered, “Rave review.”
Jason kicked her under the table.
You ate half the slice.
Damian pretended not to notice that it felt like victory.
You had been raised by the Order of the Black Gate.
Tim found the name in a classified file three hours after Bruce brought you inside.
League splinter faction. Founded by ex-initiates and zealots who believed Ra’s al Ghul had grown too sentimental. They trained children from infancy and called it purification. They stripped names, restricted touch, punished softness, rewarded silence, and sent their best pupils into political assassinations before puberty.
Damian read the file once.
Then again.
Then he went to the training room and destroyed three practice dummies so thoroughly that Jason came downstairs, looked at the wreckage, and said, “Mood.”
Damian did not laugh.
“They had thirty-two children,” Tim said from the doorway, laptop open in his hands. His face was pale in the glow of the screen. “We’ve confirmed eight dead, twelve recovered in raids over the past decade, six unaccounted for. The rest may still be active.”
Damian’s fists tightened.
Bruce stood in the corner, silent and grave.
“You ran from them,” Damian said to you later.
You were in the sunroom with Titus, sitting on the floor because chairs still seemed to bother you. Titus had his head in your lap. You had one hand resting on his ear, stiff but less uncertain now.
“Yes,” you said.
“Why?”
You did not answer immediately.
Damian did not rush you. He had learned, with animals, that fear did not move faster because one commanded it to.
Finally, you said, “I failed.”
His stomach twisted. “At what?”
“A test.”
“What test?”
“I was ordered to kill another student.”
Damian’s blood went cold.
You continued, voice empty. “She was six. She had a fever. Her hands shook. She would not have survived the winter training.”
Damian remained very still.
“I had the blade,” you said. “The instructor said mercy was weakness. Hesitation was treason. Obedience was survival.”
Titus whined softly.
“I did not do it.”
Damian sat on the floor across from you.
Not too close.
“Good.”
Your head snapped up.
The word had struck you like a thrown stone.
“She was weak,” you said, like reciting scripture.
“She was a child.”
“We were told weakness infects the blade.”
“You were told lies.”
Your breathing changed.
Barely.
“I was punished.”
Damian’s fingers pressed into his palms.
You looked down at Titus.
“Then she was gone. I do not know if they killed her.”
“We will find out,” Damian said.
Your gaze returned to him. “Why?”
“Because she mattered.”
Confusion. Not disbelief exactly. A mind trying to fit an impossible shape into an old cage.
“She failed,” you said.
Damian leaned forward slightly. “So did I.”
You blinked.
He had not meant to say it.
But the words were there now.
“I failed many tests,” Damian said. “Not in skill. In obedience. In cruelty. In becoming what they intended.”
Your eyes fixed on him, hungry despite the blankness.
Damian chose each word carefully.
“I was told love was weakness. I was told mercy was hesitation. I was told my worth existed only in victory. I believed much of it.”
“What changed?”
He thought of Dick’s hand offered without fear. Of Alfred’s tea. Of Bruce refusing to strike back even when Damian had begged for the certainty of punishment. Of Titus, small and ridiculous as a puppy, licking blood from Damian’s knuckles after he had punched a wall instead of admitting he was lonely.
“People were inconveniently persistent,” Damian said.
You did not smile.
But Titus licked your wrist, and you looked down at him with something like wonder.
“I am defective,” you said.
Damian’s voice sharpened. “No.”
You flinched.
He forced himself to soften.
“No,” he repeated. “You are not defective.”
“I disobeyed.”
“Good.”
“I ran.”
“Better.”
“I was afraid.”
Damian held your gaze.
“So was I.”
That, finally, changed your face.
Not much.
But enough.
The others expected him to train you.
No one said it outright at first. They circled the subject like vultures in kevlar.
You were already skilled. Dangerous. Disciplined. More controlled than most adults in the Cave. It would be easy, almost natural, for Damian to take over your instruction. To refine what the cult had begun. To make the sharp thing sharper, but point it toward justice instead of obedience.
That was the temptation.
Not because Damian wanted a protégé.
Because fixing technique was easier than healing a child.
Your foot placement was wrong in the third form. Your shoulder locked before throwing. You overcorrected after feints. Your left side guarded ribs but left the jaw exposed. These were solvable problems.
Nightmares were not.
The way you asked permission before sitting was not. The way you went rigid when someone raised a hand too quickly was not. The way you treated kindness as a tactic was not.
Combat was simple. Care was a foreign country, and Damian had only recently learned the language without spitting blood on the syllables.
Still, you watched him during training sessions.
Not formal ones. He refused those.
But the Cave was the Cave, and the family used it. One evening, he sparred with Cass while you sat beside Titus on the mats, hands folded, eyes tracking every movement.
Too focused. Too hungry.
When he finished, you stood.
“Will you instruct me?”
“No.”
Everyone froze.
Jason, who had been wrapping his knuckles nearby, looked up. Dick’s expression went careful. Bruce, at the computer, did not turn around, which meant he was listening very hard.
You bowed your head. “I have displeased you.”
Damian’s throat tightened. “No.”
“Then I do not understand.”
“You do not need to understand everything immediately.”
That sounded like something Bruce would say. Horrifying.
You lifted your chin. “I require correction. My forms are undisciplined.”
“They are adequate.”
Your eyes flashed.
Ah. There you were.
The first spark of pride he had seen in you.
“Adequate is failure,” you said.
“Adequate is adequate.”
“That is absurd.”
“Many truths are.”
You looked frustrated now. Good. Frustration was alive. Frustration belonged to children denied something, not weapons awaiting orders.
“I can be useful,” you said.
The Cave went painfully silent.
Damian felt every eye on him.
Useful.
He hated that word. He had once built an altar to it.
“No,” he said.
Your jaw tightened. “I can fight.”
“I know.”
“I can obey.”
“I know.”
“I can improve.”
“I know.”
“Then why won’t you train me?”
Damian stepped closer.
You did not step back.
He lowered himself to one knee so you did not have to look up at him like he was an instructor looming over punishment.
“Because they made me a blade,” Damian said, voice low and shaking despite his efforts. “I will not sharpen another.”
No one moved.
You stared at him.
The words settled over the Cave like dust after an explosion.
Your expression twisted—not into tears, not yet, but into something confused and wounded.
“If I am not sharp,” you whispered, “what am I?”
Damian’s chest hurt.
He looked toward Bruce without meaning to. His father’s face was open in a way it rarely was in the Cave.
Grief. Pride. Regret.
Damian looked back at you. “You are a child.”
Your mouth pressed into a hard line. “That is nothing.”
“No,” Damian said. “That is everything.”
You shook your head once. “I do not know how to be that.”
“I know.”
“What if I am bad at it?”
“You will be.”
You blinked.
Dick made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh or a sob.
Damian continued, “You will be loud at incorrect times. You will ask alarming questions. You will dislike foods before trying them. You will misunderstand games. You will become attached to animals and deny it. You will be terrible at being a child because no one allowed you to practice.”
Your face was unreadable.
“But you will practice now,” he said.
“With you?”
The question was too small.
Damian felt something inside him surrender.
“Yes,” he said. “With me.”
You looked down. “What are the rules?”
Of course.
Always rules first.
Damian considered this. “No killing.”
“That is obvious.”
“You would be surprised.”
Jason snorted.
Damian ignored him.
“No training without supervision.”
You looked ready to object.
“No patrol.”
Your head snapped up.
“Ever?”
“Now.”
“That is not precise.”
“It is precise enough.”
“You dislike imprecision.”
“Do not weaponise my personality against me.”
Tim whispered, “Oh, that’s rich.”
Damian shot him a look.
Then back to you.
“You will eat when hungry. Sleep when tired. Ask when confused. Refuse touch when unwanted. Speak your name when asked by those who have earned it.”
You absorbed each rule like doctrine.
Then asked, “What happens if I fail?”
Damian’s voice went quiet. “Then we try again.”
Your mouth parted.
No one in the Cave spoke.
Titus padded over and leaned against your side, nearly knocking you off balance.
You placed a hand on his head automatically.
Damian stood. “Training begins tomorrow.”
Your eyes sharpened. “In combat?”
“In gardening.”
Your face went blank.
Jason burst out laughing.
Damian ignored him with holy discipline.
“Gardening,” you repeated.
“Yes.”
“I know nothing of gardening.”
“Precisely. You will not be able to be perfect at it.”
You looked horrified.
Damian almost smiled.
Almost.
You were terrible at gardening. Truly atrocious.
You approached seedlings like hostile intelligence assets. You overwatered basil. You planted carrots too close together because “formation discipline increases survival.” You glared at worms as if they were enemy infiltrators. You asked whether weeds should be “removed permanently,” which caused Dick to walk into a wall trying not to laugh.
Damian, to his own horror, found it charming.
“No,” he said, for the third time that morning. “The mint does not require a perimeter defense.”
“You said it spreads aggressively.”
“It is a plant.”
“Aggression must be contained.”
“You sound like Father discussing Jason.”
From the patio, Jason yelled, “Heard that!”
You looked toward him. “Should I apologise?”
“No.”
“Would that be weakness?”
“No. It would be unnecessary.”
You considered this with grave seriousness. Then turned back to the mint.
Gardening taught what combat could not.
Patience without ambush. Care without reward. Failure without punishment.
You planted things that did not grow. You planted things that grew crooked. You forgot the names of flowers and became quietly furious when Damian remembered them all.
“You speak many languages,” he said one afternoon as you knelt beside a tray of seedlings.
“Yes.”
“For missions?”
“Yes.”
Damian handed you a small marker labelled in Arabic. “Then learn this one for the lavender.”
You stared. “That is inefficient.”
“It is beautiful.”
“Beauty is not necessary.”
“Says who?”
You frowned.
He waited.
No answer came that belonged to you. Only ghosts.
Damian tapped the plant marker.
“Lavender. English. Arabic. French. Japanese. Spanish. Not because you need them for targets. Because things may have many names and remain themselves.”
You looked at the seedlings. “What is my name?”
Damian went very still.
You had told them what the Order called you. It was not a name. It was a designation. A syllable-number combination that made Jason so angry he had to leave the room.
Your birth name had not yet been found.
Tim was searching. Bruce was searching. Oracle was searching. Half the Justice League could probably have been searching if Damian had allowed Clark to involve himself, which he had not.
“We do not know yet,” Damian said carefully.
You nodded as if this confirmed something.
Damian hated that nod.
“But we will,” he said.
“And if you do not?”
“Then you may choose one.”
Your eyes snapped to his. “Choose?”
“Yes.”
“Names are given.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes they are reclaimed. Sometimes they are built.”
You looked down at the lavender. “What did you build?”
The question was soft enough to be accidental.
Damian thought of Robin. Of Wayne. Of al Ghul. Of Son. Of Demon. Of every title that had been placed on him like armor or chains.
“Damian,” he said.
“That was given.”
“Yes. But I had to decide what it meant.”
You touched the lavender leaf with one careful finger.
“What does it mean?”
Damian’s throat tightened.
He looked across the garden where Titus chased Ace with undignified joy, where Bat-Cow grazed peacefully near the fence, where the Manor rose behind them not like a fortress, but like a house stubbornly trying to become a home.
“I am still deciding,” he said.
You nodded.
This time, it felt less like obedience.
You bonded with Bat-Cow before anyone understood it was happening.
Titus was obvious. Titus loved with the blunt force of a battering ram. He followed you from room to room, shoved his head under your hand, and once physically blocked Bruce from approaching too quickly when you had gone silent after a nightmare.
Bruce had looked at the dog, then at Damian.
Damian had said, “He has excellent judgment.”
Bruce had not argued.
But Bat-Cow was different. She was patient.
Huge. Gentle. Unbothered by the human tendency toward melodrama. She did not demand. She did not startle. She simply existed in the field, warm and breathing, chewing grass while the world failed to end.
You began standing near the fence.
Then sitting. Then reading in the grass while Bat-Cow grazed nearby.
One evening, Damian found you leaning against her side, one hand resting on her neck, eyes half-closed.
He stopped at the gate.
You opened your eyes immediately.
“Do not move,” he said.
You went rigid.
He winced.
“Not as an order. I mean—you are comfortable.”
This seemed to confuse you more. “I am not asleep.”
“I did not say you were.”
“I was only resting my eyes.”
Damian blinked.
That was a Drake sentence.
Deeply concerning.
He entered the field and sat a few feet away.
Bat-Cow glanced at him, decided he had no snacks, and returned to grazing.
After a while, you said, “She is not afraid of anything.”
“She is afraid of thunderstorms.”
You looked shocked. “She is large.”
“Size does not prevent fear.”
You absorbed that. “Does she fight?”
“No.”
“Then how does she survive?”
Damian looked at the cow.
Then at you.
“She is protected.”
You were quiet for a very long time. “By you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she is family.”
Your fingers curled in Bat-Cow’s fur. “Can something be family if it is not useful?”
Damian closed his eyes briefly.
There were days he wanted to resurrect every instructor who had harmed you just to bury them properly afterward.
“Yes,” he said.
You leaned more fully against Bat-Cow.
“Good,” you whispered.
He did not ask what you meant.
He knew.
Softness did not arrive like sunrise.
It came like a stray cat.
Suspicious. Unannounced. Likely to bite if approached incorrectly.
You began asking questions.
Not mission questions.
Worse.
Normal ones.
“What is a cartoon?”
Damian froze.
Dick, across the room, gasped like he had been waiting his entire life for this.
“No,” Damian said immediately.
Dick pointed at him. “You don’t even know what I’m going to suggest.”
“Scooby Do is forbidden.”
“You’re no fun.”
“It is propaganda.”
“It is comedy.”
“It is slander.”
You looked between them. “Is a cartoon a weapon?”
Jason lost it.
Damian chose nature documentaries for your first exposure to television. This was deemed “on brand” by Stephanie, who was no longer permitted in the media room unsupervised.
You watched a documentary about migratory birds with intense focus.
At the end, you said, “They leave and return.”
“Yes,” Damian said.
“By choice?”
“Yes.”
You nodded.
Then asked to watch another.
That became routine.
Gardening in the morning. School lessons with Tim or Duke. Therapy, which you called “verbal interrogation” until Leslie gently informed you that interrogations did not usually include colouring pencils. Animal care with Damian. Documentaries at night.
Sometimes art.
That was Damian’s doing.
He gave you charcoal first.
You held it like a blade. He corrected your grip without touching you.
“Like this.”
You stared at his hand. “Why?”
“You cannot draw with a fist.”
“I can.”
“Badly.”
That earned him a glare.
The first thing you drew was Titus.
Not well. His head was too large, his legs too short, and his expression somehow judgmental.
Damian framed it.
You were appalled.
“It is inaccurate.”
“It is expressive.”
“It is bad.”
“You are beginning.”
“Beginning is failure.”
“Beginning is beginning.”
You scowled.
He hung it in his room.
You pretended not to care.
Then you began drawing more.
Animals first. Titus. Bat-Cow. Ace. Alfred the cat. A robin on the garden wall. Then plants. Lavender. Mint. A tomato vine with “aggressive tendencies” written beneath it.
Then, one day, you drew Damian.
He found the sketch tucked into a gardening book.
It was rough. Too angular. His eyes were too severe.
Accurate, then.
But beside him, you had drawn Titus leaning against his leg.
At the bottom, in careful handwriting, you had written:
Damian. Not instructor. Safe.
He sat on the floor of his room for twenty minutes and did not move.
When Jason found him, he took one look at the paper and immediately backed away.
“Nope,” Jason said. “I’m not emotionally prepared for whatever face you’re making.”
“Leave.”
“Gladly.”
“Do not tell anyone.”
Jason paused.
Then, more gently, “Wouldn’t dream of it, kid.”
Damian did not correct him.
The Order came for you in the third month.
Men who made children into weapons did not tolerate escape. Not because they loved what they lost, but because possession disguised itself as principle.
They came at night, through the south woods, dressed in black and arrogance.
They expected a frightened child.
They found the Batfamily.
It was not a long fight.
Damian reached their leader first.
The man recognised him.
That was his mistake.
“Blood of the Demon,” the man said, smiling through a split lip. “You understand what the child is.”
Damian’s sword hovered near the man’s throat.
Behind him, Cass moved like silence through bone. Jason reloaded with unnecessary menace. Bruce stood between the intruders and the house. Dick’s escrima sticks sparked blue in the rain.
At the manor window, you stood with Titus pressed against your side and Duke beside you like daylight given human form.
Damian did not look back.
“No,” he said. “I understand what was done to them.”
The man laughed. “A blade does not become a flower because it is placed in a garden.”
Damian’s eyes went cold. “They made me a blade too.”
The man’s smile widened. “And yet here you are. Still sharp.”
Damian stepped closer.
For one second, every old lesson lifted its head.
End the threat. Make an example. Prove what you are.
Then he heard Titus bark from the window. One loud, furious sound.
Damian breathed.
“I am sharp,” he said. “But I choose where to point.”
He struck the man unconscious with the hilt of his sword.
When the fight was over, Bruce came to stand beside him.
“You okay?”
Damian looked toward the window.
You were still there, small and pale and unblinking.
“No,” he said.
Bruce nodded. “Will be?”
Damian hated how much gentler his father had become with questions.
“I am still deciding,” he said.
Bruce’s mouth softened. “Okay.”
Inside, you did not ask if you were being sent back.
That almost made it worse.
You simply stood in the hall as the family returned, wrapped in a blanket you did not seem to notice, and waited.
Damian approached slowly.
“They will not take you,” he said.
Your face remained blank. “They attempted.”
“They failed.”
“They may try again.”
“They may.”
You looked up at him. “If I had been armed—”
“No.”
“I could have helped.”
“No.”
“I know their methods.”
“So do I.”
“I am not helpless.”
“I know.”
Your voice rose, not much, but enough to crack. “Then why must I stand behind glass while others fight for me?”
Damian felt every eye in the hall turn toward them. He did not care.
“Because you are not a tribute owed to violence,” he said.
You flinched as if the words struck.
He lowered his voice.
“You were not rescued so you could return to the battlefield in different colours.”
Your throat bobbed.
“I was afraid,” you whispered.
Damian stepped closer. “I know.”
“I hated it.”
“I know.”
“I wanted a weapon.”
“I know.”
“What do I do instead?”
There was the question.
Not what order should I follow. Not how do I win. What do I do with fear if I cannot turn it into blood?
Damian, who had spent years answering that badly, looked down at you and chose the truth.
“You hold Titus,” he said. “You breathe. You tell someone. You remember that fear is not failure.”
Your eyes filled with tears.
You seemed horrified by them.
Damian opened his arms. Awkwardly. Like someone holding a fragile device with no instructions.
You stared at him.
Then stepped forward and pressed your face into his shirt.
You did not sob. Not at first.
You stood there, rigid, shaking silently while his arms closed around you with extreme care.
Then the sound came.
Small. Broken. Childlike.
The hall went very quiet.
Damian held you.
He looked over your head at his family, daring any of them to react incorrectly.
No one did.
Even Jason turned away, wiping at his face like the ceiling had attacked him.
The first time you laughed, Damian threatened three people in under ten seconds.
It happened because of Titus. Naturally.
Damian had been teaching you how to brush him properly, which was less a lesson and more an exercise in managing one hundred pounds of dramatic dog. Titus flopped onto his back in the grass, legs in the air, tongue lolling.
You stared down at him. “He has surrendered.”
“He wants belly scratches.”
“Is that not surrender?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
You crouched cautiously and touched his stomach.
Titus made a ridiculous groaning noise of bliss.
You froze.
Then it happened.
A laugh.
Small, startled, bright.
Gone almost immediately, like a bird darting from one branch to another.
But real.
Damian’s entire body locked.
From the patio, Dick gasped.
Stephanie whispered, “Oh my God.”
Jason said, “Don’t make it weird.”
Damian turned with lethal slowness. “All of you will be silent.”
“We didn’t say anything,” Dick said, eyes suspiciously wet.
“You breathed emotionally.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“It will be.”
You looked up at him, confused. “Did I do something wrong?”
Damian turned back so fast he nearly tripped over Titus.
“No.”
“Then why are they strange?”
“They are always strange.”
“Should they be corrected?”
Jason made a choking sound.
Damian pointed at him without looking. “Todd.”
Jason raised both hands.
You looked between them.
Then your mouth twitched.
Not a full laugh this time.
But close.
Damian would have fought gods for that almost.
Instead, he handed you the brush.
“Continue,” he said.
You brushed Titus with grave concentration.
Titus wagged his tail like a metronome of joy.
Your name was found in winter.
Not the Order’s designation.
Yours.
A birth record from a village long forgotten. Parents dead in a raid linked to the Order. No living relatives found. A name given before anyone had tried to turn you into silence.
Tim brought the file to the garden room, where you were painting lavender badly and Damian was pretending not to hover.
You read the name once.
Then again.
Your hand trembled.
Damian watched you carefully.
“You do not have to use it,” he said.
You looked at him. “It is mine?”
“Yes.”
“Before?”
“Yes.”
You looked back at the paper. The name sat there, small and enormous.
A life before knives. A self before orders.
“Say it,” you whispered.
Damian did. Carefully. Correctly. Like it mattered.
Because it did.
Your face crumpled.
Not in fear.
In grief.
Damian moved to kneel in front of you.
You held the file against your chest.
“I had a name,” you said.
“Yes.”
“They took it.”
“Yes.”
“Can I have it back?”
The question nearly undid him.
Damian placed one hand over his heart, an old gesture from a language both of you knew and were trying to survive.
“Yes,” he said. “If you choose it.”
You cried then.
Openly. Messily.
Like a child.
Damian held you while you shook, while Titus pressed against both of you, while Tim stood in the doorway pretending he had allergies and failing with disgraceful lack of subtlety.
Later, you asked to write the name yourself.
Damian gave you his best ink pen.
You wrote it on paper. Then on a plant marker. Then, with solemn dignity, on Titus’s collar tag beneath his own name, because you claimed he was “the first to accept your presence.”
Damian did not argue.
Titus wore it proudly.
Months became a year.
You grew. Not much, but enough that your clothes had to be replaced, and Jason complained loudly about “kids having subscription-based skeletons.”
You went to school part-time, then more. You learned multiplication and modern history and that cartoons were not weapons, though Damian still maintained some were crimes. You discovered you liked mangoes, hated oatmeal, enjoyed astronomy, and had a deeply concerning talent for chess.
You still had nightmares. You still went silent sometimes. You still asked permission when startled.
But less.
You began saying no.
The first time, it was to Dick offering a hug.
“No,” you said, then froze in horror.
Dick smiled like you had handed him the moon.
“Okay. Fist bump?”
A pause.
“Acceptable.”
Damian watched from across the room and pretended not to feel his chest split open with pride.
You said no to food you disliked. No to rooms that felt too small. No to discussing the Order when you were tired. No to Bruce’s suggestion that you try lacrosse, which Damian considered evidence of excellent judgment.
One afternoon, in the garden, you said no to Damian.
He was correcting your Arabic pronunciation on a flower name.
You frowned and said, “No. I like how I say it.”
Damian blinked.
You went still.
He looked at you for a long second.
Then nodded.
“Very well.”
Your shoulders lowered.
You returned to painting the plant pot.
Damian looked away so you would not see his expression.
Pride was a strange thing.
It hurt more than he expected.
The Robin suit came up only once.
You were older by then. Still a child, but less newly rescued, less hollow around the eyes. You had begun asking about the family’s work with the detached curiousity of someone who understood boundaries but liked testing the fence for structural integrity.
Damian found you in the Cave, standing before the Robin memorial case.
His old colours. Others’ colours too.
A legacy made of flight, grief, defiance, and children who should have been sleeping instead of bleeding.
“You should not be down here alone,” he said.
You did not startle. That was progress of a different kind.
“I know.”
He came to stand beside you.
You looked at the suit. “Were you happy?”
Damian inhaled slowly. “As Robin?”
“Yes.”
“At times.”
“Were you safe?”
“No.”
You nodded. “Did it help you?”
He considered lying.
Then chose not to.
“Yes.”
“Did it hurt you?”
“Yes.”
You looked up at him. “Would you have stopped, if someone told you no?”
Damian almost smiled. “No.”
“Then why do you tell me no?”
“Because you are not me.”
Your gaze returned to the suit.
For a long time, the Cave hummed around them.
Then you said, “I used to want it.”
His chest tightened. “The suit?”
“The meaning.”
Damian understood.
Of course he did.
Robin meant belonging, once. Robin meant proof that the darkness had chosen you and you had survived it. Robin meant you were not just a victim of violence, but someone who could answer it.
“I thought if I became that, I would be clean,” you said.
Damian turned toward you. “Clean?”
You touched your own wrist. “Not Order. Not weapon. Something else.”
Damian’s voice softened. “You are already something else.”
“I know that now.”
The words moved through him like sunlight through glass.
You looked up. “I do not want to be Robin.”
Damian’s breath left him.
You tilted your head. “You look strange.”
“I do not.”
“You do. Your eyes are wet.”
“Allergies.”
“You told Tim that excuse was dishonourable.”
“It is different when I use it.”
“That seems hypocritical.”
“You are becoming very bold.”
You smiled.
A real one. Small but certain.
Damian looked at you in front of the Robin suit and felt the old world loosen its grip on both of you.
“They made me a blade,” you said quietly.
He went still.
“But you did not sharpen me.”
“No,” Damian said.
“You planted me.”
The words struck so deeply he could not answer.
You seemed embarrassed immediately.
“That was metaphorical.”
“I understood.”
“Do not tell Grayson. He will cry.”
“He cries when commercials contain elderly dogs.”
“Jason too.”
“Jason will deny it.”
“Tim will document it.”
“Stephanie will make shirts.”
“Cassandra will know already.”
You both stood in solemn silence, contemplating the horror of family.
Then you slipped your hand into his.
It was not the desperate grip of the child in the greenhouse.
Not obedience. Not fear.
Choice.
Damian closed his fingers around yours.
Together, you left the Cave.
Above, the Manor was loud.
Jason was arguing with Duke about takeout. Stephanie was laughing. Dick was singing badly on purpose. Bruce was pretending not to enjoy any of it. Titus barked when he heard your footsteps, and you quickened yours despite pretending you did not.
At the top of the stairs, you paused.
“Damian?”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow, may we plant more lavender?”
He looked at you.
At the child who had once asked permission to eat.
At the child who now asked for tomorrow like it belonged to them.
“Yes,” he said.
Then, because he could, because tenderness no longer felt like defeat, he added, “And after, we can watch the bird documentary you like.”
Your face lit for half a second before you controlled it.
Not fast enough.
Damian saw.
He would keep seeing. That was the point.
You walked into the noise of the family ahead of him, Titus crashing into you with joyful abandon, Bat-Cow lowing from outside as if offended she had not been included.
You laughed. Openly this time.
No one commented.
They had learned.
Damian stood at the threshold and watched you vanish into warmth.
Not a Robin. Not a soldier. Not an heir to anyone’s war.
A child with dirt beneath your fingernails, lavender on your sleeve, a dog at your side, and a name you had chosen to keep.
A child alive in a house that had once trained weapons and now, impossibly, grew gardens.
Damian Wayne, son of the Bat, grandson of the Demon, once a blade himself, followed you inside and shut the door gently behind him.
Could you do some scenes with Jason and toddler batsib reader?
I love this! Now I finally have an excuse to include Fatson Todd into my fics lol
Pairing: Big Bro! Jason Todd x gn! batsib reader (Platonic obviously)
ᯓ★ When Jason decides to stumble back to the manor for some supplies and finds a very tired, but very happy Bruce with yet another child he's adopted, he's not surprised. I mean, at this point how many does he have? 50? 100? Whatever, he can ignore it
ᯓ★ Except this time it's a toddler, which is new for the whole family. Either way, he's not interested in getting attached to anyone again, so he decides to crash here for now and hope to avoid batsib!
ᯓ★ What if you're scared of him? A lot of people are, and why would a toddler be any different...except there's nothing about his presence that seems to bother you. If anything, you seem excited to see him
ᯓ★ One day, you toddle in while he's reading his favorite, Pride and Prejudice on the couch, hoping to ignore any family drama. Suddenly, you're tugging at the pages and corners. Jason wants to be angry, but you're a tiny kid! It's not like you know any better, even when you try to tug at the white in his hair
ᯓ★ So he tries a new strategy, reading it aloud instead and finds it works. You're listening with wide eyes, hanging on every word of old English societal problems. "Huh, you have more taste than this whole family," he mumbles, thinking he still doesn't care
ᯓ★ Nope! Definitely not attached, even when he stays an extra week and Bruce finds him reading to you more, sitting next to him in the library. All he's doing is ensuring you grow up to have good literary skill, and it has nothing to do with how you say, "'Ason! J...'ason!" when he walks into the room
ᯓ★ Okay, yeah, he's definitely feeling like an overprotective older brother now for sure. Last week he thought someone broke into the manor and he had you in one arm, weapon ready in the other to protect at any costs.
ᯓ★ "What is that thing?" he asks Dick one day, finding you holding a round plush the oddly resembles a very round Red Hood. Dick smirks, "Baby bat here loves the thing! Reminds them of you. We call it Fatson Todd!"
ᯓ★ Jason is nearly ready to murder him on the spot, but doesn't want to scare you and simply picks you up, going on about his older brother's bird-brain as he takes you back to the library. Despite his distaste to the weird round version of him, he can't help but soften at the idea he made you feel safe when all he knew how to do was scare others
ᯓ★ Jason, who now has more reason than ever to protect the streets. To make a change, and to make sure nothing bad can ever happen to you like it did to him. The world would be better, and he would be sure of it
Conquest, who has to take care of his impatient baby Viltrumite!Reader
Bio: Conquest getting paired up on a mission with another Viltrumite my god, it's been centuries since that! Instead of getting a capable fighter, he gets a little brat who's an angry crybaby!
When Conquest heard he was getting a partner, he was quite scared and shocked. He hasn't had a partner nor a companion for centuries, but all of a sudden he has accompaniment for Earth. Why would that be? Do they think he's not fit for the job? Do they think his madness would make him go out of control and destroy the entire planet (which had happened before)? Did they think of him as a traitor and seriously not trust him? So many thoughts were rolling through the old vet's head. Does the Grand Regent see him as a liability? The mere idea is enough to make him want to tear out his own teeth. How could this be? A loyal soldier, a great sword in the hand of the Grand Regent, yet for some reason he needs a partner.
But slowly, thoughts of unease start to simmer down. He's been quite lonely for a long while. The need for another is so great that even having a partner to fight alongside in the midst of battle isn't too bad, he would think to himself. He doesn't care about touch nor affection just to be close to another on the battlefield is enough to fill his heart with a feeling not close to, but almost, fulfillment. He can be your sword and you will be his shield. And of course, it would be very helpful if he were to get overrun by the heroes on this planet. He would meet back up even if he didn't. And now, after long years of being alone, the old Viltrumite had found something akin to excitement.
But instead of getting a well-mannered Viltrumite, he got an insolent little brat in other terms, a "teenager," but the way you acted, "baby" would be more correct. You were a part of the delinquent program of the Viltrum Empire. Those who are uncontrollable, too angry, too scared, or anything not on par with the way of the Viltrum Empire are put into a small delinquent program under the mentorship of a more experienced or seasoned Viltrumite. These Viltrumites will guide the young students into success, and if all goes to fail, these students well, they will be executed for their insolence if they cannot conform to the way of the Viltrum.
And you? Yes, you were far worse than any disgruntled youth they have ever had. You are far too brash and brutal (not like the Viltrumites weren't brutal you were brutal in the way of messiness and carnage), highly unsophisticated. You fight like a wild beast and not like you were trained for perfection. You had countless mentors over the years, but none of them were able to tame you nor survive. Surprisingly, a small child was able to make seasoned Viltrumites want to huddle in fear (you were just like him). In a way, they should have just cut their losses and left you for the chopping block like any other undesirable, but the Grand Regent saw something in you useful, powerful to keep you by his side like another watchdog. As long as you get your thirst for blood sated, he could train you well, like he had trained Conquest. No other Viltrumite could handle you, so why not have your heart be set to fear by the strongest amongst them?
But instead of a killing machine duo, it's basically Grandpa and his bratty grandchild. "Hey, old man, I wanna play with that one!" you yelled happily, pointing at the purple boy with the yellow, red, and black suit. He had the ability of Viltrumite precision and power but lacked discipline. "Can I kill it? Can I, can I!" you said excitedly, jumping up and down on Conquest's shoulder. The force was enough to make him shake ever so slightly. Being a tough and burly man, he still found that you had enough energy to make him sway.
"Silence, child. We are here for the one named Nolan. You will defeat all that gets in the way of this mission. If you so much as lose focus, then I will send you back to the cubicle," he roared, making your smile drop. The cubicle was a place Conquest was put in a long time ago when he had not behaved and acted the way he was supposed to. It was hell on Earth it was home to him, at least.
"Bleh, you're no fun. After I kill these humans, I'll slit your throat next," you growled. Of course, every fight between you and Conquest ended in the same way: you broken and bloodied, and him barely scratched. But that could never stop you. Once your hand heals slightly, you're after his throat.
As he's fighting against Mark, you screamed out in pain and horror, chagrin and surprise. That boy was half your height there is no way he could possibly cause bodily harm to you. Until he sees your crying face barreling towards him. Skin was ripped off from the fight, causing your eye socket to bulge out as flesh was torn. Of course, you could have healed back in an instant. The pain wasn't that of serious damage, yet you cried as if it was something serious. "That mangy half-blood ruined my face! Look what that mutated mutt did to me!"
How dramatic, he thought. But you'd done worse in training, been through even worse situations. Yet this was the thing that made you cry before him?
Conquest looks back to see the supposedly half-blood you were talking about, and his body was almost unrecognizable arms broken, face cracked, busted lip. So close to finishing the job, yet the thing squirmed like an ant, half alive. Mark rushes over to Oliver, ignoring the fight completely, while Conquest has to deal with your sobbing mess.
"He spit blood in my face and he ripped a chunk of my skin!" you wail, as if this were the worst day of your life. "Kill it! I order you to end that thing's life! I want it dead!" You pout, huffing, tears flowing down your face as a scar slowly begins to heal up.
Conquest gently grabs your face, which is a surprise for him he absolutely despises you, you brat. "It's not much damage," he assesses with the gentleness one could give a newborn babe.
"But it hurts," you grumble even more, making the whole injury seem like a bigger deal.
"But you have experienced far worse?"
You still manage to pout even harder than you did before. It wasn't the injury that hurt it was your pride. Some Viltrum mutt had landed a hit on you, and it really did do a number on your pride.
Conquest sighs tiredly, knowing he would have to postpone this mission due to these factors: you being bested (not completely true), you being hurt (also not completely true), but that if he does not postpone this, you will throw a tantrum. And if that happens, well, there will be no more Earth to conquer. So he picks you up gently.
"We'll go back to the ship, fix you some ointment for your face, and we'll get you something to eat."
Your face instantly lights up and you nuzzle directly into his neck. "Hehehe, yes, yes, yes!"
Conquest floats up into the air, leaving the destroyed Earth to both Mark and Oliver. It's hard to look menacing when he has you in his arms, holding him like he's one gigantic teddy bear.
"We will be back, and when we do, Earth will be ours. My partner here needs some rest, but when we arrive... again, make sure to teach your thing to stay far away from what is mine."
In retaliation, you stick your tongue out at Mark and the beaten Oliver.
Eyes on Fire [Batfamily x distant! Reader] part 2:
[You and your family weren't close. They didn't have any space for a little civilian. Not a genius, not good at martial arts. You are the average person and perhaps that was the tragedy behind it all. The stable one, the one they could dump their emotional load on. You left because you were done suffocating in their bond. And after years of radio silence, you assumed the distance was mutual. But was it?]
[Note: reader is implied fem! But I'll try my best to keep it neutral. Second, Reader's mother is dead (cue visiting her grave), but they had a good relationship. Third, reader knows multiple languages.. fourth, non-canon batfamily depictions, fifth implied Bruce's biological child reader, but doesn't have to be.]
Part 1 part 3 part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8
Now playing:
Army dreamers - Kate Bush
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(Divider created by @asterfey)
You arrived in the apartment and immediately got greeted by silence.
Elena was probably asleep since she worked the afternoon shift, and Thea?
You look towards the hallway. You couldn't see her shoes.. if she was home, they would be standing on the rack, right? She hated running around with shoes in the apartment, and so did Elena.
Immediately, you're gripped by fear and an odd sense of deja vu. For a second, you're back in the Manor, your father breaking you the bad news… no, you firmly shake your head, focusing on putting off your shoes.
She was fine.
But as you stalk through the silent apartment, your stomach drops. Maybe you should've picked her up from Arkham. You should have done that stupid detour. You shouldn't have let the accidental meeting with Tim mess with your head like that. Why, in your right mind, did you leave a newcomer alone in Gotham. Especially when she had to head through the most horrendous part of Gotham-
“Hey?” You had almost been hit in the face by the bathroom door as Thea headed out of it. A sigh of relief leaves your lips as you see the familiar head of brown roots and washed out blonde hair.
“You look like you've seen a ghost.” She raises a brow with that silent worry. Of course, you could tell her the truth, that your past experiences in Gotham had you imagining her dead in a warehouse, shot in the head, poisoned, or shot through the spine.
But you settle for a half truth, and you don't even know why. As if your worries weren't that important. “I ran into my brother on the way here. I guess it rattled me up a bit.” Huh, perhaps you were pretty honest.
Thea's brows knit together for a moment, creating the line you had seen so often in your time knowing her. She was worried. “Oh. I assume it wasn't a good reunion?” She asks. Of course she'd ask. You ask when you care.
“Eh. I guess. But.. I'd prefer to.. be alone with this.” You shrug before rubbing your neck awkwardly. “I'm just tired.”
Thea raises her brow before she nods. “Understandable, it was a nightshift, after all.” She steps away from the doorway to the bathroom, closing the door. Now, in the hallway, she stands right in front of you. “Elena and I are here though, if you want to talk.”
She doesn't insist further. She doesn't push for answers you don't want to give her. And at the moment, that's what you appreciate more than anything else.
Deciding to switch the subject, you tilt your head. “Aren't you going to sleep?” You ask, mildly confused. If you were this tired after your night shift.. then she must be as well, right? But Thea just dismissively waves her hand. “I don't feel tired yet.” She answers before nodding towards the door. “And if I open the door, Elena will wake up and probably unleash hell on us.”
You roll your eyes. “Its 7:00 a.m., a perfectly fine time to be awake if you work the late afternoon shift.” Thea chuckles. “As if you willingly get out of bed before 10 when you don't have to.”
“Touché.” Before she can disappear into the living room though, you stop her. “Don't stay awake too long, though, promise?” She chuckles playfully.
“Sheesh, you sound like my mom.” You shrug. “At least you still have yours to remember.” You place your hand on your hip, a smirk playing around your lips.
“Playing the dead mom card? Really? You seriously need to go to bed.” She takes hold of your arm before ushering you into your bedroom. “Goodnight [____].” She says before closing the door behind you.
You wake up two hours later to the smell of someone making breakfast. Elena must have woken up.
You sit up with a yawn stretching your arms over your head. Of course you could go back to bed but you were hungry. Way too hungry. So you get out of bed, put on your comfortable but still acceptable clothes and make your way to the kitchen hoping to avoid running into the wall due to chronic morning blurry eyeness that couldn't even be dealt with by glasses.
“Доброе.” Elena says over the sizzling of her pan. “Let me guess, you want some of my blini?” You lean over. “If you're offering, I won't say no.” Elena laughs. “Anything to skip cooking, huh?”
Grabbing two plates from the kitchen cabinet, you chuckle amused. “I don't dislike it. I just don't see the reason in cooking when you're already doing it.”
That earns you an annoyed but nonetheless affectionate eyeroll. “How was work, by the way?” She asks, filling up your plate. And you sigh. “We had an emergency in the middle of the night. Though that's not unusual in a city like Gotham."
Elena nods. “Yeah, I mean working in a hospital is always busy. But Gotham is… insane with its workload. You think today is over, and then someone else gets rolled in because another villain decided it'd be fun to blow something up."
Both of you sit down at the kitchen table now, munching on your breakfast. “It's always been like that. One of the reasons I left this place.” You mutter.
Elena nods. “If I grew up here and had the chance to leave, I'd do so as well.” There are a few minutes of comfortable silence. Until Elena looks up. “Have you visited your mother already?”
The question makes you sputter. Your mom was dead, and Elena knew that, so why would she..
You freeze. Once in a passing, you mentioned that you missed being able to visit your mother's grave. You didn't think any of them would remember. “I haven't.” You mumble after a while.
“You should go.” Elena plays around with her fork, eyes focused on her plate. “I mean… if you want.” She adds, and you can't help but let out a huff and smile.
“No, you're right. We've been here for a week, and I still haven't gotten around for it.” You lean back in your chair. You hadn't been there in five years, and while before you left, you had paid the graveyard gardener to take care of the grave. You weren't sure if it actually looked decent. You look at Elena and remember the bouquet she handed to Thea as a gift for completing the vocation training. The peonies, cherry blossom stems, Gardenia's, and green leaves made for a beautiful combination.
“Could.. you help me pick out a bouquet?” You ask suddenly, and Elena nods. “Da, we can go right after breakfast. Do you know any good flower shops?”
You ponder on it. Most small stores closed after a while. Sometimes, because of gangs, other times because they couldn't afford to fix destroyed buildings. Your father had often tried to help out, making donations in order to help with the destroyed buildings.. but it didn't change anything. “I knew one. Not sure if it still exists.”
Elena shrugs. “Well, what does Thea always say? Asking costs nothing?” She throws her perfectly straight black hair over her shoulder. “We should check it out.”
The flower shop is near the graveyard. It doesn't belong to it and is hidden behind a few street corners.
You had discovered it after your mother's death, still yearning for her warmth and unaware that Bruce Wayne was/ would become your father.
It had been a cold night, and you had taken a small amount of money, grabbed a coat, and sneaked out of the orphanage. Gotham that night wasn't scary, unlike all the other times.
Your feet moved without you thinking much about it. You just followed the path the wind seemed to drag you.
The big flower shop was already closed when you arrived and you remember that you felt horribly sad, because you wanted to bring your mother new flowers. In your sadness, you began to wander.
It was stupid to walk into alleyways, especially off the main road, but lady luck had favoured you that night. Instead of a band of goons, you found a flower shop. Small and filled with plants up to the roof.
As you entered, a bell rang, and you headed it eyes wide with wonder as you took in the many different colours. Some of these plants you had never seen before…
Today the shop doesn't look so different. But there is a new person waiting behind the counter. It's no longer the woman with the red hair. Instead, there is a guy who looks way too normal for the mystique that always surrounded that shop.
“Do you plan on planting the flowers?” Elena’s voice makes you snap out of your train of thought. “Oh, yeah. I think so. She'd prefer long-lasting flowers.. if that makes sense.” You answer, and Elena nods, immediately skipping through the shop inspecting the flowers. You had already given her a list of your mother's favourite flowers. “What do you say about a combination of these two?” She asks, holding up to flowers.
You recognised one as your mother's favourite flower. The other not really, but the colours matched beautifully. “They grow together well and it attracts bees and butterflies, you know?”
Your gaze softens. “Oh… I think she'd like that.” Just as you take the two pots, your freeze eyes zeroing in on a small Robin statue. The tiny bird sits there, it's the same. The same on you bought for Jason back when.. the one you bought for.. your breathing picks up as you look at the tiny statue, the black ceramic glaze eyes glitter up at you almost tauntingly.
“[____],..... [____]?” A hand waves in front of you and you dart your attention over to her and there is Elena, looking at you with a raised brow. “Do you want to pick up two more or not?” She asks with that tinge of annoyance when someone has asked things at least 10 times in a row.
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” You shake your head once to clear it up. Elena’s gaze softens, there is still that subtle hardness in her green eyes. But she seems less annoyed. “You good?” You nod.
“Yeah.. just tired. Let's pay and go. Okay?” You grip onto your flower pots holding the flowers inside heading to the counter. The new guy looks almost bored as he takes your plants, not with the enthusiasm from the lady you were used to. “That will be 25 dollars.” He answers and you hand the amount to him though unwillingly. You missed the quips the other lady gave you, the tips. But there was no use crying about this.
Elena helps you carry the flowers around the corner to the big gate leading to Gotham's main graveyard.
The archway to the entrance looked big and spooky, even during day time. The words “Gotham Cemetery” hang over the entrance in big scary letters but this is the only place that is relatively safe. Some villains of course weren't above settling down here, but all in all.. no one wanted to be the one to ruin the cemetery.
“Thea would love this. Its so.. gothic.” Elena mumbles and you can't help but agree. “Yeah, she would.” As you walk along the rows of people you point towards a spot where a statue used to stand. “The penguin once faked his death. After it was discovered they removed the statue he had as his tombstone.”
Elena snorts. “Is that common in Gotham?” “There is a saying that no one stays dead in gotham.” You joke, no one said that. As far as you remembered. “Next thing your going to tell me is that you can pull a pet cemetery here.”
You chuckle. “Who knows. But hey, you finally read the book?” Elena looks to the side, trying to seem nonchalant. “It is not as bad as i thought.” yeah, she was just coping with her wounded pride because she kept insisting she wouldn't like it.
“We're.. here by the way.” You look towards the tombstone. The name of your mother stands there in beautiful writing and.. the grave is taken care of well. The wild flowers that have grown all over look well taken care off and the stone is clean. You turn to Elena. “There should be spade somewhere around the corner.” She nods, stepping to the side before pulling it out.
“Why the heck is this one of the big ones? I thought there'd be one the small ones, like the one's you find in boxes with gardening tools?” She asks, looking at the end.
“It used to be. I seems like people got paranoid.” You answer. “Guess.. we'll have to search for it. It can't be far.”
“Or we ask the guy over there.” You follow Elena’s finger to a guy. The gardener from five years ago. The one you had offered such a big amount of money just for him to refuse something about that caring about the graves is his job.
You take a step towards the man, waving as he starts looking at you.“How can I help, Wayne?” He asks politely and your cringe as you hear that last name.
“[____] or [Last Name]. I haven't been a Wayne for the last five years.” The man nods slowly.
“No longer a Wayne, huh? Well, [Last Name], how can I help?” You push your hands into your pocket.
He hadn't changed, he was still the weird guy from back then. The one never involved with any of the gangs haunting the Gotham Cemetery, whether it was the cult of owls nor the black masks. He was the one guy that actually the cemetery gardener.
“We.. want to plan some flowers.” You answer, nodding towards where Elena is standing. “We just can't find the tools.”
The man nods. “Sure, sure. You'll find them down the path, near the little fountain. You remember the little stone well, right?” You nod.
“Yeah, thank you sir.” You turn around, ready to head your merry way as you hear the man's voice again. “And [Last Name]? You can't run from unfinished business.” Before you can actually be confused he is gone. Just.. walked away without turning back
The grave was redecorated now. And you sat there in silence. Your hands are covered in dirt and grime from planting, careful not to damage any of the surrounding wildflowers. Though you took care of some invasive species.
You were proud of the work.. though Elena had done most of it. She knew how to handle garden work. You carefully reach out to touch the gravestone as you kneel in front of it, tracing your finger along your mother's name.
“Sorry for staying away so long.” You murmur, before chuckling. “Or maybe not. It's not the gravestone that keeps the memory, but the people no?” Taking a deep breath you stand up.
“I'll be.. here more often. But you probably now what, if you've been keeping watch from wherever you are. Hope its a nice place though. You deserve it.”
Brushing the rest of dirt from your clothes you step to Elena who had been waiting at the side, looking everywhere but you. You chuckle slightly. Thea would've had some comforting words and a hug to offer. And Elena? She was good at giving you awkward pats on the shoulder.
"I.. uh.. lets get going.” She nods squeezing your shoulder, before letting go. But she doesn't step away. Just hovers. A steady, unsure presence.
“Yeah, lets get going.” You nod. Walking back you feel lighter and at the same time mich heavier then before. The cryptic message from the man, the robin, Tim… it was too much, especially over the span of two days. And in the back of your mind the memory that somewhere around here was Jason Todd's empty grave was hammering through your mind like the church bells at a gotham funeral…
“So, how much time do you have left?” You ask and Elena looks at her watch. “Ah, about 2 hours. We really need to get back.” You sigh in relief at that. Knowing you'd be safe back in your shared apartment. In the one place you could pretend gotham was far away despite living in it.
“I'm starting to think this whole Gotham thing was a bad idea.” You say as you follow Elena out the archway. “I mean, I always thought I was fine with.. here. Seems like it am.. more affected by this place then I should be.” Elena sighs. “Don't..” she shakes her head.
“No one is ever completely okays after trauma. And it doesn't just go away.” She takes your hand. “We both now.. Thea is better at that. Emotions and shit.” Her eyes move towards the floor. “But I understand how you feel. I know what its like to be haunted.” You squeeze her hand once. “Haunted huh? I guess that's the right word for it.” And thats how you both settle into comfortable comfortable silence
Somewhere in gotham trouble is brewing. You have officially been recounted into the Batcave tracking system. Barbara's fingers dancing across the keyboard. “[____]’s working in Gotham Central hospital, same as her friend. Elena Ivanova. But thats all I know. I can't even access the files to Thea.”
Frustratred she rubs her eyes while holding up her glasses, before re-arranging them. “Whoever they befriended, the two are not keen on getting found out.” She points at something in the screen. “I need more time to hack into the Arkham data base to find out more about the other one.” She leans back in her chair. “You sure you don't want to tell.. you know Bruce?”
Tim crosses his arms. “After what happened last time? He's going to scare [____] away.”
Barbara raises a brow. “Scare her away? I think they were the ones to pop off on us. They punched Dick in the face when he tried talking them out of leaving. We won't scare them, they wil scare us.”
Tim couldn't help but agree. Still he didn't want to let this opportunity go to waste. Because no matter how much he lied to himself, he missed his older sibling. Especially the way they were before they changed.
Before Gotham took the one good thing of them and stomped on it and threw it in the trash.
Ugh, his list was getting way too long. But if he didn't do it, no one would. So more coffee it was.
....
...
..
.
[NOTE: Yay, here is the update! Sorry that the Batfamily again doesn't have more screen time! They will get their moments, I promise! But for now enjoy reader being absolutely spooked by gotham.
Also, Thea got a bouquet, Elena got a CD, and of course you got an vocational training end gift as well! So what would the two have gifted you?]
