i can take the suffering from you

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[waneborne-caverns]

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hello hello! i'm wane ⊹₊ ⋆ 27 ⊹₊ ⋆ he/him. i write for fandoms that i have a reoccurring interest in such as DC, Jujitsu Kaisen, Haikyuu, and others that may pop up at a later date!

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[waneborne-caverns]

Hi! It's my first time making a request at your writing blog! I've read a few of your works and so far, I'm genuinely and completely in love with them ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Is it possible if I could request an imagine or headcanon of how batfam or batboys would react if their bestfriend!reader (also their crush) pull a prank on them by showing up at the doorsteps with the wedding attire on (flower bouquet included) and a goofy grin on their face? You can decide if you wish to make it platonic or romantic ^^

a/n: okay listen i know you said imagine/headcanons but the ideas kept growing and anyway enjoy a little gaggle of drabbles for each of the batboys!! (yes including tim and damian this time lmao bc we know i struggle with those two) i hope you enjoy and thank you for the ask!!

˚₊ · »-All Dressed in White♡→

batboys x bestfriend!gn!reader bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne tags: v fluffy obv, oblivious reader, tim and damian are in denial at first lol, not proofread im sorry;; it kinda just got away from me divider credit in order of appearance: @uzmacchiato @mieluno

a/n: wedding attire is intentionally vague to stay gender neutral and also give yall the ability to imagine your perfect wedding outfit <3 enjoy!!

Bruce Wayne (wc: 750)

Bruce’s first mistake was letting you get close to him after his parent’s murder. His second was falling in love with you so slowly he didn’t even realize it until he saw you with Dick. His third was never telling you, even after all this time, how much you meant to him.

It’s been close to thirty years now since that rainy afternoon during your academy days where you sat with him in the rain without saying a word. Just holding his hand as the rain hid his tears. You’ve been a part of his life ever since. His best friend, his first love, his biggest secret. He’d do anything for you. Which was why when you asked if your friend could use the manor as a backdrop for your friend’s photography portfolio, he said yes before even asking what the shoot was going to be.

Which was why he’s been standing at the balcony overlooking the garden for the past half hour, paralyzed at the sight of you dressed to the nines in white wedding attire. Complete with a bouquet of fake flowers too.

When he saw you come down the grand hall staircase earlier after changing upstairs, Bruce thought he was going to have a heartache at the ripe age of forty-two. The giddy smile on your face, the fancy white and lace fabric glowing under the chandelier, the bouquet in your hands, the way you stopped right in front of him with a bright smile and a bounce in your step as you waited for him to comment on your look.

It wasn’t the first time you’ve made him tongue tied and it certainly won’t be the last, still it took Bruce staring at you dumbly for a little too long before he croaked out a “you look great” and excused himself to have a private flustered meltdown in the kitchen.

By the time he had gotten a hold of himself, you and your friend had moved to the garden to get some photos. You weren’t a model professionally, you never appeared in magazines like he did when he was a younger man. But still, you were a natural. You were gorgeous in the sunlight, smiling brightly at the camera and following your friend’s instructions to get the most graceful of poses befitting a betrothed.

Bruce can’t help picturing it. A wedding. A promise made in front of the entire city—the entire world, that you were all he wanted. The flowers picked right from the garden you helped Alfred plant at fourteen, his father’s suit, his mother’s veil. His children shouting with joy when he finally, finally, kisses you like he’s dreamt of since he was thirteen.

He watches as you bounce out of a graceful pose to run around your friend to check on the photos so far. He smiles softly at the sight of you excitedly talking to your friend, probably complimenting them on their skills as if they weren’t the one taking photos of the most beautiful person in the world. And then, you both look at him.

Bruce stiffens, as if he was caught doing something worse than staring lovingly at his best friend in wedding clothes, and you say something to your friend before running through the gardens towards him. You stand below the balcony and shout up to him, “Bruce!”

“Yes?” Bruce tempers his nerves as he leans over the barrister, smiling warmly down at you, “Do you need something?”

“Yeah!” you reply, smiling brightly, “A groom! Do you mind?”

Bruce could feel the heat rising up his chest to his neck though his expression does little more than twitch in surprise. You take that negatively and are quick to wave your hands apologetically, “It’s okay if you don’t want to! I know how you hated modeling—”

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

You blink, your brows knitting together with concern, “Are you sure? It’s okay to say no.”

He leans onto the banister on his forearms and gives you a small smile that sets butterflies off in your chest, “You’ve convinced me to give modeling another try.” He tilts his head slightly as he teases, “Something about seeing you have so much fun makes me want to join in.”

You beam and Bruce can’t help melting at the sight of your smile. He wonders to himself as you scamper back to your friend to tell her the good news, if you’d smile that brightly at your own wedding.

And if he’d be the one lucky enough to receive it.

Dick Grayson (wc: 1.1k)

“Okay, how many shots for you to sleep withhh…” Wally trailed off, head hung backwards in thought as Dick patiently waited for the next outrageous option to come out the speedster’s mouth.

Though he doubted it would be able to top Sinestro (how Wally considered that guy a ‘would’ was beyond Dick’s understanding as one of his best friends). Dick takes a casual sip from his glass when your name leaves Wally’s mouth.

Dick immediately chokes on his water, barely keeping it from spilling all over his couch and rug as he swallowed and coughed out, “Dude!”

“What?” Wally said with a gestured shrug and a smug smile, “It’s just a game.”

“First off, they’re our best friend,” Dick started, “They’re practically another sibling to me.”

Wally raises an eyebrow, “Doubt that. Unless you look at all your sibling’s asses when they get a new pair of jeans.” He points his glass at his flushed friend, “Which would be weird, by the way.”

“I do not stare at their ass,” Dick hissed back.

Wally laughed, “Bro you so do, it’s kinda sweet…in a pathetic way.”

Dick rolls his eyes and ignores Wally’s laugh with a huff. It’s not that you aren’t great or attractive or totally swoonworthy, it’s that your relationship with Dick was already complicated. For one thing, you’ve been friends with him and Wally since they were Robin and Kid Flash. You fought together, grew up together, but Dick didn’t realize his feelings for you until after you and Wally walked in for a mission briefing with your hands intertwined. A sight that shot a bullet in his chest as the realization that he was in love with you and you would never love him the same way came rushing in all at once.

You both broke up a few months later as many teenage romances tend to end but it didn’t matter. To Dick, he had lost all chance with you for the rest of his life. You two went on to date different people, and over and over Dick suppressed his feelings for you. He even almost got married to Kori just to avoid his repressed feelings for you.

But he couldn’t do it. Not even marrying a hot alien could convince him that he was finally over you.

Even if you both were single at the moment, Dick had already decided that he would never be the one for you. If only his stupid heart would see reason.

Wally pokes at Dick’s leg with his socked foot as the twenty-something man pouts to himself, “C’mon, Richard, you can’t seriously be that oblivious.”

Dick narrows his eyes at him, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Before Wally could answer, there’s the sound of a key in the door. As the two turn, you’re already breaking through Dick’s apartment door with the spare key he gave you when he moved in a year ago. You’re smiling and clutching a plastic bag that was bulging with hidden goodies. You rush right up to Dick with an excitement he hasn’t seen since you were a kid, “You will not believe what I found at the downtown flea market this morning.”

“What’d you find?” Dick asked, the warm smile on his face giving away the gooeyness you cause him that only Wally seems to notice as he rolls his eyes.

“I have to put it on first!” you declare as you rush into Dick’s bedroom, “I’ll be super quick!”

“Take your time!” Dick called after you as you shut his bedroom door like it was your own.

Dick’s lovesick smile drops the moment he catches Wally’s deadpan look from the corner of his eye. Dick looked over, scowling, “What?”

“They just went into your room,” Wally said slowly, like it would make Dick understand things better, “to change clothes.”

“So?”

Wally mimed choking Dick out with his bare hands as an aggravated groan left his throat. Dick could only raise a concerned brow. Wally's hands claw down his face in dramatic agony as he says, “What is it gonna take for you to grow the balls to ask them out?”

“I don’t know!” Dick defended with a scoff, “A sign or something? Something obvious.”

“Going into your bedroom to change clothes isn’t obvious?!”

“You change in my bedroom too!”

Before Wally could reach for the nearest blunt object to knock some sense into the boy wonder’s head, Dick’s bedroom door opened and Dick’s mouth dropped.

He doesn’t hear a word coming out of mouth as you ramble on and on about how you found the wedding attire because he's too focused on the fact that he’s hearing wedding bells right now just from looking at you.

White never looked better. It complimented your skin so well you looked like you were glowing. The lace laid delicately even as you gesture with your arms. The intricate beading you ran your hands over sparkled brighter than any star in the sky. And when you spun, it was like the whole world stopped. Or maybe that was just Dick’s heart finally giving out.

“—and they even threw in this old silk flower bouquet for free! Isn’t that so cool?!” you hold the bouquet in front of you, a natural pose that seemed a little too similar to one you would have walking down an aisle.

Your brows furrow at the unusual silence from your biggest hypemen. You stand there for a moment confused, looking between a Wally grinning at Dick and a Dick who looked miles away. It’s your gasp that startles Dick out of his daydream as you quickly start apologizing, “Oh my God, Dick, I’m so sorry. I forgot you’re gamophobic!”

“I—” His eyebrows knit, an embarrassed heat coming to his cheeks, “I’m not—what’s gamophobic?”

“Means you’re afraid of marriage and commitment,” Wally answers with his chin in his hand, still smug and very much enjoying the way Dick bristles at the definition.

“What?”

“I’m so sorry, Dick, I should have thought about how you would feel before I came out here all excited and—”

“I’m not afraid of commitment,” Dick suddenly blurted out. Dick feels his neck heat up under your patient stare, his eyes suddenly flicking away, “Or marriage.”

“But what about Babs?” you ask. Dick starts to fiddle with the zipper on the couch cushion. “Or Kori?”

“They’re great, I care about them a lot. They just…weren’t the one, you know?”

You nod, playing with the silk petals of the bouquet, “Yeah…I get that. But,” Dick looks at you. You’re swaying from foot to foot, the fabric following in a way that looks like you’re slow dancing. Your eyes meet his, “how will you know?”

Dick keeps your gaze for just a moment before he lets himself take you in. From head to toe and back again, before he meets your eyes again with a soft smile, “I’ll know.”

Jason Todd (wc: 1.5k)

“What a wonderful garment of shimmering colors!” Kori said as she turned her body around in the boutique lights, the sequins overlaid on top of the mermaid styled white dress sparkled under all the attention. The Tamaranean turns towards her companions and asks, “What are your thoughts, my friends?”

Jason is currently thinking about choking himself out on a clothing hanger while Roy is passed out next to him, still recovering from a hangover. He never should have agreed to be Kori’s bride’s maid (yes bride’s maid, he wasn’t about to correct the alien bride on Earth’s social gender roles), he was all for the bachelorette party and being there for his friend but fucking Christ how many more dresses is this girl going to try on?

“It’s pretty,” Jason grumbled before he smacked Roy on the chest to wake him up.

Roy gasps as he sits up, he blinks slowly as he squinks to look at Kori and slurs, “Whoa momma, where have you been all my life?” And promptly passed out again.

“Hm,” Kori hummed as she looked back at herself in the mirror, judging her appearance once more before deciding, “This dress…I do not like it much. A different garment I shall try!”

And she flew off back into the changing rooms.

Jason could only lay his head back and sigh deeply. He closed his eyes, trying to remember why he even agreed to be a monkey in this wedding dress shopping circus anyway.

“Hey! Sorry it took so long, the cafe was crazy busy.”

Ah, that’s right.

When Jason opens his eyes, there you are, leaning over him with your hair framing your face and the sunlight creating a halo of warmth behind it. Your smile is soft and small, a little guilty even though you could stab Jason with a knife and he’d apologize for getting your blade bloody. 

Jason’s relaxing sigh is unintentional, the easing of his tense shoulders at the sight of you even more so. As you walk around the couch, he straightens up, squaring his large shoulders as he says, “It’s fine, what’d you get?”

You plop down on the couch, Jason’s arm immediately going around the back of it out of a casual instinct he stopped thinking about ages ago. You hand him the drink holder to hold as you pull free the coffee as you name them, “I got you a black coffee with three sugars, a frappe for Kori, and,” you hold out the final cup and a bag to the passed out man at the other end of the couch, “a triple red eye and an extra bacon egg and cheese croissant for Roy.”

Roy was startled awake with a nudge from Jason’s leg and he scrambles upright with a, “I’m up, I’m up.”

Like a blood hound, Roy fixes on the goods and with an animalistic snatch, grabs the bag and coffee to devour like a starved man. When you laugh at Roy burning his tongue chugging the fresh coffee, Jason’s vision goes all starry eyed as he leans back further in the couch to look at you better.

You were the light Jason thought he lost when he died. Someone who made him feel safe to get angry around without the fear of running them off. Jason was a scary guy, he was easily over half a foot taller than you and twice as wide, but you never showed him any fear. You tried to understand him, tried to comfort him as best you could.

You became a teether that Jason couldn’t risk losing.

No matter what he might be feeling (he refuses to name it as that makes it real), he will remain as your best friend just as you will remain as his closest person.

“Any luck?” you ask, breaking Jason out of his daydream.

It takes Jason a minute to remember what you were asking about and he said, “Oh uh, not yet.”

“Kori has tried on at least fifty dresses since you left,” Roy spoke through the food in his mouth. “You haven’t missed much.”

“I’ll go see if I can help her out,” you offer as you stand, Jason missing you already as you send him a small smile and start to walk back towards the changing rooms.

“I’ll come with you,” Jason offered, quick to follow you like a little duckling wherever you went. Your small smile sends the butterflies in his stomach into a flurry as he adds, “If you want.”

“Of course I do,” you say, so casually like they weren't the words that calmed the anxiety in Jason’s mind.

You two walk back to the changing room and you give a small knock to Kori’s dressing room door, “Kori? You doing okay in there?”

Kori opened the dressing room door a smidge, Jason politely looking away after seeing she was only in a silk robe provided by the boutique. When she sees you, she gives a frustrated pout and says, “Your bonding rituals sing a different song than I am used to. I do not comprehend the specifics of your people’s bondings.”

“What’s there to understand?” Jason asked, his opinion on marriage leaning towards cynical, “You exchange rings, kiss, get drunk, and have sex. The end.”

Kori’s eyebrows furrow, “Me and Richard have already done all of those things. What is the purpose of such rituals and garments if the day ends the same as any other?”

“It’s more about the emotional commitment,” you explain. “Like, with the dress, every bride wants the perfect dress and to look their best during the most important day of their life. The day they commit to someone they love.”

“Am I not already dressed desirable?”

“I mean, yeah, of course you’re pretty all the time Kori,” you try to explain, “It’s just this day is extremely special.”

She hums, still not totally understanding but in the end she shrugs a little in resignation. This was just another human culture she is yet to understand completely. Like gender.

“My wedding raiment,” Kori says, looking right at you, “can you choose for me?”

“Who? Me?” you ask dumbly, point at yourself.

She nods, “I trust in your wisdom. I shall wear whatever you choose.”

You nervously laugh, “That’s a lot of pressure Kori.”

“Fear not!” she says with a smile, hand on your shoulder, “You can not make the incorrect choosing.”

“I mean, if you’re sure?” she nods and you say, “Okay then, wait here. I’ll go take a look.”

Jason follows you over to the racks, hands in his pockets as you riffle through the dresses and gowns. Out of boredom, Jason starts to mindlessly search through the bodices of lace and pearls. Each garment passes his glazed over eyes until he pauses on one.

There’s silk flowers sewn into the torso and sheer sleeves. Intricate beading at the waist and hips. The style leaned more vintage, almost Victorian if it wasn’t obviously from a modern designer. Immediately, the image came before he could stop it. A vision of you in this exact garment. Beaming and holding a bouquet, maybe even with a veil.

Jason sneaks a glance at you.

You’re still deeply focused on the dresses in front of you, lost to the world and the fact that Jason was paused on a garment next to you. Jason cautiously removes the plastic covered garment and holds it up to you.

There’s a jumpstart in his chest, a rumble of a realization he has been pushing down from the start. Jason wanted. For the first time in his life since the pit, Jason wanted something. He wanted you in a way that was beyond human comprehension, it was deeper than the madness of the pit that still itched in the back of his mind. You were already so much to him. But now he was greedy. He doesn’t know if he could settle for anything but the vision in his head right now.

An altar, it didn’t matter where, holding hands and letting Jason show off to his family, his friends, to the universe if he could help it that you were all he would ever want. You were everything.

“Have you ever thought about getting married?”

The question left Jason’s mouth before he even realized he asked it, his lips sealing shut right after as he tenses in preemptive embarrassment for your nonanswer or, even worse, your flat out rejection of the idea.

Instead, you hum as you think the question over as if he was asking what you wanted to eat after this. After looking through a few more dresses on the rack, you answer, “I’d like to get married one day, yeah.”

Jason’s chest fluttered, a tingle of relief and warmth of hope sweeping over his tense shoulders. They drop as you turn to look at him, a small smile on your face as you return the question back to him, “What about you?”

Jason melts just a little, a soft smile on his face. If he was a weaker man he’d propose right there in the middle of this wedding boutique.

“I can be persuaded.”

Tim Drake (wc: 1.1k)

Galas with you on Tim’s arm have been a thing since you were both old enough to attend one together at the ripe age of five and six. Though back then both of your arms were too short for that so you two often just held hands instead. The point was, if Tim Drake was attending a Gala, it would only be with you on his arm.

It didn't matter if your career paths no longer aligned, it didn't matter if the last time you two talked was at the last gala over three months ago, the invitation would arrive at Wayne Enterprises and a text from Tim would soon follow.

And without fail, you always attended.

Afterall, they were the only event where you both were guaranteed to attend and be able to catch up on life since the last time you two spoke. Tim wished you stayed in Gotham more often, even joking that when you visit you should stay with him in his apartment so he could at least see traces of you in-between meetings and nightly patrols.

Though sometimes Tim catches himself taking that offer a little too seriously at times.

Especially now, watching you exit his guest bathroom after you finally accepted his offer to stay with him for the short time you were in Gotham. He was on a business call when you walked out of the bathroom, steam curling out of the doorway as you shook out your damp hair without a care, dressed down in sweatpants and a shirt that Tim lost when he was fifteen and still with your mixed-matched ankle socks on as you crossed the hall back into Tim’s guest room.

For a moment, the apartment felt lived in. Like a scene from a movie starring you and him in a domestic life Tim never gave a second thought about. Tim was so lost in thought it took Lucius three attempts to bring him back into the conversation.

That moment was three months ago and since then, you’ve been a recurring guest of Tim’s apartment. Sometimes you wouldn’t even announce that you were coming to Gotham, Tim would just smell the homecooked meal through the door and walk in to you in his kitchen preparing a dish he hadn’t had for years.

It was casual, fragile. Something that was so uniquely yours neither one of you questioned it for more than a second. Even preparing for galas now became a level of intimacy that was so casual, it was hard to really question it as something more.

The way you would put his cufflinks on for him, straighten his tie, fix his fringe. The way he would kneel to help you with your shoes, put on jewelry for you, thumb away a stray eyelash from the apple of your cheek. Lines were blurring right before Tim’s eyes. He wondered if they were blurring for you too.

Do you read into his actions as much as he has with yours? Do you second guess the casual hand on your back? Low, but not low enough to be more than an overly friendly touch. Do you second guess the way he stands between you and pushy guests? Too protective for someone who was just your best friend.

Do you entertain the idea of something more as much as he does?

“Thank God I was sweating balls in there,” you dramatically gasp out the moment you two are alone out on the private balcony in the Wayne Manor looking for fresh air.

Tim laughs at your crude words but agrees as you fan yourself with your hand, “You’d think Bruce would be rich enough to afford decent air conditioning.”

“Not his fault everyone in there is spewing nothing but hot air,” you respond with a smile as Tim walks around you to stand in front of you.

The nightly breeze is cool but not chilly, it floats the sheer curtains through the open French double doors with an elegance befitting its audience. Your skin glistens in the warm lamp light, the white of your attire complimenting your skin perfectly. Tim wouldn’t say he’s exaggerating when he claims you look great in any color, but something about seeing you in white…embolden with lace and pearls…it makes his heart skip.

“Even me?” Tim asked, smiling.

“Especially you,” you tease back, grinning wildly and free. Something far more true to you than the demure practiced smile you hold in front of others. “Never in my life did I hear more financial jargon come out of your mouth than back on the ballroom floor ten minutes ago.”

“Says the person who started talking tariffs and exports,” Tim responds, making you laugh. “I swear, you don’t know half of what you’re talking about.”

“But I look cute doing it, don’t I?” you say, hands posed under your chin to really sell it.

Tim laughed, “Yes, yes you do.”

It was said like a joke but, was it really? Before Tim could dwell on it further, the wind gusted up and blew the sheer curtains behind you up and out. You only watched in awe as the curtain floated gracefully over your head. When your eyes meet Tim’s through the sheer white fabric, he feels something akin to a lightning bolt shoot down his spine.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The moment dragging out with each heavy beat of Tim’s heart in his throat. The fact that him admitting that he thought you were cute being the last thing he said made his hands start to sweat. Because fuck, fuck, Timothy Drake was in love with his best friend. And if you looked at him like that, a little sheepish and gazing up at him through your lashes, during your wedding day? He was going to faint.

Pause.

Wedding?! Tim must have really been losing it now. Or maybe the years of oblivious pining made him want to skip a few carefully planned steps.

After a moment, Tim swallowed and began to slowly reach for the curtain over your head, “Sorry, let me just…”

He doesn’t yank it off to the side, he doesn’t let it slide off your crown—he flips it back. Like it was a subconscious act he didn’t realize he did until after it was done. His fingers release the curtain, you shiver slightly when it ghosts over your shoulders but you don’t look away from his lovestruck gaze. Tim clears his throat, his hands hesitating before slowly dropping down. He shoves one in his pocket as he tries to casually look to the side like his ears weren’t burning pink in the lamp light.

“So, um, how long did you say you were in Gotham again?”

Damian Wayne (wc: 1.3k)

Damian claims to hate a lot of things when really he just found them annoying. His siblings, his friends, physical affection. And even though he acts as annoyed as usual when he’s around you, he never once claimed that he hated you. Not to your face, not to his family, not even in his own head. It was like the word was too cruel to use in association with you. It just didn’t fit.

For a while, he never considered why he hated his best friend Jon and didn’t hate his other best friend, you. You were just as peppy sometimes, just as talkative, as the kryptonian boy but it was strangely…pleasant. A sound Damian finds himself searching for when focus evades him in the middle of a case. Often calling you at two in the morning just to run the details by you and hear your thoughts. Thoughts that are half-baked and completely jargled with sleep but words Damian needed to hear nonetheless. Even if they were complete nonsense or just you asking why the hell he was calling in the dead of night to talk about a case, in the end your voice would be enough to calibrate Damian back to normal and he’d hang up with a, “you’ve been a great help” and nothing more.

Damian doesn’t mind when you get physically affectionate with him either. Never as much as you are with Jon (a fact that strangely makes Damian prickle with something akin to envy) as you were always respectful of Damian’s boundaries with touch. But you would fix his hair for him, hold his wrist to not lose him in a crowd, lean on him if you happen to sit next to him, all things Damian was used to but never admitted he began to crave.

It was Jon who brought up the suggestion that Damian was in love with you. It was a follow up statement thrown so casually out there after Jon teased him for leaning towards your hand when you held it out to tidy up his hair before you left (a fact he denies by the way, Damian Wayne doesn’t preen). But it made him think, made him entertain the thought for a brief moment…what would dating you be like?

He was still processing that hypothetical thought as he sat in the Gotham local theatre, slouched back in the seat far up in the audience watching amateur actors run through their dress rehearsal of some play. Damian hated local theatre, finding the acting to be awful and overdone. Except for yours it seems. You were pretty decent at the whole stage craft thing.

Not that Damian would ever admit it.

He was only here for your dress rehearsal because you wanted to try the new seasonal menu item at the cafe down the street with him. Damian lets out a tired sigh at the dramatic wave of a wannabe actor, fingers pressed to his temple in mild agony. If he wasn’t going to be enjoying your company later, he would have shot himself by now.

(He notes the thought for further digesting later.)

“Okay, great!” the director says from the front, “Let’s run through the wedding scene please?”

Damian straightens when he sees you walk out, dressed in a different outfit than the one your character was in at the start of rehearsal. It was a pure white, sparkling in the spotlights, a bouquet of fake flowers in your hands as you stood across from your scene partner in front of what was clearly an altar.

Damian can’t take his eyes off of you as you listen to the director's notes before starting the scene, nodding along with his words. You were pretty. Okay, well, you were always pretty, that's just a fact. It’s just…different this time. The wedding attire flipped a switch somewhere deep in Damian’s subconscious. The white, the lace, the beading, the veil, the flowers. And the fact that you’re not standing next to him looking like that? Oh, it was making him spiral in a way he couldn’t understand. Why was there a pounding in his chest? Why was his palms sweating? And why was your scene partner looking at you like that?

“Finally, after all this time,” your scene partner starts, carefully taking your hand as if it were as delicate as porcelain. He brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes still fixated on you, “my love…”

“My lord,” you reply, so softly it has Damian clawing into the armrests at his sides. When you take a step forward, Damian’s stomach begins to knot with a rage he hasn’t felt since he was prepubescent. “To think…a servant such as me to have the honor of being your lover. I just…”

You turn your head dramatically, only for your chin to be caught between two fingers and lured back towards your scene partner. You hear a faint crack from the audience, your eyes flicking curiously in Damian’s direction before your focus is brought back to the scene with the next line, “I would wish for no one else to be by my side.”

Your scene partner releases your chin to cup the side of your face as he continues, “to have and to hold.”

“In sickness and in health,” you continue, your lashes fluttering closed slightly as you lean into his touch. You rub your cheek as if his touch was all you craved. Damian could feel something nasty bubbling up and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to quell it. You open your eyes, gaze open and loving, “for richer, for poorer…”

You and your scene partner lean in, the director holding his breath as you two get closer and closer. You feel your scene partner’s hot breath on your lips as he says his final line, “until death do us part.”

And right as you two are about to end the scene with a kiss, there’s a sudden crackle and a spark before the entire theatre is suddenly thrown into darkness. You can’t see a thing, but you hear your scene partner let out a high pitched shriek at the sudden lack of light and the director barking at the stage manager to fix the lights as stage hands and other actors began to pull out their phones to use as flashlights.

You blindly step forward, the stage barely lit even with all the flashlights as you call out into the audience, “Damian? Are you okay?”

“Careful.” You feel a hand grab your shin, stopping you before you end up falling face first off the stage. You can hear Damian’s voice from below you, “I’m fine, are you okay?”

“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine,” you say as you crouch down, Damian pulling out his own phone to turn the light on. His light illuminates your embarrassed smile as you say, “I promise that’s not how the play is supposed to end.”

“On the contrary,” Damian said, holding out his hand to you so you could hop down from the stage into the aisle safely. He doesn’t release your hand. “I find that ending rather satisfying.”

“You do?” you ask, confused but also a little amused. You don’t remove your hand from his (Damian makes note to revisit later). “But shouldn’t the servant and the lord get together in the end? They went through a lot to be together.”

“They are better off as friends,” Damian replies. He tugs you forward, “Come, I crave pastries.”

“Ah! Damian!” you laugh as he walks you down the aisle towards the theatre entrance, hand in hand, “Shouldn’t I change out of my costume first?”

“Nonsense, you look fine,” Damian says, earning another laugh.

As he opens the theatre door for you, he’s careful to block the breaker box from your view, lest you see the Robin shaped Birdarang sticking out in the middle of it. Damian makes another note to himself to pick that up later.

a/n: can you tell ive never written kori before aaaaa im sorry kori writers i will do your girl better next time im just giving up;; hope ya'll liked it sorry for being inactive i got a promotion!! so im a lot more busy now lol but dw!! ill still write when i can!! thanks for reading <3

[waneborne-caverns]

is ur blog epic references🧜‍♀️

it is!! epic has inspired me a lot creatively and as a queer person, i was OBSESSED with mythology as a kid and it's fun to have that obsession return in the form of a musical rendition of an epic poem i read in middle school lol thank you for asking!!

[waneborne-caverns]

Reaching Melting Point ♡✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ batboys x fem!reader ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ft. bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd

synopsis: time to remind yourself how whipped your man is for you via a tik tok trend <3 (based off of the tik tok trend of gfs kissing their bfs to see them melt into the kiss)

tags: fluffy af, lot of playful teasing, mildly suggestive (dick), a lot of making out, cursing, also roy makes an appearance everyone say hi roy!!

a/n: yall i tried to make this with ALL the batboys but i can NOT figure out how to write for tim and damian so i gave up on their parts so i could post this i am so sorry;; if yall have any ideas ill gladly take them!!

Bruce Wayne (wc: 1.1k)

There was no way you were ever going to get one over on your husband. He was a detective by nature and knew you way too well to ever let you gain the upper hand. But every once in a while, he’ll play dumb just to see where your antics lead him.

“Explain the exercise to me again, my love?” Bruce said as he chalked up his hands and stood below the pullup bar. He gives you a knowing smile, letting you know that he knows you have something up your sleeve, “I want to make sure I’m doing it right.”

You know that he suspects you of something, but it doesn’t make the journey any less fun. You place the step ladder down in front of him and explain once more, “It’s a mental and physical exercise.” You gesture to the pullup bar, “You will hang on the pullup bar while I,” you make a point of opening the step ladder, “will attempt to distract you.”

Bruce hummed with a teasing smile, “And how, pray tell, will my lovely wife try to distract me?”

“You’re stalling, Mr. Wayne,” you say as you cross your arms and push out a hip with a smile, “You’re not afraid of what I might do to you, are you?”

“Perish the thought, Mrs. Wayne,” Bruce says as he reaches up to grab onto the bar, leaning his body forward with a smile, “I trust you with my life.”

“You better,” you tease before lightly tapping his shin with your foot, “Now, feet up, dear, there we go.”

With Bruce picking his feet up, he left himself vulnerable to you in a dead hang. You bring the step ladder closer and carefully climb up a few steps. It’s taking everything in Bruce’s power not to reach out and steady you when the ladder wobbles, though from the grin you give him it seems that was the intention.

Once you straighten, you are nose to nose with your six-four hunk of a husband and a breath apart. You stare into his ice blue eyes, a cold color for eyes that hold such warmth when he looks at you. You find yourself brushing some of his hair from his brow out of habit, noticing the dark gray at his temples that he fusses over as if they don’t make him all the more attractive.

Then your hands drop down, fingertips grazing up his torso ever so slowly. A caress so soft you can feel the muscles under Bruce’s compression shirt flex with each careful drag. Then comes the full contact. Your warm palms hug his abdomen, you feel the muscles tense and almost shiver as you work your way up, up, up, to his chest.

And when your eyes finally meet his again, you can’t stop the pleased smile on your face when you see your husband’s lidded gaze. You caress his chest, your eyes catching the way his hands flex on the pullup bar. You can’t help but to comment, “Who would have thought that the infamous Bruce Wayne is struggling to focus because of a mere woman?”

“A woman who is his wife, don’t forget,” Bruce argues, making you laugh. Bruce lets you squeeze his pecs before he says, “Is that all?”

Your grin shouldn’t send an excited shiver down Bruce’s spine but it does as your hands drift higher, over his shoulders to go around his neck, “Oh darling,” you lean in close, a breath away once more, “I haven’t even started yet.”

Your first kiss is short, chaste and soft, like a warning shot. Then your fingers curl into the overgrown hair at the base of Bruce’s neck and you kiss him again. For a few moments, he resists. Well, not so much resists as attempts to stand strong in the face of the divine temptation that was his wife kissing him.

It isn’t until you cup his face and open his mouth with your tongue does he melt, finally, against you. And even though his legs lower a little, he remains in his dead hang at your complete mercy. You break away for just a moment to let out an airy giggle, before going right back in with a flicker of warm satisfaction in your chest.

Years of love, of sacrifice, of pain—and he was still so pliant for you. Just as he was in his twenties all those years ago. God, that was a whole other life at this point. One moment you’re twenty-three having a heartfelt conversation with a billionaire playboy, and the next you’re in your forties with a manor full of children. Your children, and you wouldn’t change it for the world.

When you pull away for a breath, you let out a laugh when Bruce chases you almost instinctively. You move back further, hands coming down to rest on his chest, “Someone’s eager.”

Bruce hummed as you brushed some of his sweaty locks from his forehead. If he was feeling any strain from holding himself up on the pullup bar, he wasn’t showing it outside of sweating a little.

“Can you blame me?” he asked, eyes lidded with a haze of desire, “It’s not everyday we get to do that.”

You hum in agreement, rubbing along his chest lovingly, “No, we don’t.”

You lean in again, a few heated kisses passing between you two before Bruce speaks in between, “So,” kiss, “which of our lovely children,” kiss, “do I have to thank for this exercise of yours, hm?”

You smile into the next kiss, barely parting far enough to answer, “This was actually my idea.”

“Was it now?” You let out an affirmative hum as Bruce leans just close enough to coax you back to him, “You’re very clever, darling.”

“Thank you dear,” you reply, pressing a few more kisses on your husband’s lips before you back away entirely. You give his chest a good pat, “That’s enough of that then, go ahead and hop down and I’ll have Alfred start on—”

You let out a little shriek of surprise when you go to step down from the ladder and instead are swooped up by one of Bruce’s arms. The step ladder falls over with a clatter as you cling onto your sweaty husband who is now holding both you and him up with one arm. Bruce is laughing as he adjusts his arm to rest under your thighs, bringing you to be a head taller than him but secure enough for you to give him a hit on his shoulder, “Bruce!”

“I’m not finished with this exercise, my love,” he says with a smile, “I feel like I have a few more minutes in me.”

“Probably less now that you are holding onto me, you outrageous man.”

“Not at all, my dear,” Bruce says, leaning his head towards you in a way he knows tempts you to no end, “Let us continue, shall we?”

You smile, leaning in, “If you insist, Mr. Wayne.”

“Always, Mrs. Wayne.”

Dick Grayson (wc: 886)

“Fucking Christ Dick!”

“No, wait, baby,” Dick says as you wiggle your way out of his arms and go to pick up your phone to delete another failed recording, “I can get it, I just forgot! One more try, c’mon!”

You give your boyfriend a halfhearted glare over the shoulder because, really, in any other circumstance you would want your boyfriend to return your affection as quickly as you give it. But not when it was the point of the whole challenge not to!

From what you gathered based on the several Tik Toks you saw of couples doing this trend, the boyfriend is supposed to resist for as long as possible as the girlfriend gives them all kinds of temptations. You had to explain this challenge five times with this latest attempt being the twelfth, and still your little golden retriever of a boyfriend couldn’t understand the concept of keep your arms up.

Even Hayley understood the command stay even if she was sitting opposite of her dinner for over five minutes.

You let out an annoyed scoff at your boyfriend’s pout and go to delete the draft, “I just can’t understand what’s so difficult about keeping your arms up long enough for me to kiss you.”

“You’re too tempting!” Dick argued with a wave of his hands towards your body.

“I didn’t even touch you this time!” you retort, “I barely got on my tiptoes before you were all over me!”

“I thought you were gonna fall over!”

“So you catch me with your mouth?!”

“And my hands!” Dick exacerbated, miming his hand placement that he had in the empty space in front of him, “At a very safe placement, might I add!” You roll your eyes and Dick says, “Well if it’s so easy, let’s see you do it then.”

“Gladly,” you respond, tossing your phone on the couch.

You walk over to stand in front of him and casually lift your arms above your head, cocking an eyebrow as you do. Dick, while no doubt the most dramatic man you’ve ever known, is also one hell of a tamer. He takes a step closer, a hand going to your waist to trace your curves so carefully hidden under his shirt. It sends a delightful shiver down your spine.

“Just so you don’t get mad at me for ‘breaking any rules’,” Dick starts, making you roll your eyes. “I can touch you as much as I want, right?”

“The whole point is to see what it takes for your other half to finally give in,” you reexplain. “You win if you get me to lower my arms.” You scowl a bit as you flick your eyes to the side, annoyed, “Not that you even tried.”

“Oh trust me, baby, I tried,” Dick says as he slowly curls his hand around your back, pulling himself all the more closer to you. His other hand rests on your hips as his breath runs hot against your throat, “It’s not my fault you make me melt at the sight of you.”

You let out a gasp when Dick lays an openmouthed kiss to your throat. You do your best not to squirm but he’s holding you tight against his hard chest as he continues to bite at your neck. You can’t help whining a little, trying to move away and keep your arms up high above your head.

Dick’s lips kiss and suck, pulling at the sensitive spots he mapped out ages ago and are engraved on his heart. You feel the hand on your hip slowly glide its way underneath, you gasp when his hand meets bare skin. You squirm more, trying not to give in but also desperately wanting him to just fucking kiss you already.

“Dick,” you whine.

“Yeah baby?” he says against your splotchy throat with a prideful smile against your skin. He gives you another kiss, “You melting yet, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, putting your hands together and straightening your elbows. God if Dick didn’t love you when you were stubborn. Dick straightens, his hand under your shirt climbing higher. Your whimper has Dick smiling wide as you gasp out, “You’re—cheating.”

“Nuh uh,” Dick grinned as he pressed a kiss to your flushing cheek, “You said I could touch you as much as I want.”

You would like to say you did your best. But let’s be honest, you were fighting a losing battle the second Dick put his hands on you. And when he finally kissed you, you should have felt embarrassed by how quickly you gave up. But when his lips met yours, all thoughts turned to static as you automatically opened your mouth for him and pulled him closer with your arms around his neck.

Your legs turned to jello, your lips desperately chasing after him if he dared to part for even a moment to catch a breath. The way Dick knocked your knees out from under you should have scared you, but all your heart did was flutter when your back hit the couch and your boyfriend hovered over you with an elbow resting on the arm by your head.

Dick was flushed and out of breath, eyes dark and half lidded as he swallowed and said, “I think I’m ready to try again, baby.”

Jason Todd (wc: 1.1k)

When your best friend is a homebody, you meet them where they are: in the comfort of their own home. That was Roy’s reasoning if you were to ask him why he was in your apartment for the nth time this week. Not that you ever do.

You’re probably the chillest girlfriend Jason has ever had in regards to Roy’s presence in your shared space. Most tried to get Jason to pick between them and Roy (never goes well for them unfortunately) or they try to date them both (also, never goes well for them). But you weren’t like that at all.

It probably helps that you’ve known Roy longer than you knew Jason. Roy was always hoping the two of you would end up together so he could finally not worry about the women Jason date hating him or wanting to fuck him.

Another positive about your relationship with Jason is that Roy can live vicariously through the both of you by forcing Jason to do stupid couple challenges by getting you in on it. You loved to flex how whipped Jason was for you, it made you feel all gooey and girly inside and made something aggressive want to jump out and bite your boyfriend’s ear off. So of course, you agreed to every stupid trend that scrolled on Roy’s Tik Tok page and Jason passed without fail every single time.

It kinda pissed Roy off how good Jason was at these boyfriend challenges. Like, bro, you’re making the rest of us look bad. So Roy was set on finding a challenge that Jason would definitely fail, even though the fact that he was so in love with you made that practically impossible.

And then, Roy saw the “melting your boyfriend” trend.

He was laying on your couch as Jason was making you all breakfast (shirtless per unanimous vote) scrolling through Tik Tok when it popped up on his For You page. He watched the compilation for a good few seconds before a grin grew on his face at a wicked idea. He looks over his shoulder to where you’re draped over a recliner and he lets out a quick whistle to get your attention.

Your head snaps up from your own phone and Roy motions you over with his head. You stand up, Jason’s shirt dropping just above mid thigh as you lean over Roy to see what he wanted to show you. Roy watched you watch the compilation of girlfriends putting their boyfriends arms out or up before they kiss them, watching the way the boyfriends melt into their girl like they wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. After a moment, Roy gestures briefly to Jason, who had his back turned to you two as he cooked at the stove, with his phone and whispers, “Ten bucks he folds like a lawn chair.”

Now Roy should have been more concerned for his wallet when you grin and counter with, “Fifty bucks he won’t.”

But all he could think about was how this was gonna be the easiest fifty bucks he’s ever gotten. He grins and holds out his hand, “You got yourself a deal, pretty lady.”

The bet is set with a firm shake, the obvious rules of “don’t tell Jason anything” doesn’t need to be said as you walk casually as ever into the kitchen, “Hey baby?”

“Yeah?” Jason said, turning his head towards you.

“Face me for a sec?” you say, gesturing to him to turn with a flick of your finger.

Jason’s eyebrows scrunched but he did as you asked. He placed down the spatula and turned so he was facing you. You look up at him before you lightly hit your toe to his shin.

“Bend your knees down a little.”

Jason does as you say before he asks, “Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

“No, baby. Arms up,” you say.

Jason holds his hands up, palms outwards as if he was being held hostage by his sweet menace of a girl. Despite the confusion, he does as you say because you are saying it.

“Higher.”

He lifts his hands above his head, elbows still bent. You shrug, it’s good enough.

“You sure I didn’t do anything wrong?” Jason asked, confused.

“No, baby, you’re fine,” you say as you step closer, hands going to hold his face, “Don’t drop your arms, understand?”

He nods, “Sure but why—”

When it comes to kissing Jason, you do not mess around. Pecks or chaste kisses were for starting lovers and you’ve loved Jason since you’ve met him pretty much. So when you swallow his question up with a kiss, you’re already coming out swinging.

Your body curves into his, the kiss is all tongue and teeth. Jason meets you where you are without a moment's hesitation. His arms twitch but they don’t move just as you asked, even though he desperately wanted to put his hands on you.

You even pull on his bottom lip with your teeth and all he does is shiver and keep his arms where you told them to be. You smile into the kiss, that’s your good boy. You’re so going to use Roy’s fifty bucks to take him to a steakhouse as a reward.

You slowly pull away, Jason chasing your lips and pulling you back in with just his lips and tongue. You giggle against his mouth, hands caressing down his jaw and neck to rest on his chest with each kiss as you say with a tilt to your voice, “Jay…”

“Yeah, baby?” Jason replied, his voice soft in only the way you can make it. A soft smile on his lips as he kisses you again, “Need somethin’?”

You hum as you finally will your head back far enough that he can’t coax you back in, you look at him so warmly it makes Jason’s hands twitch where they are in the air. You give him a satisfied pat on the chest as you send an evil grin back to Roy on the couch, “Pay the man, Harper.”

Jason looked between you and his best friend, confused, as Roy let out an annoyed groan and you walked down the hall to get dressed for the day. Roy grumbled as he lifted his hips to get at his wallet in his back pocket, “God damn fuckin’ yearnin’—pathetic fuckin’—got walked like a fuckin’ dog—stupid ass fuckin’—HEY!”

Roy pointed at Jason with a hand full of bills, still on the couch, and shouts, “Put your fucking arms down you whipped ass motherfucker!”

“Oh fuck off, Harper.”

(Jason refused to lower his arms until you came back and told him to yourself.)

a/n: if you have any suggestions for tim and damian for this prompt PLEASE let me know i wanna do them justice!! thank you for reading!! and happy late valentines day!!

divider credit: @wispyxfae

[waneborne-caverns]

formerly neglected 20 yo reader gets taught how to drive by the batfam send tweet

[perleaore]

୭ ˚. unmasking batman ₊   ֹ ˖

. . ۶ৎ autistic!bruce wayne x reader ˎˊ

ノ♡︎ ⬞ ׄ the times bruce wayne tried to date like a “normal” person and went off script

𝓘rene’s notes . . . I struggle to even call autistic bruce a headcanon like that’s just canon

It’s your first real date, and Bruce Wayne is doing the whole thing perfectly. The smile, the laugh, the effortless rich guy ease he’s been rehearsing since birth. You ask something half joking about Gotham architecture, not even looking for an answer, just filling the silence.

He gives you one. Then another. Then he forgets to stop.

Suddenly he’s talking faster, eyes brighter, hands moving like he’s mapping invisible skylines between you. Dates, materials, which buildings sank and why, which ones should’ve but didn’t. The charm melts into something sharper, more real, like you’ve accidentally switched him into a different mode.

You don’t interrupt because you’re kind of mesmerized.

He cuts himself off mid sentence. Blinks. Laughs awkwardly. Apologizes like he’s just spilled a drink on you instead of info dumped for twenty minutes straight. The smooth billionaire voice clicks back on.

You say, “No, keep going.”

And the way he looks at you then is different. Softer. Uncertain, but hopeful. Like he’s just realized he doesn’t have to perform a role, he can just exist and you’re still here. Still listening. Still choosing him.

Bruce insists on walking you to your door, it’s a formal obligation. Hand at your back, polite distance, perfect posture, the whole Gotham’s most eligible bachelor routine turned up to max. He keeps glancing around, subtle but constant, like he’s running threat assessments instead of thinking about you.

You assume he’s just being sweet. He assumes it’s about safety. Which, to be fair, it is Gotham.

You get to your door and you don’t move right away. You linger, keys forgotten in your hand, looking up at him in that way that’s supposed to mean something. He smiles back, charming and calm, clearly waiting for the next line in whatever invisible script he’s following.

Nothing happens.

So you sigh and say, “I want you to kiss me.”

He blinks like you’ve just given him new information (you very much have). Nods once, serious. “Okay,” he says, then hesitates. “Now?”

“Yes, Bruce. Now.”

And when he finally leans in, careful at first and then not at all, it doesn’t feel awkward or staged or logical. It feels like something out of a fairytale. Like he just needed the instructions before he could give you exactly what you wanted.

He starts talking in that voice again. The smooth one. The one that sounds like it belongs in a magazine profile titled Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor.

“I’ve always believed that connection is about timing,” he says, smiling just a little too perfectly, “and meeting someone like you makes me think that perhaps I’ve been waiting for the right moment without realizing it—”

You stare at him for half a second.

Then you laugh and kiss him mid sentence.

He freezes completely. Eyes wide, brain clearly rebooting. For a heartbeat he just stands there, hands hovering like he forgot what they’re for.

“…all along,” he finishes, softly, because the sentence was already lined up in his head and not saying it feels wrong.

You pull back, amused. “Were you flirting with me or giving a press interview?”

He blinks. “I was flirting. I think.”

You kiss him again, shorter this time.

The smile that comes after isn’t polished. It’s crooked, a little embarrassed, real. The playboy’s still there, but now he keeps tripping over the part of him that doesn’t know the script and doesn’t really want one.

You’re making out on Bruce’s bed, breath getting uneven, hands wandering in very ungodly ways. His hand is on your waist, warm and firm, until it suddenly stills.

You notice because his grip changes.

His fingers shift, slower now, rubbing the fabric between them with deliberate focus, thumb pressing just a little harder than necessary. He’s still kissing you, but his attention has split. “Is this satin?” he murmurs against your mouth. Then, more quietly, more absorbed, “No, silk. Different weave.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “Bruce.”

He hums in response, lips still on yours, his other hand sliding up your back like he never meant to stop. “I’m still kissing you,” he says earnestly, as if he needs to clarify. “I can do both.”

His fingers keep tracing the fabric at your waist, lingering now, less analytical and more appreciative, the curiosity has turned into something else. You pull him closer by his collar and kiss him properly, slow and intentional.

There’s no performance left in him. No charm, no polish. Just Bruce, distracted and curious and somehow still very clearly turned on, getting caught on how you feel under his hands and not bothering to hide it.

You’ve been flirting for ten straight minutes. Slow, obvious, leaning in too close, letting your hand linger on his arm like you’re daring him to do something about it. You’re giving full on fuck me eyes and are practically on his lap, like come on.

Bruce watches you, clearly processing.

Then he says, calmly, “If you want to have sex, you can ask directly.”

You freeze.

“…What?”

He looks genuinely uncertain, like he’s worried he’s misread the situation. “I don’t want to assume. But that seems to be what you’re implying.”

Your brain short circuits for half a second.

“Oh,” you say, then, because apparently honesty is contagious, “I want to have sex with you.”

He blinks once.

“Yes,” he says immediately.

No hesitation. No dramatic pause. Just yes, like you asked if he wanted coffee. And then his hand is on your waist, firm and decisive, and he’s kissing you with a borderline animalistic kind of hunger.

A moment later you’re not even walking anymore. He just lifts you, easy and careful and very focused, carrying you toward his bedroom while you laugh into his shoulder.

So much for being subtle. Turns out all he needed was the exact question.

The lighting is soft, almost too perfect, he arranged it himself. He’s standing there, words chosen, pacing measured, eyes locked on yours like it’s both a challenge and a performance. You can feel the rehearsed rhythm, the careful cadence he’s practiced in front of mirrors and empty rooms.

“I would like to be exclusive. Intentionally. Long-term,” he says, each word deliberate, precise, as if it’s a line from a script he’s been running for weeks.

You nod, smiling. “Yes. Obviously.”

He exhales, relief flickering across his face for the first time all night. But before the tension fully leaves him, before he even blinks, he adds, same tone, same unwavering gaze:

“There’s something else you need to know. I’m Batman.”

You laugh, short and incredulous. “Bruce, that’s… come on, really?”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t crack a smile. He just waits, still fully composed, still staring.

And before you know it you’re in the batcave, Bruce excitedly explaining everything in sight.

You’re sitting in the kitchen with Alfred, tea in hand, expecting nothing more than a quiet morning. He sips his own cup and then, as casually as if he were talking about the weather, says, “Master Bruce prefers routine. It’s part of being on the spectrum.”

You choke on your tea, burning your throat and making you cough like an idiot. Alfred just raises an eyebrow and waits. You swallow, still coughing, cheeks burning.

Later, you find Bruce in the study, pretending to read, perfectly composed as always. You sit across from him, arms crossed, glaring in mock accusation. “You told me you’re Batman before you told me you’re autistic.”

He blinks at you, genuinely confused, tilts his head slightly. “The first one affects your safety,” he says simply, like that explains everything.

You narrow your eyes.

Then his tone softens, quieter this time, a little more vulnerable. “The second one just affects me.”

And somehow, that’s even more unmasking than finding out he dresses up as a bat to catch criminals at night. You stare at him and realize there’s nothing left hidden, nothing staged. No Bruce Wayne, no Batman. Just Bruce, entirely himself, and entirely trusting you to see him.

© 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐍𝐌𝐔𝐍 ﹒ est 2026

[waneborne-caverns]

You think after he graduates the academy does he still keep in touch with the strays? Like attending weddings or baby showers and stuff? Maybe occasionally coffee with one or two to catch up?

I’m in the process of applying to radiology program and I’m just thinking of THE Dr Wayne just, personally drops by the radiology department to pick up his X-rays he ordered for a patient and talks to this one radiology tech before leaving. And one of the newbies just go “OMG I didn’t know you were dating the Dr. Wayne! He’s impossible to get close to!”

And the stray just like “what? No we just friends from our school days.”

Idk if any strays that manage to work in the same hospital as Damian ever get sudden drop bys or he just meets them for lunch in the hospital cafeteria before they both got to go back to their respective departments. But I think that be cool.

a/n: nonnie!! being a radiologist tech is so cool!!! i have a few friends that are techs and they're the sweetest people i know <3 i wish you the best of luck with your application process!! also i'm totally stealing that stray interaction idea for a fic that's SUCH A GOOD IDEA but to address your strays question, ABSOLUTELY does Damian keep in contact with his family I mean strays!!

⋆˚🐾˖° Damian Strays Masterlist ⋆˚🐾˖°

The Strays Are All Grown Up;;

Firstly, they all get into a school post-graduation, even Delinquent!!

Which was cause for a HUGE celebration in of itself but that’s a different thing

ANYWAY

Delinquent, MT, and Damian all attend Gotham University while Weeb and Alt attend school out of state

Weeb got into a very nice art school up north and Alt got into Princeton (to the surprise of EVERYONE bc what do you mean the edgy kid is going to PRINCETON)

Anyway they start a discord server and do weekly study sessions together all online with the two that are out of state

MT ends up dropping out after sophomore year as they wanted to take a gap year to travel with their improv troupe and they never finish their degree

Weeb also dropped out as it turns out art school is NOT for them and makes them hate doing any kind of art

They move back to Gotham, completely depressed and doubting themselves, and Delinquent and Damian support them the best they can

Damian manages to convince Weeb to at least get an Associates at the community college since they have enough credits already and Delinquent is able to use their grandparent’s connections to the art world to get Weeb an interview at a gallery as an assistant

For like, two months no one was able to reach MT until Damian randomly gets a call from them in San Bernardino, California with an invitation to this indie film screening where MT got a supporting role in??

“You got over your stage freight?”

“HA no, my character is blindfolded the whole time”

They all go to the screening and it’s strangely really good??

MT later got an award for that indie film

Alt returns to Gotham during breaks to catch up with everyone before returning to Princeton

They miss their friends SO FUCKING MUCH

Alt practically annoys everyone into hanging out with them as much as possible before they have to go back

MT and Weeb cheer the loudest when Alt, Delinquent, and Damian all graduate

It’s kinda embarrassing

Especially when Damian walks the stage and there’s almost like a rivalry between the Strays and Damian’s family on who can cheer the loudest

Damian is equally embarrassed by both parties so there’s a rematch scheduled for his MD graduation

Because Damian is the only one left in school, the group kinda starts to drift just a smidge

Like Alt and Weeb still live in Gotham but MT has moved to California and Delinquent started a job in a hospital in Metropolis

Damian sees Alt and Weeb the most but even they get busy as life starts to take hold and their careers and personal lives take off

Damian never feels alone or behind though

Weeb makes sure to take him to see every new anime movie despite him having no context

MT calls to make sure Damian is treating himself well and to vent about the dating life of L.A.

Alt takes Damian and Weeb to brunch often, both as a business leader and as a friend to catch up and discuss Gothamite gossip over some mimosas

Delinquent calls when they can but because of their job at the hospital, they more often than not send physical mail to Damian and the other Strays instead

Damian always writes back and he looks forward to their reply every other week

It goes without saying that Damian invited to every bachelor’s/bachelorette party, every wedding, is asked to be best man several times, wins every baby shower game, and guesses the gender of the baby with 100% accuracy every time

The Strays will never let this man out of their lives and Damian wouldn’t have it any other way <3

a/n: thank you so much for the ask!! sorry it took a while for me to get to it;; best intentions had a chokehold on me this past month so i'm just now getting to asks/requests!! thank you again so much for the suggestion!!

[waneborne-caverns]

•─────────‧˚꒰🐾꒱༘⋆────────• ⋆˚🐾˖° Join the Damian Strays! ⋆˚🐾˖°

A Masterlist of all Damian Strays content and head canons as they are developed! Based off of my general headcanon for Damian about how he'd adopt a bunch of "strays" in the form of losers at Gotham Academy! Each Stray has their own backstory but for narrative purposes are gn!readers with loser/outcast tropes tied to them!

Each Stray has a color coordinated to them: Weeb!Reader MT!Reader (Musical Theater) Delinquent!Reader Alt!Reader (Alternative)

Platonic!Damian: ★ Romantic!Damian: ❤︎

•─────────‧˚꒰🐾꒱༘⋆────────•

Headcanons:

Damian's Process for Getting a New Friend (Academy Vers) The post that started it all! A deep dive into how the Damian Wayne chooses his strays I mean friends at the Academy

Presenting: Damian's Strays! ★ ★ ★ ★ All about the personalities of each of the Stray!Readers as well as hints to their backstories and futures!

What the Strays Call Damian ★ ★ ★ ★ Based of off "Paging Dr. Wayne" where the Strays develop a nickname for their beloved friend!

Damian's Type (The Extended Cut) ❤︎ Expanding on Damian's type of alternative individuals and how Alt!Reader and Damian first met <3

The Strays Are All Grown Up;; ★ ★ ★ ★ How Damian keeps in contact with his former Academy besties and what adult life looks for all of them!

Paging Dr. Wayne Damian as a resident to a bunch of interns! (Important reference for future Stray content but no Strays are mentioned)

•─────────‧˚꒰🐾꒱༘⋆────────•

Written Works:

Dr. Wayne's Favorite ★ ❤︎ What happens when a Stray ends up working at the same hospital as Damian? How does the harsh and calculated Dr. Wayne handle being around one of his favorite people? (wc: TBD)

Damian's Type (Like Father Like Son) ★ ❤︎ Alt!Reader gets invited over for a Wayne family dinner and Jason is noticing some patterns developing. Is it all in his head? Or is this Stray more than just a friend? (wc: TBD)

Never Meet Your Heroes (You Will Be Adopted) ★ ★ ★ ★ What happens when the Strays encounter Robin during one dangerous Gotham night? How does Damian react to his friends lack of general safety awareness without giving himself a way? (wc: TBD)

[waneborne-caverns]

The Best Intentions

Platonic!batfam x ftm!reader

Series Tags: angst, eventual fluff, re-finding found family, EmotionallyNeglected!Reader, Reader is 18 and a senior in high school (my math may be off but I tried my best), ooc!batfam (just to be safe idk), kidnapping, violence, descriptions of panic attacks, language, character death/mentions of character death (Jason), beta reader? what's that lol

Synopsis: It’s been six years since your parent’s divorce and four years since your father gave your mother full custody of you. You’ve been nothing but a monthly bill to your billionaire father and a memory to the siblings who knew you. But after inciting an internal investigation into your neighborhood’s corrupt police force and getting yourself kidnapped, your father breaks his silence to invite you back to the manor you grew up in for your own safety. Old memories and new faces clash as you try to make sense of the man your father is and if you should even try to fit back into his life. Or will he continue to keep you at arm’s length, leaving you to be the empty chair once again.

Chapter Tags: references to kidnapping/bodily harm, jokes about self-harm

A/N: I've updated the masterlist to include the map of gotham and layout of the manor i am using as reference for this fic but as this is their first appearance i'll include them here and in every update going forward!!

.⋆♱𓆩𓆪 Gotham City Map 𓆩𓆪 ₊˚⊹ ♱ ཐི❤︎ཋྀ ♱ ₊˚⊹ 𓆩𓆪 Wayne Manor Map 𓆩𓆪.⋆♱

[start] | [prev] || Part 2: Testing the Waters (wc: 20k) || [next] | [masterlist]

The manor held something louder than an absolute silence for the first night in five years. Alfred noticed the change when he left the kitchen after washing your plate and cup. He paused in the middle of the large Great Hall, the echo from his polished shoes still ringing through the empty space. But they weren’t as hallowed as before, because you were there.

It seemed to breathe, low and slow, like a deep comforting slumber after a long spout of insomnia. Wayne Manor has held darkness in its corners and halls since Martha and Thomas’ deaths. It was a darkness that was decades old and grew more present when the manor was empty or the night grew too long. It was a darkness that Alfred was used to, much as he refused to acknowledge it.

So when he realized that the darkness wasn’t as cold as it should be, he couldn’t help but pause. Alfred knew the possibility that any night could be the night Wayne Manor becomes completely swallowed in the darkness, the emptiness of a manor unhomed. It was unlikely, but a butler must always be prepared. Even if that preparation was for something as grim as the reality that no one returns home.

But now, you are here. You, as a simple thought that the manor wasn’t completely void of life, brought an ease to the darkness that curled in the corners. A subtle warmth, a reminder, of something to return home to. You may not feel the love your father and siblings felt for you, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there; that you weren’t tethering them to return home. Ever since you were born you had that kind of pull, a power all your own you don’t even realize you carry. The power to bring someone home.

Alfred couldn’t help smiling to himself, a warm chuckle of soft delight leaving him before he continued on his way. He entered Bruce’s study and approached the old grandfather clock with the familiarity of an old friend, opening the mechanism without much thought and descending into the cave below.

Damian was already sitting at the Batcomputer, watching the CCTV footage of his family out on patrol with a map of Gotham on the side with their trackers pinging their locations in real time across the various districts of the city. His arms were crossed, his focused gaze not leaving the screen as Alfred approached to stand beside him.

“How is he?” Damian asked.

Alfred looked down at the youngest Wayne for a moment, eyeing the tension in his jaw that he no doubt picked up from his father. Damian was concerned.

“He is well,” Alfred said, picking an earwig from the collection in the computer’s console. By the time Alfred inserted his com earpiece, he was met with a cacophony of grunts, shouts, and casual conversation.

“—I’m not saying it was bad—”

“You said, and I quote,” Stephanie said, cutting off Dick’s attempt to clarify his statement, “‘I’ve had better bagels in a Denny’s parking lot.’”

“I didn’t say—”

“Yes you did,” Cass cut in.

“Don’t you two have a warehouse to watch?” Dick sassed, the faint sound of someone yelling in the background. As if there were any doubt they were thrown somewhere, the sound of metal crashing followed soon after.

“Yeah, and it’s dead quiet,” Stephanie groused, “Just because there’s rumors of Two Face’s goons moving around doesn’t mean that they are.”

“Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t put those rumors to rest,” Cass added.

“Sure,” Stephanie agreed, “But until then, com conversations are for our entertainment. And right now, Nightwing digging himself into a hole is perfect content!”

“I keep saying that I didn’t say that—”

“Would you like me to jog your memory?” Barbara teased, the threat of her hand on the playback button implied in her tone alone.

There was a pause, a scuffle and another vague shout before Dick responded, slightly wounded, “Whose side are you on, huh?” only to be met with Barbara’s laugh.

“That’s the—” Jason let out a grunt, there’s a brief scuffling sound before he continues, “—last time I take your ungrateful ass for a pick me up.”

“Oh c’mon, we were bonding!” Dick whined, “I take it back! It was the best bagel in all of Gotham.”

“Now that’s pushing it,” Jason replied dubiously. “It was from a bodega in Bowery—”

“Pardon the interruption to this very important discussion about breakfast bread rolls,” Alfred cut in unceremoniously, “I have an update on the Guest as you requested.”

“Go ahead, PennyOne,” Bruce replied, his voice stern and rough as usual as the conversation quickly quieted with Alfred’s interruption.

“The Guest ate his meal entirely with no evidence of any deception,” Alfred started, “He was still awake when I came to collect the dishes. He seemed a little on edge, as if something was worrying him. He was fidgeting with his hands under the blanket.”

“Nightmares?” Bruce asked.

“I don’t believe so,” Alfred said, “If I had to make an assumption, I believe the Guest is experiencing some insomnia brought on by the stress of the day. I offered him sleeping pills but he declined. If he is still struggling to sleep when I do my rounds, I’ll be more insistent.”

Bruce let out a sigh. Whether it was out of relief or wariness, it was anyone’s guess. After a moment, he spoke, “Thank you PennyOne, keep me updated.”

“Of course, sir.”

And with his job done, Alfred muted his com before he turned to Damian. He gives the boy a firm pat on the shoulder before leaving to start on his nightly butler duties. On the other side of Gotham, Bruce and Tim stood on the corner of a building overlooking a dimly lit street with the occasional driver passing through.

However Tim wasn’t watching the street so much as watching his mentor watching the street. Usually Damian would be patrolling with Bruce, but since he was grounded from all nightly activity until next week, the others had been on a rotating schedule. And it was just Tim’s luck that he was with Bruce after the evening they just had.

If Dick was here he'd know what to say. He was always good at saying the right thing to people, especially to Bruce. Tim wasn’t so good with words. He wanted to say something but what exactly can a seventeen year old say to a guy in his forties trying to rekindle his dead relationship with his son?

“Something on your mind?”

Tim flinched, surprised by Bruce’s sudden timbre voice that sliced through the tense air like a hot knife through styrofoam (he’s gotta stop letting Steph show him those videos).

Tim crossed his arms uncomfortably, “Nah, nothin’.” He puts his gaze out to the street, the pause awkwardly long before he adds, “Just…” Tim hesitates.

“Robin—”

“You did the right thing,” Tim quickly blurted out, his shoulders tense as he continued to talk quickly, “Hiding this from him, pushing him away—there was no better way to make sure he would be safe and—and I’m sorry.”

Bruce lets the words drift in-between them for a moment, studying Tim’s tense posture as if he was waiting for a bomb to go off.

“Why are you sorry?” Bruce asked.

“I…I don’t know,” Tim admitted with a shrug, “Felt like the best thing to say. Given the circumstances.”

Tim knew Bruce didn’t want anyone’s pity, but it’s hard not to feel sorry for a man in his situation. With an ex-wife that knows your secret identity and a child who can never know for his own safety, jumble in the series of adopted wards and a dash of child conceived prior to a divorce, and it would fuck up anyone’s personal relations. Not to mention breed serious insecurity issues.

Not that Tim noticed that about you at first. You wore your mask well. You didn’t even flinch at the sight of him. As the most media centric of the Wayne children, there was no doubt in Tim’s mind that you knew who he was when he followed Damian to the skate park. You played along with Damian’s lies like you didn’t know any better. And despite your act, you never showed any ill intention to him or Damian, as if you were getting to know people you always knew you’d get along with.

But the moment you entered the manor, it was like the mask couldn’t keep up with the change in environment. Tim had no doubt that you carried both love and resentment for your former home and of course those complicated feelings would carry over to the inhabitants. Tim had no idea what could be going on in your head right now. But he does know one thing.

“If you feel guilty, don’t,” Tim said, “(Y/N) doesn’t need your guilt, he needs his dad. You had your reasons and he’ll never understand that.” He gave a thoughtless shrug of his shoulders, “You gotta just get over it—”

Tim’s mouth clammed up tight as Bruce suddenly turned to look at him. Yeah, probably not the best idea to tell one of the most obsessively detailed men in the world to “just get over it”. Tim flustered, holding his hands up defensively, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re right.”

Tim’s mouth clams up again. His mouth opens and closes a few times as his eyebrows furrow in hesitation, “I’m what?”

“Right,” Bruce admits, albeit with all the tone of someone who both doesn’t say that enough. “(Y/N) doesn’t need my guilt, he needs his father. I should just… ‘get over it’.”

“Okay now that you say it, I can hear the—”

“Robin…”

“Shutting up, you got it B—”

“Thank you,” Bruce says instead.

Tim stares for a moment and can only nod, left stunned once again. He only looks away when Bruce returns his gaze towards the streets below. Tim gives Bruce a quick heedful glance before turning his head to look behind him. He finds your neighborhood immediately, it wasn’t hard to find now that he knew about it. Tim can’t help wondering how many times his eyes glaze over your home to focus on the bright lights of flashy villain attacks and the dim underbelly of their lairs where they lie in wait.

How long have they had their back to you? Was that your mother’s intention? Was it your father’s? If you weren’t a Wayne, would they even be looking your way?

Tim would like to think not. They would have found out about the corrupt police precinct eventually. And that you didn’t need to involve yourself at all if you just waited a little longer to act, if you had a little more faith that the Bats would handle it.

But you didn’t.

And Tim can’t help feeling responsible for that.

You gasp awake, blind in the dark with a throbbing heart. You bolt upright, scaring the shit out of Ace as he jumps up onto his feet. He begins to nudge his snout into your tear covered face, licking your cheeks and nose as if trying to say “I’m here, you’re okay now”.

It takes a few minutes of Ace licking up your tears and sweat before your heart finally evens out and you let out a long tired sigh as you pull your knees to your chest with a quiet murmur of comfort to yourself, “It was just a dream, (Y/N), it was just a dream. It wasn’t real.”

But it was real once. Very, very real.

Your hands ring around the phantom feeling of zip ties around your wrists, as if the skin was still raw and burning. It was just skin and scabs now. Carved in deep from where the ties dug extensively into your flesh. You start to pick at the edges of a scab as your mind begins to wander.

You can still smell the damp decay of the basement they held you in. You remember trying not to cry when they hit you, when they threatened to start breaking bones, when they talked about what they would do to you with hot rancid breaths against your ear. They would paint you a picture of your mangled body laying abandoned in that very basement, going into immense detail about how the rats would start eating away at you.

And how you’d still be alive to feel it.

You hiss in pain, flinching as you look down at your wrist. You’ve picked off another scab. Again. Fresh blood begins to leak out of the barely healed wound, curling down your wrist in a steady stream. You curse under your breath as you search around for something to press against it.

You end up using the bottom half of your shirt and press against the wound, cursing yourself again for making yourself bleed despite knowing better. You get up without thinking too hard about it, ready to go to the kitchen to search for the first aid kit.

It isn’t until your bare feet hit the cold marble of the main staircase that you register what you’re doing. Just because your mom had your first aid kit in the kitchen didn’t mean Alfred did anymore. He could have moved it anywhere in the manor after you and your mom left.

Which means to find the first aid kit, you had to find Alfred…somehow.

You could remember the layout of the manor in its entirety, but Alfred’s location was always a mystery to you. He’d always find you first, as if he had a sixth sense for when someone was looking for him. Though it seems now the sense has dulled from lack of use as Alfred is nowhere to be found in the dark and quiet manor lit only by the blue hue of moonlight.

You decide to head to the kitchen anyway, Ace’s clicking paws echoing the soft pads of your feet as the only noise in the dead air. Even if Alfred wasn’t there, you could still look for the first aid kit in the kitchen like you first thought.

The kitchen was quiet and cold, the usual warm glow of the lights and from the stove was absent. It sends a shiver down your back at the unfamiliar oddness of seeing the kitchen so inhospitable, though you know, logically, it was just because the lights were off. Even so, you can’t stop yourself from seeing it how you always remembered it.

Warm golden glow from the afternoon sun streaming through the window, perfectly capturing the floating dust motes like scattered stars. The smell of something sweet was always wafting through, even if nothing sweet was baked that day. As if the kitchen itself held that sweet homey scent in its walls. Alfred would stand at the stove like a captain of a ship, keeping everything aligned just right for a perfectly timed cast off where all the food would be ready at the same time. And in you would come, running in to see one of your most favorite people with a story to tell.

“Poppy! Poppy!” you run in hollering, covered in dirt and mud from the garden to cling to Alfred’s legs.

Alfred looked down at you as he made your and Dick’s lunch on the stove, a soft smile on his face and warmth in his gaze, “Yes my darling?”

“Dicky found a huge beetle—like this big,” you released his legs, only for a moment, to spread your arms as wide as they could before holding onto him again. “Can we keep it?! Can we Poppy?”

Alfred hummed in thought, pretending to think it over as you pull out your best puppy dog eyes, “Hm, that might be difficult…taking care of a beetle that big is a lot of responsibility—”

“I can do it! Promise!” you pleaded, “Pretty please! I’ll take good care of him!”

“Hmm,” Alfred hummed again before addressing the guest that had just walked into the kitchen, “What do you think, Master Bruce?”

Your head spun towards your dad as he barely crossed the threshold, clearly back from the office, as a gasp and smile would break from your lips. You released Alfred entirely, running up to Bruce and are immediately swooped up and tickled as he said, “Think about what, Alfred?”

“Dicky found a beetle, Papa!” you quickly explain, bouncing in his arms with childish joy, “Can we keep him? Please, Papa?”

“Keep who? Dicky or the beetle?”

Your weak little punch and frustrated pout at your dad’s joke did nothing to stop the laughter at his own joke. Your cheeks puffed out a little as you huff, “Both, Papa. Don’t be so mean.”

Bruce would laugh and say, “Yes of course, I’m sorry sweetheart.”

You smiled so brightly as your dad walked you out of the kitchen, excited to show him the beetle your older brother found in the garden. You talk his ear off about how excited you were to name him and take care of him forever, your dad laughing all the way.

You find yourself smiling at the childish memory, shaking your head fondly as you walk further in and begin to search for a first aid kit. As you search, the memories of that day keep flowing like an opened tap of word association. You remember that you named the beetle Humphrey and Alfred helped you identify him to be an Eastern Hercules Beetle. You fed him what you thought bugs ate when you were eight, a bunch of flowers and leaves. You were utterly broken when he died two months later, totally inconsolable until you had your funeral for him. You made Dick, who was thirteen at the time, give a eulogy and had your dad bury him under the ash tree at the edge of the estate where Dick first found him.

It was all a little ridiculous, but that’s what made you so fond of that day.

You hear a sudden noise from outside the kitchen in the midst of pulling open drawers and cabinets.

At least you thought you did.

The sudden sound gave you enough doubt to freeze mid drawer pull and strain your ears to listen. You try to hear past the ambience of the fridge, the sound of your own breathing, the palpitations in your chest—it only seemed to wind you up more.

You know logically that you are in the safest place in all of Gotham. You were in the home of the most wealthy man in probably the entire northeastern United States, who probably had the best security system in the world. Hell, even Peter moved like he was professionally trained and he was just a random Wayne Security Guard.

But you also thought your house was safe and look where you are now.

“Ace,” you whisper into the night, quietly as you can but still loud enough for the German Shepard to perk his ears up and look at you. Your eyes never leave the kitchen door. “Seek.”

Ace obeyed the command and you watch as he slips soundlessly through the door to check the house for intruders. It gives you a bit of relief to know the command actually worked. You never had a reason to use it when your father told you about it the day after one of your parent’s heated “discussions”.

“She’s seven, Bruce, I’m not letting our seven year old daughter be alone in this house!”

You don’t mean for the memory to come to you, in fact you do your best to push it far far  away. To stop being four feet tall and peeking through the gap of your parent’s bedroom door to watch your parents fight as your father packs his bags for a work trip. But it’s like your mind wants you to remember the memories you’ve suppressed. They can only be pushed down so much.

“She’s old enough to cook for herself,” your father argued, not pausing for a moment as he methodically layered more clothes in his suitcase.

“She can barely reach the stove!” your mother replied.

“Ace will watch over her. He’s trained to—”

“A dog, Bruce? You’re leaving our daughter alone with a dog.”

“For three days,” Bruce snapped back as an especially hard toss of a pair of pants into the bag soon followed, “I’m not negligent Alice.”

Your mother scoffs, “Could have fooled me.”

“If you’re so worried about her, you stay with her,” Bruce shortly replied, his frustration seeping into a tone that was usually much calmer.

“I would if I could Bruce, you know that. My work is important—”

“And mine isn’t?” Bruce spat sharply, flinging a shirt into the suitcase as he spun around to look at your mother.

There’s a pointed silence before your mother turns her head and mumbles just loud enough for your father to hear, “At least my work is sanctioned.”

That causes your father to yell, making you jump and tremble at the rumble of his usually calm timbre. He points an accusing finger towards your mother, “I am doing this for her, it has always been about her!”

You take a few quivering steps back from the door as your mother shouts back, “Don’t feed me that bullshit, Bruce, I know what this is really about—”

“Hey.”

You jump at Dick’s whisper behind you, spinning around to look at him as your parents continue in the background. You look up at him, fidgeting with your night gown as he puts a hand on your shoulder, his blue eyes studying you with a troubled furrow,  “What are you doing up, Peanut?”

Your eyes flick down to the duffle bag in his hand and your heart sinks with knowing. You look back up at him, dejected, “You’re going too, aren’t you?”

Dick’s eyes avoid yours guiltily, but before he can confirm it, the door suddenly swings open and you both turn towards your parents. Bruce is frozen at the door, looking down at you with eyes you don’t recognize. They’re distant, closed off—he wasn’t the father you knew right now. He was someone else entirely.

Your mother calls your name in a soothing coo as she moves fluidly around your father to carefully kneel in front of you, “Baby, why are you up?”

“I…” you glance at your father and look away just as quickly. Just seeing him somehow brings tears to your eyes, like when you disappoint your teacher at school. “I don’t know.”

In the end, your mother leads you across the hall to your room to tuck you in. You spare a glance to your father, only to watch him ignore you and walk down the hall with a purposeful pace and a “let’s go” to Dick as he passes. Dick could only offer you a mournful look, before following Bruce down the hall into the dark.

With your blanket tucked up to your chin, your mother gently rubs your chest as she waits for you to shut your eyes and go to sleep. You gather the courage to ask, “Were you and Papa fighting about me again?”

“Oh baby,” your mother soothes, “Me and your dad weren’t fighting. We were…discussing.” Your mother sighs and adds, “Being by yourself is a big deal, sweetheart. I don’t want you to get scared—”

“You don’t have to worry Mama!” Her rubbing motion halts as you say, “Ace will be with me!” You sit up as you add, almost frantically, “And—and Poppy taught me how to make oatmeal, and—and how to make eggs. I’ll be okay, promise.”

Your words meant to easy your mother’s worry only made her sadder as she pushes your hair back off your head to press a kiss to your forehead—

You startle out of your memories at the quick sounds of footsteps out in the kitchen hall, holding your breath as your heart suddenly lurches into a speeding pulse. You stiffen in anticipation but the footsteps disappear just as quickly as you heard them.

“Ace?” you whisper-yell. After hearing nothing, you add a tentative, “Alfred?”

Still nothing.

You swallow and glance towards the knife block on the counter. You try to calculate the odds that there actually is an intruder in the Wayne Manor…only to give up part way through as your fear to win out. You pull a slicing knife from the block and head towards the kitchen door.

You’re probably overreacting.

You’re definitely overreacting.

And yet, you shoulder the kitchen door as slowly as possible. Your eyes dart around the darkness that envelopes the manor hall for any forms or movement. Unlike your friends, you were never afraid of the dark. The dark was comforting, normal. And despite the anxiety making the hand gripping the knife shake—you aren’t afraid of the dark. It’s what’s in the dark that terrifies you. But the dark is soothing in a way you can’t explain. As if reassuring you that if there was a danger hiding in it, the danger would be too bright, too loud, for the darkness to hide. That the darkness wouldn’t want to protect anything that could bring you harm.

That soothing feeling gives you the resolution to walk out into the hall. Your free hand runs against the wall molding, the knicks and nail holes giving a familiar comfort. You remember racing down these halls, trying to beat Dick and Jason to be the first in line for Alfred’s freshly baked cookies.

You knew that they would let you win every time and you abused that fact persistently as a child. You find yourself smiling at the memory of all the times you’ve blocked the kitchen door right behind you and ate half of Alfred’s batch before they were able to move the chair from the other side with brute force. Jason would put you in a headlock as you cackled with chocolate on the edges of your mouth and Dick would take the chance to shovel as many sweets as he could into his pockets before Jason noticed and went after him next.

You follow the hall to the corner, turning to cut through the billiards room. When you enter, you pause. In addition to the billiard tables that have been there since you were born, the room seemed to have been upgraded into a gaming space. If the giant TV and several game consoles were any indicator.

Your eyes find the Gamecube, recognizing the Hello Kitty stickers you stuck on it a few weeks after your father bought it for you. It was a late birthday gift from when a business trip took him out of the city the week of your birthday. As an apology, he took a week off work and stayed in the Manor with you to play video games poorly and never leave your side.

You find yourself missing that version of your father. A bitterness curling in your stomach as you remember how the same man who let you paint his nails and sucked at Super Smash Bros, turned into someone who stopped picking you up from school and never left his study.

You continue out of the billiards room and make it out into the Great Hall, the heart of the Manor. The cool glow of the moonlight through the skylights was almost haunting if it wasn’t so beautiful. You could never explain it, but sometimes it felt like the manor was alive. Like it could feel you walking her halls and could feel your intentions. You wonder if the manor knew your intentions better than you did. If she knew the complexity this home had over your heart and the ulterior motives you carried through her doors. Would she forgive you for the transgressions you’ve brought into her very hearth?

Your eyes fixate on the lone light in the distance. A crack of light shining through a barely opened door up the main stairway across the hall from you.

Your father’s study.

It shouldn’t be surprising to you that your father still worked so late into the night. It should also be relieving as that the noise you heard earlier was probably him moving around. But it’s hard to be relieved when Ace still hasn’t returned from his search and Alfred has yet to show himself. You were hardly the most quiet person sneaking through the halls. Even as a child, Alfred was always there to catch you whenever you tried to sneak into the Great Hall to peek into your Christmas presents.

You climb the stairs slowly, cautious to not breathe too loudly and to step in slow conscious steps. You tried to tell yourself that it was nothing. That you were overreacting. That the nightmares were just making you jumpy. But your heart kept hammering away in anticipation. When you reach the door, you fix your grip on the knife as you softly call through the opening, “Dad?”

No response.

“Alfred?”

There wasn’t any sound coming from inside the study, as if it had paused long before you had made it to the door. With a slow exhale and a tightening of your hand, you swing the door open.

Damian hated being bored. As someone who was raised and trained to be primed for action, sitting idle while your family patrols the city was torture. Damian had half the mind to complain that his grounding was a cruel and unfitting punishment for the minor crime of meeting his half-brother. In Damian’s mind, he had every right to hunt down and meet the boy who shared blood with him.

If you were to ask him, Damian would say he tolerated you. He gave you passes with his physical boundaries that only Jon had the clearance for under the excuse of how you were raised. If his undercover snooping into your daily life taught him anything, it was that you were a magnet for physical affection. Whether that be through rough housing with your friends at the skate park or via hugs that last approximately 9.48 seconds by the owner of the diner you frequented. It seemed to Damian’s observations that if you lacked any physical affection you could very well wilt and die much like a house plant with no access to the sun.

So, of course, he let you do whatever you needed to get your daily dose of physical affection. It started with hair ruffling, given to him as a reward for learning a new skate trick you showed him or for not saying a rude quip to your friends. Then came the arm over the shoulder, usually if he said something you thought was funny or you wanted to pull him against his will into a conversation with kids his age. And finally, a hug. Just one, prior to the one tonight.

It was the day Damian revealed his true identity to you as your half-sibling. He didn’t know what came over him, just that by the time he realized it, it was already done. He never meant to get this close to you, to become someone you looked after like the other neighborhood kids his age. He just wanted to watch you, see what you were like after staring at a portrait of you on the gallery wall. He never expected that he’d grow fond of you.

What won him over in the end was your blasé reaction and fond smile at his admission. You pulled him into a hug, revealing that you knew all along who he was and you were glad to have finally met him properly. And for once, Damian wasn’t the first to pull away. He stayed in your arms for as long as possible, not acknowledging until then how much he wanted your acceptance of him. Your acceptance of him as your kin.

He knew from that day forward he’d protect you from anything. Even if it meant he was grounded from leaving the manor outside of attending school and extracurriculars. It was worth it so long as you were safe.

Still sucked ass though.

The elevator slid open, Damian walking absentmindedly out into the hall as he continued his game of Sudoku on his phone. Damian blames all the earlier talks about bodegas and bagels for his sudden craving for something savory in the shape of a pita pocket stuffed with feta cheese, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and dipped in Alfred’s homemade tzatziki sauce.

Damian used to hate the idea of making himself anything when there was a perfectly good butler around to do it. Yet this way he gets to sneak a little treat of feta to himself before tossing the spoon into the sink.

Taking the elevator from the Batcave was the quickest way to the kitchen and as Alfred was busy doing whatever it was that Alfred did, Damian was left to his own devices. The elevator shut behind him with a hiss and he pocketed his phone, letting his eyes adjust to the dimly lit hall.

In the shadows, he saw a figure, an animal. The clicking of its claws caused Damian to instinctively tense in anticipation, before the rhythm gave way to familiarity. By the time Ace trotted up to him, Damian’s eyes had adjusted. He pets Ace’s head in greeting with furrowed brows, not so much against the idea of his presence as he was confused by it.

“Why are you not with (Y/N)?” Damian questioned the Shepard. His eyes narrowed at Ace’s worried whine, “Where is he?”

Immediately, his instincts took over as all rational thought vacated as the mental image of your crime scene photos taken at the hospital after your kidnapping jumped to the forefront. Your swollen cut lip, the large bruises on your back and arms, the blood dripping down from the cut on your forehead, your eyes in that neverending vacant stare that he has seen on countless victims before.

Damian’s head snapped to the closest set of stairs—the servant stairs at the end of the hall. He didn’t pause to think as he ran towards the stairs, climbing them with a concern he had never felt before (not one he was willing to admit anyway), for if he did take a moment to think, he would have realized that the servant stairs he was climbing with such haste led to the west wing.

The bedrooms lay in the east.

Damian can’t help the questions that rush to his mind as he sprints across the upstairs floor, passing by the empty training rooms and indoor gym without a moment’s glance.

Who knew you were here? How many were there? Could Damian take care of them all by himself? How did they break in without triggering the security system?

This mansion is home to Gotham’s highest elite and houses tech that would make the United States military piss itself. Damian knows this. Of course he knows this.

But that hadn’t stopped assassins before. Hell, even he broke through the security of Wayne Manor (twice) and he wasn’t even aware of how the code acts. And if the League were to go after you—if any of Batman’s enemies were to get to you, Damian would never forgive himself.

He had to find you. Even if it would end in an embarrassing overreaction, he’ll bear the shame if it means he finds you alive and unharmed.

He throws open your door with little care if you were sleeping or not, taking note of the upturned blankets and half-unpacked bags at the foot of your bed. Damian had seen your room a handful of times, picking your locked door in order to try to learn more about the sibling no one talks about. His first impressions of you were that you were naive and way too into the color pink, it was like the girl section of a toy aisle threw up in there.

But as he went through your memories, stared at your pictures, flipped through abandoned journals, he read about a girl a lot like him. Someone who struggled with carrying a name full of legacy that defined so much yet felt wrong for you. Someone who was caught in the middle of two opposing parents and just wanting to have a life with both (of course his situation was more complicated than yours but the general feelings were mutual). Someone who felt a lack of connection with classmates at school, feeling like an outsider in your own skin. That last part was probably more personal than Damian could relate to, but he wouldn’t discover that until he saw you in person for the first time.

You were different from what he pictured. And not just in appearance, but in the way you carried yourself. You had confidence now, your shoulders no longer burdened, and so untethered from the worries you expressed in your journals. Damian hopes to one day know how you were able to change yourself that much. And if he could accomplish that one day too.

Damian walks in hastily as a boy on a mission. He checks the bathroom of your ensuite and sees it empty. When he walks to your bed to check underneath, he spots something and for a moment Damian’s heart stops dead.

It’s blood. Your blood. On your upturned sheets in dark red splotches that almost blended in with the strawberry print. It’s not a lot compared to what Damian sees on a nightly basis, but right now all he could think was that you were injured somewhere in the manor. Possibly being pursued. He had to find Alfred, he had to tell Father that there was a breach, he had to get to you before—

Damian snaps his head towards the door at the sound of paws. Ace stands in the doorway for a moment, staring at Damian. Before turning down the hall. Leading. Guiding. No doubt towards you.

Damian leaps across your bed to follow behind the trotting pup, socked feet skidding with his hard turn down the hall. He prayed that he wasn’t too late to protect the brother he barely got to know.

God, you were so stupid it was almost embarrassing. You should have known, really at this point this was on you for not seeing your father’s true intentions. After the initial surprise of being greeted by an empty room, you couldn’t help yourself from getting reacquainted with your father’s study. You place the knife down on his desk as your eyes sweep over the familiar space.

It was the same old worn down books, pressed in a clean line that felt purposeful. You always held some kind of doubt that your father actually read any of them. You see the same warm brown leather couch and matching leather chairs; the same mahogany desk exactly as it always was, facing the grandfather clock across the room as a reminder of all the time he no doubt spent here rather than with his only biological child.

Well, formerly his only biological child.

Though it seems that only you were worthy of the privilege of being ignored in favor of focusing on work.

You try not to dwell on it much as you round his desk, running your fingers underneath blindly. You smile when you feel the etchings still carved there, tracing your initials with your finger tip before finding the others.

D.G.

J.T.

Your brows furrow when you feel more etchings, unfamiliar but still shaped like letters. An I, maybe? Or a T? That was definitely a C…T.C.?

You end up crouching down to look, the lighting is terrible and you have to move your head to make sure you don’t block your only light—then you see them.

Other initials carefully carved along yours, Dick’s, and Jason’s, like a legacy you didn’t know existed. A few followed down the line you and your brothers started—T.D. C.C. While others were collected around, not so much part of a lineage as they were like branches off the same tree—B.G. S.B. D.T. And then, the freshest of the carved letters—D.W. carved right next to yours.

D.W.

Damian Wayne.

Your thumb grazes over the letters, the slight catch of the splintering wood on your skin feels like an anchor keeping you in place. You can’t help picturing Damian there, crouched under this desk like you did all those years ago, carefully scratching his initials right next to yours.

His little body curled up tight, his arms aching from holding them up long enough to scratch a few lines in before lowering them to rest for just a moment before raising them again. It was a subtle claim to a bond that you were both aware of, but one he was more prepared to embrace than you.

You wonder if he also used your father’s letter opener or if he used something else. You wonder if he got a splinter too. You wonder if he got caught like you; if your father smiled at him like he did at you rather than get upset.

You find yourself wondering more about the boy you’ve kept at a polite distance. What else do you have in common? Does he also feel lonely when your father goes on work trips? Does he stick out amongst his peers like you did?

You find yourself tracing all the letters again and wonder if they felt the same as you did when you carved your name here. If they understood the promise the three of you carved all those years ago and signed their initials in agreement.

“This is a bad idea, Jay.”

“Shuddup Squeaks, it’s a great idea,” Jason says as he continues to carve the J of his first name. “How else—” he grunts when the letter opener slips but continues on, “are we gonna have proof of our promise?”

“Can’t we just write it down?” you ask, knees pulled in tight to give your brother as much room as possible to vandalize the underside of your father’s very expensive desk.

“That’s what we’re doin’.”

You roll your eyes at his comment, “I meant on something that isn’t Dad’s desk.”

“It’s poetic.”

“You don’t even know what that means.”

“Do to.”

“Do not.”

“Do to.”

“Do—”

“Hey!” You and Jason let out a scream as your older brother’s head pops out from the top of the desk, his black hair swathing his upside down face. He grins wide at your reactions, “What are you two up to?”

“Jesus Christ Dick!”

“You tryin’ to give us a heartattack?!” Jason asked, pointing the letter opener at Dick’s grinning face.

Dick casually grabs the edge of the desk before flipping himself down onto the floor with both of you. He spins around and crosses his legs as he asks, “What cha doin’?”

“Nothin’,” you both say as Jason goes back to carving.

Dick turns his head upside down, trying to see what Jason is going, “Are you carving your name into Bruce’s desk?”

“I’m signin’ it,” Jason said as he finished off the T.

“Why?”

“None of your business,” Jason replied before holding out the letter opener to you, “Here, your turn.”

“So move your fat—Hey!” Dick snatched the letter opener out of your hand and held it far out of reach when you made a swipe for it, “Dick!”

Dick gives you an exaggerated pout, “I wanna carve my name too.”

“We’re not just carvin’ our names! We’re making a promise,” Jason argued.

Dick drops the pity act and asks, “What promise?”

You and Jason share a look. Jason shakes his head, his brows creased with embarrassment, but you cave the second you see Dick’s big blue puppy eyes, “It was my idea—”

“Hey!”

“We sign a promise that we will always be family forever and ever no matter what happens,” you continue. You drop your gaze to the wood grain on the floor, playing with the hem of your pants, “It was Jay’s idea to have us sign it on Dad’s desk.” You give an insinuating look at your brother and elbow him, “Somethin’ about it being poetic or whatever.”

“It ain’t my fault you failed English,” he responds with an eyeroll and cheeks red with a shy flush.

“Hey! I got a C minus!”

As you and Jason bicker to yourselves, Dick takes a moment to look at the letter opener in thought. Then a smile breaks out as he suddenly scoots towards you both and tries to squeeze his way under the desk, “Scoot over.”

“What? No—Oi!”

You kicked Jason out with your socked feet and a giggle as you scoot over to make room for your eldest brother, sticking out your tongue when Jason turns around to glare at you. You watch as Dick starts to carve a line above Jason’s initials, “What’re you doing Dicky?”

“I’m joinin’ the promise!” Dick declared, surprising you. “I wanna stay a family with you both no matter what too.”

You smile and hug your knees as you watch Dick carve in a D, then a G, right above Jason’s J and T.

“Hey, how come your name is on top of mine?” Jason asked when he looked under the table to check Dick’s progress.

“Because I’m older, duh,” Dick replied before handing the letter opener to you.

“In that case,” you say with a smile as you start to carve the first letter of your name above Dick’s, “I get to be on top because I lived here first.”

“That doesn’t count!” Jason says.

“It so counts!”

Once your initials are carved you drop the letter opener down into your lap and run your thumb over the three sets of letters, a warm thrum growing at the sight—only for you to let out a hiss and jerk your thumb back in surprise.

“What happened?” Dick asked, quick to take your hand and examine your thumb.

“I think I got a splinter—”

“Here I’ll get it!” Jason said as he grabbed your hand and pulled it towards him, a giant drop of spit starting to ooze from his mouth.

“Ew! Gross! Jason!”

“Hold still! It’ll get it out!”

“It will not!”

“Hey, watch it!”

“You watch it, Dickhead!”

“Dick make him stop!”

“Jay—”

“Quit squirming Squeaks and let me just—”

At the rough sound of a clearing throat, the three of you froze like deer in headlights. Your father walks into the study, leaning over the desk with a smile and a look of amusement on his face, “What are you three getting up to now?” His eyes dropped down, “Is that my letter opener?”

Your and Dick’s fingers never moved so fast, “It was Jason’s idea!”

You let out a watery laugh, your eyes having welded up with tears at one of the last memories you had of your brother Jason. One of the best too. You trace over his J reverently before finally straightening—only for the pleasant warmth to turn ice cold when your eyes catch the papers on your father’s desk.

The first thing that grabs your attention is the Gotham Academy Coat of Arms pressed onto the header. The next was your name, your current name, written in Alfred’s penmanship on a line that read: Student’s Name.

At first you think it’s an application for admission, but when you pick it up you see the words “Application for Student Transfership” in big bold lettering. Your eyes skim over the document, seeing your address is listed as the manor rather than your mom’s townhouse in the Upper East End, and that your emergency contact was changed to be only your father and Alfred. You find yourself scouring through the other documents.

How the hell did your father get his hands on your official transcripts? He’s not even listed as an emergency contact, do schools really just give these out to anyone who asks? (They don’t, Bruce hacked your public school’s database.) You see copies of your vaccines and medical visits for your transition, all things you know your father had no right to access. (Again, all stolen, Gotham PD should really start cracking down on cybercrimes.)

At first you’re not sure what to feel. You’re mostly flabbergasted at your father’s audacity to gather your records illegally all for an application to transfer to Gotham Academy. Then you feel annoyed. What right did he have to uproot your life when he never bothered to be a part of it in the first place?

There was a reason you didn’t return to the Academy once your parents divorced and you thought your father would at least have the foresight to ask before pulling a stunt like this. Shame on you for thinking your dad would ask you anything.

And why would he? You were just a child, a kid who didn’t know better who didn’t know what was good for you. That’s all you’ll ever be to him. An obedient little girl who will do whatever daddy says. Your father didn’t know you at all, didn’t even bother trying before forcing his way.

You have half the mind to throw this shit into the fireplace and leave this godforsaken manor and never darken its door again—only for the study door to swing open with a bang.

Your hand shoots for the knife you placed on the desk, only to loosen your grip at the sight of a young boy with wide eyes and heaving chest, “Damian?”

Damian pauses at the door, eyes on you for a moment before flickering around the space for possible intruders, then they return to you. You don’t expect him to stride in towards you and you certainly don’t expect the hard hug around your waist. His arms squeeze you tight before releasing slowly with a relieved sigh, your arms still hovering around him unsure of where to land.

“Damian?” you try again.

He tightens his hold, his voice muffled against your sleepshirt. Quiet and hesitant, like he didn’t intend for you to hear but couldn’t stop himself from saying it: “I thought you were in danger.”

Immediately you melt, arms coming down to press warm hands to his back. You start a soothing motion almost habitually as you softly reply, “I’m sorry, I’m okay Damian. I promise.”

Damian eases under your comfort and you are reminded, yet again, how young Damian was. When you first met him, you were surprised by how mature he was for an eleven year old boy. He acted like he knew the world better than most of the kids you skated with. He never cried when he fell and scraped his knee, his eyes didn’t even water when you wiped the dirt from his raw skin with an alcohol wipe.

After a moment of you running your fingers through his short dark hair, he speaks as if just remembering something, his voice carrying the ease of a warm cup of tea, “I saw your blood on the sheets.”

You pause for a moment before you remember yourself. You pull your hand back, in turn making Damian lean back to watch you look at your injured wrist. The blood was dried now but had dripped down to your palm since you had to use your other hand to hold the knife when you thought there was an intruder in the manor.

“Oh, yeah, forgot about that.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed as he gave you an incredulous scoff and pulled away. He is careful to grab your arm above your wrist as he pulls you to the leather couch. He makes you plop down and you watch him cross your father’s study to kneel at a cabinet. Opening it, it takes Damian only a few minutes to locate a first aid kit.

You have no idea why your father’s study of all places had the first aid kit and not the literally room with knives and a hot stove top but you don’t bother questioning it as Damian’s clinical movements have more of your interest at the moment.

You watch as Damian opens the box and pulls out an alcohol pad, a piece of sterile gaze, some medical tape, and neosporin. Damian carefully grabs your arm to steady it as he starts to wipe the dried blood away on your palm and around your wrist.

“Where’d you learn to do that—hiss,” you yank your arm back when the alcohol grazes the fresh wound before you are ready for it.

“Sorry,” Damian says, his hand going to grab your arm and yank it back before he hesitates. You’re not like his other siblings. He had to be more gentle with you, more kind. He waits until you allow your arm to be taken before going back to clean the blood, being more aware of the edges of your wound, “Father taught me basic aid in case of emergencies.”

Yeah, that sounded like your negligent father alright. Ready to teach basic aid to his kids so they could look out for themselves and each other rather than have him do it.

“He taught you more than me,” you comment as he tears open a new alcohol pad. This time you’re ready for the sting as he swipes over your reopened scab, “All I did was slap a bandage on it and kissed it better.”

Damian hummed at your reference to his skinned knee incident a few months ago. He squeezes neosporin on the freshly opened gauze pad evenly as he comments, “I did not mind it.”

You find yourself smiling a little at that. You watch as he tends to you, your eyes flicker from his hands to his face. Bowed in concentration, his sharp eyes soft with careful concern, he works with practiced ease that reminds you of Dick and Jason. As the older ones, they always said it was their job to look after you. You can’t help feeling a little silly to have your little brother tending to you in the same way.

“You know,” you start as Damian begins to wrap bandages around the gauze. You hold the end in place for him as he tears off some medical tape, “usually it’s the older brother who takes care of the younger brother.”

“If you are implying that you feel guilty for needing my aid, don’t,” Damian said, clocking you quicker than you thought. “You are not the only elder sibling I’ve given aid to.”

Your brows furrow a bit at that, “What do you mean by that? Why are they getting hurt so often?”

Damian freezes but only for a moment as an explanation rushes forth, “Boxing.”

“Boxing?”

Damian nods, smoothing the tape in place a few times, “Yes. It is good for stress release, I recommend it.”

You laugh a little at the thought but it’s not so outrageous that it sounded improbable. How else would your dad and brothers be in such good shape despite being white collar workers sitting at their desks all day? It would also explain your father’s unusual strength throughout the years too.

Damian releases your wrist and you look over his work as he picks up the scraps and puts away the box. You’re impressed by his skills, there wasn’t a bandage out of place, it felt secure and not too loose. You’d think this was done by an Urgent Care nurse, not an eleven year old heir to a billion dollar fortune.

Damian walks back and sits down on the couch next to you and you say, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies.

There’s a pause before you ask, “What are you doing up so late? Have trouble sleeping?”

Damian just nods before he turns the question on you, “Are you?”

You find yourself nodding, your adrenaline finally coming down enough for the late hour to hit you. You rub at your face and say, “Yeah I just…” you hesitate.

You can’t exactly confess to having nightmares about being kidnapped to a child, you don’t want to worry Damian more than you already have.

“I’m too used to my room back home, you know?” you lie. “I’m not exactly Strawberry Shortcake who gets cold if it gets under seventy degrees anymore.”

Damian nods. He did read about how testosterone can affect the human body’s temperature, making the body warmer than those with higher estrogen levels. He stands, “You can sleep in my room.”

“Oh, no, I can’t do that,” you quickly deny.

His eyebrows furrow, “Why not?”

“I—well—”

Damian grabs your hand and pulls you up, “Come.”

You don’t resist.

The rough snarl of the Batmobile’s engine echoes through the cave as it comes to a smooth halt back in its rightful place. Bruce and Tim hop out with a casual flare that should look ostentatious if it wasn’t done with the same impulse as one would have jumping over a pothole on a Gotham sidewalk. They approached the other Bats, Bruce’s hands going to his cowl to pull it off, “Sitrep.”

The two pairs look at each other before Stephanie gestures to the boys, “Ladies first.”

Dick and Jason think nothing of the comment as Dick supplies a summary of their patrol, “North Gotham and the East End are normal by their standards, just some thugs and vagrants trying their luck.” Dick glances at Jason for a moment before adding, “We also heard chatter about a possible deal going down in Bowery sometime this week.”

“How credible?” Bruce asked.

“Very,” Jason stiffly responded.

Bruce nodded, “Keep me informed.” Jason doesn’t respond as Bruce’s attention turns on the two girls, “Anything?”

They both shook their heads, Stephanie speaking up first, “Absolutely nothing, B. We sat at three of Two Face’s warehouses and the worst we got was a health code violation and some rats.”

“After Two Face was transferred to Blackgate on good behavior, there’s been no physical evidence of his resurgence as a Gotham crime lord,” Cass added. “Only rumors.”

Steph looks over, “Do we think he really changed this time?”

“For now we’ll have Oracle keep an eye out for any activity from Two Face or his men outside of hearsay,” Bruce said, “We can’t afford to be distracted by baseless rumors.” Bruce headed over to the Batcomputer, sitting down as he said, “Go get some rest.”

The Batkids share a look with one another. Usually after they gave their situation reports for the night, Bruce would return the favor with his own findings. Bruce only neglected to mention his own findings when they were bad. Very bad. Jason approaches Tim and asks him directly, “What’s the old man hiding?”

“Huh?” Tim asked, confused, “Nothing!”

“Bullshit,” Jason said as the rest of them crowded around Tim, “You two were patrolling through the Upper East Side.”

Tim glanced to the side, he knew what Jason was asking about, what all of them were concerned about. You. Damian gave them the location in the Upper East Side where Jason rescued you from your kidnappers (against Jason’s wishes), tonight Bruce and Tim were meant to follow up and find any clues or evidence as to who was behind it. Tim crossed his arms and repeated, albeit more solemnly this time, “We found nothing.”

“Then look harder—”

“We turned the place upside down, Jason, there was nothing there,” Tim emphasized. It took Jason a moment to realize what Tim meant by nothing. “No blood, no fingerprints, no evidence, nothing to prove there even was a kidnapping in the first place.”

“You calling me a liar, Drake?” Jason scowled. He put a finger to Tim’s chest, “You weren’t there, you didn’t see the fucking state he was in—he was barely fucking conscious when I got there!”

“I’m not doubting you—”

“Oh so you’re doubting him then,” Jason said, waving his hand dismissively as he turns to the rest of the Bats, “Timothy Drake, everyone—”

“I’m not doubting (Y/N) either!” Tim argued. “That’s not what I’m trying to say!”

Jason spins around to spit more venom in Tim’s face when Dick puts a hand over his mouth to cut his words short, Dick’s eyebrows furrowing, “Then what are you trying to say, Tim?”

Tim let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair, “I’m trying to say that this whole thing is deeper than just some corrupt cops. They’re—They’re too organized, too thorough. It’s one thing to clean up a crime scene, that’s expected—but for an entire precinct that gets nothing but positive reviews from the commissioner despite (Y/N)’s claims that this has been going on for years—”

“Are you saying this is some kind of cover up?” Steph asked, surprised, “And Commissioner Gordon is in on it?”

“No way,” Barbara piped up through the comms, “My dad would never cover for corrupt cops.”

“I agree,” Bruce put in from the computer, typing away furiously, “Someone is going over Gordon’s head to protect this precinct. This isn’t just about having someone inside the Gotham PD, there’s something bigger going on.”

There was a pause, tension growing as all the detectives arrived to the same conclusion. Corrupt cops within the Gotham PD were a dime a dozen, you can’t catch them all but they’re so disposable that any of the weekly villains will use them and toss them just as quickly.

But a whole precinct? That had to take years of work, decades of corruption that had been buried so deep the entire tree was rotten, not just the apples. It was an asset carefully hidden amongst the grime and crime that the city was known for. And you just went and shined a big ol’ spotlight right on it.

“What do we do?” Dick asked, the resolution in his voice echoed within the Bats around him, sparking a mutual protective wave.

“We keep him safe,” Bruce answered, “Keep him far away from the Upper East Side until this matter is solved.” He turns towards his kids, “Until then, never leave his side and he doesn’t leave the manor without an escort.”

There was a collective nod and with that, the matter of what to do with you was decided without your say. A necessary evil as it was for your safety, it was a call they were all willing to make on your behalf. You’d understand. That’s what they all told themselves as Dick and Jason left to return to their own homes while the rest stripped themselves of their gear and climbed out of the cave to head to bed.

Bruce was the last one to walk down the hall, Alfred behind him to make sure he actually went to bed rather than sneak back into the cave to continue working. In his defense, someone was after his kid and whoever they were would stop at nothing to make sure his son was dead. He’s already lost one son, he wasn’t going to go through losing another. Not after he tried so hard to prevent that from happening.

“Master Bruce.”

Bruce blinked out of his thoughts, realizing that he was staring rather intensely at your closed bedroom door. He catches Alfred’s eye for a moment before clearing his throat and opening his bedroom door as casually as possible after staring at your room dejectedly, “How is he?”

“He is sleeping peacefully now,” Alfred said as Bruce began to change into his sleepwear. Alfred paused as he considered for a moment if he should say more. He decided to offer Bruce a choice instead, “Would you like to see him before going to bed?”

“What?” Bruce asked, surprised in the middle of taking his shirt off. He lowered it back down as he said, “No, I—he should rest. I don’t want to wake him.”

“I assure you, he is very much at rest,” Alfred said. At Bruce’s hesitation, Alfred urged softly, “You should see him safe, Master Bruce.”

Alfred knew how Bruce’s mind worked better than him sometimes. He knew how his mind tended to lose itself in the dark of his bedroom, overanalyzing every moment, every clue, until eventually Bruce would leave his bed to return to his work. And with a son in danger, how could he not get lost in the “what if”s and “what could be”s. Jason was enough of a warning. He wasn’t going to lose you to the city too.

Bruce nodded, “Alright.”

Bruce hesitated when Alfred walked past your room and down the hall before following after him. They walked past Dick’s open bedroom, Jason’s shut one, Tim’s with the light peeking through the crack in the door, Cass’ door that is cracked open just a hair—before arriving at Damian’s room. Alfred didn’t knock as he turned the knob gently and pushed the door open.

The sight took Bruce’s breath away for a moment.

In Damian’s structured room, with the comforter half off your shoulders, you lay in Damian’s bed. The small boy was curled into your side, arms curled inward, with your arm up around his back as his head rested on your shoulder. Your other hand rested on your stomach, rising and falling with each steady breath, your head turned towards your half-brother as if you were watching over him.

The breath Bruce released was shaky.

It was a tiring day at the office and another fight with Alice over what was best for you that made Bruce want to lay down and cease to exist for a moment. He should have been more worried when he came back to a quiet house and the east wing was lacking laughter and loud conversations.

He opened his bedroom door, tie already loosened, only to be greeted by his children passed out dead to the world on his California king bed. Jason had his mouth wide open, breathing hard but not exactly snoring, his shirt raised over his stomach and limbs stretched wide. Your head rested on his arm, hands and legs curled in tight as you faced your eldest brother. Dick had his arm over both of you loosely, his fingers curled in the edges of Jason’s shirt so if either of you moved he would know.

Bruce stared for a long time. Then he walked over and sat on the edge of his bed, careful not to wake the three of you. He carefully moves the hair from your temple—

“Dad?”

Bruce blinked back into reality, suddenly finding himself sitting on Damian’s bed with his fingers having just brushed some of the fringe from your brow. Your eyes are barely opened in sleepy squints, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “What are you doing?”

You move to sit up, but Bruce gently coaxes you back down with a soft hush and a gentle stroke through your bangs, “Shh, nothing sweetheart, go back to sleep.”

You try to fight against the sleep that is pulling you deeper and deeper, only to give up part way through as the pillow hugs around your head too perfectly. You barely register how Damian cuddles closer, your arm instinctively coming up higher to support him as you sleepily mumble, “Don’t go.”

“Damian’s not going anywhere, darling—”

“No,” you say with a long whine, your free hand reaches out to grab the end of his sweatshirt, “Don’t go, please.”

Bruce feels his chest tremble with a deep ache. You sounded so soft, so scared. So small. Like you were just a child again, begging him to stay when he tucked you in at night. He would always lie, say he would; only to wait until you to go to sleep and slip out to go on patrol. Sometimes he’d find you passed out in his study, waiting for him to come back after waking up to see him gone.

He eases himself closer, one hand grabbing yours as the other runs through your hair again, “I’m right here, sweetheart. I won’t go, I promise.”

Your eyes are still barely open as a few tears stream from the corners. You’re so tired, your body feels so heavy—but the nightmares still terrify you. And even though you hate the man your father is, he’s still your dad. He’s still the dad who played video games with you, who let you keep a bug in his house and buried it for you when it died, who didn’t get mad at his children for scratching up his father’s old desk with childish carvings. He read you bedtime stories and snuck you cookies behind your mom and Alfred’s back. He was everything to you once. And maybe, deep down despite all the pain he caused you, he still was.

You needed your dad back. Just for the night.

“Promise?” your voice cracks at the end.

Bruce nods, carefully thumbing away your tears, “Yeah, sweetheart, I promise.”

Only then do you finally close your eyes. Bruce sits by your side as your breaths slowly start to even out with every gentle brush of his fingers through your hair. It’s only when he’s sure you’ve finally returned to your blissful sleep does he lean down to press a kiss to your forehead before standing up.

He doesn’t make it far though as when he rounds the bed to head to the door, a small hand snaps out to grab a fistful of his sweater with a very tired, very aware, “Father.”

Bruce turns to stare at his youngest, “Damian.” The stare off lasts a long moment, Damian’s sharp green eyes glaring at his father pointedly before the man says, almost as a joke, “Did you want a goodnight kiss as well?”

Damian’s grip falters in surprise before he says, quietly, “Don’t be ridiculous.” He gives the sweater a tug, “Lay down.”

“Damian—”

“You promised.”

Bruce let out a halfhearted sigh, not even bothering to fight him as he pulled up the covers to squeeze in next to him. Bruce was barely on the bed and couldn't help commenting, “There’s barely any room.”

“Buy me a bigger bed then,” Damian huffs, satisfied as he rests his head on your shoulder again.

Bruce lets out a huff of a laugh as he turns on his side, arm under his head, “I thought you didn’t allow sleepovers in your room.”

“I am allowed to give out exceptions,” Damian responds. He wiggles a little as he gets comfortable, “Goodnight Father.”

Bruce chuckles, “Goodnight Damian.”

Bruce’s eyes drift over Damian’s form to rest on the part of your face he can barely see. Your skin was still glimmering with tears that hadn’t dried, but your expression was calm once again. You let out a slight hum as you turn on your side, scooping Damian into your arms closer like he was a precious teddy bear. Damian adjusted easily, letting you do whatever you needed to in your dreamless slumber.

Bruce studies the pair of you. Two blood sons that were never meant to meet, practically inseparable in just a few months time. He dwells for a moment on what could have been. If he had both sons from the start, how deep could your bond have been? He wonders if you would have been this protective of Cass and Tim when they joined the manor, if you would have treated them like your little siblings as you have with Damian.

Damian had the advantage of being young, your older brother instincts can’t help itself at the sight of him. But Cass and Tim are only a year and a few months younger than you, they were practically peers rather than siblings. If Bruce didn’t push you away, they could have been your best friends.

Bruce always rationalized that letting you go was the best thing he could have done as your father to protect you from the darkness he carried and fought at night. But now he is witnessing the consequences of his actions in real time…and he hates himself for the choice he made in letting you be out of his sight. He decides at that moment, laying halfway off of Damian’s bed with an arm protectively over the pair of you, that he will never let you go again.

You were always sensitive to light. So when the morning light shined through the windows, it didn’t take long for you to wake up. You let out a groan as you turn on your side, facing away from the sun in hopes the little shade your body gives will allow you enough darkness to return to sleep. It doesn’t, but it was still nice to pretend that it was.

You hear the door squeak open, followed by a voice, “Good, you’re awake.”

You caution open one eye, your sleepy glare did nothing to dissuade Damian from entering the room and standing over you. He was as proper as usual, dressed for the day ahead despite it being only twenty minutes after sunrise as if he wasn’t also awake in the middle of the night like you were.

Curse children and their ability to run on less than four hours of sleep.

“Get up,” Damian orders, “Alfred has made breakfast.”

You whine, closing your eyes again as you pull the comforter up your shoulders, “I’m not hungry.”

“You will be,” Damian responds. He stares at you a good moment before clicking his teeth, “Tt, you’re acting like a child.” He pulls at the comforter, yanking it off of you, “To think I thought you were worthy of praise.”

Despite the harsh words, his tone was soft as if he didn’t mean a single thing he said. You call him out with a limp point of your finger and shut eyes, “You love me.”

“I tolerate you.”

You turn your head towards him, peeping both eyes open with a smile as you see your baby brother with his head sharply turned to the side and his arms crossed. A flush burning his ears a red so bright, you probably could have seen it all the way from Metropolis.

You sit up with vigor, satisfied with teasing Damian for now, as you hop to your feet with a pleased smile. Damian huffs at you as you two start to walk out of his room, “Wipe that stupid smile off your face.”

You laugh a little in response, still smiling away. You find yourself drawn to the bandage still around your wrist. Still tightly wound despite you sleeping with it on. As you two approach the stairs to head to the breakfast room, you gently grab onto Damian’s sleeve, “Hey, Damian?”

He pauses and turns to look at you.

You struggle for a moment. It’s been a long time since you were open about your fears and thoughts, especially with an entire community riding on your statement. How can you possibly show the cracks when you were supposed to be a leader? You never explicitly told Damian what you were going through, and he never pressed. For the first time since your kidnapping, you woke up with a smile and laughing. All because he was there, looking out for you without asking any questions.

You smile a bit, “Thank you. For taking care of me.”

He stares at you a moment before glancing to the side in faux nonchalance, “Tt, as I said, you aren’t the first elder sibling I’ve had to care for.” He looks at you, “We are brothers, it is to be expected.”

You smile a bit and laugh, “Still, I’m glad to have a brother like you.”

Damian nodded with a soft, barely present smile, “Likewise.”

The pair of you continue your lighthearted conversation as you approach the breakfast room, a much smaller dining room meant for a few people during more casual mealtimes outside of the grand dining room on the main floor. Though when you finally cross the threshold, you feel a cold wash of reality crashing over you.

You spot your father at the head of the small table, his eggs and toast with raspberry jam currently untouched as he looks over the papers in his hand with his free hand curling over his mouth. You can see the Gotham Academy letterhead embossed on the paper from the back and you remember the grim reality hovering over you.

Bruce looks over as Damian enters the small dining room, taking his seat next to Tim as your father gives you a warm smile that makes your stomach twist into knots, “How did you sleep?”

You urge yourself to be calm, tightening your hands into fists as you count to ten. You can’t be explosive right now. You need the leash to be loose enough so you can slip free before it has time to become a noose.

“I slept well,” you replied, tone level despite the hot rage boiling under your skin.

Your movements are slow, controlled. Not at all the light and carefree air you had when you were alone with Damian earlier. You sit next to Cass in the only available seat, thankfully a few heads down from your father.

Bruce nods, returning to the papers that spelt out your entrapment, “Good.”

You copy Damian’s movements almost to the letter, only grabbing some pieces of toast and the butter after he had. It was obvious you were hesitant, something Damian couldn’t understand as you were just fine earlier. It was just family here. Why didn’t you feel safe?

Cass watches you closely. She considers her talent for reading people to be a curse. What use is talking when your body gives yourself away just from the way your shoulders twitch? She can’t help it sometimes, it’s hard to resist when it’s so convenient. Such as now, looking at you the sibling she idolized from your paintings on the gallery wall, reading your emotions so easily it was like reading a children’s book.

You had no reason to hide the minute twitches that no normal person could see. Not like Damian who was raised from birth to reveal nothing. Getting a read on Damian when he first came to the manor was like translating a book you couldn’t open.

You were like a book who wouldn’t shut. You practically screamed how uncomfortable you were sitting at this breakfast table, despite calmly chewing on some toast and staring out into space. She could see the tension in your jaw, an anger so deliberately pressed down it felt like a boiler building up more and more pressure until it couldn’t take it anymore. Cass felt guilty for how well she could read the dissonance and upset you felt sitting here, like you were a prisoner rather than the person Cass wanted to be like the most.

You startle a little when Cass speaks to you, almost dropping your buttered toast as you turn to look at her. She’s staring at you expectantly and you realize she asked you something you didn’t hear, “I’m sorry, what’d you say?”

She gives you a small understanding smile as she repeats herself, “I have a recital next week, I’d love it if you could come.”

“Oh,” you say with surprise. You feel a flutter of warmth at the invitation, at the choice, given to you by someone who had no obligation to. You smile, “Yeah, that’d be fun!”

Cass smiled back, the question easing you to relax again as you started a conversation with her about her recital and her role in the production. Bruce watches with a relieved smile. He was worried when you came in so tense earlier, but it seemed to be just early morning nerves from it being your first breakfast at the manor since you’ve left.

His attention returns to the letter from Gotham Academy expressing your transfer acceptance after Bruce expedited the paperwork to have you start tomorrow on Monday. His hand goes to his chin in thought, his eyes drifting to you in your loose pajamas you’ve yet to change out of. You’d need a uniform, tailored obviously. And maybe some new clothes too, you came in yesterday with ripped jeans and a worn shirt that clearly has seen better days. Perhaps something collared would be good, maybe some slacks. Every young man needs slacks.

As Bruce begins to write down a list of clothes you will need, Alfred enters with two fresh plates steaming with breakfast. He places Damian’s plate down first, a ricotta and spinach egg bake that looks absolutely beautiful with golden yellow yolks and a side of sliced baguette. Damian says a quiet thank you before digging in.

Then Alfred came around to you and placed your breakfast in front of you. You hesitate as you know it’s not Alfred’s fault since it’s been so long. But as you stare at the plate of scrambled eggs and sausage links, you feel bile rise in your throat.

You don’t know when you started to hate the taste and texture of eggs, just that it happened after you left the manor. And no insult to Alfred as it was clear on the plates around you that he was an excellent cook and you were a picky eater as a child, but looking at everyone else’s fancy dishes in comparison to your childish breakfast made you feel like you were being belittled.

You suddenly really miss Marnie’s apple stuffed French toast bake.

Alfred was called over by Bruce before you could ask for something else, leaving you to stare at the unappetizing breakfast with an empty stomach. Before you could resolve yourself to not eating breakfast for the day, your plate was suddenly picked up and swapped with Tim’s from across the table.

You stare at the boy as he sits down with your plate of eggs and sausage, forking some eggs into his mouth like a starving man despite half of his oatmeal clearly being eaten. Tim catches your gaze as he gulps down his orange juice, he wipes the juice with his sleeve and says, “You can trade with Cass instead if you want.”

Cass nodded, already reaching for the oatmeal to switch with her breakfast parfait—you managed to stop her before she could take it and say, “No, no, it’s fine I just…didn’t expect that.”

Tim shrugs, “We trade breakfasts all the time. Eat off each other’s plates too,” Tim says as he scoops a spoon into Damian’s egg bake.

Damian lets out a cat-like hiss followed by a slew of Arabic words you couldn’t begin to translate before he hugged his breakfast to his chest and mumbled, “You’ll pay for that Drake.”

“We’re still teaching that one to share,” Tim said, gesturing his spoon to Damian, “He—hey!”

You can’t help the snort you let out, catching it with your hand as you grin at Damian’s smirk as he chewed the bite Tim stole right off the spoon. Tim goes for another bite, this time out of retaliation, only for Damian to hold his bowl up with one hand and Tim back with his socked foot. As the two continue with their bickering about sharing and permission, you and Cass share your breakfast amongst each other as you both watch the meal time entertainment.

Tim ended up giving up when Damian went to bite his arm, mumbling “demon freak” under his breath as he went back to the eggs and sausage as Damian dug back into his egg bake with smug satisfaction. You laugh a little as you take a scoop of Cass’ parfait when she offers it to you, “Man, I missed having siblings.”

It was a throw away line that you didn’t think much about as you put the mix of yogurt, pineapple, and banana into your mouth. It was supposed to be something sweet, lighthearted, but instead it sunk like a rock in Bruce’s chest. A reminder that, once again, he was the cause behind your ache. How many times did you eat your breakfast alone? How many times did you wish to wake up back in the manor? How many times did you dream of him leaving you?

Bruce swallowed before suddenly standing up, his scraping chair causing all heads to snap towards him. When he looks at you, you feel that distance again. A wall he puts up only for you, like you weren’t worthy of seeing something even after all this time.

“Once you’re dressed, (Y/N), we’re going out to buy you some new clothes and get a uniform tailored,” he says.

It doesn’t come off as a suggestion, nor a request.

It comes off as an order.

You curl your hands into your palms as your lips purse into a hard line, “Yeah, give me ten minutes, I’ll go get ready.”

If Bruce heard the mild tension in your tone, he didn’t react to it. He simply nodded, gathered the papers at the table, and left.

Tim wasn’t surprised you didn’t ask any questions, he wouldn’t be surprised if you always suspected your father was going to enroll you in the Academy once you entered his care. What Tim was surprised about, he realized as you stood up from the table to return to your room with a walk that carried a strain he couldn’t name, was that you had given in so easily.

“These are the latest in young men's fashion this season, Mr. Wayne. If I may bring your attention to the Hermes Spring-Summer collection, this cashmere—”

Annnddd you’re tuning out. Again.

There’s only so much Gothamite speak you can handle at this point in your life. Even as a kid you tended to dip in and out of conversations, your friends at the Academy’s parent calling you their little “Space Cadet” because you couldn’t find it in yourself to care about what grownups talked about.

You never clocked it until now but, you didn’t really have friends in the Academy. At least, not like you had friends at Gotham Central. Your friendships at the Academy started and ended with the school day or whenever their parents wanted to strengthen their relationship with your parents. At Gotham Central, you were able to be yourself without your parent’s names attached to you like they were a reason to tolerate you. At G.C. everyone knew who your parents were and they didn’t give a flying fuck, and your friends always ragged on your dad for being a deadbeat in order to get a good laugh out of you.

You were able to have arguments, fights about values that only matter to teenagers and then have your opinion be changed. No one agreed with you blindly because of who your father was, they argued with you when you were wrong or being stupid and you loved them for it. How can you ever go back to blind worship when you knew what real friends were like? You could barely stand the fake practiced smiles the boutique workers were plastering on in your father’s mere presence. It made you sick.

The last time you even stepped foot into the Diamond District was for a protest demonstration against the city’s tax cuts for the elites. You didn’t get arrested, but you got close. Your mom grounded you for a month when she found out…and also bought you a cake that read: “Baby’s First Protest” and gave you a crash course on protesting safely in Gotham.

Safe to say, you were not in your element and you certainly didn’t look like it either with your department store threads and general disinterest in anything your father holds up to your body to gauge the fit of before putting it into the growing pile the poor boutique assistant was carrying as she follows the pair of you around.

At this point you started to meander around the boutique pretending to look at clothes as you look at the glass windows and doors that look out onto the busy Gotham street. Men and women in pressed suits or dressed to the nines despite it being ten in the morning on a Sunday.

Every so often, you catch a few stares from passersby. People whose eyebrows furrow in confusion at the sight of you, some look away immediately once you make eye contact, a few sneer with judgement as they look you up and down. More evidence that you did not belong to this side of Gotham. No matter how much your father wished you did.

“This is a good start,” you hear your father say before he turns to you, “Come try these on, sweetheart.”

You follow the poor bouquet associate back to the fancy changing rooms as the main seller gets your father’s attention to show him some of last year’s fall collection. When you see Bruce start to walk away, you decide that now was your chance. You turn to the assistant as she starts hanging up your father’s choices, “Hey, um,” when she turns, you spot her name tag, “Ms. Diane, I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of the restrooms?”

“Oh of course, Mr. Wayne,” she says, putting the remaining clothes over one arm (how she was able to carry that weight on one arm was beyond you) as she starts to walk forward, “Allow me to walk you—”

“Oh no that’s okay!” you quickly reject, “I can find it myself!”

“Oh, um” she blinks, “If you’re sure…”

You nod, “Very sure.”

She seems a little hesitant but as she looks you up and down again, whatever conclusion about you she gathers is good enough for her as she points back the way you both came, “Take a left down that hall, men’s restrooms are on the left.”

“Thank you so much,” you say with a smile as you walk out of the dressing rooms and make a left down the hall. “I’ll be right back!”

You walk a few feet before looking over your shoulder. Seeing no one is looking your way, you hurry towards the employee-only door next to the bathroom. You barge right in, ignoring the surprised look of the boutique staff and their claims of “you’re not supposed to be in here” and instead find the employee entrance.

You push the door open as nobody stops you. You are let out into an alley behind the boutique lined with dumpsters filled with boxes and last season’s fashion that didn’t sell. A few employees on their smoke break stare at you as you look between the two directions of the alley before you turn to one and ask, “Nearest subway entrance?”

He juts his thumb in the direction behind him.

“Thanks,” you say as you start to hurriedly walk out the alley before spinning on your heel with a sudden thought, “Oh! And if anyone asks, you didn’t see me.”

And with that, you disappeared from sight around the corner.

“So let me get this straight…”

Jason gives his friend the side-eye as he continues his pull up reps in their shared dingey apartment in the center of Crime Alley, only the occasional grunts leaving him as sweat starts to drip down his bare chest. Roy is pacing in front of him, he always paces whenever Jason decides to drop the biggest life bomb with little context and expects Roy to be absolutely chill about it.

(And he is, this is Roy being chill right now.)

“Your sister—”

“Brother,” Jason corrects.

“Shit, fuck, sorry,” Roy said, “You said that, shit, fuck—”

“Dude, it’s fine.”

“Nah man, I’m an ally! I’m better than this!” Roy argues. “Okay, fuck, alright. So your brother,” Roy stressed with a heavy pause following, as if bringing more attention to his corrected error, “who you’ve been keeping an eye on since you came back, was kidnapped and tortured by some,” Roy gestures wildly, “unknown guy and is starting to live with Bruce and shit after five—”

“Six.”

“Six years,” Roy corrects, “And you’re just—” he stops pacing to gesture at Jason, “You’re just expected to fuck off and not see him ever?!”

Jason pulled himself up and grunted, “Pretty much.”

“What the fuck man?!” Roy shouted as Jason continued his pullups. Roy glared for a moment in silence, watching his best friend continue on like this wasn’t his little brother that he’s been looking out for from the shadows since he returned to Gotham.

That was how Roy found out about you. He noticed how sometimes during the night, Jason would cross the bridge into the Upper East Side and go radio silent for hours, before returning like nothing happened. Roy followed him once and caught him watching you walk home from your friend’s house. At first, Roy thought you were a possible case lead, but when it became obvious you were just an ordinary highschooler, Roy got a little creeped out.

“Dude,” Roy said, landing on the roof next to Jason after following him for the past week, “This is getting creepy.”

“Shut up,” Jason responded, his voice modulated by his helmet, his eyes never leaving your form as you continued down the street in the direction of your home.

Jason started to walk across the rooftops, Roy following after him, “Do you even know this kid?”

Jason ignored him as he watched you cross the street to go down an alley. He hops down to follow you, worried that you’d run into some thugs you couldn’t see in the shadows. Roy follows as he hurries after Jason as he crosses the street, “Do you even know his name?”

Jason’s shoulders stiffen as he walks, “Not yet.”

“Not yet—so are we just following a random kid?!” Roy asked, “Is there something you want to tell me Hood?”

“Would you—”

“I’d like to ask the same question, actually.”

The pair froze, caught like a pair of teenagers sneaking their way back in and got caught by their mother in the living room. Your arms are crossed in a similar fashion, an unamused stare as you look between two of the most dangerous vigilantes in Gotham like they were nothing more than misbehaving children.

It doesn’t help when Roy lets out a long, “Busted,” under his breath that Jason slaps him over the head for.

You lower your arms, not at all threatened by the pair known for their brutal justice in the form of broken limbs and (alleged) corpses, yet still hold onto your suspicions, “What do you want with me?”

Roy waits for Jason to explain as really only he could possibly explain what the fuck was going on. But when his best friend refused to respond and instead stared at you like an idiot, Roy grabbed Jason’s bicep and said, “Sorry, kid, we thought you were someone else! Be safe heading home alright—”

“Don’t pass through alleys like this anymore,” Jason spoke up before Roy could tug him away. “It’s not safe.”

Your eyebrows furrow, confused as to why the fuck the Red Hood cared about whatever dumb decision you made, “Right…” You give a mocking two-fingered salute, “You got it, Mr. Red Hood, sir.” You turn and continue your way through the shadowed alley, hopping over rotting trash and dodging suspicious puddles. You call over your shoulder, “My name’s (Y/N) by the way.”

And with that you were gone.

It took Roy four days before he was able to crack Jason open wide enough so he could talk about who the hell you were to him. Roy knew about Dick of course as well as the other Bat Kids, but he never knew about you: the one the legacy skipped over per your mother’s request. The one who can never know that their family protects the city at night.

As far as you knew, your brother Jason Todd was dead as a doorknob and to keep you safe, that’s how it should stay. Roy understood the reasoning but it was still so fucking unfair. Jason looked after you the second he returned to the city, even before he died he looked out for you. He was the only one who wanted to still be in your life and say to hell with Bruce, but because he was dead to you he couldn’t be.

Until Damian and Tim provided him with the fake cover of “Peter the Wayne Security Guard”.

“Peter, really?” Jason said as he read the ID card for the first time.

“We figured it’d be easier to remember since it’s your middle name,” Tim answered as Jason clipped the badge to the front of his Wayne Security uniform jacket.

“I’ve been undercover before, dingus,” Jason quipped back.

“Remember, Todd, I’m only allowing you to be close to my brother out of necessity,” Damian said with crossed arms, “I don’t like the way those brutes were threatening him and I expect you to stay on task.”

“Relax, shrimpy,” Jason said with a wave, “I’ll keep him safe.”

But Jason got too close too fast. He forgot his mission as he spent day after day getting to know the person you grew up into. You were still a goody two shoes, but now you had teeth and the fire to bite back. He was supposed to keep you safe, not encourage you to throw a match into a barrel of gasoline. Jason still hasn’t forgiven himself for letting you get hurt. He should have been there that night rather than get a panicked call from one of your friends who was with you when you got taken.

It’s cruel but that was why Jason felt like it was only fair he never saw you again, even as Peter. Jason only knew how to hurt now, protecting the public was just an unintended outcome.

Jason dropped from the pullup bar, wiping the sweat from his face as Roy looked at him with a sad, frustrated gaze. Jason glanced away, “Don’t say it.”

“Say what, the obvious?” Roy said as Jason walked past him to head to the kitchen. Roy followed, “He’s your brother, Jay. He’s family, your family, you shouldn’t be forced not to see him. So long as he doesn’t know it’s you, what's the big deal?”

Jason pulled open the fridge, pulling out the half gallon of whole milk and twisting off the cap, “Maybe I don’t wanna see him, ever think of that, Harper?”

Roy stares at Jason like he grew two heads, opening his mouth over and over like a gaping fish as Jason takes a swig from the milk carton. Roy gestures incredulously, “Did you get hit on your fucking head or something?!”

“Fuck off.”

“No, I’m serious,” Roy said, crossing his arms with a perturbed look on his face despite his dramatic reaction earlier. His brows knitted and his freckled covered face scrunched in confusion, “You’re tellin’ me that you are okay with going back to no contact with the kid you’ve been stalking for over two years? The same kid who you said was the closest thing to family you got left? That fucking kid?”

“Yeah,” Jason said, tone low and harsh. “That fucking kid.” Jason tossed the carton back into the fridge, turning towards Roy with a cold glare, “The same kid who wants a brother that’s dead, not me.”

“You’re alive Jay!”

“Not to him I’m not!” Jason shouted back, “I’m nothing like the brother he knew just fucking—just fucking look at me,” he gestures to his too big body, the pale Y shaped scar on his chest, the slight greenish undertones of his once warmer skin tone, “I’m this close every given day to fucking losing my mind to Pit’s Madness, and you want me to—what? Act like I’m not a monster? The brother he knew is dead, I won’t ruin that memory just because I want that little shit in my shitty life!”

Roy was silent, letting Jason’s rage festered by his own insecurities slowly fizzle out. Roy held back his sigh. He knew Jason was working on himself, on keeping himself level in stressful situations and keeping his PTSD from triggering at the worst possible moment. Roy knew it was a work in progress, he didn’t expect him to be fixed overnight. Jason was a good guy at heart, a murderer sure, but at least he had morals. That was practically a luxury in Gotham. Roy knew you’d see the soft parts of him if he’d let you. Especially if you’re as chill as Jason made you out to be.

After a moment, Roy said softly but firmly, “If you think for a fucking second that kid wouldn’t be over the fucking moon to know that you’re alive, that pit gave you more than just madness.”

Jason couldn’t respond, words trapped by a tense jaw and kept down by his clenched fists. The silence stretched for a heavy moment before Jason’s phone began to ring on the coffee table amongst his disassembled guns. Jason marched over, hitting Roy’s shoulder as he passed in childish retaliation before he picked up his phone.

Seeing Dick’s name flashing on the front, he flipped the phone open and answered, “What?”

“Hey, uh, don’t panic,” Dick immediately said in a high octave that did not reassure Jason in the slightest, “but we lost (Y/N).”

“What the fuck do you mean you lost him?” Jason demanded as he crossed the living room immediately to grab his leather jacket hanging by the door, “Wasn’t Bruce’s whole plan to have someone on him at all times?”

“Yeah, well, we didn’t expect him to bolt the second a back was turned,” Dick explained as Jason held the phone to his ear with his shoulder so he could shrug on his jacket. “He’s a good kid, he should know better than to disappear like this.”

“He’s eighteen and has a deadbeat dad and absentee mom. He probably thinks he can fend for himself,” Jason said as he grabbed his keys, “Where was he last seen?”

“In the Diamond District,” Dick said, making Jason pause midway out the door. “Bruce wanted to take him clothes shopping.”

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long tired sigh. Of fucking course Bruce would take you to the Diamond District. You couldn’t stop ranting to him about how much you hated the Diamond District growing up. You hated being looked at and studied while wearing clothes that have no reason to cost over a grand, feeling so out of place in your own skin you swore if you ever shop there again you’d hang yourself. The only way this could get any worse is if Bruce—

“Please tell me the old man didn’t transfer him into the Academy,” Jason exasperated.

The pause that followed went on for way too long.

“Fucking shit,” Jason cursed as he jumped started himself back into motion, “I should have known he’d try something that fucking stupid.”

“I—What’s wrong with the Academy?” Dick asked, confused, “Or the Diamond District? (Y/N) loved going to the district with us.”

“No, dickshit, he liked spending time with us and Bruce because we weren’t fucking around,” Jason snapped. “And he hates the fucking Academy, all those brats cared about was getting close to Bruce for their parents.”

Jason swings his legs over his bike, phone once again being held up by his shoulder so he could use both hands to insert the key, pulling the clutch lever with his left and starting the engine with his right. Jason didn’t even realize Dick was processing what he said until he heard Dick ask with quiet disbelief, “He really told you that?”

With his engine on, Jason was able to hold onto his phone as he leaned back a bit. His soft reply was barely caught over the rumble of the bike, “Yeah.”

Dick let out a sigh, no doubt running a hand through his hair and starting to pace if he wasn’t already. Eventually he asked softly, as if more to himself than to Jason, “Why didn’t he say anything?”

Jason didn’t respond. It wasn’t for him to explain on your behalf.

“I knew he was acting differently but I thought it was because of the kidnapping, I—” Dick’s voice became muffled as if he put his mouth over his hand is self-deprecating distress, “God I’m so stupid—”

“You can beat yourself up for being a lousy brother later,” Jason said as he kicked up the bike stand, “I’m going to get him and bring him home.”

“Does he even want that?” Dick asked.

Jason paused, unsure of what to say.

In all the conversations Jason had with you about your family, you never sounded bitter. Instead you were hurt, grieving the family you used to have even if it wasn’t perfect. Even though you were sidelined almost daily, not only by your parents but your older brothers too, you still remember how they were when they did look at you.

That after long business trips, your brothers wouldn’t leave you alone even if you begged them to go somewhere else and let you breathe for two seconds, and your dad would sit down and let you recap everything that went on while he was away, reacting to the drama of private school like it was a soap opera. The four of you going on outings that always made you sleep on the car ride home, head on top of your brothers’ shoulders in a little pile in the back seat.

You always understood that your dad’s work was important. That’s why you never kicked or screamed or whined whenever they had to work and couldn’t spend time with you. You were patient, always so patient.

Then Bruce pushed you away.

For the longest time, you tried to figure out what you did wrong or that you’d wake up and your dad would change his mind. But days turned into months, into years. And the little girl who spent years being polite, being patient, being quiet, became a man who was rude, spontaneous, loud—the trauma still clung deep in your soul but at some point, the person you’ve become won’t let himself stay silent.

Maybe you’ve reached your limit already. The rage and grief you’ve left unaddressed for too long suddenly resurfacing all at once would drive anyone to run. Jason understood that better than anyone.

“I don’t know,” Jason finally said, “I thought I didn’t want that either.” Jason put his helmet onto his head, “I’ll call you when I find him.”

“Tim says his GPS is at—”

“Gotham Cemetery, ” Jason answered, “I know.”

Jason closed his phone with a snap, pocketing it in his jeans and pulling down the visor of his helmet. His bike roared as it tore through Crime Alley, getting onto the main road to cut through Burnley and cross the bridge into Coventry. There, the Gotham Cathedral stood proud and valiant over the souls of Gothamites who died within her city limits, scattered amongst many cemeteries both old and new. There, funeral homes outnumbered bodegas ten-to-one and the only living residents there were nuns, priests, and orphans.

There, a sixteen year old Jason Todd was put to rest five years ago.

It’s a beautiful day today. Not too hot, not too cold. Enough clouds to keep the sun from blinding you but not too many to make it dreary. The perfect day to lay on top of your brother’s grave in the middle of Gotham Cemetery if you do say so yourself.

You do your best to visit Jason often. Once a week, every Thursday after school you’d sit with him. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you’d just sit, sometimes you can’t do much more than a simple hello with a bouquet of flowers as the grief just gets too much. Sun, rain, sleet, hail, snow—didn’t matter, you'd always be there.

Every Thursday on the dot without fail.

It made you an easy target, having something so constant in your schedule. Your route is so unchanged, you’re surprised a drag path hasn’t formed from your school to the station to the cemetery. It was at the station that you were kidnapped. The crowd was thick with commuters heading home and your area wasn’t the safest by any means (it’s still Gotham afterall). No one saw you get knocked out, no one thought to question the men carrying a teenaged boy God knows where—you were just grateful that you were traveling with your classmate at the time who was going to Coventry to visit their old orphanage.

If it wasn’t for him calling Peter, who knows what would have happened to you. You could have been buried in this very cemetery, several headstones away from your brother instead of right next to him. You doubt your soul would have found peace at that great a distance.

Because of your kidnapping and the week following involving a lot of police questioning and statements, you haven’t been able to visit Jason for the first time since his burial. You hope he didn’t think you abandoned him during those two weeks. You hope he forgives you for not being here.

And for crying on his grave again.

Jason hated it when you cried. Not because he was cruel but because he didn’t know what to do to get you to stop. He wasn’t the best at comforting with words or physical affection like Dick was, Jason was just there. And sometimes you didn’t want words or touch, you just wanted someone to be there.

All you ever wanted was someone to just fucking be there.

Your face scrunched up as you feel the hot prickle of tears starting to form again, covering your face with your hands as you mumble, “Sorry, I’m sorry Jay I just—” you take a shaky breath, in ends in a choked sob, “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

The words bubble out before you can stop them, thoughts you’ve sunk down deep in your chest for so long it felt weird not to have their weight sitting there.

You’re petrified of your own home. You’re alone with no one to rely on. You’re imprisoned in a mess that needed to be dealt with, but fuck why’d it have to be you? Why did you have to be the courageous one? Why couldn’t you let it be anyone else?

“I wanna go home,” you say between watery inhales and shaky sobs, “I want you here and I wanna go home.”

But home was tainted now with nightmares and paranoia. You can barely walk through your own neighborhood right now without feeling like you were being watched or that you were going to throw up. Marnie’s diner was full of expecting faces of neighbors and friends, all proud of you for standing up for the community, but not enough to stick their neck out too. And the manor was wrought with confusing memories and tense relationships you can’t even begin to define. Old brothers and new brothers and half-brothers—a fucking sister. Not that you have time to, with the threat to your life and your father trying to force you back into a mold you outgrew.

Home meant safety, meant being able to let your guard down, meant being able to cry without caring about how it made you look, meant forgetting that the world was complicated and cruel. There were only so many places left where you felt like you were home, one of them being on manor grounds and you doubt you’re ready for whatever shit your father had to say to you after you ran off.

You sniffle, wiping your eyes and turn on your side in the grass growing over Jason’s grave. Your hand cards through the grass, the soothing motion helping to calm your pulsing heart. You don’t hear the footsteps until the worn black boots are right in front of you, caked in the dark brown grime of Gotham and some reddish clay. You don’t look up when their wearer greets you, “Mind if I join?”

You shrug, eyes flicking to the side as Peter drops down next to you. He leans against Jason’s gravestone, not disrespectfully, but as if it were an old friend. You glance up.

When you first met Peter it was at your front door step. You were rushing out the door to walk to school only to open the door to a young man in a Wayne Security uniform. He was outrageously tall, wider than a doorway and built like a fucking truck, teal eyes that had a shape you found familiar by couldn’t place, pale scars and a white tuff, bold, against the rest of his ink black hair that curled around his ears. Your first thought was how you thought he might have vitiligo.  He seemed surprised to see you as if he didn’t expect you to live in your own house. He was stiff at first, calmly asserting that he was assigned to watch over you by your half-brother. You thought the whole thing was a ridiculous overreaction by Damian at the time but you chose to play along for his sake.

You never expected to bond with the guy assigned to look after you every day. You never had someone shit talk your dad with you and actually seem to mean it, making you choke on a milkshake at Marnie’s afterschool with laughter over a dry insult that was way too accurate.

You found yourself confiding in him about insecurities your friends wouldn’t understand. You told him secrets about your homelife that not even Marnie knew the extension of. You admitted things to him you would never confess even if you were on your death bed.

“How’d you find me?” you finally asked.

When Jason looks down at you, his jaw tenses reflexively at the sight of your tired red eyes. You’ve been crying on his grave again. He swallows before he says, “Figured you’d be here.” After a pause he added, “That, and the GPS on your phone didn’t hurt.”

That got a snort out of you, a small victory. And you say with a sarcastic roll of your eyes, “Of course my phone ratted me out, fuckin’ snitch.”

Jason laughed a little as you returned to lay on your back. After a moment you ask, “Did Bruce send you?”

Jason shook his head, “Nope.”

You’re surprised. You sit up on your elbows, “Damian?”

Jason shook his head again.

Your eyebrows furrowed, really thinking hard about it, “Alfred?”

Another shake of the head.

This time your eyebrows rose, voice dripping with disbelief as there was only one reasonable answer left, “Dick?”

“You sound surprised.”

You give an embarrassed shrug, avoiding his gaze to say, “Our last conversation didn’t exactly end well.”

Oh, don’t worry, Jason heard Dick whine about it all last night. Alright,“whine” was a strong word, but how else would the emotionally constipated Jason Todd describe letting his brother emotionally vomit all over him during their patrol? Dick even started to cry a little and the best Jason could do to console him was take him to a bodega that he wasn’t even grateful for.

“Yeah, well,” Jason said with a sigh, scratching the back of his head, “Dick’s not one to dwell on shit like that.”

You sit up fully, crossing your legs in interest, “Sounds like you know him pretty well. Are you two close?”

“Um,” Jason trailed off, leaning towards a vague enough truth, “we were closer when we were younger but kinda drifted when he left for Bludhaven. We only recently got on friendly-ish terms again.”

“You knew Dick as a kid?” you ask, “Were you at the Academy with him?”

“I, uh,” Jason flubbed. Great, now he was making up this shit on the spot. Good luck keeping up with a lie you just made up, genius. He decided to continue with giving a vague truth, “Y–Yeah, not the same year though so—anyway, uh,” change the subject, change the subject, “you, uh,” Jason’s eyes flicked for something—anything to talk about. Like maybe your shirt or pants or—

Jason’s blood went cold, eyes locked onto the skin-toned bandage around your wrist.

“Did you get hurt?”

Your hand instinctively went to your wrist, your fingers ghost over the tighter elastic bandage Alfred put on you before you left the manor this morning. You look down at it, “Yeah, um, just picked at a scab on my wrist. It’s fine though, see?” You pull up your sleeve to show him better, “Damian patched me up and it’s not bleeding anymore.”

Jason took your wrist gently, thumb gliding over the textured bandage with a sigh through his nose as he mumbled, “You gotta stop pickin’ at your scabs, Squeaks.”

He said it like an afterthought, too focused on your wrist to have heard the nickname glide from his lips. But you caught it. How could you not? It was like hearing a sound you thought you would never hear again, a nostalgia that runs so deep you didn’t even know it could be triggered by something as simple as a nickname.

It settled in your chest. Heavy, but not dragging. Like when a pet lays on your chest, it was warm, comforting, familiar. Something that makes you dare not move or breathe as the slightest movement will disrupt the peace and the comforting weight will be gone.

“Glad that little demon brother of yours is taking good care of ya,” Jason said. When you didn’t respond, lost in your own head, Jason frowned, “Hey, you good?”

No reaction.

“(Y/N).”

“Hm?” you blink, staring up into Jason’s eyes. A blue so close it makes you doubt, but too green to be his, surely.

Right?

“Where’d you go, cowboy?” Jason teased, though his eyebrows and flickering gaze revealed his worry, “Everything okay?”

Finally, the spell broke. You pull your wrist from his hand with a not at all convincing, “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, I uh,” you laugh a little, even though the thought is more bittersweet than humorous, “saw someone else for a sec.”

You shake the comparison of the Wayne Security Guard you know and the brother you’re grieving from your head; knowing how wrong it was to compare someone living to someone dead and instead try to refocus back on the conversation.

“So Dick asked you to find me and take me back to the manor?” you asked, more as a recall than as an actual question as you think that’s what you were talking about before.

“Sort of,” Jason replied. He turns to face you completely, “I told him I’d find you, make sure you were safe, and take you home.”

Your eyes narrow slightly, muddled by the statement, “So you are taking me back to the manor?”

“I’m taking you home,” he emphasized. “Wherever that is, is up to you.”

You blink, finally understanding what he meant. You look away, not sure what to think, where to go. In the end, your eyes turn downcast under Jason’s patient gaze as you muse, “What if I don’t have a home anymore?”

Jason was silent for a moment before he confessed, “I thought I didn’t either.” You turn to look at him and he smiles a soft, familiar smile that makes your head hurt and your chest ache. Then he says, “Until I got to know you.”

You stay perfectly still as he reaches out his palm, it’s rough against your hair as he tussles it with a familial affection that fills a void that’s been left empty for far too long. Jason admits in a soft voice, “I haven’t felt like I’ve been home until you came back into our lives.”

There he goes again. Saying something that hits you so deep it makes you question everything you know about life and death. As he pulls his hand away, your eyes glance towards your brother’s tomb stone and it finally hits you who this man is to you.

“Jaybin,” you say casually as you sit upside down on the garden bench, watching your older brother as he hunts for rocks to use in his new slingshot. When he hums in vague acknowledgement, you add with a swing of your feet, “When I die, I’m gonna send someone to look after you.”

“Huh?!” he said with a spin and a glare, dirt all over his cheeks and his blue eyes as wild as he is. “The fuck you mean ‘when I die’, you ain’t dyin’ before me.”

“But what if I get into an accident?” you say breezily with kicking feet, still upside down with blood rushing to your head, “Or get super duper sick and have to stay in the hospital?”

His face hardened, the stone in his hand digging into his palm as he tightened it into a fist, “Why are you sayin’ all this stuff?” His shoulders rise slightly in anticipation, “Are you sick?”

“No, silly,” you say as you right yourself, slightly dizzy from all the blood rushing back down, “Whoa.” You blink a bit and say, “It’s a, uh,” what was it your dad called it? “contuincy.”

“You mean contingency?”

“That’s it!” you declare with glee as you point at him. You tease with a grin, “Shoulda known you’d be all smart and stuff from all the books you read.”

Jason rolls his eyes, “So your contingency plan when you die is to send someone to look after me?”

“Yep!” you say, beaming. “That way you won’t miss me too much!”

“That’s so stupid,” Jason scowled, face furrowed with angry embarrassment as his cheeks turned rosy, “I wouldn’t miss you at all, stupid.”

“Would too,” you tease with a smile, “All you do is hang around me whenever you and Dad get back from a business trip.”

“Yeah, well,” Jason grumbled. “Still stupid.”

He goes back to searching for rocks as your attention drifts instead to the rose bushes nearby. It’s as you’re rubbing their velvet petals that you hear Jason murmur something under his breath that makes you smile. But you ask him to repeat it anyway, “What was that?”

“I said,” Jason stressed, slightly louder but still grumbled against his will with his ears burning bright red, “I’m gonna send you someone to look after you too.”

You feel the tears prickle as you smile. Actually, you’re beaming brightly as you laugh just a little at how bittersweet the memory was. You turn towards the man your brother sent to look after you in his stead and say with a smile, “I’m ready to go home, Peter.”

Jason smiles. He stands and holds his hand out to you, “Let’s get going then.”

When you take it, it feels like you’re starting over with conviction. You entered the manor knowing that you were going to love bombed and swarmed by reminders of how your father treated you as a bill. You knew you would feel conflicted towards everything and everyone despite the fact that you care so much. That despite everything you still wanted Bruce to be a dad to you again, to be the dad he was before your parent’s divorce and Jason’s death.

But knowing and experiencing were two different things. And you weren’t at all prepared for the way your heart and mind would react to being around the family who left you. But now you know, now you are prepared. You weren’t your family’s little girl anymore, haven’t been for close to two years now.

You won’t let your life be defined and your peace uprooted because someone else thinks they know what is best for you. What defines a home for you.

That manor is your home. Despite every lonely night, every missed birthday party, every argument, every instance where you wondered if you would ever be something more than an empty chair—despite everything.

It’s home.

And right now, curled up on a window seat in the billiard's room where you used to wait all those years ago, sat a young eleven year old boy with his knees tucked in tight and his chin pressing on top.

He’s waiting for you.

Damian is waiting for you to come home.

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Tag List: @wendee-go @demon-master-zero @jealouscupcake @chairoart @yeo-haengja @a-taken-url @pianopuppygirl @uniquenicefangirl

A/N: goddamn this one was a hefty one huh? thank you sm for all the kind words on part one!! im glad this series is something people look forward to see updates on! you'll be excited to know that ive laid out all the chapters and itll be six in total!! (and maybe an epilogue if i feel like its needed we'll see) thank you so much for reading!! (also please lmk if the taglist worked its my first time doing it!)

divider credits (in order of appearance): @k1ssyoursister @cursed-carmine @sisterlucifergraphics @strangergraphics-archive

[waneborne-caverns]

Dude it’s Damian and his strays against the world!

I can’t imagine if one of the strays run into Damian when he’s Robin. The awkward moment of trying to not act like big brother around the stray.

Do you have more personality hcs on the strays? I kinda see myself with the weeb since that’s who I was when I was younger. But way more oblivious to being bullied since it was less physical and more social like being allowed near a group but not -in- the group yk? Like they have a group chat but then a separate one just for me. And they talk shit in the one without me.

Frankly feel like Damian would click that shit fast and weeb didn’t realize that group was keeping them around more like a stray dog and less like a friend.

a/n: nonnie im gonna steal that first part for a fic idea bc i HAVE TO DIVE INTO THAT DEEPER AS ITS OWN THING OMFG but yes, yes, let me share my general hcs for the strays personalities <3

⋆˚🐾˖° Damian Strays Masterlist ⋆˚🐾˖°

Presenting: Damian’s Strays (aka Damian’s civilian best friends)

Weeb:

Shocker to no one, but I was also a weeb in school so a lot of my personality hcs for them is based on me and my friends

As you saw in their texts, overuses the text emoticons so much like will spend ten minutes scrolling through a database full of them to get the right reaction

Unapologetically themselves it’s kinda inspiring

Reads manga publicly after finishing their classwork or while waiting for school to start like they do not care

Despite the air of nonchalance they put up, they’re very chalance like buddy they care so hard if you’re listening to them explain the Water Seven Arc of One Piece

Would hate to be seen as annoying in anyway like I feel like they would mask a lot of their more cringey aspects of themselves when getting to know Damian

But once they’re allowed to let their freak flag fly it is out baby and they will never hide themselves in front of you again!

Totally projecting here, but when Weeb grows up they become a gallery manager at a locally run art gallery in Gotham in the Diamond District while also being a freelance digital artist on the side

They have made so many nsfw drawings of the Gotham vigilantes its not even funny

And yes Damian knows…because ofc as a fellow artist they showed him a WIP of Nightwing asking if the arch was realistic

Damian couldn’t look Dick in the eyes for a good week

MT (Musical Theater):

Idk if y’all will get this when I say that MT is the uncool kind of musical theater nerd

Like maybe it was just my high school but there was a clear divide within the theater group that had like a hierarchy I never understood as an outsider

It’s giving unnecessary infighting like bro we are all nerds in the eyes of the jocks stop putting each other down just to get a pass

ANYWAY

Wicked was their gateway drug, their mom took them to a show when they were ten and they’ve been in love with theater ever since

Can sing to the surprise of everyone like bro they’re in theater ofc they’re classically training in opera singing 🙄

They hate being the center of attention though so they are a techie for most Academy productions (which are a huge deal btw bc ofc they’re children of Gothamites they’re gonna have the budget)

The Funny One of the group and it’s exhausting

They put so much pressure on themselves to be liked and funny all the time that it’s giving “if i’m not the funny one then what am i” kinda identity crisis

Was the first one to make Damian laugh (it was just a scoff BUT IT COUNTS) and it’s their biggest accomplishment

Like if they ever win an award their speech will include a line like:

“This is the second best day of my life, the first of course being the day I proved that the Dr. Damian Wayne can laugh. Love ya man!”

Ofc the camera cuts to Damian in the audience as he rolls his eyes with a smirk

MT would grow up to become a producer/PA that at first was just a background person but bc of their charisma and good chemistry with the cast, MT will develop a fanbase all their own that request more and more behind the scene content of them

Think the crew on Dropout if y’all know what I mean, that’s the kind of thing I’m imagining for them

Joined an improv trope in college (IM SORRY ITS A CANON EVENT FOR EVERY THEATER KID I DONT MAKE THE RULES)

Delinquent:

Comes from a family that had a hard fall from grace and is now raised by their grandparents who aren’t the nicest

Bc of their situation they carry a lot of hate and resentment that they take out on their friends and fellow students at school

Comes to school tired and is flunking every class but doesn’t care as they don’t really see a future for themselves

Is giving spicy kitten energy (like Alfred the Cat when he was first introduced) and Damian immediately makes that connection and Delinquent becomes the first of the strays

Delinquent hates being pitied and hates when people talk shit about them and their family (like yeah they hate their dad too but that’s still their fucking dad asshole)

Once started a fight bc they were told that someone was gonna jump them during lunch so they jumped them first

Is super blunt and rude to their friends and it’s a little hard to work through at first bc of all their rude comments but once they’re out of their abusive family home they grow up to be the kindest person in the world

Apologies a lot as an adult to the fellow strays for past comments the other strays don’t even remember and carries some guilt for being an asshole as a teen

This is totally based off of another ask I got (that I’m totally making into a fic) but I see Delinquent also going into the medical field like Damian as a way to “balance” what they did as a kid but probably just as a nurse or technician (their grades really bit them in the ass with that one)

That or like as a social worker, someone who will help kids like them get out of their abusive situations and give them support like their friends did for them

Alt (short for Alternative):

Oh Alt the person that you are <3

The cause of Damian’s bi-awakening btw, I see Alt as being so androgynous no one knows what gender they are like Damian would just straight up ask:

“Are you a guy or a girl?”

 “Do you wanna do a questionnaire so you can find out? Or do you wanna kiss and figure out how you feel afterwards? C'mere sweetcheeks, gimme a kith” *gives a quick peck on the lips* “So how do you feel? Do you feel gay or straight?”

Even more confused and now blushing, “...uhhhh”

Hard flirt!! Bounces on the first sign of flusterment they cause within their friend group and goes so fucking hard it not even funny

Weeb is their favorite to tease with Damian being a close second

Wasn’t hugged a lot as a kid so is super physically affectionate, will drape themselves over their friends so casually

Similar to Weeb, they are unapologetically themselves and strives to be the biggest nuisance in Academy history:

“Mx. Alt, your uniform is not following school regulations”

“The student handbook specifies a school branded blazer and a skirt and pants with plaid patterning”

*gestures to their leather jacket that they sewed the school logo onto that they ripped off their uniform jacket and their skirt on top of pants combo*

“I feel like I fit the criteria quite well, don’t you Miss?”

The faculty is sick of them to the point that they don’t even care if they come to school dressed like a Victorian woman in mourning

Grows up to take over their family’s pharmaceutical company and becomes CEO, they’re a boss babe that knows how to dance the line and rizz their way through a company merger

Still dresses like a gothic dream though, don’t worry

a/n: you guys are spoiling me with all these Damian Strays asks;; i'm gonna have to make a separate masterlist for all of this lmao

[waneborne-caverns]

If the residents calls Dr Wayne dad……what did the strays call him? And how did he respond to that nickname

⋆˚🐾˖° Damian Strays Masterlist ⋆˚🐾˖°

Oh they for sure call him Akh (which is Arabic for brother but in the context of like calling your male friend "bro") at the suggestion of the anime nerd (let’s call them Weeb)

They don't use it in front of him bc duh they've never spoken it aloud before they don't wanna butcher it and accidentally call the kid who looks out for them a slur

So for now it was said in private or in texts between fellow strays

But ofc since group chats are hard to remember who is in it and who isn't and that's how Damian finds out:

“Hey has anyone seen akh today??”

“Nah”

“negative”

“He wasn’t in homeroom （>﹏<） do you think he’s skipping?? ∑(; °Д°)”

“Akh?”

“...”

“...”

“┬┴┬┴┤(･_ ├┬┴┬┴”

“yeah, like أَخ or whatever”

“^^^”

“...”

“I am at the dentist”

“Okay!!”

“Gross”

“Be safe! (˃ᆺ˂✿)”

“...”

“I think he took it pretty well!! (*´∀`*)”

“wrong chat”

“ミヽ（。＞＜）ノ”

“I will return at lunch”

“We will be discussing this”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“k”

“...”

“Guys we are so fucked”

“WRONG. CHAT.”

“ITS NOT MY FAULT THEY LOOK THE SAME 凸ಠ益ಠ)凸”

Anyway, Damian joins them at lunch and isn’t surprised at all that it was all Weeb’s idea

He is very impressed by Weeb’s research in the accuracy of the term in its context

(They flip off Delinquent with so much fucking glee, Weeb is so proud of themselves)

It takes a few days to get the pronunciation right as they’re all English speakers first so the “kh” sound in Arabic was hard to grab at first

Weeb and MT (Musical Theater) get it down first with Delinquent and Alt picking it up later with more practice

Now they use it in casual conversation all the time when talking to him:

“Akh!! Here’s the notes from homeroom you missed this morning!”

“You’d tell me if my jokes were like bad bad, right Akh?”

“Hey, Akh, they bothering you?”

“Akh c’mere, I wanna test a new tattoo idea on you, gimme your arm”

Damian will never tell them that he approves of the nickname, but he doesn’t shoot it down either

(He does shoot down Dami immediately when MT tries it out, the strays are allowed only one semi-embarrassing nickname that he’s secretly proud of)

a/n: sorry for the rainbow vomit of text lmao whenever i figure out how to make smaus i'll become unstoppable!!! thank you sm for the ask anon!! this was fun to dive into a bit!!

[waneborne-caverns]

If Damian did pursuit the doctor career, do you think he would still do that adopting strays thing by looking out for the med students still in the program after he graduated and become a doctor in the medical field? Like would he be the strict “you must be perfect in everything or you might as well drop out cause your a failure” asshole doctor to the newbies or he’s like corrects them when they mispronounce a medication they need to give to a patient in a hypothetical situation? Are there undergraduates that are like dying to shadow Dr Wayne cause they heard he’s not strict and high strung like the other doctors that frequently cause a student or two to cry after yelling at their incompetence?

a/n: can i just say i love all the asks i've been getting lately asking about damian? i love my little baby boy with issues <3 thank you so much for the ask nonnie!!

Paging Dr. Wayne (Damian as a Resident headcannons)

disclaimer: i know NOTHING about the medical field outside of watching Grey's Anatomy ONCE like ten years ago there will be medical inaccuracies!

Damian as a resident would be exactly like my drawing professor in college. Someone who is strict and brings you to tears every class period but is the fucking best teacher you will ever have

(fuck you Professor Chawky you made me cry every class but fuck if i didn’t improve more in that semester than in 5 years of doing art i hope you never die)

Like when former students of Dr. Wayne are asked about how he is as a resident they’re all like:

“Dr. Wayne? Oh he’s a fucking asshole, I flooded a line once and he had me running charts for a month. But because of him I can read charts better than anyone and could put a line in blindfolded, I owe him my career”

People have heard so many horror stories and success stories about him that he often gets a mixed bag of students who are afraid of him or who idolize him

I think he would still pick up strays, especially those with different residents

Like yeah, he knows Dr. Thompson can be an asshole when they’re running on fumes and takes it out on their interns

So maybe he pokes the bear where it hurts (a doctor’s pride) to take the brunt of the verbal abuse instead of the interns

Would deny it if you asked him straight up if he ragebaited Dr. Thompson just to save a few interns self-esteem though

“Dr. Wayne, did you really take the bullet for Dr. Thompson’s interns?”

“Tt, no don’t be stupid. Get back to your rounds”

Damian doesn’t get interns often but when he does he cherry picks them himself

And yes, a majority of them are terrified of him/heard the horror stories or come from non-legacy families

If there’s two things Damian knows, it how to deal with people who are scared and people who have everything to prove

(definitely not from personal experience, who said that?)

He treats his interns strictly and without pulling back punches, if you make a mistake he makes sure you know it

He’s not outwardly cruel as so much as incredibly blunt

He inherited his father’s disappointed dad stare too so its a double whammy sometimes

“It’s bad enough I’m a disappointment to my own father, but now I’m a disappointment to my star resident too?!”

Damian, not at all prepared for that kind of bombshell during a 48, “...let’s focus on the patient for right now”

Damian is a source for a lot of trauma dumps like I’m sorry king, it’s easier to shred your daddy issues to someone who isn’t your dad but is a lot like him

He navigates them well after awhile though like he takes the “dad” role pretty well to his interns with daddy issues like:

Damian after a successful surgery, looking at his intern with direct eye contact: “I am very proud of you. You’ve done well”

Intern, bursts into tears

Awkward pats all around

An intern did call him “dad” once

It was the middle of surgery too with all their fellow interns watching from the theater like Damian holds his hand out for a tool with his hand wrist deep in intestines all like:

“Hand me the—”

“Forceps! Here you go Dad—”

Entire surgery room goes dead silent

Damian gently takes the forceps, “Thanks.”

AND IT IS NEVER SPOKEN ABOUT IT AGAIN

That intern laughs about it now and once cracked a joke about how “Dr. Wayne is gonna walk me down the aisle one day”

And ofc Damian overheard that and says as he passes:

“Not if you’re standing around not doing your rounds, I won’t”

Every intern grows to love their time under Dr. Wayne, it’s very much giving Nanny McPhee where the interns hate him at first and think they would do better under a different resident

But when their internship is over they hate saying goodbye bc they realize he was the best resident they could have ever gotten

He challenged them and made sure they took breaks but still pushed themselves

He would sneak protein bars into their coats pockets secretly and even though they could never prove it

They know it was him

Even if he denies it every time and scolds them for eating while out in the hall

At the end of every internship, his interns always force him to take a picture with them

He keeps each and every group photo on his wall in his office

Right next to his photos with Damian’s Strays from the Academy

a/n: i hope i was able to address what you were looking for in your ask!! thank you so much for the request!!

[waneborne-caverns]

You know what I’m glad you said Damian “adopts” his friends at the academy. Cause frankly I would have no idea how that dude even gets friends with how high his Standards are. Reminds of the time I got “adopted” by this goth dude who said in exact words “you look like you would get bullied, so I’m gonna be your friend. Lmk if someone messing with you and I’ll take care of it.” Like ok goth dude.

But really do you have hcs on how Damian goes about the process of gaining a friend at the academy? Does he have a small group of weirdos he hangs out with or he divides up his time with each of them like one on one?

a/n: that's so cute!! i love it when people adopt others into their pack like "yes you are mine now and i will kill for you". and i am so glad you asked!

⋆˚🐾˖° Damian Strays Masterlist ⋆˚🐾˖°

*pulls down projection screen and pulls up powerpoint presentation*

Damian's Process for Getting a New Friend (Academy Vers)

First off, we gotta establish the kind of people Damian is drawn to at the Academy:

As you mentioned, Damian has high standards for people and that extends to his classmates and fellow Gothamite elites

The quickest way to get Damian’s respect as a fellow student is to be just as annoying as he is

Correct the teacher on everything and score perfectly on every test

That’s what appealed to him at first anyway

Then he attended his first arts class and the entire standard he had for academics is chucked out the window

The kids that were failing his calculus class could name a note from just hearing it

The written word matters very little when you can paint emotions no word can describe

It really opens his mind for the first time as to what intellect actually is in the grand scheme of things

Damian also has no standard of politeness bc if he asked a question, he’d be told the answer even if it was deeply personal

So one day he gets curious enough to ask the kid in his study hall dressed in all black with piercings and dramatic makeup “why do you look like that?”

They just look at him, a little apprehensive, before saying “because I want to?”

And it click so perfectly in his little logical brain like DUH

Ofc they look like that bc they WANT to

Damain gives a respectful nod and moves on but he starts being more aware of the people that are publicly themselves in the loudest way possible

I would say it’s sometime after Damian gets Bat Cow, that he starts picking up “strays” in the form of classmates

It starts with the talkers obviously, the ones who talk to him first when they realize he’s not gonna shove them in their locker like other people like him

These are the theater kids and anime nerds

The ones who hold the conversations while Damian eats lunch like they’re his own personal podcast

Damian knows the plots of so many musicals and animes it’s not even funny

He will make references to anime at home and it makes everyone short circuit like:

“Hm, this political ploy is similar to the Uchiha Clan Massacre meant to prevent all out civil war within Konoha”

Slow turn towards Damian:

“How the fuck do you know about the Uchiha Clan?”

Shrugs, “I am well versed in the history of Naruto Shippuden, I am not so ignorant as to not take their lessons into account”

One time Damian asks Dick if he can ask about his time in the circus and Dick is so excited bc like

“Yes, finally we’re bonding!! We’re getting to know each other!!”

But the second Damian starts asking about P. T. Burnam and Phillip Carlyle, Dick immediately just leaves to go lie down

(he cries a little but its fine)

It takes a little more effort to befriend the quieter “strays”

These are the delinquents, goths/alternatives, etc who already have their pack and are wary of strangers for one reason or another

But you’ll get the occasional adventurous sort who sees the fact that a Wayne is sitting at the anime nerd table and dares to test the waters

Full offense but the first person to ever flirt with Damian and get him flustered was an alternative person (bro has a type he ain’t slick i see your ass in 4k Al-Ghul)

Because of his reaction, the alternative folks love to tease and pick on him but Damian just huffs and curses them and their bloodlines in Arabic

They tried to convince him to pierce his nose once but Alfred caught him in the bathroom trying to do it himself:

“If you wanted a piercing, you could have just asked, Damian”

“May I have a piercing, Father?”

“Not until you’re sixteen”

“This house is an oppressive nightmare meant to drown me”

“...who are you hanging out with at school??”

The delinquents start to see Damian as a safe person when he doesn’t rat on them for catching sleep under the hall stairs or for burning sugar on a spoon in the bathroom

Hey if there was one thing Jason taught him, it was to keep your mouth shut and mind your business

The amount of times that Damian would walk into the bathroom as people were smoking weed and just…casually uses the bathroom and washes his hands then leaves is way too high

They even start offering him a hit after a while like:

Damian, washing his hands, while the stoner in the corner is like “...you want a hit??”

“HE’S A SIXTH GRADER?!”

“IDK WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH HIM?!”

They give him some of their snack stash instead, the occasional cosmic brownie or zebra cake for his trouble

As for your questions about who he hangs out with and when, I would say it varies on the environment he’s in. Similar to how he interacts with his pets, some are indoor and outdoor pets (Titus and Alfred the Cat) and some are just outdoor (Bat Cow, Goliath, Wiggles if he visits):

He has friends that he sees more often than others such as the people he spends lunch with vs the potheads in the bathrooms

I would say he has a band of characters as his “standard” friend group such as that goth from study hall, maybe a very talkative anime nerd in his art class that’s really good at drawing anime, a musical theater kid that only does tech bc they have stage freight, and probably a delinquent with bitter anger issues and jealous tendencies to round it out

He’s yet to invite them to the manor, not bc he’s embarrassed about them

But more bc he didn’t know that was a thing until he was invited over by one of Damian’s Strays

That’s what they call themselves after they find out Damian collects pets like they’re collectables, it's adorable when they introduce themselves to Damian’s family like:

“Hi I’m Damian’s brother! Who are you guys?”

“We’re Damian’s Strays! :D”

“O-Oh”

Deadpan, “I did not ask them to say that”

They don’t come over super often bc they see each other in school a lot but everyone notices how much more relaxed Damian is around his strays

It’s like he feels accepted through their unapologetic acceptance of themselves that Damian hopes to reach one day <3

Bonus hcs with Older!Damian:

When Damian gets older, he looks out for the newer strays that join the Academy

He claims them with just a subtle gesture similar to a mama bear stare from like across the quad

They’re obviously not immune from bullying and harassment but it is a total coincidence that their bully’s families are suddenly blacklisted from every social event it’s so weird how that happens all the time

As Damian gets older, he does see that sometimes the “weirdos” are also assholes too and he has no room in his heart for that kinda bullshit

Like no Travis, just bc you’re in theater does not mean you get a free pass to shove Jamie into a locker, Damian will beat your ass later

During first day orientation, Damian will visit each of the weirdo clubs so their Presidents can introduce them to him like:

“This is Damian Wayne! He’s been my friend since, gosh, sixth grade? Anyway! He’ll pop in sometimes but if you have any troubles with anybody let him know!”

Nods silently then leaves to go to the next club

Damian is and always has been “cool” according to Academy standards but when he reaches the older age range he becomes this beacon of self-acceptance and letting your freak flag fly?? He’s almost a legend to the weirdos and outcasts

Extra Bonus:

“Father, may I have a tattoo?” “You are thirteen” “Isaac has one” “Isaac has been to prison” “Technically, it was holding—” “Don’t encourage him!”

a/n: thank you so much for the request!! this was fun to dive into further!! i hope i was able to explore the aspects you were curious about!!

[waneborne-caverns]

I loved your chess headcanons for the batfam and I was wondering if I could just get some general random headcanons for each member of the batfam? Thx!

a/n: omg nonnie ofc!! mild content warning for dick's, gets a little suggestive with talking about sexuality/sex! if anyone has any more prompt/suggestions for headcanons or drabbles don't hesitate to send them my way!! this was really fun!! thank you for the ask!!

Alfred Pennyworth:

You know those clips of those retired snipers playing first person shooter games where they take down an entire team single handedly?

Yeah that’s Alfred

You gotta give him a few hours to get used to the controls but once he gets it, he’s fucking SWEEPING

He has been scouted by e-sports teams and he has to politely decline

Not bc he’s in his eighties, but bc he can’t leave the manor unattended for more than a week at a time

We all know Alfred is the only authority figure Bruce listens to, but it gets to the point where it’s almost a pavlovian response to like parental ques

Like when Bruce was a child, Alfred would do the slow count to three if Bruce was being stubborn about doing something

And one time, they were arguing about Bruce refusing to turn in for bed

Alfred just crosses his arms and goes:

“One”

Bruce is on his feet

Like immediately, in front of his children

It’s dead fucking quiet for several seconds

“Don’t say a word, Alfred”

“Wasn’t planning on it, sir”

The kids try to mimic the power Alfred carried in that moment but they never could

Alfred uses his power wisely and for good

Bruce Wayne:

Was an actor for like six months in his twenties

He starred in a cult classic that bombed back in the day but now has a very devoted fanbase that revives in the 2020s

Now he goes to cons and interviews with people asking about that god awful B list movie and he tells funny stories from the set

There’s a cry for a reboot with the original cast but the characters are all in their 20s so the og cast gets cameos instead

There’s videos of entire theaters screaming at the sight of Bruce Wayne and so many tears as his character speaks to the character he played in the og movie

That reboot would restart his acting career if he wasn’t too busy cosplaying as a bat in the middle of the night

Also takes photos with every Nightwing, Robin, Red Hood, Spoiler, Signal, Batgirl, etc cosplayer he comes across and sends them to the group chat like “[inserts child that is being cosplayed here] here’s the photo we took together as you asked” or “ran into [vigilant name] on the con floor anyone want an autograph?”

(Stephanie would be the only one to play along btw she’d be like:

“yeah can you get them to address it to me?”

And Bruce would thumb up react to it)

SPEAKING OF THUMB UP REACT

Bruce uses the reactions WAY too much

Like Bruce you have your read receipts on, I know you saw my message YOU DON’T NEED TO THUMB UP MY OKAY MESSAGE

Dick Grayson:

This man is a homie hopper, I’m sorry but its true

No one is safe from this man

If you are his friend/co-worker/friend of a friend, then congrats! Dick will have a crush on you and ask you out

That’s a threat

Bc he’s a homie hopper, Dick doesn’t have a clear definition of romantic and platonic love

He’s kinda sorta on the ace/aro spectrum in the way of like, he falls in love with friends and people he gets to know

And also in the way of “wtf does love feel like”

(he might just be autistic idk)

But don’t worry, this man still fucks he just doesn’t know if he’s fucking you as a friend or a lover

Good luck with that!

You know that guy with the guitar at parties that’s just like “anyway here’s Wonderwall”?

That energy but with fucking acrobatic tricks like:

“Anyway, here’s a quadruple double backflip”

Dick has ONE party trick and everyone is fucking sick of it

You’ve seen one backflip, you’ve seen them all

I DON’T CARE IF THEY’RE DIFFERENT DICKALOS STOP FLIPPING WE’RE WAITING AT A CROSSWALK

Has a little tiny bit of internalized homophobia from growing up in the 90s/00s

Still an ally tho ✊ just like, in the gay way of being an ally (iykyk)

Still says he’s straight despite having had gay sex with his best friend

“Yeah but I didn’t get fucked in the ass”

YOU STILL FUCKED A MAN DICK ITS OKAY TO BE GAY ITS NOT THE 90S ANYMORE ITS OKAY

Will allow to be pegged but only if its a woman ✌️ bc then its not gay

(Dick honey the closet is glass I love you but c'mon now)

Jason Todd:

As I said in my chess headcanons, Jason has ADHD

This man picks up hobbies like a girl in her mid-twenties

He has a half finished double crochet blanket, a paint by number tacked to his wall (it's the only art he has, it’s of a horse head), there’s an embroidery loom with a succulent on it on the coffee table next to his guns

Has a gun safe and only uses it when Damian is in the apartment (not bc he’s a child, but bc he will use it and he doesn’t need another lecture from Bruce rn)

Jason is the “fixer” of the family aka if something breaks down, he’s the guy they call

Only problem is, the appliance will suddenly work if Jason so much as test it like:

Tim’s oven has been on the fritz for months and his landlord is dragging his feet

(like one of the coils is just dead, will not turn bright red)

So he bites the bullet and calls Jason for help

Jason comes in, and he turns the oven on…

And it works JUST FINE

LIKE HUH???

Jason just looks at Tim like:

“If you wanted to hang out, you could just ask Timbo”

“I SWEAR IT WAS BROKEN A SECOND AGO DID YOU FUCKING INTIMIDATE IT INTO WORKING??? WHAT????”

Cassandra Cain:

While I have no problem with the headcanon that Cass speaks exclusively with sign, but I like the idea of Cass being the type of person who can slip into nonverbal tendencies if she’s silent for too long

Like imagine that on patrol she’s gotta communicate via sign or through text for the whole night and then she comes back to the cave and doesn’t talk for the whole night bc now her brain is set on nonverbal mode

Similar to when bilingual people get stuck in another language for a few minutes when speaking their not-main-language for an extended period of time

(This is based on my experience with a deaf person at work where we were communicating with written word and a little bit of sign (im not fluent lol) and I got so used to not talking that I just…forgot I could speak lol)

Gets a sick satisfaction out of sneaking up on people

Specifically the Bats or people she’s especially close with

She snuck up on Dick listening to ABBA in his headphones

He jumped a good five feet in the air and shrieked a high C (it was a little impressive)

She’s required to wear a bell around Dick now

She’s a girl kisser✌️(sorry Conner it’s true you turned her gay 😔 )

Stephanie Brown:

The personality hire <3

Half joking, she believes she’s the personality hire bc why else would the Bats keep her around after she was fired from being Robin ahaha…

Self esteem issues aside

She’s easily the best to be around as support

Need someone to fill the oppressing silence while you brood? Steph’s got ya covered!

She’ll talk for hours about nothing and everything, maybe crack a few jokes that get you to smile just a little

Prefer the silence? No problem!

Steph’s great at just being there, silently showing you memes on her phone that gets you a puff of air out of you every so often

Queen of movie night

Knows everyone’s tastes so well that she’s able to pick the perfect movie for whoever is watching that night

Duke, Cass, and Jason? It’s Pride and Prejudice baby!

Tim, Damian, and Bruce? Welcome to the John Wick Marathon!

All the Robins? Oh you know it’s gonna be the Spongebob Movie (2004)!

Tim Drake:

Is unaffected by caffeine like the drug does nothing for him at this point

He could drink like two energy drinks in an hour and the most he’ll get is heart palpitations

It’s how he knows he’s still alive like “heart still working? yep okay let’s go”

Ever since he came out as bisexual he’s annoyingly trying to use all the bisexual social ques

Like jeans? Cuffed

Chain? On

Lattes? Oak milked

Phone case? Clear

Tote bag? Over the shoulder and stained baby, what do you take him for?? A newb??

He literally googled the “bisexual starter kit” after taking the “are you gay?” quiz

Timmy Drake is a crossdresser the same way Bugs Bunny is a crossdresser

Listen he’s got the hips and the allure for it ofc he’s pretending to be a woman for the mark

Who else is gonna do it?? Jason?? Dick?? Nope, gotta be Timmy boy

It gets to the point where it’s kinda sus how often he wants to be the one in the dress like:

“So then I’ll go in as Miss Violet and—”

“Tim, this is a raid”

“You want a man on the inside or not?”

Everyone puts their hands up like in Seinfeld

One time Jason just straights up asks like:

“How come you’re always the one in the dresses?”

Tim looks over like, “Because I don’t have cankles and calves the size of a toddler”

“I’LL SHOW YOU CANKLES YOU LITTLE—”

Anyway, put that boy in a dress and call him she/her for the evening thx <3

(just to be clear, Tim isn’t a transwoman, he’s very happy and secure in being a man he just also has the legs for elegant dresses and wants to be pretty they’re not mutually exclusive! think, like, drag queens!)

Duke Thomas:

The embodiment of “not my circus, not my monkeys”

Like yes, he is a Bat and Batman is his mentor

But he’s still like…*gestures to the mess of being an adoptive child of Bruce Wayne* that’s a ya’ll issue

If anything he sees himself as like the friend that gets invited over and witnesses you fight with your parent like 👁️👄👁️

When he witnesses Jason cursing out Bruce for the first time he’s like gobsmacked bc wtf are you doing white boy?? Do you know who you’re yelling at???

Dude that’s your dad, your dad who is ALSO BATMAN STFU WHAT ARE YOU DOING???

Bruce’s favorite <3 sorry everybody else!!

He doesn’t plan to do the hero thing forever I feel like he’s want to be an engineer or something

Will probably quit once his parents are well again and focus on making up for lost time

Watches football with Dick and Bruce during football season

They root for the home team even though the Gotham Rogues haven’t won a game in like ten years

Did a March Madness tournament one year but had a breakdown when Steph won by picking the one with the logo she liked better and never did it again

Damian Wayne:

I love the idea of Damian leaving the Batman legacy to become a doctor, it's so poetic and really develops his character to grow beyond what his blood dictates for him

In that same vein, I like the idea of Damian learning how to take care of himself without the help of Alfred

Like at first he ordered Alfred around like he would with his family servants

Which obviously didn’t last long

And eventually he swallows his pride and asked Alfred where the glasses are so he can pour his own cup of water

This works up to making snacks for himself and even developing a love for baking bc of how precise it is

When he successfully recreated Alfred’s cookies completely independently for the first time, he felt on top of the world

They were so close in fact that they fooled his own siblings who have tasted Alfred’s cookies for years”

“Mmmm delicious as always Alfred!”

“Actually, they were made by Master Damian”

“...”

“You didn’t like…poison them right?”

“Tt, I would never sully the integrity of the Pennyworth family recipe with poison”

“Oh…good” *takes a drink of milk*

“The milk however—”

Much to the surprise of his family, Damian has a lot of civilian friends in the form of classmates from the Academy

He adopts them much like he does his pets in that he sees a cute creature in need of help and takes care of them

Friends with a lot of the losers and weirdos despite being seen as “popular”

a/n: thank you again for the ask anon!! this was super fun!!

[waneborne-caverns]

Ranking Batfam Best to Worst In Chess

batfam headcanons

a/n: i started playing chess online at my desk job as i waited for christmas week to start and i was like...who in the batfam would be good at chess?? so i ranked them from worst to best <3

The Honorable Mentions!

Stephanie Brown: Refuses to Learn

Prides herself in not knowing how to play chess

Doesn’t even know how the pieces move, will start playing checkers instead

You know that meme where it’s like: “they don’t know i’ve been eating the pieces” that’s Steph at her core

Bruce has tried to sit her down to teach her but she just covers her ears and sings to herself

She’ll watch a game though, but will get bored if the thinking between moves takes longer than two seconds (enjoys Jason’s and Duke’s games the most)

Favorite piece is the Knight bc horsie

Alfred Pennyworth: The Chess God

It would be unfair to compare the common man’s skills against the man who literally taught Bruce and the Bats everything there is to know about chess

Literally invented chess in the Wayne Estate

It’s basically sacrilegious to play against Alfred, like playing against God himself

The only time anyone plays against Alfred is for permission to do something (usually something dangerous or stupid)

(yes, this also applies to Bruce Wayne)

“I don’t care if I’m injured Alfred, Scarecrow is still out there!”

*pulls out chessboard*

“On second thought, Alfred, I think I will go to bed. Good night Alfred.”

 The only time Alfred has ever lost in chess was against Martha Wayne

He’s still waiting on that rematch she promised…

Favorite piece is the Bishop

7. Jason Todd: God Awful

Listen, Jason is too impatient for chess

That man has undiagnosed ADHD and anger issues, you think he’s gonna win being aggressive the whole time?? Fuck no

Loses to the computer on level 1

Will not play with you if asked, the man would play dumb

“I’ve never learned chess”

“??? Bruce Wayne is your father???”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Bruce did teach him as a kid but all he got from that was how the pieces move (and even then he gets the bishop and rook confused a lot and move the knight in too big of an L shape)

Talia tried to teach him better when he was with the League but she gave up when she won ten times in a row against the same moves

Favorite piece is the Queen bc it can do the most moves

6. Duke Thomas: Better than Jason, Decent

Duke takes his time when he plays but he’s still kinda learning the rules

Did not even know there were strategies and certain moves until Damian mentioned them offhandedly during a game

Tries to think a few moves ahead but gets overwhelmed with pressure and goes with his gut

Would crumble in a tournament setting, the timers would be too much pressure

Would get better over time and be a good casual player to play against, Dick plays against him the most

Never won against Bruce, tried once, got obliterated, and hasn’t won since

Goal in life is now to beat Bruce in one game of chess

Bruce is looking forward to it

Favorite piece is the Rook bc it’s easy to remember (just horizontal or vertical)

5. Dick Grayson: Decent +

The kind of casual player that you would think you could wipe the floor with and then he beats you in under ten moves

Plays against kids and elders at the park and always lets his opponent win (they never know though, he plays just tough enough to make them sweat a little before giving them the win)

Couldn’t beat Bruce as a kid, can hold an even match as an adult (still loses a lot though)

Too casual for tournaments, this is just something to pass the time for him

Definitely plays chess online during the slow days at his day job, this man gets so bored doing paperwork all the time he just uses the Bludhaven PD computer to play against random players

His user is “TheN1ghtwing” and it starts a whole reddit thread about how good/bad Nightwing is at chess even though no one can confirm that it’s actually Nightwing it becomes a meme

Dick finds this meme hilarious as it transcends to other online games, the more obscure and out of left field the better (think Webkinz, Neopets, Pony Town; some are edits but some are very real and Dick will die before he tells anyone which are which)

Favorite piece is the Knight bc he likes how it moves (also bc horsie)

4. Tim Drake: Good

Excellent strategist and takes the game very seriously

Almost too seriously

Could not play in a tournament, would lose immediately when the timer runs out in the middle of his thinking

OR he gets spooked by the timer and makes a rash move and now he has to move at lightening speed in order to try and win

Will spend a good twenty minutes between moves to try and calculate every possible move you or he could make, thinks fifty steps ahead

As a result his games usually span hours or even days as he can’t very well sit for sixteen hours at a time to play chess (as much as he wants to)

Because he leaves in the middle of games so often, the Wayne Manor now has two chess boards and one is exclusively for Tim and his games

Will sometimes play himself during difficult cases as a way to work through his thoughts by using the pieces as stand ins

Plays online chess during his lunch break, will take the whole break for one game it drives his opponent insane (that’s if they stay, after the two minute mark they usually leave bc they think he went afk)

Favorite piece is the Bishop bc diagonals are easy for traps

3. Cassandra Cain: Very Good (Surprisingly)

Basic understanding of the rules and how to play, Bruce explained how each piece moved once and she’s been rocking ever since

Can read you like a fucking book, that girl is on to you the second you move your pawn to E4

Uses the queen a bit too much like girl, there’s other pieces (will still win with just a queen btw it’s kinda impressive)

Was the youngest to beat Bruce at chess of the Bat kids, she was super nonchalant about it bc she wasn’t sure what “check” looked like so Bruce was just staring at the board like:

“...You won, Cass.”

“?”

“Congratulations.”

“!”

Will trash talk to get the upper hand, sometimes her dry wit will make Dick laugh so hard he accidently touches a piece (this is a one touch household) and is forced to move

Favorite piece is actually the King because the way Jason plays is so bad that Cass’ King usually captures his special pieces whenever he does his aggressive play and it brings her joy to see a grown man toss a table when she uses the King to take his Queen

(Jason refuses to play her ever again)

2. Bruce Wayne: Very Good +

Man grew up with chess as the game to play during game night instead of fucking Mouse Trap, ofc he’s gonna be fucking good at it

Bruce’s fondest memories is playing chess with his mom and dad, they taught him along with Alfred how to play

Bruce would have been on the chess team at the academy if he didn’t quit playing after his parents’ murder

It wouldn’t be until Dick asked him how to play that he would pick it up again

Very rusty but can beat Alfred on a good day (though he doesn’t even bother attempting)

After Dick, Bruce made it a tradition to teach the kids in his care how to play chess

He even played a few games with Clark and Diana (usually would beat Clark but sometimes he comes out of left field with a win that baffles Bruce to no end; has never won against Diana)

He’s pretty casual when he plays against most of his kids, the only ones he gets serious with is Dick, Cass, and Damian (don’t tell Duke, he’d cry if he knew Bruce was going easy this whole time)

Favorite piece is the King because that was his dad’s favorite piece

Damian Wayne: The Best

Chess was Damian’s equivalent to playing the crossword at the League, his daily puzzle to get the brain pumping in the morning

This kid knows every move, every opening, every strat

Kid was beating his grandfather when he was six

Doesn’t consider himself a prodigy bc this is par for the course according to him; could and would make Grandmasters weep

Didn’t understand the point of casually playing until he was at the Manor; thought chess was a measuring instrument for skill and intelligence rather than a boardgame

Has beaten Bruce a handful of times (has made his old man sweat in his leather seat) and considers those victories to be the equivalent to crack cocaine

Will challenge you to chess as if asking for a duel to the death:

“We face off at sunset”

“Damian…can’t you ask me to play like a normal person?”

“No. Be prepared to die”

Tried to teach Jon how to play but he refused to actually learn it, he’d let Damian talk for hours about the pieces and moves before just blinking dumbly when asked if he understood

(Jon just likes hearing Damian’s voice when he’s explaining something he enjoys)

Favorite piece is the Pawn because it the most useful piece in the whole game

divider credits (in order by appearance): @saradika-graphics @strangergraphics

[strawberry-nugget]

— I'd love to see me from your point of view

Do best friends kiss on a random Wednesday morning after silently yearning for each other for a while? Typically, no. But you and Tim do.

Tags/CW: Tim Drake x Fem!reader, friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, first kiss, Tim is awkward but also a yearner, so much yearning, fluff, making out. Tim in his early 20s (5.3k words)

12 days to Christmas with Strawb | Day 4 'snow angels'

4 New Messages | Tim <3

Running ten minuts late. Grab coffee 4 the road 😭 Sending u money. It’s on me Srry  😭😭😭😭😭

Read 10:38 AM

Sigh. As your phone vibrates in your gloved hands you wonder why Tim even bothers with letting you know he’s going to be late.

He’s always late. Late like it’s a personality trait, late in a way that comes with apologies and crying emojis and a strange, earnest guilt that makes you forgive him before you ever think about not doing so.

You already got the coffee anyway—no need for him to send you money. Your only worry is that it’ll be cold by the time he pulls up.

Not that he’ll mind. Tim will drink his coffee even if it’s gone cold, even if it used to be iced and has melted into something lukewarm and watery. He never complains. He just drinks it, grateful, like it’s proof someone thought of him.

Mister Wayne actually had the kind courtesy of inviting you for dinner tonight and Tim had suggested you spent the whole day at the manor, amidst the blanket of snow coating the gardens.

And that alone was immediately a deal; a challenge to overcome your shyness when it came to your friend’s adoptive father and family and a promise to have a day of snowy fun. 

You've spent a week obsessing over the forecast, searching for a promise that today would be at least a little snowy too, like all the other days the previous week.

Of course, when it comes to exceeding the weather forecast expectations, Gotham is a star.

It’s still relatively early today and snow dusts the shoulders of your puffer coat—the Trapstar one Tim gifted you last Christmas—while you wait, breath fogging the air in soft, impatient clouds. Gotham in winter feels quieter somehow, the usual edge dulled beneath layers of white and grey, like the city itself is holding its breath.

You tuck your phone back into your pocket and adjust your woolly beanie, tugging it lower over your freezing ears.

Behind you, the café chatters with life as customers drift in and out—boots stamping slush onto the mat, the bell over the door chiming too cheerfully, laughter spilling out in short, warm bursts every time it opens. The smell of coffee and sugar hangs in the air, rich and comforting, and the heat coming from inside every time the door opens is a sharp contrast to the cold biting at your nose.

You stay where you are anyway. You always do.

Of course, in the back of your mind there’s always this: You could use the day as an excuse and try to find a cutesy private moment to confess to Tim. But it never seems right, it falls into the basket of ‘things to do later’ in the dirty laundry of your thoughts.

Tim Drake is your friend. 

Unfortunately so, if you dare say, because there’s never been a moment in which that word didn’t feel like a careful lie—one you both agreed not to question.

Friendship is easier. It has rules. It keeps things intact. It explains why he texts you at three in the morning about nothing and everything, why he falls asleep on your couch with a blanket pulled up to his chin, why your name is the first one he says when something goes wrong.

To tell him you’ve been consistently in love with him since—like—highschool would only complicate it. And Tim already lives his life one complication away from collapse, trying to hold the reins of it merely with ounces of coffee, daily.

So, you settle and a few minutes pass faster by pondering before you hear it—the familiar, low hum of an engine easing toward the curb.

Tim’s car, a royal blue Toyota GR86, pulls up in front of the café, tires crunching softly through slush as he parks just a little too far from the sidewalk, like he was more focused on getting here than doing it perfectly. The headlights cut through the grey of the day, briefly illuminating drifting snow before dimming.

The driver’s door swings open almost immediately.

Hm, maybe he does look good with the car actually.

Will you tell him? No. You’ve spent six entire months teasing him about how he doesn’t look like the sports car guy.

“Hey—sorry—sorry,” Tim cuts through your thoughts as he steps out, already grinning like the apology is reflexive. His hair is a mess, black curls flattened by a beanie he’s clearly taken on and off at least twice, and his breath fogs in front of him as he jogs the last few steps toward you.

He looks tired in the way he always does—dark circles softened by excitement, shoulders hunched against the cold—but his eyes light up the moment they find you, bright and warm despite the harsh weather.

“I swear I tried,” he adds, hands shoved into his pockets. “Traffic, and then there was this thing with—actually, never mind. Hiiii.”

Before you can respond, he steps in and pulls you into a hug.

It’s quick, instinctive—like he doesn’t even think about it—but it’s warm, solid, his arms firm around your shoulders as he presses his face briefly into the side of your beanie. You can feel the cold clinging to him, the way he radiates heat anyway, like he’s always running a little too warm.

Snow clings to the cuffs of his jeans, damp and dark against the fabric. He smells faintly of cold air and coffee and something familiar—detergent, maybe, or just Tim—and it makes your chest tighten in a way you pretend not to notice.

He pulls back just as easily as he stepped in, like the hug meant nothing more than hello.

You hold out the cup you got for him, still warm, miraculously.

“Already covered,” you say.

His face does that thing—relief first, like he’d been bracing himself, then gratitude, open and unguarded, and then something softer that he never seems to realize he’s wearing.

“You’re the best,” Tim says easily, like it’s a fact and not something dangerous.

The drive to the manor is quiet in the way it always is—comfortable, familiar, padded with the low hum of the engine and the soft rush of tires over snow-dampened roads.

Tim drives with one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped loosely around his coffee cup, taking small, distracted sips like he’s fueling up rather than drinking for enjoyment. The heater hums steadily, thawing the cold from your fingers, your knees, the lingering chill the hug left behind.

You sit carefully. Always carefully.

Seatbelt snug. Hands folded in your lap. You keep your body angled just enough toward the window that you won’t accidentally brush against him when the car turns. It’s a habit—an unconscious restraint you’ve perfected over years of wanting too much and taking too little.

Tim, on the other hand, relaxes into the drive.

“So… did Duke finally stop glaring at you for stealing cookies last week?” you ask, keeping your tone light.

Tim snorts. “Stop glaring? Please. He’s been plotting my demise ever since. Honestly, I think he’d prefer if I didn’t survive the week.”

“Well,” you reply, teasing, “if anyone’s going to survive your antics, it’s probably me.”

He glances at you, one brow raised. “Oh? Is that your way of saying you’re brave?”

“Depends on the day,” you smirk, shifting slightly toward him just enough to test the waters.

Tim chuckles, that soft, easy laugh that always makes your chest flutter. “Brave, huh? I like the sound of that. Though I’m not sure I trust your judgement completely.”

“Because yours is much better? When was the last time you slept more than three hours?” you counter, leaning into the tease.

“Touché,” he mutters, shaking his head in mock defeat—and that’s when his hand drifts slightly.

At a red light, he yawns, scrubs a hand down his face—and then, without looking, his free hand drifts over completely.

It settles on your thigh.

Warm. Heavy. Familiar.

He always does this when you’re in the passenger seat, but every time, your breath catches before you can stop it.

It happens now, too.

His palm rests there, on your thigh goddamit, like that’s where it belongs, thumb pressing lightly into the fabric of your thick, winter jeans as if grounding himself. Like this is nothing more than muscle memory. Like you’re a good luck charm for driving safely.

He keeps talking—something about Alfred’s cookies, or Dick teasing him about the car, you’re not sure—completely oblivious to the way your pulse has started roaring in your ears.

You don’t move. You don’t lean in, but you don’t pull away.

You let it happen —the hand. On. Your. Thigh— because that’s what you always do; accept what Tim gives so easily and never ask for more. Because asking would mean breaking the rules. Because wanting is quieter and weirdly satisfactory when you keep it contained.

Outside, Gotham blurs past in shades of white and grey, snow clinging to bare branches and lampposts like the city is dressing itself up for something softer.

Tim squeezes your thigh once, absentminded, when the light turns green—then focuses back on the road. 

And while the way your restraint is cracking under something as simple as the brush of his palm should be studied by experts, you stare straight ahead, heart hammering, reminding yourself for the hundredth time:

This is just how Tim is. And this doesn’t, shouldn’t mean anything. Friendship has rules that you honor.

Tim on the other hand, has never once followed them on purpose.

So, given that context would it really be that bad to actually man up and tell him today?

_____

“Race you to the door?” Tim hops out of the car beside you, brushing snow off his jacket, gloves leaving streaks of white. 

He tosses you a playful grin.

“Absolutely not,” you snap back, shoving him lightly in the shoulder. “I’ve spent the entire drive surviving you, I am not about to die sprinting across mister Wayne’s driveway.”

“Aw, come on,” he teases, hands tucked into his pockets, watching you struggle to keep your balance in the snow. “I promise I won’t push you too hard. Maybe.”

Naturally, you’ve made a list of pros and cons. Not on Tim, no, no, but on the logical outcome of situations like this, on what they could mean for of either of you if you ever stopped being careful.

Because you’re not entirely clueless. 

Tim doesn’t flirt with anyone this casually. He doesn’t steal glances at cafés, doesn’t crash on just anyone’s couch after patrol, doesn’t open himself up without measuring the risk first. He trusts you carefully. Opens up carefully. Everything about Tim Drake is a mathematical equation.

The other night, you came to the conclusion that maybe—maybe—the flirting could be part of some subconscious, yet maliciously crafted master plan to keep you orbiting him. By giving you a fruitless crop, you buzz around, warmed up enough to stay close, hopeful enough not to pull away and give his secret identity out to anyone out of pure ego alone.

It’s a stupid thought. An ugly one.

And every time it circles your head, you remind yourself that the Tim you know would never toy with someone’s feelings like that. He’s too earnest. Too soft in the places that matter. He wouldn’t treat a person like something disposable.

But hey— anything goes so you don’t fill yourself with false notions of him actually liking you back. Anything else must be safer than actually believing that.

Because wouldn’t anyone be devastated if their best friend confessed out of the blue on a random Wednesday in the middle of the holidays?

Knowing Tim, he’d pull away. Clean. Sudden. Like ripping off a bandage and pretending the skin underneath doesn’t sting.

So when you reach that conclusion—as you always do—the only tactical solution to the equation is silence.

Outside your headspace, Tim is calling you out on chickening out from racing him. And that, right there—the effortless playfulness of his, the way he laughs without thinking, touches without meaning to—is the only thing you’re not willing to risk.

You glare at him, but the corner of your mouth twitches. You’ve never been good at hiding what you feel.

What a little treachery it is to have a face that won’t control expressions, one that isn’t like Tim’s. 

His laugh echoes through the chilly air, and despite yourself, you step closer, brushing past him toward the double doors. The snow crunches under your fuzzy boots, crisp and satisfying.

Tim falls into step beside you, shoulders brushing occasionally—casual, accidental, entirely him. You stiffen slightly every step of the way. And yet the manor looms ahead in such a Cathedral way of architecture, warm lights spilling from tall windows, promising hot cocoa, crackling fireplaces, and the kind of carefree snow-day fun you’ve been waiting for all week.

And, because you run out of all your good luck coupons the exact moment your homeroom teacher paired you with Tim for a project back in freshman year of high school, the universe responds to your previous inner monologue. 

Your karma for ever thinking clueless Tim was using your feelings to his benefit lies within the snow underneath your feet.

Your boot slips first.

It’s subtle at the start—a barely-there loss of traction, your weight shifting wrong—and you barely have time to register it before your balance goes completely sideways.

“Oh—shit—” Your face contorts into a caricature of panic and uncertainty.

Tim reacts on instinct.

He reaches for you, fingers closing around your sleeve, but the snow beneath both of you gives way at the same time. There’s a startled laugh—his, for sure, breathless and surprised—and then gravity takes over.

You both go down with a thunderous sound. Not straight back, but sideways, tumbling together in a clumsy roll of coats and limbs, laughter bursting out of you violently as the snow rushes up to meet you. The ground knocks the breath from your lungs in a cold whoof, powder puffing around you in a soft cloud. 

Ouchies!

The impact isn’t much painful though, maybe more on the cold and undignified side, the snow puffing up around you in a soft explosion as you land flat on your back. For a second, there’s nothing but white sky and the sharp rush of air leaving your lungs. You look up straighter and yeah, sure, you’re definitely answering for crimes you never committed.

You’ve landed with Tim half on top of you.

It takes a second to register, but it’s there. He’s there, all up in your face.

His weight is warm despite the snow, solid where his forearm braces beside your head, knee pressed into the drift near your hip. His face is close—too close—breath fogging between you, curls dusted white, baby blues wide with surprise.

“Oh,” he says, blinking. “Wow. Hi.”

Your heart slams violently into your ribs.

“You—” You laugh, breathless, hands fisting in the front of his jacket more out of necessity than intention. “You’re heavy.”

“Hey,” he protests weakly, grinning. “I tried to save you.”

“You tackled me!”

“Heroically.”

Then Tim laughs. It’s loud and unrestrained, the kind that cracks open his chest and spills out of him before he can stop it. “Are you okay?”

“I think so,” you groan, blinking snow out of your clumpy lashes. “You?”

“Yeah—yeah, I’m—” He pauses, glancing down at you, then grins wider. “Wow. That was… incredibly graceful.”

“Don’t,” you warn, shoving at his shoulder weakly.

Snow melts into the fabric beneath you, cold seeping through your coat, but you barely notice it. All you can focus on is how close he is, how easily he fits there, like this is a position neither of you needed instructions for. His chest drags down onto yours with each breath you share and it feels devastating. To know your body can slot as easily against him.

So close— you’ve never been so close before. Not even when you somewhat cuddle on your couch.

It’s so borderline unbearable and yet, neither of you moves away into the safety of your own personal spaces.

Tim’s grin softens somewhere behind his thick eyebrows, his expression settles into something almost quieter as his gaze flicks down—your mouth, maybe, then his lids lower just a little—before snapping back up like he’s caught himself thinking something dangerous.

Beep, beep, beep, all the sirens in your head are alert and screaming at you to pull! back! now! That look— yes, that very look, is unmistakably the universal men code for ‘i’m about to kiss you’

Tim can’t possibly be sporting it! He laughed when Stephanie mentioned that guys always do it, agreeing, he said he noticed it too. He would never make that stupid face before kissing you.

Scratch that— he wouldn’t kiss you to begin with.

You arch your eyebrow and snort.

Above you, Tim is frozen. Like—frozen frozen.

Before you can say anything, he scrambles backward instead of standing. He rolls off you and flops onto his back beside you, staring up at the sky like nothing monumental just happened. Though, you’re sure as hell that your brain matter has been slightly altered.

He’s not graceful with his movements. Like, at all. His boot catches on nothing at all, his elbow slips, and he overcorrects so hard he just…rolls. Right out of your space, right off of you, flopping onto his back in the snow with a startled ‘oof’ like a knocked-over pet turtle.

There’s an instance of stunned silence.

Then Tim flings his arms and legs out wide. Flat. Spread-eagle. Completely horizontal.

He starts moving them slowly at first, then faster—arms sweeping up and down, boots scuffing back and forth, snow crunching rhythmically beneath him.

“Since we’re already here,” he says lightly, lifting one arm and then the other, dragging them through the snow. “Might as well commit.”

You stare at him, chest still tight.

“Are you making a snow angel?” you ask, incredulous.

“I—” His voice comes out slightly muffled. He doesn’t look at you. Keeps his eyes fixed on the sky like it might offer guidance. “Yes.” He knows he’s being ridiculous “Chop chop, make yours too.”

*

Hm… What was it that Dick said?

The best moments to make a romantic move are the impromptu ones? Yeah, that is a load of bullshit! 

Tim has always been very careful of not letting himself think out loud but today was never just about snow. Or the manor. Or Alfred’s cooking. Or even the stupid car he’s still half-convinced you secretly like.

Today is about timing.

He lies beside you, staring up at the washed-out sky, counting the seconds between snowflakes landing on his lashes. His heart is beating a little too fast for someone who’s supposedly relaxed, although he knows you won’t notice.

He tells himself it’s the cold that’s at fault for his condition. Or the notion that each snowflake has its own unique shape, though it’s not visible to his naked eye. Or, or, the fact that he’s terrible at doing nothing.

He watches you hesitate for half a second. Then, with a quiet huff, you let yourself shag back into the snow beside him.

The cold seeps through immediately, obviously sharp against your spine, knocking the breath from your lungs in a small ‘pfff’ You stare up at the same grey winter sky Tim is pretending very hard not to look away from, then slowly spread your arms out.

Flat and spread-eagle. Mirroring him.

You lift your arms. Drag them through the snow. Once. Twice. Your boots scrape softly as you move your legs, carving your own uneven wings into the fluffy white.

For a few seconds, the only audible sound is the snow beneath you, the swoooosh and sweep of it, your breathing syncing without either of you meaning to.

Tim’s arms slow, then come to a final halt. He turns his head, ever so slightly and finds you already looking at him out of the corner of your eye. It’s determination that drives him to lower his lids again; Dick said he could at least look at you like he means business. To warm you up to the idea. 

‘Bedroom eyes is the solution’ he had said. 

Though, one— Tim doesn’t fucking know how to do that and two— now that he made a notable effort, you seem to catch none of it. 

“It’s so cold,” you mutter, just under your breath.

See? Oblivious. 

Tim’s stomach churns, just a little, and it turns into this weird, tight knot. What if, right now, he’s looking ridiculous from your point of view? Shit!

Maybe Jason was right, maybe the car was the perfect spot. The way you reacted when his hand landed on your thigh was better than this.

His gaze lands on you fully now, wide and unguarded and he is absolutely wrecked by the sight of you lying there beside him like this.

Snow clings to your lashes, glueing them to each other, your breath fogs in soft translucent clouds, and you look too comfortable, too close, too pretty.

“Oh,” he murmurs, barely audible. “You—uh. You didn’t have to, if you’re cold”

You don’t look at him anymore. You keep moving your arms. “You told me to.”

Tim swallows hard through the silence, then, he sniffles just slightly. His nose remains the color of a beetroot, even when his cheeks and ears start to match. 

You did this… because he told you to.

“Right,” he says, a little hoarse, gathering his thoughts before they slip. His eyes flick back to the sky immediately, like it’s suddenly the safest place in the world. “Yeah. Of course.”

His hand twitches against the snow, fingers curling and uncurling inside his glove like he’s fighting the urge to reach for something he absolutely should not touch.

He starts moving again—even slower now. Less exaggerated. Like he’s suddenly very aware of how close your arms come to brushing.

The silence stretches, heavy and gentle all at once.

Tim exhales, long and shaky. If you ask him why slowed down, he’ll probably tell you it’s because he wants his snow bagel to maintain shape and not bleed into yours.

But that’s a lie. And you certainly don’t go ahead and ask him. 

You seem like you’re probably not very fond of the meticulously crafted scenario he’s played out in his head. 

He wishes he could say that it’s fine. 

He’d planned it—today—sort of. Loosely. The way he plans everything important; half-formed, overthought, rehearsed in his head a thousand different ways and then immediately abandoned when reality doesn’t cooperate. He tried to falter the impromptu nature of a moment in the plan.

Maybe after lunch. Maybe when you’re laughing. Maybe when it feels natural enough that he won’t scare you.

Definitely not in the car, because Jason said it’d be the only private place you’d share with him today. And definitely not if you look at him the way you sometimes do, like you’re already bracing for impact.

But his hand drifts, just barely, until his pinky brushes yours. Accidental. Totally accidental.

Right now, though—right now, as he bleeds his body into your space, it feels dangerous in a different way. An impromptu way. 

Just like Dick also said, the right moment always comes randomly, either much sooner or much later than what you’ve calculated and when it does, you should grasp the chance instead of letting slip off your fingers and right into the pit of despair that always follows.

Your pinky brushes his in turn, and this time it isn’t an accident. He knows because your finger doesn't budge. He doesn’t move his hand away either. He lets it stay, lets the contact ground him, lets himself imagine what it would be like to roll toward you instead of away.

Just a kiss, he tells himself. Just to see.

He turns his head slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too fast. Your eyes meet his, and for half a second the world narrows to the space between your faces, the quiet, the snow.

This could be it. The moment.

He pays no mind to his snow angel creation when he plops to his side, standing on one elbow and his hip.

And then—because he is Tim, because timing has never been his strongest skill—he hesitates. Just long enough for the moment to soften instead of snap.

He exhales, small and shaky, and looks at the logo of your puffer. The confirmation that you like the gift he got for you last year, even if you lectured him about how overpriced it was.

The logo stares back at him, bold against the dark fabric. ‘Trapstar’ still pristine despite the snow. 

Something in Tim’s chest gives in, a quiet, traitorous thud, followed by a series of rapid fire palpitations.

He clears his throat, then immediately regrets the sound—it’s too loud in the stillness, too revealing. His thumb rubs absently against the seam of his glove, nerves itching beneath the fabric.

“Hey,” he starts.

Fuck! Too casual. Abort.

“I—um.” He winces, jaw tightening, then tries again. “You don’t… you don’t have to stay down here if you’re cold. We could go inside. I mean— I know I said— but—”

Smooth, Drake. Reeeeeal smooth.

You finally turn your head toward him.

Not all the way. Just enough. One eye on him, lashes still clumped with snow, mouth slightly parted from the cold. Waiting. Patient. The way your lips are swollen by the cold’s stinging bite, almost makes it even worse.

Tim gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing. His gaze flicks back to your face before he can stop it, zeroing in on the tiniest details he can manage, like it’s a lifeline.

A fleck of snow, melting slowly on your cheek, just beneath your eye.

“Oh,” he says softly, relief blooming sharp and sudden. “Hey. You’ve—uh.”

He lifts his hand without thinking, stops halfway like he’s hit an invisible wall. Checks your face again, like he’s asking permission without words.

“You’ve got snow on your face,” he finishes, quieter now.

His thumb brushes your cheek. It’s barely a touch. Just the pad of it, warm even through the glove, gentle as he sweeps the flake away. But he doesn’t pull back immediately. His thumb lingers, resting there like he forgot what comes next.

Tim’s breath catches. This is actually it. 

The moment.

He’s close enough now that he can see the way your pupils widen, the way your breath stutters just a fraction out of sync with his. Close enough that the cold doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

“I—” he starts, then stops.

God. Say it. Say something. Or say nothing. Just don’t…. Ruin it.

His voice comes out low, earnest, stripped of the planning and the rehearsing and the advice from brothers who don’t live inside his head.

“I’ve kind of been wanting to do this,” he admits, almost to himself.

*

Fuck, fuck, fuck! 

Fuck Tim Drake for even pretending to laugh when being told men make weird faces when they lean in for a kiss!

If this wasn’t such a serious moment—if your heart wasn’t currently trying to escape through your throat, your ears, nostrils, everywhere really—you’d stop to snap a picture of him.

His eyes flutter, lashes brushing his cheeks as if he can’t quite decide where to look. His brows lift, hesitant and hopeful all together, and his lips purse slightly as he leans in, like he’s bracing for impact.

If you could snap that picture, you’d show it to him afterwards and ask him if he’d dare laugh then.

With his fluttering eyes rolling back, raised eyebrows, puckered lips, inching closer, you’d tell him he looks ridiculous…ly pretty!?

Your heart tightens painfully in your chest. Because you’ve imagined this—him—a thousand different ways, a gazillion times, and none of them prepared you for how gentle he looks right now. How careful. How real.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t laugh now that it counts.

Instead, you lean in the last inch yourself.

Your lips meet his before any of you can second-guess it further.

It’s gentle, almost painfully so. A brush more than a press, cold-chapped lips colliding in a way that feels tentative and unsure, like you’re both asking the same silent question at the same time.

Tim makes a small sound—barely more than a breath, an actual moan—and freezes again.

For half a heartbeat, you think you’ve misread everything. That he’s going to pull away, apologize, laugh it off—

Then he exhales.

It’s shaky and warm, fogging between you, and his lips move against yours again, more deliberate this time. Still careful. Still soft. Like he’s terrified of doing it wrong, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling as it happens.

His mouth is warm despite the cold. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. You can feel the tremor in him, the way he’s holding himself back even now, hands braced uselessly in the snow instead of touching you.

Your nose bumps his. Awkward. You almost laugh into the kiss.

Tim huffs softly, a breath of amusement slipping out, and that tiny sound loosens something. He adjusts, just a little, angling his head so it fits better this time. The kiss deepens and the friendship rule is thrown out of the window like it’s trash, the second his tongue surges forward, and into the openness of your mouth.

Yup. This is happening.

You are rubbing tongues with Tim. On a random Wednesday morning.

Snow melts against your skin. Your heartbeat roars in your ears. The world narrows to the press of his lips and the way your tongues fight for dominance between your mouths, circling around each other in elliptical circles.

When you finally pull back—only a fraction, just enough to breathe—Tim chases you, nose tapping like a stutter on yours.

He stays close too.

Foreheads nearly touching. Eyes half-lidded. His cheeks flushed red, less from the cold and more from embarrassment.

“…Okay,” he whispers.

It’s barely a word. More like a checkpoint.

You don’t move away. You don’t tease him. You just stay there, close enough that your noses brush every time you breathe.

“That,” he adds quietly, clearing his throat and failing miserably to sound normal, “was—uh, better than I ever imagined.”

He falters. Shakes his head once, a helpless little huff escaping him.

“And I've been wanting to do that for a while.”

“I’ve been wanting to do that too,” you say quietly, beating him to whatever he might have wanted to add.

The effect is immediate.

Tim’s breath stops. Not metaphorically—he holds his breath, eyes widening just a fraction before softening again, like something in his chest finally unclenched and then promptly forgot how to function. His mouth opens, closes. Opens again.

“You—” he starts, then clears his throat. “You have?”

It comes out smaller than he probably intended. Hopeful. Almost disbelieving.

You nod just barely. Close enough that your frozen noses brush again.

“Yeah,” you say. “For a while.”

Tim lets out a sound that’s half a laugh, half a stunned exhale, like he’s just been handed the answer key to a test he’s been failing in his head for years. His eyes drop to the snow between you, then back up to your face, bright and a little overwhelmed with hope.

“Oh,” he says again, because apparently that’s all he has left. “Okay. Wow. That—”He shakes his head, smiling helplessly now, cheeks burning.

“I’m—” He stops, laughs softly under his breath. “I’m an idiot, but I’m really glad I didn’t chicken out.”

His hand finally lifts, tentative as ever, hovering near your sleeve like he’s still asking permission.

And when he looks at you again, it’s not careful in the way it was before, though he still wonders, if in your point of view, the look he gives you counts as bedroom eyes.

Or whatever Dick said.

7 New Messages | Dick Grayson

Woooooh you did it!? Way to go! Hi I can see you from the windowwww What’s going on? Tiiiiiim answer im bored. Oh oops you guys are actually making out  Tell Jason he owes me 50 dollars 😁

Delivered 12.09 PM

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //

A/N: ahhhhhh i haven't written for Tim in 9 years help, i love him so much!

Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3

Dividers by @/cursed-carmine

Taglist: @izakyun

[waneborne-caverns]

do you have a masterlist? :)

i just made one!! i made an intro post too that i'll pin as well! let me know if there's any adjustments that'll make it easier to navigate!!