They had always been good at fighting impossible odds.
They just weren’t very good at remembering the little things.
At first, it was easy for Name to brush it off. They were heroes. Gotham needed them. Emergencies happened.
But eventually, “maybe next time” stopped sounding like an excuse and started sounding like a promise nobody intended to keep.
Bruce had promised—promised—he would make it to the father-daughter dance at school.
Name had spent an hour picking out a dress because Alfred said Bruce had secretly asked what color would make her smile the most. She even practiced dancing in the manor ballroom while Alfred pretended to step on her toes.
She kept looking at the gym doors every few minutes.
Every time they opened, her face lit up.
Every time it wasn’t Bruce, that smile faded a little more.
The dance ended with Name slow dancing with one of her friends dads because they felt bad for her standing alone.
Bruce arrived home just after midnight, still in the Batsuit.
“I got caught up.”
Name only nodded.
“It’s okay.”
It wasn’t.
Dick had volunteered to take Titus, Ace, Alfred the cat…
“…and Tiger too,” Name had reminded him while handing over the cat carrier. “She has her annual checkup at two.”
“Already got it handled, kid.”
He’d come home three hours later.
Titus had a clean bill of health.
Ace got new treats.
Alfred the cat had somehow charmed every employee into giving him free toys.
Dick walked inside smiling.
Name looked behind him.
“…Where’s Tiger?”
Dick froze.
“…”
“…Dick.”
He’d forgotten.
Not delayed.
Not rescheduled.
Forgotten.
Her cat had sat at the vet’s office for over an hour before they finally called Wayne Manor asking if someone was coming.
Dick had never felt guilt hit him so fast.
Jason promised he’d read the first chapter of the mystery novel Name had spent six months writing.
She left it on his nightstand.
A week later it hadn’t moved.
When she asked what he thought of the twist…
“…There was a twist?”
She quietly picked the notebook up and left his room.
Jason didn’t even realize what he’d admitted until the door shut.
Tim constantly borrowed things from Name’s room.
Phone chargers.
Headphones.
Hoodies.
Pens.
Books.
He always meant to give them back.
Eventually.
Name stopped asking.
One day Tim walked into her room looking for a charger.
Everything was gone.
Every single thing she’d ever lent him had been returned overnight.
A sticky note sat on the empty shelf.
“Now you don’t have to remember.”
Steph accidentally spoiled the ending to Name’s favorite TV show because she’d forgotten Name hadn’t watched the finale yet.
Cass missed Name’s art showcase because she’d mixed up the dates.
Duke forgot Name’s birthday breakfast because he’d been up all night on patrol.
Damian criticized one of Name’s paintings without realizing she’d entered it into a city-wide competition.
Each mistake was small.
Each apology was sincere. (gtfo my villa)
Each hurt stacked on top of another.
Then came the plays.
Name loved acting.
It wasn’t a hobby.
It wasn’t something she was “trying out.”
It was her thing.
Every semester.
Every musical.
Every lead role.
Every supporting role.
Every curtain call.
She always saved seats.
One for Bruce.
One for Dick.
One for Jason.
One for Tim.
One for Cass.
One for Duke.
One for Steph.
One for Damian.
Sometimes even one for Alfred.
Every program had their names written neatly across the top.
Reserved.
Reserved.
Reserved.
Reserved.
Reserved.
Reserved.
Reserved.
Reserved.
The seats stayed empty.
Every.
Single.
Time.
There was always a reason.
Joker escaped.
League mission.
Justice League emergency.
A robbery.
A patrol.
A meeting.
Traffic.
“I thought someone else was going.”
“I completely lost track of time.”
“We’ll definitely make the next one.”
Name stopped saving seats after the fifth play.
No one noticed.
That was freshman year.
The breaking point came after opening night of the school production of her senior year.
Name had landed the lead.
Months of rehearsals.
Late nights.
Missed sleep.
Costume fittings.
Lines memorized until two in the morning.
She never asked them to come.
Not this time.
Because she already knew.
Still…
A tiny part of her hoped.
When the curtain rose, she glanced toward the audience.
The entire Wayne family section…
Was empty.
Not one familiar face.
After the show, everyone crowded around congratulating her.
Flowers.
Teachers.
Friends.
Parents taking pictures.
Name stood alone backstage, holding the bouquet the drama club had given her.
Alfred arrived nearly forty minutes later.
“I’m terribly sorry, Miss.”
She smiled softly.
“It’s okay.”
Alfred knew that smile.
It wasn’t okay.
The next morning…
Name wasn’t angry.
She wasn’t yelling.
She wasn’t crying.
She simply…
Stopped.
No more waiting in the cave after patrol.
No more asking about everyone’s day.
No more movie nights.
No more leaving snacks in the fridge with names written on them.
No more sitting beside Bruce during breakfast.
No more hugs.
No more teasing Damian.
No more reading with Cass.
No more helping Tim organize evidence.
No more sparring with Dick.
No more listening to Jason ramble about books.
No more late-night rooftop talks with Duke and Steph.
She was polite.
Kind.
Respectful.
But distant.
Like speaking to coworkers.
Bruce noticed first.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
“…Sleep well?”
“Mhm.”
No conversation followed.
Dick knocked on Name’s bedroom door.
“Movie night?”
“I’ve got homework.”
“You always make time for movie night.”
“Not tonight.”
The words weren’t cold.
That somehow hurt more.
Jason held out her favorite candy bar.
“Peace offering?”
“You can keep it.”
“…You sure?”
“I’m not really hungry.”
She walked away before he could answer.
Tim discovered she no longer texted him reminders to eat.
Or sleep.
Or drink water.
He hadn’t realized how much she quietly took care of everyone…
Until she stopped.
Damian found Titus curled up outside Name’s room.
Usually Name let him sleep in her bed.
Now the door stayed shut.
Cass hugged Name from behind.
Normally Name melted into every hug.
This time…
She gently pulled away.
“I’m studying.”
Cass watched her leave.
Something inside her cracked.
Eventually Alfred gathered everyone.
The dining room was silent.
Alfred placed something on the table.
Eight play programs.
Every one of them.
Each with reserved names written neatly across the top.
Bruce.
Dick.
Jason.
Tim.
Cass.
Duke.
Steph.
Damian.
Untouched.
Unused.
Then he placed one final item down.
A small stack of father-daughter dance photos.
Every picture showed Name smiling beside teachers…
Friends’ dads…
Or standing alone.
Never Bruce.
Alfred looked around the table.
“I believe Miss Name stopped expecting your attendance long before any of you noticed.”
No one spoke.
Because there wasn’t a single excuse left.
Only regret.
For the first time, they realized Name hadn’t given them the cold shoulder to punish them.
She’d simply stopped expecting the people she loved to show up.
And somehow…
That hurt far more than if she’d screamed at them.
just had an idea—-the batkids making social media accounts for batman
i do like the idea of the batkids running official batman media accounts, but let me raise you the civilian batkids running offical batman media accounts.
Jason Todd--civilian Jason Todd, only newly introduced to the public, creates a Batman-official account. he does it carefully, building up activity and traction over the course of like six months with his perfected Batman Attitude(tm) and oddly accurate Batman information that he drops on a semi-regular basis. eventually he pays Tim to mention him on his Red Robin account just to boost credibility, and after a while everybody in Gotham fully believes this is the Batman account. that's when he goes live.
'Batman' goes live for the first time in what is clearly the Wayne Manor kitchen, dressed in a surprisingly accurate Batman costume if it wasn't for the fact that the mask and cowl is clearly plastic and still has a Halloween costume store tag hanging from the ear.
"Welcome to the stream." Batman says, in a Batman voice imitation that is about three octaves too deep and gruff. "Today, we bake German chocolate cake."
for the next forty minutes 'Batman' proceeds to bake the entire cake while talking to himself in his Batman voice--completely ignoring almost all of the live chat. he's not just explaining the steps to baking, by the way. he's fully talking to himself as if he were Batman.
"Next we crack the eggs like they are the Joker's knee caps. Did you know he killed my kid once? I was so sad. I still am sad, but less in the grieving way and more in the pathetic old man way."
"I'm getting so old. Last week I spent twenty minutes debating with Nightwing and Red Hood that liquorish 'wasn't that bad' and refused to give in, even when Red Robin offered me a piece and I ate it fully without realising that he'd actually fed me a piece of tire-rubble from the street."
"I don't say this to anybody else, but I clearly miss when people would describe me as a twink."
after a while the official Red Robin, Robin, and Nightwing accounts start watching the live, and their messages are the only ones that 'Batman' will respond to.
Robin: Father the Riddler is holding me hostage.
"This is why I teach you chess. beat him and come home soon for cake."
Nightwing: be honest B, does Catwoman really love you?
"No :( I pay her because no other woman will touch me."
Red Robin: when you die horribly in battle, who are you leaving the Batman mantle to?
"Agent A. Because how fucking funny would that be."
eventually Bruce Wayne wanders into the kitchen and is spotted in the back of the stream, clocking the camera and 'Batman' and staring at it all like he thinks he's going insane.
"Jason what the fuck are you doing?"
Batman whirls around and drops the voice instantly, whining like a child, "Aw, Dad, come on I was almost done!"
"What the fuck is this?!"
"I'm Batman."
"Jason I have had a really fucking long day. No you’re not."
despite his identity being revealed, Jason Todd's 'baking Batman' becomes more popular than actual Batman, and Batman has to publicly go on record during an in person interview to clarify that he has absolutely no connection to Jason Todd in the slightest, nor does anything he says while impersonating him hold any merit. the rest of the batkids continue to be stream regulars and it continues to get on Bruce's nerves to no end.
relationships; platonic!batfam x neglectedbatsib!reader, Harry Osborn x neglectedbatsib!reader
⋆.˚summary; A freaky spider bite incident made your life a whole lotta messier.
tags; spidey!reader, angst, gender-neutral pronouns, not proofread, reader is Tim's age
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Harry Osborn had only three priorities throughout his entire life.
One: make his father proud.
Two: be the best CEO he could be of OSCORP.
Three: be a good son.
Those three priorities defined him. Without them, he wasn’t sure what would be left.
Then again, they were never really different. They all led back to the same thing—making his father proud. Proud to call him his son, his only heir.
So, he was a bit—no, more than that—confused when you slowly began climbing his list of priorities.
If anyone asked how the two of you met, you would say he came to your rescue like a knight in shining armor—and even fixed your camera.
If they asked him, it was a completely different story.
Harry looked into the tall mirror, letting his childlike mind wander. He wondered how he would soon outgrow this version of himself—and how he would become the boss of everything, just like his father said he would.
The boy imagined what he would do once he was older: eating candy whenever he wanted, going on random vacations, and being regarded as a genius for his future inventions.
He adjusted his bow tie—one of the maids had put it on him earlier—wanting to look picture-perfect, even though he already did.
It was his first charity gala, and his father had drilled into him that first impressions were everything—even if it meant enduring annoying questions from adults.
The door opened slowly, revealing his father in a suit tailored specifically for him.
“Harry, my boy,” Norman said, smiling down at his son.
Harry blinked, shifting his gaze from his reflection to his father. “Yes, Father?”
With an exaggerated, heavy sigh, Norman knelt down to his son’s height. He removed the bow tie and pulled a small necktie from his pocket.
As he tied it neatly under Harry’s collar, he began, “First impressions are ev—”
“First impressions are everything. I know, Father,” Harry interrupted, already tired of hearing it.
Norman paused, his hands stilling against the fabric. For a moment, Harry thought he had said something wrong. The maids had told him before that he had a careless mouth.
Then his father chuckled lightly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Harry let out a small sigh of relief, staring at his father’s gel-slicked hair and wondering if his own looked good enough.
“Good,” Norman said, smoothing down the tie. “That means you’ve been listening.”
He gave the knot one final adjustment before standing to his full height, immediately looking more imposing. Then his phone buzzed.
Norman glanced toward the door, then back at Harry. “We’ll be leaving in ten minutes.”
Harry straightened at once, nodding. “Yes, Father.”
“Make sure you’re presentable and polite,” Norman added, his tone sharpening slightly. “There will be important people tonight. I expect you to behave accordingly.”
“I will,” Harry replied quickly. A small thrill of anticipation slipped through him—the gala was being held at that massive manor everyone had been talking about.
Norman studied him for a moment, as though inspecting something Harry couldn’t see, before giving a small, satisfied nod and closing the door behind him.
Harry recited his introduction in his head (that was six words, mind you) while pacing around the room, checking his wristwatch every few seconds. Three more minutes.
He could feel the pressure settling in his chest, tight and familiar. He exited his room and headed for the stairs.
Father would kill him if he arrived late. Not literally, of course—but close enough.
Norman had always taught him that there were rules every man should follow, and punctuality ranked somewhere near the top.
Harry stopped mid-step, noticing his father by the door, still on the phone. He descended the stairs slowly; from the tension in his posture alone, it was clear his father was more irritated than usual.
He only caught a few words—“Parker” and “Don’t let them know”—before the older man hung up and turned to him, the scowl on his face vanishing as if it had never been there.
Harry remembered moments like this clearly. They meant his father could still soften—for him.
Even if the smile he wore was a little too perfect.
“You’re on time, son.”
Just like Harry expected, the party was boring. He’d imagined something like in the books—people laughing too loudly, splashing red wine on each other.
But this wasn’t that. The businessmen and women spoke in low voices, each word slipping out like it had a snake’s tongue.
When he and his father entered, the adults did swarm him with questions—Norman helping him here and there.
I mean, who wouldn’t have questions for the kid genius that Norman plastered on every front page of the newspaper?
The excitement around him died down, and he ended up on the sidelines, right by the food section.
The boy watched his father charm potential investors effortlessly. Honestly, he should have been right by his father’s side, learning the tricks of the trade—but he was hungry. (And didn’t feel like it.)
Harry reached out for a pastry when a small hand tugged at his ankle from underneath the table.
Goosebumps prickled across his skin. He’d thought the manor looked slightly haunted before, with all its Renaissance portraits and antique relics—
Oh gods.
The hand retreated beneath the table, the long tablecloth falling back into place as if a hand hadn’t just slipped through it.
Harry gulped—the phrase “curiosity killed the cat” repeating in his head like a mantra.
He looked around. Everyone was in their own bubble—and his father was still too busy conversing to notice.
The uneasy boy circled the table and dropped to one knee, reaching to lift the cloth. His heartbeat thrummed like sirens, his mind scolding him even as his body moved anyway.
Harry blinked. Underneath the table wasn’t an ogre. Nor a ghost-person.
It was an ordinary person. Wearing pajamas. Underneath a table at a gala.
His eyebrows raised, and after three disbelieving blinks, he opened his mouth—only to close it again.
You were curled up, knees pulled to your chest, a dopey smile on your face as you absentmindedly brought a finger to your lips, trying to find the right words—something that wouldn’t scare him off.
“I live here. Don’t worry.”
Harry found that hard to believe.
A crease formed between his brows. “You… live here?”
He paused thoughtfully. “Underneath the table, or in the manor?”
Harry was torn between the possibility that you might be a fae—or a Wayne, a name he had recently heard thrown around a lot.
“In the manor, silly. Can you get me one of the pastries?” you asked, pointing upward.
“What the—whatever, fine.” He stood, giving the room a quick once-over before swiping two pastries (might as well have one himself), then bent down again and lifted the cloth.
Is this what pillow forts feel like? he thought absently.
“Here.” Harry handed you the pastry, eyeing you suspiciously. A million questions raced through his head.
You gestured for him to come under the table, patting the space beside you.
Harry bit his bottom lip, hesitating. Was it really safe? What if you were dangerous?
But you didn’t seem like it.
He sighed, shifting upward just enough to peek out from beneath the table—only his eyes visible—as he made sure his father wasn’t looking.
Then he ducked back down and crawled into the space. You shifted to make room, and he settled cross-legged beside you, your shoulders lightly touching.
The boy cleared his throat. “I’m Harry. Harry Osborn.”
He took a small, half-hearted bite of his pastry, as if it might quiet his nerves. Part of his mind scolded him, but another clung stubbornly to his maid’s words—that it would do him good to make friends.
Even if it meant befriending a weirdo under a table.
You licked the frosting off your lips. “Cool, nice to meet you, Hare.”
“Hare? It’s Harry,” he scoffed. He wasn’t some dumb, scary-looking rabbit.
He was Harry Osborn. Son of Norman Osborn. Heir to Oscorp. For God’s sake.
You shrugged, that same dopey grin turning teasing.
He couldn’t help but stare at the apples of your cheeks and the crinkle of your eyes—your expression warm enough to make it hard to focus on anything else.
For a moment, he wondered when he’d last seen a smile so… real.
He snapped out of it, noticing the silence between you. “Right… so you’re under the table because…?”
“I’m not supposed to be here—” he raised an eyebrow at that, “but I wanted some pastries, so…”
Whatever. He could work with that.
“Okay, um. How’d you know that I, uh… that I was good?” His mind scrambled—gone was the perfect, composed Harry from an hour ago.
“Like, y’know… you could’ve tugged some weird old man’s ankle.” He shrugged, trying to play it cool.
You laughed, which tugged the corners of his lips upward too.
“There’s a small hole in the cloth, big enough for me to peek through. I thought you looked about my height. I don’t know any grown-ups that small.”
Harry huffed out a quiet breath, something between a scoff and a laugh. “I’m not that short.”
The two of you talked a while longer, until his cheeks ached from laughing and both your pastries were gone. He hadn’t expected to grow this comfortable with you so fast.
You went on about a book you’d read with your older brother—who, from the way you spoke about him, sounded annoyingly doting, even if he hid it behind crude remarks like older brothers tend to do.
Then again, maybe Harry shouldn’t judge. He didn’t have any siblings.
He found himself hanging onto every word, like there’d be a test afterward—and he really needed to pass.
“—and then he tried to explain the ending, but I think he just made it more confusing,” you finished.
Harry blinked, like he’d been pulled from somewhere else. “Wait—no, uh, go back,” he said quickly. “What do you mean he wasn’t actually the villain?”
You tilted your head, amused. “He was the villain. He just didn’t think he was.”
Harry frowned, trying to piece it together, brows furrowed in that serious way of his—like he was solving something important.
“…That’s stupid,” he decided.
After all, what kind of person doesn’t know they’re hurting people? An idiot, that's what.
You laughed softly, nudging his shoulder. “It’s layered, ’s all. Or at least that’s what Jay told me.”
“It sounds stupid,” he insisted, though there wasn’t much bite to it.
You narrowed your eyes at him, smiling. “You just don’t get it.”
“I do get it,” he said quickly—too quickly.
You gave him a look.
Harry faltered. “…Okay, maybe I don’t.”
That made you laugh again, softer this time.
He didn’t realize how quiet he’d gone until the sound of it filled the space. Talking to you was easy.
“So,” you said after a moment, tracing shapes into the carpet, “what about you?”
Harry blinked. “What about me?”
“You’ve just been listening,” you pointed out. “What do you like?”
He opened his mouth, reaching for something polished—something neat, something his father would approve of.
His gaze dropped to his hands instead.
“…I like building things,” he said quietly.
He fiddled with his cufflinks, unease settling in his chest—the kind that usually came with his father’s presence. But this time, it wasn’t as suffocating.
Harry hesitated. His fingers stilled for a moment before resuming their slow, absent movements against the cool metal.
What if you thought he was one of those rich know-it-alls—just bluffing his way through everything?
“…Just stuff,” he muttered. Then, “Things that work. Or don’t—and then I fix them.”
You hummed, like that made perfect sense. “That’s cool.”
He blinked. “…It is?”
He knew it was. His father had always praised him for it—always said it meant he was smart, useful, worth something.
“Yeah,” you nodded. “You make things better.”
Harry didn’t respond right away. His grip loosened, thumb tracing the edge of his cufflink.
“…I guess,” he said, softer now.
You smiled at him again—warm, easy, real—and Harry found himself looking away first this time, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the carpet beneath you.
Out of habit, he checked his wristwatch.
Harry straightened slightly, the small, quiet space under the table suddenly feeling a little tighter. “I—uh…” He glanced toward the edge of the tablecloth, “I think I’ve been gone too long.”
You tilted your head. “Trouble?”
He huffed softly. “Something like that.”
Harry hesitated. He wanted to say one last thing, but didn’t know what.
“…I should go.”
You nodded easily. “Okay. I have to go too. My brother’s probably looking for me.”
There was a hint of disappointment in your voice, which made it harder for him to leave.
Harry lingered a second longer before ducking out from under the table. The noise of the party rushed back all at once—voices, laughter, the sharp clink of glass.
He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his suit, schooling his expression into something composed.
He hoped to see you again.
Past the cluster of guests, weaving through the crowd, past the glow of chandeliers—until the table became just another blur behind him.
By the time he reached his father’s side, there was no sign of where he’d been.
“There you are.”
Harry straightened immediately.
Norman didn’t look at him at first, still mid-conversation. When the other man left, his father's eyes settled on Harry.
“I was wondering where you’d gone,” Norman said smoothly.
“I was just… speaking with someone,” Harry replied carefully.
“Oh, I see. Stay close.”
His father didn’t question it. There were other boys at the gala—older by a year or two—and Norman assumed his son had been speaking with them.
Another man approached, smile too practiced. Their conversation went over Harry’s head as he stood stiffly beside his father—physically present, but with every thought circling one thing.
Harry hadn’t gotten your name.
—🐰
It was the first day of middle school when he saw you again.
He remembered his father suddenly joining him for dinner—which was a rare occurrence.
Norman sat at the head of the table, a slice of steak already cut into neat portions, with some greenery on his plate.
“You’ll be attending a private school this year.” His father stabbed a fork into the steak, the motion sharp and deliberate.
Harry’s heart sank, his earlier excitement at his father finally joining him fading just as quickly.
It returned slowly—a mix of nervousness, dread, and, if he was being honest, excitement.
Would he finally make new friends? Would he see you again?
You were at a gala—under a table, in pajamas, and uninvited, but nonetheless… at a gala.
Which meant there was a chance you’d be attending whatever prestigious school his father decided on.
He’d gladly take those odds.
“You’ll start next week. Is that clear?”
Harry’s body moved on autopilot while he was lost in thought, a piece of steak hovering in front of his lips.
“Yes, Father.”
In the past two years, you looked more content. Happier, even. Harry sat a few rows behind you, watching quietly.
He was glad he’d taken those odds—more glad to be seeing you again, this close.
One by one, the students introduced themselves.
Your introduction was brief, but everyone’s eyes widened slightly in surprise when they heard your last name.
He already had a suspicion, of course—but hearing it from you made it feel somehow different.
A quiet ripple moved through the room—whispers just low enough to pretend they weren’t happening.
Harry made a quiet mental note of your interests—the teacher had insisted everyone name at least four. The ones that stood out to him were photography and science.
When it came to his turn, he felt unexpectedly nervous.
He impressed people older than him—who’s to say people his age wouldn’t?
“Good morning. I’m Harry Osborn—” The boy immediately glanced your way, searching for your reaction, but you were busy drawing on a piece of paper already filled with doodles.
Whispers rippled through the room again, hushed voices buzzing about having two “hotshots” in the same class.
You didn’t remember him.
Harry swallowed the disappointment and carried on.
When he finished, he made his way to his seat, passing by you—still focused on your drawings.
He dropped into his chair with a quiet thud, folding his arms on the desk and resting his head on them, his cheek squishing slightly against his wrist.
How could you have forgotten him?
You were his first friend. But that didn’t mean he was yours.
Harry spent the rest of the class period sulking, only snapping out of his thoughts when the bell rang.
He’d make you remember then. Simple.
The boy was about to go stomping over to your desk, but a crowd of classmates surrounded you—and him—making the distance between you even greater.
“Excuse me—” he tried to weave through the crowd, but the barrage of questions and overexcited middle schoolers was too much.
Harry sighed, smoothly putting on a strained version of the Osborn smile (not like they’d notice the difference) and patiently socialized with his classmates.
His father would approve—the kids here were from the right kind of families.
He stared past the shoulder of some blonde boy, watching your face—one that clearly wasn’t used to this kind of attention.
Harry was confused. Weren’t you a Wayne?
Then again, you’d had to sneak into one of the galas… and you had no media presence whatsoever.
“So you’ll sit with me for lunch, right?”
Harry hummed in absent-minded agreement, still watching as you nervously adjusted your glasses.
He supposed he’d have to watch from afar for now.
— 🐰
“You should be more careful,” Harry said coolly.
It didn’t matter how put-together he looked—it didn’t change the fact that his ears were tinged red.
Either from irritation that Flash had the audacity to shove you to the ground, or because he was standing so close to you.
It had been six months and twelve days since the first day of school. Harry wasn’t counting. Definitely not.
Every time he tried to talk to you—actually talk to you, instead of just staring like some creep—he’d back out at the last second.
You were a stellar student, naturally. But you didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the school’s crowd. Not like he did. Not like he was expected to.
He’d heard the rumors about you, but he paid them no mind.
You were also the school photographer for the newspaper, and Harry found your photos charming.
He definitely did not sign up for the debate team just because he heard you’d be taking their picture.
Nope.
Of course not.
Harry felt his heartbeat thrumming in his ears—time to leave. Now.
But then you did something he didn’t expect.
You tugged on the sleeve of his blazer, pulling him back before he could take another step.
“Do you wanna, um… have lunch together?” you added hastily. “As a thank you. For standing up for me—and fixing my camera.”
Harry turned around slowly, watching your hand fall back to your side. He cleared his throat—he really didn’t want his voice to go all falsetto just from talking to you.
“Yes, of course.”
— 🐰
To say Harry was worried would be the understatement of the century.
You hadn’t gone to school for a week.
You also hadn’t answered his messages or calls.
It had only been a year since you two became friends, but you’d grown closer faster than he ever expected.
His brows creased as he bit the tip of his pen, staring at his math homework—which was the least of his concerns.
He hated how he couldn’t be by your side. Especially during a time like this.
Harry could never imagine losing a sibling so abruptly.
But he knew what it was like to watch someone slip away, piece by piece.
The boy swiped a hand across his face before standing up and grabbing a coat.
He slipped out of his room and hurried down the stairs. He passed a maid—then paused, turning back.
“Veronica, tell Father I’ll be out!”
Veronica stopped in her tracks, eyes widening as the twelve-year-old was already sprinting toward the door.
“Young master! At least bring a bodyguard!” she called, but it was to no avail—he was already through the door.
She hurried after him, stopping at the frame of the grand, heavy doors.
“I’m fine! I’ll be in the safe parts of town!” Harry shouted back as the gates opened automatically for him.
“Please—at least call!”
The middle-aged woman sighed. “That boy, really…” she muttered, shaking her head.
Harry raised a hand to hail a taxi, a yellow cab pulling over almost immediately. He slipped inside without a second thought.
“Mister, Gotham Heights, please.”
The driver, a man with a newsboy cap and a mustache, nodded. “Got it, lad.”
Harry hummed thoughtfully, looking out at the Gotham sky that never seemed to brighten—stuck in a dull monochrome.
He thought of a gift that might lift your spirits. Not a lavish one, surely. You were always against him using his money to buy you things, even something as simple as a snack.
The driver glanced at him through the mirror. “What’s a young lad like you doin’ out alone?”
The “young lad” scoffed. “What’s it to you, mister?”
The older man looked amused, keeping his eyes on the road. There was something haunting behind them, like he had seen things no one should.
“Jus’ askin’. Gotham ain’t exactly safe, but at least you’re headin’ to the better parts.”
Even then, Harry didn’t sense any malicious intent from him. Or maybe he was just being a trusting idiot.
“Say, mister, you don’t sound like you’re from around here?”
“Moved to Gotham not too long ago. Big difference, but it is what it is,” the man shrugged.
Harry found it odd that he already seemed to know every road like the back of his hand.
He shook his head. He was getting distracted.
A gift… music? No, you had enough of those.
“Mister,” Harry started, then hesitated.
The driver glanced at him through the mirror. “Yeah, lad?”
“…What do people usually get someone when…” He trailed off. “When they’re not doing so great?”
The man hummed, thoughtful this time. “Flowers are the usual. Food too. But that ain’t really it, is it?”
Harry frowned. “No.”
There was a pause, the quiet hum of the engine filling the cab as Gotham’s dim skyline slid past.
“Best thing I ever got,” the driver said slowly, “wasn’t expensive. Just someone lettin’ me know they weren’t goin’ anywhere.”
“That’s it.” He shrugged. “People remember who stayed. Not what they bought.”
Harry leaned back into the seat, staring out the window again. Your face crossed his mind—smiling, tired.
His fingers tapped against his knee as an idea formed.
— 🕷️
“Go away,” you sniffled, pulling your legs closer to your chest.
The butler outside the door sighed. “As you wish, young master.” You heard a soft thud against the floor. “I’ll leave the package your friend got you outside.”
You waited until his footsteps faded.
You stood up from your nest of blankets, opening the creaky door and taking the box into your hands.
It wasn’t very big.
Light, too.
You opened it.
Inside was a bracelet with a charm hanging from a small silver chain, and a tiny hand-sewn Superman plushie.
Your lips trembled slightly as you carefully took the letter tucked behind the trinkets.
Dearest [Name],
I tried my best. My hand got pricked numerous times making Superman (if you like, I’ll make Batman so we can match). I hope you liked the charm.
I’m not very good with words, like you said, I’m only good at bad jokes and senseless mumbling.
But I wanted to give you something anyway.
It’s not perfect. And the eyes look uneven if you stare at it too long, but I figured you wouldn’t mind that much.
You say things don’t have to be perfect to be good.
I think you’re right.
Anyway, you don’t have to wear it or anything. Just keep it, I guess. Or don’t. That’s fine too.
My days at school are boring. Come back soon. I miss you.
— Harry
You blinked away the tears, only for them to spill down the swell of your cheeks.
You picked up the bracelet and slipped it onto your wrist, turning it slightly to admire the beads and charm.
Then you leaned back into your pile of blankets, hugging the Superman plushie tightly to your chest.
— 🐰
“It’s okay. Flash is just an asshole.” Harry carefully swept away the strands of hair clinging to your forehead—something his mother used to do to comfort him.
You continued crying. “He—my hair!”
He sighed, leaning back against the wall as he kept an arm around you. You’d had to get your hair cut because Flash chucked gum at it during fifth period.
It was the last year of middle school, and Flash didn’t seem to be changing anytime soon.
“What do you say we get back at him?”
You rolled your tearful eyes. “We already got in trouble for getting into a tussle with him.”
“That we won?”
“It was two against one. What did you think was going to happen?”
Harry scoffed. “He’s training for the football team! I expected better—not getting beat up by two nerds."
“It was barely a win. We threw pens at him.”
“Whatever, schmatever. The point is—” His eyes gleamed, and you immediately knew he was thinking of trouble. “He needs to grow up. And this is around the time he’s in the showers after practice.”
You didn’t comment on how the two of you also needed to grow up—or how he knew Flash’s shower schedule.
“…So what do we do?” Your eyes were no longer glossy, now glinting with mischief.
You sat on Harry’s shoulders, his legs wobbling slightly under your weight.
“Eugh.. You could lose a few,” he whispered.
Good thing Flash was busy singing about the blue sky—the loud rush of the showers drowning out your hushed voices.
“Shut up, you said my legs would break if you sat on my shoulders!” you whisper-shouted, fumbling of trying to open the bottle of shampoo Harry got from God-knows-where.
“IT’S A BEAUTIFUL NEW DAY! HEY!”
Harry grimaced at Flash’s horrendous singing. “Hurry up!”
Your eyes squeezed shut as you clung to the top of the shower divider.
“How do I even know where to aim it?”
Harry scoffed, tightening his grip just above your knee. “His head, duh.”
You decided to let whatever higher power existed take the wheel and squeezed the bottle—shampoo spraying everywhere.
You did not want to know what a naked Flash looked like.
“MR. BLUE SKY—! ugh, wh—”
Looks like it worked.
Harry giggled from below, his shoulders shaking.
“WHY WON’T THIS SHAMPOO GET OFF?!”
The bottle was now empty, and you heard Flash’s frustrated groans echoing over the steady rush of water.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” you urged, about to slide off Harry’s shoulders and tossing the empty bottle at Flash’s head for good measure.
“AUGHH!”
The two of you bolted out of the boys’ showers, hands clamped over your mouths, trying not to burst into laughter.
— 🐰
Harry’s gaze lingered on your features, your brows slightly furrowed in concentration, your eyes fixed on the paper filled with scattered formulas.
“So here, you have to—” you started explaining again, probably using your pen to point at the numbers—Harry wouldn’t know. He was too busy staring at you.
At times like this, he didn’t know whether to be jealous or to admire you.
With his father constantly breathing down his neck about college applications and internships, he couldn’t help but feel… something.
You, who were always smarter than him.
You, who seemed better than him in almost every way.
You, who had people who cared about you.
You, who had always been genuine.
Harry could almost turn green with envy.
But it never twisted into something as distasteful as hate. That was an ugly, ugly word—one he would never place beside your name.
He was just stressed about his father and everything going on right now. That’s all.
That had to be why he felt this way.
He swallowed. “I think… I’ve got it,” he said, nodding at his notebook now filled with circled notes.
You smiled at him—a smile full of fondness.
There was a very thin line between being impressed and feeling like he was falling behind.
Harry wasn’t quite sure which side he stood on whenever you looked at him like that.
“Yeah, you learn fast.”
He looked away bashfully. “Nah, it’s because you’re a good teacher.”
It was true. Whenever he was confused about something or needed someone to bounce ideas off, his first choice was always you.
Not like there was anyone else.
You sweatdropped. “I wish people thought the same.”
“Huh—what are they saying—”
“Alright, take your pens out,” the teacher cut in.
While writing down his answers at an almost abnormal speed, his thoughts swirled.
Harry knew you were unpopular for some godforsaken reason—you were kind, you were pretty, and a little hotheaded sometimes, but still!
Worst of all, their words actually got to you sometimes.
But maybe it was better that they didn’t.
That way, he got to keep that part of you to himself.
— 🐰
“Osborn, I’d like to discuss one of the academic competitions coming up soon.” The teacher pushed their glasses back up the bridge of their nose.
Harry had been entered into far too many contests to count on his fingers this year, and he honestly just wanted to tone it down—especially with the year almost over.
And then there were the lessons his father insisted on—about how to run a company. (Seriously, how hard could it be? Apparently very, if his stoic mentor making him write reports every night was anything to go by.)
“Sorry, miss, but I—”
Then his father’s words rang in his head—“A good businessman never misses an opportunity.”
Harry sighed, scratching the back of his head. “Okay, miss. I’ll see to it when I get home.”
The teacher smiled at him, then looked past his shoulder. “Can you tell Wayne to come over? I’d like to see the photos for the paper.”
Harry was about to ask why she couldn’t do it herself, but the rasp in her voice answered the question for him. Teaching privileged high school kids all day would do that to anyone, he figured.
“[Name]! Teach wants to see the photos!”
He watched your form in slight curiosity fumble for a bit, a slight wobble in your step as you walked over.
—
The field trip ended a little early after the spider lab—something about an emergency. The class was disappointed, but it was nearing nightfall anyway, so they made their way back through the building toward the bus.
Harry, however, watched you—a dazed look lingering on your face. He frowned.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
You tossed the wrapper of the sandwich he’d given you earlier into the nearest trash can—the same one you’d initially refused.
“Fine. Just… hungry, I think,” you replied, your hands buried deep in your jacket pockets.
“You ate two of my sandwiches…” Harry grumbled.
You nearly bumped into the two girls walking ahead of you, but Harry caught your arm just in time, steadying you before you could knock into them.
“Uh, you’re really out of it,” he said, studying your face—cold sweat beading along your forehead, your lips drawn into a tight frown.
You shrugged off his hand. “I’m fine, I swear.”
—
You weren’t fine—judging by how you nearly fell stepping off the bus when they dropped you off at the stop.
Harry scoffed. It was ridiculous—dumping a bunch of high schoolers at a bus stop this late.
Though, judging by the number of sleek, expensive black cars already lined up nearby, most of them had rides waiting.
He pulled you closer, an arm around your shoulders. You were strangely cold despite the sheen of sweat on your skin, and this was the best idea he had to help.
“S’cold,” you murmured, your voice breathless, like even speaking hurt. Your eyes were squeezed shut, a crease forming between your brows.
“Yeah? Only just a bit more, and you’ll be home,” Harry reassured, gently brushing the hair stuck to your face aside.
His chauffeur, Jake, glanced at them through the rearview mirror. “Lad, wouldn’t it be better if we brought them to the hospital?”
You whined at the word hospital, shooting Jake a look that said, See?
The older man huffed. “Ya should message their family. Probably worried sick by now.”
Yeah, right.
Nevertheless, his other hand fished your phone out of your pocket. Harry punched in your password, then opened your messages app.
The only people pinned were your aunt and uncle, Alfred (with a monocle emoji), and him. In any other situation, he would’ve found it endearing—but you were sick. Horribly sick, even.
He pressed Alfred’s contact.
[You]
Good evening, sir. This is Harry Osborn, [Name]’s friend. They’re not feeling well, so I’ll be dropping them off at the front gates of their home.
The butler replied surprisingly fast.
[Alfred 🧐]
Good evening, Master Osborn. I’ll open the gates at once. Thank you for bringing [Name] home—rest assured, they’ll be alright.
- Sincerely, Alfred Pennyworth
He turned your phone off—it had been on the verge of dying—and slipped it back into your jacket pocket, pulling you a little closer to him in the process.
When the car pulled up to the front of your manor, Harry opened the door and helped you out.
“Good evening, sir,” Harry said, offering a polite smile to the elegantly dressed butler—his hand resting at the small of your back as he gently guided you toward Alfred.
“Allow me, Master Osborn,” Alfred said, draping a coat around your shoulders as you blinked a few times, still trying to process who he was.
“Please—just Harry,” he added.
Alfred smiled softly. “Thank you again, Master Harry. I’m sure your father will be worried—you should be on your way.”
Harry looked over at you, your eyes struggling to focus on any one thing.
“It’s really no problem, sir. Good night,” Harry said with a small nod, stealing one last glance at you before returning to the car.
Jake drove in silence, leaving the teenager alone with his thoughts. He was worried—obviously. But you’d been out of it even before the field trip.
You were more paranoid than usual-going as far as nearly screaming his ears off when he snuck up behind you.
Normally, you'd just shriek or something.
The dark circles under your eyes were becoming more noticeable.
Were you stressed about academics? Or something going on at home? Was it about him?
If it was about him… you would’ve said something, right? You were always understanding—especially when he couldn’t make it to—
“So are ya two, like—y’know?”
Harry flinched, only then realizing he’d been tapping against the car door for a while.
“What?” he asked, glancing up to meet his driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“In a relationship? You two are around that age—I wouldn’t be surprised—”
“N—No. Nope, just friends,” he stammered quickly.
Jake just shrugged, his gaze returning to the road.
Harry would be lying if he said the thought had never crossed his mind—not even once or twice.
— 🐰
Harry's forehead rested against the emergency door, his usually well-styled hair a mess, strands sticking out in every direction.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears. His pupils were blown wide as he tried to calm himself down, counting the seconds that crawled by.
His phone felt unusually heavy in his jacket pocket. He'd had to end the call with your aunt and uncle early, convinced he was going to throw up if he listened to their distorted voices over the line for even a second longer.
Had it not been five minutes yet? Why were you taking so long? Why were the police taking so long?
Fucking Gotham and its shitty criminals—
Thwack! and another loud Thump!
Was that you?
You could be dying in there while he stood outside like a worthless dumbass. Why did he even listen to you?
Leaving you to die alone—
He jerked his head away from the door, pounding his fist against it twice before reaching for the handle.
Bile climbed up his throat as his breathing grew more erratic.
Harry wouldn't know what to do if he ever found your lifeless body lying in a pool of blood.
The emergency door burst open and pure adrenaline made him instinctively step back to avoid getting hit.
The weight crushing his chest vanished in an instant.
Harry didn't think.
He closed the distance and threw himself at you before you had any chance to react.
The young man held you as close as he possibly could, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
His hands trembled where they rested on your waist, still unable to believe you were really there.
His eyes fluttered shut as he held you close, content just to have you in his arms.
He would've been crying by now if not for the words his father had drilled into him since he was young—
"Boys don't cry."
You patted his back.
“I'm sorry.”
You were sorry?
For saving him? For being a hero?
He'd save the gentle scolding for later.
For now, Harry only shook his head, his hand moving in slow, comforting circles across your back.
Eventually, he pulled away, though his hands remained on your arms—not ready to let you go just yet.
“So much for a quick errand run, huh?” you joked.
Harry was not in the mood.
You'd risked your life, and you were quipping?
Harry would've been lying if he said it didn't ease the knot in his chest, even if only a little.
“Don't ever do that again, moron—” Harry started, ready to lecture you about how reckless that had been—how he genuinely didn't know what he'd do if you died.
Before he could finish, a police officer approached, cutting him off.
— 🐰
“Ya weren't hurt, kid?” Uncle Ben asked, patting his shoulder.
Harry smiled softly. Even though he and Uncle Ben had gotten off to a rough start because of the old man's distrust, Ben had come to regard Harry as family.
“Luckily, just sore feet, sir.” He'd accidentally stepped on his own foot while running to the emergency door earlier. It was pure luck he hadn't tripped over himself.
Uncle Ben chuckled softly, though concern still lingered in his voice.
“Always so polite, huh? I told ya to call me Ben. How many times has it been now—a million? But ya seriously not hurt?”
Harry laughed. “Yes, sir. Don't worry.”
He cleared his throat, his gaze drifting toward you.
“Actually… I have your grandchild to thank for that.”
Coincidentally, you caught his gaze.
Harry felt his breath catch in his throat.
He quickly turned back to Uncle Ben, only to find the older man smiling at him—like he knew something Harry didn't.
The ride to your house was suffocating. For Harry, at least.
He couldn't stop thinking about what you'd done and your words from earlier—
"I know you would've done the same thing for me if you were the one in my situation."
Would he have?
Would he have had the courage to save your life the way you'd saved his?
His hands rested loosely in his lap, already itching to fidget.
He stole a quick glance while you were looking out the window, as if you hadn't just faced a group of men carrying guns bigger than you.
You're so amazing.
He wasn't.
“…Hey,” he said after a brief pause, his voice low enough that only you could hear.
You turned your head slightly. “Yeah?”
“I just wanna thank you... for what you did for me back there. You were really brave, and...” He looked away for a moment, as if the words had suddenly become harder to say. “…I don't think I could've handled that the way you did.”
It was true.
He couldn't have done what you just did.
His fingers tightened together in his lap before he finally looked back at you, his expression more earnest than before.
“…You didn't have to put me first. But you did.”
All his life, he'd been taught to be selfish. To take, and take, and take—until there was nothing left to take.
Kindness, according to his father, was a weakness people exploited. Trust was a liability. Love was something to be earned through usefulness, not freely given.
So why...
Why had you chosen him?
He wasn't the smartest person you knew.
He sure wasn't the strongest.
He wasn't even particularly easy to be around these days.
Half the time, he was stressed, snappish, or too caught up trying to meet expectations that never seemed to end.
There had to be someone more deserving of your loyalty.
Someone kinder.
Someone easier to love.
Yet every time Harry looked over his shoulder—
It was always you.
And every time he stumbled, somehow—you were still there.
He didn't know what he'd done to deserve that.
Part of him wondered if one day you'd realize you deserved better.
You studied him for a moment before responding, your voice just as soft, “You're my best friend. I'd always choose you—no matter what.”
He went quiet.
Of course you would.
His gaze fell to his hands again, trying to stop the grin threatening to spread across his face.
Those words, they're so you.
You always believed there was something worth choosing in him.
That, that made him want to become someone who deserved it.
Someone better.
Better, for you.
“…Yeah,” he said softly after a beat.
— 🐰
Norman turned back his gaze to his son. “Harry, it amazes me that you haven’t invited your fiancée to dinner.”
The young man fell silent.
Ever since the phone call, it was clear his father had held some sort of interest toward you. Not the weird kind, obviously.
Norman joined him for dinner more often, asking how his day went. Asking what you did.
Harry sputtered, “Dad—what? How?”
It wasn't like he explicitly told his father, “Hey! Me and [Name] are engaged!”
So, how could he have come up with that? As a matter of fact, a lot of people had been assuming. Jake was just one of the first ones.
His father looked even more confused than before, a crease forming between his brows.
“Mr. Norman, Harry and I—we’re just friends, sir.”
Then, Norman laughed. Like, loudly. It sounded so real that Harry almost shivered in fear.
When was the last time he heard his father laugh like that? Maybe it was when Harry made a mess of his hair when he was five or something.
“Oh! I’m sorry for assuming then!” He still looked amused, wearing that picture-perfect smile.
Norman shook his head with a grin, looking younger. “I just assumed that if my son doesn’t call you his partner, then you must be his fiancée. He can be rather formal sometimes.”
Harry scoffed. In hindsight, all he'd ever done was tell his father stories about you—never once mentioning that the two of you were just friends.
Harry rolled his eyes. “Ugh, Dad. Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, embarrassed.
“But still. Come by for dinner sometime.” He gestured to the sleek black car. “Would you like us to drive you home?”
Dinner and being with you instead of being stuck with his dad? Sounds like a gold mine.
Harry still doesn't know what the hell his dad is doing at his school. Norman had never personally picked up his own son.
It raised some alarms in his head. Maybe he had done something stupid again.
“No thank you, Mr. Norman, sir,” you smiled. “I have my own ride—just got caught up in traffic.”
Ugh. Of course. Harry doesn't get why you can't just ditch your siblings.
The older man nodded. “I see. It was nice meeting you, but we have to get going now.”
“It was nice meeting you too, sir.”
The older man nodded again and finally retreated into the passenger seat.
Harry looked downcast as he heard your refusal. “I’ll see you next time, [Name].”
You rolled your eyes. “Of course you will. Don’t make your dad wait up.” You lightly pushed him toward the car door.
The next conversation that ensued was far too embarrassing for his liking. What the hell had gotten into his dad?
—
You were being weird again, but it went away quickly.
By weird, he meant staring off into the space next to him—being paranoid around him.
Then, as if a switch had been flipped, you became normal again.
Normal as in, the way you act after the field trip sickness incident. You've been out of it for a while now.
Things that never used to bother you before bothered you now. Like how loud everything was, the weather, and sometimes you'd point out something that couldn't even be seen from that far away.
Why was everybody so weird lately?
You had been ranting about your brother who used to have a bowl cut. Tam? Was it?
He had broken your project, and Harry was angry on your behalf. Who bumps into a person, ruins their project, and doesn't say sorry? An asshole.
Suddenly, you walked in a different direction. Harry was about to redirect you, pointing you toward the cafeteria. Maybe you'd gone crazy from your siblings.
Then, he heard loud cheering and noises.
You continued walking toward the loud cheers, while Harry wondered how you had heard it from so far away.
The thought was pushed to the back of his mind as he saw the situation in front of him, though.
“Flash! Cut it out!” Harry yelled, his brows furrowed.
That blond idiot just doesn't know when to stop. Seriously, what pleasure does he find in this?
Before he knew it, and before he could stop you—you were already face to face with Flash. The roughed-up kid took this chance to flee.
Harry's eyes widened. You're gonna do something stupid.
“Puny Wayne! Just what we needed!” He made a show of arrogantly spreading his arms.
“Came to play hero?” Flash tilted his head, stepping closer to you. Harry couldn't even imagine the diabolical stink.
Crap, you're gonna get beat. Two against one big, burly football player seems fair enough.
“Back off, Flash.” Harry barely made it a step forward before two of Flash’s goons slipped behind him, grabbing his arms and yanking him back.
Gods, he's gonna have to stand here and watch you get punted by Flash.
“Hey—what the hell? Let go!” Harry struggled, twisting against their grip, but they only tightened it, laughing under their breath.
“Stay out of it, rich boy,” one of them muttered.
Shit, shit, shit—
Without warning, he swung. A wide, cocky punch meant more to impress the crowd than land clean.
You dropped low, leaning your upper body downward as the punch cut through the space above you.
Harry looked down at your upside-down, surprised eyes. He could feel his jaw slacken.
What?
Flash tried to land another punch on you.
And you dodged every single one of them.
You were moving too fast for Harry's eyes to track, Flash getting more and more frustrated by the second.
Harry smiled, the concern he had felt earlier fading into pride and giddiness.
Then, you punched Flash. Square on the nose.
It was so hard that he could hear the bone crunch.
Harry's smile faded into a jaw drop. “[Name]!” His voice went unheard beneath the crowd's shouts.
What was that? The strength looked madly unnatural for someone like you to possess.
Flash's henchmen released Harry from their hold.
The young man's incredulous gaze remained fixed on you as you were dragged to the guidance counselor's office—completely desensitized to the chaos happening around him.
Something's going on with you.
And Harry plans on finding out what.
A/N: SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG OMGG.. Yay! Harry POV hope yu guys dont scream at me with pitchforks
relationships; platonic!batfam x neglectedbatsib!reader, Harry Osborn x neglectedbatsib!reader
⋆.˚summary; A freaky spider bite incident made your life a whole lotta messier.
tags; spidey!reader, angst, gender-neutral pronouns, not proofread, reader is Tim's age
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You leaned back on the backseat, your “costume” now changed into a classic white tee and pants. Alfred raised an eyebrow from the driver’s seat, looking at you through the rearview mirror.
“Master [Name], might I inquire… why are you sweating so profusely?” he asked, turning his gaze back to the road as he took all the familiar turns toward the manor.
You wiped your forehead. “Oh—uh! The air-conditioning was pretty bad today at the library.”
You had told Alfred to pick you up in the afternoon at the library instead of in the morning at the cemetery, claiming you had finals to study for—which was true. And you did visit Jason before heading down to the ring.
But you definitely did not need to study for your finals.
Then you remembered the package Alfred told you about in a text. “So there’s a package for me?” You didn’t accidentally order something online, right?
“Oh yes. I believe Mr. Harry sent it. I set it aside in the living room,” Alfred said.
That made sense. But why would Harry send you a package?
You smiled. “Thanks for letting me know, Alfred.”
By the time you arrived at the manor, you could hear the bustle in the dining room, plates clattering as they were set down.
Alfred excused himself to help the others, and you headed to the living room. You took a seat on the couch and held the box in your hands—the weight felt familiar.
“What do you have there, little bird?” Dick Grayson asked from the threshold, his casual, carefree smile easy and familiar, though his eyes flicked toward the box in your hands with quiet curiosity.
Seeing your brothers two days in a row? Was it your birthday or something?
The nickname made something in your chest tighten slightly, though you kept your expression in check.
“Nunya,” you replied shortly, turning the box in your hands.
Dick raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Nunya what?”
“Nunya business,” you snapped.
Dick’s smile faded just a little—not completely, but enough to show he got the message.
“…Right,” he muttered, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Tough crowd.”
You didn’t respond. You just kept your eyes on the box, fingers tracing along the edges.
“There’s dinner today,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Just wondering if you’d like to attend.”
You kind of felt bad for snapping at him, even if he deserved it—whether for asking questions so carelessly or for acting like you didn’t exist. You weren’t really sure which.
You just wanted to head up to your room and open the mysterious box your best friend sent, but his slightly pained expression made it difficult to say that out loud.
“Okay.”
In an instant, your older brother’s expression lit up like you’d given him a treat. You almost let out a bitter chuckle.
You set the box down where it was, making a mental note to grab it after dinner.
Dick smiled, stepping aside to give you room, then trailed behind you. The voices grew louder with each step you took, the pit in your stomach growing with them.
You were about to bail—tell your older brother your stomach hurt or something—when you heard his footsteps stop behind you.
You were about to turn and ask what was up when his hand reached out, settling gently on your head.
He stood beside you, and you felt that familiar ache settle in your chest—the same one that always came around your family. Whether it was anger or sadness, you couldn’t quite tell.
You weren’t sure about most things lately. Then again, anger and sadness had always been hard for you to tell apart.
Dick’s soft eyes met yours, a genuine smile tugging at his lips—bright enough to make your eyes squint slightly. You swallowed, pressing your lips together.
He sighed wistfully. “I’m sorry. For all the promises… and plans that never happened.”
You broke eye contact, afraid you might start tearing up. You couldn’t let them see that this affected you.
Your older brother kept gently petting your head the way he used to when you were younger. You clenched your fists.
“I promise—I’ll try to do better,” he said, finally removing his hand.
You tapped your shoe lightly against the clean floor, clearing your throat before responding. “Okay.”
He smiled at you one more time before pushing the slightly ajar door open.
As soon as you both entered the dining room, the bustle stopped. You felt their eyes all over you.
You berated yourself for giving in to Dick’s kicked-puppy expression and empty promises.
You fixed your gaze anywhere but them, taking the seat next to Dick with Damian across from you. Slowly, the conversations picked back up, the commotion returning.
You tuned them out, picking at your food and taking small bites. Your appetite always faded around them.
“Eat properly,” Damian muttered from across the table, not even looking up.
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, stabbing a piece of food just to prove a point.
“I am.”
“Poking at it does not qualify.”
You exhaled quietly through your nose, choosing not to argue further. From the corner of your eye, Dick sent you a small, almost apologetic glance. You ignored it.
“There’s been increased activity downtown,” Tim spoke up, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise. His eyes were glued to his phone, thumb scrolling lazily.
“Red Hood is old news, Tim,” Steph said mockingly.
You felt a flicker of recognition—the guy in the red helmet Uncle Ben had been reading about. Though, you only remembered because he’d gone on a whole tangent about Gotham and its never-ending freaks right after.
“Not him, Steph,” Tim rolled his eyes.
“Are you talking about the weirdo you met—the one in the big red hoodie with a paper bag on their head?” Duke asked, making you unconsciously whip your head toward him.
He didn’t seem to notice, his attention fixed on the piece of steak in front of him. You frowned and turned back to your plate, carefully cutting through your food.
Great. They’re talking about me.
Tim gave him a pointed look. “Yes, Duke. I saw them during a convenience store run.”
“Oh yeah, I saw in the papers those robbers at that retail store were apparently webbed up,” Dick hummed. The tune was familiar, but you couldn't place your finger on it.
Your older brother turned to you. “Wasn’t your friend—the Osborn kid, involved in that failed robbery?”
Just what you needed—every head in the room turning your way. You froze like a deer in headlights. Dick could be such a dick.
You were surprised he even remembered that. Though you couldn’t say you were surprised he didn’t know you were also involved.
Steph made a surprised noise. “You’re friends with the Harry Osborn?”
Your hands felt clammy with all the eyes on you. The heaviest of them all, you assumed, was Cass'.
“Uh… yeah.”
You were glad the topic shifted from you to Harry (not really, since the attention is still all on you).
From your peripheral vision, you caught a hint of surprise and something else that you can't name on your father’s face. He probably didn’t expect his kid to be mingling with his rival’s son.
There was some issue between them—something about unethical practices. It long died over now, but there was still some quiet tension simmering between them.
“How long have you been friends—if you don’t mind me asking?” Duke said with a sheepish smile.
You returned a small smile. “Nah, it’s okay. About five years, I think.”
Duke’s brows lifted slightly. “Five? That’s—wow. You don’t really talk about him—or your friends at all.. matter of fact.” at his last words, something in Duke seemed to click.
Your smile faltered, your only friend was Harry. Not like they'd know that. Especially Duke—this was your first time talking.
Damian narrowed his eyes at you, his snappish voice cut through the conversation you and Duke were having. “Are you unwell? You’re unnaturally tense.”
You blinked, caught off guard. Your shoulders were loose and your breathing was steady. You probably got more comfortable talking about something familiar.
You bit back a smart reply that would result in an another argument.
“I gue—” another voice cuts you off.
“Hm,” Bruce’s gruff tone made you flinch. “You should head up if you're not feeling well."
The others didn’t expect it either, looking at your father with wide eyes.
That familiar irritation and hurt flared up again—yes, you were going to leave anyway, but why couldn’t he at least pretend he wanted you here? In this dinner—In this life. Why couldn't he pretend to be a present father, at least?
You just couldn’t figure out what his problem was.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll go.” Your bitter tone made the tension even thicker.
Dick’s eyes flickered between you and Bruce—the two of you locked in a silent stare-down.
“Um,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. You turned to him, raising an unamused eyebrow.
The room was so quiet you were sure a pin drop could be heard.
You almost felt bad ruining their dinner.
“C’mon, I’ll walk you up,” he said, standing and offering his hand.
You ignored it and made a beeline for the door.
He followed you into the living room, where you grabbed the box and tucked it under your arm.
“Need any—”
“No thanks.”
After that, he trailed behind you in silence. You didn’t mind, but it made you tense—and the thought of your bed calling to you all the more inviting.
When you reached your door, you twisted the knob and stepped inside.
You lingered just past the threshold. If he followed you all the way up here, he must’ve wanted to say something, right?
Dick gave you a comforting smile. “I’m sure B meant well—”
You shut the door in his face.
You let out a quiet breath, jaw tightening as you stepped further into your room. The words he didn’t get to finish still lingered anyway—annoying and persistent.
You didn’t want to hear his excuses or reassurance.
Didn’t want the careful tone, the soft look, the way he always tried to smooth things over.
You dropped the box onto your bed, lips pressed into a thin line, staring at it like it could somehow ease the irritation in your chest.
You heard heavy footsteps pacing outside your door—back and forth, hesitant—before eventually fading away.
You exhaled slowly, shoulders still tense, then reached forward and pulled the box closer, the cardboard scraping softly against your sheets.
The tape peeled back with a quiet rip. When you finally opened the flaps, your brows knit together in soft amusement.
Like a switch, the frown on your lips faded—along with the heavy feeling sitting in your chest.
Your skateboard.
A small breath slipped out of you, almost like a laugh you didn’t mean to let escape.
You turned it slightly in your hands, fingers tracing the familiar surface—the worn grip, the chipped edges, the stickers peeling at the corners.
A small piece of paper caught your eye, tucked into the corner. You reached for it, setting your skateboard carefully across your lap.
Had to pull some strings to get this back! No need to repay me, okay? This is a thank you gift—and thank you gifts don’t get thank you gifts in return.
- Your bestest friend, Harry Osborn.
You chuckled softly. He even added his fancy signature next to his name.
For the next few days of school, you didn’t go home immediately. Instead, you went to an abandoned skatepark tucked behind rusted fences and overgrown weeds—forgotten, quiet, and smelly.
You found it when you hung out with Harry a few weeks ago, accidentally going the wrong way by cutting through an alleyway. So much for a shortcut.
It was bad for your enhanced sense of smell, but it just solidified that nobody else would be going there.
Alfred reluctantly agreed to not picking you up after school (you’re not a kid anymore, you could handle yourself!)—on one condition: that you get home before dark.
And it didn’t bother you. No bats, no problems.
It also gave you more practice time for web-swinging, with the same paper bag on top of your head just in case. You also made sure to take the sneakier routes.
One of your small mercies was that the security system recognized you and didn’t blare out big, loud red alarms.
The last day of the week.
You were getting senioritis real quick, even though you weren’t a senior yet.
The whole day was a mess—Flash egging you on, the heat beating down like death rays on your skin, and the cafeteria noise. It wouldn’t have bothered you before, but now, with your enhanced hearing, you’d rather bang your head against the table than sit in a room packed with 200 teenagers.
Another small mercy was Harry—God bless him—doing everything to make your day more tolerable and distracting you.
At this point, you were sure you're surviving your high school years because of him.
He was halfway through rambling about a science article he’d read last night, while you threw in questions and the occasional quip. Before either of you knew it, you were already outside the school—down the stairs from the entrance. Harry’s driver was waiting—right on time, as usual.
“Aw man, see you tomorrow,” you smiled a bit solemnly, though you were also excited to go to the abandoned skate park.
Ever since you started going there, you looked forward to doing wall runs, tic-tacs, and wall flips—launching yourself off cracked concrete as if gravity were optional.
You were afraid at first—of slipping, missing your footing, or hitting the pavement too hard. But when it did happen, the pain was little to nothing.
Harry nodded, a small sad smile on his face—when someone emerged from the passenger seat of the car.
It was Norman freaking Osborn.
The students, fresh from dismissal, started whispering amongst themselves. They were all wide-eyed—and you understood them, being wide-eyed yourself.
You composed yourself, looking up to meet Harry’s eyes—but he was just as stunned as you. He met your “Did you know about this?!” gaze and shook his head, then cleared his throat—trying to look composed and heir-like for his approaching father, still clad in a suit and tie as if he had a meeting right after.
Who are you kidding? He probably did.
“I see you’re faring well at this school of yours,” Norman said, smiling at Harry, who quickly put on a very PR-trained one in response.
“Yeah, Dad. What, uh… brings you here?”
Your best friend slipped his hands into his pockets, slicking back the hair that had fallen onto his forehead—but it didn’t matter, because the loose, slightly tousled waves fell right back into place. You figured he still looked great anyway.
“Just wanted to say hi,” Norman shrugged—and even you knew that couldn’t be it. He then turned his gaze to you, extending a hand to shake.
His eyes crinkled with his smile. “And you must be the [Name] Wayne my son is always talking about.”
You stiffly shook his hand with an equally stiff smile, already planning to point out later how Harry turned red beside you.
You mimicked Harry’s gesture of putting your sweaty hand in your pocket.
“Yup, that’s me. Nice meeting you—Mr. Osborn, sir.” You nodded. You were so going to grill Harry on what he said later.
Norman cleared his throat. “See, why couldn’t you be more polite like your partner?” He raised an eyebrow in amusement.
The two of you instantly tensed, cheeks heating up, and Harry lost his composed heir-like demeanor.
He straightened his back. “Dad. We’re not—not like that,” he responded in a quieter tone.
Norman raised an eyebrow, genuine confusion on his face, but he still humored the two of you.
“Ah, I see.”
You weren’t sure if he actually got the memo or not.
You lightly chuckled—cheeks still warm. “Harry is politer than me. You should see how he talks to the teachers—you’d think he was a teacher’s pet.”
Norman huffed a laugh at that.
From the corner of your eye, you could tell Harry was silently grateful for your attempt to defend him.
Norman looked slightly proud, his lips tugging into an actual genuine smile.
“Mm? Is that so?” he clicked his tongue. “So, how’s your father? Mr. Wayne?”
You almost forgot that man was your dad—and that you were high-key talking to the rival of his company.
This is just a casual conversation.. right?
“He’s doing fine, Mr. Osborn, sir.” You obviously didn’t know how he was faring, and you didn’t care to know.
“Please, call me Norman. Anyone who’s close with my son is a friend of mine.”
You didn’t feel entirely comfortable just calling him Norman—with your mom’s and Alfred’s lessons about politeness still drilled into your head.
“Okay, um, thank you, Mr. Norman. You can call me… [Name].”
You could almost smack yourself in the forehead at how lame you sounded. Your enhanced ears picked up an almost-quiet chuckle beside you.
Classic Harry—finding entertainment in your inconvenience. Though you were glad the tension he’d been carrying earlier seemed gone.
Norman turned back his gaze to his son. “Harry, it amazes me that you haven’t invited your fiancée to dinner.”
The two of you went silent. You searched Norman’s face for a hint of humor—but there was none. He was dead ass serious.
Harry sputtered, the earlier tension coming back like a boomerang. “Dad—what? How?”
You cleared your throat, your cheeks even warmer than before. You were glad the crowd from earlier had lost interest and gone home. Nothing to see here folks, just Norman Osborn thinking you were engaged to his son. Nothing really big.
Norman looked even more confused than before, a crease forming between his brows.
“Mr. Norman, Harry and I—we’re just friends, sir.” You were shocked you even managed to form a coherent sentence.
The man looked at you like you had just said the funniest joke of the century, letting out a real, guttural laugh.
“Oh! I’m sorry for assuming then!” He still looked amused, wearing that picture-perfect smile.
Genes, really.
Norman shook his head with a grin, looking younger. “I just assumed that if my son doesn’t call you his partner, then you must be his fiancée. He can be rather formal sometimes.”
You didn’t even want to think about how young the two of you were to be engaged.
Harry rolled his eyes. “Ugh, Dad. Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, embarrassed. You laughed softly in response.
“But still. Come by for dinner sometime.” He gestured to the sleek black car. “Would you like us to drive you home?”
You shook your head instantly. Even if you didn’t have plans after, you would’ve still refused.
“No thank you, Mr. Norman, sir,” you smiled. “I have my own ride—just got caught up in traffic.”
The older man nodded. “I see. It was nice meeting you, but we have to get going now.”
“It was nice meeting you too, sir.”
He nodded again and finally retreated into the passenger seat.
Harry looked a bit downcast as he heard your refusal. “I’ll see you next time, [Name].”
You rolled your eyes. “Of course you will. Don’t make your dad wait up.” You lightly pushed him toward the car door.
He smiled at you again before getting in. And while the car drove away in a moderate speed, your enhanced hearing caught their conversation.
“I was pleasantly surprised earlier, thinking the two of you were already engaged—” Norman sighed. “Turns out my son is too much of a coward.”
You could almost see Harry roll his eyes.
“Dad, we’re sixteen. Why would you even want me engaged at this age?”
“Smart, attractive, polite, and a Wayne. I wouldn’t expect anything less for my son.”
“Did you even hear anything I said?”
You quickly shifted your senses away—if you kept hearing that, you might actually explode. You walked down more hurriedly to the opposite sidewalk, grateful for the growing distance from the car.
Though, you were curious. Why would Norman Osborn want a Wayne to marry his son? must be a political move you won't understand yet.
You were lying on one of the walls. It wasn’t dizzying or anything—it was as if the world had adjusted its orientation for you.
It was getting late, and you had already texted Alfred that you wouldn’t come home to the manor—instead spending the night at your aunt’s.
The old man was worried, but you eased him by telling him you were already there (you obviously weren’t).
Practice took up more of your time, slowly turning the shameful warmth in your cheeks—whenever you thought back to that conversation—into an adrenaline rush.
It was like sending a risky text to someone you’re interested in, then instantly getting up to clean the entire house—anything to bury your nerves in something useful.
That adrenaline rush, combined with the amount of flips you were doing, eventually crashed down. You would’ve been like soggy noodles by now, but you weren’t. You weren’t even surprised anymore.
You were mindlessly scrolling through your socials, liking posts about something mundane—yet people still felt the need to share them with the internet.
Like, yeah, I guess you eating an ube cupcake at 4:00 p.m. counts as something worth sharing with the whole world.
A notification from Harry stopped your scrolling, and you could already feel your cheeks warming up. You shook your head like a madman, as if that would help.
You pressed it.
Hare 🐰
I've been having dinner at your Aunt's for a while now. What do you think of a change of pace by having one at mine?
Not to pressure you or anything yk but my dad really wants to meet you agqin
Not like he said it outloud but yiu could really just tell -_-
You blinked at the speed at which he was sending the texts, letting out a soft chuckle. Then you bit your bottom lip for a moment.
Dinner at Osborn’s? I mean, sure. But Mr. Norman was a huge ‘ehh’ factor in your decision-making.
You just hoped it wouldn’t be incredibly stuffy or uncomfortable. And it was the first time you’d be going to the house—or mansion—your best friend lived in.
You
Sure ig
Just send me a date or time! I wanna see the place where you grew up in, to be so spoiled lol
Hare 🐰
Hardy har har.
You
Don't you mean, Harry har har?
Hare 🐰
Very funny. I'm just bellowing out of laughter.
You laughed to yourself, but then you checked the time—and it was later than you hoped for it to be. Better to get going now.
You rummaged through your backpack, finding a new, neat paperbag. You just poked uneven holes on them, and swung away.
It was Saturday morning, and you were in the basement—looking for Uncle Ben’s toolbox.
Luckily, you got up early enough to climb out your window and knock on their door to pretend you had just arrived.
You swear karma will get you someday with all these lies.
The basement reeked of cobwebs and time, while water dripped steadily from the rusted pipes above.
You sneezed into your elbow, rubbing your nose afterward as you set down a pile of dusty boxes.
You wondered why the old man left his toolbox buried in a pile of boxes.
Then you raised an eyebrow.
A black suitcase—you could tell it was pristine, even with the layer of dust surrounding it.
You carefully set it down beside your leg, planning to ask Uncle Ben and Aunt May about it later.
With a sigh of relief, you bent down and opened the toolbox. You took out the paint roller in one hand, and kept the suitcase in the other.
You turned for the stairs, carefully making your way up, ducking under the low beam you always forgot about.
By the time you pushed the door open, the familiar warmth of the house settled around you.
“Hey, kiddo—did you find it?” Aunt May’s voice floated in from the table. She was enjoying her afternoon tea.
“Yeah,” you called back, setting the toolbox down beside her with a soft thud. “It was, uh… buried.”
“Sounds about right,” Uncle Ben chuckled from the kitchen, crouched under the sink as he worked. “I keep telling myself I’ll clean that place out.”
You shifted your weight. “For real, Uncle Ben,” you added, forcing a small laugh. “You’ve got, like, a whole secret world down there.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” he replied, his voice slightly muffled from under the sink. There was a metallic clink, then a quiet curse under his breath. “Half the stuff down there probably doesn’t even belong to me anymore.”
You huffed out a quiet laugh.
“Hey,” you said casually, lifting it slightly. “Speaking of… not yours—what’s this suitcase for?”
Aunt May tensed, stopping mid-sip of her tea to look at you with wide eyes. Uncle Ben stopped whatever he was tinkering with and slowly slid out from under the sink.
So it definitely wasn’t a case full of withered albums. That was too bad—you were kind of looking forward to seeing more of them in their younger years.
Uncle Ben stood up, meeting Aunt May’s gaze. They did that often—exchanging looks only they seemed to understand.
You stood there awkwardly, tapping your thumb against the suitcase handle.
With a sigh, Uncle Ben put his hand on your shoulder—and you already had a feeling you wouldn’t like whatever they were about to say.
Your mind raced with different possibilities: they were spies (why was that always your first thought?), witness protection, or—worse—it was about your mom.
“Kid… let’s sit you down,” he said gently, guiding you to the seat beside Aunt May before sitting down next to you.
You placed the suitcase at your feet. It was still dusty—and you didn’t want to risk getting it everywhere.
Aunt May’s eyes were glossy, as if she had spent her life trying to forget something, only for it to come back and haunt her.
You stared at the tablecloth, picking at it, wondering if it was too late to throw the suitcase back into the basement if it meant they’d stop acting so strange.
Uncle Ben sighed. “You see, kid… your mom’s job—before you—she was a scientist.”
Your eyes widened in shock, then softened into realization. She had always seemed far more knowledgeable than she let on.
She also prioritized your education above everything, dropping everything just to attend a parent-teacher conference.
You nodded, heart thrumming in anticipation.
“She was real good at it too,” your uncle said with a soft smile, his eyes glinting as though he were lost in a memory.
Your aunt nodded in agreement.
“We don’t know the full details—your mother was always secretive ‘bout that,” Aunt May added, looking at you with her ever-kind and gentle eyes.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the teacup. It had probably gone cold by now.
Like it pained him to say it, your uncle continued, “We do know one thing. Mary worked for Oscorp, or used to.”
The weight of everything settled in your chest. You couldn’t even begin to name the emotions swirling inside you—everything just felt heavy.
You had so many questions, and you weren’t sure if you would like the answers to them.
If your mom was brilliant enough to work for Oscorp, how did things go so wrong? How did she go from futuristic labs to a kitchen that barely functioned?
And if she was important enough not to disclose her work during her lifetime to Uncle Ben and Aunt May, how did everything about her just… vanish?
The last question lingered—pushed to the back of your mind, because thinking about it hurt too much.
Does Harry know anything?
That must be why Uncle Ben was always so suspicious of the Osborns.
Before you knew it, your hands were trembling, accidentally scraping against the wooden table.
The two of them didn’t seem to notice, both struggling to find the right words. And you couldn’t seem to find any words at all.
“Your mother gave us this and told us it contained her life’s work. That she’d like for you to see it one day,” Uncle Ben said, placing his hand over your trembling ones.
Aunt May swallowed. “She gave us permission to look, but we thought it would be better if you saw it first.”
The room felt suffocating.
“Would you have told me this if I hadn’t found it in the basement?” you asked, your voice trembling.
They exchanged another glance, and you couldn’t tell what they were thinking.
Uncle Ben exhaled slowly—the kind that seemed to carry years with it. “We would have,” he said, though the hesitation before the words didn’t go unnoticed.
Aunt May set her teacup down with a soft clink, her hands lingering as if it grounded her. “We were waiting for the right time,” she added gently, though she didn’t sound fully convinced. “You’ve already been through so much. We didn’t want to… add to it.”
You licked your lips, blinking away the tears forming in your eyes. You wanted to believe them, but it was hard right now.
Uncle Ben rubbed his hands together, like he was steadying himself. Then he nodded toward the stairs.
“You can… head up,” he said quietly. “Take it with you. Look through it, study it… at your own pace.”
Aunt May glanced at him, concern flickering across her face.
You stood up a little too fast. The wooden chair scraped loudly against the floor, cutting through the silence.
Then you grabbed the suitcase, clutching the handle tighter than you meant to.
“I’ll be upstairs,” you muttered, not quite meeting their eyes.
Uncle Ben gave a small nod. “Take your time,” he said softly.
The stairs creaked under your steps, each one louder than the last. By the time you reached the top, your grip was clammy, your heart thudding in your ears.
You rubbed your eyes, sniffling.
You dropped the suitcase onto your bed, the mattress dipping under its weight.
The latches clicked open. Inside—files. Dozens of them. Neatly stacked, labeled, organized in a way that felt almost obsessive.
You pulled one out, fingers brushing over the paper.
Your eyes carefully skimmed over the words. Then you took another page. And another. And another—and another—
It was daybreak by the time you stopped reading, your eyes sunken and tired.
After what felt like forever, you leaned back, letting yourself sink into the soft pillows. You draped an arm over your eyes.
It was genius.
Cross-species genetics was something Oscorp openly promoted—framed as the next breakthrough in curing diseases and repairing the human body.
But what you read was something almost entirely different. It was left unfinished, scattered with question marks—yet it was something you had never seen before. Strangely, it felt almost better than anything Oscorp had been putting out.
You didn’t know that for sure, since not every piece of information was released to the public.
You exhaled slowly.
Only one name kept appearing in the papers: Dr. Curt Connors.
You were still shaken from the new knowledge you’d acquired, but like they say—the world kept spinning.
Dr. Curt Connors was the leading scientist for the cross-genetics experiment that is still on-going, but you believed that if they had your mother's work—they’d probably be much more progress. You would have to do some investigating about Dr. Curt someday.
Talking with Harry was weird, but you got over it quickly. Maybe.
You figured you’d talk to him about it soon, just not today. When you were still processing things.
The two of you had just gotten out of class, walking side by side on the way to the cafeteria.
“And you know? That asshole didn’t even say sorry!” you ranted, a vein practically popping from the irritation you were feeling.
Harry rolled his eyes. “No offense, but your brothers piss me off.” His brows creased for a moment. “Actually. Your whole other family pisses me off.”
The idiot, Tim—bumped into you earlier in the morning, breaking half your project that you had to redo in a haste at school.
You were getting angry all over again just by retelling—or remembering—the story. It didn’t help that you and Harry barely had any classes together today.
Then, you perked up. Cheers and shouting could be heard in the other hallway opposite the cafeteria.
You walked toward it, Harry following you, a bit confused. Then you assumed he’d finally heard the noise, as his confusion slowly shifted into curiosity.
A group of people, phones raised, crowded around Flash Thompson—you assumed; no one else would be causing such a ruckus at school. You and Harry weaved through the crowd, muttering quiet “sorry”s as you passed.
Your assumption was correct—Flash was beating on a poor kid who looked like he just wanted it to be over.
Unfortunately for him, the blonde jock dragged it out, surrounding him with his sidekicks, hurling humiliating quips as they shoved him around.
You took a look around. They were all on their phones—recording the scene.
“Flash! Cut it out!” Harry yelled, brows furrowed.
Your temper flared again, and before you knew it—you were in front of the roughed-up boy. He took that chance to scurry into the crowd and leave the scene.
You stood face-to-face with the jock, his sidekicks right behind him wearing disbelieving, mocking smirks. Flash was taken aback for a second before grinning devilishly.
“Puny Wayne! Just what we needed!” He made a show of arrogantly spreading his arms. The crowd got even more hyped, finally able to see Puny Wayne get his ass kicked.
You could feel Harry’s pointed, incredulous gaze on you, but you couldn’t care less.
Flash rolled his shoulders, cracking his knuckles one by one as the circle around you tightened. Someone in the back whooped, the sound sharp and ugly.
“Came to play hero?” Flash tilted his head, stepping closer—close enough that you could smell the mint gum and arrogance on his breath.
“Back off, Flash,” Harry barely made it a step forward before two of Flash’s goons slipped behind him, grabbing his arms and yanking him back.
“Hey—what the hell? Let go!” Harry struggled, twisting against their grip, but they only tightened it, laughing under their breath.
“Stay out of it, rich boy,” one of them muttered.
“Aw, look at that,” Flash drawled, glancing over your shoulder. “Your babysitter’s benched.”
A few people in the crowd laughed, phones tilting to catch Harry struggling.
Flash turned back to you, rolling his neck lazily. “Guess that means no one’s gonna save you now.”
You smirked mockingly at Flash, clenching your fist. “Yeah?”
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough for it to feel personal.
“You really should’ve stayed in your lane, Wayne.”
Without warning, he swung. A wide, cocky punch meant more to impress the crowd than land clean.
You dropped low, leaning your upper body downward as the punch cut through the space above you.
You met Harry’s surprised upside-down eyes.
His expression flickered—shock, concern, and a silent “why are you still doing this?” all at once—while he was still half-struggling in the grip of Flash’s goons.
Flash stumbled a half-step forward from the missed momentum, his confidence cracking for just a split second.
The crowd erupted—some gasping, others shouting louder, the energy spiking instantly.
“Yo—he missed that!”
“No way!”
Then he came at you faster. His punches kept coming, and you kept deflecting with your arms or slipping out of the way.
When he had you backed up against the lockers, you had nowhere left to go—his fist was inches from your face when you caught it, redirecting the strike and driving your own punch straight into his nose.
The impact snapped his head back, the sound sharp enough to cut through the noise. Flash staggered, stumbling a step before catching himself, one hand flying up instinctively.
The jock lowered his hand slowly—a thin line of red slipping past his fingers, his eyes wide with shock.
“Woah!”
“Flash got beaten up by Puny Wayne? Am I dreaming?”
You were grateful you’d managed to pull your punch at the last second, because you were sure he would’ve ended up with more than just a nosebleed if you hadn’t.
A migraine was already forming from how loud everything was. You could barely hear your own thoughts.
“HEY! BREAK IT UP!”
Now that, you could hear.
Teachers were pushing through the students now, the crowd parting reluctantly as phones dipped and whispers spiked.
“Move! Move!”
“Who started this?”
Flash straightened quickly, wiping under his nose, suddenly very aware of the attention around him. His sidekicks shifted too, loosening their grip on Harry as the situation changed—they hurried back to Flash’s side. At least they were loyal enough minions.
“I’m gonna need to call your parent—” The guidance counselor reached for the phone, but you immediately shook your head.
You cleared your throat. You hadn’t exactly been listening for the past ten minutes—just nodding along in agreement. All you caught was “something, something, behavioral issues, something,” frankly.
“Um, my dad’s busy, so if you could call my uncle and aunt instead?”
The counselor raised an eyebrow but let you punch in the numbers. Uncle Ben picked up the call—fortunately for you, or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, since you were the one who’d have to explain the situation.
The next thirty minutes, you stood outside the guidance counselor’s office, fiddling with your blazer.
The ride home was quiet in a suffocating way.
Uncle Ben didn’t say much at first. Just kept his eyes on the road, jaw set like he was trying to hold back every sentence he was already forming.
Aunt May kept glancing between you and him, like she was quietly hoping someone would say the right thing before it got worse.
You stared out the window the whole time. Streetlights smeared past in long streaks.
When you got home, no one rushed inside. Uncle Ben finally spoke the moment the door clicked shut behind you.
“Why did you humiliate that boy?” he started.
You scoffed. “I didn’t humiliate him.”
Flash is fine. He humiliated you half your high school years—he’ll be fine.
Aunt May’s eyes softened as she leaned by the wall near Uncle Ben. “Let’s ask the kid what happened first, Ben.”
Uncle Ben gestured for you to continue.
You crossed your arms, tapping your finger on your bicep. “The boy, he—he was gonna get beaten up by Flash and two other guys if I didn’t intervene.”
The older man nodded. “And you did that by?”
You furrowed your eyebrows, looking down at your shoes—you could see where you went wrong here, but… Flash deserved it.
“…I just stopped them,” you muttered. “I didn’t let them hurt him.”
Uncle Ben didn’t answer right away. That pause was worse than anything he could’ve said.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, kid, I’m glad you’re okay from that fight—but Flash wasn’t. That poor boy went home with a bleeding nose.”
His eyes softened. “I know things have been difficult, but—” his voice stayed gentle. “You don’t get to decide who deserves what just because you’re angry.”
You scoffed under your breath. “So what, I was supposed to just stand there?”
“No.” Ben’s voice was firmer now, but not raised. “You were supposed to think.”
Ben continued, “You’ve got a good heart, like your mother, I see that—”
“But I did think,” you snapped, cutting him off. “I thought about him getting roughed up. I thought about doing something instead of just watching it happen.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Ben said quickly, trying to hold onto you.
But you were already shaking your head.
“No, it is. You just don’t like how I did it.”
Aunt May’s voice came in softly from the side. “Sweetheart—”
“Everyone keeps talking like I messed something up,” you said, voice tightening. “I didn’t. I helped someone.”
Ben stepped forward slightly. “Kid, just listen—”
You turned your back sharply and stormed out, slamming the door so hard it came off its hinges behind you.
It was nighttime, so you carried yourself with more alertness than usual. Your emotions felt like a rollercoaster—anger, regret, and just general sadness.
You shouldn’t have talked to Uncle Ben that way—but hearing about your mother just set something off in you.
With a sigh, you buried your hands in your blazer pockets. A convenience store wasn’t far away, and you had a small amount of money on you.
Frustrating, depressing thoughts plagued your mind the entire walk, enough to show on your face and ward off any weirdos.
It didn’t help that you didn’t have any music to cheer you up.
The small bell above the door dinged as you pushed it open. The man working at the counter looked up for a moment before returning to whatever he was doing.
You headed to the refrigerated drinks section and grabbed one to your liking. Then you walked to the counter and set it down, placing two cents into the paper plate meant for tips.
“2.10, you’re short,” he said. You were exactly two cents short, so you reached back for the paper plate—before the cashier tutted.
You looked up at him with a questioning gaze. He replied, “Leave a penny, take a penny. Not the other way around. Pay an extra ten dollars if you wanna take it.”
You really weren’t having it, so you searched for words that didn’t make you sound like a total asshole.
“I—”
“Store policy, kid. Don’t have enough money for your milk? Go run back to your mommy. You’re holding up my line,” he mocked, raising his hands.
You scoffed, leaving your drink on the counter and shoving the rest of your money back into your pockets.
You were just about to leave when the guy behind you made his move—reaching into the register and grabbing the cash while the cashier fumbled for the loose change the man “accidentally” dropped.
You stared for a moment, then decided the cashier had it coming. Uncle Ben’s words faintly rang in the back of your head, but you ignored them.
The man grinned at you, a gold tooth glinting, and tossed your drink your way—you caught it without missing a beat.
He ran out the other exit, and the cashier finally noticed, chasing after him. You shrugged and walked the other way—ignoring his, “Aren’t ya gonna help, kid?!” as he grumbled and headed back into his shop.
Maybe if you weren’t such a jerk, I would—
A sharp gunshot cut through your thoughts.
You’ve never turned your back so fast—your body reacting before your mind could. The sound still rang in your ears.
A familiar hand, fingers slack, hit the gravel with a dull thud.
You slowly started approaching, before breaking into a full sprint. Your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.
“…Ben?” Your shoes scraped against the gravel as you dropped beside him.
“Hey—hey, no, no, no—” Your hands hovered over the wound, not knowing what to do. The bullet had torn into his abdomen, and with how much blood he was losing—
No, no—you could swing him to the hospital—but that wouldn’t work either. You might make it worse.
A frustrated sound tore out of you. You’ve never felt so utterly helpless.
“Uncle Ben?” your lips trembled as your hand gently clasped his.
“Uncle Ben, look at me,” your voice cracked, breaking halfway through. “Look at me, I’m right here.”
His chest rose unevenly, each breath thinner than the last. His eyes struggled to stay open, but they found you anyway—like they always did.
“…hey, kid,” he murmured, voice barely there.
“Don’t talk,” you shook your head quickly, tightening your grip on his hand. “You’re gonna be okay, alright? Just—just stay with me. I’m here.”
“You’re… a good kid,” he whispered.
Your vision blurred. “Ben, please—”
His fingers shifted weakly in yours, like he was trying to hold on even though he no longer had the strength.
“There’s… something…” He swallowed, wincing. “Something I should’ve told you more often…”
“Save it,” you said quickly, voice breaking. “You can tell me later, okay? When we get you help—”
You should’ve been looking around, calling for help, doing something—but you couldn’t. Your gaze stayed locked on him, fear tightening in your chest at the thought that these might be your last moments with him.
“With great power…” he started, slow and uneven. “…comes great responsibility.”
It sounded final.
Your breath hitched. “Ben—no, no, you’re not—don’t say it like that—” you whimpered, tears finally spilling.
His eyes softened, an apology flickering through them.
“Take care of… May…”
His hand tightened—just barely—before slipping from yours.
“Ben, please,” you choked out.
You held on tighter, clinging to it—the same hand that had rested on your shoulder in comfort whenever you were in trouble, the same hand that had always made you feel like things would be okay, even when they weren’t.
The same warm, steady hand you might never feel again for the rest of your life.
You broke into uncontrollable sobs—you didn’t even know when the police arrived, or when their blue and red lights began flickering, painting the scene around you.
All the sounds around you faded as they tried to separate you from him. Officers spoke gently, but it barely reached you.
One of them cut through your haze—“Yes, I saw a man with a gold tooth running earlier, holding a gun. We tried chasing him, but he got away,” he panted.
They finally separated you from Uncle Ben, guiding your trembling form to sit on the curb. One of them placed a jacket around your shoulders.
Memories flashed through your head—the man with the gold tooth. The same guy from the fight.
Your uncle was dead.
And it was your fault.
If only you had listened to Uncle Ben.
If only you hadn’t let that guy go, he would still be alive.
Alive—and then he would’ve found you and then he would’ve rubbed your back and scolded you and dragged you back to dinner with Aunt May, and then—
relationships; platonic!batfam x neglectedbatsib!reader, Harry Osborn x neglectedbatsib!reader
⋆.˚summary; A freaky spider bite incident made your life a whole lotta messier.
tags; spidey!reader, angst, gender-neutral pronouns, Harry's daddy issues r showing, not proofread, reader is Tim's age
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You swiftly avoided the punch that would’ve sent your teeth flying across the arena, backflipping a few feet away.
"Hey! Not everyone has the money for dental fees!"
You shouted at the burly man wearing a black wrestling singlet, black fingerless gloves with studs, adding a tough vibe, and dark, sturdy heavy boots.
He also had a ton of facial hair going on. And he was also charging at you like a bull.
"Bone-saw does NOT care about dental fees!"
He lunged—fast and reckless. You dropped low, rolling between his legs as he stumbled straight into the ropes.
The crowd roared, looking for an actual fight—or just wanting to see Bone-saw Mcgee to kick your ass. Not like you'd let that happen.
You let out a quick breath. Only hours ago, you had been in an alleyway next to the retail shop with your best friend—not in a terrible red ski mask, fighting a guy who looked like he came straight out of a wrestling movie.
"[Name]?" Harry turned his attention to you, wondering why you hadn't answered the officer's question.
Your gaze goes back to the officer, who was patiently clicking his pen. You sheepishly smiled, "Sorry officer, I'm just a little shaken up. What was the question?"
You were slowly getting better at lying, and you were unsure whether that was necessarily a good thing due to your recent realization of your powers.
You read the name engraved on the officer’s right chest: “Det. McLovin.”
"What happened inside the store? Mr. Osborn told me that you were left alone?" the officer asked suspiciously, which was logical—after all how does a teenager escape a shooting unscathed?
You swallowed, "Someone came in and saved me. I just hid in the back while they beat up the goons."
“Officer McLovin!” the commander called from the entrance. “We found some kind of web fluid on the goons—get it to the lab for testing!”
McLovin jotted down hurriedly your answer, "Did you see this person? or at least how they fought?"
"No." you answered, the officer also wrote that down and hurried to the scene of the crime to collect the samples.
You let out a quiet sigh of relief, knowing that by targeting the criminals’ eyes first, they wouldn’t be able to identify or describe you.
You felt Harry’s eyes on you, and your gaze met his. It was filled with sadness and guilt, and you found yourself unable to look away.
Harry started, "I'm sorry. I just—" he ran his other hand through his face, "I left you there and I—"
You squeezed his clammy hand in reassurance, "No, no—I told you to go. It's alright."
He still looked a bit teary-eyed, so you continued—"I know you would've done the same thing for me if you were the one in my situation."
A loud honk shattered the moment, snapping everything back into motion. Before you could even react, Uncle Ben and Aunt May rushed out of the old car toward you.
They pulled you into a bone-crushing hug, their arms wrapped tight like they were afraid to ever let go again. You felt Aunt May’s tears fall softly against your forehead, while Uncle Ben held you just as firmly—silent, but trembling.
You froze—caught off guard by the sudden warmth—but then your arms slowly came up, wrapping around them both just as tightly.
They let you go, while Aunt May peppered kisses all over your face and kept her grip on your arms. While Uncle Ben spoke with Harry, patting his shoulder.
The old woman stopped her numerous kisses, "We were so worried!" Her trembling voice made your heart ache. You didn't like worrying them, not one bit.
"It's okay Aunt May. I'm okay now," you reassured, pulling her into a short hug.
Then, you raised an eyebrow. "Say, how'd you get here so fast?" The news wouldn't have spread so quickly; heck, you could still see the news anchor preparing In front of the camera.
"Harry called us, and we came as soon as we could," she responded, shooting Harry a grateful smile.
Like clockwork, your gaze found Harry’s—but he looked away almost instantly, like he’d been caught staring when he wasn’t supposed to. A faint warmth crept across his cheeks, subtle but enough for you to notice.
Feeling a bit awkward, you greeted Uncle Ben, "No paint today, huh?"
The old man let out a weary sigh. “I shouldn’t have—”
You gently rested a hand on his shoulder, steady and reassuring. In moments like this, you couldn't help but think how alike Uncle Ben and Harry were—both carrying that same worry for you, both weighed down by guilt over things they couldn't control.
"Let's just go to dinner? Me and Harry are famished," you gestured to the boy next to you.
Right on time, Harry’s stomach growled. He let out a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.
The old couple couldn’t help but laugh, though a little more solemn than usual.
“Alright, alright—let’s go, kiddos,” Uncle Ben jingled his keys while Aunt May walked side by side with her husband, their arms linked together.
You nudged Harry, "I hope our car isn't too shabby for you, prince."
The prince playfully narrowed his eyes at your teasing smirk. “Oh, please—the prince is used to your shabby upbringing,” he huffed.
You reply with an exaggerated gasp, "AND guess which prince isn't getting Aunt May's mac n' cheese today?"
Prince Not-Eating-Dinner-Today groaned, then shot you a mock-offended look. "You wouldn’t dare…" he muttered, though the hint of a grin tugged at his lips.
You sat in the back seat of the car with Harry sitting next to you, and Aunt May chatting with Uncle Ben in the front. The engine hummed to life as the vehicle pulled away from the curb.
Harry sat beside you, a little stiff at first. His hands rested in his lap, fingers loosely interlaced, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them.
You leaned back into the seat, glancing out the window, then back at him. Did he take your not eating dinner comment to heart or something?
“…Hey,” he said after a brief pause, voice low enough that only you could hear.
You turned your head slightly, “Yeah?”
“I just wanna thank you—for what you did for me back there. You were really brave and…” he looked away for a second, as if the words had suddenly become harder to say, “…and I don’t think I could’ve handled that the way you did.”
His fingers tightened slightly together in his lap before he finally glanced back at you, more sincere now.
“…You didn’t have to put me first, but you did.”
There was something beneath his words—an edge of insecurity you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been by his side for years. His fingers laced together in his lap, his gaze fixed on you as if you held the answer to everything.
Outside, the city blurred past in streaks of light and shadow as the car turned onto a wider road. Up front, Aunt May laughed at something Uncle Ben said, her voice warm.
You studied him for a second before responding, your voice just as soft. “You're my best friend. I'd always choose you—no matter what."
'Just like you always do,' lingered in the back of your throat.
Harry went quiet for a moment.
His gaze dropped to his hands again, but this time his expression wasn’t as tense as before—something in your words seemed to settle him, even if he didn’t fully show it.
“…Yeah,” he said softly after a beat, almost like he was agreeing with more than just your sentence.
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, subtle but genuine this time.
“Guess I’m lucky then.”
He glanced at you again, holding the eye contact for a second longer than usual, before leaning back into the seat with a small exhale. The stiffness in his posture eased, his shoulders loosening as the weight he’d been carrying seemed just a little lighter.
You looked outside the window, your enhanced eyesight making you see through the shadows of Gotham more effectively—tracing movement where others would only see darkness. Very quietly you muttered, "I'm the lucky one."
All of you—except Harry, sat around the table, the warm glow of the kitchen lights softening the tension that still lingered in your chest. Aunt May and Uncle Ben listened intently as you recounted what happened at the retail store.
Aunt May’s hand stayed over her heart, her expression shifting between worry and disbelief, while Uncle Ben sat quietly, jaw tight, absorbing every word you said.
Every now and then, Aunt May would shake her head, murmuring under her breath, while Uncle Ben would ask a short, careful question—like he was piecing the whole thing together in his mind.
“Then some person swooped in and beat up the goons while I ducked behind the shelves with my eyes closed,” you finished.
Harry had excused himself earlier in the middle of the story, stepping away from the table to take a phone call. You could hear the whole conversation if you wanted to, but for the sake of his privacy, you tuned it out and focused your senses on somewhere else.
"Dear, what you did was very brave—but very, very dangerous," Aunt may rest her hand on top of yours from across the table. Even though you could tell they were both worried, they were proud of how you handled the situation.
You wondered if they'd get a heart attack if you told them you dodged like, four bullets.
"Under no circumstances will you have to make a choice like that again—at least not without help, okay?" Uncle Ben piped up, before taking another forkful of the Mac 'N Cheese.
You smiled at the two of them, a softness settling in your chest.
“I know,” you said gently, your fingers curling slightly under Aunt May’s hand. It was moments like these that reminded you that you were loved, despite the cold, stark contrast of the manor.
With one final tap, Aunt May went back to eating her pasta. On cue, Harry came walking back in. His body language reminded you of earlier in the car—tense and resigned.
He didn't exactly show it; he had his hands in his pockets while wearing an easy-going smile—but you knew better.
"Sorry, everyone. I'm afraid I'll have to go home early."
You eyed the half-eaten food on his plate. Harry loved Aunt May's cooking. He wouldn't bail in the middle of it unless it was important.
“Stay safe, son,” Uncle Ben said with a nod.
“Oh yes—your father must be getting worried. Have a good ride home!” Aunt May added warmly.
Your best friend tensed, just slightly—at the word father. Subtle enough that the old couple missed it, but not you. Your gaze dropped to your plate in thought.
Is he worried he'll get scolded for what happened earlier?
Harry grinned, “Yeah—wouldn’t want him sending out a search party. See you guys next time.” He glanced at you, a softer smile tugging at his lips. “Chat you later?”
You put your fork down, "I'll—uh, lead you outside!"
You pushed your chair back a little too quickly, the legs scraping lightly against the floor as you stood. Avoiding Aunt May’s knowing look, you brushed your hands off on your jeans and nodded toward the door. “C’mon.”
As the two of you walk outside the doorway, you catch Uncle Ben's quiet "Youngins, huh?" followed by Aunt May's chuckle. Your cheeks slightly warmed, knowing the implication behind the words.
The night air hit you the moment the door shut behind you—cool and quiet compared to the warmth inside. For a second, neither of you spoke. The distant hum of cars and the soft rustle of leaves filled the space instead.
You leaned back against the porch railing with peeling paint, arms folding loosely over your chest as you watched him. “Anything on your mind?” you asked, your voice quieter now—gentler, but edged with concern.
Harry let out a breath through his nose, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. Up close, the tension he tried to hide earlier was easier to see—the slight stiffness in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened before he answered.
“Yeah… uh, just things at home,” he admitted, glancing off toward the street instead of at you.
You understood that more than anyone, and you knew better than to pry. Harry didn’t look ready to open up, and you respected that.
Instead of pushing, you stepped closer.
“Hey,” you said softly.
He glanced at you, brows faintly knitting together—confused for only a second before you reached out and pulled him into a hug.
For a moment, he stiffened in surprise, like he hadn’t expected it. Then slowly, his shoulders eased, and you felt his arms come up around you in return, holding on a little tighter than usual.
You rested your chin lightly against his shoulder, your voice barely above a murmur. “I'm here for you."
It wasn’t anything like an hour ago—when he was shaking, gripping onto you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. This time, the hug was warm and quiet in a way that felt safe.
The night seemed to quiet around you, the distant sounds fading into the background.
Harry exhaled, the tension leaving him in a slow breath as he leaned into the hug—just for a second longer than he probably meant to.
“…Thanks,” he said quietly, near your ear.
You gave him a small squeeze before pulling back, offering a faint smile like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Anytime.”
He smiled faintly, chuckling under his breath, “You’ve been too good to me today."
"That's what friends are for, isn't it?" You offer a genuine smile in return.
From the street, headlights flicked on.
Harry glanced over his shoulder, then back at you, a reluctant half-smile tugging at his lips. “I should go.”
“Yeah,” you nodded.
He lingered for half a second, then stepped back, hands slipping into his pockets again—but the tension from earlier had dulled, even just a little.
“I’ll text you,” he added.
“You better,” you replied, nudging him lightly.
He huffed a quiet laugh before turning toward the car. Just before he got in, he looked back at you one last time.
Then he gave you a small nod and slipped inside.
You stayed on the porch as the engine started, watching the car pull away into the night—your chest still warm from the brief moment.
Uncle Ben volunteered to wash the dishes, gently insisting that you head upstairs and get some well-needed rest. Aunt May stayed at the table, keeping him company as they chatted softly, the quiet clatter of plates mixing with the warm hum of an old 60s song playing from the stereo.
It was “Stand By Me” by Ben E. King—you recognized it instantly. They used to play it all the time whenever your mother was around.
The familiar melody drifted through the house, soft—like it had settled into the walls over the years. It wrapped around you in a way that felt nostalgic.
You lingered at the foot of the stairs for a moment, your hand resting lightly on the railing.
It reminded you of the quiet afternoons, laughter in the kitchen, the way your mother used to hum along absentmindedly as if the tune lived in her bones.
Behind you, you could hear the gentle clink of dishes and Aunt May’s voice—low, trying to keep things light. Uncle Ben replied every now and then, his tone softer than usual.
You swallowed, blinking away the slight sting behind your eyes, before finally making your way up the stairs.
Each step creaked faintly under your weight, the music growing softer the higher you went—until it became just a distant hum, like a heartbeat echoing through the house.
Your room greeted you the same as always—familiar and quiet. You changed into your pajamas and collapsed onto the bed, the weight of everything finally catching up to you, settling heavy in your chest as the day replayed itself behind your eyes.
Despite your relaxed state, you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling at the back of your mind. You sat up—then it hit you. The fighting match. It would be the perfect place to test what you could really do. And the cash prize didn’t sound too bad either.
You’d probably need a costume, right?
You pushed yourself off the bed and rummaged through your drawers, eventually pulling out an old oversized red hoodie—something loose enough to hide your figure.
You paused, turning it over in your hands. Red was an eye-catching and bold color, right? You should be able to draw a spider logo upfront too.
Now you just needed something to hide your face. Aunt May and Uncle Ben had probably finally retreated to their rooms—they wouldn’t notice if you slipped out.
Before you could move toward the window, a soft knock stopped you cold.
"You're still up, kid?”
Uncle Ben’s voice.
Your fingers tightened around the hoodie. For a second, you considered pretending to be asleep—but something about his tone made that impossible. You quickly shoved the red hoodie under your bed.
“…Yeah,” you called, a little quieter than usual.
The door creaked open, and he leaned against the frame instead of stepping all the way in. Like he wasn’t sure if he should.
“Mind if I come in for a minute?”
You shrugged, trying to look casual. “Sure.”
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Uncle Ben rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling through his nose. “You’ve had a long day.”
“Yeah,” you muttered.
Another pause. Then he pulled your desk chair out and sat down, turning it slightly so he could face you.
“You know… you remind me a lot of your mom.”
“..I do?”
He nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips—but there was something sad behind it.
“More than you think.” He looked down at his hands, clasping them together. “She had that same look in her eyes when she thought she could handle everything on her own.”
You shifted slightly. “I can handle things.”
“I know you think you can,” he said gently. “She did too.”
“She was… stubborn,” he continued, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “Brave. The kind of person who would run straight into trouble if it meant helping someone else.”
You swallowed. “That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”
“It isn’t,” he said quickly. “It’s one of the best things about a person.” His voice softened. “But it can also be the thing that gets you hurt… if you don’t let people in.”
Uncle Ben leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “Your mom trusted people. Eventually. She let us help her carry things when it got too heavy.”
His eyes met yours, soft and perceptive, it felt like he could see right through you.
“You don’t have to do everything alone, you know.”
Your chest tightened, and you looked away, focusing on the faint cracks running along the wall beside your bed.
“I’m not—” you started, but the words didn’t really come together.
He stood up slowly, walking over and placing a hand on your shoulder—firm and grounding.
“I’m not asking you to tell me everything,” he said softly. “Just… don’t shut us out completely. That’s all.”
Quietly, he added—”She’d want that for you.”
The words lingered in the air long after he stepped back.
Uncle Ben gave your shoulder a small squeeze before heading for the door. He paused just before opening it.
“Get some rest, alright?”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Slowly, you exhaled, pushing yourself off the bed. Your hand reached underneath, fingers brushing against the fabric before pulling the red hoodie back out.
‘She’d want that for you.”
Your grip slightly faltered.
Then you shook your head, like you could physically push the words away, and pulled the hoodie over your head. The fabric settled around you, oversized and concealing, the sleeves swallowing your hands.
You moved toward the window, each step quiet against the floor.
"Don’t shut us out completely."
“…I won’t,” you muttered under your breath—though whether it was a promise or a compromise, even you weren’t sure.
You looked down your window.
It was high up, though not quite as high as your room in the manor. You swallowed hard, stepped forward, and jumped.
A sharp gasp slipped from your throat before you could stop it, your teeth catching your bottom lip to muffle the sound. Instinct took over—your wrist snapped upward.
Thwip.
A strand of webbing shot out and latched onto the edge of the neighboring rooftop.
The sudden tug pulled you forward, the fall transforming into a swing as the tension in the webline carried you through the air. For a split second, everything felt weightless—wind rushing past, the ground blurring beneath you.
You swung out over the street, the line stretching taut as you moved, your balance adjusting on instinct. Another quick motion of your wrist, another shot of webbing, and you began to find a rhythm—leaping, swinging, catching yourself mid-air like it had always been second nature.
Excitement rushed through your veins, replacing the initial fear you felt jumping out of your window.
You were gonna go down the thrift shop and go through the bins—but a bunch of yelling grabbed your attention instead.
Landing a bit clumsily on the edge of a nearby rooftop, a sharp grunt slipped from you at the impact. You steadied yourself quickly, rushing to the ledge and peering over.
Below, a man in a red ski mask was struggling with a woman, forcefully trying to wrench her purse away as she resisted.
You stepped off the ledge and dropped into motion, firing a webline mid-fall.
You swung down, arcing through the air toward them. As you closed the distance, you flicked your wrist again—another strand of webbing shot out and struck the man cleanly.
In a swift motion, the web wrapped around him, yanking him upward and flipping him off his feet.
A moment later, he was stuck—dangling upside down from a nearby fixture, arms pinned in place by the sticky strands.
“Seriously, who wears a bright red ski mask when mugging someone?”
The woman stumbled back, startled, clutching her now-freed purse to her chest. You landed lightly nearby, catching your balance before stepping forward.
“You okay?” you asked, your voice a little uncertain, but steadying as you spoke.
The woman nodded quickly, still shaken but clearly relieved. She gave her thanks and headed back toward the streets.
You gave a small, reassuring nod in return, glancing once at the suspended would-be mugger. You took his ski mask off and pocketed it.
You grimaced upon seeing the middle-aged man with sweat-slicked hair, his eyes hazy and unfocused, and the smell of booze radiating off him.
No way you'll be wearing that without washing it.
Then your senses flared, or what you liked to call your spider-senses now. You looked up on the rooftop you were standing in mere minutes ago.
“Hey!” The boy yelled, and you recognized him as your adopted brother—Tim Drake AKA Red Robin.
Well, this is awkward. You were stealing his color while he stole your rooftop. You waved before swinging away.
A quiet curse slipped under your breath as you swung from building to building, your movements quickening with each arc. The webline snapped taut, then released, carrying you forward in smooth, instinctive bursts across the skyline.
You didn’t need to look back, knowing he’d be right on your trail.
You didn't stick around. Get it? ‘cause you're literally sticking to the ceiling of an abandoned building?
Your senses—your spider-senses—tingled faintly at first, then settled… then faded.
“He’s gone…” you exhaled softly.
Relief washed over you as you released your grip, peeling yourself off the ceiling with a quiet shift. You dropped lightly back onto your feet, landing in a controlled crouch before straightening.
Now, fast forward to your current situation—Bonesaw had grabbed a plastic chair from one of the helpers and was charging straight at you, clearly intent on slamming you into the ground with it.
“That's cheating!” you blurted, barely managing to raise your arms as you braced yourself, your body already moving on instinct to dodge the incoming swing.
You were lucky enough to dodge the first swing—but the second one? Not so much. The plastic chair shattered on impact as it slammed into you, the force knocking the air from your lungs.
A sharp grunt tore from your chest as you staggered back a step, splintered pieces of plastic clattered to the ground around you.
The crowd screamed for their champion, and Bone-saw came at you again—fast and relentless.
You ducked low, barely slipping under his next swing, your shoulder brushing against him as you pivoted. An ache flared through your side, but you pushed through it, planting your foot and twisting your body with everything you had.
Tackling him straight in the torso, you forced him back a few steps, boots scraping harshly against the ground as the two of you struggled for control.
You didn’t hold back.
Your grip tightened, strength surging through your limbs as you drove forward, lifting him clean off his feet like he weighed nothing. His eyes widened for a split second before you slammed him straight into the ground.
Bone-saw went limp instantly, the fight knocked out of him in one overwhelming hit.
Suddenly, the crowd went quiet—their tarpaulins with Bone-saw’s face dropping low.
Cheers erupted from every side, voices crashing together as they shouted the name the host had given you.
The host came rushing into the ring, grabbing your arm and hoisting it high into the air as he shouted, “OUR CHAMPION, THE ARACHNIGHT!”
“Dude, I told you—it’s The Red Arachnid—” you shot back, glancing down at your outfit. There wasn’t even remotely anything “night” about your whole costume. Was it seriously because you signed up last night?
The crowd roared even louder, the noise crashing over you as your arm stayed raised. You smiled through your mask, giving a little wave to the people who probably bet on you to win.
Hey, maybe you could do this as a living?
“Hey this is less than what you promised!” you said to the host, who was counting the rest of the money. He barely gave you a glance, taking another drag of his tobacco cigarette.
“Promised,” he echoed flatly, almost amused. “That word gets thrown around a lot in this line of work.”
He tapped the stack of bills against the counter to straighten it, then finally flicked his eyes toward you—slow and unconcerned.
“Scram kid,” you glared at him, irritation bubbling in your chest. You left his office, while he cackled in the background.
The hallway felt quieter in comparison, but the only thing on your mind was how to get rich using your powers. Ethically, of course. Maybe you could be a weird scientist with even more weird powers.
You exhaled, shoulders loosening as you reached for your phone and glanced at the screen.
Alfred 🧐
Master, I'm right outside the library. Also, there is a package for you waiting in the manor.
-Sincerely, Alfred Pennyworth
You snorted at his signed chat—who else but him would do that? Then, you raised an eyebrow at the package. Your fingers moved across the keyboard as you typed out your reply. Once you sent it, you quickly pocketed your phone and were about to head to the bathroom to change when—
A man shot past you, close enough that the air shifted with his speed—you could’ve reached out and knocked him off balance in an instant. He was carrying a suitcase filled with money—he probably stole it from the host.
The runner glanced at you as he passed.
You had every chance to grab the man and hand him over, but you didn't.
Karma got that host guy pretty quick.
The guard panted, his hands on his knees—”Gee kid, thanks for the help!” he shot you a look with your hands in your pockets as you shrugged.
“Not my problem,” you muttered under your breath, already shifting your attention toward the elevator.
Your eyes found the robber in the elevator, smugly holding the suitcase filled with money. His golden tooth flashed as he grinned at you—doubled in the reflection, glinting as the elevator lights hit it at just the right angle.
The elevator doors closed.
A/N; Captain holt reference, reader hero name ideas plz.. I FINALLY know how to get rid of that ugly space omg
Harry and reader when it comes to saying hey before uttering something corny to each other
Hii!! Can you do a drabble With Damian with reader doing that "climbing on my boyfriend" trend?? Thank you so muchhh 💌
climbing your boyfriend
IN WHICH... ...you climb your boyfriend? pretty self-explanatory
warnings: fluff, crack, gn!reader, established relationship
wc: 578
The moment you saw a video titled "climbing my boyfriend to see if he says anything" on your For You Page, you knew you had to test it out.
So, you've propped your phone up on the water bottle on Damian's desk. He glances at it, flashing you an odd look but not acknowledging it further.
He's got his headset on, eyes glued to his monitor as he clicks away on his controller. He mutters something under his breath, barking orders at Dick and Tim as they play some game together.
"You absolute imbecile!" Damian exclaims. "We're going to lose, thanks to you. Get it together, Grayson."
You giggle, the deep scowl on Damian's face so adorable and sweet—all you want to do is kiss it away. But you're on a mission.
You start standing behind his gaming chair. He smiles, thinking you're there to give him a massage or something. "Hi, beloved," he murmurs softly. You can hear Tim laugh through Damian's headphones, causing the scowl to return. "Shut it, Timothy."
You brace your hands on the top of his chair, hooking one leg over Damian's shoulder, giggling. "My love? What're you doing, hm?" he spares a glance at you, chuckling at your awkward position.
You shrug innocently. "Nothing, keep playing your game, Dami...whatever it is."
He scoffs as if you've personally offended him. "It's FC26, hayati. Soccer simulation, essentially. I get to pretend I'm on the best world teams."
You smile. "Wow, Dames." You keep your voice casual, smirking deviantly at the camera, still recording. "That's fascinating."
"Isn't it?"
You only hum, using his sudden shouting at Dick to hook your other leg over his other shoulder. You grip his hair tight to get your balance, nearly taking you both down.
He winces. "Beloved, the hair!" he squeaks, face scrunched in pain, knuckles white on the controller.
You laugh, releasing him. "Sorry! Sorry! I was gonna fall!"
"What're you even doing up there, hon?" he asks, looking up at you through his lashes.
You stare back, grinning as if all of this is normal and totally common. You cup his cheeks softly, giving them little squeezes. "Oh, nothing. Don't worry about me, Dami-Dames. Wanna get ice cream after this?"
He arches a brow. You realize suddenly that his controller is sitting long forgotten in his lap—now it's Dick and Tim's turn to yell at him.
"Dami-Dames, huh?" he repeats, hands gripping your thighs to keep you stable. His thumbs brush gentle, loving circles on the flesh. "That's a new one."
"Yeah, it's a combo of your two nicknames. Dami and Dames. Dami-Dames."
"Okay, hayati."
You nod. "So...ice cream?"
He laughs, tugging his headset off his head, ignoring the now-muffled shouts and annoyed groans of his brothers. "Of course, my darling. We can get ice cream. But only if you promise we can bring home Titus a...what's it called?"
You tilt your head in confusion, fingers still brushing soft on his cheeks. "A what, baby?"
"A pup...cup? Is that what it is called?"
A bright grin overtakes your face. He's so precious, you want to kiss him all over, just to hear his shy little giggles. "Yes, Dami. A pup cup. We can get Titus a pup cup."
He nods in satisfaction, resting his head against one of your legs. He kisses your thigh gently before nuzzling into it. "Ice cream and a pup cup, I can do that. And beloved?"
Can I request Jason Todd with a reader that’s really soft spoken, extremely kind and caring, but very asocial/introverted/shut in?
Soft Spaces
navigation , dc navigation
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
Jason Todd had exactly three regular customers at his bookstore in Crime Alley.
Mrs. Chen, who bought romance novels and always paid in exact change. Marcus, a teenager who read graphic novels in the corner and occasionally actually bought one. And you.
You came in every Tuesday and Thursday at 4 PM, bought a book, said "thank you" in a voice barely above a whisper, and left.
You'd been doing this for six months.
Jason still didn't know your name.
"You could ask them," Roy said, sprawled across the counter during one of his visits.
"Ask who what?"
"The cute regular. Their name. Maybe their phone number. Normal people stuff."
"I don't need their phone number."
"You watch the door every Tuesday and Thursday starting at 3:45."
"I'm observing foot traffic patterns."
"You're pining."
"I don't pine."
"You're doing something sad and longing. That's pining."
Jason was saved from responding by the bell above the door. 4 PM. Tuesday.
You walked in, and like clockwork, headed straight for the classics section. You were wearing an oversized sweater, jeans, and the same nervous expression you always had—like being in public was slightly overwhelming and you were trying very hard to manage it.
"I'm just saying," Roy whispered, "that's a person who looks like they could use a friend."
"They look like they want to be left alone."
"Or they look like they're lonely and don't know how to not be."
Jason hated that Roy had a point.
You approached the counter with your selection—Jane Eyre, a worn paperback copy—and set it down carefully, not quite making eye contact.
"Just this today?" Jason asked, keeping his voice gentle. He'd learned early on that you startled easily.
"Yes, please." Your voice was soft, almost musical. "Thank you."
"You've got good taste. Brontë's underrated."
You looked up briefly, surprised. "You've read it?"
"Yeah. The madwoman in the attic is basically a gothic horror subplot in a romance novel. It's great."
The smallest smile crossed your face. "I never thought of it that way."
"Most people don't. They focus on Rochester and Jane, miss the whole psychological terror aspect."
"That's... actually a really good point." You were still looking at him, and Jason realized this was the longest conversation you'd ever had.
Then you seemed to realize it too, because you quickly looked down, pulling out cash. "How much?"
"Six fifty."
You handed him exact change—you always had exact change—and took your book.
"Thanks," you said again, already turning toward the door.
"Wait—" Jason said before he could stop himself.
You paused, looking back nervously.
"I'm Jason. I, uh, own the store. I realized I've been seeing you twice a week for months and never actually introduced myself."
"Oh." You clutched your book. You practcally mumbled your name and if Jason wasn't so focused on you, he would have missed it.
"Nice to officially meet you."
"You too." You hesitated, like you wanted to say something else, then just gave a small wave and left.
Roy waited exactly ten seconds before saying: "That was painful to watch."
"Shut up."
"You like them."
"I don't even know them."
"You want to know them. That's the same thing." Roy grinned. "And they smiled at you. That's basically a marriage proposal in shy person language."
"You're an idiot."
"An idiot who's right."
Thursday
You came in at 4 PM, same as always. But this time, you looked more tired than usual, like you hadn't slept well.
Jason noticed because he was pathetic and noticed everything about you.
You browsed longer than normal, picking up books and putting them back, clearly unable to decide.
After fifteen minutes, Jason walked over. "Can I help you find something?"
You jumped slightly. "Oh. Sorry. I'm just... I can't decide what I want to read next."
"What kind of mood are you in?"
"I don't know. Something... comforting? I've had a long week."
Jason thought for a moment. "Come here."
He led you to a different section, pulled out a worn copy of The House at Riverton. "Kate Morton. Historical fiction, mysterious, but ultimately hopeful. Good for when you need something engaging but not too heavy."
You took it, reading the back cover. "This looks perfect. Thank you."
"No problem. That's literally my job."
You smiled again, and Jason's heart did something stupid.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
"Okay."
"Why here? There are bigger bookstores, libraries, online shopping. Why come to a crime alley bookshop twice a week?"
You were quiet for a moment, considering. "It's quiet. The big stores are overwhelming. Too many people, too much noise. Here it's..." You looked around. "Peaceful. Safe."
"Safe?"
"Red Hood protects this neighborhood." You said it matter-of-factly, like it was obvious. "Everyone knows that. It's the safest place in Gotham for people like me."
Jason's throat felt tight. You had no idea you were talking to Red Hood. No idea that your safety was his personal mission.
"People like you?" he managed.
"People who aren't good at... people things." You clutched your book. "I have really bad social anxiety. Going out is hard. But I need books, and the library is always crowded, and online shopping feels impersonal." You looked at him. "Coming here is manageable. You're patient. You don't make me feel weird for being quiet."
"You're not weird."
"Most people think I am."
"Most people are idiots."
You laughed—actually laughed—and the sound was so unexpected and lovely that Jason wanted to record it.
"Thank you," you said. "For that. And for the recommendation."
"Anytime."
Two Weeks Later
You started staying longer.
Not talking, exactly, but existing in the same space as Jason. You'd buy your book, then sit in the reading corner for thirty minutes, an hour, sometimes two.
Jason would work on inventory, help other customers, and try very hard not to stare at you curled up in the armchair like you belonged there.
"You could sit with them," Roy suggested during another visit.
"They're reading."
"So read near them. It's called parallel play. Very soothing for introverted people."
"How do you know about parallel play?"
"I have Google and concerns about your social life."
Jason considered this. Then, feeling ridiculous, he grabbed a book and sat in the chair across from you.
You looked up, surprised.
"Is this okay?" Jason asked. "I can move if you want to be alone."
"No, it's..." You smiled shyly. "It's nice. Having company without having to... perform."
"Yeah. I get that."
You went back to reading. Jason opened his book. You sat in comfortable silence for an hour.
It became a routine.
You'd come in, buy a book, sit and read. Jason would eventually join you. You'd exist in the same space, peaceful and quiet, occasionally exchanging a comment about what you were reading but mostly just... being.
It was the best part of Jason's week.
One Month Later
"I brought tea," you said one Thursday, holding up a thermos. "I made too much. Do you want some?"
"You brought me tea?"
"Well, I brought tea. I'm offering to share it. If you want. You don't have to." You were already second-guessing yourself. "Sorry, that's weird—"
"It's not weird. I'd love some tea. Thank you."
You poured him a cup in the extra mug you'd brought, and Jason tried not to read too much into the fact that you'd planned this. Brought an extra mug. Thought about him enough to share.
"It's chamomile," you said. "I know it's kind of boring—"
"It's perfect."
You both sat in your usual chairs, drinking tea, reading in comfortable silence.
"Can I tell you something?" you asked after a while.
"Sure."
"This is my favorite part of the week. Coming here. Reading with you. It's the only time I feel... normal. Like I'm not broken for being quiet."
"You're not broken."
"I know. Logically, I know. But sometimes it feels like I am. Like everyone else got a manual on how to be social and I missed that day." You looked at your tea. "My therapist says I need to work on it, but the thought of going to social events or trying to make friends makes me want to throw up."
"So don't."
You looked up. "What?"
"Don't force yourself to be someone you're not. If you're introverted, be introverted. If you need quiet, take quiet. The world's loud enough already. Someone should get to be peaceful."
"That's... really validating, actually."
"I'm serious. You come here, you read, you exist exactly as you are. That's not broken. That's just different."
"Do you really think that?"
"I know that. I've seen every kind of person in this city. The loud ones aren't better than the quiet ones. They're just louder."
You smiled, and this time it reached your eyes. "Thank you. For understanding."
"Thank you for bringing tea."
"I'll bring it every week if you want."
"I want."
Two Months Later
You still came twice a week. You still brought tea. You still sat and read with Jason in comfortable silence.
But you also started talking more.
Small things at first. Comments about your books. Observations about the weather. Gradually, carefully, you opened up.
You told him about your job—data entry, remote, perfect for someone who didn't like offices. About your apartment, small and cozy, full of books and plants. About your cat, Mr. Darcy, who was an asshole but you loved him anyway.
Jason told you about growing up in Crime Alley. About loving books because they were an escape. About opening the store because the neighborhood needed something good.
He didn't tell you about being Red Hood. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
He liked being just Jason with you. The bookstore owner. The guy you drank tea with twice a week.
"Can I ask you something personal?" you said one evening, after the store had officially closed but you were still there.
"Sure."
"Do you ever get lonely? Running this place by yourself?"
Jason thought about it. "Yeah. Sometimes. But then I remember why I'm doing it. This neighborhood needs places like this. Quiet places. Safe places."
"You're really good at creating safe spaces."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. This whole store feels like a hug." You blushed. "Sorry, that's weird—"
"It's not weird. That's actually the nicest thing anyone's ever said about this place."
"I mean it. Coming here feels like coming home. You make it easy to exist."
Jason's heart was doing that stupid thing again. "You make it easy to exist too."
You looked at him, really looked at him, and something shifted in the air between you.
"Jason?" you said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Would it be okay if I—can I hug you?"
"You want to hug me?"
"You look like you could use one. And I—I'd like to. If that's okay."
"Yeah. That's okay."
You stood up, crossed the space between your chairs, and carefully wrapped your arms around him.
Jason hugged you back, and you were warm and soft and you smelled like tea and old books, and he thought this might be the best moment of his entire life.
"Thank you," you whispered.
"For what?"
"For being patient with me. For making this place. For letting me be quiet without making me feel bad about it."
"You don't have to thank me for basic decency."
"It's not basic. Most people don't get it. But you do." You pulled back slightly to look at him. "I really like you, Jason."
"I really like you too."
"Even though I'm awkward and weird and can barely handle social situations?"
"Especially because of that. You're genuine. You're kind. You're exactly yourself, unapologetically." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "That's not weird. That's brave."
"I don't feel brave."
"You leave your house twice a week despite anxiety. You talk to me even though talking is hard. You exist in a world that's not built for quiet people and you do it anyway. That's brave."
Your eyes were shining. "Can I kiss you?"
"Please."
You kissed him, soft and careful, and Jason thought that this—this quiet moment in a bookstore in Crime Alley with the most introverted person he'd ever met—was worth everything.
When you pulled back, you were smiling. "I've wanted to do that for weeks."
"Me too. I just didn't know if you... if I..."
"We're both disasters at this, aren't we?"
"Completely."
"Good. I prefer it that way." You settled back into your chair, pulling your book into your lap. "Can we just... keep sitting here? Reading?"
"For as long as you want."
"Forever might be too long."
"Forever sounds perfect."
Six Months Later
You'd moved some of your books into the store's back room.
It had happened gradually. You'd leave one book, then two, then a whole shelf's worth. Eventually, you'd brought a blanket, a mug that lived in the kitchen, slippers that stayed by Jason's reading chair.
You hadn't officially moved in. You still had your apartment. But you were there more often than not, existing in Jason's space like you'd always belonged there.
"I need to tell you something," Jason said one evening.
You looked up from your book. "Okay."
"It's... big. And you might hate me for not telling you sooner."
"I won't hate you."
"You might."
"Jason." You set down your book. "Whatever it is, just tell me."
"I'm Red Hood."
You blinked. "I know."
"You—what?"
"I've known for a while. A couple months, maybe?"
"How?"
"You have the same voice. Same mannerisms. Same way of moving." You smiled. "Plus, you're both obsessed with protecting Crime Alley, and the timing of when you 'step out' always matches Red Hood sightings."
"And you're not... scared? Upset?"
"Why would I be scared? You're you. The suit doesn't change that." You stood up, crossing to him. "And I'm not upset you didn't tell me. I figured you'd tell me when you were ready."
"You're amazing."
"I'm patient. There's a difference."
Jason pulled you into his lap, and you settled there like you belonged. "I love you. I should have said it weeks ago, but I was scared—"
"I love you too." You kissed him softly. "I have for a while."
"Even though I'm a vigilante?"
"Even though. Especially though." You rested your forehead against his. "You protect people like me. People who can't protect themselves. How could I not love that?"
"People like you are the reason I do this."
"That's really romantic."
"I have my moments."
You kissed him again, and Jason thought about how far you'd both come. The quiet reader who could barely speak above a whisper. The bookstore owner with a violent alter ego.
You'd built something together in the quiet spaces. Something real and gentle and perfect.
"Hey," you said.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for making the world a little quieter. A little safer. For people like me."
"Thank you for existing exactly as you are."
"Even when I'm too quiet?"
"Especially when you're quiet. The world needs more quiet people. More gentle people. More people like you."
You smiled, settling against his chest. "Read to me?"
"What do you want to hear?"
"Anything. I just like your voice."
So Jason read to you, and you listened, and outside Crime Alley went about its noisy, chaotic business.
But inside the bookstore, there was peace.
There was safety.
There was love.
Quiet and gentle and perfect.
You eventually did move in officially, though it was hard to tell when it happened since you'd been gradually taking over Jason's space for months.
Mr. Darcy the cat also moved in and immediately claimed Jason's favorite chair.
You still came to the bookstore every Tuesday and Thursday, even though you lived there now. Some routines were too important to break.
Jason proposed with a first edition of your favorite book and a handwritten note inside that said: "You make the world quieter. Marry me?"
You said yes by nodding, too emotional to speak.
The wedding was small. Just Roy, Jason's family, and a handful of close friends. You barely spoke during the reception, but you smiled the entire time.
Your vows were three sentences long, spoken so quietly Jason had to lean in to hear them:
"You make me feel safe. You make me feel understood. You make me feel loved."
Jason's vows were longer, but they boiled down to the same thing:
"You taught me that quiet is powerful. That gentle is strong. That love doesn't have to be loud to be real."
And it was real.
So, so real.
In all the quiet, gentle, perfect ways that mattered.
relationships; platonic!batfam x neglectedbatsib!reader, Harry Osborn x neglectedbatsib!reader
⋆.˚summary; A freaky spider bite incident made your life a whole lotta messier.
tags; spidey!reader, angst, gender-neutral pronouns, not proofread, reader is Tim's age
TAGLIST IS CLOSED !!
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Waking up with superhuman everything definitely wasn’t on your Saturday agenda.
The valve being broken and spraying cold water just made you panic even more. You swore you were about to hyperventilate.
You probably already were.
"Oh my god, oh my go—" you tried to put the valve back—only for it to stick to your hand.
There were also those faint, weird slits along your inner wrists—easy to miss unless someone was looking for them.
You tried to remove the valve using your other hand by pulling on the other side, which was a dumb idea—obviously, because your other hand was now stuck to it too.
All the while water kept spraying on your damn face.
You try to take a step back, only to lose your footing and awkwardly flail your arms around with your hands still holding onto that damn valve.
You cursed yourself for deciding to brush your teeth after literally hanging from the ceiling.
Your feet kept scrambling to regain balance, forcing you backward—until your back hit the window.
And just by your luck—it was open.
Your body was halfway out the window, and you definitely did not wanna go out as a soaked idiot with sticky hands (and feet?).
"DAMN STUPID—" you grunted, "Just let go dam—"
and it did let go. By being thrown so hard across the room that it created a huge crater.
You dumbfoundedly stared at the comically massive hole in the wall, the valve right in the middle of it.
"I'm seriously gonna get in trouble," you muttered, regaining your footing and standing straight. You thought your head would be hurting by now from hanging outside—but if anything, you still felt as fit as a monkey on steroids.
Whatever that means.
Then suddenly, everything felt like it was in slow motion.
You were feeling everything but nothing at the same time—you wonder if you accidentally inhaled something.
You could hear the wind tickling the trees outside, the coffee machine whirring downstairs, the hastened steps about to enter your room—
And with super speed you definitely didn't have before, you open the door before the person could even turn the knob.
Alfred looked flabbergasted, not expecting you to open the door so fast since he couldn't even hear you approaching the door on the other side.
"Hiya Alfred!" you greeted too cheerfully—as if you weren't about to fall to your death earlier.
You probably (definitely) looked like a psycho right now—with your upper half being absolutely drenched and your hair looking like you fought a supervillain.
The old butler quickly recovered from his shock, his expression morphing into concern now.
"Master [Name], I heard a loud noise—are you hurt?" he assessed your physical well-being.
"No worries Alfredo! I'm super fine!" you weren't. Atleast mentally.
Alfred raised his eyebrow, obviously suspicious of your odd cheery behavior.
"Then may I ask what caused the loud noise?"
You hesitated, should you tell the trusty old butler the freaky stuff that's happened? You were sure that Alfred would believe you.
But there was still that sliver of a chance he'll tell Bruce—and you didn't want to be in a lab getting dissected like a frog.
And by your circumstances, you didn't want to take chances.
"I uh.. just fell out of bed, you know? clumsy ol' me." you rubbed the back of your hand with a sheepish smile.
The old man still didn’t look like he believed you—but he decided to drop the topic.
“Master [name],” he began, voice as calm and polished as ever, “might I inquire as to the whereabouts of your glasses?”
"Oh uh, I accidentally broke them again.." it wasn't out of the norm for you to accidentally break your glasses anyway—"I'm wearing my emergency contacts!"
Alfred sighed, "I see. We must get you a new pair—"
You waved your hand, "No need! I like wearing contacts now, heh.."
He raised his eyebrow slightly, probably concluding that you didn't wanna look like a nerd anymore.
"If you say so, master [name], seeing that your fever from last night has—"
You tuned Alfred out, your attention drifting as a sharp, hollow ache twisted through your stomach.
Hunger.
You were hungry—really hungry. You hadn’t realized how much your stomach had been begging and screaming for you to feed it.
"Master Tim also has a visito—"
"That can wait Alfred! Let us get some sweet breakfast!"
You thought you could wait for a few more minutes to politely wait for the man to stop talking—but you couldn't take it anymore. You could practically feel your insides eating each other.
You bolted past the butler, causing him to get startled at the sudden speed increase.
"Master?—" the butler blinked, staring at the same spot you were in five seconds ago.
You were already down the stairs—and you did notice the absolute powerhouse you were about to run into, thanks to your heightened senses, but you were moving too fast to stop.
Your head crashed into a brick wall.
Maybe you shouldn't have tuned out Alfred. Maybe he mentioned some new construction going on—
"What the—" you muttered, feeling strong hands envelop your shoulders to create distance between you and the brick wall.
"Woah, woah! Where're you going in a hurry?"
Since when can brick walls talk?
Your eyes met brick wall's—which was actually a human. A very handsome human at that. You were hungry for all the wrong reasons now.
You blinked owlishly, staring at the boy with dark, tousled hair and sunglasses resting on his head. He had a sharp jawline and piercing blue eyes. There was a certain punk edge to him, with the black leather jacket studded with spikes and all.
You recognized him as Conner Kent. Tim's best friend.
His hands slid down to his sides as he stood just a step below you. His gaze traveled over you—and you felt oddly insecure.
"Well, aren't you pretty." he smirked.
You raised an eyebrow. “Thanks?”
He opened his mouth—like he was about to toss out another flirty remark—but whatever it was died on his tongue.
For a second, he just looked at you—like he was weighing something.
Then—
“Gotta get goin’. See you ’round, though.” He gave a quick wink, slipping his hands into his pockets as he brushed past you, heading up the stairs—probably on his way to see Tim.
What a weirdo. A handsome one though.
You frowned, feeling a tinge of curiosity on why they couldn't meet down the BatCave or whatever they called it.
Your stomach grumbled, a harsh reminder of why you’d been bolting down the stairs earlier. With no time to lose, you headed down the last steps—this time a bit more graceful than before.
Luckily, it was that odd time between breakfast and lunch—meaning the family was out doing their own thing.
You see a meal already prepped down at the table, courtesy of Alfred.
You sat down and started eating right away—quicker than usual, barely giving yourself time to pause between bites.
You still had the decency to at least not act like a starved animal. Even though you felt like one.
“You’re eating rather quickly.”
The voice came from the doorway.
You glanced up to see Damian leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching you with a faintly raised brow.
You wondered why he wasn’t out in the garden slicing down already-trimmed large bushes or something.
He called it training.
You thought it was more like poorly disguised gardening.
You swallowed before responding, "I eat 12 year old boys pretty quick too."
The younger boy shot you a glare, clearly not amused at your jokes. You shrugged, shoving another slice of bacon in your mouth.
“Tt. Keep talking like that and I might test that theory myself,” Damian snapped, eyes narrowing. “Hurry up. Pennyworth is waiting for you outside.”
And with that—he left as quickly as he came.
He probably tastes bad anyway—
Crap. You forgot it's the weekend.
Which means you get to spend it at Uncle Ben’s—which is a good thing, of course.
You just don’t know how you’re supposed to hide… whatever’s happening to your body. You try to put the fork down—and, unsurprisingly, it sticks to your hand.
You groaned, hand rising to your face—then froze mid-motion. Yeah, no. You liked your eyebrows where they were.
You flailed your hand around, the fork stubbornly stuck to it—then, suddenly, a lightbulb went off in your head.
If panicking didn’t work—and acting like a local Gotham crackhead didn’t either—then… maybe staying calm would do the trick.
You took a deep breath, steadying your nerves. Just like you hoped, your sticky hand released the fork, letting it fall onto the plate with a soft clink.
You smiled in satisfaction before dumping the plate into the sink.
A win is a win.
Crack.
You stared at the sink, then sighed.
You didn’t even put it down that hard!
Alfred had left you at the doorstep not long ago, calmly listing off a few reminders about tomorrow—how he’d be back to pick you up in the morning for the Sunday family brunch. His voice had been as steady and patient as ever, like he already expected you to hesitate.
Sundays. The days Dick was home.
You didn’t like attending those brunches. You’d usually make an excuse—any excuse—not to show up. A headache. Homework. Suddenly remembering something “urgent.”
Alfred understood anyway.
The house in front of you felt warmer and easier.
As soon as you stepped into Uncle Ben’s house, the warm, sweet scent of Aunt May’s iconic blueberry pancakes wrapped around you like a hug. The air was thick with buttery goodness and just a hint of syrup, making your stomach twist again.
It was already lunch—and they’d normally cook something more savory, but you had a feeling pancakes were the main event today.
Your uncle greeted you. “Hey, kiddo.” He peeked over the top of his newspaper, the bold headline practically shouting—NEW VIGILANTE!
You smiled in response. “Good morning, Uncle Ben.”
You headed to the kitchen, catching sight of Aunt May setting down a fresh stack of pancakes.
“Aunt May! That smells delicious,” you said, sniffing the air—your senses overloaded with homebaked goodness.
Aunt May chuckled. “Help yourself. Ben!” she called out.
You took a seat, grabbed a fork, and took a huge bite.
The first bite practically melted in your mouth—warm, fluffy, and bursting with sweet blueberries.
Okay. Maybe this superhuman thing had one upside. You made a mental note to test your new abilities later.
“Woah—easy there,” Aunt May laughed, watching you demolish the first piece. “Don’t they feed you over there?”
You swallowed quickly, already cutting into another piece. “I am being fed,” you mumbled, mouth still half full. “Just—uh—growing. A lot.”
From the other room, Uncle Ben’s voice boomed, “Back in my days—”
You rolled your eyes, already bracing yourself from some old story.
“—I had a bigger appetite than that! Eat up, kiddo!"
He stepped in, wiping his hands on a towel, raising an amused eyebrow at your plate—which was already looking suspiciously empty.
Aunt May set another stack onto your plate, and you accepted it gratefully.
“Good thing I made extra,” she mused.
She took a seat across from you, while Uncle Ben settled into the chair beside you.
This—
this was what you considered family—home.
You mourned what could’ve been. You didn’t like dwelling on the past—but sometimes, you just couldn’t help it.
She would’ve been sitting right next to you. Probably laughing at your huge appetite—maybe a little suspicious, too.
She would’ve nudged your shoulder, told you to slow down before you choked—like you ever listened. There would’ve been that familiar warmth in her voice, something soft and teasing that made everything feel lighter.
For a moment, you could almost hear it. The faint echo of it, anyway.
Your grip tightened slightly, nails pressing into your palm as the thought slipped in deeper than you meant it to.
No point in chasing ghosts.
Even then, you also wondered what you would’ve turned out like if your mom were alive, if your family had been more financially stable.
She would’ve taken you out of Gotham, no doubt. She’d always dreamed of living in Metropolis.
Because of that, you’d dreamed of it too—the home of Superman… and, well, alien invasions.
Still better than the pollution and overall dump that was Gotham. That was for sure.
As you took another bite, Aunt May froze mid-air, her fork hovering.
“Ah! I almost forgot!” She set her fork down. “Are you going to invite that cute boy, Harry, over for dinner again?”
You groaned, warmth creeping up your cheeks,
“Aunt May!”
She had a habit of teasing you and Harry whenever she got the chance, always mentioning how she was your age when she fell in love with Uncle Ben.
You never thought of him that way—but there were times when you caught yourself noticing the little things. The way he listened to you ramble about nerdy stuff he wasn’t even interested in, or how he always looked out for you without making a big deal out of it.
It was stupid.
You didn’t think of him like that.
And he definitely didn’t think of you that way either.
“Yes… I’ll invite him over for dinner,” you said. “I’ll be out with him later, too.”
It was nothing new that you two hung out on weekends—it had practically become a ritual, whether grabbing coffee at that corner café or hitting the skateboard park where he liked to watch you pull off tricks.
He never seemed to mind staying for hours, even when you kept saying, “one more try.” He’d sit there, elbows on his knees, eyes following your every move.
Sometimes he’d clap when you landed something clean. Other times, he’d just smirk and shake his head when you wiped out—like he expected it, like he knew you’d get back up anyway.
And you always did.
Aunt May nodded with a knowing smile, while Uncle Ben tutted.
“Be careful. Stick to the safe spots, 'nd don't stay out too late.“ he reminded.
Uncle Ben hadn’t trusted Harry at first—he didn’t trust anyone with the Osborn name.
You’d tried to press him for answers, but he always deflected or told you that he'll tell you when he was ready. Which just made your already curious mind—even more curious.
But after meeting Harry—and hearing how you two met from him defending you from a bully—his view shifted. On Harry, at least.
He still hated Norman. And Oscorp.
“Right, kid, where's your glasses?” Uncle Ben hummed, eating a bite of the pancake.
“Oh, uh, I broke them. I’m wearing contacts.” The lie slipped too easily from your lips—it hurt to lie to Uncle Ben and Aunt May, but it was for the better.
The couple nodded in understanding.
Then, a bit of ceiling paint crumbled onto the table.
“Ben, you oughta fix that soon.”
Your uncle finished his pancakes and set his plate in the sink. You followed suit, picking up the plate Aunt May had just finished.
You had to be really gentle, careful not to break any more plates—you were already fifteen minutes behind from last time.
Sighing, you rolled up the sleeves of your jacket and headed to the sink. Warm, soapy water filled the basin as you carefully scrubbed each plate, making sure not to drop—or crush—anything.
Your uncle hummed from the living room, “[Name], run me an errand to the hardware store for some paint?”
You glanced over your shoulder, a plate still in hand. “Sure, Uncle Ben…”
You finished washing the dishes, drying your hands on a cloth. Uncle Ben slid a few crisp bills onto the coffee table.
“Nah, no worries,” you said with a grin. “I can finally put my allowance to use."
Uncle Ben laughed. “Don’t turn out like those snobby rich kids!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You went upstairs, the worn floorboards creaking under your weight. The old guest room that was only kept tidy for you and your mom had been made yours.
It was more decorated and lived-in than your room in the manor—even though you spent more time there. You took off your jacket, chucking it into the laundry basket.
You wrinkled your nose, tugging at the hem of your shirt.
Gross. You were still wearing yesterday’s field trip clothes.
With a quiet groan, you grabbed a change of clothes and slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. The familiar click echoed softly.
The shower didn’t take long—just enough to rinse off the day. Warm water washed over you, easing the stiffness in your shoulders, the faint scent of soap replacing dust and sweat. You stood there for a moment longer than necessary, letting the heat settle into your skin before finally turning it off.
A quick towel dry, a change into something clean, and you were out again—hair still slightly damp, but at least you felt human.
Much better.
You looked over at your drawer, grabbing a new jacket to put on. You grabbed your skateboard, which was resting against the wall, and tucked it under your arm.
You took out your phone, and opened the messages app to text Harry.
[You]
Hey, meet me at the café
You slipped your Walkman over your ears, letting familiar melodies flood your mind. You were about to tuck your crappy phone into your pocket when—
Ding!
Hare 🐰
You're healed already? I'm omw
Well that was fast.
The Walkman kept playing, muffling the quiet of the house as you adjusted the strap of your skateboard under your arm.
You just stood there in your room, listening—to the music, to the faint creaks of the house settling, to your own thoughts catching up.
Then your lips twitched slightly.
“…He’s definitely running.”
The small wheels of your skateboard grinded against the stone pavement of the sidewalk. It was cold, like it often was in Gotham—but it was colder than usual today. You shoved your hands in your pockets.
You couldn’t hear the blaring sirens of the police cars rushing by at a worrying speed, drowned out by your music.
For safety, you felt around the familiar buttons in your jacket to click stop and slid your headphones down to your neck. Even though you were stronger, it still didn't settle right in your chest.
It still feels like a dream—which is normal since its only been 6 hours you've gotten them.
The air felt heavier against your skin, every shift in temperature noticeable. The wind brushing past your face wasn’t just cold—it carried scents you couldn’t name, faint traces of smoke, metal, something burnt miles away.
You dropped your foot to the pavement, picking up speed.
A car sped past—too fast—and even with your music, you realized you would’ve heard it long before it turned the corner.
Then everything was in slow motion again—and it reminded you of your meeting with the pretty weirdo. Everything in your body was screaming one thing at you, which was to—
JUMP.
An old lady stepped into your path, her dog tugging slightly at the leash.
You flipped backward over her in one smooth motion, the world spinning once before snapping back into place.
Your wheels hit the pavement clean.
The old lady let out a shocked gasp, in which you looked over your shoulder in a sheepish grin. Other passerbys looked at you in shock, some giving u a smile that said—"that-was-cool-dude"
Whew, you had a whole lot of new tricks to show to Harry apparently.
You dragged your foot against the pavement, the rough scrape grounding you as your speed bled away. The board wobbled slightly beneath you before coming to a stop.
You stepped off, catching the skateboard by the edge before it could roll off, fingers curling around it a little too tight. The wood creaked faintly in protest.
Oops. Still not used to that.
Exhaling slowly, you tucked the board under your arm and glanced up.
The soft glow of a corner café spilled out onto the sidewalk, warm light cutting through Gotham’s usual gloom. The windows were slightly fogged, silhouettes moving lazily inside—but your eyes darted to the specific spot by the window.
There he was, your best friend.
Harry was wearing a navy blue sweater over a white polo, and his hair looked like he ran his hand through it—but somehow, every strand still seemed intentional.
He sat by the window, lazily scrolling through his phone while sipping from a paper cup—his usual order, you assumed, his name scribbled messily along the side. Another cup was next to him.
You pushed the door open.
A small bell chimed overhead as warmth wrapped around you instantly, chasing away the cold that had settled into your bones. The scent hit you next—coffee, sugar, something baked fresh.
"Hey!" you greeted.
Harry lit up immediately, setting his phone down on the wooden table as soon as he noticed you.
You let your skateboard rest against the wall beside you.
"Took you long enough, Wayne," he teased.
He slides over your drink, "Already ordered your usual, if that's alright."
You took the cup with a smile, "You really shouldn't have.."
Both of you knew this wouldn’t be the last time anyway—he’d done it multiple times ever since he memorized your order. You didn’t think he had any plans to stop, either.
You take a seat next to him, taking a sip.
Harry looked down at his cup, you could tell he has something on his mind.
"Spit it out," you flatly said.
Your best friend sheepishly smiled, "Am I that easy to read?" he sighed before continuing, "It's nothing. I was just really worried for you—and why aren't you wearing your glasses?" he raised his eyebrow, waving a hand infront of your face.
Oh right. Harry was the one who caught you when you almost fell down face first upon from leaving the bus—and drove you home.
He also sent a get well soon basket—that was really sweet. You were really grateful to have a best friend like him.
You caught his hand that was waving infront of your face, "Relax, moron. I'm wearing contacts. Also—I just have a really good immune system."
Harry tried to wiggle his hand free that you unconsciously had in a death grip—"Okay, when did you start going to the gym?"
You laughed, letting go of his reddened hand. He winced upon seeing it.
"I just been eating my greens, you know?" you take another sip of your drink.
A part of you wanted to tell your best friend and spill everything—from the scary figure outside Bruce's office to all the freaky stuff since this morning.
You doubted that he’d tell anyone—not even his father. From what you knew, they had a rocky relationship; you never really understood the details between them.
Sometimes, though, Harry would talk about him—casually, like it didn’t bother him at all. He’d mention something small, something almost normal, like a passing comment over coffee.
But other times, the moment his father was brought up, his expression would shift—his jaw tightening, his gaze drifting away, and he’d brush it off like the topic had never come up in the first place.
You would be lying if you said that it didn't taint how you view Mr. Osborn.
“Actually, Harry, I—” you started, but the words caught in your throat, hesitation settling in before you could push them out.
Would you really want to burden Harry with this?
You didn’t even know what you were capable of yet. If people started speculating—if something went wrong—he’d be dragged into it, whether he liked it or not.
Maybe some other time. When you understood more.
Your eyes flickered to Harry—his brows furrowed, like he was trying to read you—but your thoughts were all scrambled, tangled beyond recognition.
You forced a small breath out through your nose, "I mean—we have to go out and buy paint!"
Harry blinked, clearly thrown off—but he smiled anyway, "..Paint?"
"Well, yeah. Paint," you stand up, grabbing your skateboard and tucking it under your arm again.
He stood up aswell, leaving a tip on the table. But even as he did, he still looked at you—suspicion lingering in his eyes, worry etched into the slight crease of his brows.
The bell chimed softly as you stepped back into Gotham’s cold air. The warmth from inside faded almost instantly, replaced by the chill brushing against your skin.
You and Harry walked side by side down the sidewalk, the hum of distant traffic and city life filling the space between your thoughts. After a moment, he glanced at you again, as if deciding whether to say something—but whatever it was, he kept it to himself.
You felt bad for keeping him in the dark, but it was for the best.
Instead, he led the way toward a nearby retail store just a few blocks away, its bright signage cutting through the gray atmosphere. The kind of place that sold everything from basic supplies to paint and hardware.
The doors slid open with a soft whoosh as you both stepped inside, the air warmer, brighter, and filled with the faint scent of plastic, cardboard, and fresh supplies stacked neatly in aisles.
The cashier was a middle-aged man, smoking a cigarette while reading the newspaper; he barely looked up at the both of you.
You asked him if you could leave your skateboard at the counter, and he just grunted in response. You shrugged and set it down.
Harry and you made your way deeper into the store, weaving past neatly stacked shelves and scattered displays until the signs overhead pointed you toward the paint section.
He slowed his pace beside you, scanning the options with mild interest before glancing over. “So… what exactly are you looking for?” he asked, hands tucked casually into his pockets.
You slightly bit your lip, "Oh I actually don't know."
Your best friend shot you an incredulous look.
you sheepishly smiled—"Okay, sure, let's just eyeball this!"
Your eyes scanned the display as you started comparing shades of beige—each one slightly different in warmth, undertone, and depth.
Harry pointed at one of the colors, "How about this one?"
“We haven’t been inviting you over for dinner just for you to think we have a hot pink ceiling.”
You rolled your eyes at him, picking up a color that matched your memory the best.
"Speaking of dinner, Aunt May wants you to come over again," your hands reaches for the paint bucket, only for Harry to take it before you.
"Hell yeah I'm coming—" before he can continue his sentence, a bunch of dudes wearing a ski mask charged in.
The old man immediately dropped his newspaper down on the counter, and his cigarette was long forgotten. He eyed the men nervously.
You looked at them—there were three of them. Judging by their build, they looked to be around their 30s. The pack leader was pointing a gun at the cashier, who was about to reach for his own.
Woah, it feels like you're in Die Hard—wait no shut up, this is serious.
"HANDS UP, OLD MAN!" he shouted.
You and Harry glanced at each other, feeling the tension spike up in the store. It was only the two of you and the cashier dude currently.
He softly dropped the bucket of paint to the ground, with a soft clink.
You swallowed, dragging Harry by the arm as he hesitated, unsure of what to do, and pulled him to hide behind one of the shelves.
Good thing you guys were sorta hidden.
"Harry, call the police. My phone's dead." you whispered as lowly as you can.
Harry’s eyes flicked from the men to you, his expression tight with alarm. “Right—yeah—okay,” he muttered under his breath, already fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
The man with the gun stepped forward, waving it lazily but with clear intent. “Nobody move. This stays simple, yeah? Wallets, cash—everything in the bag.”
The cashier raised his hands slowly, trying to keep his voice calm. “Alright, alright—no need to do anything stupid.”
One of the other masked men moved toward the entrance, positioning himself like a lookout. The third lingered near the aisle, scanning the store.
The third one kept walking casually—as if he was just browsing around, but his direction was unmistakable. Each step brought him closer to your aisle.
You looked around frantically, if you didn't do anything now—
He stopped at the end of the shelf, glancing across the rows like he was checking for anything—or anyone—out of place. His head tilted slightly, as if something had caught his attention.
You heard a sharp crack echoed as the gun tapped against the glass counter.
"FASTER!" the leader snapped, and the one who kept walking closer and closer mumbled "show off," under his breath.
You looked over to Harry, who was talking hushedly into the phone, and nudged him toward the emergency exit that was only three feet away from the shelves you were hiding behind.
Harry followed your glance, his eyes landing on the exit—then flicking back toward the aisle where the third masked man still lingered nearby.
If he stood up and moved now, he’d have to cross a small stretch of open floor—just enough space to be seen if anyone looked in the right direction.
The steps of the third man was getting louder and louder and—
Okay, this might be the dumbest decision ever in your life, but drastic times call for drastic measures, right?
You take a paint bucket and hit the man square in the face.
For a split second, everything seemed to freeze—then the bucket clattered to the floor, paint sloshing as it tipped over.
The man you hit falls on the floor with a huge thud, knocking unconscious .
It immediately alerted the other men.
“What the—?!” the lookout barked, snapping his head toward the sound.
The leader at the counter whipped around, gun raising as his attention shifted from the cashier. “We got movement!”
You quickly pushed Harry to the way of the exit, "I'm not going without yo—"
“I'll be fine, just get out!” you cut him off, urgency sharp in your voice.
Harry’s eyes widened, conflict written all over his face. For a split second, he didn’t move—like he was about to argue again—but the approaching footsteps and shouted orders snapped him back to reality.
“Now, Harry!” you urged, giving him another firm push toward the door.
He hesitated one last time, jaw tight, then finally turned and sprinted the last few steps to the emergency exit. His hand slammed against the handle, and the door burst open with a loud metallic bang.
“HEY! THEY’RE RUNNING!” one of the masked men shouted.
Footsteps thundered in your direction as the group reacted, their focus shifting from the cashier to the aisle where you were.
"You better be out in five minutes!" he yelled.
Harry slipped through the exit, disappearing outside.
You were about to run with him, but you would be caught if the leader timed it good enough to get your head.
The weird slits on your wrists opened (gross), and you were about to grab another bucket of paint to throw—but suddenly, something clear and sticky shot out from your right wrist.
The realization hit you. The spider bite.
Time to use it to your advantage.
The web snapped forward, sticking onto the bucket of paint near with a soft thwip.
At the same moment, the masked man who had been guarding the exit stepped fully into view—now positioned directly in front of you, cutting off your line to the door. He had a gun raised, stance firm, clearly trying to block anyone from slipping out.
You reacted instantly.
Using the tension already in the web, you yanked hard, pivoting your body as the bucket swung up and out in a fast arc. The sudden motion carried the weight of the paint with it.
The bucket slammed straight into the man, catching him off guard and knocking his aim off-line as he stumbled backward with a sharp grunt.
Paint splattered across him, dripping down his mask and obscuring his vision as he lost his footing for a moment. His gun hit the floor, and you quickly kicked it out of reach.
“Hey—!” he shouted, arms flailing slightly as he tried to recover.
You shot more webs, at him—sticking him to the emergency door.
"Looks like you're stuck on the job," you mused.
The man strained against the webbing, muffled curses coming from behind his mask as he tried—and failed—to break free.
The leader, who had been waiting for the middle-aged man still taking his sweet time—and now realizing his partner hadn’t managed to sweep the floor with you and instead got his ass handed to him—snapped his attention back to you.
His posture stiffened. His grip tightened.
“Enough!” he barked, raising his gun and pointing it directly at you.
Without hesitation, he took a shot.
The gun cracked loudly through the store.
You nimbly avoided the shot, though the movement was a bit sloppy, forcing you to twist out of the way at the last second. The bullet struck somewhere behind you with a sharp crack.
The middle-aged man seized the moment—seeing the opening, he bolted past the aisle and darted straight out through the door, disappearing outside.
"I better get a discount for that paint!" you yelled at the old man, avoiding even more bullets coming right at you.
The leader repositioned for a moment, and you took the brief opening.
You reacted instantly—raising your wrist and firing a web straight at him.
The strand shot across the aisle and splattered right onto his face, sticking across his mask and goggles, blinding him mid-aim.
“—Gah!” he shouted, stumbling as his vision was completely cut off, his gun wavering as he tried to regain control.
You swiped the gun with your webbing again, swinging it right next to the stuck-on-the-door guy's gun.
The leader, now without a clear line of sight and clearly frustrated, dashed toward you, stumbling slightly as he tried to close the distance.
As he came within range, you stepped in and threw a quick, clean punch to his face.
The impact snapped his head back, and his body went limp almost immediately as he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
The door banged, making stuck-on-the-door guy groan in pain.
Right! Harry!
Without wasting another moment, you bolted for the emergency exit.
Pushing through the door, it burst open with a loud clang as cool air rushed in from outside. The flashing red and blue lights painted the area beyond the store in quick, strobing bursts.
Harry was just outside, his hand still raised as he was about to bang on the door one more time if you didn’t get out.
He immediately engulfed you into a hug, and the adrenaline rush quickly washed over. His unsteady, warm breath tickled the corner of your neck.
You pat his back, "I'm sorry."
Harry shook his head, his tense shoulders dropping down. Behind him, the flashing red and blue lights from the approaching sirens lit up the street, reflecting off the storefront windows. The sound of police vehicles grew louder, tires screeching as they pulled up nearby.
He breaks the hug, keeping his hands on your arms—gripping them like you were about to escape from his sight.
"So much for a quick errand run, huh?" you joked, and Harry was not feeling it apparently.
"Don't do that again, moron—" you were about to cut him off and say you did what you had to do, but he shot you a look.
One of the cops rushed over to you, and talked to Harry. This was no doubt going to be in the news, then.
Your best friend still hasn't let go of you—taking your hand and squeezing it for comfort. You let him, because the guy was obviously shaken up.
You could see the headlines already, "HEIR OF OSCORP CAUGHT IN RETAIL STORE SHOOTING!"
Maybe a small mention of you as an NPC.
You tuned out their conversation, your eyes scanning the alley. Your eyes landed on the numerous posters put up with humongous men with bulging abs striking a pose.
"FIGHTING MATCH! SIGN UP NOW FOR $$$$"
That could be a good way to really test your new spider powers for sure.
A/N; This took so long im whjsia i procrastinated this so bad. Btw my art comms r open... for whoever is interested (i need that ps4) I lowkey think this is sucky
relationship; platonic!batfam x neglectedbatsib!reader
⋆.˚summary; A freaky spider bite incident made your life a whole lotta messier.
tags; spidey!reader, angst, gender-neutral pronouns, not proofread, reader is Tim's age
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Breakfast at the Waynes’ was chaotic, loud, and messy.
Damian stood on a chair, rummaging through the cupboards—aggressively reorganizing the plates because the “gremlins” had ruined the order.
Steph and Tim argued across the kitchen island about whether chocolate chips belonged in pancakes.
Titus the Great Dane stole Duke’s sandwich while Duke was busy scolding Dick for letting the dog out—completely unaware that said dog had already committed the crime and disappeared. It was one of those rare days where Dick visited during the weekdays.
Cassandra watched the whole scene with quiet amusement, sipping her tea, while Bruce ate his breakfast in silence like it was a perfectly normal Tuesday.
Everyone might be in complete disarray or lost in their own worlds, but at least they were together. Like a family should be.
Too bad you weren’t there.
You had already woken up an hour early to do your usual routine. You were already dressed in your uniform, your hair blow-dried—only one thing left to do, which was the only reason you woke up so early.
Editing the photos for the debate team.
You had forgotten it was due today and silently cursed your past self for procrastinating.
Completely absorbed in adjusting the lighting on your laptop, with your record player humming soft tunes in the background, Alfred’s knocks on your door going entirely unnoticed.
It was only when he stepped into your room—carrying a plate of sizzling bacon and eggs with a set of cutlery—that you acknowledged his presence.
“Oh, Alfred!” You quickly turned your record player off. “Sorry ’bout that.”
“It’s quite alright, Master [Name]. We both know this will not be the last time,”
You sheepishly chuckled at his dry wit, placing a hand behind your neck. You had a bad habit of spacing out when you got too engrossed in something.
The butler set the plate on your desk. You took the fork and placed a piece of bacon into your mouth. You nodded—it was just the way you liked it.
“Are you sure you don’t want to join them for breakfast today, Master [Name]?” Alfred asked, and bless his old soul. He had been the only constant in your life so far—excluding Aunt May and Uncle Ben. He always tried to include you in the family in his own way.
“No thanks, Alfred. I’m busy doing something anyway,” you answered with a smooth smile, even though you knew it wouldn’t ease his worries.
“If you say so, Master [Name]. Please come down in thirty minutes.”
You nodded, watching the old man turn and leave.
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. In the past, you would’ve jumped at any opportunity to spend time with them—but you had learned your lesson over the past few years.
You would only break the familiar routine they had carefully curated anyway.
You grimaced at the memory of the entire room going from laughter to momentarily silence the moment you joined them. At first, you thought it was simply because they didn’t know you well enough—hence the awkward tension whenever you were around.
But for the past few years, you had done everything you could to relieve that tension.
You thought you’d get along with Tim, since you were the same age and shared similar interests—but he made it clear he wasn’t interested in being friends or anything familial for that matter.
He wasn’t exactly direct about it, but the subtle grimace on his face whenever you invited him to something was enough. You weren’t sure if it came from dislike or if he genuinely just “didn’t have time,” like he always said.
Whenever everyone was busy with their own things and Stephanie didn’t have anyone for movie night—you’d offer. She’d turn it down, saying you probably wouldn’t like the movie anyway.
You decided not to press it after that.
She would often have small conversations with you, like “How was school?” and “Did you eat yet?”—brief, polite exchanges that never quite turned into anything deeper.
Cassandra stared straight through you, as if she could see every thought running through your head. You always felt a little crushed under her gaze.
It felt like she weighed every flaw, every hesitation you carried. And no matter how small the interaction was, her presence left a mark—lingering in your chest long after she looked away.
You tried talking to her before, but she would answer shortly before walking away.
Damian had straight-up tackled and pointed a sword at you the first time you met.
That day was engraved into your memory, striking a kind of fear into your heart that you had never known before. Questions ran wildly through your mind.
Why was this kid running around with a katana?
Why was he so angry at you?
Did you do something wrong?
“You are not worthy.”
Was all he said before Dick dragged him away.
Dick spoke to you the next morning, explaining how Damian just needed more understanding, how he had gone through something difficult.
You were still shaken up, but you nodded. A part of you genuinely understood—why else would he be walking everywhere with a stick up his ass and a katana in his hands?
Dick simply patted your head and made another promise that surely would go broken again afterwards.
But a small part of you was frustrated and confused. Nobody gave you context or helped you up. Like, how did this 10 year old kick your ass so easily? Yeah you suck at fighting, but getting beat up by a ten year old was low. Even for you.
After that, Damian mostly ignored you or glared at you, which you were honestly happy enough to accept. What mattered was that no more swords were being pointed at your neck.
Later, you learned he had come from the League of Assassins after accidentally overhearing a conversation in the kitchen during a late-night snack run.
You didn’t really know what the League of Assassins was, but from context alone you understood he had survived brutal training.
You felt bad for him, after learning that. Not that you would ever say that to his face.
You missed how things used to be—with Dick.
Ever since Jason died, the distance between the two of you had only grown wider—something that couldn’t be easily bridged anymore.
At first it was small things. Him being “too busy” to attend your academic competitions, leaving your messages on read, and promises that never seemed to get fulfilled.
You missed when he used to take you to the arcade, when you played hide-and-seek around the manor, or when he posed dramatically as your muse for your childish sketches.
You don't even know if Bruce knows you exist beyond the lines on his paperwork that says he's your legal guardian and you live under his manor.
So seeing them every morning or evening—laughing over some inside joke you “wouldn’t understand”—made the ugly feeling that had settled in your stomach twist even tighter.
And after joining numerous breakfast gatherings, you simply had enough. Enough of being talked over and ignored.
Enough of sitting there with a half-eaten plate while conversations flowed around you like you weren’t even part of the room.
They always had time.
Just never for you.
Sometimes you'd wonder if you were a vigilante just like them, maybe they'd finally look your way.
You never entertained that thought for long, knowing full well the limits of your physical abilities. Still, the thought crept in every now and then, quiet and stubborn.
It was nice to imagine another version of you.
A version that could keep up with them.
A version of you that wasn’t sitting at the edge of the table, absentmindedly poking at your pancakes—but one perched on the ledge of a rooftop, talking about missions with the rest of the family.
You took one last look at the photos and decided they were good enough. After saving the file, you sent it to the newspaper club. Only then did your tense shoulders finally ease.
You let out a bitter chuckle before realizing you hadn’t finished your breakfast. Thinking about your family usually mades you space out—and more often than not, it made you lose your appetite.
Not wasting food had been drilled into your head since you were young, so you quickly wolfed down the remaining bacon and eggs. You set the plate on your desk, making a mental note to wash it and bring it downstairs later.
You were running late already.
You pressed down your blazer and carefully slid your beloved Walkman into one of the pockets. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you bolted out of your room and raced down the stairs, your heart beating faster with every step.
Damian and Tim were already in the car. You took your usual spot behind the passenger seat.
“Took you long enough,” Damian muttered under his breath.
You rolled your eyes, pretending not to hear.
Damian stared out the window while Tim fiddled with his phone as usual. You were slightly surprised he wasn't skipping school today.
You take out the earphones of your walkman, placing them over your ears. Slipping a hand into your blazer pocket, you feel around for the familiar plastic buttons before pressing play on the cassette.
There’s a small mechanical click as the tape inside begins to spin. A brief crackle of static fills your ears before the music settles in.
Time for another awkward car ride to school.
Academics has never been a struggle for you, and you were grateful for that.
Teachers sing praises whenever your name is mentioned, classmates talk about you in envy, and fellow academic geniuses seethe when you're near. Not that you mind—you like being the reason for people’s improvement.
You're grateful for it all. Especially whenever you see your classmates struggling to comprehend the latest chemistry lesson, and even more when you see the children who weren’t as lucky as you to be in a prestigious school.
The only problem was—you were a procrastinator and came off as a smug know-it-all.
Sure, teachers sing praises—but behind closed doors, they talk to you about how your talents are being wasted: falling asleep in class, doing everything last minute, always being late.
Intelligence is nothing without discipline, they say.
Struggling classmates don’t come to you, because when you explain things, it can sound like you’re trying to prove a point instead of helping.
You weren’t proving a point! you’re just… awkward.
At least you had one person amidst it all. Harry Osborn, your only best friend.
Speak of the devil, you mused.
Harry placed a hand on your shoulder, a smile that reached his eyes. His brown hair was perfectly styled, his teeth bright and white. In your books, he was the epitome of a pretty rich boy. Though that title could easily go to your brother, Dick.
"Hey! How was the car ride?"
You shrugged him off, returning his smile with a chuckle as he matched your pace, a book tucked under his arm.
"Uh, silent."
More than once, Harry had asked you to ditch your brothers and ride with him—but as tempting as that sounded, you didn’t want to come off as snobby like people already thought you were. Or worse, like a burden.
You hummed. "Don’t we have a chem test today?" you watched his mood drop instantly, barely holding back a snicker.
"DUDE," he groaned, clutching the book tighter as all the energy drained from his body in a zeptosecond, "WHY would you tell me this right before class?!"
You chuckled, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose. "When would you prefer I tell you?"
"When it’s not mere minutes before class starts! Also, this is NOT a laughing matter!"
You realized his pace had quickened—and you followed, laughing even more to his dismay.
"Cut me some slack, dude. I genuinely didn’t know until I heard people whispering about it."
"Yeah. Totally."
Harry pushed the door open—and the both of you froze at the chaos inside.
Groups were cramming in last-minute tutoring, others flipping through notebooks filled with colorful highlighters, and a few people were already on the verge of tears.
"Sheesh," you winced, rubbing the back of your neck. Harry shot you a look that screamed I told you so.
"Okay, c’mon," you said, grabbing his hand and dragging him through the chaos toward your seats, completely missing how he stiffened at the contact.
You let go once you arrived, setting your bag down and pulling out a pen. "Okay, shoot—we have like 15 minutes left. What do you need help with?"
Harry blinked, then quickly pulled out his notebook, flipping to the parts he didn’t understand. You walked him through it, simplifying terms and guiding him step by step.
"I think… I’ve got it," he said, nodding at his notebook now filled with circled notes.
You smiled. Harry was already smart—he just needed direction. "Yeah, you learn fast."
He looked away bashfully. "Nah, it’s because you’re a good teacher."
You sweatdropped. "I wish people thought the same."
The class had calmed down now—the clicking of pens, soft conversations, and flipping pages blending into a steady background noise.
"Huh—what are they saying—"
"Alright, take your pens out," the teacher cut in.
"Pass your papers!"
Half the class groaned, still scrambling to finish, as seatmates leaned across desks, whispering and comparing answers.
"Everybody quiet down," the teacher said, clearing her throat. "I have an announcement to make."
Probably another science fair, you thought.
“We will be having an educational tour to Oscorp Industries next week on Friday. I’ll be handing out consent forms now.”
The class erupted into cheers, already thrilled at the thought of a day with no regular classes.
You blinked, immediately snapping your head toward Harry.
“But you’ll have to write a four-page narrative essay about what you learned.”
The cheers immediately collapsed into a chorus of groans.
"Why didn’t you tell me about this?" you whisper-shouted.
Everyone you were close with knew how much you loved science—how you lit up during lab experiments, how you rambled about new tech or research whenever you got the chance. An actual tour inside Oscorp Industries? That was the kind of thing you’d usually be the first to know about, especially when your best friend is the son of the CEO.
Harry winced. "I thought you already knew. My dad mentioned the school asked weeks ago—I figured the teachers told everyone."
You stared at him like he’d committed a crime.
"Harry, that is literally the coolest thing you could’ve told me."
Your fingers tightened around the consent form the moment it landed on your desk, eyes scanning every word like it might disappear.
Then you grimaced at the words: Guardian signature.
You folded the paper and tucked it into your bag.
You’d figure something out later.
"Hey," Harry whispered, grabbing your attention.
"What?"
"I totally aced that test because of you," he said with a smug grin.
You hummed, about to tell him it was all him and his brain—when something—a paper ball hit the back of your head.
You turned, locking eyes with Flash Thompson.
Flash Thompson—the only guy who had the balls to bully you in public.
People avoided you because of your last name. They hid their jealousy and distaste well, knowing the weight it carried.
It meant nothing, of course—your family wouldn’t give two flying craps if you got bullied. But they didn’t need to know that, and you didn’t need any more targets on your back.
You were the “boring” Wayne in the newspapers, a leech in some, a nobody. When you were younger and read those words, you’d cry—what had you done to deserve that?
It didn’t matter anymore. The newspapers had stopped writing about you.
Everything was swept under the rug, scrubbed clean.
You didn’t know why, but you were grateful.
So when the burly blonde jock with vomit-colored eyes started picking on you for no reason, you weren’t exactly surprised.
Even though the newspapers had stopped talking about you, the weight of your last name—and the lack of any media attention—made people realize you weren’t as important as the rest of your family.
Most didn’t have it in them to actually bully you like Flash, but they’d still whisper behind your back or side with him just in case, keeping themselves on the ‘winning’ side.
Flash leaned back in his chair, a crumpled paper ball in hand, a smug grin plastered on his face as if he thought he’d won the world.
“Hey, Wayne,” he called, loud enough for half the class to hear.
“You forget your butler today or something? Who’s gonna carry your books?”
A few snickers rippled through the room.
“Hey—” Harry started, already half-rising from his seat.
You nudged him in the chest with your elbow, just enough to stop him. Harry blinked, glancing at you in confusion.
You gave a small shake of your head.
The last thing you needed was another argument that ended with the three of you sitting in detention while the teacher lectured about appropriate classroom behavior.
Harry slowly sank back into his chair, jaw tight. Flash noticed the whole thing, of course. His grin widened like he’d just won something.
“What’s wrong, Wayne?” he said, tossing the paper ball lazily in the air and catching it. “Too rich to talk to normal people?”
Instead of answering, you slung your bag over your shoulder and grabbed Harry’s arm, dragging him out of the classroom before he could even think about arguing back.
You were glad this was the only class you shared with Flash.
Behind you, you heard him scoff to his friends.
“Man, they’re boring.”
Walking toward the lockers, the hallway noise slowly replaced the muffled clamor of the classroom—students talking, lockers slamming, footsteps echoing against the tile floors.
“You do know ignoring Flash will just make him worse, right?” Harry leaned against the locker beside yours, clutching the textbooks you’d just shoved into his chest.
“Yep.” You popped the p, taking the books back and sliding them neatly into your locker.
“I don’t care. At least he’s not chucking gum into my hair anymore.” You shut the locker and punched in the code.
When you turned, you met Harry’s worried gaze—his lips pulled into a frown.
You gave his shoulder a light punch. “Worrywart.”
Harry didn’t smile right away, but after a second, the corner of his lips lifted—just a little. “Someone has to be.”
Actually, how you and Harry met was because of Flash.
He came into your rescue when you defended another innocent student from Flash—you wonder if that’s the reason he’s been throwing darts at your back ever since. For standing up to him.
Flash had shoved you hard enough to send you stumbling forward, the camera hanging from your neck snapping taut as the black lanyard dug into your skin. The impact threw you off balance, and you hit the ground hard, the camera slamming against the floor with a sharp crack.
For a second, you didn’t even move—too busy processing the sound.
“Nice one,” someone laughed.
You pushed yourself up quickly, hands going straight to the camera, fingers hovering like you were almost scared to touch it.
Before you could check the damage, someone stepped in front of you, blocking out the noise.
Harry.
You barely knew him, even though you shared half your classes—only knowing he was the son of the renowned scientist Norman Osborn, someone you admired.
He didn’t look at you right away.
“Seriously, Flash?” he said, voice low but cutting through the noise of the hallway. “What’s your problem?”
Flash let out a scoff, like it was all a joke. “Relax, Osborn. Didn’t even hit them that hard.”
“You shoved them,” he said flatly. “Over nothing.”
There was a beat of silence—just enough for a few nearby students to start paying attention.
Flash’s expression shifted, annoyed now. “Stay out of it.”
“Or what?” Harry shot back, not raising his voice, but not backing down either. “You gonna shove me too?”
For a second, it actually looked like Flash might.
Then he rolled his eyes instead, muttering something under his breath before turning away. His friends followed, their laughter a little less confident this time.
Only then did Harry lean down beside you, like the whole thing hadn’t just happened.
He gently lifted your camera, inspecting it with careful hands, turning it slightly to catch the light. His brows pulled together, focused.
“It’s fixable,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
He glanced up at you, like it was obvious. “The lens is a bit off, and the casing took the hit, but it’s not completely broken.”
He adjusted the strap so it sat more comfortably around your neck before working on the camera itself—tightening what he could, fiddling with parts you didn’t even know could be fixed without tools. You just stood there, watching, a little stunned.
By the time Flash and his friends lost interest and walked off, Harry was still there.
When he finally handed it back, it wasn’t perfect—but it worked.
“You should be more careful,” he said, almost absentmindedly.
Ever since then, Harry Osborn stuck to you like glue.
You figured if you made Bruce sign that consent form—it’d get buried under all his papers and be forgotten (like you).
And there was just no way you were going to knock on his office door and talk to him.
'Oh hey, dad that I haven’t talked to in four years, can you sign this consent form?'
'Oh, of course, anything for my child!'
You frowned. Yeah, not happening. Not in a thousand years.
So you got resourceful—by surfing the web, hard.
If you could find anything he’d signed before, maybe you could copy it. Forge it clean enough.
Obviously, nothing came up. Damn your father’s carefulness—and tech. You hadn’t seen said tech, but since he’s a billionaire (and Batman)—obviously he’d have pretty high-end stuff.
You clicked another news article—dead end.
Sure, you could ask Aunt May and Uncle Ben to sign—but your teachers?
They’d definitely look twice.
They’d especially look at yours, because who wouldn’t want to see billionaire, philanthropist, playboy Bruce Wayne’s signature?
And if it wasn’t his—
You rubbed your chin, deep in thought. Maybe sneak into his office? No way… No—
Wow. It’s messier here than your room. And that said a lot, considering you left things scattered around.
You huffed. It was late at night, and the rest of the family was out doing rounds. Except for Duke—but you were sure he was sleeping soundly in his bedroom.
Speaking of Duke, you hadn’t spoken to the guy at all. He was one of the only people in this family who seemed to tolerate you, though.
You used your phone to light your way through the dark office, careful not to bump into anything or touch anything else.
You reached for a random document from the top of the paper stack, then pulled out your phone’s camera to take a picture.
You saved it in your gallery and put the document back. It wouldn’t be for another three hours before they got back, so you decided to look around.
You went behind the desk, looking at the two picture frames. One of them was perfectly polished and clean—it was a photo of your siblings and Barbara. You didn’t even know they had a family portrait taken.
The other was dusty, like it hadn’t been cleaned in a while—you could barely make out who the person in the frame was.
As you were about to pick it up and slighty dust off the grime, you felt something—no, someone—staring at you from outside the window.
That couldn’t be. You were many floors up—but the shiver down your spine said otherwise.
You retracted your hand to your side, leaving the picture frame alone.
The air felt wrong and heavy—a stark contrast to five minutes ago.
You looked behind you, at the windows.
There was nothing.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, your jaw tightening. You took your time walking back to the door, scared that if you made any sudden movements—any sign that you knew something was out there—the figure would find a way in and kill you.
The manor was armed, its security tight. So whoever—or whatever—this was, you wanted nothing to do with it.
As soon as your sweaty palms twisted the doorknob and you shut the door behind you—that was when you finally bolted to your room, adrenaline rushing through your veins.
The manor’s hallways had never felt this refreshing.
You swore you got to your room in record time, the adrenaline rush wearing off as you collapsed onto your bed.
You breathed heavily, staring blankly at the ceiling.
The glimpse of red was nothing, right?
It was nothing.
You couldn't sleep that night.
Well—you did. But at every little sound, your eyes would burst awake.
The weekend you spent at your Uncle and Aunt’s helped, though. You thought of telling them about what happened that night, but you decided against it.
It wouldn’t do any good to worry the poor old couple.
You’ve already worried them enough by telling them how you were treated in the manor.
You also thought of telling Bruce—or Dick. That someone bypassed the manor’s security and was right outside the office window.
But then… would they listen to you? Or believe you?
They’d probably focus on the fact that you sneaked into the office.
You told one person, though.
A dead one.
You made it a habit to visit Jason’s grave every Sunday. You usually said everything on your mind while sitting criss-cross in front of his gravestone. Sometimes, you’d light a small candle for him—or on special occasions, a flower.
You sighed, running a hand down your face.
You decided to let it go.
Worry about it another day—because you’ve been thinking and worrying about it all week. To the point Harry noticed—he always notices, but still.
Even the tunes that usually calmed you down didn’t work.
You just wanted to enjoy yourself today—especially since you were on the bus, on the way to the industry you’ve always dreamed of visiting and working at.
Harry was sleeping soundly beside you, his mouth slightly open, his head resting on your shoulder. You looked at him with a bit of envy—how he could sleep without a care in the world.
The bus slowly screeched to a stop, making the students inside stir in excitement.
You also couldn’t help the spark of excitement that bubbled up.
You turned toward the window—and froze.
The building towered over everything else in sight, impossibly tall, its glass exterior catching the sunlight so sharply it almost hurt to look at.
Steel and mirror stretched endlessly upward, floor after floor disappearing into the sky like it had no end. Your eyes traced the structure until your neck tilted back slightly, your breath catching without you realizing it.
And then there it was.
OSCORP.
The letters ran straight down the side of the building, bold and unmistakable—each one massive, large enough to be seen from blocks away. The sleek, metallic font gleamed against the dark glass.
You tried to shrug Harry awake, making him stir on your shoulder and mumble, “Five more minutes…”
“Five more minutes till I beat your ass?” the teacher clapped twice, gesturing for everybody to get off the bus.
You slapped Harry awake.
“Fine, fine… I’m comin’…” he grumbled, slinging his backpack over his shoulder while rubbing his cheek.
You practically bounced out of the bus the second the doors hissed open, your shoes hitting the pavement with barely contained energy. The strap of your camera tugged against your neck as it swung forward, the black lanyard bouncing lightly against your chest with every step.
Harry trailed right behind you, hands in his pockets like it was any other Friday. He even seemed more interested in the seagulls fighting over a piece of bread.
Around you, your classmates spilled out in clusters, voices overlapping in excited chatter—but it all blurred into background noise.
“Woah, woah—nerd alert,” Harry called out, watching you take pictures of the building for the school newspaper.
“Oh, shut up.” You rolled your eyes.
The tour guide introduced herself—Ms. Stacy, an intern for Oscorp—telling the students that they, too, could apply for an internship next year.
You obviously would be applying.
Ms. Stacy led you all inside, and the lobby stretched wide and impossibly high—all glass and polished steel, the floors so spotless they reflected your shoes with every step. Light poured in from towering windows, but it didn’t feel warm—it felt filtered. Precise.
Right at the center stood a massive digital display, glowing softly as it cycled through projections—DNA strands twisting in slow motion, mechanical arms assembling microscopic parts, holographic schematics shifting and reforming like they were alive.
The class looked around, jaws dropped. Someone even let out a low whistle of amusement.
You rubbed your eyes behind the lens of your glasses, making sure this isn't a dream.
People in crisp lab coats and sharp suits moved through the space with purpose, badges flashing at their sides.
“This is just the main lobby,” Ms. Stacy said, her voice echoing slightly as she walked ahead, heels clicking against the floor. “Most of Oscorp’s research happens in restricted areas—but today, you’ll be seeing some of our public sectors.”
*Click!*
The sound of your camera echoed softly. Your grade had been walking from lab to lab for the last three hours, taking in all the information and sights. Of course, you’d been yapping Harry’s ear off the entire time.
This one display was all kinds of rare spiders. Some had been experimented on.
“[Name],” Harry called, lifting a hand to catch your attention.
“Hm?” you turned, seeing him beside a glass cage holding a particularly large and cooler one.
“Take a picture of me beside this one,” he said, flashing that signature smile, dipping his head so the spider was perfectly framed.
You chuckled, lifting your camera.
“Hold still—don’t blink this time,” you muttered, adjusting the focus carefully.
*Click!*
“Okay, peace sign next,” you said, lowering the camera slightly.
Something light tickled your wrist. You barely noticed, assuming it was lint.
*Click!*
Harry was called by the teacher—making him turn his attention away from you momentarily.
You lowered your camera, looking through the photos you'd just taken. The images flickered across the screen—spiders of all shapes and sizes, some eerily still, others crawling along their cages.
Before you could react, sharp pain shot into your wrist. Your breath caught—teeth sucked in air fast, almost choking on it.
“Ah—!” you jerked your hand back, the camera swinging wildly on its strap. Your pulse slammed against your temples as you stared at your skin.
Two tiny puncture marks had already appeared, angry and red.
You killed the spider with no hesitation, flinging it off to the side.
"Damn.." you look over to your wrist, checking to see if anymore damage has been done. It didn't look like anything serious—but you'll definitely need to get it checked.
"[Name]! Teach wants to see the photos!"
"Ah—right!" you fumbled with your camera for a bit, hands clammy from the sudden pain the spider brought.
You'll head to the hospital later. For now, you made sure to cover your wrist with your jacket's sleeves as you ran to the teacher's side.
It won't be venomous, right?..
It was just your luck to get a spider bite.
The ride home was nauseating. All you wanted to do was eat a whole feast or jump into bed and hibernate.
You aren't sure which of the options to do first, but any will do.
Harry peeked down at your head lying limply on his shoulder, worriedly. He’d been kind enough to call his chauffeur to drive you home—since the bus had left the students at the bus stop.
You weren't in a good condition to call Alfred, since you could barely use your phone without shaking.
"Are you sure you don't wanna go to the hospital? You're burning up."
"..No, I'm fine. Just a cold." you meekly replied.
A few more minutes pass, and the driver pulled right outside the manor's door. You wonder how they got through the gate (Harry took your phone and messaged Alfred.)
Alfred was already waiting—you weren't sure, all you could see was a blob of grey and a balding spot.
A few conversations were exchanged before Harry and his chauffeur left, driving to the exit.
You could definitely stand and walk on your own, but your vision was impaired more than usual. You swore you were going to kill yourself if you had to get any thicker lenses.
Also, why is it so hot? Did they crank the AC to the lowest setting?
"Come along, master [name]." Alfred's voice and arm guided you, leading you upstairs to your room.
You weren't quite sure what happened after you got to your room—everything was a blur.
You rubbed your eyes, squinting from the rare sun shining over Gotham's early morning.
You reach for your glasses at your bed side table, before sobering up and realizing your vision is already perfect.
You touch your face, wondering if you forgot to put it off.
You blink owlishly.
And your body feels lighter than normal, healthier and stronger even—
Why is everything upside down?
You were on the ceiling. Your fingers and toes are quite literally sticking on the ceiling.
"Oh my god, oh my god—" you panicked, lifting your hands away from the ceiling.
You are now standing upside down.
You flail your arms around, your breath panicked and fast. Eventually, you fall down your bed—letting out a small "oof".
Looking around your room, you see a little basket that wasn't there yesterday. It was filled with medicine and fruit, signed with Harry's signature.
How did you even read that? The post-it was practically miniscule from your bed.
You suddenly sense everything in your room, the ants crawling, the tiny cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling—
You slap your cheeks.
Shaking your head, you stumble to the bathroom. Brushing your teeth would definitely clear your head.
You attempt to turn on the valve.
It broke.
The cold water sprinkled everywhere on your face, reminding you that—no, this was not a dream, and you had just woken up feeling like Superman.
Nothing like after-fever euphoria, am I right?
A/N; rewatched tobey's spiderman, and i was like yo why harry highkey cute?? did anyone find the secret extra scene..
relationship; platonic!batfam x neglectedbatsib!reader
⋆.˚summary; A freaky spider bite incident made your life a whole lotta messier.
tags; spidey!reader, angst, gender-neutral pronouns, not proofread, reader is Tim's age
next
You sat on one of the chairs outside a certain hospital room.
Room 56.
The number felt engraved into your mind by how many times you had reread it. Your foot tapped against the clean tiled floor while your hands fiddled with the wires of your walkman.
Your walkman. Your mother bought it as a gift last year, using nearly every last scrap of her paycheck as a diner girl. You remember being so grateful that you weeped into her arms. Your mother was always a thoughtful person that always made the most out of nothing. She also loved music herself, creating a mixtape just for you to listen to.
The music playing from the walkman was the only thing keeping you grounded to reality—the only thing keeping you from hearing the hushed whispers inside the room.
Your gaze stayed fixed on the pristine white wall that seemed to stare back at you. Every second that passed felt like the walls were closing in. The hallway that stretched before, seemed to get shorter and shorter and shorter until—
A large hand gently pulled the walkman down from your ears to your neck, snapping you out of your thoughts.
It was your uncle.
You searched his face for the usual gleam in his eyes—looking for a sign that could give you even the slightest bit of hope that everything would be fine.
That your mother would be fine.
You found nothing.
“Kid. She wants to see you.”
Your throat tightened with unease, forcing you to swallow as you grabbed his hand while he guided you into the room.
Your heart clenched when you saw your mother lying on the hospital bed. The room smelled of disinfectant, filtered air, and sterile packaging, making your shoulders tense even more.
It was nothing like the smell of freshly baked bread your mother used to bring home after every shift for dinner. Nothing like the cheap perfume you always smelled when you hugged her goodbye.
And that fact terrified you.
The thought that you might never smell those familiar, comforting scents again—the realization that this was very much real.
Your mother looked sickly pale, the usual pink of her lips and the warmth in her cheeks completely drained. A thin, clear plastic tube rested lightly across her upper lip. Her weak, trembling hand lifted slightly, reaching out for you.
Your uncle placed a hand on your shoulder, giving you just enough courage to step closer and take it.
Your mother’s hand lacked the warmth it used to have, but it was still hers. Your smaller hand gently wrapped around her fragile, calloused fingers.
Your eyes met her dazed, glassy ones. With the back of your other hand, you wiped away the tears that hadn’t even fallen yet.
“Mom?” you whispered weakly. “Are we… going to be okay?”
Even though you already knew the answer, your childish heart couldn’t accept it yet. It still clung desperately to that last foolish shred of hope.
Your mother couldn’t answer your question.
Instead, she placed a small, flat gift box into your other hand, the wrapping colored in your favorite shade. You held it there for a moment before your arm slowly dropped to your side.
“Open it when I’m gone, okay?” your mother managed a faint, fragile smile before her eyes fluttered closed.
Your stomach dropped as you clenched the small box in your hand. The one holding hers turned clammy.
“Your… father will take,” her voice cracked, “ca… re of you.”
The sound that followed was the heart monitor flattening into a steady tone.
Tears streamed down your cheeks as the reality of what had happened finally settled in, yet you still held tightly onto your mother’s limp hand.
You stood there for what felt like hours, holding on to someone who was no longer in this world.
The following days seemed to blur together. You dont even remember how many weeks has passed since then.
You were staying at your uncle and aunt’s house, staring blankly at the evening cartoon show playing on the ancient television. Your uncle was fixing something in the kitchen while your aunt supervised the old man, saying something along the lines of, “Yer old bones will probably slip and fall before you even finish the job.”
Grief still lingered in all of your hearts, but you could tell your aunt and uncle were holding it together for you.
You were coping better with them around, but on some days you were inconsolable. You would lock yourself in the room upstairs and cry while listening to your mother’s mixtape. You hadn’t had the heart to open her gift yet, keeping it safely tucked away in the drawer beside your bed.
The feeling that you would never again see your mother walk through the door of your shared home—or feel the warmth of her embrace after her long days of wiping tables and jotting down orders just so you could eat—clung to you like gum tangled in hair.
Your uncle and aunt’s house was a place you and your mother often stayed whenever she couldn’t pay the rent on time. It was a second home to you, and the familiarity of it slightly eased the heaviness that had been haunting your mind.
You hugged the worn throw pillow closer to your chest, the grainy sounds of the television fading into background noise. You could hear muffled voices coming from the kitchen, but your mind filtered most of it out. The only words you managed to catch were “Wayne” and “coming” before you succumbed to sleep.
A soft knock on the door woke you.
The bedroom you were staying in was one of the guest rooms the old couple always kept clean, just in case you and your mother needed somewhere to stay. It felt strange sleeping in a bed without your mother beside you.
Your uncle must have carried you upstairs. You could already imagine him saying something like, “Still got it in me, huh?” which made a small smile tug at your lips.
You pushed the blanket off and walked down the hallway for breakfast.
You wondered what you’d have today—maybe pancakes? Aunt May’s pancakes were always enough to brighten your morning.
When you entered the kitchen, you saw your uncle gruffly reading a newspaper, though you could tell his eyes weren’t really on the page.
Then you noticed the British old man sitting in your seat.
A British old man… dressed like a butler.
Your eyes snapped back to him.
“Who…?”
The sleepiness in your veins suddenly drained, replaced by a creeping mix of unease and nerves.
A thousand questions raced through your mind, all jumping into weird conclusions. Was he a super spy agent? A boarding school headmaster come to take you away? The leader of a mafia gang-
You shook your thoughts away, settling to look at your aunt for an answer. Aunt May sat in her usual chair, looking at you with a deep frown and a crease between her brows.
“Sit down, my child.”
You hadn’t noticed the tension in the room earlier, but you definitely felt it now. You took slow steps forward and sat in the only empty seat—right between the butler and your aunt.
Your aunt placed a hand on your shoulder as she explained everything.
How billionaire Bruce Wayne is your father.
And how he would be taking you in.
You were outraged at first. How could they just leave you with a man you’d only ever seen on television screens?
But even your young mind could understand why.
Aunt May and Uncle Ben were getting old. Their pension barely covered their own needs. They simply wouldn’t be able to take care of an eight year old.
A small part of you had already known that. Your mother’s last words rang in the back of your mind like church bells that never stopped.
With teary eyes, quiet goodbyes, and promises that you would visit, you left your second home with the butler whose name you learned was Alfred.
You called him “sir” at first, to which he kindly told you to call him Alfred instead. A sleek black expensive car was waiting for you outside, it was a complete contrast to the environment around it.
Alfred opened the door for you, and you muttered a small thank you in response.
The car seats were more comfortable than any bed you had ever slept on, making you feel even more out of place. The shiny, luxurious leather felt wrong beneath a scrappy kid from Crime Alley.
The Gotham streets looked depressing as always before eventually fading into the high-end neighborhoods, where everything looked swell and dandy. You couldn’t help the jealousy that twisted in your chest. You wondered how life must've been for them.
The privilege of never having to worry about waking up alive the next day.
The drive took a long time—so long you might have fallen asleep if it weren’t for your thoughts racing through your head at what felt like 670 miles per minute. You were excited to see your father, but at the same time angry at him.
Why couldn’t he have been there for you and your mother?
Where was he when you had to prepare dinner using almost-expired ingredients? Where was he when your mother cried quietly in the living room, thinking you were already asleep?
If only he helped your mom—
You shook your head.
As much as you wanted to scream, cry, kick your feet, and blame your father—your mother didn’t raise you to do that. She raised you to be kind. To be a good child.
So you swallowed the feelings and bottled them up.
The entrance to the manor made you hold your breath. You were pretty sure you almost fainted in awe just from looking at it.
It was obviously old—but not the kind of old you were used to.
The old you knew meant cracked wall paint, a small beaten-down door, and a doorknob that looked ready to fall off at any moment.
This kind of old was different.
Vintage.
Its walls were weathered and streaked with age, yet you could still tell it was as sturdy as the day it had been built. The gothic architecture made your hungry eyes wander across every carved detail and towering structure.
The car finally stopped, and the butler stepped out of the driver’s seat before opening your door.
“Thank you, Alfred,” you muttered meekly. Everything felt so new. It was safe to say you were overwhelmed and freightened for what the future holds.
Your stomach grumbled, reminding you that you had forgotten to eat breakfast because of all the commotion.
“It is no problem, Master [Name]. I will prepare a meal for you after I show you to your room.”
You nodded, your cheeks turning slightly red with embarrassment. So far, you liked Alfred even though you've only known him for 20 minutes. He seemed polite, calm, and elegant.
The butler led you through the entrance of the manor. You had expected to see your father waiting for you, but he was nowhere in sight.
Alfred must have noticed your glance around the room.
“Master Bruce is busy at the moment.”
You tried to ignore the small tinge of disappointment those words brought.
He guided you up the grand staircase, and at the same time a young man was walking down.
You recognized him immediately.
Dick Grayson.
You remembered being entranced while watching his performances on television, seeing him perform acrobatic moves with effortless grace.
You had almost forgotten that your father had taken him in.
Which meant he was your older brother now.
Your stomach twisted with excitement at the thought of having the Dick Grayson as your older brother.
You peeked from behind Alfred’s back, your eyes gleaming with curiosity. Dick’s face shifted into confusion before he chuckled softly and walked over to you.
“Hey! B didn’t tell me there was a new kid!”
He leaned down to your height, looking you over curiously. You looked almost exactly like your mother, but there were certain features that made it obvious you were Bruce Wayne’s child too.
“Hi…” you said quietly.
You didn’t know how to address him. Would it be weird to just call him Dick? But calling him Grayson felt too formal.
“You can call me Dick. Your new big brother!” he said brightly, offering you a warm and reassuring smile.
You couldn’t help but smile back, which only made his grin grow wider.
You told him your name in return, and he straightened back to his full height.
“C’mon, I’ll join Alfred and walk you to your new room.”
He held out his hand for you to take. After a moment of hesitation, you reached out and held it.
When the three of you arrived at your room, Alfred informed you that he would be preparing your meal and would come get you once it was ready. Dick gently patted your head before telling you he’d see you later.
The room was nothing like anything you had ever seen before.
It was spacious and grand. The walls were smooth instead of covered with peeling wallpaper, and the bed didn’t creak when you sat on it.
You rested there for a few minutes before unpacking your things, carefully folding your clothes into the large dresser and placing your beloved walkman into your pocket.
The last thing you pulled from your bag was the small gift your mother had given you.
You stared at the worn wrapping paper and the slightly crooked bow.
Then you quietly placed it inside the drawer beside your bed once again.
The first few months flew by like a harsh, cold, and relentless wind. The transition from living like a street rat to wearing niche designer clothes was incredulous, to say the least.
Your father transferred you to a private school, but you haven't seen him since you last delivered tea to him (which has been very, very long).
The incident happened around the second week of you settling in the manor, and your father was still radio silent about you. About anything.
You wanted answers—about how he met your mother, about everything. And a part of you just wanted to be with him, and bond like any other father and child. You never had any male figure growing up in your life after all.
You decided to ask Alfred for help on how to communicate to your father while he tended to the garden.
He told you that Bruce usually drinks his afternoon tea while doing paperwork, and accompanied you to deliver said tea. Nervousness flooded your whole body, you wondered if he'll like you or hate you.
Alfred knocked twice on the door and opened the door, "Master [name] was kind enough to deliver you tea this afternoon, Master Bruce."
You went into his office, walking over to the desk that was practically covered by stacks of paperwork. Bruce didn't even look up at you from the paper he was signing, only letting out a small grunt as a sign of recognition.
He had dark, slightly tousled locks and pale skin, the kind that suggested long nights and little rest. His face was sharp and composed, with a strong jaw and tired eyes that barely lifted from the paperwork in front of him.
"Good afternoon, fath-"
"Place the tea right there." he gestured to the one empty spot in his desk. His tone was void of any even a little of affection or fondess. You placed the tray down and quietly stepped back. Humiliation pricked your skin, bitter and unresolved.
Alfred walked right beside you, noticing your disappointment and placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. He asked you if you'd like to help bake cookies, and you agreed. You were always fond of baking, you know now that this was the old man's way of cheering you up.
You also quickly realized that indifference stung more than hate ever could.
After that, you mostly kept to yourself or spent time with Alfred. Occasionally, you would play games with Dick or watch a movie, though he wasn’t around much anymore ever since he moved to Blüdhaven. Still, you made sure to spend time with him whenever he visited the manor.
Alfred dropped you in school for the first day, leading you to the entrance and covered you from all the cameras and eager journalists wanting to get a new scoop on Bruce Wayne's new child. You already had bad eyesight and you were sure it had worsened since that day, yikes.
You always had a knack for science and mathematics, so you weren't at all too worried about keeping up your grades with the other students. You didn't exactly have any friends yet, but you're sure they'll come around soon. (Actually, only a bit of teeny tiny sure.)
The people from school didn't exactly like you, but they didn't dislike you either. People cared enough to make rumours circling around you, but never enough to actually make the effort to talk to you.
You'd visit or stay at your uncle and aunts place every weekend. They always smothered you with love and affection, making you sometimes not want to return to the manor at all.
You liked living at the manor, but you didn't exactly love it.
You loved Alfred and Dick, even when Dick wasn’t around much anymore. You still held hope that your father would come by soon—he was a busy man, and that maybe, you just caught him at a bad time when you first met.
Sometimes, the manor would feel too cold. Too big for a child like you. The halls stretched endlessly, quiet and empty, your footsteps echoing against the polished floors.
You often felt as though the paintings lining the hallways had eyes, their gazes following you as you passed, silent witnesses in their heavy gilded frames.
Then Jason Todd came.
As soon as Alfred told you that you'll be having a new older brother, you didn't know what to think of it. But one thing was for sure, you were excited. Especially knowing he was only a year or two older than you.
You came down to greet him as soon as he arrived to the manor and everybody with eyes could tell you both hit it out insanely well.
You could relate to Jason, since both of you lived and grew up in similar conditions.
The two of you spent your days playing out the in the sun, he helped you with homework (even though you didn't need help, you just wanted to spend time with him), and have dumb conversations that never seemed to end.
Your days in the manor were a whole lot brighter with him around, that's for sure. You found that you weren’t afraid of the dark hallways anymore, and the space beside you always felt filled.
The both of you were in the Manor's library, sitting next to each other with shoulders touching. You were reading a random book that you deemed interesting enough and jason was probably reading another boring classic.
The silence between you was comfortable, but as always, you disturb it.
"Don't you think robin should wear longer shorts or pants?"
Jason stiffened, but you didn't notice. Your eyes was focused on reading the same paragraph of your book.
"What's wrong with the shorts? I think it looks just fine." He grumbled, slightly shifting his position on the couch.
"Okay well, for one it just doesn't suit him. If I was a villain and saw a kid wearing those shorts I would feel bad for him instead of breating him up."
"You can't call robin a kid, he literally looks older than you." Jason glares at you, but you ignore it. Instead playfully giggling.
"Are you a robin fan boy? Why are ya so mad?"
"I'm not a Robin-" he runs his hand through his face, knowing that it's meaningless to get into an argument with you.
"But you do admit those shorts look ridiculous?"
"..Yeah." he mumbled in response.
The next day, you were eating your breakfast with Jason while reading the newspaper. A habit you picked up from Uncle Ben. Jason would sometimes mock you and tell you were acting like an old man, but you would just make a face at him in response.
The frontpage immediately caught your attention, "Robin New Wardrobe Change! What Does this mean for the citizens of Gotham?"
You immediately barked a laugh, not noticing the look that Jason throws you.
It was a long day of school, and you just wanted to lock yourself in your room and listen to your music.
But alfred kept insisting you eat dinner downstairs first, and who are you to deny the wise old man?
Your footsteps felt heavy on the way to the kitchen. The manor was unnaturally quiet. It didn’t matter that you, Jason, and Alfred were practically the only ones there—the manor had never felt this silent.
When you arrived, the kitchen light was off. Then, as Alfred flicked the switch—hell broke loose.
Party poppers exploded, confetti raining down, while Dick held a birthday cake for you. Jason was recording the entire thing on a camcorder.
Your mouth gaped like a fish out of water. You certainly did not expect this. Hell, you even forgot it was your birthday today.
"Happy birthday, baby bird!" dick greeted, a grin on his face.
"How'd ya even forget your own birthday? airhead." Jason quipped, a playful smirked on his face as he zoomed in on your shocked expression.
Alfred cleared his throat, "Happy birthday, master [name]. Please, enjoy yourself on this special day."
Your eyes welled up with tears. The fact that they did this all for you, made your heart clench in overwhelming happiness.
Your two older brothers clearly misunderstood the reason for your watery eyes, because they started arguing almost immediately.
"Why'd you have to insult them, Jason?"
"The hell you mean? It was probably you shocking them with your hideous face popping out of nowhere." That one earned a giggle from you.
You wiped the tears with the back of your hand.
"What are you waiting for? blow the candles—"
A large and aged hand, but not your uncles this time—took your walkman's headphones to your ears down your neck. It wasn't your uncle, but it still contained the same amount of kindness.
"Master [name]. Happy birthday, it's been an honor to serve you for another year." Alfred held out a cupcake, the candles on it reading 16. You didn’t really like birthday cakes anymore—you could never finish them alone anyway.
You blew out the candles, the flames flickering and dying, and suddenly realized: you weren’t ten anymore, celebrating with your older brothers.
And you hadn't been 10 years old for a long time now.
Batfamily x Vampire!Reader
1.4k words, graphic descriptions, use of [y/n], female reader
The frenzy in the batcave hasn’t ended since they discovered the details of the mugger’s death. Donner Lukas, that was his name. No kids. No known spouse or partner. His face took up half the batcomputer, below, the image of his corpse, printed and lying on Bruce’s desk. You should’ve felt worse.
The Bat hasn't noticed you yet. An unexpected plus of your vampirism is that your brain had rewired nearly every aspect of your subconscious, including the way you walk and hold yourself. You're quiet and graceful in every place you used to be clumsy.
Bruce sits at the Batcomputer, he’s been at this since you came in. Damian was upstairs, you suspect, sparring with Tim, judging by the smell of sweat and hormones. You’re tired of their endless battle.
You think about your interaction with Bruce from last night. You’re almost embarrassed by how meek you became in front of him. You’d gotten so confident these last few years, so to be reduced to a quiet, stuttering, wide-eyed child? It was perplexing to say the least. You figure it’s because you were so shocked by the sudden confrontation, and like a fish out of water, you panicked.
Your gaze drifts to the picture on Bruce’s desk. You hadn’t actually seen the aftermath of the murder. You briefly falter when you realize that's what it was, a murder. Does that make you a murderer? The thought leaves a sour taste in your mouth, so you brush it away. You come forward, steps quiet, fingers gentle when you pick it up.
He lies there, slumped against the alley. His body was hardly resemblant of anything human at all. His head was crushed, no features to be found. His body looked like it had been sawed in half along the frontal plane by a dull knife. His organs sprawled around him, half shredded. There’s a beige-pink stringy mush around him, you think it might be his skin.
The gun he originally held is gone, there's a chip in the mortar behind him, like he fired off in his panic and hit the wall. His hoodie is shredded. There are visible claw marks in the cement and in the remains of his body.
You don’t feel disgusted until you remember that this was once a human. You imagine yourself, rabid, clawed, fanged, tearing a screaming man apart. You wonder if he was loud, if there were any kids outside playing that heard his screams, if anyone bore witness to what you did, if it scarred them, if they had nightmares. You wonder if mothers tell their children about what you did, if they use it to scare them. You wonder what kind of damage you’ve caused. How many people are scared to leave their house because of you.
Do people ever feel empathy for the fox that kills the sheep? You’re only hungry. You have to do this to survive. It’s not your fault, you didn’t choose this life.
How many people have to die before you’re no longer a victim?
The picture is your undeniable proof, evidence of what you’d done. You’ve become one of the monsters of Gotham. Another thing that goes bump in the night, that haunts this city. Another thing for innocent children to fear, like you used to.
The picture is taken out of your grip. Hands place themself on your shoulders, carefully pulling you away. Bruce peers up at your face from where he’s sitting, his face pulled in an expression you hardly see directed at you. You think he’s worried. He stands.
“You shouldn’t have seen that.” He says quickly, his face pulled into an unfamiliar expression. After a brief moment of hesitation, he grasps the back of your head gently and pulls you into his chest. One hand smooths your hair back, the other rubs your back softly. He’s hugging you. Your entire body prickles, a strange cold-heat rises from your torso to your cheeks.
“Hey, hey..” He mumbles, stroking your head. “It’s.. uh- you’re fine.” He murmurs awkwardly.
After a moment, your hands lift and you cling to his shirt, the fabric bunches in your hands. It’s not the first time you've hugged him, but it’s the first time since he disappeared, the first time he’s attempted to comfort you since you were eight. Your cheeks burn hot in embarrassment. You take advantage of the moment and burrow into his chest. Soon you’re crying, and he holds you tighter, murmuring soft words you can’t decipher. He holds you there for a while, and you might’ve needed this more than you thought, because you don’t let go until he’s pulling back. He keeps one hand on your back, but the one that was on your head moves to your cheek. He pulls you away to look at your face. His lips are pulled into a frown, eyebrows furrowed
“I’m sorry.” He says. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”
You look delicate like this, he thinks, and he feels horrible. You were the only kid he had that never joined his crusade. Never begged for the cape, never had to. You’d never seen the brutality he had. This though, this case was beyond some of the things even he’d seen. It was grotesque. He was hesitant to let Damian work on it, and now you, unaware and clean, had stumbled upon it.
He leads you over to a couch. One that was only there because Dick had demanded it be so many years ago, when he still wore the cape.
You’re still sniffling when he sits you down. Your eyes are red from crying, but besides that you look healthy, it almost makes him smile. Absent from you are the eyebags and dark circles that plague his other kids, your skin looks bright, you’re clearly taken care of, if your hair and physique are anything to go by. He’s relieved. At least one of his kids is okay.
He doesn’t know you didn’t always look like this. He doesn’t know that the only reason you do is because of the man in the alley and those traffickers in the warehouse and the thousands of other things you’ve used to sustain yourself.
“We’ll catch whatever’s doing this.” He murmurs, smoothing your hair back. It’s meant to be soothing.
“You shouldn’t worry about it.” He continues. “But.. make sure you hurry home after school. It’s safer that way.”
You nod numbly. You doubt he’ll notice if you actually do, but the fact that for once he’s worried about your safety is enough to make fresh tears come. You feel silly, crying for that, but god you missed when they cared about you. He sighs softly and sits by you, tucking you into his side.
Maybe all you needed to do was ask for help when you needed it, maybe you should’ve said something when you first turned. But it’s too late now. He’s seen what you’ve done, and when he finds out it was you, all of this will disappear.
You feel disgusting, because you should be disgusted, you should hate yourself for what you’ve done and who you’ve hurt, but instead you’re elated.
A warmth spreads through your chest despite your anxiety. Bruce is here, hugging you, comforting you like you’re important, like you’re good.
You don’t really care about Donner Lukas. It’s what he symbolizes. What you really care about is what you are. You hate not being human, you hate that you know this makes you a monster. One of the things you hate the most is the fact that you’re not upset, not the way you should be. When did you lose your humanity? You should’ve thrown up when you came to. You should’ve wanted to die. You didn’t think about who the man was, you didn’t mourn him. You only mourned yourself.
You must be very, very sick, but you push all those thoughts away and try to ignore what lingers, because here is innocence. Here is your worried father, deciding you were more important than this crime. He’s not disgusted with you, he’s not upset, he’s worried. So, like the leech you are, you cling onto him.
Batfamily x Vampire!Reader
2.7k words, graphic description of violence and aftermath, use of [y/n], female reader
November 12th.
Winter starts early in Gotham.
It’s cold, but not as cold as it should be. Your friend stands beside you shivering.
“You sure you don’t want my jacket?” You ask, eyebrows raised in concern as you eye her.
“I’m fffine.” She says, teeth chattering. “Aren’t you freezing?”
You shrug and move to peel off your coat anyway. Jen doesn’t protest when you drape it over her shoulders, but she doesn’t move to actually put it on. Her subtle way of declaring she’s against the idea, you suppose.
“You’re gonna get sick.” She mutters as you fix your scarf over your nose.
“I think if anyone should be worried about getting sick it’s you.” You mumble. “Is that your mom’s car?”
Her head snaps up eagerly, and you chuckle to yourself as she darts over to the passenger door.
“Wait!” She yips, turning quickly. “Let me give you a ride!”
“I’m okay!” You call back, “Alfred’s coming for me!”
She hesitates for a moment before climbing into her seat. “You sure you’ll be okay?”
You smile and nod, her mom waves and you wave back. “Call me when you get home okay?”
“Okay!!!”
You watch her drive away for a few seconds before checking your watch. 3:50. The manor’s pretty far from your school, but not 50 minute drive far. You know Alfred, if he hasn’t gotten here yet, it’s more than likely he forgot. Plus, the sun will be setting in an hour or so, if you wait any longer before giving up, you won’t get home before dark. With that in mind, you start the walk home.
It’s pretty rare for Alfred to forget you like this, but with all the chaos going on at home, you can’t really blame him. Especially when you are the direct cause of the entire mess. It’d been a tough year. Senior classes were much harder than you’d anticipated, and you were just a teenager. Stress and anxiety was bound to mess things up once in a while.
Your teachers had all upped their workload at the same time in preparation for the half-way point exams. You’d dedicated all your free time to studying and cramming for the pop quizzes and class competitions. So much so that you’d forgotten your feeding schedule. Unfortunately, it was easy to miss hunger pangs and dismiss them as stress-related stomach cramps. You hadn’t realized you were hungry until it was far too late, and a disoriented walk home from the movies found you face to face with a mugger.
When you’re deep in bloodlust, it's hard to tell what’s what. The entire week before that had been like a plotless nightmare. Filled with migraines and dizziness and nausea. When you came eye to eye with that man, adrenaline in his veins, blood pumping, his heartbeat in your lungs as he demanded your belongings, you blacked out. You woke up three hours later, curled up under a cardboard box in a dumpster. A dumpster that you noted, was nowhere near the alley you last remember being in.
You were pleasantly warm, sleepy, and no longer in any pain, which was all very nice, but the sticky-dry feeling of matted blood drying to your skin and clothes was enough to rouse you. You pulled yourself out, sharp nails retracting into your fingertips as you did.
You kept yourself to the shadows when you transformed, disappearing into a puff of grey smoke and reappearing as an ugly little vampire bat. The first issue was getting back home and getting clean before anyone saw you. The second, perhaps bigger, issue was what the hell happened to the mugger.
Sneaking in was easy. You could practically see their heat signatures through the walls, smell Bruce’s cologne, hear Damian’s pacing. If your senses were right, and they almost always were, there were four people inside the manor. Bruce, Alfred, Damian, and Tim. You flew into the open window of the restroom on the third floor, nearby your bedroom.
You looked even worse than you expected. Your entire body was red, like you’d been dunked in paint, it dried in patches and flaked off into dust when you moved. Despite the clarity of mind and ease of movement that came with fresh blood, you felt sick. There was something thick and fibrous under your nails, pieces of thin pink membrane that clung to your body like a second skin. The sickness was mental, of course, remnants of being human. Your mouth tasted warm in a lovely way and you were a little perturbed at how normal this all was. Your reflection looked monsterous, hair matted with blood, body red, eyes glowing faintly.
You heard the news in the morning. A murder in Newtown, a body ripped to shreds, Gotham News declaring it an animal attack. The damage was done though, the Bats had heard what had happened.
Two years ago, when you first became a vampire, a similar thing happened. You didn’t know what you were then, you thought you could tough out the hunger pains. Wayne Manor was distracted, everyone in a frenzy, no one noticed when you got sick, or when you disappeared. You wandered the slums of Gotham for three days. Pale, sweating, vision so sharp it made you nauseous. No one went up to you, no one asked if you were okay. Your new senses overwhelmed you, your new body screamed in pain. Eventually, a man found you. Ushered you into a warehouse, practically dragged you while your body betrayed itself. Hands tugged at your wrist, your hair, your clothes. It was when that hand grabbed your face, squished your cheeks together painfully, that something snapped.
You came to your senses an hour later. An ocean of blood and bodies staining the ground. You ran.
You woke up stronger the next day. The blood was exactly what your body needed to nourish your new form. To finish adapting to this new life. Your vision was clear, the colors you saw were brighter, the darkness didn’t blind you, you could even see heat signatures if you tried. Your muscles fibers were denser, tightly packed, your bones were stronger, your skin was clear and soft, old scars lightened, injuries faded in hours.
All at the cost of thirty four lives. Not innocent lives, but human lives. Lives you hadn’t even realized you were taking. It perplexed the world, scared it. But eventually it was brushed under the rug the way stuff always is in Gotham. Dark Seid took the blame, and you got better at this new life. Better at hiding, covering up, getting blood without killing. You broke into bloodbanks, used animals, even drugged criminals to poach their blood on occasion. You didn’t kill, you didn’t leave bodies or witnesses. Still, people whispered. You were an urban legend deep in Gotham. The creature in the shadows. Some called you Karma, some called you Fate, some called you The Beast.
The Bats never forgot what happened, it didn’t make sense, it didn’t fit the apparent answers. But it never happened again, so they had no cause to pursue the issue, no reason to spend time pondering a mystery when they had real issues to worry about.
But now it had happened again in Newtown, and you knew Bruce wouldn’t let it go.
And now here you are, walking home. It’s cold, but temperatures don’t really bother you anymore.
4:20. You have half an hour to get home before the sun sets and you’re not even halfway there. You made good time, nearly two miles in thirty minutes, but you live over twenty miles from school. You could run, if you kept yourself at a human pace you could get home in a little over two hours, but sprinting in Gotham while wearing clothes clearly not made for exercise is usually a bad sign. People might think you were running from someone. You decide, instead of running or walking, to catch a train.
At 4:38, you exit Gotham Train Station and hail a cab. Cabs are risky, you never know who’s behind the wheel till you get in, but it’s miles of bridge and forest from here, and there's no way in hell you'll be caught alone in the forest in the dark. You’re lucky, because the person in the driver's seat today is an older gentlewoman who seems as relieved to have you as a passenger as you are to have her as a driver. You get home at 4:49.
The manor is empty, but you can hear the sounds of footsteps and voices in the basement. You stop by the kitchen to get something to chew on. Contrary to popular beliefs, vampires could eat human food. They didn't need to, but it was nice to be human, even if it was only pretend.
You bump into Alfred on the way out.
“Oh! Miss [Y/n]!” He says, a polite smile on his face.
“Hi Alfred.” You smile and nod. Expecting him to sidestep you and move on. He seems like he’s about to, until a thoughtful expression crosses his face.
“When did you get home?” He asks.
“Just now.” You answer, he frowns.
“I was supposed to pick you up tonight.” He says, his words almost sound like a question.
“It’s fine.” You say.
“How did you get back?”
“I took the train and hailed a cab.”
“Ah.” He nods. “I’m terribly sorry miss, I must’ve gotten caught up cleaning.”
“It’s fine, Alfred.” You say and step to the side. You nod at him, and walk away before he can say something else. You can’t really be mad. It’s your fault they’re all so stressed, even if they don’t know that. You try to ignore how he looks at you as you leave.
When you were bitten, you distanced yourself from him, from all of them. Originally it was to give you time to pull yourself together, but as time went on, you never really got back to normal. Sure, you were used to being tucked away, you weren’t a vigilante, nor did you have any interest in being one. You weren’t a part of the family business, and sometimes that meant you weren't at the forefront of their minds. They still cared about you, but they were busy, they had responsibilities, lives of their own, complexes and complexities you could hardly understand. It didn’t mean they cared about you less, it just meant that you weren’t always a part of their world.
Sometimes you wonder about that though. It’s easy to tell yourself you're part of the family, it’s easy for them to say you are, but when it comes down to it, when the answer is more than yes or no, could you really say you were?
You could go days without seeing any of them, they were always so busy, you knew that. Even when one of them could finally be convinced to take a break, it would be selfish of you to demand that that precious time be spent with you, especially when you were so boring, so uninteresting. You couldn’t demand their time, especially when you didn’t need it. Not like how the others need it, not like how Damian needed their love, like how Tim needed their patience, like how Dick needed their time, like how Cass needed their care. You didn’t have issues like Jason, you didn’t need somewhere to stay like Duke. You were just there. You were simple, easy.
But none of that was really true anymore, was it? You did have an issue, you did need time, care, patience. You needed someone to look at you and tell you you weren’t a monster. That it was okay to cry over your kills, that you weren’t bad for doing what you needed to to survive. But you never had any of that before, so how could you ask for it now? When it requires coming clean, putting a bigger burden on them, explaining that you’ve been lying for two years. How could you ask for that?
You learned on your own, did everything on your own. You learned to be okay, be content, to find love in your friends, to find patience in yourself. And you’re okay now, sometimes. It never solved the original issue, but you could ignore it until you felt better. You could cry at night and feel pretty in the morning, you could wrap your arms around your head to drown out the pounding and wrap your arms around yourself to love what no one else will. What you’ve convinced yourself no one else will.
You’re okay being here, even if there are nights you wish you weren’t sometimes. Even if some nights you wish you weren’t anywhere.
Breathe out. Don’t give control to your pain. Look at the walls when you walk to your room, appreciate the architecture, think of something bigger than yourself. Look at the paintings on the walls, think of your ancestors and the lives they lived. Bump into your father on the third floor.
“[Y/n]?”
His hands land on your arms to steady you. It’s instinctive on his part, you didn’t stumble at all. Too balanced with your inhumane body.
“You’re cold.” He murmurs, eyebrows furrowed when he makes eye contact. His voice is deep, you haven’t heard it in a while.
“Just came in.” You say. He stares at you for a while. You can almost see the cogs turning in his brain, remembering who you are maybe, or realizing he hasn’t seen you in awhile, or something else you can’t figure out.
“Where’s your coat?” He asks, his palms rubbing up and down your arms. It’s a gesture meant to be fatherly, you think. You don’t see him much anymore so the gesture is just awkward, but the rare attention gives you pause. You don’t know how to talk to him, you realize. Besides the one-off family dinner once a month, you almost never see him, even at those dinners, if he tries to talk to you, it's awkward. He hesitates when he asks how your day was. Asks about friends like he's questioning if you even have them. Asks about grades like it actually matters to him. You realize this might be the first time he’s talked to you without a reason in over a year.
“Gave it to a friend.” You murmur, torn between making eye contact and avoiding it. “She was cold.”
“Oh.” He breathes, then takes a step back like he just realized he may be crowding you. “..thats.. nice.” He hesitates. “But you could’ve gotten sick. You shouldn’t do that next time.” He straightens. Like he’s remembered he’s your father and can be authoritative. He doesn’t know how to talk to you, you realize. He doesn’t know you. You stare at him for a moment. For no reason at all, your eyes start burning.
“Okay.” You say, voice weak. “I won’t do it again.”
Looking at him like this is overwhelming. He’s just a few feet in front of you, tall and elegant and imposing. You think he’s as lost as you are. You think you might be scared of him.
“Did you eat dinner?” He asks after a moment.
You stare at him, mouth open like you’re going to say something, but you hesitate. Does he care? Is he going to ask you to eat with him? Did you eat?
“Yes.” You mumble.
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but he nods anyway.
“Alright.” He says slowly.
“I.. I think I’m gonna go to bed.” You mutter, he nods.
“Right.. good night [Y/n]” He says.
“Night, Bruce.” You say quietly and pad off.
He turns around when he realizes what you’ve said, but you’ve already disappeared into your room.
Tim really needed to brush up on his stalking game.
Seriously.
All these years in Gotham and he still didn’t notice anything.
Whenever Jason came by (Which was once in a blue moon.)
He’d always rant about how Tim stalked him when he first became Robin.
Like, okay, we get it, man.
But Jason was the type of guy to add unnecessary details to every story.
He made Tim sound like Walter White.
Walter fucking White.
Come on.
Or he made him sound like those scary camp fire story’s.
Meanwhile, you’d been Atom Eve for four years.
Four.
You and Mark had fought alongside Red Robin at least two times.
He was either incredibly dumb… Or he was about to blackmail you.
Neither option was very cool.
——
After Mark dropped you off, with Tim still following behind like the world’s worst detective, you finally made it home.
You kicked off your boots. “Hey, Alfred.”
“Hello, Miss Y/N.” Alfred smiled. “How was your day with Mark?”
“Pretty good.”
Before you could say anything else, you noticed Tim sitting on the couch. He probably came by the back door.
“Hey, Tim. How are you?”
He practically jumped. “OH! …I’m fine.”
You raised an eyebrow.
Okay.
Weird.
Then again, he called himself Red Robin. Like the fast food place.
Before you could think about it any longer, Alfred cleared his throat.
“Miss Y/N, Master Bruce would like you to join everyone for dinner tonight. He believes it would be better with the whole family present.”
Again?
A second time?
…Holy shit. What if he knew something?
“Oh…” You forced a smile. “Uh… alright.”
Your voice wasn’t convincing.
You headed upstairs.
Like a normal person you Immediately started to overthinking everything.
What if he knows Mark is Invincible?
What if he forbids you from seeing him?
Before your thoughts could spiral any further, your phone rang.
Speak of the devil.
“Mark, what’s up?”
“Y/N! THERE’S A VILLAIN!”
“…Wait, who?”
“I don’t know! Some random guy who sings!”
You blinked. “He sings?”
“Really well too! Random people are singing their hearts out and dancing. Feels like I’m watching another episode of Dance Moms.”
You snorted.
As you pulled on your suit, you kept the phone between your shoulder and ear.
“I’m coming, because I don’t believe that for a second.”
You hung up.
Locked your bedroom door. Opened your window.
And flew into the night.
A guy singing and dancing? Let him. Support the arts.
Though… You’d pay good money to see the big ol’ emo furry Batman dancing ballet.
By the time you reached the scene, Mark was already waiting on top of a building.
You landed beside him.
“Alright—” Before you could finish, you froze. Black Canary. Green Arrow. Red Arrow. All of them are Singing. And dancing.
You slowly turned toward Mark. “…Wow.”
“I told you.”
“You were right.”
“I know.”
“So…”
You cracked your knuckles. “Why are we standing here? Let’s fight.”
Mark scratched the back of his neck.
“I don’t want to.”
“…Why?”
“I don’t know how to sing.”
You stared at him. “I’m not even going to acknowledge what you just said.”
Then you flew straight toward the Music Meister.
“Invincible?”
You looked back. “Come on!”
“…Fine, fine!” As mark flew up right next to you
The Music Meister smiled as he twirled his microphone. “Oh? More guests!”
“Oh my god…” you muttered.
“You sing. We fight. Deal?”
“I’d rather perform.”
“Too bad.”
Before you could throw a construct, the Music Meister began singing again.
The melody echoed through the streets.
Civilians danced. Heroes danced.
Even Mark started tapping his foot.
“…Mark?”
He didn’t answer.
His eyes looked… empty.
“Mark.”
Nada. Nothing.
Then he started singing.
“Oh no.”
Mark floated into the air, swaying to the music.
“No, no, no!”
You flew over and waved your hand in front of his face.
Nothing.
He was completely hypnotized.
The Music Meister laughed. “You’ve lost your partner!”
“Yeah?”
You reached into one of your pockets. “Good thing I came prepared.”
You shoved a pair of pink earplugs into your ears.
The singing immediately became muffled.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” the Music Meister groaned.
“Sorry.” You shrugged. “I’ve dealt with enough Gotham villains to start carrying weird stuff.”
A giant pink fist slammed toward him.
He barely dodged it.
Another construct followed.
Then another.
Then five more.
The Music Meister leapt between rooftops while giant pink walls blocked every escape route.
“You know,” he huffed, “this is incredibly rude.”
“So is mind controlling my best friend!”
You trapped him in a massive construct.
Almost.
A sonic blast shattered it.
“Damn.”
Before he could attack again
“Canary Cry!” A deafening scream blasted across the street.
The Music Meister was sent flying through a billboard.
Black Canary landed beside you.
“Nice earplugs.”
You smiled.
“Thanks.”
A red arrow flew past your shoulder, pinning the Music Meister’s microphone to a nearby wall.
“Nice shot,” you said.
The archer grinned. “Thanks.”
He couldn’t have been much older than you.
Maybe seventeen.
“Atom eve, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Red Arrow.”
“You’ve got good aim.”
“I get that a lot.”
Music Meister ripped the microphone free.
“Oh come on,” you groaned. “Can this guy stay down for five seconds?”
Invincible suddenly crashed through a building.
“What happened?!” Mark yelled.
“You got hypnotized!”
“…Again?”
“You’ve been awake for literally three seconds.”
“Oh.”
“Less talking!” Black Canary shouted. “More punching!”
“Finally!” Mark said as he sky rocketed forward, punching the Music Meister square in the chest.
The villain stumbled backward just as you trapped him inside a giant pink sphere.
Red Arrow fired another arrow.
It struck the microphone.
CRACK.
The microphone shattered into pieces.
The singing stopped.
One by one, civilians blinked in confusion.
“So…” Mark scratched the back of his neck.
“Did I miss anything?”
“You sang.”
“…I what?”
“You sang.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“You hit a really good high note.”
Mark buried his face in his hands. “I’m never living this down.”
“Nope.”
“Ever?”
“Never.”
Police sirens echoed in the distance, the Music Meister was finally taken into custody.
You checked your phone.
Your stomach dropped. “…Shit.”
“What?” Mark asked.
“It’s past dinner.”
“Oh.”
“I gotta go.”
Mark rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh… alright.” He smiled. “Bye, Atom.”
You smiled back. “See ya, Invincible.”
With that, you shot into the Gotham skyline as fast as you could.
Hopefully… You weren’t too late.
As you flew back to wayne manor, you slipped through your bedroom window, changed out of your suit, unlocked your door, and hurried downstairs.
Bruce was already waiting. “Y/N.”
You froze.
“Where were you?”
“I was out with Mark.”
Tim looked up from the couch.
“Again?” He frowned. “…Bullshit.”
You looked around.
Everyone was there.
Duke, Cassandra, Stephanie. Jason. Dick. Tim.
Damian.
Even Kate Kane. You didn’t see her around much.
You looked down at the floor. “Whatever. It’s nothing. I was just out with Mark.”
Bruce sighed. “Y/N, you can’t just disappear like this.”
Before you could answer, Jason spoke up.
“B, let the girl be.” He leaned back in his chair. “How old is she for you to be acting like this?”
Bruce ignored him. “You’ve been disappearing almost every day.”
“So?”
“So?” Bruce repeated.
“You vanish for hours without telling anyone where you’re going.”
“No one cared before.”
The room went quiet and Bruce’s jaw tightened.
“That’s not true.”
You laughed. “Oh really?”
You looked around the room.
“When was the last family movie night I was invited to?” Nobody answered.
“Cass’s recital?” Again silence. “Trips to the park?” Nothing.
“You all act like I don’t exist until I do something you don’t like.”
“Y/N—”
“No.” You cut Bruce off. “You don’t get to act like you suddenly care.”
“I have always cared.”
“Bullshit!” Your voice echoed through the dining room. “You never noticed when I left, You never noticed when I came back. You never noticed anything!”
“That’s enough.”
“No!” Your chest rose and fell. “I’m tired of pretending we’re a family when I’m treated like a guest!”
“Watch your tone.”
“My tone?”
You laughed again. “You’ve ignored me for years!”
“Y/N.”
“You don’t listen to me!”
“Enough.”
“You don’t even know me!”
“Y/N.”
“You dont get to act like you care knowing damn well you dont—“ Your voice cracked.
Bruce’s voice cut through the room. “Enough.”
“Youre an asshole. Has anybody told you that? Probably not because you get off on scaring them to death. Youre a jerk bruce. A coward who—“ before you can continue your rant Bruce hand Connect with your cheek with a deafening.
SMACK.
The slap had sent you falling down as you hold your cheek. As dick gasped putting a hand on his mouth as Damian remained completely unfazed, as Tim and Duke look at each other not wanting to be apart of this.
Jason looked like he wanted to say something. But didn’t.
Alfred stepped forward. “Miss y/n—“
you cut off Alfred as you get up Tears blurred your vision. As you looked Bruce straight in the eye.
“you never hit the joker this hard.” You said as you turned around before anyone could see the tears rolling down your face. leaving Bruce stunned.
By the time you reached your room, you couldn’t hold them back anymore. You cried. It wasn’t the argument. It wasn’t the yelling. It was the realization, He was supposed to protect you. He didn’t protect Jason and look where it got him.
You always felt like someone he had to deal with. Not someone he wanted.
You grabbed your phone and called the only person you have.
“Pick up…Come on, Mark…”
Instead, your phone buzzed.
Mark:
Yoo can’t talk rn. Out on a date with Amber.
You stared at the screen... right amber.
You:
It’s alright. just wanted to talk, have fun tho.
Seen 9:27
You locked your phone.
You couldn’t stay here. Not tonight.
You pulled your Atom Eve suit back on, shoved a change of clothes into your bag, and climbed through your bedroom window.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: roy calls you at 2 am, apparently jason is drunk and needs you
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 1.1k words, none, fluff, CRACK, sort of part 2 for this, roy is there too, 1 sexual comment, not edited just proof-read 🚬
<𝟑: art creds to @quezartt
You’re currently wearing one of Jason’s Gotham U hoodies (you suspect it’s not actually Jason’s) that reaches down to your legs, along with your winter boots. Aside from that, you’re wearing your pyjamas and nothing else.
You’re absolutely freezing your ass off, and by the time you barge into the club Roy sent you the address to, you swear you’re on the verge of hypothermia.
You would’ve told him to fuck off because it’s literally two a.m. But he called with Jason’s phone, and told you to come right now.
You need to come. It’s Jason.
Your heart absolutely stopped for a second. What? You can’t even hear your own voice.
He laughs. Nothing serious. He’s just worried you’re hungry.
Huh? Your voice is still raspy from sleep.
Just come.
So now you’re here, climbing the stairs to the VIP lounge. And it’s just your luck that someone is guarding the door.
He scans you up and down, then shuffles a bit closer to block the entrance.
"Hi, um, my friends are inside waiting for me."
He raises a brow. "Sure.”
"Yeah," you insist. "Roy and Jason—"
His face falls. "You’re Jason’s girl?"
"Sorry?" You blink twice. "What do you mean—"
But you’re interrupted for a second time. You frown and check your phone again, to see if there are any missed calls. There’s not.
The man turns around and taps his earpiece. A moment later, he spins back to you, smiling brightly. "You can absolutely come in." He opens the door for you. "Jason’s girl."
You mumble a thanks, still very weirded out by the whole experience.
The second you step inside, all eyes snap to you. Granted, there are only five other people besides Roy and Jason, but it’s still very weird for everyone to be tracking your movements and whispering to each other.
You ignore the stares and make your way to the boys’ table in the corner of the room. Just where Jay would’ve chosen it— away from any potential threats.
"Roy! Jason!" you call.
Jason is rambling to Roy, waving his hands around and smiling brightly. But the second he hears you, his whole body freezes. Even his hands stop mid-gesture. His pretty green eyes immediately start scanning the room until they land on you.
And then he waddles. He waddles toward you. His movements are clumsy as he tries to grab you, nearly walking straight into a decorative plant.
"Baby!"
You catch him just as he’s about to collapse on top of you. Struggling to support his weight, you try to steady him.
He lets you. Then he picks you up.
He kisses you on the nose, and all you can do is blink in confusion before he throws you over his shoulder.
"Jason?" you whisper-yell. "Put me down right now."
"Nuh-uh." He sounds smug. "Can’t."
The world flips again as he plops you down beside him on the velvet couch. Now you’re sandwiched between the two of them.
You look at Roy, raising a brow. "What did you even give him?"
He smirks, raising his hands innocently. "He said he could handle it."
Jason is playing with your hair. He tugs on a strand before curling it around his index finger.
"Why is everyone looking at us?"
Roy laughs, bright and loud. "Jason couldn’t stop telling everyone about you. The cocktail guy, the—"
"Bouncer?"
He snaps his fingers. "Yeah." Roy grins. "You know, I thought he'd eventually run out of facts."
You blink. "Facts?"
"Oh, yeah." He starts counting on his fingers. "You brush your teeth for ten minutes— you’re a psycho for that, by the way. You like your toast overly done. You cry at movies, even if they’re not sad. He’s dissected the meaning of all of your favourite songs...”
You’re too dumbfounded to properly answer. Roy continues.
"You apparently have the prettiest smile in the tri-state area."
Jason nods solemnly. "It's true."
Roy whistles. "He's got it bad."
Jason is still playing with your hair. "You’re so pretty."
You turn to him with a smile, brushing his cheek softly. He immediately nuzzles into your touch. "Not as much as you."
He shakes his head. "No, no. You’re ridiculously pretty. Sometimes"— he drops his voice, as if you’re sharing some great secret—"when you smile, I forget how to think. Or when you do anything, really."
He wraps an arm around your waist until there isn’t even an inch of space between you. You can feel every line of his body, the hard muscle beneath his clothes. "My pretty, pretty girl."
You place a soft kiss on his lips. "I love you, Jay."
"And you also make me really hard."
Roy’s laughter is impossible to ignore. He slams a hand on the table, wheezing as he mumbles something between fits of laughter. You see him fumble for his phone out of the corner of your eye.
"Yesterday, for example, when you—"
"Jason," you say sternly.
His face falls. "Don’t be mad at me." He’s frowning now, his big green eyes glossy and wide.
You cup his face. "I’m not angry, baby."
"Oh, okay." He nods slowly. "I’m sorry I told Roy you snore."
"I do not—"
Roy nudges your shoulder. "According to Jason, you do."
Jason nods matter-of-factly. "When I can’t sleep, I listen to you breathe. So yeah. You snore."
Your heart pounds in your chest, steady and hard. You want to kiss him. Not just his lips. Everywhere.
Because who decided kisses on the lips were the most intimate? You’d kiss every scar, every freckle, every crook of his beautiful body. You want to worship him with kisses.
"And you make me soup," Jason continues, completely oblivious to the look of pure love on your face.
Roy blinks. "Okay?"
Jason sighs dramatically. "Not canned soup. Actual homemade soup she spends time and effort making."
"Congratulations.”
He rolls his eyes. "You don’t get it." Then his eyes find yours, unwavering. "But you do. You get me, and you love me."
"Of course I do, Jay.” You smile softly.
Jason smiles before resting his head in the crook of your neck. His eyes flutter shut as you run your fingers through his hair. "You’re my definition of an angel."
The next morning, Jason wakes up with a killer hangover and his entire body wrapped around you.
Then he bumps into Roy in the kitchen. He dies of embarrassment the second Roy holds up his phone to show him something.
The video shows nothing but the club ceiling, dim lighting, and red velvet. The audio, however, is crystal clear.
What if she’s hungry?
Jason physically cringes at the sound of his own whiny, worried voice. He’s never drinking again. Roy is barely holding in his laughter, the phone slightly shaking.
She’s an adult, man.
She forgets to eat. There’s a frustrated grumble. I can’t unlock my phone. Stupid numbers. A brief shuffle. The password is her birthday. You call her.
Jason wants to crawl into the Lazaurs Pit and disappear.
"You gonna move or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty?"
Fourteen words.
You'd had them your whole life — neat dark letters wrapping the inside of your forearm, permanent and unhelpful, offering absolutely zero identifying information about the person who would one day say them to you. No name. No context. Just fourteen words that managed to be simultaneously a little rude and a little flirtatious and completely unreadable as to whether the person saying them would mean it as one or the other or somehow both.
Your mother had called it characterful.
Your best friend had called it concerning.
You'd made your peace with it. Whoever they were, they were apparently someone who said exactly what they thought, moved fast, and had a specific kind of humor that operated in the space between blunt and charming. You'd built a rough sketch of a person from fourteen words over twenty-something years and tried not to get too attached to the sketch.
You were a little attached to the sketch.
Gotham was not a city you'd chosen so much as landed in — job opportunity, affordable rent by the standards of someone who'd never been to Gotham and didn't yet understand what affordable rent in Gotham meant about a neighborhood — and you'd been here long enough now to have developed the particular Gotham-specific survival skill of simply continuing to walk when things happened around you.
Things happened a lot in Gotham.
Tonight's thing was a fight in the alley beside your building, which you heard before you saw — the specific sounds of impact, something hitting brick, a grunt — and you made the Gotham calculus instantly: not a mugging, wrong sounds for that, too much back-and-forth, and there were two distinct voices which meant—
You turned the corner anyway because you were, as your best friend had noted on multiple occasions, genuinely terrible at self-preservation.
The alley was a disaster. Three men were down in various configurations of unconscious, and a fourth was currently being held against the wall by a figure in a red helmet and a leather jacket, which — Red Hood, you'd seen enough Gotham news to recognize Red Hood — who was saying something in a low voice that had the quality of a thing you didn't want to hear the specifics of.
The fourth man made a decision. Bad one.
He had something in his hand — small, dark — and you did not think, you just reacted, the way you did when something bad was about to happen and your body moved before your brain caught up.
"Hey!" Loud, sharp, aimed at the man with the weapon.
It worked, which was a miracle. He startled. The Red Hood moved — fast, faster than anyone had a right to move — and the thing was handled in about two seconds, the man joining his colleagues on the alley floor.
Silence.
You became aware that you were standing at the entrance to an alley in Gotham at eleven at night having just yelled at a man with a gun. Your brain, now catching up, had several notes about this.
The Red Hood turned around.
The helmet was expressionless by design, which made it somehow more unnerving — no face to read, just the red visor, the broad shoulders, the leather jacket, the general impression of someone who was very large and very capable and currently looking directly at you.
"You gonna move," he asked sarcastically, and his voice was low and a little rough and had an edge of incredulous to it, "or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty?"
The alley went very quiet.
Your arm was burning.
Not painfully — not quite. More like warmth, sudden and specific, the feeling people described and that you'd read about and filed under things that won't happen to me because you were practical about these things, you'd gotten practical, and yet here it was, the warmth spreading up your forearm exactly where fourteen words had lived your whole life.
You looked down.
The letters were glowing. Faintly, gold-warm, the way they did when — when—
You looked up.
The helmet looked back at you.
"What," he said. Flat. But something had changed in his voice, the edge of incredulous gone, replaced by something more careful.
"Your — say that again." Your voice came out strange. "What you just said."
A long pause.
"Which part." Not quite a question.
"All of it."
He was very still. The kind of still that felt like a held breath, like something balanced on a very narrow edge. He looked at your arm — at the glow of it, faint and warm in the dim alley light — and then back at your face, and you couldn't see his expression, you couldn't see anything behind the helmet, but the stillness of him was communicating something anyway.
"Huh," he said finally. Very quiet. Almost to himself.
"Yeah."
Another pause. Longer.
"You just yelled at a guy with a gun," he stated with a breathy laugh.
"I noticed that, yes."
"In a Gotham alley. At eleven at night."
"Also yes."
"That's—" He stopped. You got the impression he was doing something with his face behind the helmet that he was grateful you couldn't see. "That's insane. That's genuinely insane."
"I have been told," you said, "that I'm bad at self-preservation."
"Clearly." But the rough edge of his voice had shifted into something that wasn't quite dry and wasn't quite warm and was somehow both. "You live around here?"
"That building." You pointed. "Third floor."
He looked at the building. Then back at you. "Of course you do," he said, mostly to himself.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I've been running this block for eight months and my soulmate lives on the third floor and apparently nearly got shot tonight because she—" He stopped. Seemed to realize how much he was saying. "Nothing. Forget it."
Your heart was doing something unreasonable.
"You've been running this block for eight months," you said carefully.
"I patrol. It's a thing I do. It's not—" He made a gesture. "It's work."
"And you never—"
"I never stopped anyone on the street and asked them to look at my arm, no." Flat. "I'm not — I don't do that. I didn't think—" Another stop. The careful stillness again. "I have fourteen words on my arm that are very loud and extremely unhelpful and I wasn't exactly optimistic about the context they implied."
Fourteen words.
You looked at him. At the helmet, the jacket, the alley around you with its unconscious occupants, the Gotham night in all its grim and complicated glory.
"Can I see?" you asked.
A long moment.
He pushed the jacket sleeve up slowly, the leather sliding back to reveal the inside of a forearm — and the tattoo there, dark letters, words you knew because you'd said them, or would say them, or had just said them approximately forty seconds ago in a Gotham alley at eleven at night.
Your words. On his arm. His whole life.
The matching warmth was there too, faint gold, the same glow as yours.
You pulled your own sleeve up without being asked.
He looked at your arm for a long time.
"You gonna move or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty," he read aloud. Quiet. Like he was checking the weight of each word. "That's what I said."
"That's what you said."
"I almost said something else." He sounded slightly stunned. "I almost said — something about moving, but different, and I changed it last second."
"What would have happened if you hadn't?"
"I don't know." He looked up from your arm to your face. "I don't want to know."
You thought about eight months. Him running your block for eight months, and you in your third floor apartment, and the specific arithmetic of almost — how close and how long and how many times you might have walked past each other in the ordinary way of a city that never made anything easy.
"I'm—" You started. "My name is—"
"I know," he interrupted, Then, registering your expression: "I told you. I run this block. I know the neighborhood. I don't — it's not weird, it's just—"
"It's a little weird."
"It's a little weird," he admitted shyly.
A pause. Below you one of the unconscious men made a noise and did not wake up.
"You could tell me yours," you asked, "Since we're doing this."
The stillness again. Long enough that you t1hought he might not — that this was the wall, the place where it stopped, where the helmet stayed on and the name stayed private and you went upstairs to your third floor apartment with a glowing arm and a story you wouldn't know how to tell.
"Jason," he offered slowly.
Just that. Careful and quiet, like something he didn't take out often.
"Jason," you echoed back. Checking the weight of it. It was a good weight.
He was looking at your face again with that quality of attention that felt like inventory, like accounting. Like someone who'd stopped letting himself expect something finding it anyway and not quite knowing what to do with his hands about it.
"You should go inside," he stated seriously, "It's late and this block is — just go inside."
"Are you going to keep running the block?"
"That's generally how it works, yeah."
"Okay." You pulled your sleeve back down. The warmth was fading to something quieter, settled, permanent in a new way. "I make coffee in the morning. Third floor, the window with the bad curtains. If you're ever — if you wanted to—"
"Bad curtains."
"Genuinely terrible. I've been meaning to replace them."
"I'll find it," Jason assured you with a laugh. And the rough voice had gone fully warm now, all the edge of it soft, the way something sounds when a person has given up managing it. "Go to sleep."
You went inside.
You stood in your kitchen for a while, jacket still on, looking at your forearm where fourteen words had lived your whole life and were now quiet, settled, finally exactly what they'd always been waiting to be.
In the morning you made coffee and opened the window with the bad curtains.
He found it.
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