✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩ The first thing you learn about your parents is that they are fundamentally incompatible. The second thing you learn is that they will never stop trying anyway.
You don’t remember a time when Bruce and Selina were ever something as simple as together. They exist in contradictions she flirts, he broods; she steals, he stops her; she leaves, he waits. You used to think they would eventually find a middle ground, but you’ve long since given up on that idea.
Bruce and Selina have always been on and off, a constant push and pull. He loves her, but he can’t accept her choices. She loves him, but she refuses to change for him. You grew up watching them dance around their feelings. One moment, she’s draped over his desk in the Batcave, teasing him, and the next, she’s gone without a trace, leaving only a cryptic note behind.
Still, they make sense, in a way that defies logic. And despite all their back and forth, they both love you just in completely different ways. The truth is, Bruce and Selina will never be able to give you the same kind of love.
“Again.”
You grit your teeth, clenching your fists as Bruce circles you in the Batcave’s training area. You’ve already gone through this drill a dozen times. Your muscles ache, your ribs are sore from earlier blows, but he’s relentless.
You feint left, then pivot sharply, throwing a kick at his side. He blocks it easily. Too easily. His expression remains unreadable, but you can feel his disapproval.
“Sloppy,” he says, stepping back. “You’re letting yourself get tired.”
“That’s because I am tired,” you snap. “We’ve been doing this for over an hour.”
He crosses his arms. “On the field, you don’t get to decide when you’re done.”
You roll your eyes. “Oh, but Tim does? Jason does? Even Damian doesn’t get this much micromanaging.”
Bruce’s jaw tightens. “This isn’t about them. It’s about you.”
“No, it’s about me being your daughter.”
His silence confirms it.
You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “You trained all of them, let them fight their own battles. You trusted them to figure it out. But me? You’re scared to let me.”
Bruce’s expression darkens. “I’m not scared.”
“Then what is it?” you challenge, stepping closer. “You push me harder than you ever pushed them, but you still won’t let me prove myself. What’s the point of all this if you’re just going to hold me back?”
His voice is quiet when he finally answers. “Because I can’t lose you.”
The weight of those words presses against your chest. You want to be angry, to keep fighting him on this, but the raw emotion in his voice makes it impossible.
You don’t know what to say, so you settle for the only truth you have.
“You won’t,” you murmur. “But you have to let me go.”
Bruce doesn’t answer. He just exhales slowly, tension still radiating from his stance. You don’t expect him to change overnight, but at the very least, he doesn’t call for another round. That’s something.
Selina finds you hours later, sprawled out on the balcony of her penthouse. You weren’t planning on coming here tonight, but after your fight with Bruce, you needed air. And if there’s one thing Selina understands, it’s the need to escape.
She slides the glass door open, stepping onto the rooftop with effortless grace. “I thought I’d find you here.”
You don’t turn to face her. “Bruce is being impossible.”
She chuckles, settling beside you. “He’s still your dad don’t call him bruce, though when isn’t he?”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the cool metal railing. “I just… I don’t know how to make him see me as more than just his kid. He acts like I’ll break if I take one wrong step.”
Selina hums thoughtfully. “That’s what he does. He builds walls around the things he loves, convinces himself it’s the only way to keep them safe.”
You glance at her. “And you?”
She smirks. “Oh, I’d never keep a bird in a cage. I’d teach her to fly.”
There’s something appealing about that. With Selina, there are no rules, no suffocating restrictions. Just a quiet, unwavering confidence in your abilities. Even if you don’t approve of the way she lives, you can’t deny that she makes you feel free.
She pulls a small velvet pouch from her pocket and tosses it into your lap.
You raise a brow. “Do I want to know?”
She grins. “Just a little something I picked up.”
You groan, shoving it back at her. “I told you to stop giving me stolen jewelry.”
Selina only laughs. “It’s not stolen technically. I swapped it for something better.”
“That’s still stealing.”
“Details, darling.”
You can’t help but laugh. She winks, ruffling your hair before standing. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat before you let your father’s brooding ruin your whole night.”
You shake your head but follow her anyway.
For all their differences, Bruce and Selina have one thing in common: they both love you, fiercely.
Your dad will always try to protect you from the world. Your mom will always remind you that it’s yours to take. You exist in the space between them.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩Patrol had been standard until it wasn’t. You and Tim had been watching an arms deal go down from the rooftops of Gotham’s East End. The intel from Oracle suggested this was a simple exchange one that didn’t require much interference. The plan was to observe, gather intel, and report back if things escalated. But you weren’t convinced.
Something felt off. You crouched beside Tim, scanning the warehouse below. The deal was happening inside, but your eyes were locked on a figure slipping through a side entrance, unnoticed by the others.
“Tim, we’ve got movement,” you whispered.
He barely glanced at the figure before shaking his head. “Not our priority. We wait and
“I’m going after them,” you interrupted, already moving.
Tim grabbed your arm. “That’s not the plan.”
“I have a bad feeling about this,” you insisted, shaking him off. “Cover me.”
And before he could protest, you were already gone.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈The side entrance led you through a narrow corridor, crates stacked high along the walls. You moved quietly, using the shadows to your advantage. The man you were following a mercenary by the look of his armor spoke softly into an earpiece. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the urgency in his tone sent a chill down your spine. You pressed closer, peering around a crate. Then you saw it. This wasn’t just an arms deal. There were bombs. Crates of them. Military grade explosives, lined up and ready to be moved.
Your stomach dropped.
“Oracle,” you whispered, touching your comm. “We have a problem.”
“I see it,” her voice came through your earpiece. “I’m running facial recognition on the men inside. This isn’t just some street gang these guys are mercenaries.”
“Figures.”
Tim’s voice suddenly crackled through. “You were supposed to wait.”
“I’d say ‘I told you so,’ but I’m a little busy.”
A movement caught your eye. The mercenary was reaching for a detonator.
Shit.
You sprang from cover, knocking him back with a swift kick to the ribs. The detonator clattered across the floor.
“Got company,” you muttered.
“On my way,” Tim responded.
But it was already too late.
The other mercenaries had heard the commotion, and within seconds, you were surrounded.
⸻
Fighting in the Fire
You moved on instinct, blocking the first blow aimed at your head and countering with a knee to the gut. The second merc swung at you with a baton, but you ducked, sweeping his legs out from under him.
The fight was brutal there were too many of them, and you were alone.
A blade sliced across your side, and you hissed, twisting to avoid a deeper wound. Blood soaked into your suit, but you ignored it, focusing on staying alive.
Then the explosion hit.
A grenade thrown from somewhere behind you detonated against one of the stacked crates. The force sent you flying, crashing through a pile of debris. Your ears rang, and your vision blurred.
Somewhere in the distance, you heard Tim’s voice in your earpiece. “Hold on I’m almost there!”
Gritting your teeth, you forced yourself to move.
You weren’t dying here.
When the dust settled, the mercenaries were either unconscious or retreating. The explosives were still intact, and Tim arrived just in time to secure them.
But you were wrecked.
He looked at you, taking in the blood seeping from your side. “You’re an idiot.”
You gave a weak smirk. “Yeah. But at least I was right.”
Tim muttered something under his breath before helping you out of the warehouse.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
The moment you step off the platform, you feel him before you see him.
Bruce is waiting. Arms crossed. Silent.
He’s still in the Batsuit, the cowl pulled back, his expression unreadable but you know better. You’ve seen that look before.
Tim doesn’t say a word. He just gives you one final glance and walks off, leaving you alone with the inevitable.
You brace yourself, but Bruce doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. His disappointment is a physical weight in the air.
“You abandoned your partner,” he says, voice like stone.
“I chased a lead.”
“You disobeyed orders.”
You grit your teeth. “It was the right call.”
He steps forward, and suddenly, you feel small. Not because you’re afraid Bruce would never hurt you but because his presence alone is suffocating.
“The right call?” His tone sharpens. “You were injured. You could have been killed.”
“But I wasn’t,” you argue, though the sting in your side says otherwise.
Bruce exhales slowly, his jaw tightening. “You’re reckless.”
“You don’t say that when literally anyone else is on a mission,” you snap.
He doesn’t answer immediately, and that silence stings. Because you already know the truth. You’re different. You’re his daughter. And that changes everything. but it doesn’t Damien is younger than you. You don’t get it.
“You’re dismissed,” he finally says, voice cold.
You hesitate, fists clenched, but there’s no point in arguing. Not when his mind is already made up.
You turn and head toward the med bay, fuming the entire way.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
You’re half out of your suit, sitting on the medical table while Alfred patches up your side, when Jason storms into the Batcave like a force of nature.
“The hell happened tonight?”
You groan. Of course he found out.
Bruce, still near the Batcomputer, barely glances up. “Jason”
Jason ignores him, turning straight to you. His eyes flick to the bloodstained bandages, and his expression darkens. “Who did this?”
“Relax,” you sigh. “It’s just a scratch.”
Jason scoffs. “A scratch?” He turns to Bruce, eyes blazing. “What the hell was she doing in a situation where she could end up like this?”
“I made the call,” you interject. “It was my decision.”
Jason looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “That’s not a good thing, dumbass.”
You scowl. “It’s part of the job.”
Jason shakes his head, pacing. “Nah. No. You shouldn’t be out there like this. He shouldn’t be letting you”
“I let her do nothing,” Bruce interrupts, his voice a low warning.
Jason laughs humorless, sharp. “Oh, really? Because it looks to me like you’re putting her through the same damn cycle we all went through. How long before she ends up dead in an alley too?”
“Jason”
“No, screw that,” Jason snaps. “You’re just letting her walk into this life like it’s fine. Like it’s not gonna chew her up and spit her out like the rest of us.”
You push yourself up from the table, ignoring the sharp sting in your side. “I chose this, Jason. No one forced me.”
Jason turns his glare on you. “You don’t get it, do you? You think this is just about being a hero, about doing good?” He scoffs. “It’s a death sentence.”
You clench your jaw. “So what, you expect me to just sit at home and do nothing?”
“I expect you to be smarter than this,” he snaps.
Before you can fire back, his eyes narrow, and suddenly, the conversation takes a sharp turn.
“Speaking of dumb decisions,” Jason mutters, crossing his arms. “You’re still with Superboy, right?”
Your frustration spikes. “Oh my godseriously?”
Jason gives you a deadpan look. “knock off superman? Really? You could do better.”
You throw your hands up. “Why does everyone have a problem with me dating Conner?”
Jason rolls his eyes. “Because he’s a walking red flag wrapped in blue spandex.”
You glare. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Jason scowls. “I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t trust anyone.”
He doesn’t deny it.
You exhale sharply, rubbing your temples. “Look, I’m tired, I’m injured, and I don’t have the energy for this right now.”
Jason studies you for a moment, then sighs, running a hand through his hair. His anger hasn’t faded completely, but the sharp edge of it has dulled.
“Fine,” he mutters. “But if he ever screws up, I will break his face.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of something warmer underneath the annoyance. Jason will never say it outright, but you know what this is.
It’s not just anger. It’s fear.
Bruce was right about one thing losing people leaves scars. And Jason? He has more than most. He won’t stop you from fighting your battles. But he’ll sure as hell be there when you fall.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
Dating in the Batfamily was a challenge. Dating Conner Kent? That was practically a declaration of war.
You weren’t an idiot you knew what your family thought of him. Bruce didn’t trust him. Superman’s clone, an unpredictable force of power, a boy with too much strength and too little control. That’s how your father saw him, at least. Jason didn’t respect him. “A knock off in a leather jacket? Come on, you can do so much better.”
Tim was wary. Conner was his best friend, but even he had his doubts when it came to you.
And your mother? Selina raised a delicate brow when she first caught wind of your relationship, a teasing smirk playing at her lips. “Oh, darling,” she had purred. “You know how your father’s going to react, right?”
You had sighed, rubbing your temples. “Yes, Mother, I know.”
She had hummed in amusement. “Well, Im starting to think i’m a bad influence, at least try not to be like me and your dad.”
“Mom.”
She had only laughed.
At first, it was easier to keep it hidden. You and Conner met in the shadows, in places no one else would look.
Abandoned rooftops, dimly lit diners on the outskirts of the city, quiet parks in the dead of night where he could float just above the ground, keeping you wrapped in the warmth of his presence.
He wasn’t like Superman and you weren’t just Batman’s daughter.
That’s what you loved about being with him. When he looked at you, he didn’t see the vigilante, the heir to Gotham’s dark legacy. He didn’t see someone who had to be perfect. He saw you. Your flaws, your fears, your messy, complicated emotions. And he never tried to change them.
“I don’t care about what your dad thinks,” he had told you once, leaning back against the fire escape outside your window. “Or your brothers. Or your mom, even.”
You raised a brow. “Not even a little?”
He grinned. “Okay, maybe a little. But it doesn’t change anything.”
You had smirked. “You are stubborn.”
“Says the girl who won’t admit she likes me.”
You scoffed, but he had been right. Liking him had been the easy part. Accepting that he was yours? That had been harder.
Gotham was a city of ghosts.
Your life had been built on shadows, on silent movements, on always thinking five steps ahead. Mistakes had consequences, emotions were weaknesses, and attachments?
They got you killed.
But Conner… Conner made you feel like you were alive.
He never cared about the weight of your family name. He never expected you to be perfect. He let you be wrong, and he still stood by you.
One night, after a brutal mission, you had been exhausted, bruised, and pissed at your father for another round of overprotection.
Conner had found you on the rooftop of your shared apartment, sitting at the edge, staring out at the skyline.
He had landed softly beside you, his presence warm against the cold night.
“You okay?”
You hadn’t answered right away.
Then, quietly, you had admitted, “Sometimes I think its much more worth it to leave this place”
Conner had been silent for a moment before he shifted closer. “Yeah. I get that.”
And you knew he did. Superman saw him as something broken. A project. An accident to be controlled. Bruce saw you as something fragile. Something not ready.
You had glanced at Conner then, at the way he looked at you not as something to fix, but as someone whole. You had leaned into him, and he had let you.
That was the thing about Conner.
He didn’t just love you. He trusted you to be exactly who you were.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
Your father was the last to acknowledge it.
Bruce had spent months pretending you weren’t sneaking out to see Conner, pretending he didn’t know why your patrol routes started conveniently lining up with the edge of the city.
But Bruce noticed everything. eventually, he noticed him. It started with the little things.
Conner was always near you in battle, always the first to shield you from an explosion, always ready to catch you if you fell.
Bruce watched the way Conner would take the hit for you not because he thought you couldn’t handle it, but because he could. Conner was powerful, but he never used that strength to control you. He never underestimated you.
One night, after a particularly nasty fight against a group of assassins, you had ended up battered and bloody, a knife wound deep in your side.
Conner had carried you back to the Cave.
Bruce had been waiting.
The air had been tense as Conner laid you gently on the med bay table, his jaw tight, eyes burning with barely contained fury.
“She shouldn’t have been alone,” Conner had said, voice sharp.
Bruce had met his glare, unreadable. “Yeah she shouldn’t have.”
“Then act right on this and she wouldn’t have been alone,” Conner snapped. “shes strong but I don’t care like assholes like you neither does she.”
Silence.
Then Bruce had simply turned and walked away. It wasn’t approval. But it wasn’t rejection, either. You supposed, in his way, Bruce was starting to understand.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
Looking back now, lying in the med bay once again, you let out a slow breath.
The room was empty.
The cave was silent.
Your body ached, your side still throbbing from the mission gone wrong. You stared at the ceiling, letting exhaustion creep in.
Jason’s words still echoed in your head.
“Tights and a cape? Really?”
You sighed.
They’d never understand.
when Conner held you, when he saw you, when he treated you like something more than just Batman’s daughter… It didn’t matter what anyone else thought.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
Gotham was different when Dick was in town. Maybe it was the way he carried himself loose, easy, like the city didn’t weigh on his shoulders the way it did on everyone else’s. Maybe it was because he didn’t live here anymore, so Gotham’s shadows didn’t cling to him the way they clung to you, to Jason, to Bruce.
Either way, his presence always changed the air. Right now, though? It just made the tension in the Batcave feel even heavier.
Dick had barely been back for a full twenty four hours before he noticed. The way Bruce’s jaw was tighter than usual, how Jason was avoiding both of you, how Tim kept smirking behind his coffee cup like he was enjoying the chaos. And you?
You were just done.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched.
Watched as Bruce checked your gear three times before your patrol. Watched as Jason kept throwing pointed glances your way, muttering curses under his breath like you were the idiot. Watched as Tim leaned back against the Batcomputer with the most entertained expression, like this was his own personal sitcom.
Eventually, Dick just sighed.
“Alright, kid,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Burgers. Let’s go.”
Bruce barely looked up. “She has patrol.”
Dick raised a brow. “No, she has burgers with her favorite brother.”
Jason scoffed from across the room. “Favorite? Yeah, okay, Nightwing.”
Tim sipped his coffee. “I don’t know, Jay. He is also my favourite.”
You didn’t argue. You just grabbed your jacket and followed Dick out before Bruce could protest.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
The diner was a little hole in the wall place, tucked between two crumbling buildings. Greasy food, crappy lighting, the kind of place that felt like Gotham to its core. You slumped into the booth, arms crossed as Dick slid in across from you.
He didn’t push. Didn’t prod. Just casually unwrapped his burger and took a bite, waiting. It didn’t take long for you to break.
“He treats me like a soldier,” you said suddenly, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Not even a good one. Just one he doesn’t trust to make their own decisions.”
Dick chewed, nodding. “Bruce?”
You rolled your eyes. “Obviously Bruce.”
You picked at your fries. “he’s such an ass, i know he’s had this tough love thing since Jason but god why cant he let me be? Every move I make, he second guesses. Every mission, he reroutes my patrol to keep me ‘safer.’ He acts like I’m some reckless idiot who’s one bad decision away from getting killed.”
Dick hummed. “Jason probably isn’t helping.”
You huffed. “Oh, he’s worse. At least Bruce lets me fight Jason acts like I’m made of glass. Like I need protecting, like I can’t handle myself.”
Dick smirked. “Well, you did almost get blown up yesterday.”
You scowled. “That’s not the point.”
“Mmhmm.”
You ignored him and kept going.
“And then there’s Tim. Who just smirks. Like he enjoys watching me get lectured by dad and chewed out by Jason. Like this is all some kind of entertainment to him.”
Dick laughed. “It is entertaining.”
You threw a fry at him. He caught it without looking.
“It’s just” You exhaled sharply. “Bruce doesn’t trust me, Jason coddles me, and Tim thinks it’s all a joke. And yet Damian gets to do whatever the hell he wants.”
Dick raised a brow. “Ah. So this is about Damian.”
You stabbed your fork into your fries. “It’s not. It’s about all of it. But also? Yeah. It’s about Damian.”
Dick took another bite of his burger, chewing thoughtfully. “Bruce would let him get away with murder?”
“Literally,” you muttered. “Meanwhile, I take one risk one calculated risk and suddenly I’m ‘not ready.’”
Dick sighed, setting his burger down. “Okay. So, what’s the actual problem?”
You frowned. “I just told you”
“No, I mean the real problem. You don’t actually care that Bruce is strict. You expect that. You don’t even care that Jason’s overprotective he does that to everyone he loves.”
You looked away. “…So?”
“So,” he said, smirking, “what you actually hate is that they don’t see you as an equal.”
You frowned.
Dick leaned back, crossing his arms. “They see you as their little sister. Their daughter. They see someone they have to protect, not someone they can trust.”
Your grip on your fork tightened. “And that’s not fair.”
“No,” he agreed easily. “It’s not.”
Silence stretched between you.
Then, casually, Dick added, “But hey, at least Conner treats you like an equal.”
You froze mid bite.
Slowly, you looked up at him.
He grinned.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”
He tilted his head. “What?”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” he teased. “You could’ve gone for someone normal, but nooo. You had to pick another dark, broody, overpowered meathead”
“Dick, I swear”
“You surround yourself with annoying guys”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Never speak again.”
“Oh, absolutely not.” He leaned forward, eyes glinting mischievously. “In fact, I think I should speak more. Maybe bring this up at family dinner. Hey, Bruce, did you know your daughter has a thing for emotionally constipated guys in leather?”
You threw another fry at him.
He dodged it effortlessly, laughing.
“Dick. I will kill you.”
“I kinda want to meet this guy.”
You glared.
He just smiled. But despite your annoyance, despite everything Bruce’s overprotection, Jason’s coddling, Tim’s smirking something about the conversation helped. Because at least one of your brothers saw you.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
You regretted ever telling your family now. Dick knowing about Conner means you’ve been introduced to hell.
oh satan over there? yeah he’s on the body of your bug brother.
Not because he was mad not even because he was disapproving but because he was Dick.
Which meant relentless teasing.
Which meant grinning at you like he had the world’s juiciest blackmail material. Which meant the exact sentence that had been haunting you ever since your burger night.
“I want to meet my younger sister’s hero.”
It had been two days. Two. And he would not let it go.
You tried to avoid it. Tried to make excuses. But Dick was persistent.
So now here you were on a Gotham rooftop, arms crossed, glaring at him as he sat on the ledge like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m interested,” he corrected. “I mean, c’mon. I’ve only ever heard about this guy from our brothers, and none of them have anything nice to say.” He smirked. “Figured I should form my own opinion.”
You groaned. “Can you not?”
“Oh, I definitely can,” he said. “I just won’t.”
Before you could argue further, a gust of wind swept through the air, and There he was.
Conner landed a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, red cape billowing slightly behind him. His gaze flickered between you and Dick, brows furrowed in mild suspicion.
“You okay?” he asked you first, like he always did.
You exhaled. “Yeah. I just ” You shot Dick a look. “Had a situation to handle.”
Conner raised an eyebrow.
Dick, meanwhile, was grinning.
“Well, well, well,” he said, standing up and brushing off his suit. “The infamous Superboy.”
Conner’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And you’re…?”
Dicks mouth dropped glancing to you “Oh, wow. That actually hurt.” Then he extended a hand. “Dick Grayson. Also known as Nightwing. Also known as best older brother. Nice to finally meet you.”
Conner eyed him for a second before shaking his hand. “…Right.”
Dick’s smirk widened. “So. You’re the little guy my little sister’s been sneaking around with, huh?”
You instantly regretted your entire life.
Conner’s gaze flickered to you before he answered, clearly unsure how to respond. “Guess so…?”
“Oh, I like him already,” Dick laughed. “Got that classic ‘brooding hero’ energy. I see the appeal.”
You glared. “Dick”
“I mean, you do have a type,” he continued, grinning at you. “The whole ‘dark, broody, overpowered’ thing? Classic. keep the family values. I respect it.”
Conner glanced at you, fidgeting slightly as if trying to hold back a laugh. “its not a wrong point.”
You smacked his arm. “Not you too.”
Dick just laughed. “So. How’s the Super life treating you?”
Conner shrugged awkwardly, clearly not sure how to navigate the conversation. “Could be worse.”
“Dealing with my family yet?”
“All the time.”
Dick nodded sagely. “Yeah, that’s rough, buddy.”
Conner gave a quiet, awkward chuckle. “It’s not that bad.” His gaze softened slightly when he looked at you. “She makes it easier.”
Dick raised an eyebrow. Then slowly he grinned.
“Oh, man,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re down bad.”
You groaned. “Dick. it’s gross when you say that. Shut up.”
“I love this,” he continued, delighted. “This is so much better than I imagined.”
Conner crossed his arms and tried to lean against the ledge nonchalantly, but there was a slight stiff tension in his posture. “I wont stop her if she starts fighting”
Dick gasped, hand over his heart. “You’d turn her against me?”
“mmmmm i’m in a Y/n wrongs and right are rights morality,” Conner pointed out with a soft, awkward chuckle.
Dick sighed. “ew you sound like me with women.”
You rolled your eyes. “Okay. We’re done here.”
But before you could drag Conner away, Dick clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Look, all jokes aside,” he said, suddenly more serious, “I get why Bruce and Jason are… difficult about this. You’re powerful. You’re dangerous. You’re not one of us.”
Conner tensed slightly, glancing over at you like he didn’t know how to respond.
Dick met his gaze. “But I see how you look at her. And I see how she looks at you.” His expression softened. “So, for what it’s worth? You’ve got my approval.”
Conner blinked, clearly caught off guard. He cleared his throat, trying to hide the flush creeping up his neck. “Wasn’t asking.”
Dick grinned. “Oh, I really like you.”
You groaned. “I hate both of you.”
Conner just took your hand, squeezing lightly, trying to brush off the awkwardness that had started to settle in. “You love me.” he whispered
You muttered something under your breath. Dick slung an arm around your shoulders, still grinning.
“Alright, Superboy. Don’t break her heart. Or I will break you.”
Conner didn’t flinch. “You could try.”
“Ohhh, I really really like him.”
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
The gala was everything you dreaded about Gotham’s elite. The high end designers. The glittering chandeliers. The fake smiles and empty conversations about stock markets and charities you knew were just tax write offs. You were dreading it. But you had no choice. Your dad had insisted.
“You’re going with me,” Bruce had said, his tone one you couldn’t argue with. “Damien’s going too.”
Damien.
You rolled your eyes. If there was one silver lining, it was that Damien would make the night more bearable. Sure, he was insufferable, but deep down, he was your favorite… well one of them.
You didn’t know when it started, but you couldn’t deny it. Every time someone made a comment about you, something snide about being Bruce Wayne’s daughter or how you’d grown up in a world of privilege, Damien was right there. He might have been a bratty little boy, but he had a surprisingly soft spot for you.
He’d bark back at anyone who dared talk down to you. And that always made you smile.
Still, you hated the galas. The whole act of pretending to be someone you weren’t, of feigning interest in the people who rubbed elbows with the most corrupt figures in Gotham. It made you feel like you were just another part of Bruce Wayne’s PR machine, just another Wayne for the rich to admire, the perfect daughter.
You weren’t. At least not in the way they thought you were.
⸻
You stood in front of the mirror in your dress, adjusting the neckline slightly. It wasn’t too flashy. Not as tight or revealing as some of the other dresses you’d seen at these events. It wasn’t your style to try and look like you were above everyone else. There was an elegance to it, sure, but it wasn’t over the top.
You sighed, glancing at the clock. You were almost late. You had not been in the mood to get dressed up and pretend you weren’t itching to leave this stupid party as soon as you walked in.
The door to your room creaked open just a bit, and you turned to see Damien standing in the doorway, his usual scowl plastered on his face.
“Are you done yet?” he demanded, crossing his arms.
You blinked at him. “Are you done yet? You look like a little mini Bruce.”
He shot you a glare. “I’ll have you know, I’m a Wayne too, and I’m far superior to Father in many ways.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Mm. Sure, Damien. If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”
Damien’s eyes narrowed in the way they always did when he was being stubborn. “I’m just here to make sure you don’t embarrass the family again.”
“Again?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
You chuckled. “Whatever, Damien. Just don’t get in my way.”
He huffed, but his expression softened for a second. “You know, you don’t have to act like you don’t belong there. It’s your place.”
The rare kindness from Damien caught you off guard. You almost wanted to tease him about it, but something in the way he said it made you pause.
Before you could respond, Bruce’s voice echoed from downstairs. “Damien, [Y/N], let’s go.”
You rolled your eyes. No escape.
⸻
The gala was in full swing when you arrived, the grand ballroom filled with well dressed Gotham’s elite, all laughing, talking, and pretending to be better than they really were. As you walked in behind Bruce and Damien, you couldn’t help but feel like a fish out of water.
Damien, ever the mini Bruce, stepped confidently beside you, his posture straight, eyes sharp. He barely even looked at anyone around him, already ready to shoot down any attempts at conversation. You, on the other hand, put on your best poker face, walking with your head high, but your mind already halfway to escaping.
Bruce was already surrounded by some of the usual suspects, but it didn’t take long for the first person to notice you.
“You know,” a woman with a glass of champagne in hand said, smiling in that way people did when they thought they were better than you. “It’s nice to see the Wayne family so well represented. A fine, upstanding family, despite… well, you know…”
The pause was intentional, like she wanted to see if you’d react to the snide remark. It was a comment about your family’s history, a little jab that no one dared speak out loud but always found a way to slip into their conversations. Isnt being a woman supposed to be about supporting other women? Damien arguably had the same history as you.
You opened your mouth to say something, but Damien beat you to it.
“That’s quite enough.” He said it flatly, stepping forward with a warning glare. “I’m sure if you don’t have anything productive to say, you’d be better off leaving.”
The woman blinked, surprised by the bluntness, but Damien was already walking away, his weird little aura behind him like he was some miniature Dark Knight.
You couldn’t help but smile at him. You were right. He was your favorite.
Bruce glanced at you both, an eyebrow arched. He had seen the whole exchange. You could practically feel him holding back a smirk.
“Damien,” Bruce said, his voice a little too controlled. “You don’t have to go picking fights.”
Damien didn’t back down. “I’m simply defending Y/n. Some of these people need to remember their place.”
Bruce didn’t say anything, but the faintest glimmer of approval passed through his gaze, and it was enough.
⸻
The night dragged on, but you found yourself less uncomfortable with Damien by your side. His quiet protectiveness, the way he always seemed to catch the smallest slight before you did, made it easier to navigate the pretentious conversations. Every time someone made a comment about your family, you could feel Damien’s posture tense and his eyes narrow. And each time, he defended you.
Despite everything, despite how much you complained about his bratty tendencies, Damien was your brat. the weight of the night began to settle. The glittering lights of the gala still flickered in your mind, but the presence of your father and Damien beside you made the ride back almost bearable. Damien, as usual, sat stiffly, his posture perfect even in the backseat of the car, while Bruce remained uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze focused out the window.
You couldn’t help but glance over at Damien, who was looking out his own window, seemingly lost in thought. There had been a moment earlier when Bruce had shared a look with him, something small but meaningful a look you couldn’t quite place. But it was enough to make you feel something unspoken between the two of them. It wasn’t often you saw your father show a soft spot for anyone, let alone his own kids.
The car pulled up to the Manor, and as it came to a stop, you turned to Damien, the words already spilling out before you could stop them.
“You know, you’re not as bad as you pretend to be,” you said, voice teasing but soft. “I might just like you after all.”
Damien scoffed. “You shouldn’t like me. I’m better than you, after all.”
“Pfft, whatever,” you grinned, ignoring his words. The sudden burst of affection you felt in that moment made you throw all your self control out the window. Without thinking, you lunged at him, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug.
Damien let out an exaggerated, dramatic gasp, his body going stiff in shock. “Unhand me, woman,” he hissed, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden outburst of affection.
You ignored his protests, squeezing him tighter. “Nope! Not until you admit that you love me.”
Damien scowled, his face flushing just slightly. “I do not love you, you foolish girl.” But there was no hiding the faint blush creeping onto his cheeks as he tried unsuccessfully to push you away.
Bruce, who had been watching the exchange with mild amusement, cleared his throat from the front seat, as though reminding you both that you weren’t exactly alone. But it was too late to stop now.
You pulled back just enough to look Damien in the eye, still grinning like a cat. “Come on, admit it. I know you love me.”
Damien tried to glare at you, but there was no hiding the slight curve of his lips. “I tolerate you,” he said begrudgingly.
You held him tighter. “Close enough!”
He growled, finally breaking free from your grip. “This is not over,” he muttered under his breath, adjusting his suit with a dramatic flair.
You leaned back, still grinning like an idiot. “Sure, sure, Damien. You can pretend all you want.”
Bruce finally spoke up, his tone surprisingly light. “Alright, break it up, you two. We’ve still got a whole night to get through.”
Damien shot a glare at Bruce. “I’m not the one causing disruptions here.”
You and Bruce shared a look, and for just a brief second, you saw it, something rare and almost tender between the two of them. Damien wasn’t as bad as you’d thought. he had his own way of showing care.
Damien, still grumbling, marched ahead toward the front door, muttering something about how he was going to “train” and “get away from these ridiculous people.” But you knew better. Underneath the bravado, Damien was just like everyone else in this family he cared.
As you stepped out of the car and onto the front porch of Wayne Manor, the cool night air hit your face, carrying the faint scent of rain. You were exhausted, mentally drained from the fake smiles and shallow conversations of the gala, and the weight of the night hung heavy on your shoulders. You couldn’t wait to retreat to your room, get out of this damn dress, and let your thoughts settle.
But as you walked toward the front door, something or rather someone caught your eye. Standing by the door, just under the archway of the Manor, was a familiar silhouette. The figure straightened when he saw you approach, a soft smile appearing on his face.
Conner.
Your heart skipped a beat. You hadn’t expected him to be here, but there he was, waiting for you, like he always did.
“Hey,” you said softly, as you run over to him. your exhaustion suddenly lifting at the sight of him.
He tilted his head, his expression a mix of amusement and concern. “You look… very beautiful tonight.”
You let out a small, tired chuckle. “Beautiful? someone is learning how to express his emotions”
Conner’s brow furrowed, his eyes scanning you like he could see the exhaustion beneath your calm exterior. He stepped forward, his large frame nearly blocking the door. “You okay?”
You nodded, but only half heartedly. “Yeah, just… tired of it all. Tired of pretending.”
Conner didn’t say anything at first, but his gaze softened. His next words were simple, but they always meant more than you expected. “you’re done now, don’t have to think about it now.”
You stepped closer to him, letting the tension in your body melt just a little. “Thanks, Conner. It means a lot. I don’t think I could stand much more of these stupid galas if I didn’t know you’d be waiting for me.”
He smiled at that, the kind of smile that made your heart flutter in your chest, as he stepped aside to let you in. “Always. You know I’ve got your back.”
You couldn’t help but grin. “You’re the best.”
Conner chuckled, stepping back as you passed him. “I’m just doing my job, keeping you out of trouble.”
You shot him a playful look over your shoulder. “Really? Keeping me out of trouble?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Well, you seem to find it even when I’m not around.”
You couldn’t help but laugh, but the moment you passed him, you felt his hand gently grasp your arm, a soft but firm hold that pulled you back toward him.
“What?” you asked, confused.
Conner was staring at you, his blue eyes intense but gentle. “You looked like you needed someone tonight. If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
You stared at him for a moment, letting his words settle. But instead of saying anything, you simply let out a long sigh and let your shoulders relax. You didn’t need to talk about it now. Not when Conner was here, offering comfort without the need for words.
Instead, you smiled softly, stepping into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. “I think… I think I just need this right now.”
Conner wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close as if to shield you from everything outside this moment. “I’ve got you.”
You closed your eyes, letting the familiar warmth of his embrace wrap around you.
The moment of quiet was shattered by the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat.
You tensed slightly, already knowing exactly who it was before you even turned your head.
Bruce stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable but his presence alone was enough to make the warmth in your chest falter just a bit.
“It’s late,” he said, voice even, but carrying that weight of authority only he could manage. “You should be inside now.”
You sighed, pulling back slightly from Conner but keeping your hand locked around his wrist. Of course, Bruce had impeccable timing.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” you muttered, turning toward the door but you didn’t let go of Conner. Instead, you tugged him along with you, acting like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Bruce’s eyes flicked down to your hand still gripping Conner’s, his expression barely changing, but you knew he noticed.
Conner hesitated for half a second, casting a glance between you and your father, as if gauging whether it was a terrible idea to follow you inside. But you weren’t giving him a choice.
Bruce let out the tiniest sigh, stepping aside to let you both in, but not without a warning glance at Conner.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Bruce said evenly.
Conner just glared at him, tight lipped smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”
You definitely caught the way Bruce’s brow twitched ever so slightly at the sir, but you didn’t dwell on it. You just smirked to yourself and pulled Conner further into the Manor, past your father, past all the unspoken tension, and straight toward the one place you could finally relax.
Conner leaned in as you walked, voice low and teasing. “You dragged me in here.”
You grinned up at him. “What, scared of my dad?”
Conner huffed. “No. But I am scared of what your brothers are gonna say when they see me here.”
You just laughed. “Oh, you should be.”
As you pulled Conner deeper into the Manor, you moved quickly, knowing full well that the longer you lingered, the higher the chance of getting ambushed by one of your loving brothers.
You practically speed walked through the grand hall, past the dimly lit corridors.
“Ah, welcome home, Miss.”
You skidded to a stop as Alfred appeared seemingly out of nowhere, standing near the bottom of the staircase with his usual composed demeanor.
Conner tensed beside you, standing up straighter like he was about to get scolded. Clearly, even he wasn’t immune to Alfred’s presence.
You shot the butler a quick smile, still keeping a tight grip on Conner’s wrist. “Hey, Alfred. Gala was awful, as expected. Goodnight!”
And before he could reply, you dragged Conner up the stairs.
“Goodnight, Miss. Goodnight, Mister Conner,” Alfred called after you, voice laced with mild amusement.
Conner barely managed to glance over his shoulder to offer a polite, “Uh goodnight, sir,” before he was pulled around the corner and out of sight.
When you finally made it to your room, you threw the door open and all but shoved Conner inside before shutting it behind you with a sigh of relief.
“Okay, safe,” you muttered, leaning against the door.
Conner raised a brow. “You act like we just broke into the White House.”
You pointed a finger at him. “This house probably has better security than the white house.”
Conner snorted, shaking his head as he glanced around your room. He’d been here before, but it was still surreal for him standing in Wayne Manor.
You walked over to your bed, flopping onto it dramatically. “I swear, I love Alfred, but he always pops up at the worst moments. It’s like a sixth sense.”
Conner smirked, stepping closer. “Maybe he was just making sure I wasn’t sneaking in to corrupt his favorite Wayne.”
You peeked up at him through your arms. “Bold of you to assume I’m his favorite.”
He sat down beside you, resting his elbows on his knees. “You definitely are.”
You grinned, nudging him lightly with your foot. “Flatter me more, Superboy.”
Conner just chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t need flattery. You already know how great you are.”
You huffed, rolling onto your side. “Tell that to my dad.”
Conner didn’t say anything right away, just let his hand rest on yours, grounding you. You let out a slow breath, the exhaustion of the day finally settling in.
“Get some sleep,” Conner murmured. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”
You didn’t even think about it before squeezing his hand. “Stay.
And he did.
Conner sat beside you on the bed, his fingers tracing absentminded circles against your wrist. The room was dimly lit, casting shadows across his face, making his blue eyes stand out even more than usual. He was warm, solid, grounding in a way you desperately needed after the night you’d had.
You shifted closer, tilting your head up toward him. He caught the movement instantly, his gaze flicking down to your lips before he leaned in, closing the space between you.
The kiss was gentle at first, unhurried. His lips pressed against yours in a way that made your chest tighten not with nerves, but with something softer, something steady. His hand slid up, fingertips brushing your jaw before cradling your face, pulling you just a little closer.
You sighed against him, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. He kissed you again, deeper this time, as if memorizing the shape of your lips, as if reminding himself that you were here, that you were his.
A loud noise from the window, followed by the distinct sound of fabric rustling, and then.
THUD.
Conner barely had time to pull back before a voice cut through the moment.
“Oh, come on I just ate.”
You both snapped your heads toward the window, where Tim stood, looking absolutely horrified, like he’d just walked in on the worst crime imaginable.
You groaned, flopping back onto the bed. “Jesus Christ, Tim”
Tim pinched the bridge of his nose like he was experiencing actual pain. “You know I tolerate this relationship for your sake, right? Doesn’t mean I need to see it.”
“Theres a reason we’re in my room with the door closed. what did you even want anyways”
“Ok miss shitbag, I was gonna see if you brought any food from the gala”
Conner, looking far too smug for someone just caught making out, leaned back on his hands. “You could’ve knocked.”
Tim made a disgusted face. “Knocked? On her window? I didn’t think I needed a warning before coming in.” He gestured wildly between the two of you. “I thought I was safe! But no, I have to live with the trauma of seeing my best friend all over my sister.”
You threw a pillow at him. “We weren’t even doing anything!”
Tim caught it with one hand, unimpressed. “There was face touching. That’s enough.”
Conner just shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, I think she’s a better kisser than you.”
Tim immediately gagged, doubling over like he’d been physically attacked. “WHY WOULD THAT MAKE ME FEEL BETTER?!”
You burst out laughing, while Conner grinned like he’d won something.
Tim groaned dramatically, shaking his head as he turned toward the window. “I hate this. I hate both of you. I’m leaving.”
“Goodnight, Tim,” you called sweetly.
“I hope you both stub your toes,” he shot back before disappearing out the window.
As soon as he was gone, you turned to Conner, still grinning. “You did that on purpose.”
Conner smirked. “Maybe.”
You rolled your eyes before pulling him back down into another kiss because if Tim was gonna be dramatic about it, you might as well make it worth it.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩ The first thing you learn about your parents is that they are fundamentally incompatible. The second thing you learn is that they will never stop trying anyway.
You don’t remember a time when Bruce and Selina were ever something as simple as together. They exist in contradictions she flirts, he broods; she steals, he stops her; she leaves, he waits. You used to think they would eventually find a middle ground, but you’ve long since given up on that idea.
Bruce and Selina have always been on and off, a constant push and pull. He loves her, but he can’t accept her choices. She loves him, but she refuses to change for him. You grew up watching them dance around their feelings. One moment, she’s draped over his desk in the Batcave, teasing him, and the next, she’s gone without a trace, leaving only a cryptic note behind.
Still, they make sense, in a way that defies logic. And despite all their back and forth, they both love you just in completely different ways. The truth is, Bruce and Selina will never be able to give you the same kind of love.
“Again.”
You grit your teeth, clenching your fists as Bruce circles you in the Batcave’s training area. You’ve already gone through this drill a dozen times. Your muscles ache, your ribs are sore from earlier blows, but he’s relentless.
You feint left, then pivot sharply, throwing a kick at his side. He blocks it easily. Too easily. His expression remains unreadable, but you can feel his disapproval.
“Sloppy,” he says, stepping back. “You’re letting yourself get tired.”
“That’s because I am tired,” you snap. “We’ve been doing this for over an hour.”
He crosses his arms. “On the field, you don’t get to decide when you’re done.”
You roll your eyes. “Oh, but Tim does? Jason does? Even Damian doesn’t get this much micromanaging.”
Bruce’s jaw tightens. “This isn’t about them. It’s about you.”
“No, it’s about me being your daughter.”
His silence confirms it.
You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “You trained all of them, let them fight their own battles. You trusted them to figure it out. But me? You’re scared to let me.”
Bruce’s expression darkens. “I’m not scared.”
“Then what is it?” you challenge, stepping closer. “You push me harder than you ever pushed them, but you still won’t let me prove myself. What’s the point of all this if you’re just going to hold me back?”
His voice is quiet when he finally answers. “Because I can’t lose you.”
The weight of those words presses against your chest. You want to be angry, to keep fighting him on this, but the raw emotion in his voice makes it impossible.
You don’t know what to say, so you settle for the only truth you have.
“You won’t,” you murmur. “But you have to let me go.”
Bruce doesn’t answer. He just exhales slowly, tension still radiating from his stance. You don’t expect him to change overnight, but at the very least, he doesn’t call for another round. That’s something.
Selina finds you hours later, sprawled out on the balcony of her penthouse. You weren’t planning on coming here tonight, but after your fight with Bruce, you needed air. And if there’s one thing Selina understands, it’s the need to escape.
She slides the glass door open, stepping onto the rooftop with effortless grace. “I thought I’d find you here.”
You don’t turn to face her. “Bruce is being impossible.”
She chuckles, settling beside you. “He’s still your dad don’t call him bruce, though when isn’t he?”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the cool metal railing. “I just… I don’t know how to make him see me as more than just his kid. He acts like I’ll break if I take one wrong step.”
Selina hums thoughtfully. “That’s what he does. He builds walls around the things he loves, convinces himself it’s the only way to keep them safe.”
You glance at her. “And you?”
She smirks. “Oh, I’d never keep a bird in a cage. I’d teach her to fly.”
There’s something appealing about that. With Selina, there are no rules, no suffocating restrictions. Just a quiet, unwavering confidence in your abilities. Even if you don’t approve of the way she lives, you can’t deny that she makes you feel free.
She pulls a small velvet pouch from her pocket and tosses it into your lap.
You raise a brow. “Do I want to know?”
She grins. “Just a little something I picked up.”
You groan, shoving it back at her. “I told you to stop giving me stolen jewelry.”
Selina only laughs. “It’s not stolen technically. I swapped it for something better.”
“That’s still stealing.”
“Details, darling.”
You can’t help but laugh. She winks, ruffling your hair before standing. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat before you let your father’s brooding ruin your whole night.”
You shake your head but follow her anyway.
For all their differences, Bruce and Selina have one thing in common: they both love you, fiercely.
Your dad will always try to protect you from the world. Your mom will always remind you that it’s yours to take. You exist in the space between them.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩Patrol had been standard until it wasn’t. You and Tim had been watching an arms deal go down from the rooftops of Gotham’s East End. The intel from Oracle suggested this was a simple exchange one that didn’t require much interference. The plan was to observe, gather intel, and report back if things escalated. But you weren’t convinced.
Something felt off. You crouched beside Tim, scanning the warehouse below. The deal was happening inside, but your eyes were locked on a figure slipping through a side entrance, unnoticed by the others.
“Tim, we’ve got movement,” you whispered.
He barely glanced at the figure before shaking his head. “Not our priority. We wait and
“I’m going after them,” you interrupted, already moving.
Tim grabbed your arm. “That’s not the plan.”
“I have a bad feeling about this,” you insisted, shaking him off. “Cover me.”
And before he could protest, you were already gone.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈The side entrance led you through a narrow corridor, crates stacked high along the walls. You moved quietly, using the shadows to your advantage. The man you were following a mercenary by the look of his armor spoke softly into an earpiece. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the urgency in his tone sent a chill down your spine. You pressed closer, peering around a crate. Then you saw it. This wasn’t just an arms deal. There were bombs. Crates of them. Military grade explosives, lined up and ready to be moved.
Your stomach dropped.
“Oracle,” you whispered, touching your comm. “We have a problem.”
“I see it,” her voice came through your earpiece. “I’m running facial recognition on the men inside. This isn’t just some street gang these guys are mercenaries.”
“Figures.”
Tim’s voice suddenly crackled through. “You were supposed to wait.”
“I’d say ‘I told you so,’ but I’m a little busy.”
A movement caught your eye. The mercenary was reaching for a detonator.
Shit.
You sprang from cover, knocking him back with a swift kick to the ribs. The detonator clattered across the floor.
“Got company,” you muttered.
“On my way,” Tim responded.
But it was already too late.
The other mercenaries had heard the commotion, and within seconds, you were surrounded.
⸻
Fighting in the Fire
You moved on instinct, blocking the first blow aimed at your head and countering with a knee to the gut. The second merc swung at you with a baton, but you ducked, sweeping his legs out from under him.
The fight was brutal there were too many of them, and you were alone.
A blade sliced across your side, and you hissed, twisting to avoid a deeper wound. Blood soaked into your suit, but you ignored it, focusing on staying alive.
Then the explosion hit.
A grenade thrown from somewhere behind you detonated against one of the stacked crates. The force sent you flying, crashing through a pile of debris. Your ears rang, and your vision blurred.
Somewhere in the distance, you heard Tim’s voice in your earpiece. “Hold on I’m almost there!”
Gritting your teeth, you forced yourself to move.
You weren’t dying here.
When the dust settled, the mercenaries were either unconscious or retreating. The explosives were still intact, and Tim arrived just in time to secure them.
But you were wrecked.
He looked at you, taking in the blood seeping from your side. “You’re an idiot.”
You gave a weak smirk. “Yeah. But at least I was right.”
Tim muttered something under his breath before helping you out of the warehouse.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
The moment you step off the platform, you feel him before you see him.
Bruce is waiting. Arms crossed. Silent.
He’s still in the Batsuit, the cowl pulled back, his expression unreadable but you know better. You’ve seen that look before.
Tim doesn’t say a word. He just gives you one final glance and walks off, leaving you alone with the inevitable.
You brace yourself, but Bruce doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. His disappointment is a physical weight in the air.
“You abandoned your partner,” he says, voice like stone.
“I chased a lead.”
“You disobeyed orders.”
You grit your teeth. “It was the right call.”
He steps forward, and suddenly, you feel small. Not because you’re afraid Bruce would never hurt you but because his presence alone is suffocating.
“The right call?” His tone sharpens. “You were injured. You could have been killed.”
“But I wasn’t,” you argue, though the sting in your side says otherwise.
Bruce exhales slowly, his jaw tightening. “You’re reckless.”
“You don’t say that when literally anyone else is on a mission,” you snap.
He doesn’t answer immediately, and that silence stings. Because you already know the truth. You’re different. You’re his daughter. And that changes everything. but it doesn’t Damien is younger than you. You don’t get it.
“You’re dismissed,” he finally says, voice cold.
You hesitate, fists clenched, but there’s no point in arguing. Not when his mind is already made up.
You turn and head toward the med bay, fuming the entire way.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
You’re half out of your suit, sitting on the medical table while Alfred patches up your side, when Jason storms into the Batcave like a force of nature.
“The hell happened tonight?”
You groan. Of course he found out.
Bruce, still near the Batcomputer, barely glances up. “Jason”
Jason ignores him, turning straight to you. His eyes flick to the bloodstained bandages, and his expression darkens. “Who did this?”
“Relax,” you sigh. “It’s just a scratch.”
Jason scoffs. “A scratch?” He turns to Bruce, eyes blazing. “What the hell was she doing in a situation where she could end up like this?”
“I made the call,” you interject. “It was my decision.”
Jason looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “That’s not a good thing, dumbass.”
You scowl. “It’s part of the job.”
Jason shakes his head, pacing. “Nah. No. You shouldn’t be out there like this. He shouldn’t be letting you”
“I let her do nothing,” Bruce interrupts, his voice a low warning.
Jason laughs humorless, sharp. “Oh, really? Because it looks to me like you’re putting her through the same damn cycle we all went through. How long before she ends up dead in an alley too?”
“Jason”
“No, screw that,” Jason snaps. “You’re just letting her walk into this life like it’s fine. Like it’s not gonna chew her up and spit her out like the rest of us.”
You push yourself up from the table, ignoring the sharp sting in your side. “I chose this, Jason. No one forced me.”
Jason turns his glare on you. “You don’t get it, do you? You think this is just about being a hero, about doing good?” He scoffs. “It’s a death sentence.”
You clench your jaw. “So what, you expect me to just sit at home and do nothing?”
“I expect you to be smarter than this,” he snaps.
Before you can fire back, his eyes narrow, and suddenly, the conversation takes a sharp turn.
“Speaking of dumb decisions,” Jason mutters, crossing his arms. “You’re still with Superboy, right?”
Your frustration spikes. “Oh my godseriously?”
Jason gives you a deadpan look. “knock off superman? Really? You could do better.”
You throw your hands up. “Why does everyone have a problem with me dating Conner?”
Jason rolls his eyes. “Because he’s a walking red flag wrapped in blue spandex.”
You glare. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Jason scowls. “I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t trust anyone.”
He doesn’t deny it.
You exhale sharply, rubbing your temples. “Look, I’m tired, I’m injured, and I don’t have the energy for this right now.”
Jason studies you for a moment, then sighs, running a hand through his hair. His anger hasn’t faded completely, but the sharp edge of it has dulled.
“Fine,” he mutters. “But if he ever screws up, I will break his face.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of something warmer underneath the annoyance. Jason will never say it outright, but you know what this is.
It’s not just anger. It’s fear.
Bruce was right about one thing losing people leaves scars. And Jason? He has more than most. He won’t stop you from fighting your battles. But he’ll sure as hell be there when you fall.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
Dating in the Batfamily was a challenge. Dating Conner Kent? That was practically a declaration of war.
You weren’t an idiot you knew what your family thought of him. Bruce didn’t trust him. Superman’s clone, an unpredictable force of power, a boy with too much strength and too little control. That’s how your father saw him, at least. Jason didn’t respect him. “A knock off in a leather jacket? Come on, you can do so much better.”
Tim was wary. Conner was his best friend, but even he had his doubts when it came to you.
And your mother? Selina raised a delicate brow when she first caught wind of your relationship, a teasing smirk playing at her lips. “Oh, darling,” she had purred. “You know how your father’s going to react, right?”
You had sighed, rubbing your temples. “Yes, Mother, I know.”
She had hummed in amusement. “Well, Im starting to think i’m a bad influence, at least try not to be like me and your dad.”
“Mom.”
She had only laughed.
At first, it was easier to keep it hidden. You and Conner met in the shadows, in places no one else would look.
Abandoned rooftops, dimly lit diners on the outskirts of the city, quiet parks in the dead of night where he could float just above the ground, keeping you wrapped in the warmth of his presence.
He wasn’t like Superman and you weren’t just Batman’s daughter.
That’s what you loved about being with him. When he looked at you, he didn’t see the vigilante, the heir to Gotham’s dark legacy. He didn’t see someone who had to be perfect. He saw you. Your flaws, your fears, your messy, complicated emotions. And he never tried to change them.
“I don’t care about what your dad thinks,” he had told you once, leaning back against the fire escape outside your window. “Or your brothers. Or your mom, even.”
You raised a brow. “Not even a little?”
He grinned. “Okay, maybe a little. But it doesn’t change anything.”
You had smirked. “You are stubborn.”
“Says the girl who won’t admit she likes me.”
You scoffed, but he had been right. Liking him had been the easy part. Accepting that he was yours? That had been harder.
Gotham was a city of ghosts.
Your life had been built on shadows, on silent movements, on always thinking five steps ahead. Mistakes had consequences, emotions were weaknesses, and attachments?
They got you killed.
But Conner… Conner made you feel like you were alive.
He never cared about the weight of your family name. He never expected you to be perfect. He let you be wrong, and he still stood by you.
One night, after a brutal mission, you had been exhausted, bruised, and pissed at your father for another round of overprotection.
Conner had found you on the rooftop of your shared apartment, sitting at the edge, staring out at the skyline.
He had landed softly beside you, his presence warm against the cold night.
“You okay?”
You hadn’t answered right away.
Then, quietly, you had admitted, “Sometimes I think its much more worth it to leave this place”
Conner had been silent for a moment before he shifted closer. “Yeah. I get that.”
And you knew he did. Superman saw him as something broken. A project. An accident to be controlled. Bruce saw you as something fragile. Something not ready.
You had glanced at Conner then, at the way he looked at you not as something to fix, but as someone whole. You had leaned into him, and he had let you.
That was the thing about Conner.
He didn’t just love you. He trusted you to be exactly who you were.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
Your father was the last to acknowledge it.
Bruce had spent months pretending you weren’t sneaking out to see Conner, pretending he didn’t know why your patrol routes started conveniently lining up with the edge of the city.
But Bruce noticed everything. eventually, he noticed him. It started with the little things.
Conner was always near you in battle, always the first to shield you from an explosion, always ready to catch you if you fell.
Bruce watched the way Conner would take the hit for you not because he thought you couldn’t handle it, but because he could. Conner was powerful, but he never used that strength to control you. He never underestimated you.
One night, after a particularly nasty fight against a group of assassins, you had ended up battered and bloody, a knife wound deep in your side.
Conner had carried you back to the Cave.
Bruce had been waiting.
The air had been tense as Conner laid you gently on the med bay table, his jaw tight, eyes burning with barely contained fury.
“She shouldn’t have been alone,” Conner had said, voice sharp.
Bruce had met his glare, unreadable. “Yeah she shouldn’t have.”
“Then act right on this and she wouldn’t have been alone,” Conner snapped. “shes strong but I don’t care like assholes like you neither does she.”
Silence.
Then Bruce had simply turned and walked away. It wasn’t approval. But it wasn’t rejection, either. You supposed, in his way, Bruce was starting to understand.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
Looking back now, lying in the med bay once again, you let out a slow breath.
The room was empty.
The cave was silent.
Your body ached, your side still throbbing from the mission gone wrong. You stared at the ceiling, letting exhaustion creep in.
Jason’s words still echoed in your head.
“Tights and a cape? Really?”
You sighed.
They’d never understand.
when Conner held you, when he saw you, when he treated you like something more than just Batman’s daughter… It didn’t matter what anyone else thought.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
Gotham was different when Dick was in town. Maybe it was the way he carried himself loose, easy, like the city didn’t weigh on his shoulders the way it did on everyone else’s. Maybe it was because he didn’t live here anymore, so Gotham’s shadows didn’t cling to him the way they clung to you, to Jason, to Bruce.
Either way, his presence always changed the air. Right now, though? It just made the tension in the Batcave feel even heavier.
Dick had barely been back for a full twenty four hours before he noticed. The way Bruce’s jaw was tighter than usual, how Jason was avoiding both of you, how Tim kept smirking behind his coffee cup like he was enjoying the chaos. And you?
You were just done.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched.
Watched as Bruce checked your gear three times before your patrol. Watched as Jason kept throwing pointed glances your way, muttering curses under his breath like you were the idiot. Watched as Tim leaned back against the Batcomputer with the most entertained expression, like this was his own personal sitcom.
Eventually, Dick just sighed.
“Alright, kid,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Burgers. Let’s go.”
Bruce barely looked up. “She has patrol.”
Dick raised a brow. “No, she has burgers with her favorite brother.”
Jason scoffed from across the room. “Favorite? Yeah, okay, Nightwing.”
Tim sipped his coffee. “I don’t know, Jay. He is also my favourite.”
You didn’t argue. You just grabbed your jacket and followed Dick out before Bruce could protest.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
The diner was a little hole in the wall place, tucked between two crumbling buildings. Greasy food, crappy lighting, the kind of place that felt like Gotham to its core. You slumped into the booth, arms crossed as Dick slid in across from you.
He didn’t push. Didn’t prod. Just casually unwrapped his burger and took a bite, waiting. It didn’t take long for you to break.
“He treats me like a soldier,” you said suddenly, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Not even a good one. Just one he doesn’t trust to make their own decisions.”
Dick chewed, nodding. “Bruce?”
You rolled your eyes. “Obviously Bruce.”
You picked at your fries. “he’s such an ass, i know he’s had this tough love thing since Jason but god why cant he let me be? Every move I make, he second guesses. Every mission, he reroutes my patrol to keep me ‘safer.’ He acts like I’m some reckless idiot who’s one bad decision away from getting killed.”
Dick hummed. “Jason probably isn’t helping.”
You huffed. “Oh, he’s worse. At least Bruce lets me fight Jason acts like I’m made of glass. Like I need protecting, like I can’t handle myself.”
Dick smirked. “Well, you did almost get blown up yesterday.”
You scowled. “That’s not the point.”
“Mmhmm.”
You ignored him and kept going.
“And then there’s Tim. Who just smirks. Like he enjoys watching me get lectured by dad and chewed out by Jason. Like this is all some kind of entertainment to him.”
Dick laughed. “It is entertaining.”
You threw a fry at him. He caught it without looking.
“It’s just” You exhaled sharply. “Bruce doesn’t trust me, Jason coddles me, and Tim thinks it’s all a joke. And yet Damian gets to do whatever the hell he wants.”
Dick raised a brow. “Ah. So this is about Damian.”
You stabbed your fork into your fries. “It’s not. It’s about all of it. But also? Yeah. It’s about Damian.”
Dick took another bite of his burger, chewing thoughtfully. “Bruce would let him get away with murder?”
“Literally,” you muttered. “Meanwhile, I take one risk one calculated risk and suddenly I’m ‘not ready.’”
Dick sighed, setting his burger down. “Okay. So, what’s the actual problem?”
You frowned. “I just told you”
“No, I mean the real problem. You don’t actually care that Bruce is strict. You expect that. You don’t even care that Jason’s overprotective he does that to everyone he loves.”
You looked away. “…So?”
“So,” he said, smirking, “what you actually hate is that they don’t see you as an equal.”
You frowned.
Dick leaned back, crossing his arms. “They see you as their little sister. Their daughter. They see someone they have to protect, not someone they can trust.”
Your grip on your fork tightened. “And that’s not fair.”
“No,” he agreed easily. “It’s not.”
Silence stretched between you.
Then, casually, Dick added, “But hey, at least Conner treats you like an equal.”
You froze mid bite.
Slowly, you looked up at him.
He grinned.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”
He tilted his head. “What?”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” he teased. “You could’ve gone for someone normal, but nooo. You had to pick another dark, broody, overpowered meathead”
“Dick, I swear”
“You surround yourself with annoying guys”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Never speak again.”
“Oh, absolutely not.” He leaned forward, eyes glinting mischievously. “In fact, I think I should speak more. Maybe bring this up at family dinner. Hey, Bruce, did you know your daughter has a thing for emotionally constipated guys in leather?”
You threw another fry at him.
He dodged it effortlessly, laughing.
“Dick. I will kill you.”
“I kinda want to meet this guy.”
You glared.
He just smiled. But despite your annoyance, despite everything Bruce’s overprotection, Jason’s coddling, Tim’s smirking something about the conversation helped. Because at least one of your brothers saw you.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
You regretted ever telling your family now. Dick knowing about Conner means you’ve been introduced to hell.
oh satan over there? yeah he’s on the body of your bug brother.
Not because he was mad not even because he was disapproving but because he was Dick.
Which meant relentless teasing.
Which meant grinning at you like he had the world’s juiciest blackmail material. Which meant the exact sentence that had been haunting you ever since your burger night.
“I want to meet my younger sister’s hero.”
It had been two days. Two. And he would not let it go.
You tried to avoid it. Tried to make excuses. But Dick was persistent.
So now here you were on a Gotham rooftop, arms crossed, glaring at him as he sat on the ledge like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m interested,” he corrected. “I mean, c’mon. I’ve only ever heard about this guy from our brothers, and none of them have anything nice to say.” He smirked. “Figured I should form my own opinion.”
You groaned. “Can you not?”
“Oh, I definitely can,” he said. “I just won’t.”
Before you could argue further, a gust of wind swept through the air, and There he was.
Conner landed a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, red cape billowing slightly behind him. His gaze flickered between you and Dick, brows furrowed in mild suspicion.
“You okay?” he asked you first, like he always did.
You exhaled. “Yeah. I just ” You shot Dick a look. “Had a situation to handle.”
Conner raised an eyebrow.
Dick, meanwhile, was grinning.
“Well, well, well,” he said, standing up and brushing off his suit. “The infamous Superboy.”
Conner’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And you’re…?”
Dicks mouth dropped glancing to you “Oh, wow. That actually hurt.” Then he extended a hand. “Dick Grayson. Also known as Nightwing. Also known as best older brother. Nice to finally meet you.”
Conner eyed him for a second before shaking his hand. “…Right.”
Dick’s smirk widened. “So. You’re the little guy my little sister’s been sneaking around with, huh?”
You instantly regretted your entire life.
Conner’s gaze flickered to you before he answered, clearly unsure how to respond. “Guess so…?”
“Oh, I like him already,” Dick laughed. “Got that classic ‘brooding hero’ energy. I see the appeal.”
You glared. “Dick”
“I mean, you do have a type,” he continued, grinning at you. “The whole ‘dark, broody, overpowered’ thing? Classic. keep the family values. I respect it.”
Conner glanced at you, fidgeting slightly as if trying to hold back a laugh. “its not a wrong point.”
You smacked his arm. “Not you too.”
Dick just laughed. “So. How’s the Super life treating you?”
Conner shrugged awkwardly, clearly not sure how to navigate the conversation. “Could be worse.”
“Dealing with my family yet?”
“All the time.”
Dick nodded sagely. “Yeah, that’s rough, buddy.”
Conner gave a quiet, awkward chuckle. “It’s not that bad.” His gaze softened slightly when he looked at you. “She makes it easier.”
Dick raised an eyebrow. Then slowly he grinned.
“Oh, man,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re down bad.”
You groaned. “Dick. it’s gross when you say that. Shut up.”
“I love this,” he continued, delighted. “This is so much better than I imagined.”
Conner crossed his arms and tried to lean against the ledge nonchalantly, but there was a slight stiff tension in his posture. “I wont stop her if she starts fighting”
Dick gasped, hand over his heart. “You’d turn her against me?”
“mmmmm i’m in a Y/n wrongs and right are rights morality,” Conner pointed out with a soft, awkward chuckle.
Dick sighed. “ew you sound like me with women.”
You rolled your eyes. “Okay. We’re done here.”
But before you could drag Conner away, Dick clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Look, all jokes aside,” he said, suddenly more serious, “I get why Bruce and Jason are… difficult about this. You’re powerful. You’re dangerous. You’re not one of us.”
Conner tensed slightly, glancing over at you like he didn’t know how to respond.
Dick met his gaze. “But I see how you look at her. And I see how she looks at you.” His expression softened. “So, for what it’s worth? You’ve got my approval.”
Conner blinked, clearly caught off guard. He cleared his throat, trying to hide the flush creeping up his neck. “Wasn’t asking.”
Dick grinned. “Oh, I really like you.”
You groaned. “I hate both of you.”
Conner just took your hand, squeezing lightly, trying to brush off the awkwardness that had started to settle in. “You love me.” he whispered
You muttered something under your breath. Dick slung an arm around your shoulders, still grinning.
“Alright, Superboy. Don’t break her heart. Or I will break you.”
Conner didn’t flinch. “You could try.”
“Ohhh, I really really like him.”
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩
The gala was everything you dreaded about Gotham’s elite. The high end designers. The glittering chandeliers. The fake smiles and empty conversations about stock markets and charities you knew were just tax write offs. You were dreading it. But you had no choice. Your dad had insisted.
“You’re going with me,” Bruce had said, his tone one you couldn’t argue with. “Damien’s going too.”
Damien.
You rolled your eyes. If there was one silver lining, it was that Damien would make the night more bearable. Sure, he was insufferable, but deep down, he was your favorite… well one of them.
You didn’t know when it started, but you couldn’t deny it. Every time someone made a comment about you, something snide about being Bruce Wayne’s daughter or how you’d grown up in a world of privilege, Damien was right there. He might have been a bratty little boy, but he had a surprisingly soft spot for you.
He’d bark back at anyone who dared talk down to you. And that always made you smile.
Still, you hated the galas. The whole act of pretending to be someone you weren’t, of feigning interest in the people who rubbed elbows with the most corrupt figures in Gotham. It made you feel like you were just another part of Bruce Wayne’s PR machine, just another Wayne for the rich to admire, the perfect daughter.
You weren’t. At least not in the way they thought you were.
⸻
You stood in front of the mirror in your dress, adjusting the neckline slightly. It wasn’t too flashy. Not as tight or revealing as some of the other dresses you’d seen at these events. It wasn’t your style to try and look like you were above everyone else. There was an elegance to it, sure, but it wasn’t over the top.
You sighed, glancing at the clock. You were almost late. You had not been in the mood to get dressed up and pretend you weren’t itching to leave this stupid party as soon as you walked in.
The door to your room creaked open just a bit, and you turned to see Damien standing in the doorway, his usual scowl plastered on his face.
“Are you done yet?” he demanded, crossing his arms.
You blinked at him. “Are you done yet? You look like a little mini Bruce.”
He shot you a glare. “I’ll have you know, I’m a Wayne too, and I’m far superior to Father in many ways.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Mm. Sure, Damien. If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”
Damien’s eyes narrowed in the way they always did when he was being stubborn. “I’m just here to make sure you don’t embarrass the family again.”
“Again?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
You chuckled. “Whatever, Damien. Just don’t get in my way.”
He huffed, but his expression softened for a second. “You know, you don’t have to act like you don’t belong there. It’s your place.”
The rare kindness from Damien caught you off guard. You almost wanted to tease him about it, but something in the way he said it made you pause.
Before you could respond, Bruce’s voice echoed from downstairs. “Damien, [Y/N], let’s go.”
You rolled your eyes. No escape.
⸻
The gala was in full swing when you arrived, the grand ballroom filled with well dressed Gotham’s elite, all laughing, talking, and pretending to be better than they really were. As you walked in behind Bruce and Damien, you couldn’t help but feel like a fish out of water.
Damien, ever the mini Bruce, stepped confidently beside you, his posture straight, eyes sharp. He barely even looked at anyone around him, already ready to shoot down any attempts at conversation. You, on the other hand, put on your best poker face, walking with your head high, but your mind already halfway to escaping.
Bruce was already surrounded by some of the usual suspects, but it didn’t take long for the first person to notice you.
“You know,” a woman with a glass of champagne in hand said, smiling in that way people did when they thought they were better than you. “It’s nice to see the Wayne family so well represented. A fine, upstanding family, despite… well, you know…”
The pause was intentional, like she wanted to see if you’d react to the snide remark. It was a comment about your family’s history, a little jab that no one dared speak out loud but always found a way to slip into their conversations. Isnt being a woman supposed to be about supporting other women? Damien arguably had the same history as you.
You opened your mouth to say something, but Damien beat you to it.
“That’s quite enough.” He said it flatly, stepping forward with a warning glare. “I’m sure if you don’t have anything productive to say, you’d be better off leaving.”
The woman blinked, surprised by the bluntness, but Damien was already walking away, his weird little aura behind him like he was some miniature Dark Knight.
You couldn’t help but smile at him. You were right. He was your favorite.
Bruce glanced at you both, an eyebrow arched. He had seen the whole exchange. You could practically feel him holding back a smirk.
“Damien,” Bruce said, his voice a little too controlled. “You don’t have to go picking fights.”
Damien didn’t back down. “I’m simply defending Y/n. Some of these people need to remember their place.”
Bruce didn’t say anything, but the faintest glimmer of approval passed through his gaze, and it was enough.
⸻
The night dragged on, but you found yourself less uncomfortable with Damien by your side. His quiet protectiveness, the way he always seemed to catch the smallest slight before you did, made it easier to navigate the pretentious conversations. Every time someone made a comment about your family, you could feel Damien’s posture tense and his eyes narrow. And each time, he defended you.
Despite everything, despite how much you complained about his bratty tendencies, Damien was your brat. the weight of the night began to settle. The glittering lights of the gala still flickered in your mind, but the presence of your father and Damien beside you made the ride back almost bearable. Damien, as usual, sat stiffly, his posture perfect even in the backseat of the car, while Bruce remained uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze focused out the window.
You couldn’t help but glance over at Damien, who was looking out his own window, seemingly lost in thought. There had been a moment earlier when Bruce had shared a look with him, something small but meaningful a look you couldn’t quite place. But it was enough to make you feel something unspoken between the two of them. It wasn’t often you saw your father show a soft spot for anyone, let alone his own kids.
The car pulled up to the Manor, and as it came to a stop, you turned to Damien, the words already spilling out before you could stop them.
“You know, you’re not as bad as you pretend to be,” you said, voice teasing but soft. “I might just like you after all.”
Damien scoffed. “You shouldn’t like me. I’m better than you, after all.”
“Pfft, whatever,” you grinned, ignoring his words. The sudden burst of affection you felt in that moment made you throw all your self control out the window. Without thinking, you lunged at him, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug.
Damien let out an exaggerated, dramatic gasp, his body going stiff in shock. “Unhand me, woman,” he hissed, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden outburst of affection.
You ignored his protests, squeezing him tighter. “Nope! Not until you admit that you love me.”
Damien scowled, his face flushing just slightly. “I do not love you, you foolish girl.” But there was no hiding the faint blush creeping onto his cheeks as he tried unsuccessfully to push you away.
Bruce, who had been watching the exchange with mild amusement, cleared his throat from the front seat, as though reminding you both that you weren’t exactly alone. But it was too late to stop now.
You pulled back just enough to look Damien in the eye, still grinning like a cat. “Come on, admit it. I know you love me.”
Damien tried to glare at you, but there was no hiding the slight curve of his lips. “I tolerate you,” he said begrudgingly.
You held him tighter. “Close enough!”
He growled, finally breaking free from your grip. “This is not over,” he muttered under his breath, adjusting his suit with a dramatic flair.
You leaned back, still grinning like an idiot. “Sure, sure, Damien. You can pretend all you want.”
Bruce finally spoke up, his tone surprisingly light. “Alright, break it up, you two. We’ve still got a whole night to get through.”
Damien shot a glare at Bruce. “I’m not the one causing disruptions here.”
You and Bruce shared a look, and for just a brief second, you saw it, something rare and almost tender between the two of them. Damien wasn’t as bad as you’d thought. he had his own way of showing care.
Damien, still grumbling, marched ahead toward the front door, muttering something about how he was going to “train” and “get away from these ridiculous people.” But you knew better. Underneath the bravado, Damien was just like everyone else in this family he cared.
As you stepped out of the car and onto the front porch of Wayne Manor, the cool night air hit your face, carrying the faint scent of rain. You were exhausted, mentally drained from the fake smiles and shallow conversations of the gala, and the weight of the night hung heavy on your shoulders. You couldn’t wait to retreat to your room, get out of this damn dress, and let your thoughts settle.
But as you walked toward the front door, something or rather someone caught your eye. Standing by the door, just under the archway of the Manor, was a familiar silhouette. The figure straightened when he saw you approach, a soft smile appearing on his face.
Conner.
Your heart skipped a beat. You hadn’t expected him to be here, but there he was, waiting for you, like he always did.
“Hey,” you said softly, as you run over to him. your exhaustion suddenly lifting at the sight of him.
He tilted his head, his expression a mix of amusement and concern. “You look… very beautiful tonight.”
You let out a small, tired chuckle. “Beautiful? someone is learning how to express his emotions”
Conner’s brow furrowed, his eyes scanning you like he could see the exhaustion beneath your calm exterior. He stepped forward, his large frame nearly blocking the door. “You okay?”
You nodded, but only half heartedly. “Yeah, just… tired of it all. Tired of pretending.”
Conner didn’t say anything at first, but his gaze softened. His next words were simple, but they always meant more than you expected. “you’re done now, don’t have to think about it now.”
You stepped closer to him, letting the tension in your body melt just a little. “Thanks, Conner. It means a lot. I don’t think I could stand much more of these stupid galas if I didn’t know you’d be waiting for me.”
He smiled at that, the kind of smile that made your heart flutter in your chest, as he stepped aside to let you in. “Always. You know I’ve got your back.”
You couldn’t help but grin. “You’re the best.”
Conner chuckled, stepping back as you passed him. “I’m just doing my job, keeping you out of trouble.”
You shot him a playful look over your shoulder. “Really? Keeping me out of trouble?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Well, you seem to find it even when I’m not around.”
You couldn’t help but laugh, but the moment you passed him, you felt his hand gently grasp your arm, a soft but firm hold that pulled you back toward him.
“What?” you asked, confused.
Conner was staring at you, his blue eyes intense but gentle. “You looked like you needed someone tonight. If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
You stared at him for a moment, letting his words settle. But instead of saying anything, you simply let out a long sigh and let your shoulders relax. You didn’t need to talk about it now. Not when Conner was here, offering comfort without the need for words.
Instead, you smiled softly, stepping into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. “I think… I think I just need this right now.”
Conner wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close as if to shield you from everything outside this moment. “I’ve got you.”
You closed your eyes, letting the familiar warmth of his embrace wrap around you.
The moment of quiet was shattered by the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat.
You tensed slightly, already knowing exactly who it was before you even turned your head.
Bruce stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable but his presence alone was enough to make the warmth in your chest falter just a bit.
“It’s late,” he said, voice even, but carrying that weight of authority only he could manage. “You should be inside now.”
You sighed, pulling back slightly from Conner but keeping your hand locked around his wrist. Of course, Bruce had impeccable timing.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” you muttered, turning toward the door but you didn’t let go of Conner. Instead, you tugged him along with you, acting like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Bruce’s eyes flicked down to your hand still gripping Conner’s, his expression barely changing, but you knew he noticed.
Conner hesitated for half a second, casting a glance between you and your father, as if gauging whether it was a terrible idea to follow you inside. But you weren’t giving him a choice.
Bruce let out the tiniest sigh, stepping aside to let you both in, but not without a warning glance at Conner.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Bruce said evenly.
Conner just glared at him, tight lipped smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”
You definitely caught the way Bruce’s brow twitched ever so slightly at the sir, but you didn’t dwell on it. You just smirked to yourself and pulled Conner further into the Manor, past your father, past all the unspoken tension, and straight toward the one place you could finally relax.
Conner leaned in as you walked, voice low and teasing. “You dragged me in here.”
You grinned up at him. “What, scared of my dad?”
Conner huffed. “No. But I am scared of what your brothers are gonna say when they see me here.”
You just laughed. “Oh, you should be.”
As you pulled Conner deeper into the Manor, you moved quickly, knowing full well that the longer you lingered, the higher the chance of getting ambushed by one of your loving brothers.
You practically speed walked through the grand hall, past the dimly lit corridors.
“Ah, welcome home, Miss.”
You skidded to a stop as Alfred appeared seemingly out of nowhere, standing near the bottom of the staircase with his usual composed demeanor.
Conner tensed beside you, standing up straighter like he was about to get scolded. Clearly, even he wasn’t immune to Alfred’s presence.
You shot the butler a quick smile, still keeping a tight grip on Conner’s wrist. “Hey, Alfred. Gala was awful, as expected. Goodnight!”
And before he could reply, you dragged Conner up the stairs.
“Goodnight, Miss. Goodnight, Mister Conner,” Alfred called after you, voice laced with mild amusement.
Conner barely managed to glance over his shoulder to offer a polite, “Uh goodnight, sir,” before he was pulled around the corner and out of sight.
When you finally made it to your room, you threw the door open and all but shoved Conner inside before shutting it behind you with a sigh of relief.
“Okay, safe,” you muttered, leaning against the door.
Conner raised a brow. “You act like we just broke into the White House.”
You pointed a finger at him. “This house probably has better security than the white house.”
Conner snorted, shaking his head as he glanced around your room. He’d been here before, but it was still surreal for him standing in Wayne Manor.
You walked over to your bed, flopping onto it dramatically. “I swear, I love Alfred, but he always pops up at the worst moments. It’s like a sixth sense.”
Conner smirked, stepping closer. “Maybe he was just making sure I wasn’t sneaking in to corrupt his favorite Wayne.”
You peeked up at him through your arms. “Bold of you to assume I’m his favorite.”
He sat down beside you, resting his elbows on his knees. “You definitely are.”
You grinned, nudging him lightly with your foot. “Flatter me more, Superboy.”
Conner just chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t need flattery. You already know how great you are.”
You huffed, rolling onto your side. “Tell that to my dad.”
Conner didn’t say anything right away, just let his hand rest on yours, grounding you. You let out a slow breath, the exhaustion of the day finally settling in.
“Get some sleep,” Conner murmured. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”
You didn’t even think about it before squeezing his hand. “Stay.
And he did.
Conner sat beside you on the bed, his fingers tracing absentminded circles against your wrist. The room was dimly lit, casting shadows across his face, making his blue eyes stand out even more than usual. He was warm, solid, grounding in a way you desperately needed after the night you’d had.
You shifted closer, tilting your head up toward him. He caught the movement instantly, his gaze flicking down to your lips before he leaned in, closing the space between you.
The kiss was gentle at first, unhurried. His lips pressed against yours in a way that made your chest tighten not with nerves, but with something softer, something steady. His hand slid up, fingertips brushing your jaw before cradling your face, pulling you just a little closer.
You sighed against him, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. He kissed you again, deeper this time, as if memorizing the shape of your lips, as if reminding himself that you were here, that you were his.
A loud noise from the window, followed by the distinct sound of fabric rustling, and then.
THUD.
Conner barely had time to pull back before a voice cut through the moment.
“Oh, come on I just ate.”
You both snapped your heads toward the window, where Tim stood, looking absolutely horrified, like he’d just walked in on the worst crime imaginable.
You groaned, flopping back onto the bed. “Jesus Christ, Tim”
Tim pinched the bridge of his nose like he was experiencing actual pain. “You know I tolerate this relationship for your sake, right? Doesn’t mean I need to see it.”
“Theres a reason we’re in my room with the door closed. what did you even want anyways”
“Ok miss shitbag, I was gonna see if you brought any food from the gala”
Conner, looking far too smug for someone just caught making out, leaned back on his hands. “You could’ve knocked.”
Tim made a disgusted face. “Knocked? On her window? I didn’t think I needed a warning before coming in.” He gestured wildly between the two of you. “I thought I was safe! But no, I have to live with the trauma of seeing my best friend all over my sister.”
You threw a pillow at him. “We weren’t even doing anything!”
Tim caught it with one hand, unimpressed. “There was face touching. That’s enough.”
Conner just shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, I think she’s a better kisser than you.”
Tim immediately gagged, doubling over like he’d been physically attacked. “WHY WOULD THAT MAKE ME FEEL BETTER?!”
You burst out laughing, while Conner grinned like he’d won something.
Tim groaned dramatically, shaking his head as he turned toward the window. “I hate this. I hate both of you. I’m leaving.”
“Goodnight, Tim,” you called sweetly.
“I hope you both stub your toes,” he shot back before disappearing out the window.
As soon as he was gone, you turned to Conner, still grinning. “You did that on purpose.”
Conner smirked. “Maybe.”
You rolled your eyes before pulling him back down into another kiss because if Tim was gonna be dramatic about it, you might as well make it worth it.
"started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this?"
- (kon 'conner' el kent x batsis!reader)
- desc: what had initially started as him flirting with you to piss the bats off has now spiraled into a long term and painful crush.
- dividers by @saradika-graphics
p2
Superboy does not chase. He attracts. He's a natural charmer that people, girls, mostly, are drawn to like gravity. Maybe that comes with being a genetic clone of Superman, but he'd like to give himself the credit for polishing himself off with a much better sense of style than Clark. You really won't catch Kon in plaid, or, god forbid, overalls.
He's pretty awesome, he's pretty attractive, he's pretty used to getting what he wants. That's why he just doesn't crush. Flustered is not a word he's very familiar with, his blunt, unashamed mannerisms and his cocky, charmed sense of humor.
And maybe, his aching need for anything validating of his violent insecurity plays a part in his instant pull toward anyone who bats their eyelashes at him, maybe quantity can substitute quality if he can believe enough people want him. That could definitely be an integral piece to the puzzle, but he'd prefer not to dwell on that, thanks but no thanks.
So when he wants, he wants hard, because it's new, and it's a thrill, and oh my god, if you don't want him back he might seriously become a threat to himself.
Unfortunately, he's fallen for someone who plays the game way better than he does.
A Wayne. His best friend's sister. His 'kind of father's' best friend's daughter. Yikes.
The first time he met you, you were both still very young, and he, admittedly, had still been entirely too arrogant and entirely too obviously desperate for attention. Some wouldn't hesitate to call him a dick. Young Justice. You'd dropped by for something simple with Tim, something Bat related that had apparently been private enough that the rest of the team had been banished to the couch, although Bart had his ear pressed to the door like a jittery puppy waiting for its owner. At least everyone else had had the decency to pretend they weren't trying to eavesdrop.
No one except Greta looked guilty though.
Mind you, he can hear the two of you the whole time due to, duh, super-hearing. Of course, you're writing to each other while you're right next to each other. At what point does superstition like that come with an OCD diagnosis.
He makes possibly the top 3 worst first impressions of his life, when you step out. In his defense, he wasn't the most informed at the time, as he got most of his news from Tana Moon, and he barely listened to her. And, well, she may have altered her sources.
Dangling on the arm of the couch, he lets out a surprised whistle, "Sheesh, Robin, who's the smoke show?" he had said, with that boyish, haughty grin, "Didn't know you were such a good lay!" he'd added with a laugh.
The look of disgust on both of your faces still haunts him.
So does the silence. And the immediate laughter Cissie and Cassie burst into.
"She's my sister." Tim bit back, and you hid a laugh behind your hand.
Safe to say, the team didn't let it go for a week. In fact, Bart had gone as far as to throwing it back at him every time he flirted with girls for about a month.
The first time you really met, you already hated him, and he was already annoyed with you. You had an attitude, you brooded, and you didn't have the saving grace of covering his ass like Tim did, because, as you had made explicitly clear to him 'you were not friends.' He'd thought that cute little laugh you'd given him would extend to basic tolerability, but apparently, you found him a lot more enjoyable as a concept. Not the first person to feel that way.
"Do you have to talk all the time?" You'd snapped, and he tried not to notice the way your lips curved into a pleasant, unpleasant scowl.
"Do you have to be grumpy all the time? Smile wouldn't kill ya, princess. Neither would some time in that coo-coo asylum bird boy's always talking about, because sheesh, do you need an attitude reset."
You seriously considered stealing Bruce's kryptonite and putting it in his Lucky Charms. Make sure he dies a colorful death. Literally.
"I swear to god-" you cut yourself off with a frustrated noise, and school your expression professionally, going back into stoic mode. With a heavy breath and a sassy hand on your hip, you seriously debate leaving him and completing the mission all by yourself, and ultimately come to the conclusion that, while you definitely kick ass, this may be out of your pay grade. Also, Tim would probably have an aneurysm.
"Just focus on the mission, and then we never have to talk to each other again, yeah, pretty boy?" you'd griped, and he flashes you that stupidly good-looking smile of his.
"You think I'm pretty?"
"I'm gonna shove kryptonite so far up your ass you see green for the rest of your life."
"Graphic. You spend a lot of time thinking about my ass, sweetheart?"
"Scratch that, I might just kill myself."
He feigns a gasp, "Don't do it. For me," he pleads, and then drops the caricature.
You suck in a sharp breath and shove him a little out of the way, to which he goes along with, overdramatically stumbling to the side as you trudge past him. The micro-expressions of annoyance and frustration on your face are just a little too attractive to him. He can't help it if he draws them out with a smile.
"Hey, don't walk away, it's good to talk about these things!"
"SHUT UP!"
The phrase soon becomes your most repeated of the day.
Conversation during your routine visits to the tower typically follow the same format, childish bickering, words fired like artillery, and unfortunately, a growing exhilarating feeling as the adrenaline pumps through you. Teenage hormones and spandex are both an excellent and disastrous mix.
The more unavoidable he becomes, the more smart-mouthed you become with each other. You seek each other out for entertainment, and what once were genuine scowls have become suppressed smiles.
He shows up in the medical facility when you get hurt, with a grin on his lips and a devotion to distract you. He strides in and acts like he doesn't see the red-rimmed puffiness of your eyes, maybe from a scolding, maybe from disappointment in yourself. He's been in both positions.
"Forgot how to dodge?" he smiles, and you look up, about ready to knock the intruder out. You relax when you realize it's him and hate yourself for doing so.
You huff, "Funny."
He invites himself in upon the implication of your relaxing shoulders, perches himself on the edge of your bed, "Seriously, did you even try?" he teases, mindful not to disturb the IV chord attached to your forearm.
"You're so god damn annoying."
"Am not."
"Are too, jackass."
"Woah, you kiss Batman with that mouth?"
You laugh despite your pride, and feel a little safer when the Sun's in the room with you.
You find you miss his flashiness when he gets a little dimmer, through Kryptonian drama, through his battle with self-worth, with the confusion and the pain of the several different women far too old to love a boy his age going through his head 24/7. A moral and personal dilemma, he was molding himself into a better, but deeply more despondent person.
He grew more reticent. Less dependent. He loathed himself for a bit, somewhat liked himself, and wondered if he were really anything other than a weapon.
He was engineered as Superboy, not Conner, not Kon el. Certainly not a Kent.
It stings. So you pull away. He lets you.
And then he dies.
The aftermath almost kills Tim, and it leaves you a little emptier than before. So much is going on, and everyone's lost a man who absorbs the Sun and turns it into shine, because Conner Kent is nothing in his core if not caring, if not inherently, a loving person.
Apparently he'd kill himself to prove it.
And the most tragic thing about it, was that you knew he had never had what he'd wanted before he'd died. The greatest tragedy of his character would always be that he'd wanted so bad for Superman to know him and simultaneously understood that the other man was utterly uninterested, and that his priority would remain his real, blood, not cloned, son.
You wept for a week, got back up, and stuffed your grief in your pocket.
You didn't fault Tim for going a little crazy, and if the TV in your room seemed to always be droning on with the Superboy cartoon in the background, then so be it.
When he sees you again for the first time since returning to the land of the living, his breath is swept away. He feels a lot older, you feel like a stranger. You're still so beautiful. He's still got that boyish grin.
It's at a gala, strangely. He and Tim have been reconnected for a few months now, and perhaps Bruce had felt obligated to grant him a favor for the dimensional bullshit, and by extension, granted Conner an opportunity to attend. And buy a suit, because apparently he didn't own one.
You're all fancied up, in a gorgeous garnet gown that hugs you like earthen silks, your hair pulled away from your face and revealing the same cheeks he'd watch flush a little when he'd piss you off so bad you'd go red. The same eyes he'd seen a little teary post-mission, and hadn't mentioned to anyone else, but silently offered his shoulder. The same hands you used to flick the back of his head with when he'd get crude.
And it hits him like a bullet then, what he'd denied for so long as a teenager who thought he had all the time in the world. It's intense and it's daunting, just how much he's missed that sweet composure of yours, how much he'd reveled in breaking it. How much he loved making you feel safe, and how he adored the way you looked at him like you saw the skin beneath the suit on days he didn't feel so super.
His grin softens to something more adoring.
"You clean up nice," he comments, as you hide a giddy smile behind the rim of a water-filled champagne flute, playing the character of spoiled rich girl, and pretty well at that.
"First time you've called me pretty without mentioning something about my ass," you tease, untruly. There's a buzzing in your legs, the excitement of an oncoming, forecast storm.
"Well now that you've thrown it out there..."
You giggle. He melts a little. "Don't worry, you're not the first one to notice. You've got competition with about every man over 60 in here. Tough luck."
"Seriously? I've gotta up my game."
"Never really were the best with ladies."
"'scuse you?"
You laugh. And he enthralls you again. You hang onto his words like they'll be his last, and you don't feel that ache of paranoia in your gut for once again, because he's here, and he's got your heart delicately cradled in his hand. You don't even notice the glances your siblings send you, and the actual shambles your father is in at the thought of having a super as a son in law.
And when Dick placates him with, 'hey, at least it's not a Lantern,' he almost disowns him.
By the time the night's ended, the spark is back between you two. There's a heavier weight to the night as it progresses, and there's a heavier weight on your heart the longer you talk. It feels cruel, like the more you linger, the more you have to lose again, but the more you withdraw, the more you miss.
A wave of nostalgia hits you as the night comes to a close. As it's almost time to part. The gala's over, and you're one of the last people inside. Dick's gone home, Cass, Jason, Damian, and Tim drove to Barbara's to bother her, and Bruce is wrapping it up with the event coordinators.
You don't want to let go. And you can't help how glassy your eyes get.
It catches Conner completely off guard to look down at you and see that your lip is trembling, and your eyes are all teary but it is adorable, and his heart aches a little. He smiles gently down at you, unjudging and relentlessly affectionate. It's out of place in a silent room, devotion so loud.
"Hey," he says gently, hands burrowed in his pockets, "What's up?"
A tear slides from your eye, and before you even know what you're doing, you surge into his arms and bury your face into his shoulder, clutching him as if he were the only anchor to the Earth. A soft sob escapes your lips, and your hands fist in his collar. "I don't want you to go and never come back again," you whisper, pathetically, "I missed you a little more than I want to admit."
The confession knocks the wind out of him. He wraps his arms around you anyway because he doesn't need breath to keep you safe. "Hey, c'mon, princess, I'm right here, 'm not going anywhere," he coos, nestling his face into your hair, if only to catch the scent of you. His thumbs stroke between your shoulder blades, as your nails dig into his back, desperate sobs leaving you.
And he holds you until you can walk on your own again. 'I love you' lingers on his tongue, but he scrapes it clean.
okay so this is like the first ever x reader ive posted anywhere so if its ass pls tell me so i can crawl in a hole
if u liked it tho i can finish it and make a pt 2 🥹🥹
CW: A lil touchy at the start with a stranger, hints to a troubled past (please let me know if there’s anything else I should include if there is any)
You’ve never fit the Bat mold, too drawn to the glow of Gotham to live in its shadows. But one reckless choice drags you back into their world, where every glance dares you to prove you’re more than the socialite they’ve believe you are
A/N: Helloooo, there’s a longer note at the end that explains a bit more of what’s going on. This was the fic I was talking about out here when procrastinating the pt 2 of the Roy fic :P. I stayed up all night to finish this instead of studying 💗. That being said, I’m gonna be MIA for the next few weeks to get through my midterms. I get a week off at the end of October so I’ll make sure to spend a day just writing :)
This is 1 of 2 versions of Wayne!Reader. This one is version where she wants nothing to do with the hero life but the mask follows her. Anywhooo, enjoy!
———————————————————————
You’d always been more of a Wayne than a Bat.
Your brothers never let you forget it. They wore the masks, the mission, the unspoken burden of being Batman’s soldiers like a second skin. Meanwhile, you wore pearls, practiced smiles, and a laugh that sounded better at galas than on rooftops.
You and your family lived in completely different worlds, with each side using the other as a means to an end. Both crafted to reflect your father’s confusing makeup of an identity. Only yours felt like the one your father looked past.
It didn’t help that the only time you ever felt close to your father was when he was playing someone else. When he was Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s playboy billionaire, the man who could shake hands, flash cameras a grin, and pretend to belong to the world he’d built a fortress against.
That version of him was the only one you knew how to talk to. You never found a way to reach the man behind the mask, and he never seemed interested in showing you.
That hollow truth sat heavy in your chest, and every time the cape came first, it reminded you that even your best smiles couldn’t make you feel like you belonged in the their family. Make you belong with The Bats.
Your family saw you as spoiled, too much of a socialite to be taken seriously. They weren’t entirely wrong.
You lived for the banquets, spending your dad’s money, the dizzy blur of Gotham nightlife— it was easy to vanish in that world, easier than trying to keep pace with heroes who measured worth in bruises and broken bones.
Though there was your occasional reminiscing on how you used to be close, how you used to put on your own tiny mask and trail after them like they were the only source of light through Gotham’s smog.
But that was before. Before Jason died, and before they sent you away.
You told yourself you didn’t want that life anyway. You told yourself you only wanted Gotham on your terms, not the team missions, not the world-saving. Just your city, your rules.
So here you were, proving the point.
The club was pulsing around you, sweat and neon dripping down the walls, bass rattling through your ribs like a second heartbeat. You weren’t the Bats daughter tonight, not the polished darling Wayne who smiled too bright for cameras.
You were just another body on the floor, letting an older stranger’s hand rest heavy on your waist, his grin promising exactly the kind of trouble you craved.
You felt extra bold tonight with your dad out of Gotham, both he and Alfred gone for the weekend doing something that they didn’t bother to tell you about.
Whatever, like you’d care either way. This just meant you could party in the city and not worry about fucking Batman dropping down at the club entrance to drag your ass home.
Sneaking out was second nature to you at this point out. They may play you as a stuck-up, stupid socialite, but you had to have skill to actually get away with all you did.
A simple footage loop of the surveillance tapes from last week, and bam! It'll seem like you were in your bedroom the whoooole night.
Youve used this trick at least five hundred times. It got to the point where you genuinely wondered if your family knew and just didn’t give a shit.
But no, you soon realized they simply didnt bothered because they never expected anything from you.
They never considered you capable of anything but acting like Regina George. Even Alfred who you spent the most time with, hadn’t even put the effort to at least dust the security cameras in the hall down to your room.
So when you threw your fit about some girl drama, they believed you and your dramatics without batting an eye. More than happy to have you be sulking while online shopping alone in your room, and nothing more.
HA. As if you’d throw away being completely unsupervised on a Friday night.
You’re brought back to the momet when the guy presses closer. His cologne burned your nose, but you didn’t pull away. You laughed, as he turns you around and goes to kiss at your neck.
Sighing into the touch, you let him grip your hand to tip your drink into your mouth, letting the burn of liquor convince you this was exactly what you wanted.
You loved that burn. The buzz it left you with when you lost yourself like this.
You hum swaying your hips to the song letting whatever this guys name is paw at you. He was cute. Hot even. But you’d never let it blossom into anything meaningful.
He was yours for the night you’ve decided, but you’d sneak off after you got your fix. (you were your fathers daughter afterall).
Your free hand slide to his hair to grip and pull his face back. There was the slight graze of stubble against your jaw when as leans closer.
The stranger grins, his eyes were half-lidded trailing over you, one of his hands slip from your hip over your behind to tug at the hem of your dress. You let him, despite the small pit that forms in your gut at the action.
His lips hovered a breath from yours, a reckless, dangerous dare you leaned into—
“Unbelievable.”
The word cut sharper than the music, slicing straight through the haze. You froze, not because you didn’t recognize the voice, but because you always would.
A hand seized your wrist before the kiss could land. The stranger swore as he’s shoved, stumbling back, but one glare from Dick Grayson sent him vanishing into the crowd like smoke.
Fucking coward, you seethe to yourself as you’re essentially left to the wolves. You slowly lift your head. The strobe lights painted his anger in harsh whites and shadows, and you hated that it made him look more like a Bat than a brother.
“Are you insane?” he snapped, dragging you off the floor as if the walls might cave in if he let go. The music thundered on, but the grip of his hand was louder.
“You shouldn’t even be here!” Dick’s voice cracked like a whip, low enough not to draw attention but sharp enough to make you flinch. “Do you even realize how old—”
“Let me go,” you hissed, tugging against him. Heads were starting to turn, and the last thing you needed was a scene
But he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.
Not when you twisted, not when you dug your nails into his wrist, not even when you hissed his name through clenched teeth.
He hauled you off the dance floor like a crook in cuffs, weaving through the crowd until you realized he wasn’t heading for the door.
Instead, he beelined deeper into the club, much to your confusion, before eventually stopping at a booth tucked in the corner, and your stomach plummeted.
….
Oh, great. What was this? A reunion tour?
Artemis leaned back in her seat, arms folded, sharp eyes flicking between you and your brother, her brows furrowed. Roy lounged with his usual smirk, though it faltered when his gaze really settled on you. And then there was Conner, who sat stiff as stone, arms crossed, and jaw tight, but his eyes softened.
You froze, caught like a spotlight had slammed onto you. These weren’t just heroes. These were people who’d once adored you almost as much as you adored them. For years, you’d wanted nothing more than to be one of them.
But that was before.
Before Bruce had sent you away. Boarding school, miles away with entitled classmates who measured worth in money and power instead of scars; and teachers who completely crushed any faith you had in adults protecting you.
By the time you came back, you weren’t the same and neither was their image of you.
You’d traded training for galas, patrols for paparazzi, and every glimpse they caught of you was in a tabloid headline or splashed across some social media page. Gotham’s glittering Wayne, the spoiled socialite with the city wrapped around her pinkie finger.
You knew they thought you were rebelling, but not like this.
Dick shoved you into the booth before you could find your footing, the drink in your hand spilling a bit, which you fumblingly placed on the table.
Geez, what a dick.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, fury barely leashed. “You’re underage, drinking, and— God! Him!? Do you have any idea how bad that could’ve gone?”
Dick’s hand was still clamped around your wrist, anchoring you to the booth like you might bolt if he let go. His voice came low, sharp enough to slice through the music.
You jerked your wrist, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Ugh, calm down. You being over dramatic!” you snapped, sinking into the booth like you owned it. “I was just having fun, Dick. It’s not the end of the world!”
You reached for your glass with your free hand, ready to dig your grave deeper with another sip only for it to be snatched from your hand.
You blinked, and Roy was already holding it out of reach, his jaw tight in a way you weren’t used to seeing.
“Seriously?” you snapped, glaring at him.
He shook his head. “You don’t need this. You’re already in enough trouble.” His voice wasn’t angry, not like Dick’s, but the quiet disappointment behind it somehow landed harder. You just scoff, looking back at Dick with a glare.
Artemis exhaled, sharp and low, the sound cutting through the thrum of bass. “This isn’t having fun, it’s being reckless. You know better.”
You didn’t look at her. You kept your eyes on Dick, lips curling in a smirk you didn’t really feel. Ignoring Artemis was easier than hearing her tone, easier than letting it sting the way it always did.
Having not had a mother of your own, you tended to latch onto Dick’s female friends. Artemis was no exception. You used to adore her, even despite her finding you a bit annoying at first, but you grew on her.
How could you not? With the way you clung to her; wide-eyed and adoring, waiting for the smallest scrap of approval. But that was then, when you were younger, sweeter, different.
Artemis didn’t comment on how you blatantly ignored her. Instead, she just snagged Dick’s jacket from the booth and snapped it around your shoulders, tugging the collar up. “Cover up,” she said, clipped and firm.
You scoffed instantly, shoving the jacket off your shoulders and onto the seat beside you. “Why would I? It’s hot in here.” Your voice dripped with indifference, though heat still burned in your cheeks.
Your dress was short, showed a lot more than it should. You knew that. You picked it out for that reason. But now in front of them, you felt more uncomfortable than you did all night.
Dick’s jaw locked as your scoff rang in the heavy air. The jacket you’d shoved aside slid half off the booth, its dark fabric pooling like a shadow you refused to claim.
For a second, he just stared at you— at the defiance in your chin tilt, the burn still clinging to your cheeks, the expression that screamed untouchable.
Then, without warning, his hand shot out, fingers fisting the jacket with the same precision he’d use on a grapple line.
In one rough motion, he hauled it up and over your shoulders again, not giving you the chance to shrug it off this time. His grip was unyielding, pinning the collar in place as though he could anchor you to the fabric by sheer force of will.
“Dick—” you snapped, trying to twist away, but he was already zipping it up, the sound loud and final. The zipper caught at your throat with a sharp click, sealing the jacket up to your chin.
You were trapped in the heavy folds of his jacket, the scent of him and leather pressing close. You felt your heart squeeze for a moment as you realized you didn’t recognize his smell anymore.
He leaned in, bracing one hand flat on the table beside you, the other still gripping the jacket at your collar. His eyes burned under the strobing lights, catching every flicker of your stubborn defiance and daring you to meet it.
“You think this is a game?” His voice was low, sharp enough to cut through the thrum of bass, steady enough to drown it out. “Sneaking drinks, letting strangers try to kiss you, laughing like it’s nothing— what the hell is wrong with you?”
The words weren’t shouted, but they landed harsher than any scream could have. For a moment, the rest of the booth didn’t exist; all of it faded under the weight of Dick’s fury.
“You’re not walking out of here half-dressed and drunk,” he continued, voice dropping lower still, almost a growl. “Not while I’m around. You want to make bad choices, fine. But you don’t get to make yourself a target and call it freedom.”
The collar of the jacket pressed tight against your chin, his hand still holding it like a lock, and you hated that for a flicker of a second, you felt safer for it.
That moment of safety didn’t last because the expression he gave you reminded you of someone you knew Dick tried so hard to be different from. Someone you knew who he’d tell everything about tonight to.
Bruce.
Your stomach knotted so hard it almost hurt.
You could handle Dick’s disapproval. You could even handle the team staring at you like you were some reckless kid instead of the sweet, wide-eyed Wayne they’d once adored.
But your dad? You’d built an image for him, a careful facade of being the polished socialite who at least pretended to act with some restraint.
He was fine with you at those posh parties, fine with the charities, the galas; his indifference was something you’d learned to survive. But this? You were spoiled, sure, but not drunk in a club, letting some guy paw at you. He’d lose his mind over this.
Especially since he still believed you were the “soft” one. The one with limited skills, hesitant to get their hands dirty, the one who wouldn’t dare do anything that could break a nail. The one who couldn’t protect herself against something as simple as petty theft, where a pool noodle was the weapon.
What would he even do once he found out?
Would he finally turn a quarter of his attention back onto you?
Would he cut the tree you use to get in and out of your window, the one thing you have that lets you slip past the manor’s walls?
Or would he see this as one more mess he doesn’t have time to deal with and send you away again?
Your stomach lurched. You couldn’t go back there.
Not back there.
Not to that place— that school, that exile disguised as a safe haven.
No.
The thought alone made your throat close. For one dizzy second, the club spun with it. Neon and sweat and bass dissolving into the image of your father’s voice in your head.
You had to think fast. What could you do to outsmart Nightwing? You mind races for a moment before you decide to do what you do best.
Fake it until you make it.
Taking a quick breath you swallowed it down, hard, forcing your mouth into a smirk you didn’t feel.
Your voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and brittle all at once. “I can handle myself,” you spat, your nails digging crescent moons into your palms before a hand moved to shove his hands off of you. He let his hands fall away but it didn’t slip past you how his hands clenched into fists.
“I had everything under control until you came.” You tried to make the words sound solid, unshakable, but they rang thin in your own ears.
Dick’s laugh was humourless, jagged as broken glass. He leaned close enough that you could see the tension in his jaw, the irritation etched into the corners of his eyes.
“Control?” he echoed, voice low, dangerous in its restraint. “You call letting some creep twice your age put his hands on you control?”
Your chest tightened, and God, you hated that his words made you flinch. You rolled your eyes to cover it, pressing your back harder into the booth. “He wasn’t dangerous. He just wanted—”
“Exactly,” Dick cut in, the word like a blade. His hand slammed down on the table, making the half-empty glasses rattle. “He just wanted. And you have no idea how quickly that could’ve turned into something you couldn’t laugh your way out of.”
For a second, no one breathed. Then Roy cleared his throat, muttering, “He’s not wrong.” His tone lacked its usual edge, more uneasy than mocking.
Conner’s arms remained folded, but his brow furrowed, the tight set of his jaw softening. “You don’t always see danger until it’s already too late,” he said quietly, not a lecture, not an accusation, just a fact.
You scoffed, the sound sharp enough to cut through the weight in the air. “Please,” you snapped, tossing your hair back with a defiance you didn’t quite feel. “I could’ve gotten away any second I wanted. I can even get away from this.”
Shit, you actually said that— why don’t you go find an actual shovel to dig your grave deeper?
The words hit hard as their reactions settle around you: Dick’s jaw tightening, Roy leaning back with that sharp smirk barely hiding annoyance, Artemis’s eyes narrowing into calculated lines.
For a second, you let the panic flutter, the rush of being cornered—
Get away from heroes, yeah right!
You’re screwed. Completely fucked. You could start crying thinking about seeing the headmaster again—
Suddenly you pause, letting the world sink in. Why the hell are you underselling yourself?
Sure, you haven’t been swinging across rooftops or cracking criminals’ heads in years, but you’ve had your own missions.
Not flashy, not public, not exactly heroic in the traditional sense but ones that showed you were precise and at your core, effective.
Slipping past surveillance cameras without leaving a trace. Dodging paparazzi that track your every move. Even crafting a mask so perfect that even your father, the master of reading nanoexpressions, couldn’t tell the smallest twitch away from the real you.
These were missions of skill and calculation. Skills that had you staying one step ahead while the world thought you were nothing but a socialite.
Above all, you’ve mastered the art to get away. Not with brute force. Not with muscle. But with patience, stealth, and sheer nerve.
And despite them being seasoned heroes who have faced mind manipulation, endured the sharpest verbal assaults from the most irritating villains
you had one advantage; their overconfidence when it came to you. They thought they knew you. Thought the years away, the tabloids, the gossip, and the glittering public persona had stripped away whatever edge you once had.
They thought the little girl who used to have potential was gone, replaced by a reckless, spoiled socialite who couldn’t survive a night without their intervention.
And they loved believing that. Loved it the way heroes love being right, loved it like it gave them certainty in a chaotic world. They relished the idea that your wide-eyed, reckless reputation was all you had become.
For once, knowing they thought that if you made you gleam. Their certainty became your weapon. Their dismissal became your leverage.
You could work with that. You just had to push them, bait them, let their egos convince them they were in control.
The thought coils in your chest like fire, reckless and alive, making your grin sharper, more deliberate.
This wasn’t just defiance anymore. This was strategy. Dangerous, delicious strategy.
You wore a cocky grin as your glare swept across the table, daring anyone to challenge you.
Roy’s smirk reappeared, but this time it didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned back, shaking his head. “If you really believe that,” he said, voice dry but tinged with unease, “then you’re dumber than the tabloids make you out to be.”
“Roy,” Artemis warned, her tone sharp as her gaze flicked toward him. But she didn’t look at you with softness either. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, unflinching, like she could see straight through the brittle walls you kept throwing up.
You rolled your eyes, flicking your hair back with a deliberate snap, letting the defiance taste sharper than it felt. “I’m not some stupid socialite,” you spat, voice clipped, snapping at the silence around the table. “I know I can get away.”
The words hung there like a challenge, and you saw it immediately. Shared looks darting between them, quick and subtle, the way people who’ve faced real danger recognize a taunt the second they hear it.
Cmon.
Roy’s smirk faltered, just slightly, though the corner of his mouth tugged in that familiar, warning way. Dick’s jaw tightened, the set of it rigid, restrained, like he was calculating how far he’d let you push before it snapped.
Conner’s arms folded a fraction more rigidly, shoulders squared, eyes narrowing at the challenge your words had planted. Even Artemis’s gaze sharpened, cold and precise, tracking every small movement, every flicker of expression, scanning you like a hawk weighing prey.
For a heartbeat, the world shrank to the table, to the unspoken challenge vibrating in the space between your words and their reactions. You let it linger, tasting the silence like it belonged to you.
They’d expect arrogance. They’d expect recklessness. Let them. Because deep down, you weren’t reckless. Not really. You were raised by the fucking Batman. You were smart.
Roy cleared his throat, slow, deliberate, leaning forward just enough that his eyes caught yours across the table. “You’re… really sure about that?”
His tone was casual, almost teasing but the slight edge underneath made it clear he wasn’t joking. “Because, we catch a lot bigger and scarier on daily basis.”
You knew he’d bite first.
“You mean people who don’t know better,” you snap back, each word clipped and uniterested, your tone carrying the same effortless bite you used on Gotham’s elite when you wanted them to squirm. “They’re easy. Predictable. They fall for the same tricks, every single time.”
Your eyes lingered on him, narrowing in mock pity before you let the smirk return, sharper now. “Catching me would take actual skill.”
The words hung in the air like Gotham smog, heavy and poisonous, curling around the table until even the music thumping outside the booth seemed distant.
You leaned back in your seat with studied nonchalance, one leg crossing over the other, your too tall heels tapping the leg of the table.
It’s as if you’d already dismissed the whole conversation as beneath you. The defiance in your posture was unmistakable, radiating arrogance like a second skin.
Roy’s jaw ticked, his smirk faltering for the barest fraction of a second before he covered it with a sharp exhale and a swirl of his glass. His mutter was low, almost to himself, but the edge in his voice carried easily across the table.
“You’re crazy,” Roy muttered, almost to himself, though his voice carried.
He tipped his glass, watching the liquid swirl as if it could distract him from the itch to say something he shouldn’t to his friend's little sister. “Little Miss Gotham thinks she can just get away. I almost wanna see her try.”
“Roy,” Dick warned again, sharper now, but even he didn’t sound entirely convinced. His voice had that clipped edge it got when he was losing his grip on the reins.
Artemis arched a brow, mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “She’s taunting us”
Conner shifted, heavy arms unfolding as he leaned in. His voice was steady, but quieter, almost like a verdict. “You’re in over your head, kid.”
You only grinned, sharp and unshaken, revelling in the weight of all their eyes pressing down on you. “Maybe I am,” you said, lifting your chin like you owned the table, the booth, the whole damn club. “But you all look like you’re too scared to find out.”
That broke them, just like you knew it would. Nothing sets someone off like an arrogant little sibling afterall. It didn’t help that they were all more than a bit tipsy, save for Mr. Easily Aggravated.
Dick’s jaw flexed as you smirked at him. The silence at the booth had become suffocating, thick with judgment, tension, and something sharper beneath the surface, something personal.
Everyone else had said their piece to your challange, but he hadn’t let up, hadn’t even blinked. He was watching you too closely, and you hated how exposed it made you feel.
Then he leans forward with an ease that grates on your nerves. His voice came low, dangerous, with that clipped edge he only ever used when he’d run out of patience.
“What's your game here, huh?” he demanded. “I know it's not just to piss us off.”
Your smirk faltered, but you masked it quickly, chin tilting higher, posture sharpened into defiance. You tried to play it off, but his stare pinned you, heavy and relentless.
For a beat, you almost said nothing but you shift to raise your chin to look down at him— you so close. You can do this.
“You’re right,” you said, low, measured, like admitting it on your terms would keep you in control. “It’s not just about pissing you off. It’s a bet.”
That got everyone’s attention. Chairs shifted. Brows furrowed. “A bet?” Roy scoffed. “With who?”
“With all of you.” Your words were steady, though your heartbeat was climbing fast. You let your gaze sweep across the table, meeting each of theirs like you were calling them out one by one.
“If I can get away— if I can slip out from under your watch, even with all your training, you don’t say a single word to my Dad about tonight.”
The table went still. Even the thrum of the club seemed to fade, the bass swallowed by the gravity of what you’d just put on the table.
“And if you lose?” Artemis asked, voice sharp, cutting straight through the tension. Her eyes were locked on you like an arrow aimed at a target.
Your jaw tightened. You wanted to smirk, wanted to shrug it off, but the stakes demanded more than bravado.
So you leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table, your eyes never wavering. “If I lose, I’ll tell him myself. Every detail. Underage drinking. The creep. This club. All of it. Straight from me.”
That broke the silence.
Roy let out a low whistle, leaning back against the booth with an exaggerated shake of his head. “Damn, I think all those parties scrambled her brain.”
Conner’s brow furrowed deeper, his eyes looked over your expression as if trying to read your mind and pick it apart.
Artemis’s lips pressed into a line, her gaze sharp as ever. She wasn’t impressed, but she wasn’t dismissing you either. Her silence said enough; she was weighing you, measuring the steel in your words against the reckless heat in your eyes.
Dick leaned closer, his voice low and sharp enough to sting. “You'd better think real hard before you commit to this, because once it starts, there’s no halfway. No excuses. You either win, or you face Bruce yourself.”
Your smirk sharpened into something steadier this time, no longer the flimsy mask you’d been wearing all night but a deliberate curve of your lips, a smile that settled like a blade being drawn.
The weight of Dick’s words didn’t scare you— it lit something in your chest, dangerous and alive.
You leaned forward, letting the dim light catch in your eyes, “I’m all in.”
The smile lingered, sharp and unyielding, and the air around the booth seemed to crack under it. You weren’t bluffing anymore. You weren’t performing. You had committed, and they could all see it.
Roy straightened, eyebrows rising, a disbelieving laugh escaping him before he tipped his glass again. “Well, shit. Guess the princess wants to play for real.”
Artemis’s eyes narrowed, calculating, her mouth curving just enough to show the challenge wasn’t lost on her.
Dick didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. He just let the silence hang for a long, punishing second, before leaning back with a sharp exhale, like he’d resigned himself to the storm you’d invited.
“You’re gonna regret this,” he muttered.
Your grin only widened as you leaned back into the booth, satisfaction radiating off you like heat. The tension that had hung over the table cracked, shifted— no longer suffocating, but coiling into something electric. A challenge. A game.
You lifted a hand, gesturing lazily toward the door like the outcome was already sealed. “As long as I can get away and make it back to the manor before I’m caught, I win. Deal?”
That made them pause. The manor. Not a block away, not ducking into some alley around the corner. You were talking about crossing the entire goddamn city with the team’s finest breathing down your neck.
Roy let out a bark of laughter, smacking the table once. “Oh, that’s rich. You’re insane, kid. You really think you’re making it across the city?”
Artemis arched a brow, unimpressed but faintly amused, like a cat watching a mouse step into a trap. “You won’t even make it out of the booth.”
Conner frowned, his arms unfolding as he leaned forward. “This isn’t running away from a drunk in a club. This is running from us.” His tone was flat, final, like he thought he could give you some common sense.
But it only made your smile grow sharper. “Exactly,” you said, leaning back with an air of smug confidence that made your point sting sharper than any retort. “If I can slip past all of you and make it back home… then you’ll have no excuse left not to admit I’m capable. And if not— well, my dad finds out, doesn’t he?”
Dick rubbed a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a prayer for patience. “You’ve officially lost your damn mind. " He murmurs
When his hand dropped, his eyes were blazing. "But fine. You already screwed up our night, we should at least get some entertainment from this."
You ignore his comment about you screwing up, focusing more on the fact that you got exactly what you wanted.
It was game on.
And the cruellest part? They were relaxed now. Easing back into their seats, trading skeptical glances, even smirks. They thought you’d never make it.
They were so confident, so certain that you’d fumble before you even left the booth. After all, why wouldn’t they be? They had training, experience, and powers. They had a half-Kryptonian, archers, and Gotham’s golden boy wonder.
And you were a socialite princess— the one they’d seen in last week’s tabloids, with your security guard carrying you up the stairs because you simply couldn’t be bothered.
They thought you were doomed from the start.
You hold back your grin as you lean back, more than content with yourself than ever, because underestimating you was the very first mistake they’d made tonight.
————————————————————————
A/N: The other version (If I ever get around to it) is the reverse where she wants nothing more than to just be a hero and forget who she is under the mask :P.
Both runs involve Bart as the love interest but I’m thinking to do one-shots on the side for some scenes with other characters if you guys wanna request it later on :).
Some of the characters will come off as OOC, but they are described how ★Wayne!Reader perceives them! Also so sorry for how my A/N’s take up so much space but I wanna talk to yall about what’s going on in my brain when it comes to my fics </3
If you’d like to be tagged please leave a comment on the series masterlist! It’ll be easier for me to not miss anyone that way :)) LMG Series masterlist, you can find it in my pinned post>>> masterlist>>> nyni’s series :D
(Also I have no idea how to tag this story, so please excuse the mess below)
We always see neglected batsis!reader but imagine neglected Super/Kent!reader.
Super/Kent!Reader who was born without any powers or any meta gene.
Super/Kent!Reader who doesn't get intentionally ignored by Clark and the family but he would always spend more time with Jon to train him and would always tell her next time.
Super/Kent!Reader who was the most welcoming towards Connor when he first came but as he got accepted by the others she slowly faded into the background as if she didn't exist, like she was a ghost in her own house.
Hacker!Reader who was actually born with different powers compared to the Supers but hid them.
Hacker!Reader who graduated MIT very early on and started to become an anonymous hacker that stole money from the corrupt rich and gave them to places in need, such as crime alley.
Hacker!Reader who toyed with the Justice League, none of them able to find out who she is. Occasionally, she hacks the Watchtower, making the screen glitch, and her signature mark appears; the star of Themis.
Hacker!Reader who even outsmarts Oracle in terms of hacking.
Hacker!Reader who provides Red Hood with all the information he needs.
Hacker!Reader who excels at making tech and frequently teams up with Red Hood and gives him very advanced and specialised tech that is unrivaled, much to Batman's displeasure since Red Hood won't tell him who the new vigilante is.
Hacker!Reader who only gives her tech out to one person, Red Hood. Which can be seen from her signature mark, a four-sided star surrounded by swirls of energy, nicknamed 'the star of Themis'
Hacker!Reader who nobody knows the identity of, except for one person.
Super/Kent!Reader who regularly hangs out with Jason. (Jason finally acquired his own Super)
-> not canon-compliant ⋆ no current romantic love-interest ⋆ non-story compliant storyline ⋆ reader is nonchalant about a lot ⋆ gender-neutral ⋆ reader is around 17 years old ⋆ reader is not a hero ⋆ this’ll probably be very boring ⋆ not proofread
♫ currently playing: Restless - untitled
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D I R E C T O R Y
prologue [you are here] -> chapter 1
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-> Being the child of Bruce Wayne came with its ups and downs, the man is good, your father? He tries his best.
But you’re quiet, the most you’ve ever reached out for something was when you need a form signed for school. Despite having dealt with more difficult children than yourself, he for some reason gave up sooner with you than the others. Maybe it was the fact you really were his blood related child? No, he wasn’t this way with Damian.
Maybe it was the fact you chose not to be a vigilante, to be normal. Everyone was surprised when they heard that from you, guess they all expected it. The only person who didn’t care was Jason, he was relieved if anything, he was also the one closest to you before— it happened.
Never had it ever crossed your mind that this would be the reason your family began to isolate you, whether on purpose or not. Dick became elusive, only appearing before you to keep up the older brother image, Jason hardly ever came home, not that it was strange, Tim despite being the closest in age to you was always locked in his room or out on patrol, Cass was, quiet to say the least, not unusual. Stephanie tried but you were not compliant to her trying, not on purpose but it was just the way things were.
Damian grew to ignore you after your lack of reaction to him and his words, and Duke was the nicest, didn’t push, always greeted you even if it wasn’t reciprocated. Watching them come into the house, one year after another only further pushed you down the list of importance, it’s only thanks to Alfred’s consistency that you still even had a plate at the table. You saw in his eyes he was apologetic to the happenings around you, yet you insistent that it was not necessary for him to speak with your dad.
Speaking of the man, his priorities skewed with the new attendance of people in manor. It’s hard to remember the last time you even spoke to him without the conversation ending in ten seconds. God, you haven’t even gotten some of their contact info, you’ve got Dick’s from years ago, Jason’s as well, though you’re sure his number has changed in recent times— Duke and Stephanie’s, and your dad’s which you don’t use. Their texts dwindled down overtime.
It did hurt, a subtle ache in your chest whenever they had dinner without you, or left without goodbye. Thankfully you weren’t without your own company, Isla and Oliver, you made friends with them on your first day of middle school and stuck together since. Keeping your relations to the Wayne family secret until you were sure they wouldn’t leave you over it.
Or use you, both were viable options.
But they didn’t care, if anything, opening up about your estrangement only led them to resent your family. Ironic given that Isla was a huge Red Hood fan and Oliver was partial to Nightwing.
You kept their secrets though, no reason to share it.
It was only one day that things changed, your room, the original one, in the middle of the hall surrounded by everyone else’s. It became far too loud and hard to sneak your friends in without being noticed, so you moved— not out, can’t until you’re legally eighteen, but into a more quiet part of the house, turning one of the abandoned guest rooms into your sanctuary, close to another exit so your friends didn’t have to run out the front door every time. With Alfred’s help of course, it was already fully furnished, just needed to move your valuables down.
Taking down your clothes, posters and pictures, everything to make your room feel like home. You also may or may not have gotten a mini fridge and snack drawer using Bruce’s money, it didn’t make a dent in his account so he wouldn’t notice, now it was much easier to house your friends. The freedom helped push away the ache you’d have, the one you’d get when you laid in bed knowing that not a single person would question your lack of presence at dinner.
Oliver and Isla were more than happy to welcome you into their homes as well, Isla lived with her mom, dad in metropolis since they were divorced. Oliver with his older brother, mom and dad, kindly you informed Alfred of every single departure because it’d be cruel not to, and you also asked him to keep your absence hush from your family.
Annoyingly, even though they ignored you most of the time they still questioned your disappearances when they didn’t first ask Alfred, playing it off like they cared but it was truly just the hero in them making sure you didn’t get into trouble. Maybe that counted as caring.
For once in your life thing managed to move at a steady pace, you kept your outside life with your friends seperate from the one you hardly had with your family, can you guess who threw a wrench in that plan?
I can.
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-> that’s the prologue completed, it’ll preferably be short, only around a chapter or two if I can help it. But I have a habit of writing too much, so we have to wait.
First piece of writing on this account, hope it’s alright.
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 - whereas, you were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man. You decided to strut into work in stockings and a miniskirt, but he frustratingly refuses to notice. Inspired by ‘miniskirt’ - aoa
cw: no smut just fluff, no y/n mentioned (you will absolutely never catch me using y/n), bad first impressions, enemies(?) to lovers, comedy/humor, bad at feelings, slightly in denial with feelings, happy ending, reader is sick of damian, no angst, and a makeout session.
wc: 18.1k. | part 2
You don’t really remember how you ended up getting the job.
You just knew the economy is going to shit, much to your dismay. You were an adult and life as an adult isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, especially when you’re in a world that has heroes, vigilantes, and villains that pop a perc and run around causing havoc.
Just like many other people in the country, you’re applying to several jobs a day and receiving multiple rejection emails almost daily. However, you decided to run around Gotham with your applications after moving here. The hiring manager in front of you was skimming your resume, nodding along and telling you they were impressed, which felt like a small personal victory to you!
Yay! Pat yourself on the back!
They decided to have an interview with you, right then and there!
“That’s amazing! Could you tell me what made you interested in this position?”
Money.
“What made me interested—” And right in the middle of your interview with the hiring manager, the office door slammed open.
A woman that seemed to be in their late twenties or early thirties, long gorgeous blonde curls stumbled in, red-eyed and shaking, sobbing so hard her words broke apart as she begged you not to work here.
“THE CEO IS AN ABSOLUTE SHITHEAD—”
“Ma’am you need to lea—”
“Do not work with that sorry-excuse of a MAN!”
“Alright, that’s it—”
“Get your hands off of me NOW! I AM SAVING THAT POOR GIRL—” Security dragged her away while she kicked and cried, and the hiring manager cleared their throat like they were trying to swallow an entire cough drop.
“Anyway…” they awkwardly moved on.
Yikes didn’t even begin to cover it.
After the interview, you just went back to your life. You were cleaning your apartment, keeping your mind busy with chores the next few days, binge-watching a series, and applying to different jobs. Honestly, You kind of assumed that you weren’t going to get the job after that happened, I mean would you hire someone after that interruption? Yeah. After that incident, there was no way they were calling you back.
“I mean, that was the craziest thing I’ve ever experienced, and I just moved here!” You said loudly, half–talking over the sizzle of the pan as you stirred your dinner with one hand and kept an AirPod tucked in the other ear. “What do you expect, babe? You moved from Star City on the west coast all the way to the east coast.” Chelsea’s voice crackled lightly through your AirPod.
You glanced at your phone on the counter. The FaceTime screen showed your friend lounging on her couch in Metropolis, her hair tied up and a mug in her hand, looking far too comfortable compared to the chaos you had walked into this week. Her eyebrows were raised like she already knew you were regretting the relocation.
“You should’ve just come with me to Metropolis, I don’t know why you decided to end up in Gotham, New Jersey. For god sake's, have you seen the crime rate!?” You snort, rolling your eyes.
“I’d rather see dumbass people try to get into my nice apartment and not my whole ass apartment blown away by some creature from another planet—”
“Oh please! At least one of them erases the problem easily!” You frowned at that.
Okay. Maybe she got you there.
“Doesn’t Metropolis rip in half like every once a month—” Chelsea cut you a look through the screen, lifting her mug like she was preparing to smack you with it through FaceTime. Her expression said don’t even start, which you replied with your hands up in surrender, your spatula raised with it.
“Where’d you even apply, anyways?”
You shrugged and kept stirring your food. “I don’t even know. I applied to a bunch of companies, but I think the interview I actually went to was at Wayne Enterprises.”
Silence.
A dangerous, heavy silence.
“Are you dumb—!?”
“Chill! I have my AirPods in!” you shouted back, flinching from the raise of her voice. Chelsea let out a long, exhausted sigh that somehow felt like a lecture.
“Which position did you apply for?”
“…personal assistant?”
She immediately screamed your full government name, and you winced so hard your shoulders nearly hit your ears.
You decided to turn her volume down.
“Are you just going to keep screaming at me without actually telling me what’s wrong with applying there?” you snapped, waving your spatula like it could shield you from her judgment.
Chelsea grumbled, pure disappointment settling into every line of her face. “I cannot believe you live under a rock. Damian Wayne. One of the youngest, successful, and arguably the hottest CEO in the country— not my type, but his father is, he’s a standard DILF in my book and will always be in my heart. Ring any bells?”
You blinked.
Slowly.
Did she have to mention the fact her type is the CEO’s father?
“He is notorious for going through personal assistants,” she couldn’t believe your lack of knowledge while continuing. She gestures wildly with her mug with a click of her tongue. “Girl, they all leave within the first month, it’s all over Reddit! Constantly! And it’s not even because he fires them. They just cannot deal with him!”
“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy?” Chelsea slapped her hand on the coffee table so hard her cat shot straight into the air and sprinted out of frame like it feared for its life.
“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy!” She shouted, leaning so close to the camera you could see every stressed-out pore on her face.
“Well, it’s a good thing I won’t be hired then, right?” You begin to scoop your food into a bowl, turning the stove off while you listen to Chelsea relievingly sigh in approval, her shoulders relaxing when she recalls the story you’ve told her.
“Yeah, I doubt they’ll hire you since Goldilocks decided to save you from the trenches. You’re lucky you dodged a bullet.”
Chelsea was wrong.
The next day, you received an email from the poor hiring manager with stressed eye bags that showed straight through the concealer, informing you that you had been accepted for the job.
You stared at the screen.
You got the job.
You should reject it.
Yet, you’ve been rejected left and right.
And the salary was so good—
Chelsea’s vice echoes through your head, the warnings she has told you.
“They all leave within the first month!”
Well. If you’re expected to leave the first month, you might as well get your money and dip when it gets intolerable. I mean, like, fuck it, the worst you can do is ghost the job.
What’s the worst that can happen?
No one warned you.
Well, Chelsea technically warned you.
But, you knew he would be presentable, but not—
Not like this.
“Ah! There he is, this is your boss, Damian Wayne.”
He didn’t walk into the room so much as he cut through it like gravity pulled differently around him. Sharp posture, silent steps, and sharp narrowed eyes that hit you with the same force as a spotlight— green, but not soft. More like polished jade or a blade’s edge reflecting light. It spoke of calculation, assessing, and it felt so direct when it landed on you.
It felt like getting pinned to a corkboard.
His face was almost unfair.
They were clean, symmetrical, and sharp lines. He had a strong jaw that looked like it had been carved deliberately.
There was no boyish charm to him; he had the kind of beauty people hesitate to call beautiful because it sounds too delicate for someone who carries that much confidence. But handsome didn’t feel strong enough either. He was absolutely striking to look at, unattainable, and unforgettable. He had that kind of attractiveness that makes your brain lag for half a second while your mouth tries to remember how to say ‘hello.’
And his expression didn’t help.
He looked at you the way someone looks at a report they already expect to be disappointed by (it was awful), brows slightly drawn, and lips pressed flat in a line that made you painfully aware of just how nice his lips were, they were clearly well taken care of, moisturized and a hue of color on them.
His hair was annoyingly perfect too. Dark, thick, not a strand out of place, like it was styled by sheer discipline instead of product. The kind of hair you could imagine falling into his eyes if he let it grow even a little longer but he never would, of course.
Then there was the way he dressed: crisp, tailored, so flawlessly put-together that you suddenly felt underdressed in clothes you had ironed twice in your blouse and your slacks. He didn’t even have to try; he just existed and the room rearranged itself around him.
But the worst part?
He didn’t even seem aware of how attractive he was. Or maybe he was and just didn’t care.
He looked at you, held your gaze for a fraction too long, and said flat, cool, and without so much as a greeting.
“Um, it’s nice to meet you, I’m your—”
“Tt, I know who you are. You’re the new assistant. HR must be desperate nowadays. You look like someone they scraped off the bottom of the applicant pile.”
Your first impression of Damian Wayne?
You want to absolutely kill him.
Surely you misheard him. Right?
Surely no living person with a functioning sense of self-preservation would say that out loud. Right?
But no. Damian Wayne just stood there, expression carved from ice, like your existence itself was an inconvenience he was being forced to endure.
You inhaled slowly through your nose.
“I—” You forced your voice to stay even.
“I’m here to make your schedule easier, Mr. Wayne.”
“Good,” he plainly said with a monotone voice, already brushing past you like you were a piece of office furniture. “I don’t have expectations for you to stay here longer than a month, so don’t try too hard as a temporary assistant, they always do.”
Your eye twitched.
This aggravating piece of shit—
He stopped at his desk, not even glancing back before gesturing to a stack of folders that’s on his desk.
“Organize these by priority and competency.” He paused, glancing briefly at your figure.
“Assuming you’re capable of both.” You wore the most corporate expression you’ve ever worn in your life, a face that felt like you wanted to shatter yourself and slap the shit out of him. “Of course,” you said sweetly with the fakest smile you’ve ever worn on your life.
Venomously sweet.
“I’ll handle it.” You knew he could hear that sickening sweet fake voice.
“Good.” He simply stated, sighing before he shooed you away. “Try to keep up.”
You didn’t trust yourself to respond.
Not with words. Not with sounds.
You swallowed every snarky comment sitting on your tongue, because nothing in that office could legally be used against you in a workplace lawsuit. Instead, you scooped up the stack of folders he shoved into your arms and marched out before your own mouth created problems your paycheck could not fix.
God, you needed this job.
The salary alone was enough to chain you here for at least a few weeks, maybe even longer if your spite stayed strong. A traitorous part of you even considered turning this into a personal challenge. If you had to endure the daily torment of working for Damian Wayne, then fine. You would survive this place. You would outlast his attitude. You would make it to the one month mark just to prove a point.
And before you finally walked out of this corporate purgatory, you would leave a little surprise in his office, something truly unforgettable, something that would remind him that you had been here. The door shut behind you with a soft click that somehow felt like it saved your life.
The hiring manager trailed after you like a ghost fleeing the scene of a violent crime. Their footsteps were rushed, panicked, like they were afraid Damian might call them back inside if they didn’t move fast enough. They had been completely silent during the encounter, which— given what just happened— felt like its own form of apology.
Or guilt.
You didn’t speak at first.
You needed a second.
Your soul needed a second.
Your blood pressure needs at least 30 seconds.
Finally, once you’d made it a safe distance down the hall, far enough that Damian can’t hear the rattling cage of your heart that wanted to scream at him.
You exhaled.
“…Okay,” you muttered, gripping the folders so tightly they crinkled. You’re going to need to find different folders if they end up creased.
“So that happened.”
The hiring manager let out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. It might’ve been a whimper. It was hard to tell. “That,” they said, “was… one of his better mornings.” You stared at them in stunned silence.
They avoided eye contact, shoulders tensed like someone with chronic fight-or-flight syndrome. “I hoped he’d be in a good mood today. He had coffee. And a board meeting went well. Usually that helps.”
“That was him in a good mood?”
They nodded, grimly. “Comparatively.”
You stared down the hallway toward Damian’s office door, half expecting it to burst open again just to finish you off.
Honestly? You kind of hoped he would. At least then you could be the first assistant in Wayne Enterprises history to get fired in under ten minutes.
But no.
You were still employed. And you wanted so badly to prove that dickhead wrong.
“Don’t take it personally,” the hiring manager mentions quickly, hands fluttering like they were trying to calm a spooked animal. “He’s usually like that! I mean, not worse, but not better either.” They winced at their own explanation. “Here, let me… let me just take you to your office.”
You followed with the folders clutched to your chest. Your inch-heels clicked softly against the sleek hallway floors, each step a quiet reminder that you were officially in too deep to turn back.
The office around you was alive in that overwhelming, corporate-machine kind of way. Murmurs drifted from half-open doors, printers whirred like they were running for their lives, phones rang nonstop, and people in tailored suits rushed past with urgent expressions and coffee cups that looked dangerously full.
It was the kind of place where everyone seemed to be moving toward something important.
Except you.
You were just trying not to drop the folders or spontaneously combust. You adjusted your grip, inhaled slowly, and forced yourself to match the hiring manager’s brisk pace.
Every passing face glanced at you, all of them were curious, sympathetic, or simply entertained by the existence of a new victim. The looks were so blatant you started to wonder if there was a running office bet on how long you’d last. If there was, you were absolutely putting your money on surviving a month.
A month and a day. And an extra minute just to spite all of them.
You were going to get through this.
You were going to make it through the first month, even if you hated your boss with the intensity of a thousand suns. If not out of ambition…
Then out of pure, unadulterated spite.
Within an hour, you’ve finally settled into your new office, which was far too large for any normal personal assistant, you began plotting. Every drawer, every neatly stacked folder, every perfectly lined pen became part of your mission to prove him wrong.
You were going to arrive early, organize everything to perfection, and carry yourself with the righteous fury of someone determined to weaponize competence.
You were going to be the best goddamn assistant he had for a month!
You’re going to look him in the eye, tell him to eat fuckin’ shit, and walk out of his office with your dignity intact and his pride dented.
Except.
This is going to be really awkward.
You have been his personal assistant for three months.
Chelsea sits across from you in a high-end Gotham café, the kind of place with marble tables, velvet chairs, and coffee so expensive it feels like a personal attack. It is a luxury you can finally afford thanks to the absurdly generous salary that comes with being Damian Wayne’s personal assistant.
“So what’s been up with you—”
Once she settles into her seat, you launch into the whole story, unpacking every chaotic detail of your first week under the city’s most insufferable, sharp-tongued, walking stress migraine of a boss while she gaped at you, even she choked on her coffee once you mentioned the fact you were originally going to plan to tell your boss to eat shit!
“You have been keeping this from me for months!?”
Chelsea nearly shrieks, her voice shooting up enough that you can practically picture her cat back home sprinting under the nearest piece of furniture in self-defense. She drags a hand through her hair with the kind of exasperation that suggests she is seconds away from either combusting or demanding financial reparations for emotional distress.
“I thought you worked at a different company! I thought you didn’t get the Wayne job!” You flinch and lean forward, shushing her as a few nearby patrons glance over with raised eyebrows.
“I’m sorry! Trust me, I am surprised too!” You exclaimed in a quieter voice, pinching the bridge of your nose before your nerves started leaking out of your mouth. “I thought you would have seen it on the news or Reddit. People keep making threads about Damian Wayne’s personal assistant. Me! I am the longest assistant he has ever had.”
Chelsea just stares.
It is the kind of stare reserved for witnessing small miracles, natural disasters, or an animal walking into a Walmart wearing a vest.
“He hasn’t fired you,” she says.
“He hasn’t fired me,” you repeat.
“Not yet.”
“Hopefully not.”
Chelsea sighs, not out of dialing but exaggeration. “At least it pays you well, right?”
“It does, it pays really well actually.” You point to your bracelet, displaying Tiffany and co., that you were surprised to even purchase with the first paycheck that came in, it could cover your rent, car insurance, and two months worth of groceries!
Chelsea hums.
“Well, it’s been a few months now, why haven’t you left your boss if you hate him, babe?”
Well. Things have changed.
You fiddled with your drink, turning the cup in slow circles before lifting it to your lips. The moment you glanced off to the side, pretending to admire the ridiculously pretentious light fixtures or the overpriced pastries behind the counter, you knew you were done for. Chelsea had known you for years.
She could read you like a billboard on a highway.
Her eyes narrowed. “That,” she said, pointing her straw at you like a weapon, “is your I am hiding something face.”
“I’m not hiding anything!”
“That’s your lying voice too.”
You groaned, slumping your shoulders. “I don’t wanna tell you.” You leaned against your arm on the table with a frown, looking at her with the most depressing gaze ever.
She sighs.
“Tell me, what’s wrong.” You mumbled incoherent words that she couldn’t catch.
“It can’t be that bad, but you gotta tell me clearly, babe.”
“I said I like him,” you folded your arms together against the table, slowly hiding your face while you looked at your friend.
Chelsea froze, processing your words slowly.
For a full three seconds, she did not blink, breathe, or otherwise behave like a living organism. Then she leaned forward, squinting at you like you had just confessed to worshipping a fantasy character.
“You what.”
You pulled your arms in tighter, sinking into yourself like you could physically escape the consequences of your own admission.
“I like him,” you repeated, quieter this time, feeling a burn on your neck and the tip of your ears, and your cheeks as well.
Was it getting hotter in this cafe?
Chelsea slapped both hands on the table so hard the silverware rattled. “You have got to be kidding me,” she hissed, keeping her voice just barely below a scream. “You like Damian Wayne?! THE Damian Wayne!? I thought you said you hated him not even five minutes ago!?”
You winced.
“I know.”
“He insulted you on sight!”
“I know.”
“He made three assistants cry before lunch in one week according to that Reddit post five months ago when I last went on there!”
“I know, I read that too.” You cringed.
She leaned in even closer, eyes wide with catastrophic disappointment.
“And you like him.”
You nodded, defeated.
Chelsea dropped her face into her hands.
“Oh my god,” she whispered into her palms. “There’s absolutely no way.” She dragged her fingers down her cheeks in slow, tortured disbelief, then lifted her head just enough to glare at you through the cracks.
“What happened to your standards!? He was rude, mean, a dickhead, a shit-head! And he said you wouldn’t last a month!”
You huffed, crossing your arms with a pout.
“It’s not my fault,” you muttered. “He’s… different when he’s not being… rude.” Chelsea scoffed loudly.
“Different how. Does he switch from dickhead to mildly tolerable asshat? Does he say please once every equinox?”
Chelsea shook her head, disbelief etched on her face.
“He basically insulted your existence before you even started!”
You glared at her, already feeling a creak of embarrassment from the reminder she’s given.
“He… holds doors sometimes.”
“Oh dear Jesus,” she groaned quietly, staring at you like you had personally disappointed the entire human race, shock was an understatement for her.
“Sometimes? Not all the time!? You are not just down bad. You are subterranean! You are in the Earth’s core and you are at the center of the planet melting!”
You were starting to feel like you were melting into a puddle.
“Holding doors? Are you kidding me!? I fear that’s the bare minimum!” She reiterated once more, shooting back with a cry.
You wilted a little.
“Babe! I literally held the door for you 30 minutes ago!”
She wasn’t wrong.
Chelsea sighed, long and heavy, like she was preparing herself for a friendship intervention. “Okay,” she finally came down from her thoughts, sitting upright again. “Start from the beginning. And tell me exactly how long you’ve had this tragic, misguided crush so I know how early the corruption began.” You glanced away, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips.
You already knew where it began.
Damian Wayne didn’t just hold doors for you— sometimes, he could actually be kind.
Actually, erase that.
What the fuck are you talking about?
It started off when there was an office party at the end of your second week at the company.
The team decided it was best to celebrate after successfully completing a tough collaboration, and despite your reservations, you found yourself there, trying to blend in among Gotham’s elite.
The “party,” which was really just a glorified networking event, was held in a sleek, modern lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering sprawl of Gotham. Soft jazz curled through the air, creating a warm atmosphere while coworkers clustered in small circles, murmuring over half-finished drinks. Glasses clinked. Ice chimed against the crystal. Someone laughed too loudly at a joke that probably wasn’t funny.
You lingered by the refreshment table, holding a champagne flute you had barely touched, watching the room from the safety of the sidelines. The dim lighting made everything feel softer, warmer, less like the corporate machine you worked in and more like a scene from a movie you didn’t belong in.
You were debating whether to grab a cheese cube or just take another sip of your second drink when you felt a shift in the atmosphere beside you. A quiet disturbance, like the air bracing itself.
Damian had appeared.
He stood a few feet away, dressed sharply as always, although the usual severity in his expression seemed dulled by the warm glow of the lounge lights. His posture was still rigid, but the sharp scowl you had come to mentally prepare for wasn’t as deep.
His gaze found yours immediately.
“Oh. It’s you. I wondered why all the birds stopped singing.”
Damian’s voice cut through the hum of conversation, quieter than usual but still carrying that cool edge that scraped your nerves raw.
You raised a brow and crossed your arms, turning to face him fully with a slight fire of irritation, faking a smile in his direction. “No one's forcing you to be around me? Pick another spot, or fire me. I don’t care.”
You were surprised he didn’t fire you right then and there.
It was only your second week.
His eyes flicked over you, assessing, unreadable, before he reached for a drink from the nearby table. “I highly doubt you want to be fired within two weeks.” You furrowed your brows, the anger rising quickly.
You cannot believe you work with this man.
Around the two of you, the soft buzz of the party carried on. Laughter drifted from a nearby table, someone popped open a bottle of sparkling water, and the jazz band eased into a slower melody. Yet despite the noise, the space between you and Damian felt strangely isolated, a small bubble of tension carved clean out of the room’s warm energy.
Please don’t stand next to me. Please don’t come stand next to me. Pleasenotnexttome!
But he shifted, stepping just slightly closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Of course, he stands next to you, but just far enough away that there’s an empty space between you.
“Do you really have to stand there?” you muttered, frowning at him.
“You don’t own the space,” he replied, rolling his eyes with that signature Damian Wayne disdain, the type that somehow felt personally designed to get under your skin.
Before you could bite back, the crowd shifted.
A girl you didn’t recognize wove through the party’s glittering mess of people, smiling so brightly it made your teeth ache. She slipped right between you and Damian, brushing your shoulder with a light, oblivious, “Oops, sorry!”
You step back, momentarily thrown off, while Damian’s eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing.
Luckily, your drink wasn’t spilled.
Oh! Mr. Wayne,” she gushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a move so practiced it should’ve come with choreography. “I didn’t expect to see you here. You look amazing tonight!”
Damian gives her a flat, polite look that is somehow more dismissive than if he’d ignored her entirely.
“Thank you.”
She steps a little closer, her shoulder nearly brushing his.
“I was just telling my friends I’d love to get to know more people in the industry. Maybe you could give me some tips?”
Damian’s expression doesn’t change.
“Tips,” he repeats, voice cool.
“I do not offer those.”
“Oh! Well, maybe you could show me instead?”
“Not interested.”
“Not even one minute of your time, sir?”
“I’m busy.”
“I could jus—”
“Are you deaf, woman?” you cut in before she can finish, smiling sharply when her head snaps toward you in offense.
Your tone is honeyed, your eyes absolutely not. You watch her expression, her mouth opening, outrage bubbling up.
“Excuse me?”
You tilt your head, taking a slow sip of your drink. Her jaw works soundlessly, cheeks flushing red, and she sputters a half-formed insult before managing,
“Who do you think you are?”
Before you can respond, Damian does.
“She’s my childhood best friend.”
You choke on your drink so violently you almost decorate the floor with it.
Childhood best—
The hell is this coming from?
The girl snaps her head toward Damian, frowning, irritation breaking through her forced sweetness.
“Really? She doesn’t look like it.”
You raise a brow so sharp it could cut glass.
What is that supposed to mean?
“Well, she used to be.”
She raised an infuriating brow at Damian with a twisted frown, clearly offended by your continued existence and a tad bit curiosity shining within them.
You mouthed seriously over her shoulder at your boss that completely ignored you.
You lean in slightly, lowering your voice in a conspiratorial tone that makes her perk up just enough.
“If you’re so curious,” you say, smiling with all the sincerity of a cat staring at a canary, “we’re not childhood friends for a reason.”
You lie through your teeth without hesitation.
And right beside the woman, Damian watches over you— quiet, unreadable, and unmistakably intrigued.
“Why is that?” she asks, hesitating, clearly torn between morbid curiosity.
You smile sweetly.
“When we were young, I went over to his house and watched him drink his own blood for breakfast, like it was some artisanal smoothie because he thought he was a vampire.” You shook your head. “His family had to send him to a mental hospital after he bit four of our classmates' necks, luckily he only killed two.”
There is a silence so thick you could scoop it with a spoon.
The girl’s eyes widened in absolute horror.
And beside her, Damian— Damian Wayne, Gotham’s coldest, most composed, most impossible-to-shake man stares at you over her shoulder, lips parted, expression stunned.
“Seriously?” She say, absolutely turning pale by the second with a hint of disbelief and skepticism in her tone, yet she’s starting to believe you.
You nodded solemnly, as if delivering a tragic, documented truth.
“One of the nurses put garlic in his sandwich and he absolutely freaked out. Therapists had to come in and talk him down while he kept yelling about curses, mortal treachery, and how garlic was the ‘bane of his eternal existence.’”
You shrugged.
“Thank god he’s on medication.”
Damian closes his eyes for one long, suffering second. When he opens them again, there’s a spark there.
A dangerous one.
“I’ll do you better,” he says, voice smooth and deadpan. “When she was younger, she used to crawl into the garbage at one in the morning because she was fully convinced she was a raccoon. She tried to square-up with the actual animal for dominance. She lost.”
Your smile freezes, peering over her shoulder. Raccoon? Are you serious? You mouthed. “She ate the wrappers in our garbage. Ate them. Like they were gourmet. A total nutcase. She walked on all fours so committedly she developed calluses. Hissed at anyone who got too close— neighbors, mailmen, and the mayor once. Animal control tried to trap her three separate times. A complete lost cause.”
The woman looks like she’s about to throw up, hand hovering near her mouth as if bracing for a second round of trauma.
Your jaw drops.
“She’s come a long way,” Damian adds, eyes glinting with quiet amusement, “but sometimes she relapses and we find her in a dumpster in the back of BatBurger.”
You stare at him, appalled.
You turn to her, lowering your voice like you are sharing the saddest, darkest secret of your generation.
“One time he didn’t take his meds and someone accidentally spilled water on him. He thought it was holy water,” you say gravely, watching her head swivel back to you. “So he started screaming about being burned alive like bread in a toaster. In public. Very loud. Very dramatic. He threw himself onto the floor and writhed like a dying Victorian child. People thought an exorcism was happening in aisle five.”
You sigh, shaking your head as if reliving the tragedy.
“He yelled that he was going to die. It took four security guards and his dad to calm him down.”
“She had to wear an ankle monitor that she bit off,” Damian cuts in, no longer staring at her, but at you.
What the absolute fuck.
“She sharpened her claws since she still thought she was a raccoon and gouged someone’s eyes out in a local church. She ate those eyeballs, but told the police that god took them. The victim is still alive. They’re blind and they no longer go to church.”
The woman swallows so hard you can hear it.
“You’re absolutely joking.”
Yes, he is,” you say sweetly, pinning the woman with a reassuring smile that is only a few degrees away from a threat.
“I’m not, he killed two of my cats and my other friend for one of his sacrificial rituals, trying to summon the damn devil to get immortality. At age ten. We had to get a priest, and the actual exorcist,” you continue, as if you’re giving her directions to the mall.
“We had to strap him to a bed. Full head spin. Latin chanting. He spoke in seven different voices— none of them his. One of them was an elderly Italian man who’s been dead since 1842.”
She looks absolutely sick to her stomach.
“Holy symbols were flying off the walls. The lights flickered, and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. At one point, he levitated. Horizontally. Like a possessed IKEA shelf.” You lift your glass, sipping unbothered.
“He nearly killed the priest, too. Launched him across the room with telekinetic rage. The priest survived only because we dumped an entire Costco-sized vat of holy water on him and force-fed him garlic cloves like he was a charcuterie board and faced him towards the sun.”
“You— both of you are absolutely insane!” The woman sways a little, looking between the two of you like she’s trying to decide whether to run, scream, or call the police.
“I thought this was a networking event. I’m not… I’m not spiritually prepared for whatever that was.” She makes a choked noise, turns on her heel, and speed-walks away like she expects one of you to start foaming at the mouth.
You watch her disappear into the crowd. Then you turn to Damian, giving him the flattest, most pointed look you can manage.
“Childhood friends? Seriously.”
He exhales through his nose, the closest he ever gets to an eye roll without actually doing it.
“A vampire. Are you kidding me?”
“I just wanted to tell someone that you drank blood for breakfast.”
After that incident, Damian had somewhat tolerated you.
You were going to make it— the first month, you’ve found yourself also tolerating Damian’s presence after that incident.
He stopped ignoring you like you were a ghost only he wished was dead.
You stopped fantasizing about strangling him with his own tie.
He stopped snapping at you every time you breathed within a three-foot radius.
You stopped wanting to shove him into the nearest supply closet (and lock it).
You started walking into his office without rehearsing three insults in your head first.
He started not sighing dramatically every time you would walk in, only because you told him to quit it.“What’re are you fuckin’ five years old? Get a grip.”
You were surprised you weren’t fired the minute you said that too.
There was honestly a lot of things that you’ve been lucky to get away with.
It was honestly nice.
He started becoming too nice.
He started holding doors for you.
Not in a showy, look-how-chivalrous-I-am way.
More like: he’d reach the door, pause, and wordlessly keep it open without looking at you. As if it was simply easier than watching you juggle your bag, tablet, water bottle, and your will to live all in one minute.
Then came the coffee.
Not just any coffee.
Your order.
Perfectly correct down to the amount of sweetener you never told him about.
It would appear on your desk at 8:07 every morning. The exact minute you usually sat down, being 23 minutes early as always with no explanation except a quiet, muttered:
“The barista on the first floor kept messing up my drink. They gave me this instead.”
He said it like it annoyed him.
He handed it to you like it didn’t.
And he walked away before you could question him about how the barista “accidentally” made your drink four days in a row.
Then there were the other things.
He’d push the elevator button for both of you without being asked.
He’d slow his stride by half a step so you could keep up with files in your arms to attend the next meeting with him, pretending it was unintentional.
If you were carrying too many folders, he’d take half without comment, eyes forward, as if he could pretend he wasn’t helping you.
Once, he even redirected a rude executive who barked at you in the hallway, stepping in with a clipped, cold:
“My personal assistant is busy. Speak to someone else.”
You almost dropped your tablet at that comment.
That was when your heart started racing. It was sharp, sudden, and betraying you before you even understood why.
It wasn’t the dramatic kind of fluttering people wrote about in books, nothing soft or romantic. It was a tight, startled thump in your chest, the kind that made your breath catch for half a second as heat crawled quietly up your neck.
It happened in the small moments, the ones you never expected to matter— when his hand brushed yours as he passed you a file, when his voice dropped lower than usual as he asked a question, when he stood just a little too close in the elevator and you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.
Every quiet act of consideration, every glance that lingered a beat longer than it should have, stirred something unsteady beneath your ribs. It felt like your body realized something before your mind did, like your instincts were trying to tell you that Damian’s sudden gentleness wasn’t random at all.
And once you noticed it, once your heart reacted— you couldn’t un-notice it.
Each day it only beats a little faster.
Especially that one night, the night everything went sideways so violently it felt personal.
The office was unnervingly quiet after hours. Most of the overhead lights had already clicked off, leaving long stretches of the floor in a low, ambient glow. The only illumination near you came from your monitor, washing your desk in a cold, bluish light that made the scattered papers look like crime scene evidence.
Your shoulders ached from sitting too long.
Your eyes burned.
Your coffee had gone cold sometime around 7 p.m., and you kept drinking it anyway because the bitterness felt like fuel.
You had taken on too much work. You knew that. You felt it as soon as your fingers began to tremble over your keyboard.
The HVAC system hummed softly above you. Somewhere far down the hall, a printer woke up and made a lonely mechanical noise before going quiet again. Your own breath sounded too loud in the open, empty space.
You clicked into the project folder that was supposed to contain sixty-eight documents.
It had six.
Six documents blinking back at you like they were mocking you.
Your stomach dropped so fast it made you dizzy.
You refreshed the tab. Nothing changed. You tried again. Still six. The rest had vanished— scrambled somewhere across Wayne Enterprises’ ocean of internal servers.
You whispered, “No, no, no… oh, come on, not tonight.”
Your fingers flew, searching through subfolders, archives, misnamed files. You found some mislabeled under an entirely different project. Others were saved in outdated formats. A few looked corrupted, their icons taunting you with dull, broken symbols.
You spent the next hour piecing them back together, shuffling between windows, dragging things into place, the soft clicking of your mouse echoing in the cavernous silence.
When you finally rebuilt the folder and opened it again…
Half of it was still missing.
Gone.
Deleted.
Not even a ghost in the recycle bin.
Your pulse thundered in your ears.
The fluorescent light above your cubicle flickered once, dramatically, like it was judging your life choices.
The air felt too thin.
Your throat tightened.
All of this— every file, every signature, every revision— was due in two days.
You pushed both hands into your forehead and muttered, “This is it. This is where I die. Right here. In this stupid chair. They’ll find my corpse fossilized into this mesh ergonomic backing.”
You mumbled to yourself before glancing at the clock on your screen.
8:43 p.m.
The rest of the floor was a graveyard. Dark offices. Empty chairs. Silent conference rooms. Not even the janitorial staff had come by yet.
You forced yourself to sit down and get to work because no one else was going to fix this disaster, even if it wasn’t your fault. The responsibility still sat heavy on your shoulders if you didn’t do anything, almost like a physical weight pressing between your shoulder blades.
You had to track down every missing document, rebuild what was gone, and prepare the entire set before the deadline that glared at you from your calendar in a furious shade of red.
Your own workload sat beside it, equally demanding after you’ve redone the first five of the thirty documents.
Your email inbox kept chiming every few minutes, each notification a tiny reminder that you were behind.
The piles on your desk had grown uneven and tall enough to lean like stressed-out skyscrapers.
Half of Damian’s stack stared at you like it had been personally offended by your existence. Your shared calendar flickered on your monitor with overlapping meetings, last-minute adjustments, and bright color-coded tasks that all claimed to be the highest priority.
You glance at the time.
10:28 p.m.
Just as you’re about to dive back into the mountain of paperwork, the door to the office swings open. Damian steps in, his expression a mix of confusion and mild irritation.
“You’re still here?” His voice is calm but edged with disbelief.
You look up, blinking away the exhaustion.
“I have one more thing to finish.”
Multiple things actually.
He shakes his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “It’s late. Everyone else has gone home hours ago. Your light is the only one on.”
Oh.
You bite back the exhaustion creeping into your voice.
“I’m almost done.”
Damian’s gaze lingers on you for a moment, unreadable.
Then, without another word, he steps back toward the door, the quiet weight of the night settling once more around you.
You thought he had left, leaning against your chair to take at least a five minute nap without any interruption.
But moments later, he reappears, holding his jacket in one hand, his eyes fixed on you with that same sharp intensity.
“Let’s go.”
You blink in surprise.
“What—?” You shake your head, stubbornness flaring despite your exhaustion.
“I’ve got it under control. I just need a little more time.”
He cuts you off with a flat tone, hearing you yawn afterwards.
“It’s almost 11 p.m. I don’t trust you behind the wheel when you’re this close to falling asleep in your office chair.” You blink, caught off guard by his blunt concern, the tension in the room shifting just a little.
“I can just call an Uber?” you offer weakly, half out of stubbornness, half because you don’t know what else to do with the sudden warmth crawling up your neck.
What are you supposed to do in this situation?
“Don’t be stupid and waste your money on that…” he fiddles with his cuffs, “I’ll drive you home.” His tone snaps like a reprimand, firm and irritated, but underneath it is something unmistakably protective.
He clicks his tongue, already annoyed for you, at you, around you, like you were the one being unreasonable for… existing past 10 p.m. in a corporate building.
He gestures sharply at your desk with a small glare, the kind that isn’t really anger but more of a silent command.
Pack up. Now.
And despite yourself.
Despite how confusing this whole moment is, despite the way your face warms at the edges, you actually listen. Your hands move on instinct, gathering your things while your thoughts spiral in a confused, flustered whirl:
Why does he care?
Why is he doing this?
Why is he taking you home?
Is this normal? You thought.
It’s just work related, right?
Yeah. Work-related.
For a boss to take their personal assistant home?
The realization lands with a quiet, heavy thud— one that makes your fingertips fumble over the zipper of your bag, your breath catching for just a beat.
Did he do this to his other assistants?
You glance at the man and the calendar on your desk.
He shows up at your doorframe at almost eleven at night, jacket in hand, eyes lingering on you as he patiently waits for you to gather your things. And as you sling your bag over your shoulder, heart a little too light and a little too frantic, you can’t stop thinking:
Why is he still at Wayne Enterprise at 11 p.m. when his schedule was cleared after 6 p.m.?
You follow him out the door, steps quiet, falling just a half-pace behind him like your body hasn’t caught up to the situation yet. Confusion presses tightly across your face, your brows drawn together, lips thinned as you stare at the back of his head. His strides are steady, purposeful, like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Meanwhile, your thoughts are a mess, tumbling over each other as you trail him down the dim hallway lit only by recessed lights and the soft hum of overnight ventilation.
He doesn’t glance back once.
Of course he doesn’t.
Damian Wayne never does anything as obvious as checking if you’re following.
He just expects you to.
And you do.
You both get onto the elevator, pressing onto the garage floor button while you both stand awkwardly next to each other.
“I hope… you don’t mind me asking sir, but what were you doing here past 10 p.m…”
“Finishing reports,” he says simply. His tone is flat, businesslike, but not sharp. “Some of the board files were delayed, so I stayed to review them before tomorrow.”
You nod, knowing he can see it from the corner of his gaze.
The elevator hums around you, the soft whir of machinery filling the quiet. The two of you stand side by side, close enough that you can feel the faint heat radiating off his suit jacket but not close enough to touch. You could smell his cologne that lingers on him. It drifts toward you in soft waves: clean, subtle, and expensive in a way that doesn’t brag.
Something sharp at the start, like bergamot or cedar, softened by something warm underneath, like velvet.
The elevator quietly dings, the soft chime echoing through the empty garage as the doors slide open. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting long shadows across rows of empty parking spots. You trail after Damian, your footsteps sounding small in the cavernous space.
He walks with purposeful strides, not hurried but direct, straight past the reserved spaces, toward a sleek black car with two doors, a nice Porsche 911 that looks too polished for how late it is. He doesn’t check if you are keeping up, yet somehow you know he is fully aware of every step you take behind him.
You follow him through the quiet, cool air of the garage, watching the way his jacket shifts with each movement, the way he reaches into his pocket for his keys without slowing his pace.
He unlocks the car with a soft click.
He reaches the car and stops beside the passenger side, pulling the handle without hesitation. The door swings open smoothly, the interior lights blooming to life in a soft glow that spills onto the concrete floor.
He doesn’t look at you while he does it.
His gaze stays forward, jaw set, expression unreadable, as if this is purely routine and not an act of shockingly old-fashioned courtesy from a man who once told you “move faster” instead of “good morning.”
He steps back just slightly, giving you room. “Stop standing around and get in.” He says quietly.
You blink at him, unsure whether to be offended, flustered, or concerned that your notoriously rude boss is speaking to you like a person instead of a defective office appliance.
His hand still rests on the top edge of the door, waiting.
You feel more awake than ever.
You think you can drive home.
“Mr. Wayne, it’s fine, I can drive myself home—”
He gives you a look.
Just one sharply raised brow that communicates an entire paragraph:
You’re not driving. Get in the car.
Your protests die on your tongue.
You swallow once, pulse kicking up for reasons you refuse to examine, gather yourself, and finally slide into the seat. The leather is cool beneath you, the interior quiet, the door closing with a soft, final click that feels far too intimate for something so mundane.
He walks around the hood, steps measured, and unhurried.
Instead, he glances at you. Just once. Brief, unreadable, but with enough weight behind it to pin you to the seat.
“Seatbelt,” he says.
Two syllables. Low. Firm. Not unkind, which is worse somehow. Your fingers move before your brain catches up, tugging the belt into place with a soft click.
Dear god. Sitting this close to your boss, the one you’ve found attractive, annoying, tolerable, and infuriating in rotating intervals— has to be the worst experience of your entire life.
You stare firmly ahead, refusing to let your gaze drift even an inch in his direction, because if it does, you’re almost certain you’ll combust on the spot. Meanwhile, he shifts into gear, turning the notch of the volume of his music that slowly settles into the air with the same calm, controlled ease he applies to everything, as if your internal panic isn’t loud enough to fill the whole car.
You exhale once, quietly.
This is fine.
You’re fine.
You’re absolutely not fine.
“Your address.”
You blink, turning your head a fraction before you can stop yourself.
“What?”
Damian raised an amused brow, the expression subtle but unmistakable. “I can’t drive you home if I don’t know where you live. The address.”
You swallow, suddenly aware of how loud your pulse sounds in your ears. “Oh. Right. It’s—” you recite it, stumbling only once over the street name.
He inputs it into the GPS with the same calm efficiency he approaches everything with, one hand steady on the wheel, the other moving with practiced ease across the screen.
“You shouldn’t be working overtime without telling me.” You blink, taken aback.
“What? I didn’t— I mean, it wasn’t— that late.”
“It was past ten,” he counters, tone flat but unmistakably irritated, what’s with him and having that underlying tone of passive aggressiveness? This is why everyone’s scared of him.
“That qualifies as late.”
“It really isn’t that late,” you argue, crossing your arms even though it does absolutely nothing to make you feel less defensive.
Damian shifts his grip on the wheel, making a turn at an intersection, leading to the freeway. “For you, maybe,” he says.
“You look like you were five minutes away from face-planting into your keyboard.”
Your shoulders stiffen.
“I was fine.”
“You were drooling,” he adds without missing a beat. You snap your head toward him, scandalized.
“I was NOT—”
He doesn’t even look at you— just continues driving, voice maddeningly even.
He exhales through his nose, like you’re the unreasonable one here.
“You were unconscious in your chair. Head tilted back. Mouth open. Classic drooling posture.”
YOU DIDN’T EVEN SLEEP?!?
“I wasn’t drooling,” you repeat, slower this time, because you know— you know— you weren’t.
“You’re lying.”
Damian’s lips twitch.
Not a smile.
Not quite.
But close enough that your stomach flips.
“I don’t lie,” he says coolly.
“You’re lying right now.”
Silence. A beat.
“…You were about to drool.”
Your jaw dropped.
“You—!”
“That’s worse,” he adds dryly.
You’re ready to launch into a full rebuttal, but he cuts in before you can speak: “You should thank me,” he says. “If you had actually started, I would’ve had to mop you off your desk.”
You’re actually going to kill him.
“Get me out of this car now.”
He doesn’t even flinch.
“If I stop on the freeway, we’ll both die.”
“That’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes. It is.”
He finally glances your way, one eyebrow raised with a spark within his eyes, you knew he was reveling in it.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You literally invented dramatic.” His fingers drum lightly against the steering wheel, betraying a flicker of amusement he refuses to acknowledge.
“That’s rich coming from you,” he says, voice calm but edged with something warm.
“If anyone here has a flair for theatrics, it’s the person who nearly face-planted onto a stack of financial reports and told that woman that I’ve supposedly killed two kids and was possessed.” You glare at him.
“It was for a good reason and I did you a favor!”
Damian turns his head just slightly, enough that you can see the curve of disbelief at the corner of his mouth.
“A favor,” he repeats, tone dry enough to evaporate water. “Your solution,” he says slowly, “was to convince her I bit a classmate, splashed with holy water by accident, summoned the devil, and committed— what was it?—‘multiple cat sacrifices.’”
You lift your chin. “To be fair, you added the part about me gouging out a guy’s eyes in church. And face-planting into the reports? Are you serious?”
“It haunts me to this day.”
“You didn’t even see it happen!” You scoffed.
“I didn’t have to. I heard the thud from halfway across the floor.”
Your jaw drops.
“You liar!”
“Possibly,” he admits, gaze returning to the road, “but you can’t prove it.” You grip your bag tighter, fighting the urge to throw it at him.
He’s impossible! A douchebag! A liar!
Despicable. Insolent. Smug. Humorous.
And Handsome with the capital ‘H’ annoying.
A soft, almost amused exhale slips out of him and you hate that your heart notices.
Your apartment building edges into view through the windshield. The familiar, worn brick and warm lights in the windows, something easy curls in your stomach.
You glance at him, then at the building, then back at him. You should probably at least have the decency to thank him for dropping you off to your place.
“Thank—”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow before work.”
Your mouth snaps shut, staring at him.
“…What?” you finally manage, voice embarrassingly thin.
He wants to pick you up.
He’s planning to pick you up.
Damian slows to a stop at the curb in front of your building, the streetlight casting soft gold across the sharp line of his jaw. His hands remain steady on the wheel, expression irritatingly unreadable.
“I said I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he repeats, this time he’s looking at you with a tilt of his head, like he’s informing you of the weather. “You clearly can’t be trusted to get adequate sleep, and I’m not dealing with you hallucinating through spreadsheets.”
Your jaw drops.
“I do NOT hallucinate— you’re— ugh! Unbelievable.” For a second of silence, there was a look of gentleness settling in his eyes, softening the sharp green into something that lingers a little too long on you.
“Seven thirty,” he says, ignoring your previous comment.
“Don’t be late.”
You grip your bag, still stunned, still not sure you’re hearing him correctly. “You don’t have to do that,” you protest, even though your voice comes out softer than you’d like.
“I know,” he replies simply.
You step out of the car on unsteady legs, heart beating far too fast for reasons you refuse to examine yet… but you do look back. You shift your weight, gripping your bag strap until your knuckles ache.
You watch the passenger window slide down. “Mr. Wayne, seriously. You don’t have to—”
“Damian.”
You ignore that.
Your front steps are only a few feet away now, but you suddenly feel like you’re standing on the edge of something a lot higher.
“You’re confusing me, you’re not making any sense at all,” you murmur, even though your voice betrays you by going soft again.
A cold breeze skims across your cheeks, the kind that promises Gotham’s autumn is heading towards the colder month. You pull your coat a little tighter, but it does nothing for the strange warmth curling under your ribs.
“It makes perfect sense,” he counters. “You run yourself into the ground. You forget meals and you revise everyone’s work.”
“I—”
“Twice,” he says without hesitation. “You revise their work twice.” He continues, quieter now, “you need to take care of yourself.” You blink, stunned by the simplicity of it.
By sincerity.
By the fact that it sounds dangerously close to concern.
“And that concerns you?” you ask, trying to keep it light, teasing, anything but the vulnerable thing it threatens to be. His eyes flick to yours, a spark of truth breaking through his usual restraint.
“It should,” he murmurs. “Shouldn’t it?”
There’s a silence that feels unsteady, fragile in a way neither of you dare acknowledge. He watches the faint cloud of breath that escapes you in the cold Gotham air, the way your frown tries and fails to hide the shift in your expression.
His gaze flicks toward your apartment, then back to you.
“Go inside. Get some rest.”
And even though you want to argue… you don’t. You can’t with him. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Your fingers curl around your keys. “Seven thirty,” you echo, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel.
He gives the smallest nod, the kind that somehow manages to feel like both approval and silent victory.“Good,” he says, a smirk across his lips.
You hesitate for half a second, then turn toward the entrance. “Goodnight,” he adds, voice low, steady and almost gentle if you weren’t careful with how you interpreted it.
You start walking, each step slow enough that you hate yourself a little for it. The lobby lights spill warm against the pavement, and just before you reach the door, something makes you glance back.
He’s still there, watching you get in safely.
One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely by the gearshift, posture composed— but his eyes remain fixed on you until the very moment you slip inside with a scan of your apartment’s key and disappear from his sight.
Only then does he finally look away.
“And then? Did he pick you up?”
Chelsea asks, her face squished between her palms, eyes wide and sparkling like she’s watching the season finale of her favorite drama.
You stare at her.
She stares back, vibrating.
As if she wasn’t hating your boss 30 minutes ago.“Chelsea,” you say slowly, “I don’t even know what that was.”
“Oh my god, stop—did he pick you up?” She demands again, shaking your arm like she’s trying to rattle the answer out of you.
You sigh, drop your forehead onto the table, and mumble into the wood, “Yes.”
Chelsea gasps so violently you’re pretty sure she inhaled half the air in the café.
“There’s no way—”
“Not only that!” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “He would do it multiple times! My poor car would be stuck here at my job forever!” Chelsea doesn’t even try to hide her disgusted wince.
“Honestly… that thing has seen better days.”
“It still works just fine!” you snap, offended on behalf of your dented, aging, slightly rattling Honda civic. She raises a brow. “It screams when you turn left.”
“It groans,” you correct. “And only in winter.” Chelsea leans in, looking way too delighted while you picked yourself up from the table to sit up straighter. “And winter is here, with that next paycheck you should really get a new car.” You sigh, shoulders sinking because— annoyingly— she’s right.
But you can’t help it.
You’re attached to that stupid car. It was your first big purchase after high school, the thing you saved for through every miserable minimum-wage shift, every extra hour you picked up, every time you resisted food to stash a few more dollars away.
“It’s sentimental,” you mutter, poking at your empty drink. “I practically raised that car.”
Chelsea stares at you.
“It’s dying, babe.”
“It has character.”
“It has medical issues.” You glare.
“You’re rude.”
“I picked it up from the best,” she says, giving you a slow, pointed once-over before winking. “Don’t act shocked, you taught me to be quick with it.” Okay, maybe it was about time to get a new car.
“So… what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll buy a damn new car,” you grumble, dragging a hand down your face.
Chelsea snorts.
“No— I mean Damian.”
You freeze. Of course that’s what she meant. “What about him?” you ask, already regretting it. Chelsea lifts both brows like she’s about to deliver a divine revelation.
“Well, are you going to shoot your shot…?” You blink.
“What shot?” She just stares at you.
“Look, you’re not that dumb, but you can’t be THAT dumb.”
“There’s absolutely no way,” you insist, shaking your head.
Chelsea throws her hands up before pointing her pretty manicure finger at you. “Babes, you told me what he’s done. It sounded pretty obvious he didn’t like you at first— sure, but clearly there’s something now.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose.
“Chelsea—”
“No, don’t ‘Chelsea’ me. He’s clearly teasing you. He picks you up. He drops you off. He notices when you haven’t eaten. He scolds you for working late. That’s not normal boss behavior. That’s not even barely normal human behavior!”
You blink.
She leans closer, voice lowering conspiratorially.
“It’s playground logic,” she says. “Pulling pigtails to get the girl’s attention. That man is either in love with you… or putting a suspicious amount of effort into someone he claims is ‘just an employee.’”
You fold your arms, leaning toward her, unimpressed and curious all at once.
“Okay, if you’re right. What do you think I should do then?”
Chelsea’s grin spreads slow and wicked, like she’s been waiting for you to ask.
“Babe, I know I am right. What’s your dress-code policy lookin’ like?”
You narrow your eyes at her.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Oh, I will say it like that,” she fires back immediately, kicking her heel against your chair. “Because if your boss is driving you home, picking you up, buying you coffee, acting all nonchalant like a storm cloud with feelings—”
“He doesn’t have feelings.”
“—then,” she continues loudly, ignoring you, “it is time to… gently nudge the situation.”
You stare. “Gently nudge?”
She lifts her brows.
“Keep up, dummy.” She rolls her eyes. “Wear something that’s not what you’re wearing now.” She gives a pointed look at your cute button-up blouse and slacks. “You need to remind him you’re not just his sleep-deprived assistant who alphabetizes spreadsheets for a living, ya’know.”
You narrow your eyes at her theatrics, but she just lifts her chin smugly.
“A theory?” you echo, suspicious.
She nods, all-knowing, all-smug, infuriatingly Chelsea.
“Mm-hmm. A very important, scientifically proven theory.”
“What theory?”
“That if you dress even slightly hotter than usual,” she says, leaning in like she’s sharing a state secret, “your boss will start to make advancements.”
Your face heats. “He is not—”
“He is,” she interrupts, unfazed. “And I want updates. Detailed ones. Because when I’m right—”
“When,” you repeat flatly.
“When,” she confirms with a decisive nod, “I expect a thank-you gift. Preferably edible. Or expensive.”
You groan into your hands.
She pats your shoulder.
“Don’t worry. It’s just step one.”
“Step one?” you muffle.
“Oh absolutely,” she says, already pulling out her phone. “I’m making a checklist.”
“Okay,” she announces, displaying the screen of a small list. “Step one: act normal, but slightly hotter and slightly busier. Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”
“I’m literally his assistant. I can’t ‘act busy,’ I am busy.”
“Perfect,” she says brightly with a wide grin. “You’re already a natural!”
You drop your face back into your palms.
“Chelsea, this is a terrible idea.” She leans in until she’s a mere few inches away from your gaze, nose nearly touching your hands.
“But you’re going to do it anyway.”
Your silence betrays you.
Chelsea gasps scandalously.
Loudly. Dramatically. Offensively.
“Oh my god, you’re already thinking about what you’re going to wear!”
“I’m not—!”
“You are,” she sings, grabbing your wrist and shaking it like you’ve won a prize. “This is amazing. I love this for you. I love this for me!”
You yank your hand back, trying and failing to will down the heat in your cheeks.
“This is not a romance novel,” you mutter. “He’s my boss.”
“And he’s driving to your apartment at seven-thirty in the morning to pick you up from overworking,” Chelsea retorts. “Sweetheart, you already skipped half the tropes and went straight into the slow-burn danger zone.”
You stare at her, she’s grinning like she’s narrating your funeral. “Text me tomorrow,” she says, gathering her purse. “And remember: make his jaw drop!” She winks, watching your face twist into a frown.
“You’re welcome in advance.” And like the good friend you were… you listened to her.
The next morning, you woke earlier than usual, the soft glow of dawn just beginning to filter through your curtains. You began your daily routine that made you groan at the crack of dawn, except this time— you carefully sifted through your clothes, weighing options, second-guessing, and finally settling on the outfit that felt just right.
You stood in front of your mirror with your arms crossed, face scrunched up, judging your own reflection with the same intensity Damian reserved for quarterly reports.
After a full minute of squinting, stepping back, stepping forward again, and muttering to yourself like a deranged tailor, you finally picked an outfit that was technically within the dress code.
It wasn’t your usual safe, comfortable, neutral-choice outfit.
You wore an outfit with clean lines, sharp edges, the kind of put-together that didn’t just fit you, instead it looked like it had been waiting for you. The skirt hit exactly where it should, the stockings gave just enough edge to balance the professionalism, sexiness, and confidence without tipping into trying too hard.
Your skin had that annoying, unfair glow too— not the “I slept a full eight hours” kind, but the lived-in, effortless natural appearance. It kinda gave you that youthful look with a charming smile. It was professional but warm. It made you look like someone who knew exactly what they were doing with both their life and their wardrobe, even if you’d spent the last thirty minutes pacing and overthinking every choice.
You told yourself it had nothing to do with him.
You were lying to yourself and you knew it.
Especially this morning, when you found yourself running later than usual. You had spent too much time trying to look good, carefully applying a light layer of makeup and a nice lipstick color that felt almost weightless on your skin and blended perfectly. It wasn’t just about professionalism; it was about feeling confident in your own skin.
Then there was the traffic. Slow, frustrating, testing your patience at every turn. This was exactly why you usually came in early— to avoid moments like this.
Today is going to be different.
It already felt different.
You clutched your bag a little tighter as you walked through the halls, acutely aware of the way heads subtly turned your way. The usual hum of the office seemed to shift around you, as if your presence had suddenly carved out a new kind of attention— one you weren’t quite used to but didn’t entirely dislike.
A few compliments floated your way, especially from the friendly female coworkers you often chatted with, all emphasizing how great your outfit looked.
“You look amazing today! Who are you trying to impress?”You shook your head with a laugh that escaped.
“Date tonight? You’re glowing!”
“I’ve never seen you in a skirt before! You look good!” Clearly, you were doing something right.
Yet, beneath the surface, your mind was racing, waiting for Damian’s reaction. You told yourself to follow Chelsea’s advice— play it cool and don’t give him any obvious attention. That should be simple enough, right? But the anticipation buzzed quietly in your chest, making it hard to focus on anything else.
You made your way down the hallway toward your office, the soft morning light filtering through the windows and casting long shadows across the floor. Your heart fluttered just a bit faster with every step, the nerves mixing with the rush of the new day ahead. The usual hum of early activity filled the air. The quiet chatter, the clatter of keyboards waking up, and the faint hiss of the coffee machine from the break room.
“Alright, time to get to work,” you muttered under your breath, already mentally bracing yourself for the long day ahead.
Your fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the doorknob as you pushed the door open.
Only to freeze mid-motion when you spotted the figure inside.
Damian was there, leaning casually against the edge of the desk, a cup of coffee in one hand, his sharp eyes fixed on you with that familiar unreadable expression.
He didn’t bother to hide his surprise or disapproval as his gaze flicked to the clock on the wall behind him before snapping back to you.
“You’re late.”
The words hung in the air, low and deliberate, cutting through the quiet hum of the office as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.
His gaze briefly flickers to your outfit before meeting your eyes again.
You frowned, glancing at the time on your phone.
“I’m not even late, I just came in a bit later than usual.”
He lets out a quiet, almost amused sigh, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk.
“Later than usual still counts as late,” he mumbled, but there was a subtle shift in his voice. Less of a reprimand, more of a teasing edge that made it clear he wasn’t really mad.
“Are you going to fire me over it?” You raised a brow.
“…No, but do you have the documents I asked you to review before my next meeting?” His tone was calm, laced with that usual professionalism.
You nodded slowly, pressing your lips together as a familiar ache settled in your chest. There was disappointment, and something deeper that’s unspoken.
That quiet hope you’d been nursing quietly unraveled, leaving behind a sting of frustration that simmered just beneath the surface.
You fought the urge to let it show, burying the mix of longing and irritation behind a controlled expression as the silence stretched between you.
“Uh, yeah, it’s in the drawers in my desk, let me hand it to you.” You replied, moving around your desk and quietly pulled out the documents that’s given to him immediately.
Damian took the stack without looking away, his grip firm but not unkind. The faint rustle of the papers felt loud in the stillness between you. For a moment, you both stood there. He focused on the documents while you watched the subtle lines around his mouth soften just a fraction. It was small, almost invisible, but it made your chest tighten in a way you could not quite explain.
“I’ll review these now,” he comments, voice low and steady. “Make sure nothing is overlooked.”
You nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of the morning settle on your shoulders, relief and that quiet, stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, he noticed more than just the paperwork today.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, the door closing softly behind him.
Well, okay… fuck you too, I guess.
You slump into your chair, crossing your arms tightly while you lean back against your chair.
Why does he act like he doesn’t notice, yet does all these little things that say otherwise?
Like the way he always somehow knows your coffee order, or the way he holds the door without a word, takes you home and picks you up from your apartment to arrive at work together before anyone else,
You bite your lip, frustrated and confused. You want to ignore him, to stop caring so much, but it’s like he’s woven into the edges of your day whether you like it or not.
Maybe that’s the worst part.
“Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”
Chelsea’s voice rang out in your head.
Hmph. Okay.
If there’s one thing Damian knew, it was this.
You were filled with spite.
Spite that rivaled his own.
Damian walked into your office again, the quiet sound of his footsteps sharp enough that you knew it was him before you even looked.
Not that you did look.
He carried the documents he’d reviewed, the ones covered in his perfectly neat handwriting. Normally, you would have glanced up. Maybe rolled your eyes. Maybe muttered something under your breath. Anything.
But not today.
Today, your spite had a bit of purpose.
You kept your attention fixed on your monitor, staring at a screen full of the usual information. Your schedule. A few reports. His own schedule, and a spreadsheet you’d already finished hours ago. You weren’t even pretending to work well— just clicking occasionally, scrolling through nothing.
You didn’t look at him.
You didn’t greet him.
You didn’t acknowledge him.
“Just set them down,” you swat your hand in the air calmly, voice flat and professional. “I’ll look over them and send next week’s project to your email. And the financial reports.”
You didn’t turn.
You didn’t give him a single glance.
You just kept staring at the monitor like he was irrelevant.
You could feel him pause beside the desk, like he was expecting you to react.
You didn’t.
Good.
Let him feel it.
Let him choke on it.
You clicked your mouse once, the smallest little sound, but in the silence of your office it felt loud. Almost pointed.
He set the documents on your desk carefully, almost too carefully, as if waiting for you to turn your head.
You didn’t.
Your heart was pounding, but your face stayed neutral. Your posture stayed still. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen. The stubborn part of you reveled in the fact that Damian Wayne, of all people, was just… standing there, trying to figure you out.
“You will have them done by the end of the day?” he asked, his tone cool but edged with something else. Something you weren’t used to hearing from him.
Irritation?
Annoyance?
Confusion?
Good.
“Of course,” you said, still not looking at him. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”
You heard him inhale very quietly, the smallest break in his composure.
For the first time, you realized something.
He didn’t like being ignored.
Not by you.
You could feel him lingering in your peripheral vision, the way someone stands in a doorway when they aren’t done with a conversation. Except you weren’t giving him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. You clicked again, scrolling through a report you had already memorized.
You could almost picture his expression without looking.
Brows drawn just a touch.
Mouth pressed into a thin line.
That proud, composed, annoyingly perfect face trying to figure out what exactly you were doing.
Good.
Let him think.
You kept your posture straight and your breathing even, even though your heart thudded a little harder with every second he didn’t walk away. Normally, you would have caved by now— just a glance, just a look.
Something.
But Chelsea’s voice was louder.
Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.
He exhaled quietly. You could feel his patience wearing thin, like the air itself tightened.
“You usually provide updates when I walk in,” Damian said, tone smooth but laced with something sharper.
“Are you not doing that today?” You moved your mouse, opening another tab, to click into your email.
You did not even blink in his direction.
“My updates will be in your inbox once everything is finalized,” you said in the same neutral, pleasant tone used with distant coworkers. “You’ll have them before noon, Mr. Wayne.”
A beat of silence, he was absolutely staring at you.
You could feel it.
The weight of it warmed the side of your face, heavy and irritated and trying to cut through your indifference.
“You seem…” His voice paused for a split second, almost like he was choosing the word.
“Preoccupied.”
You nearly smirked.
Nearly.
Instead, you let out the smallest hum of acknowledgement and said, “Just focused on work.”Your silence after that was deliberate. It was something Damian had felt when you began working here, and now it was back.
It was clean and sharp enough to make something in him twitch. For a man who commanded rooms, who intimidated CEOs twice his age, who was used to precise attention at all times… Being dismissed by you hit differently.
You could practically feel it.
He shifted his weight.
You heard the faint rustle of his suit jacket as he straightened, something colder slipping into his composure.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “I will expect the email.” There it was— that clipped tone he only used when something actually annoyed him.
He walked toward the door.
The sound of his steps was sharper this time.
More pointed.
But right before he left, he hesitated.
Just for half a heartbeat.
As if waiting for you to turn.
You didn’t move.
The door opened.
Closed.
And you finally let yourself breathe, jaw tight with a mixture of triumph and nerves.
Okay.
So ignoring Damian Wayne actually worked.
And that little discovery warmed you with the most satisfying, petty spark of victory.
You really did have things to handle. Your inbox was already overflowing with messages from partner companies, potential investors, a few overeager rivals, and the usual crowd of people who suddenly decided they “urgently” needed a meeting with Damian Wayne. You sifted through each request, drafting replies, rerouting calls, flagging anything even remotely suspicious.
If nothing else, it kept your hands busy.
It kept your eyes on the monitor.
And most importantly, it kept your attention away from him.
Except.
You see Damian Wayne’s email sitting at the very top, stamped with a fresh timestamp that tells you he sent it less than a minute ago.
Of course he did.
The room feels a little too quiet all of a sudden. You hover your cursor over the subject line, debating with yourself like the fate of Gotham depends on whether or not you open a single email.
But your pulse betrays you anyway.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Subject: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report
Your amended notes are missing from page 14. Correct this and send the updated file before noon. You also forgot to attach the preliminary figures for the Q4 meeting. Re-send.
YOU
Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report
Mr. Wayne, I’ll have the updated file on your desk before noon. The missing attachment will be included.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report
Have them by my office an hour from now.
Your stomach drops. Your irritation flares. And something traitorous inside you sparks to life. And being the petty person you are, you did exactly what you were supposed to do.
You compiled the missing files, fixed the notes on page 14, double-checked the preliminary figures, then triple-checked them, because if you were going to be petty, you were at least going to be professionally petty. You formatted everything in the crisp, immaculate style you knew Damian preferred: every header perfectly styled, every section labeled, every graph aligned down to the pixel because God forbid you accidentally offend his sense of order.
Fine. He wanted flawless? You’d give him flawless.
With nothing else left to tweak, you stacked the pages, tapped the spine against your desk to neaten the edges, and slid the packet into a folder. A neat folder. A purposely nicer folder than the one he usually gave you.
You grabbed your things and stepped out of your office, heels clicking down the hall in a steady, determined rhythm. The Wayne Enterprises floor was quiet at this hour— most people had gone for lunch, leaving only the echo of distant printers and the hum of central air vibrating through the walls.
You rounded the corner toward Damian’s office, folder in hand, ready to slam it onto his desk with the polite professionalism of someone who absolutely was being petty and absolutely refused to acknowledge it.
But something shifted in the corner of your vision.
A familiar figure stepped out of the stairwell, head bowed over a tablet, moving with the kind of restless focus that suggested he hadn’t slept in three days.
Tim- ‘F’ucking- Drake.
Sometimes you ran into him in the café on the first floor, where he’d already be two coffees deep and debating whether a third was “necessary or just responsible.” Other times, you’d cross paths when Damian sent you to drop something off for him, because— according to Damian, seeing Tim’s face could “derail the productivity of an entire day.”
Dramatic much? Yes.
Always. Every single time.
Tim, on the other hand, never seemed bothered. If anything, he’d take the file with a blink, a grateful nod, and then immediately forget to breathe while reading it. One time you were pretty sure he walked into an elevator door while scrolling through an email.
IT also adored him.
Half the departments relied on him. He had an office here but never seemed to actually use it. And today, based on the speed he was walking straight toward Damian’s area, he was clearly on some kind of mission.
You slowed just slightly.
His gaze flicked to you, then paused, brow lifting in mild surprise.
“Oh— hey,” he said, offering a small, apologetic smile. His eyes dipped once, taking in your outfit, and he actually registered it. “You look really nice today, the skirt looks good.” He chuckles, which you replied with a coy smile.
“Thank you, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around, Tim!” You smiled brightly.
At least someone in this building had functioning eyeballs.
“Yeah, I’ve been busy lately.” He hums, “Damian around? I need to drop something off and—” he looks at the folder in your hands.
The universe practically handed you the moment on a silver platter. “Yeah, he’s in his office.” You replied, having a plan already forming within your head. “I’ve actually got some documents for him.”
Tim nodded, stepping closer. “Want me to take them? I’m going straight there and you’re his personal assistant, right? You probably have better things to do than babysitting that kid.”
You laughed, “you don’t say?”
He chuckled under his breath, the tired kind that said he understood exactly what you had to deal with. You didn’t hesitate to give him the folder.
Not even half a second.
You placed the folder into his hands with a soft, grateful smile, one that hid the mild, sparkling pettiness coiling in your chest.
“Thank you, Tim.” He accepted it with the solemn responsibility of someone who absolutely did not realize the chaos he was about to deliver.
“Of course, anytime!”
And somewhere, in his office, Damian Wayne was probably waiting, expecting your knock, anticipating your appearance, ready to critique your delivery or your timing or your skirt or your existence—
Only for his brother to walk in instead.
You remembered turning back to your office, going back to your daily tasks and answering a phone call.
“Wayne Enterprises, this is the office of Mr. Damian Wayne. How can I help you?” The caller launched into a pitch about a potential collaboration, some sleek new product they believed could be mutually beneficial. You took notes, asked the right questions, nodded along even though they couldn’t see you.
By the time you hung up, your head was already drifting back toward your inbox, another email from a vendor, a reminder for next week’s meeting, and three new calendar changes—
A soft knock hit your door.
It wasn’t Damian’s solid, impatient rhythm.
It wasn’t security.
You looked up just as Tim Drake slipped inside, easing the door shut behind him like he was afraid of startling you, or maybe afraid of being seen. He moved with that deliberate quietness he always had, but this time something in his posture was different. His shoulders were too tight.
His mouth twitched like he was holding back commentary.
His expression said he had something to say and definitely something you would want to hear. “Hey,” he greeted, stepping in a little further. His voice carried a strange mixture of sympathy and amusement, as if he had walked straight into a soap opera and was still processing the plot twist.
“So… I delivered your files.” You raised an eyebrow, leaning back ever so slightly in your chair.
“Yeah? And?” Tim inhaled sharply, the way someone does before delivering bad news wrapped in entertainment, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Then he started laughing.
Not loudly, it was just that soft, incredulous laugh of someone who’d just witnessed pure, distilled bullshit and needed a moment.
“He was not amused,” Tim said finally.
You blinked. “Define not amused.”
“Oh, you know.” He waved a hand in the air. “Classic Damian. He gave me the look.”
“The… look?”
“He was both offended and confused.” You felt heat prick the back of your neck.
“Well,” you said, turning back to your computer as if you were totally unfazed, “maybe he should’ve specified how he wanted the files delivered.”
Tim leaned against the wall, studying you with that annoying detective perceptiveness he was born with.“No wonder why you’ve given me your files, for someone trying very hard not to care,” he said, rocking back and forth at the heel of his dress shoes.
“You are enjoying this a little too much.” You scoffed at Tim. “I’m not enjoying anything. I’m working.” He snorted at your response. “Sure. And I didn’t watch Damian stare at that folder like it personally betrayed him.” Your heart thudded but you kept your expression flat.
Tim shook his head, still amused.
“Whatever’s going on between you two… I don’t want to know,” he said with a little grimace. “But I do feel obligated to tell you that he told me— very coldly, very dramatically— to ‘inform his assistant she is expected to deliver important documents directly.’”
“Oh, he said that?”
“Word for word.” You let out a slow breath, releasing a very slow, very smug breath.
“Huh,” you murmured, eyes returning to your screen.
“Sounds like a him problem.”
Tim chuckled under his breath as he pushed off the wall.“For a personal assistant I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long, you’re driving him insane,” he laughs, heading for the door while you didn’t bother to look up, but you smiled when the door shuts.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Subject: Incompetence
You forwarded the documents through Timothy. Why? If you are capable of delivering them yourself, then do so. If you are not, inform me so I can make the appropriate adjustments to your workflow.
Confirm you received this.
You stared at the screen for a moment, feeling your pulse flicker between irritation and… something far less dignified. The man had the emotional intelligence of a cinder block, yet here he was, typing sentences that made you feel like you were being called into the principal’s office and dragged behind the bleachers at the same time.
Chelsea would call it a toxic cocktail.
You called it Tuesday.
Your fingers hovered above the keyboard before you slowly began to type your response.
YOU
Re: Incompetence
Received. Sent the files through Timothy because he was already going to your office. It was efficient for the both of us. Let me know if you have any other concerns regarding the workflow.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Re: Incompetence
Your definition of efficiency is questionable. Next time, deliver the documents yourself. I expect accuracy and consistency, not shortcuts. Report to my office in ten minutes. We need to review the adjustments together.
YOU
Re: Incompetence
You have a meeting in ten minutes. I’m busy, my schedule is booked out the entire week.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Subject: That Was Not a Request
You will make time. You have 5 minutes to get here.
The cursor blinked at the bottom of the screen, taunting you. Five minutes. Not ten. Not politely asking. A downgrade. A summons. You could practically hear the clipped irritation in every word.“Unbelievable,” you muttered, grabbing your tablet. “Now he wants to act like I’m late twice in one morning.”
You stood, smoothing down your skirt, steadying your breath, choosing professionalism over the urge to slam your forehead into the desk repeatedly.“Fine,” you said to the empty room. “If he wants a meeting, he’s going to get the most unbothered, least impressed version of me alive.”
And with that, you stepped out of your office, spine straight, chin high, fully prepared to make Damian Wayne question every life choice that led him to ordering you around in five-minute intervals. You walked down the hall with purpose, your heels clicking firmly against the polished floor, each step echoing your determination. The usual flutter of nerves twisted in your chest, but you shoved it aside.
Damian wanted your attention? He was going to get it on your terms.
As you approached his office, the door stood slightly ajar, the faint aroma of leather and coffee drifting out. You paused for a brief second, smoothing your blouse, making sure you looked every bit the professional, confident, composed, and untouchable. You stepped inside without knocking. Damian looked up from the sleek glass desk, his sharp eyes briefly scanning you before narrowing ever so slightly, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Five minutes,” he said, voice low but steady. No anger, no impatience, just that razor-sharp control you both knew too well. You nodded once, crossing your arms. “I’m here. What’s the emergency?”
His gaze flickered to the screen, then back to you. “Your revisions on the Q4 projection report. There are discrepancies in the sales figures for three key markets.” You raised a brow, already prepared with a mental list of where things might have gone sideways. “I triple-checked those. Unless you want to explain what you found, I don’t see the problem.”
Damian smirked, the faintest lift of his lips betraying his amusement. “I’m not here to argue. I’m here to make sure you’re not missing something.”
Something about the way he said it. It was calm, controlled, but not dismissive. It softened the edge of your frustration. You almost wanted to remind yourself to stop overthinking it.
Almost.
Instead, you pulled up the file on your tablet, ready to dive back into the numbers, ignoring the quiet thrum of something unspoken hanging between you. You tapped through the pages, fingers steady despite the fluttering in your chest. Damian watched you closely, leaning back in his chair with that same unreadable expression, as if waiting to catch you slipping.
“Here,” you said, pointing to the figures that didn’t line up. “This market’s revenue was recorded late, which threw off the totals. I flagged it in the notes, but it looks like your version missed that.”
He leaned forward, scanning your screen carefully.
“I see. Good catch.” The brief praise caught you off guard. He can compliment your work but not your fucking outfit—
“Is that it?” You said in the most infuriating tone ever, a leak of poison lying underneath it.
Damian quirked a brow.
“Is there something else you want to say?”
Oh, this infuriating man.
“No, sir,” you say firmly, trying to keep your irritation in check. Without a word, Damian rises and crosses the room with purposeful strides. He stops just in front of you, leaning casually against his desk with his arms folded, his eyes locked on yours.
“No, really,” he insists, voice low but laced with that unmistakable challenge. “Say it. I’m waiting.” You glare up at him, the frustration bubbling just beneath your skin.
You think back to all the little things he’s done. All those moments you tried to dismiss as nothing more than duty or habit, yet they added up— small cracks in the fortress he built around himself.
Say it? Say what? How maddening he is? How crazy does he makes you feel?
How every little thing he’s done, every unexpected coffee, every silent check-in, every begrudging act of care has tangled up your thoughts and emotions into a frustrating knot you can’t quite unravel. You want to blow up at him for making you feel like you’re under a microscope one moment, and the next, like you’re the only person who matters in his whole damn world.
You want to shout at him for how his sharp gaze can cut through your defenses, leaving you exposed and scrambling to catch your breath, yet somehow, it also holds a softness that drives you crazy because it’s so rare, so fleeting. You want to scream at him for the way he invades your thoughts when you least expect it, like the memory of a red scarf he wrapped around your neck, so unexpectedly gentle it made your skin burn with warmth, or the mysterious lunches that somehow felt like silent apologies or unspoken promises.
You want to tell him how unfair it is that he can act so cold and detached while making your heart race like you’re the most important person in the room. How annoying it is that despite every sharp word, every sarcastic barb, you find yourself wanting him to notice, to care, to see beyond the suit and the stoic facade.
“It’s—”
But most of all, you want to tell him that he’s become this impossible puzzle you can’t stop trying to solve, even if it’s driving you mad.
“Say it.”
And you’re absolutely sick of it.
You are sick of the way he pushes, prodding at you like a stubborn wound that won’t heal. The tension is thick in the air, every word a battle you don’t want to fight but somehow can’t avoid.
“You are—” you start, voice tight with frustration. He cuts you off with a slow, deliberate sigh that feels like it’s dragging the weight of the entire world. “Say it, right now.” He demands, eyes sharp and unblinking, daring you to defy him.
Fine.
You grit your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady, though it trembles with the effort it takes to keep everything inside from spilling out.
“I am trying to best to say it! Mr. Wayne, please, you’re so—” He raises a hand, silencing you without a word.
“No, that’s wrong, I’m not going to listen if you don’t say it.”
Say what?!?!! You’re absolutely done with Damian Wayne, the way he gets under your skin.
“Mr. Wa—”
“Wrong.”
Done with his cold, infuriating way of twisting your feelings into knots, like some cruel game only he knew the rules to.
“Fucking— eat shit, Damian!”
The words ripped out of your mouth, raw and unapologetic, carrying every ounce of frustration and anger you had held inside for far too long. They lingered between you, heavy and electric, like a spark igniting a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface. It was a release, a challenge, and maybe the first honest thing you had said aloud in weeks.
You whipped around, determined to leave before your emotions could spiral into something even more reckless. Your chest felt tight, burning with a mixture of disappointment and hurt that you hadn’t allowed yourself to fully acknowledge. But before you could put space between you, his hand shot out and closed firmly around your wrist.
He pulled you back with quiet, steady strength. It was enough to stop you but never enough to cause pain. Slowly, deliberately, he turned you to face him.
His grip was warm and unyielding, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle. Usually, his gaze was sharp and distant, but now it was something different—focused, unreadable, and strangely alive. The cold, controlled expression you expected softened just enough to reveal a small, almost smug smirk. It was the kind of smirk that said he was both amused and pleased by your outburst.
“Took you long enough to say my name,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with something like satisfaction, as if your words were exactly what he’d been waiting for all along.
Your breath caught. Excuse me?
“You wanted me to say your name?” you snap, incredulous, heat rising under your skin. “That’s what this was about?” You try to yank your hand back, fueled by a spark of irritation beneath the haze of desire, but he doesn’t let go.
His grip tightens just enough to stop you, not enough to trap you, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in slow, steady circles that make your anger stutter. “Don’t twist my words,” he says, gaze steady, unflinching. “But yes.” His voice softens, becomes something quieter, more dangerous. “Hearing you say my name like that…” His eyes hold yours, burning.
“I’ve wanted that for a long time.” Your heart skips, the fight in you wavering. “You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, torn between shoving him away and pulling him back in.
“You unravel me,” he cuts the tension, his fingers ghosting over your clenched hand, gentle but insistent. His touch was slow, like he was afraid to break something fragile, yet impossible to pull away from. Carefully, he eased your fingers open, one by one, before weaving his own through yours. His grip was quiet but absolute, as if claiming you wordlessly, without need for permission.
“Every time I told you to drop the titles, to leave the distance between us, you never did.” His voice was softer now, threading through the space between you like a secret. “You didn’t even realize… how long I’ve been waiting for this. Want you.”
You tried to pull away, heart suddenly thundering in your chest, mind spinning too fast to catch a single thought. But his hand stayed firm around yours, steady and warm, holding you not to restrain you, but to keep you from slipping out of the moment.
“Wait,” he breathed, and the word washed over you like a shiver. His grip wasn’t demanding, just certain. Certain in a way that made your pulse jump.
“Do you know you make me insane?” The words left him low, almost ragged, like he’d been holding them back for far too long. His gaze pinned you in place, sharp enough to cut through every layer you tried to hide behind. And the way he stood so close, his cologne wrapping around you in a rich, intoxicating warmth, made it impossible to pretend you weren’t affected.
You glared at him, a rush of heat blooming in your chest, a mixture of anger and something more tangled.
“Well, good,” you snapped, voice trembling despite yourself. “Maybe now you understand how it feels.”He didn’t let go. “No,” he murmured, low and rough, “I know exactly how it feels.” His eyes darkened, shadowed with something deeper than frustration or desire— something raw and aching.
“You walk into a room, and everything shifts. The air tightens around me, like a storm rolling in, and I can’t catch my breath.” He exhaled softly, as if confessing a truth too dangerous to hold inside any longer. “You wear your confidence like a second skin, like it’s as natural as breathing.” His gaze dropped for a moment down to your lips, then snapped back, sharp and consuming.
“And you think… you think I don’t notice?”
You face in a different direction, overwhelmed by the intensity burning in his gaze. But he leaned closer— just enough so that his breath warmed your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. “You think I don’t notice the way your skirts sway when you walk, just enough to unbalance me. The stockings that catch the light, like they were made to break me. The way you move, commanding every eye without even trying.” His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along your knuckles— tender and sure.
“You undo me.” he whispered, voice thick with something almost vulnerable. You tried again to pull your hand free, desperation flickering in your movements, but his fingers tightened around yours, firm, steady, and grounding. “With every step you take, every glance you try to hide, and every breath you draw like it’s meant for someone else. You think you slip by unnoticed—” He swallowed hard, eyes locking with yours, raw and unguarded.
“But you don’t.” His voice was a breath, a confession hanging in the space between you.
“You make a liar of everything I thought I knew about myself.”
You stand there, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it, breath catching and unsteady. The room feels impossibly small now, like the space between you has been carved down to this one fragile moment.
His eyes flicker down, tracing the curve of your lips, hesitant but drawn.
The air thickens between you.
“Would you allow me to kiss you?” he breathes, barely more than a question, but charged with everything he’s held back until now.
Your eyes flicker downward for a brief moment, then back up, meeting him again.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you give the faintest nod, a silent surrender that speaks volumes.
His fingers tighten around yours with a gentle yet possessive grip, grounding you. With his other hand, he reaches up, fingers brushing along your cheek before cradling your jaw with careful reverence, thumb tracing small circles that send a shiver through you. The warmth of his touch contrasts with the cool air around you, anchoring you to the moment.
Then, with deliberate, breathtaking slowness, he leans in. His lips hover just over yours for a heartbeat longer. It was soft, tentative, and reverent— before they finally meet yours in a brush of warmth and promise. The kiss is gentle but shattering, breaking down every wall you built, every doubt you held, leaving only the raw, undeniable truth between you both.
Then, his hand tightens on your jaw, tilting your face just so, as if commanding you to surrender, to feel everything he’s held inside. The intensity builds gradually, like a rising tide, each breath mingling, each movement deliberate and fierce.
Your heart hammers, your breath hitches, and his touch sends a shiver that steals what little air you have left. It’s a kiss that is deep, urgent, impossible to ignore, like he’s pouring every ounce of longing, frustration, and desire into this one perfect moment.
“Damian—” you gasp, barely able to get the word out as your breath catches in your throat. You try to pull away, desperate for air, but he’s faster, more urgent.
His hand slips from your fingers and moves with a firm, confident grip to your waist. Before you can steady yourself, he shifts you effortlessly, pressing you back against the desk that a few pens slip from his desk, laying on important papers that Damian didn’t care about at this moment. The sudden motion makes your knees wobble, a rush of dizziness swirling through you, but there’s no room for doubt or hesitation in this moment— only the overwhelming euphoria of his lips claiming yours again.
Your back arches slightly against the cool surface of the desk, every nerve igniting with electricity. Each breath is stolen and returned, shared between you as his kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more intense. The world tilts and spins around you, overwhelmed by the raw heat of his touch.
His hands move with purpose, sliding up from your waist to hold you closer, anchoring you as if you might float away. Your fingers tangle in the soft strands of his hair, pulling him nearer, matching the hunger in his kiss.
You don’t remember the exact moment the kiss ended, only that when it did, you were left utterly breathless.
Your chest heaved, every inhale shallow and desperate, and you were certain you looked wild, your lips flushed and trembling from the way he kept chasing for them.
But Damian— he looked even more undone.
Damian looked worse off than you. His usual composed mask was shattered, replaced by a raw, almost vulnerable expression. His dark eyes were half-lidded, glazed with an unspoken hunger and something softer, maybe wonder, and maybe relief. His breathing was heavy, each breath a sharp intake that seemed to shake his entire frame.
Your lipstick was smeared across his mouth, a vivid stain that made his usual cold demeanor melt away. A few strands of his hair hung over his forehead, disheveled and rebellious, like the moment had stolen every last piece of control from him.
His fingers traced a slow line down your arm, thumb brushing lightly.
“I was beginning to think your spite would never stop pretending you didn’t want this.”
You met his gaze, fierce and honest.
“Maybe I was just waiting for you to admit it first, Mr. Wayne.”
Your tone was teasing, light, deliberately provoking. And it worked. His brows pulled together immediately, a sharp, irritated frown that would’ve been funny if your heart wasn’t pounding.
“Do not say that.”
The words weren’t raised, but they carried heat.
They carried want.
“Then what do you prefer?”
You tilted your head, pretending innocence, even though you both knew exactly what you were doing.
His glare deepened, steady and pointed, the kind meant to pin you in place. Not angry— not even close. Just frustrated that you were still playing when he was already past pretending.
He held your gaze for a long, heavy moment, eyes dark with meaning.
And in that silence, it was so clear:
He wanted to hear his name from your mouth.
Not the title.
Not the formality.
Him.
Only him.
He leaned in again, voice just above a whisper.
“You know patience was never my strong suit.”
“I know,” you mumbled, your thumb smudging the lipstick smear a little further with a small smile.
“You look good in this color, Damian.”
His eyes flickered over your face, lingering on your mouth, then dropping briefly to your hand still resting against his jaw.
Your name left his lips like a warning and a plea all at once.
“Do not say things like that unless you intend to finish what you started.”
━━━━┅━━━┅━━━━━━━┅━━━┅━━━
a/n: how we feel about this banger, my phone could barely handle 18k words ngl 🥹 but this was so fun to make, it was genuinely 4-5 days straight writing this out because I had so much ideas ! And miniskirt was the inspiration to write it out! And the BANTER?? I just knew I wanted A LOT OF BANTER in this oneshot, you guys have to let me know your favorite part, because I LOVE LOVEEEE the part/line when they started going back and forth with lies about each other at the company party!!!
New-ish Benoni art, I keep forgetting to post here😭I also forgot her rosary so just imagine the firewood is tied together with one until I can get around to finishing it
The therapist child, the obedient daughter, the silent sister.
You are elite, a Gothamite, a perfect public figure. But depression is as real for you as neglect, your showers sting and you don't breathe like normal people. And when you're a Wayne you have to get your act together.
But when your family only uses you as the pillow to cry into or the bag to punch, your finely bound rope begins to break, and you know that when your darkness consumes you, you won't be able to forgive as easily as before.
"I'm the one whose pushing it down and praying. Praying that you would see me! Praying that you would acknowledge me as you daughter! Your sister! I pray that you love me as much as you love each other!"
"But we do love you! Can't you see that?!"
"You love the idea of me. You love that whenever you need to vent I will always be there for you. But I'm done. Done with this family, done with this life and done with you Bruce!"
ACT I : I WANTED TO BE INKED IN, I'LL SETTLE FOR BEING IN WRITTEN IN CHALK
Chapter 1: You left me there cryin', wonderin' what I did wrong
Chapter 2: Always the fool with the slowest heart.
Chapter 3: A pretty line that I adore
Chapter 4: Didn't Realize I Was Hurting You
Chapter 5: Forgive My Northern Attitude, I was Raised Out in the Cold
FILES FROM THE [REDACTED]
Chapter 6: Let the Sun Fade Out and Another One Rise
Chapter 7: Treat You Better
Chapter 8: You Were Thinking Its A Small Thing
Chapter 9: For A Minute, The World Seems So Simple
Chapter 10: : I Don’t Know What To Say Or Do
ACT II: TAKE MY BONES, I DON'T NEED NONE
Chapter 11: Capital Loss
Chapter 12: Do You Think You're Ready
Chapter 13: You lied
Chapter 14: Men Up On The News
Chapter 15: I Fucking Wonder Why
Chapter 16: I Got Toxins in My Bloodstream (Coming Soon)
In which: Bruce Waynes daughter, Y/N Wayne is a full time party girl. Club hopper, party animal, hedonist. Whatever you want to call it. To full the void her father left, she turns to nightclubs, dingy bars and basement raves.
Chapter eleven. If I get high.
Fic masterlist!
cw: Reader is in hospital, breathing machines/masks, medical talk, inaccurate medical information (i tried but im not a doctor), mentions of addiction, mentions of underage drinking, Reader has bad mental health, reader undergoes a mental health evaluation- suicidal talk, depressive thoughts, reader is not well mentally, mentions of trauma. - I DO NOT CONDONE OR SUPPORT ANY UNDERAGE DRINKING OR SMOKING, stay safe stay in school
Jason runs his hand through his hair with a long face. He grits his teeth and sucks a mouthful of air through the cage in his mouth. “Alright, sit down. It’s a long story.”
No one dares to break the silence. Not yet. If they left it unbroken, they could pretend they hadn’t heard what you just said. Everyone could live in la la land, where nothing went wrong and no one ever had to confront anything that made them uncomfortable.
You look from the left of the room to the right and take in the strange picture. From your left, Damian perches on the edge of a blue plastic chair, Dick hovers behind him, Alfred by his side, and finally Bruce, who looks like he’s just seen a ghost.
His grip is tight, as if you might float away, and that feels stupid because you’ve never felt so heavy. Every bone in your body is an anchor tethering you to the bed. Even though it hurts a little, you don’t want him to let go. He hasn’t held you like this before, like you meant something.
You think about saying something smart like ‘well I’m already sat down’ or, ‘it’s not like i can go anywhere else’ but your throat is too sore. It’s a strange feeling, not scratchy like a cough, more like graze. It feels like a scrapped knee. Inside you.
Tim’s eyes dart from Jason, to you, to Bruce. He’s searching for something. You know his tells. The same way he knows yours. Sometimes better than you do. Does Tim know this guy too?
Dick shatters the silence.
“This is Jason-”
“She knows his name.” Damian is the second to break it. His posture is similar to a cat moments before jumping off a ledge. Poised but hesitant. “She just said it, Grayson.” He’s never defended you like this before, if that's what you could call this.
“Both of you shut up.” Jason groans. He exhales, his shoulders tightening up, and then he begins. “I’m Jason.” He says it like it’s supposed to mean something. When you don’t get the hint, he continues. “Todd.” It rings a bell but it doesn’t connect any dots yet. Trying to remember anything feels like flying a kite. You’ll get a running start, and it’ll take off, but then the wind disappears and the kite falls.
All eyes are on you. Again. This whole thing starts to feel like a monkey's paw. You used to be afraid of that story when you read it in the Manor’s library. It went something like this- A married couple are gifted a mummified monkey’s paw. They are told that each finger of the Monkey’s paw can grant a wish, but it will have disastrous consequences. The husband wishes for money. The next day, his son dies at work, but he gets bereavement pay from his son’s employer.
When you think about the story, you remember the tiny note written at the bottom of the first blank page. Property of Jason Todd. Return if found. No. That doesn’t make any sense.
“What?” That's all you can say. You don’t have time to think of a smarter question.
“Just listen to him.” Tim urges with a tone that borders on patronising.
“I used to- shit this is hard to explain. Okay. My name is Jason. When I was a kid I lived ‘round Crime alley. Bruce took me in. But I… I ran away, and didn’t come home. But I’m back now.”
Even under the influence of the medicine, you can smell that bullshit from a mile away. “But you died. Right?” You turn to Alfred in hopes he would back you up, but instead he just gives Bruce a look, a silent message, and says nothing.
“Jason died. You told me he died. And that doesn’t-” You cut yourself off with a violent cough, one that rattles through you like sharp wind in tunnel. It reverberates loudly thanks to the oxygen mask on your face, making it sound worse than it was. Everyone lurches at once. Like that would do anything. You want to swat them away, but a tiny part of you tells you that if you push them away now, they’ll never come back. You wanted this right?
You rip the mask off your face and let it dangle around your neck. The first hit of fresh air is magical. Not perfectly fresh, it tastes stale, but it’s a welcome change.
“That doesn’t explain Damian.” you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand when your coughing fit stops. You feel gross. This isn’t the first time you’ve woken up and felt disgusting. Some days you wake up with smeared makeup and new bruises. Sometimes it's in someone else’s bed. But there’s always a cloud of shame. Over time it’s become something akin to a friend in the sense that it’s familiar, and you know it will always be there.
“Why did you tell me he died?” This time your eyes are on Bruce. Something shifts behind his eyes. Not pity or disappointment. Something else you can’t point. “At the time, we thought he did.” He moves his hand from your shoulder and adjusts the neck of the hospital gown. When you took it off, the cord of the oxygen mask had caught on the edge of the neckline.
He noticed. His movements are slow and tactile, painfully comforting. You could’ve had this before. There could’ve been a world where he held you with that same gentleness, but you weren’t in that world.
“We didn’t know how to explain it to you.” He concludes. “I thought that, given your past, you’d find it overwhelming.” You want to cry. Or scream. Or hit someone, maybe even yourself. Why does everyone treat you like you’re stupid?
“How does Damian know him then? Didn’t you think he’d find it ‘overwhelming’?”
Damian’s posture straightens like he was anticipating a move. “I asked.” He says simply.
“Oh so it’s my fault for not knowing? Sorry, let me understand this- I was supposed to go up to Bruce and ask ‘hey is Jason still dead or did he crawl out of the grave and come home?’ Is that what you’re telling me?” The room goes uncomfortably quiet.
Oh no. No no no. It’s going to happen. They’re going to leave you. You pissed them off. That’s why they’ve shut up. The Monkey’s paw. Behind you, the heart monitor starts to escalate. Your chest feels breathless. But you can’t move.
Alfred clears his throat. He breaks from the crowd around you and ushers Bruce out of his spot without a word. Bruce complies. When Alfred sits, he picks the mask you tore off and holds it to you. Not an order. But you both know it’s not a question. Your fingers shake when you try and put it back on so he has to help.
“I think it would be best if everyone gave you some space. For a minute”
The men, and Damian, take the hint. One by one, they slowly filter out. Dick offers a small smile before he goes. Damian straightens out your blanket but doesn’t look at you. Tim delivers an awkward side hug, careful not to touch the equipment around you. Jason does a slight nod, the kind you give a stranger when you hold the door open for them. Bruce is the last to go. He squeezes your hand and stands up. Hesitates. Then his hand holds the side of your face and he plants the smallest kiss on the top of your head.
You freeze. This has never happened before. Not with him. Ever. Burning tears start to bloom in the corners of your eyes. He leaves before they grow.
Alfred starts to stand but your hand darts out and holds onto his sleeve. “Don’t go.” He sits back down and gives Bruce a nod. Then the door closes.
“Good save.” Dick’s sarcasm is laced with anxiety. No one could’ve planned what just happened. Unfortunately for you, you live with detectives who live double lives 24/7. They created that story on the spot. This wasn’t the first time they’d run with a fake story. Undercover work wasn’t anything new, but this was different. “Ran away? Really Jason?”
“What else was I supposed to say?” Jason chides. He tries not to let his face show it, but he’s scrambling. He’d only ever seen you under the influence, so he hadn’t expected you to be so sharp when sober. This was the first time he’s seen you string together coherent sentences without slurring or stammering.
A lot of things were clicking into place. You had told him about your brothers, now he could put a face, or faces, to the names. The Oolder brother who doesn’t really like you’ was Dick. He pins Tim as the ‘Only nice one’, and all signs for ‘The one who is embarrassed of you’ point to Damian. You never named them, he reasoned you didn’t want to give all your personal life to the big bad Red Hood. Maybe if he pressed you would’ve spilled, but then what good would that have done?
“You think she’d be completely fine with the pit? That wouldn’t raise any questions at all.” He mirrors Dick’s sarcasm but the nervous edge Dick flavoured it with is gone, instead Jason peppers his bite with venom.
Bruce clears his throat and all eyes go to him. Jason feels his shoulders rising, squaring up against a potential threat from Bruce. Like a junkyard dog moments before being thrown into a fighting ring. Bite or get bit. Though they were mostly cordial now, not like how it used to be, there was always a part of him that told him he had to always be ready for anything. To get ready to kick and bite. Sometimes that part felt so big that he wondered if it was a part of him, or if this was him.
“We’re going with Jason’s story.” He decides. And then it’s law. “Jason left, and now he’s back.” It isn’t a perfect story, but he thinks it will pacify you for now.
He did love you, he does love you even, but in a broken way. When hasn’t Bruce loved someone in a broken way? Instead of holding you and telling you every day that you were enough, he left you to your own devices. He wants to lie and say it was out of nobility, that he believed it was the most ethical choice, but it wasn’t. Every time he smelt the alcohol on your breath, or saw the bruises on your legs and arms, when he caught your eye and saw how spaced out your pupils were, it reminded him of everything he was.
Self destruction. Trying to escape yourself. Filling an endless void with material goods, with drinks and drugs, just for the hole to deepen. Being surrounded by people but feeling like you're alone in a lifeboat in a cold and uncaring sea. The eyes that dissect your every move. Chasing pleasure from people you won’t remember thinking that’ll change something, and when it doesn’t, you just find someone else and try again.
You were both in that lifeboat. In the vast unfeeling ocean, and you were clinging to him, begging him to pull you up. There’s a boat in the distance, a ship, salvation. He flags it over. When the boat comes, he climbs the rope ladder. You reach to be pulled up. If he takes your hand, you could lose your balance and fall in. So he leaves you. From the deck, he looks down on your lifeboat. You’re alone. If he lowers the rope back down, it means he’ll have to get back into the boat. He leaves the ladder dangling from the side, an open invitation to a party, but there is no one to escort you there.
Every time he took someone under his wing, they broke. But, at least they could break together. He left you to fall apart all by yourself. If you were going to drown in that sea, he should’ve held your hand and sunken with you.
But you were sinking. Every night you were drowning yourself in a bottle. You had called for help, leaving your proverbial SOS in the sky. Leaving empty bottles in plain sight. Cigarette butts on your windowsill. Eating breakfast in front of him with dark eyebags.
You were shot in front of him.
Even though you cried and begged not to die, he knew that look. Relief. Maybe your conscious brain couldn’t register it, but he’s certain that subconsciously you knew you’d die if you ran down that alley.
He’ll drop the ship’s anchor. He’ll climb down the rope ladder and pull you up, out of that darkness. He’ll pull you onto the ship’s deck and hoist the ladder back up, so you’ll never go down again. The storm will calm, and the waters will still.
Bruce exhales, freeing himself from the image. Today, it will change.
Alfred keeps fretting with the cord of the mask, adjusting it over and over again so it fits snugly without digging into your skin. You want to enjoy the attention, but you can’t focus on anything. Since you woke up, there’s been this… itch. If you can call it that. Like fingernails scratching at your chest from the inside. Everytime you think about the alley, it comes back. When you think about anything but the present, the scratching starts. You’ve felt anxiety before, you’ve had a handful of acid induced panic attacks before, but this feels so much worse. Like the breath in your lungs is slowly being siphoned off by invisible claws.
Neither of you speak, just enjoying the silence. Well, you aren’t enjoying it, but it’s easier than talking. Everything takes effort, breathing, blinking, thinking. You wonder if you’ve actually woken up, or if you’re still dreaming.
“You know you’re lucky, don’t you?” Alfred cracks the silence. There’s a tone in his voice. It makes you want to cry immediately. Normally you’re better at hiding that. But when doing literally anything takes effort, it’s easier for the dam to burst. The tears roll down and trickle around the mask, not breaking the seal. Alfred looks taken aback, instead of continuing his lecture, he just thumbs away the tears.
The anger you felt at your family, for hiding such a big lie, is still hot, but not like fire, like boiling water. It bubbles and rages inside you, but it isn’t quick hot anger, it's a slow, wet kind. The kind that makes you upset for feeling angry. Like a child regretting their temper tantrum after they’ve been put in timeout.
You lift your head when the door opens again, thinking it’ll be the gaggle of men and boys, but instead a single doctor comes in. His clipboard is snug against his chest and he walks like he’s being watched. That’s when you see a shorter doctor behind him, she carries herself with grace and controlled confidence.
They greet you but it feels stiff. Something’s wrong. The scratching gets worse. “Good morning Miss Wayne.” the taller one greets, his voice a little shaky. He looks like he’s five minutes from imploding under stress. “How’re you feeling?”
It takes you a moment to find the words. “Fine. My throat hurts.” You’ve never liked going to the doctors. “My stomach hurts too. But I mean I was shot, so.” Trying to find the humour in the situation backfires because Alfred tuts. That signature, ‘you’re better than this’ tut.
“Considering..?” Alfred pries.
The doctor seems to find it funny at least. The taller one gives a small smile and checks the clipboard again before looking back up to meet your eyes. “Well your charts look… surprisingly good. Considering everything else.”
“Her, uh, condition on intake. Although we can’t trust these charts 100%, there could still be some floating in her system. But all things considered, you’re looking well. But uh, we’ve- uh”’
“I’ll say it.” The short one pipes up, clearly irritated by his stuttering. She takes the board from it and clasps her hands together in front of her. “Miss Wayne, we want to keep you under observation for another seventy-two hours after you’ve healed from your surgery."
“What? You said I was fine-” Alfred takes your hand in his, a silent grounder. The scratching ramps up. “I’m not sick, I didn’t break anything. You already did surgery on me, right? Look, I just want to go home.”
“This isn’t about the surgery.” Her voice is clipped but there’s a softer ring to it. She’s exercising restraint. “We’re concerned about your substance intake. If you drink, or take recreational substances while on the medication we’ve prescribed for you, I’m not going to beat around the bush, it could turn lethal. Do you understand that? If you continue to abuse your body, you’ll die. We want to keep you under observation to make sure you put yourself in danger.”
Humiliation burns through your core. This is rock bottom. You feel like you’re back in school, getting told off for not doing your homework in front of the whole class. You wish you didn’t ask Alfred to stay. Having him hear this makes everything feel so much worse.
You really are the worst daughter ever. No wonder they don’t want you. God if Mother could see you now she wouldn’t recognise you. She’d leave you too. If she wasn’t dead, she’d have left you.
“How long do I have to stay?” Your voice is shaky and embarrassing.
“Depends on how quick your stitches take to heal up. After that, we’ll keep you on some antibiotics, and once you’ve finished the course, you’ll be okay to go home.” The taller one pipes up.
When you don’t reply, but instead just nod, they take their leave. “Someone will come by later and ask you some questions. Don’t think too deeply, just answer them honestly.” The shorter one finishes. “I hope you’ll feel better soon.” And you believe she means it.
The group is divided. Jason and Damian come in just after the Doctors leave. Jason still looks uncomfortable. You wish you could’ve met under different circumstances. It would be nice to be alone. Or make a better first impression. He stands in the back of the room, not making any first moves, so you end up being the first to try and break the ice.
“I’m not normally like this.” You broach weakly. “I mean, I don’t dress like this normally.” Sheepishly gesturing to the hospital gown and mask. “I’m Y/N.”
Jason bites back a quick ‘I know’ and instead just dips his head. “Yeah, well, weird circumstances.” he summarises. You notice the scuff marks on his jacket. His clothes don’t look new and pristine like everyone else’s. They’re clearly lived in. The leather is old and worn, with discoloured patches on the elbows. He must work with his hands.
“I like your jacket.” You try. A tiny, almost invisible, smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Nah, this thing? It’s ancient. Bet it’s older than Damian.”
Damian’s always envied how easily you connect with people. Something so simple as a trivial compliment, and you’ve already started hacking away at Jason’s icy walls. You had a charm that he lacked, and that drove him mad. How are you able to be so likable, even now when you’re practically strapped down to a bed, unwashed and dressed in thin, flatout ugly attire?
“How come you two know each other? I know I asked but you didn’t really answer.” You try again.
“His Mom knew mine. I left home to find her but, well it’s done now.” He puts his hands in his pockets.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, you didn’t do anything.” He scoffs.
“Where are the others?” Alfred asks, finally standing up and stretching his legs. You wonder how long he waited for you to wake up. How many hours had he been by your side?
“Outside getting air.” Damian clips. He’s sat back on the same chair he was before he left, right by the bed.
“Tim’s vaping, isn’t he?” You muse, a tiny laugh fighting it’s way out. God you’d kill for a vape right now. You normally hate it, and tease Tim for 'not committing to real tobacco', but you’d do anything for a hit. Something to damp down the scratching anxiety.
“Yeah.” Jason makes a noise, something like a laugh but more subtle, like he’s surprised you can still joke in this situation.
“I’m going to join Master Bruce. Some fresh air will do me good.” Alfred lets go of your hand and you miss the warmth when it slips away. You feel so cold. “I’ll be back soon.” he promises, then closes the door behind him.
Great. Now you’re stuck with Jason and Damian. You had turned Jason, or rather the vague concept of Jason, into an imaginary friend for years and vented to the fictitious friend about anything and everything. Now he was real, and old, and breathing. Old was a stretch, older is the right word. Part of you felt guilty for warping him into something he wasn’t. He wasn’t yours, it was wrong to impose an identity onto him when he wasn’t there. But it was nice to have a friend that couldn’t leave, or hurt you.
When the door closes, the shift in the air causes the book peeking out of Tim’s backpack to fall out and hit the ground. You didn’t realise he left it there. Then you recognise the cover, it was the same book you were struggling to get through the other day. The one you were trying to read to pass the time before you went to Roy’s.
Jason bent down to put it back, but when he saw the cover he paused. He turned it over in his hands, checking the back, then looked up at you. “This yours?”
“Yeah.” you admitted with a twinge of embarrassment. It was below your reading level. You found it in the library one day and held on to it. It was a little older than what you were used to, to the prose and language was harder to understand.
“No way. I used to love this one.” He handed it to you with care, like the pages would fly out. During your walks with Red Hood, you never mentioned reading.
“Really?” He swore he could see something in your posture shift, like you were getting less afraid of him by the minute. “I haven’t gotten super into it yet. Is it good?”
He starts a small rant about it. Jason doesn’t get to talk about his interests much. There’s a light in his voice, strong but not overpowering and loud, just passionate in a confident way. He knows what he’s talking about, he doesn’t overexplain anything.
To be honest, you aren’t really listening. A lot of it goes over your head. He talks about the themes and the character dynamics, how the time period influences their choices and actions, but a lot of it gets drowned out. You’re just grateful to have something else to focus on. Something other than the beeping of the monitors, the cords rubbing against you, the way the gown feels against your skin.
Damian doesn’t interject, but you can tell he wants to say something. You won’t force him to. If he feels like it, he’ll talk. It’s still painful to be around him. Everytime you see him in your peripheral vision, you see yourself pushing him. You feel like a monster. A beast.
Before he can finish, the door knocks. It’s a different doctor this time, one you haven’t seen before. She isn’t dressed like the other ones. She’s not in a lab coat, but instead just wearing a simple button up and a cardigan. She looks more like a teacher than a doctor.
“Sorry to interrupt, I’m Dr Wyatt, I’m here to ask you some questions.” Her voice is soft and direct. Jason and Damian exchange a look and reluctantly leave the room.
“You guys are coming back right?” Your hand grips the edge of the thin blanket tightly.
Damian nods. Then they leave. And it’s just you and the Doctor alone. You haven’t had a single minute to yourself yet and it’s starting to drive you crazy.
You sit up in the bed when Dr Wyatt sits down in the chair Damian was in. You’re assuming the questions will just be ‘how are your stitches’ or asking if you want anything to eat, but instead she pulls out a thick stack of papers from her bag. They’re stapled together and frighteningly official looking. You decide to take the oxygen mask off if you're going to be talking for a while.
“Now Y/N, I’m going to ask you some questions, and there is no right or wrong answer, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay, good. Now, when I ask you a question, you can answer it with ‘Never’, ‘Sometimes’, ‘Most of the time’, or ‘Everyday’. You understand? And again, there are no right or wrong answers. Or judgement. This is only for me and the Doctors to see.”
“Okay.” your voice quivers a little.
“Alright, I’m going to start now. Over the last two weeks, how often would you say you’ve been feeling anxious, or on edge?”
Oh. It’s those questions. When Mother died, you remember a lady at the social services building asking you similar stuff. You don’t think it went anywhere though. Maybe it’s the near death experience talking, but you don’t feel shame when you say “Sometimes.” Normally, you placate yourself, you water down your feelings, you make them smaller to avoid bothering anyone. But now you don’t want to be small. You want to be seen.
“Okay, and do you have any trouble relaxing?”
The question makes you snort. That catches her attention. You can already see her scribbling something down. “Something funny?” her tone isn’t accusatory.
“No,no, it’s just- I’m really good at relaxing. I don’t do anything. I’m not in school. I don’t have a job. Or hobbies, or friends, or anything a normal person does. So I don’t do anything. I lie in bed. Or on the floor. I sleep through the day. I doomscroll. I drink.”
You’ve never said that part outloud.
“Or I smoke. To pass the time. Then I go out, and I party. It relaxes me I guess. Then I go home and sleep for ages. That’s pretty relaxing.”
She writes something down quickly and looks back up at you. “And do you find yourself becoming easily irritable or annoyed?”
“Back off!” You fight back your growing frustration. It burns in your throat with a flaming chokehold. Your lip quivers under the heat. It’s wet and raw, warm like blood. “I’ve had a shit day and I don’t want to spend another minute here.”
“Sometimes. Yes.” It’s clipped and avoidant.
“Have you felt little interest or pleasure in things you normally enjoy?”
You have to think for a moment on how to word your answer. “Sometimes. I used to really enjoy partying. But, I uh, I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like I have to do it. Like, if I want to drink, I have to go to a party. I don’t just want to drink at home. If I’m outside, and I’m with people, then it feels less… weird.”
“And can I ask who these people are? In your own words you ‘don’t have friends.’ So who are you partying with?”
“I don’t know. Just people. I meet them randomly. I don’t know them. I just talk to them and then we drink.”
“Do you feel down or hopeless?”
“.. Yes. Most of the time”
“Do you feel that you’ve let someone down? That you’ve failed.”
You think about your college friends' graduation pictures. Of the life you could’ve lived. You think about school. How your grades were only ever fine. Average, bordering on underachieving. “Yes. All the time.”
“Do you have trouble connecting with something, like reading a newspaper or watching TV?
“When I try to read I can’t think about the words. It’s like autopilot. Most of the time. I watch TV but I'm not really taking it in, it just passes over me”
Doctor Wyatt pauses before asking the next question. “Do you have thoughts about dying? That you’d be better off dead, or hurt?” Her eyes are soft as the press.
“Yes.” it shocks you to admit it. “When… When I got shot, I think I didn’t want to wake up. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to wake up. Does that make sense? It’s stupid. And pathetic. But I just, I don’t know anymore. I think I’m tired of trying, but then I haven’t done anything. I’ve never really tried to be anything. So what's there to be tired of? It’s disgusting.”
“You aren’t disgusting Y/N.”
You needed that more than you knew. You break into tears immediately. Again. Wyatt hands out a tissue for you and you wipe away the rolling tear drops. One strays against your lip and you taste the salty sweet residue.
“Do you have repeating memories of a traumatic event? Recent or Old.”
“Sometimes I see my Mother. And I see her yelling at me. And I see her body at the morgue. I was the only one that could identify her. She didn’t have friends. Or family. She died- killed- when I was thirteen. I used to get nightmares. But, when I drink, or get high, or whatever to distract myself, she’s not there anymore. And then I get sad that she isn’t there. So I go home.”
“Where’s home?”
“I live with my Father, but my Mother’s home was on Birch street. So I just wait outside the apartment building for her to come out. But she doesn’t.”
“Do you find yourself bothered by strong negative beliefs?”
“What does that mean?”
“Thoughts like, ‘something’s wrong with me’, or ‘the world is out to get me’.”
“Yeah, sometimes. I mean, I know there’s something wrong with me, I know I’m bad, but I think the world is just the world. I think life just sucks for everyone, I think some people are just better at managing it.”
“How many times a week do you consume alcohol?”
“Pretty much every day.”
“When you start drinking do you find yourself unable to stop?”
“Yeah. I just, I don’t want to be sober. I want to stay drunk. Everything feels easier. I feel normal.”
You don’t have an answer. Dr Wyatt continues. “Has a Doctor or a relative expressed concerns, or asked you to cut down?”
“How can you tell when you’re drunk if you’re never sober?”
“Sort of. I mean, my brother does sometimes. But he doesn’t stop me.”
She writes on her notepad and you watch her face twitch. Her eyebrows knit together and droop at the end. When she stops, she gathers the papers together and looks back up at you as she stands up. “Thank you for your time Y/N.”
“It was nice to meet you.” You try a smile but you doubt she bought it. You’ve never been that open with anyone. Not even imaginary Jason. There was something freeing about deciding not to care anymore. “Do you think I can take these things off? I need the bathroom?”
At Dr Wyatt’s request, someone comes in to take off the mask and the monitor attachments, freeing you from the bed. Your feet feel like mud when you put weight on them. For a second you nearly stumble, but you catch yourself. There’s a tall window in the room, so you prop it open to get some air in. Then you head to the bathroom.
One day, those feelings will end, right? They have to, because there must be more to life than this. Chasing something that’ll never come. When you look in the mirror, you see her. The thirteen year old you whose life stopped because one man couldn’t take no for an answer. She’s afraid of you. Of course she is. You look awful. Her eyes are still bright. When did that light go out?
You want to hold her close and never let go. To melt into her and try again. Go back and make better choices. Beg Mother to stay. You’d never fight with her again, you’d be her good girl. You’d let her shout and belittle you without protest if it meant she’d stay. Try school again, make friends that wouldn’t leave you. Become a better person. Be kinder. Less selfish. Choose a normal, uninspiring life. Work a job you feel ambivalent toward. Take home a paycheck that keeps the lights and fridge on. Live in an apartment that feels like it’s actually yours, not just a guest room in a hotel.
In the blink of an eye, she’s gone, and it’s just you and staring at yourself. The last person you want to see right now.
WE’RE HERE TEAM WE DID IT.
GOD LIFE GOT WEIRD AFTER CHP 10. Okay so- I got my apartment keys, only for my landlord to give me the wrong ones, so I had to sort that out. And then when I started to finish packing, i got a tooth abscess which WAS THE MOST PAINFUL THING EVER OMFGG. I literally couldn’t do anything but lie in bed, even sitting up hurt. I was on strong painkillers so I couldn’t focus on anything- ended up just watching Malcolm in the Middle while trying not to move too much.
I finished my assignments and the universe immediately struck me down. We ball. The sun is shining and I’m moving soon. Life will be good.
