#Tim drake x Reader

[totallynotashieldagent]

If I Say Please

Pairing: Tim Drake/Reader

Summary: Tim has no idea how perverted his girlfriend's mind is for him.

Author's Note: Written for @sophsthebest.

Refer to THIS POST if you want something more <33 Give me a nasty prompt <33

It's not obvious. It's never obvious. Where your mind goes, how your eyes follow Tim. He can be so sharp but so... ignorant at times. His brain working overtime for certain things but completely unaware when it came to you.

You were his sweetest little thing. And to an extent, he was right. You were sweet. Adorably so. But the way you brain worked, the way your pussy throbbed whenever you looked at him. All the lewd images your mind played when you watched him do anything .

Oh- He was not privy to that at all.

Even now, for example. As you sat across him in his room. He was tapping away, furiously focused on his laptop while you sat on the bed, pretending to read a book.

You sighed softly, your finger fidgeting at the corner of the page as you watched him. Hunched over, running his hand through his hair every now and then but the dark hair kept falling into his eyes again and again.

He had that determined look on his face. The one that made you want to climb into his lap and ride him until he cried.

You smiled to yourself. God- He has no idea . You bit your lip to stop yourself from making a sound. Your thighs clenched together tightly but it did nothing to help the aching need pooling in your gut that was seeping into your cunt.

.

Continue Reading. . . . Fic Masterlist.

[pomegranatelifethis]

Sister

The Wayne Manor was a fortress of brooding intensity, except for one glaring anomaly: you. Y/N Wayne, younger twin to Damian Wayne by a measly two hours, were the antithesis of everything the League of Assassins had tried to forge into your brother. Where Damian was disciplined, you were lazy. Where he was stoic, you were a walking smile. And where he thrived on pain and perfection, you’d rather nap on the couch with a bag of Cheetos.

It was the first day of summer, and the Gotham heat was already unbearable. The Batfamily was gathered in the Batcave for a mandatory training session, orchestrated by Bruce Wayne himself. You, however, were sprawled across a rolling chair, spinning lazily, your Robin suit half-unzipped to reveal a tie-dye T-shirt underneath.

“Y/N, get up and join the sparring session,” Bruce’s voice echoed, stern but tinged with the exhaustion of dealing with you for sixteen years.

You grinned, kicking your feet up on a console. “Pass. My muscles are on vacation. Besides, I’m morally opposed to sweating.”

Damian, mid-kata with a katana, shot you a glare that could curdle milk. “You’re an embarrassment to the Wayne name. Get up before I drag you.”

You blew a raspberry, unfazed. “Try it, Dami. I’ll cry, and then Alfred will make you feel guilty with his disappointed eyebrow.”

Tim Drake snorted from his computer station, while Dick Grayson, ever the peacemaker, tried to mediate. “Come on, Y/N, just one round. It’s good for you.”

“Nope!” you chirped, popping a Cheeto into your mouth. “Pain and I broke up years ago. We’re not getting back together.”

Jason Todd, leaning against a stalactite, laughed. “Kid’s got a point. Why suffer when you can eat snacks and vibe?”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Y/N, you’re a Wayne. You need to be prepared—”

“For what? A villain who challenges me to a nap-off? I’d win.” You winked, and even Damian’s scowl twitched into something less murderous.

Despite your antics, Damian was fiercely protective. He’d never admit it, but the idea of you getting hurt—or even mildly inconvenienced—made his blood boil. You were his twin, his responsibility. The League had trained you both, but you’d rejected their ways, choosing laughter over lethality. Damian, though, saw you as a fragile flower in a world of thorns, even if you were more like a weed that thrived in chaos.

As the training session wrapped up, you skipped out of the Batcave, humming a pop song. Damian followed, because of course he did. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

“To the kitchen. Alfred’s making cookies, and I’m gonna steal the dough.” You flashed a mischievous grin.

“You’ll ruin your appetite,” he muttered, but he trailed you anyway, like a grumpy shadow.

In the kitchen, Alfred was indeed baking, his apron pristine despite the flour everywhere. You leaned over the counter, batting your eyelashes. “Alfred, my favorite human, can I have a teensy bit of cookie dough?”

Alfred’s eyebrow arched, but he handed you a spoonful. “Only because you asked politely, Miss Y/N.”

Damian scoffed. “You’re spoiling her.”

“Says the boy who hides her from every mission,” you teased, licking the spoon. “I’m not a baby, Dami.”

“You’re reckless and weak,” he shot back, but his tone softened. “You need to take this seriously.”

You rolled your eyes, hopping onto the counter. “Lighten up, twin. Life’s too short to be so… you.”

That night, after everyone had retired, you sneaked into the library, a place you rarely visited unless you were hiding from chores. You weren’t looking for anything specific, just bored and curious. That’s when you found it: a dusty, leather-bound book tucked behind a shelf, its cover etched with strange symbols.

“Oooh, spooky,” you whispered, giggling. You opened it, expecting boring Latin or something equally dull. Instead, a puff of golden dust exploded in your face, making you cough. “Gross! Who booby-traps a book?”

The room spun, your vision blurred, and the last thing you heard was your own voice muttering, “Well, that’s not good.”

---

When you woke up, everything was… big. The library floor loomed like a football field, and the bookshelves towered like skyscrapers. You tried to stand, but your legs felt weird—short, furry, and way too many. You glanced down and screamed, except it came out as a high-pitched *mrrrow!*

You were a cat. A small, fluffy, black-and-white cat with big, bewildered eyes.

“Oh, come ON!” you tried to say, but it was just more meowing. You scampered to a mirror, your tiny paws slipping on the polished floor. The reflection confirmed it: you were adorable, with a white patch shaped like a heart on your chest and whiskers that twitched with every emotion.

“Okay, Y/N, don’t panic,” you thought, pacing in a circle. “You’re a cat. This is fine. You’ve handled worse. Like that time you accidentally set off the Batmobile’s alarm.”

Your first instinct was to find Damian. He’d know what to do, even if he’d lecture you for eternity. You bolted out of the library, your new body surprisingly agile despite your human self’s aversion to exercise. The manor was a maze, but you followed the scent of Alfred’s coffee to the kitchen.

Damian was there, sipping tea, looking as grumpy as ever. You leaped onto the counter, skidding into a bowl of fruit. Apples rolled everywhere, and Damian’s eyes narrowed.

“What is this creature doing here?” he demanded, glaring at you.

“It’s me, you idiot!” you yowled, but it just sounded like an angry cat. You swatted at his hand, and he recoiled.

“Disgusting beast,” he muttered, reaching for you. You dodged, because if Damian caught you, he’d probably lock you in a cage “for your safety.” Instead, you jumped onto his shoulder, nuzzling his cheek to get his attention.

“Stop that!” he snapped, but he didn’t push you off. His eyes softened slightly. “You… remind me of someone.”

“Wow, rude,” you thought, but you purred anyway, hoping to charm him. It didn’t work. He set you on the floor and called for Alfred.

“Pennyworth, there’s a stray in the manor. Remove it.”

Alfred appeared, eyeing you with curiosity. “She’s rather charming, Master Damian. Perhaps she wandered in?”

“She’s a nuisance,” Damian said, but he kept glancing at you, like he sensed something familiar.

You decided to lean into your new form’s potential for chaos. You knocked over Damian’s tea, sprinted across the counter, and dove into a pile of flour Alfred had set out for baking. The kitchen erupted in white dust, and Damian’s shout of “YOU LITTLE DEMON!” was music to your ears.

--

The next few days were a blur of mischief. As a cat, you discovered you could get away with almost anything. You shredded Jason’s favorite leather jacket, blaming it on “natural instincts.” You hid Tim’s USB drive under the couch, watching him tear the manor apart looking for it. You even napped on Bruce’s Batcomputer, leaving a trail of fur that made him sneeze for hours.

Damian, though, was your favorite target. You’d sneak into his room, knock over his sketchbooks, and curl up on his pillow, knowing he’d be torn between kicking you out and secretly finding you cute. He named you “Shadow,” which you found hilarious since it was so close to your actual codename, Dusk.

But Damian was also the most suspicious. He’d stare at you, muttering about how your eyes were “too intelligent��� for a cat. He even set up a camera to catch you doing something “unnatural.” You thwarted him by batting the camera off the table, because screw surveillance.

The rest of the Batfamily was smitten. Dick cooed over you, calling you “the cutest vigilante ever.” Tim built you a tiny cat-sized Batmobile, which you promptly used to chase Alfred’s vacuum cleaner. Jason fed you scraps of his burgers, declaring you “the only sane member of this family.” Even Bruce, the stoic Batman, let you nap on his lap during briefings, though he’d deny it if anyone asked.

Your human absence, however, was causing problems. Damian was frantic, tearing through Gotham to find you. He interrogated everyone, from Alfred to the mailman, and even hacked into your phone, only to find it dead in your room. His overprotectiveness was in overdrive, and you felt a pang of guilt every time you saw his worried face.

You needed to turn back, but the book that caused this mess was written in a language you couldn’t read (not that you could turn pages with paws). You tried to communicate, but your attempts—scratching “HELP” into a table or meowing Morse code—were dismissed as “cute cat behavior.”

---

By mid-summer, you were enjoying cat life a bit too much. You’d discovered you could sneak into the Batmobile and hitch rides to Gotham, where you’d terrorize pigeons and steal fries from food carts. But your antics were drawing attention. A local news outlet dubbed you “Gotham’s Mystery Cat,” and suddenly, every villain from Catwoman to the Riddler wanted to claim you as their mascot.

Catwoman, in particular, was obsessed. She scooped you up during one of your city adventures, cooing about how you’d be her “perfect partner in crime.” You hissed and clawed, but she just laughed, petting you until you begrudgingly purred. Damian, who’d been tracking you (because of course he was), showed up in his Robin suit, demanding your return.

“She’s not yours, kitten,” Selina purred, holding you up.

“She’s not yours either!” Damian snapped, and you could’ve sworn he was jealous. He snatched you back, cradling you like you were made of glass. “Stay away from my… cat.”

You wanted to laugh, but you also felt a surge of warmth. Damian might be a pain, but he cared. A lot.

Back at the manor, you decided it was time to get serious about turning human again. You sneaked into the Batcave, where Tim was analyzing the book. He’d figured out it was tied to an ancient curse, but the reversal spell required a “willing heart” and a “sacrifice of pride.” You had no idea what that meant, but you were pretty sure it involved groveling, which you hated.

You pawed at Tim’s keyboard, trying to type a message. All you managed was “IAMYNFIXME,” but Tim’s eyes widened. “Wait… Y/N? Is that you?”

You nodded frantically, purring for emphasis. Tim cursed, calling for the others. Within minutes, the Batfamily was assembled, staring at you like you were a science experiment gone wrong.

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Dick asked, scratching your ears.

“Because she’s an idiot,” Damian said, but his voice cracked with relief. He picked you up, holding you close. “You’re never leaving my sight again.”

---

The reversal spell was tricky. Bruce and Tim deciphered that the “sacrifice of pride” meant admitting vulnerability, something you and Damian both struggled with. You, because you hated looking weak. Damian, because he was, well, Damian.

In the Batcave, with the family gathered, Tim read the spell aloud. You sat in a circle of candles, feeling ridiculous as a cat. The spell required you to “speak your heart,” but since you could only meow, Damian had to do it for you.

He knelt beside you, his face a mix of embarrassment and determination. “Y/N… you’re my twin. My responsibility. I’ve always protected you because… because I’m scared of losing you. You’re not weak, even if you skip training. You’re strong in ways I’m not. I’m… sorry for underestimating you.”

You stared, stunned. Damian, admitting he was scared? That was the sacrifice of pride, all right. You felt a tear slip down your furry cheek, and you nuzzled his hand, purring softly.

The candles flared, the room glowed, and suddenly, you were human again, sprawled on the floor in your tie-dye shirt and Robin pants. “Well, that was a trip,” you croaked, grinning.

Damian tackled you in a hug, then immediately shoved you away. “Don’t ever do that again!”

The Batfamily erupted in laughter, relief, and teasing. Dick ruffled your hair, Jason handed you a burger, and Tim promised to burn the cursed book. Bruce just nodded, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

---

The rest of the summer was less magical but just as chaotic. You went back to your lazy, smiley self, but you made a small effort to train with Damian—not because you liked it, but because you wanted to show him you could. He, in turn, eased up on the overprotectiveness, though he still hovered like a grumpy hawk.

You and the Batfamily had countless adventures: stopping a Penguin heist, pranking Tim with glitter bombs, and convincing Alfred to let you throw a manor-wide water balloon fight. Through it all, you realized how much you loved your dysfunctional family, even if they drove you nuts.

On the last day of summer, you and Damian sat on the manor’s roof, watching the sunset. You leaned against him, munching on Cheetos. “So, twin, admit it. You kinda liked having me as a cat.”

He snorted. “You were a menace.”

“But you loved me anyway,” you teased, nudging him.

He didn’t reply, but his arm slipped around your shoulders, and that was answer enough.

[damselneedssaving]

IT STARTED OFF INNOCENT ENOUGH.

Tim was just curious, that's all.

He stumbled upon your insta when doom scrolling one day, recognised you as the cute girl that usually sat towards the front of his lecture hall, and clicked on your profile with little to no thought behind his actions.

Then he began scrolling.

And scrolling.

And scrolling.

And before he even knew it, a few hours had passed, and he had gotten to pictures that dated all the way back to your senior year of high school, which doesn't seem like a lot, but you posted almost 24/7, so he had scrolled through way more than just a couple dozen to get there.

He remembers thinking that you were naive, that it was foolish to post so many pictures onto a public account and not bother blurring out street names or frequented cafés.

What if some creep stumbled upon your insta?—thought you were pretty and decided to start stalking you?

Just the possibility kept Tim awake that night, tossing and turning in bed with his fingers tousled through his hair and his eyes wide enough to plug a valley.

That's why he did what he did next.

It wasn't anything... bad, per say. In fact, it was good. Protective. Something a real hero would do.

So no, he didn't feel guilty for stopping by your favourite café and keeping an eye out. Or for darting his gaze around to every person that would pass by your general vicinity even if they weren't so much as facing you. Or for glaring paticularly hard at that cashier whose eyes lingered on you a second too long as he handed you your drink.

No, he didn't feel guilty at all.

He was just trying to protect you.

And for a while, that really was it. He would go to your favourite café every day and just keep an eye out for any creeps who might've thought they could get away with a little peek.

But then he started to let his gaze linger on you. He started to admire you.

Your pictures never did you any justice (they still don't, to be honest). You were much prettier in person than over a screen, and Tim let himself bask in that fact for a second longer than he was supposed to each day.

But all those seconds added up, and soon, all of his time spent at the café was filled less so with keeping an eye out for other people, and more so with keeping an eye on you.

And then... even that stopped being enough.

You stayed at that café for maybe one or two hours a day, never any longer than that, never long enough to satisfy him.

So he started to follow you out, clung to your trail like a shadow. It wasn't really hard to stay hidden, he was a Robin after all. And you? Well, you were his garden. His beautiful sanctuary full of love and life.

That's why he was so drawn to you. Why he had to follow you all the way home and then some.

It was better that way. He would be able to keep you safe more effectively. He honestly didn't know what he was thinking when he only kept an eye on you for up to two hours a day.

Stupid of him, really.

But what was stupider was his dumb job.

It kept him from truly keeping an eye on you. He couldn't stick by your side 24/7 when he had a city to patrol.

Luckily for him though, your habit of constantly posting online about where you were and what you were doing made it so that he didn't have to.

On patrol, he was constantly checking his phone for any updates. When his dad had him working at the company, he always had a tab propped open in the corner of his screen, your smiling face plastered all over it. And when he had free time, he would go keep an eye on you himself.

For a while, it was enough.

But then a thought occurred to him. A desire. And suddenly, 'enough' didn't just cut it anymore.

He wanted you to see him. Look at him the way he looks at you—like he's the only one in your world.

So he did something. Something he's not very proud of. But something he did nevertheless.

It wasn't anything... terrible. Just a small tip off. A tiny bribe. A little incentive for someone to send you falling straight off a twelve-story building.

Okay, so maybe it was pretty bad. But fuck was it worth it. Especially with how perfectly his arm slotted around your waist, and how desperately you buried your head into his neck, and how, after landing on another rooftop in Gotham with you safe in his arms, you gave him exactly what he desired and so much more.

So yeah... it had all started off innocent enough. But then it just... escalated. And now...

Now Tim doesn't even think he can stop.

[mintyys-blog]

TO BE INVINCIBLE 2 | batfam x invincible! reader

DC COMICS MASTERLIST | PART ONE | WARNINGS: blood, violence, murder

IMAGINE THIS: Y/N, daughter of Omni-Man, becomes a hero—only to be betrayed by her father and later by Amanda Waller. After surviving near-death, she finds support in the Batfamily and fights evil versions of herself to save the world—and her identity.

Sparks flew. Concrete cracked. The Batcave was a warzone.

Y/N trembled on the ground, her hands over her ears as the piercing frequency stabbed through her skull. Her body was starting to give out—arms shaking, knees scraped and bleeding where they dragged across the stone. Her vision blurred. Her ribs burned. She could feel herself slipping.

Amanda Waller stood untouched at the back of the cave, flanked by her teleporter. Calm. Smug. Then— A sharp whistle cut through the air.

Damian.

He surged forward, blade in hand, fast as a bullet. Amanda turned too late. With a precision honed from years of training, he slashed clean through the device in her hand.

CRACK. Sparks burst from it. It fell to the ground in broken, hissing pieces. But nothing changed.

Y/N keened in pain, still curled in a shaking ball as more robots surrounded her—pummeling her back with heavy fists, slamming her into the ground.

“It didn’t stop!” Barbara shouted.

Tim, fingers flying across his keyboard, shouted from behind the Batcomputer. “It had a dead man switch—damn it!”

Cass had just torn the head off another robot when she saw three more slamming into Y/N’s spine. She screamed in fury, launching herself like a missile into them, breaking one’s jaw, stabbing through another’s chest—but it wasn’t enough.

None of it was enough. Y/N was going silent. Even her screams had grown hoarse. Tim looked up—eyes wide as he saw her collapse completely, barely twitching.

He stopped thinking. His fingers moved faster than they ever had in his life, bypassing firewalls, scanning for encrypted transmission patterns, looking for anything—any signal carrying the frequency.

Then—ping. “Got you,” he whispered. “Frequency blocked!” He slammed the command key. In an instant— The sound cut off. Y/N went still. The cave rang with the absence of pain.

Silence crashed down over the Batcave like a wave. For a single breath, everything stilled.

Then— Y/N’s chest rose. Her fingers dug into the ground. The blood on her face had dried. Her hair clung to her sweat-drenched skin. Her body was bruised, armor cracked, bones likely broken—but her power was intact.

And now? It was awake.

She stood. Her body moved slow, deliberate—shoulders rolled, head tilted, eyes glowing like twin stars. A pulse of violet-gold energy crackled up her arms, her skin rippling with barely restrained violence.

And then— She vanished. No flight trail. No sound.

Just a blur of motion— CRASH.

She obliterated the nearest robot with a single punch—its body folding inward like paper before exploding into metal shards. Before the pieces even hit the floor, she was gone again.

BOOM.

Another crushed against the wall, caved in and sparking.

SLAM. SLASH. CRACK.

Every motion was ruthless. Efficient. Furious. Her blows were surgical in speed but violent in execution—twisting metal like it was soft clay, punching through cores, ripping heads clean off.

The Batfamily could barely follow her.

Cass ducked back as a robot’s torso flew over her shoulder—disconnected from its legs.

Jason stared, wide-eyed. “She’s not pulling punches.”

“She’s pissed.” Dick replied, wincing as he saw her rip a robots head off and toss it aside. Even Bruce paused—because this wasn’t the control she’d trained with. This was something else. Something feral. Amanda Waller, to her credit, finally started to look afraid. She took a single step back. Then two. Her eyes locked on Y/N, who had just ripped a machine’s spine out and let it fall with a sickening crunch. Y/N turned to her—expression blank. Emotionless.

“I’m not my father,” she said, voice soft—dangerous. “I’m more than what you think of me.” Amanda reached for her remaining failsafe. Too late. Y/N grabbed her by the collar, lifting her clean off the ground. Waller didn’t scream. But she went pale. Y/N’s grip tightened.

“I trusted you,” she whispered, fists shaking. “I believed you were different. You’re worse than he ever was.” The glow in her eyes began to rise again. A tremble rolled through the cave.

And just before she could finish what she started— FLASH. The teleporter’s eyes snapped open. He grunted weakly, reached toward Waller—and with a sudden flare of blue light— They were gone.

Y/N’s hand closed on empty air. Silence. She dropped to her knees. Trembling. Not with pain anymore. But with everything else.

The air still smelled of smoke and scorched metal. Sparks sizzled from decapitated machines. One of the walls was cracked all the way up to the ceiling. The ground was littered with wreckage.

And Y/N was on her knees in the center of it all, shaking.

Her hands were curled into fists, resting on the ground. Her hair shadowed her face. Her breathing was heavy, almost ragged.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then—

Footsteps. Steady. Familiar. Not rushed.

Bruce.

He approached her like one would approach a cornered animal. Careful. Measured.

He didn’t speak until he was close enough to kneel beside her.

“I know a doctor,” he said softly, “who can remove the device from your head.”

She didn’t look at him at first. Just breathed. Deep. Shallow. Deep again.

But then—a nod. Small. Barely noticeable.

Bruce took it as permission.

He gently placed a gloved hand on her shoulder—her body flinched at first, but didn’t pull away.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Y/N closed her eyes.

And this time, when the tears came, they weren’t silent.

They were shaking sobs, tearing out of her chest like she’d held them back for years.

Cass, standing nearby, slowly walked over and knelt too—no words, just presence. Quiet and strong.

Tim hovered a few feet back, arms crossed tightly, eyes still flicking over the data in his HUD—but his gaze kept coming back to her. Like he needed to confirm she was still breathing.

Jason stood farther away, arms folded. His jaw was clenched, but his eyes were glassy. He understood better than most what it meant to come back from the edge and not know what was left of you.

Dick sat heavily on a console, breathing out. “She held back,” he murmured.

“She could’ve killed Waller,” Barbara agreed softly. “But she didn’t.”

“She still chose us,” Damian added from behind them, voice firm.

Bruce didn’t say anything more. Just kept his hand on Y/N’s shoulder as she cried—offering her something more powerful than words.

Safety. And finally—a path forward.

3 MONTHS LATER

The sound of fists slamming against reinforced steel echoed through the training room.

Y/N panted, sweat dripping from her brow, her knuckles red and raw. Her breathing was measured—controlled now. Her strikes had force, but no rage. Not anymore.

Across from her, Kon-El hovered in the air, arms crossed with a proud grin. “Damn,” he whistled. “Remind me not to tick you off.”

Y/N smirked faintly, rolling her shoulders. “I’m trying not to break the equipment this time.” From the sidelines, Tim leaned against a terminal, watching her vitals flash across a screen. “Heart rate’s steady. No spikes in aggression.” He tilted his head. “Your control’s better than mine when I’m running late for patrol.”

She grinned at that, walking over to grab her water bottle. “That’s ‘cause you stress over everything, Boy Wonder.”

“I’ll remember that next time I hack your Spotify playlist.”

“Oh my God,” she groaned, slapping a hand over her face as Kon laughed. “Don’t worry,” Tim smirked. “I deleted the Taylor Swift remixes. Mostly.”

Y/N shoved him gently with her shoulder, smiling—but her eyes were softer now. She looked alive. Not perfect. Still healing. But no longer drowning.

Dick Grayson stood below the suspended bars with his arms crossed, watching as Y/N swung overhead, flipping gracefully between handholds. Her body curved midair, landing in a perfect tuck before dropping into a crouch.

He gave a short whistle.

“Not bad. You’re almost as flexible as me.”

Y/N stood up with an eye roll. “Yeah, yeah, Nightwing. Keep dreaming.”

He chuckled. “I’m just saying—it’s nice seeing you move like this. Last time we trained, you were all raw power. Now? You’re… fluid.”

“Guess I had good teachers.” She reached up for the bars again, pausing just before the jump. “Thank you,” she said softly. Dick blinked. “For what?”

“For treating me like I was more than what I could do.” She looked down at him, eyes serious. “You didn’t look at me like a weapon. Not once.”

Dick smiled—but this time it was sad. Warm. “We’ve all been broken, Y/N. Doesn’t mean we stop being people.” She nodded once. Then leapt into the air again, body twisting mid-flip with the kind of control only earned through patience.

Y/N landed perfectly on the bar.

Then everything shook.

A boom unlike anything she’d felt in months rippled through the tower—deeper than a sonic blast, sharp as a blade cutting through air itself. She lost grip, flipping instinctively and landing on the padded floor just as the alarms began to scream.

Red lights bathed the walls.

Kon-El crashed through the door a second later, eyes wide. “Sky just tore open! We’ve got a breach—multiple—across the globe.”

Tim’s voice blared through the intercom. “They’re not breaches. They’re copies. All of them… her.”

Y/N’s blood went cold.

“What?”

Dick’s voice came in, grim. “Eighteen. All you. All superpowered. All violent. I’m sending coordinates now. Titans and League are mobilizing.”

Screens lit up across the room, each showing another version of her face—some feral, some armored, some older, some bleeding and grinning.

One tore through STAR Labs with monstrous spikes bursting from her arms. Another melted a power station in Metropolis with heat vision. One stood atop a pile of dead heroes in London—head tilted, blood dripping from her chin. It was her. All of them. But not her. Y/N stepped back, heart pounding. “No… no, that’s not possible.”

Kon put a hand on her shoulder. “Multiverse.” Tim’s voice returned, clipped. “They’re coordinated. And they’re not here to play games.” Y/N turned to face the monitors, fists clenching. “They’re here to kill me.”

The city was blanketed in smoke and silence—emergency systems disabled, entire blocks without power. The streets glowed dimly with the afterburn of impact.

A red-gold streak slammed into the center of Gotham’s main district, sending debris flying.

Out of the crater stepped her.

Not their Y/N.

This one wore a twisted, armored version of her old suit—more brutal, no insignia. Her eyes glowed red, but it was the way she stood that made it clear: she didn’t see them as people.

She saw targets.

Jason Todd watched from behind the cover of a ruined vehicle. “Okay,” he muttered, checking the rounds in his gun, “how the hell do we deal with that?”

Bruce’s voice was cold steel. “The recording of Canary’s cry. It dropped our Y/N. It’ll drop her too. If we can get it close enough.”

Damian’s knuckles tightened around his katana. “We shouldn’t hesitate. She’s not Y/N. She’s a threat—and she dies like one.”

Jason glared. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It is.” Damian took a step forward.

But he never reached her.

She moved.

In less than a blink, she was in front of him.

Damian swung on reflex—perfect form. He was one of the fastest human fighters alive.

And yet—

She caught his wrist mid-strike and twisted.

His blade hit the ground before he even processed the pain. Her boot slammed into his chest next, launching him across the street and through a parked SUV.

Jason fired immediately—armor-piercing rounds.

She didn’t dodge.

She let them bounce off. Then flicked her fingers. A sonic crack shattered Jason’s helmet lens and sent him reeling.

Cassandra tried next—darting in with pressure-point strikes. She managed to land a few before the variant caught her leg mid-flip and smashed her into the sidewalk hard enough to crater it.

Tim’s voice came in over comms, urgent. “Uploading the Canary frequency now. Stall her another ten seconds!”

Bruce threw an electrified batarang that barely missed as the variant blurred behind him.

“Five seconds,” Tim warned.

Jason was up again, blood dripping down his cheek. “You’re not her,” he spat, breath ragged.

The variant tilted her head. “No. I’m what she could’ve been. If she didn’t waste her power being soft.”

She blurred toward Jason—

Tim activated the frequency.

The sound split the air like lightning, blaring from modified sirens across the block.

The variant stopped mid-run.

Her eyes went wide. She screamed.

Her knees hit the pavement, fingers tearing at her skull. “NO—SHUT IT OFF—”

She launched herself into the sky, breaking the sound barrier as she fled.

Silence fell again.

Smoke drifted over the ruined street. Damian staggered back to his feet, clutching his ribs.

“She was faster,” he admitted through gritted teeth. “Too fast.”

Jason stood beside him, face grim. “Yeah. And we’ve got seventeen more to go.”

The air thundered with shockwaves as Superboy crashed into the ground, his body leaving a trench that shattered the streets for three blocks.

Smoke rose from the rubble.

Above him, hovering with effortless poise, floated her—a version of Y/N in an obsidian-black suit, the red Viltrumite insignia blazoned across her chest. Her cape whipped in the wind like a war banner.

Her lip curled in disgust.

“Pathetic,” she spat, voice laced with venom. “I wouldn’t even keep you as a slave in my empire.”

Kon-El groaned, pushing up from the fractured earth, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. “Okay… yeah… definitely not her.”

She descended slowly, one fist raised.

But then— A crimson blur slammed into her side. Bart Allen zipped in, fists crackling with kinetic lightning. “Hey, Empress Attitude, why don’t you pick on someone who doesn’t wear a Superman logo?”

She whirled, glaring as Bart zipped around her—creating a tornado of motion. “You’re fast,” she muttered, unimpressed. “But not fast enough.” She vanished. Bart blinked. “Wait, wh—”

CRACK.

She dove downward, catching him mid-loop and slamming her heel into his shin with enough force to shatter it. Bone splintered. Bart screamed as he was launched into a billboard below. She smirked, hovering over the chaos. “Speed without precision. Just noise.”

But that was her mistake. Kon roared back to his feet, eyes glowing. “You talk a lot for someone who just got sucker-punched by a 19-year-old with ADHD.”

While her eyes were still on Bart, Kon flew in full-speed, shoulder-first. She wasn’t fast enough. The impact sent them both through three buildings, Kon slamming her into the side of a parking structure and not stopping—ripping through concrete, sparks flying as steel and stone burst around them.

She growled, trying to recover—but he landed punch after punch, hammering her through the foundation. “You don’t get to wear her face,” he hissed. “Not while I’m breathing.”

BELLE REVE PENITENTIARY – LOUISIANA – 3:47 AM

Alarms wailed uselessly.

The reinforced walls of the maximum-security facility crumbled like cardboard. Prisoners screamed—some fled, most never got the chance.

High above the carnage, floating amid smoke and flames, a woman laughed.

Another Y/N.

Her suit was matte-black with silver trim, sleek and bloodstained. Her hands were soaked in red, her eyes glowing with unchecked power. Dead guards littered the floor beneath her.

She hovered over the wreckage, sneering.

“Ha! Is this what you call a prison on this planet?” Her voice echoed like a storm through the ruined yard. “Pathetic. I could break out of this place in my sleep.”

She casually blasted the armory—sending a wave of energy that obliterated half the east wing.

And then she felt it.

A shift in the air. A pull.

Someone was coming.

A sonic boom split the night sky.

The real Y/N crashed into the ground, landing hard enough to crater the courtyard. Dust exploded outward in a shockwave, scattering debris.

She rose from the impact, eyes narrowed, fists clenched tight at her sides. Her own suit—tattered from months of wear and war—still bore the weight of her pain and perseverance.

The variant hovered a few feet above her, blinking once.

Then, a slow smile crept across her lips.

“Oh,” the variant purred, “there she is. The disappointment.”

Y/N didn’t rise to the bait.

“You killed innocent people,” she said, voice low. Dangerous.

“They were weak,” her variant shrugged. “This place caged people like us. I just opened the doors.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. “You’re not me.”

“No,” the variant grinned, her eyes burning brighter. “I’m what you’re too afraid to be.”

Y/N launched first. And the sky shattered. They clashed in midair, sonic booms rippling out as their fists collided—one fighting for power, the other fighting for control.

The battlefield was scorched. Concrete cracked. Smoke from shattered streetlights and collapsed buildings clouded the air.

In the center of it all floated a woman in a familiar uniform—Y/N’s, but wrong. No goggles. Eyes fully visible and utterly cold. Her mouth curled into a lazy smile, blood already speckled across her knuckles.

Beast Boy, in a battered tiger form, growled and lunged.

She caught him by the throat.

“You were green in my world, too,” she said, voice flat and disinterested. “He died screaming. Took me longer than I expected.”

She slammed him into the pavement.

Blue Beetle’s cannon charged, and he opened fire, yelling, “Let. Him. GO!”

The blast hit her square in the back—she turned like she barely noticed, still gripping Gar by the throat.

“Cute toy,” she said, dropping Beast Boy like discarded trash. “Yours didn’t even get a shot off.”

She blitzed him.

BOOM.

Blue Beetle flew backward like a missile, crashing through a parked bus. The Scarab tried to reboot shields—too late.

She was on him again, lifting him by the chestplate.

“I’ve already killed most of you,” she said softly, eyes burning. “Let’s see if this version cries like mine did.”

Then—

Lightning crashed.

Static dropped from the air, surging volts through the ground beneath her. She snarled and flinched, letting Jaime go.

“I don’t care who you are,” Virgil growled, skateboarding forward on an arc of current, “but where I’m from? You don’t touch my friends.”

She flew at him. He skated up a wall, firing charged disks and a magnetic pulse to launch a nearby car.

She caught it mid-air and hurled it back.

Star Girl leapt in, smashing her cosmic staff across the variant’s face. She reeled just slightly, and Bart—leg now healed, zipping in with blur-speed—followed up.

“Remember me?” Bart grinned, jabbing rapidly. “Took down one of your sisters last week—with my guy Kon—your eye came out like a grape!”

That earned her fury.

She roared, grabbed Bart mid-stride, and threw him into a water tower.

“Bart!” Halo cried, sending a radiant shield between the variant and the others. Artemis loosed a flurry of arrows—each one exploding on impact.

“Keep her off-balance!” M’gann shouted from above, phasing downward and attempting a telepathic strike.

It barely registered.

The variant grimaced, shook it off like a bug bite, and shot forward—impaling Halo through the stomach with a piece of rebar.

“Your powers are annoying,” she hissed in Halo’s ear. “But I’ll tear the light out of you.”

Suddenly— A sonic boom. Superboy (Conner Kent) landed behind her with a crater-cracking thud. His eyes locked on hers. “That’s enough.”

She turned, slowly. “Finally. Someone worth hitting.” He lunged—and the sky broke open.

The wind howled through the broken streets. Fires crackled in the distance. Craters and bodies littered the battlefield, the Outsiders panting, bruised, and bloodied.

The variant hovered just a few feet above the cracked earth, regarding Conner Kent with a curious, cruel gaze.

He stood firm, fists at his sides, chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

She tilted her head, grinning.

“You’re not the Superboy I knew.”

Conner didn’t respond. He narrowed his eyes.

The variant drifted closer, circling him like a vulture.

“The one from my world? He was full Kryptonian. Heat vision. Cold breath. Real power. Yours?” She clicked her tongue. “Half the strength, none of the flash. You’re like… off-brand.”

She smiled wider, almost giddy now. “I tore open his chest and watched the light leave his eyes. He died thinking he was enough. Just like you will.”

Conner’s hands flexed.

“You talk too much.”

She smirked. “You die too slow.”

Then—

WHAM!

A van slammed into her full force, launched like a missile.

The impact sent her crashing through two buildings, bricks and steel collapsing in her wake.

Floating down behind the wrecked vehicle was Miss Martian, eyes glowing, veins pulsing green with psychic effort.

“Not today.”

The Outsiders regrouped.

Jaime staggered over, helping Gar up. Bart groaned from a pile of wood, holding his ribs.

Static arced a protective current around them, his chest rising fast.

Artemis readied her next arrow. “She’s still breathing. I can feel it.”

Conner took the lead, stepping past the group and staring into the rising dust.

“She’s not done yet,” he muttered.

Then the dust parted—

—and she stepped out, dragging the crushed van behind her like it weighed nothing. Her lip was split. One arm hung limp. And her expression?

Pure fury.

“You’re all going to die screaming.”

And then she charged.

THREE DAYS LATER

The sky was streaked in deep orange and soft purples. The earth had stopped trembling. For now.

Y/N sat on the edge of the balcony outside the manor’s guest wing, legs dangling off the side. A gauze wrap covered a wound on her shoulder. Her goggles were hanging from her fingers, unmoving. Exhaustion tugged at her eyelids, but sleep was elusive.

The world was trying to put itself back together.

Behind her, the TV was still on in the room. The volume low, but not low enough.

“And while many praise ‘Invincible’ for the role she played in stopping the dimensional attack—”

Click.

She tossed the remote aside.

She didn’t need to hear the rest. She already knew it.

Some of the public thanked her. Called her a hero. A protector. A survivor of her father’s legacy, refusing to repeat it.

Others?

“Isn’t she made of the same blood as them?”

“She brought those monsters here.”

“She’s just like Omni-Man.”

The words bit deeper than any blow she took during the fight.

The balcony door opened quietly behind her. Jason stepped out, carrying two mugs. He offered one to her without a word.

She took it. “Thanks.” They sipped in silence for a long time.

“You know,” Jason finally said, “when I died—came back—I thought I’d be the villain in everyone’s story.”

Y/N didn’t answer, just stared out at the darkening sky. “But I wasn’t. Not to everyone. And neither are you.”

She finally turned to him, eyes heavy. “They were all me, Jason. Not just one or two. Eighteen. Versions of me who slaughtered entire worlds. What if I’m just—waiting to snap?”

Jason gave her a tired, lopsided smile. “Then you’ve got a hell of a lot of people who’ll take you down first.”

She blinked. “That’s your safety net,” he added. “Me. The bats. Tim. Kon. Everyone you’ve saved, protected, fought for. If you ever go full crazy-Viltrumite? We’ll be there to stop you. That’s what family does.”

Her laugh came out brittle but real. Jason nudged her with his shoulder. “But you won’t. You’re not them.”

“…I’m trying not to be.”

“You’re succeeding.” The wind shifted. The sky grew darker.

Inside, Tim was monitoring news reports. Dick was training. Damian was sharpening blades like normal—but quieter now. Bruce was already preparing contingency plans. Because of course he was. The world would move forward. Slowly. Cautiously. And so would she. Y/N leaned against Jason, just slightly. “…Thank you.”

“Anytime, Invincible.”

TAG LIST: @ironsaladwitch @onlybatsyy @mikajack9273 @astrelz @bronermalls @sweetheartlizzie07

[athenagc94]

As I draft some elements for a Tim Drake x Reader fic - here is my hot (?) take:

Time and age softens Damian, where time and age hardens Tim. They must, inevitably, meet in the middle somewhere at some point.

In this essay, I will…

Which is why I’m making them roommates

[clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm]

“My little love,Mama’s got a lot to learn.”

Batboys x single mum reader

My little love by Adele makes me cry every time now that i have kid.Because what if im doing this all wrong.Buttt enjoy!

Bruce Wayne

• At first, Bruce is hesitant — not about you, but about whether he could be a good father figure for your child.

• Once he commits, he commits. He’s suddenly funding your child’s education, upgrading their stroller to a literal tank and reading parenting books at 3AM.

• Surprisingly good at bedtime stories — his deep voice makes fairy tales sound like epic adventures.

• He sometimes slips and calls your kid “ours.” You pretend not to notice, but your heart definitely does.

⸻

Dick Grayson

• Dick loves kids — he’s the type to immediately crouch down to their level and ask their name.

• He’s the fun “stepdad” type — trampoline parks, baking cookies (he burns them), and choreographed dance parties.

• Teaches your kid acrobatics and ends up making them his little sidekick-in-training.

• Loves you fiercely and constantly reassures you that you’re not in this alone anymore.

⸻

Jason Todd

• Jason is surprisingly protective — he softens a lot around your child, even if he still gives off a rough exterior to the world.

• Reads your kid classic literature and gritty detective novels — he says they need “culture,” but he skips the violent parts.

• Carries juice boxes in his jacket like he’s carrying ammo. Snacks on one side, weapons on the other.

• He never talks about being a good role model, but shows up for every school event and parent-teacher conference without fail.

⸻

Tim Drake

• Tim overthinks everything — he googled “how to bond with children” the minute he found out you were a single mum.

• Gets overwhelmed at first but eventually becomes your kid’s favorite nerdy uncle-type. Teaches them coding, chess, and gives them supervised access to the Batcomputer.

• Sleep-deprived bonding moments — your child once woke up from a nightmare and found Tim already awake researching ways to help.

• You once caught them both asleep in front of a monitor, drooling onto a pile of LEGOs and snack wrappers.

Damian Wayne (Angsty Edition)

• When you first meet, Damian is distant. He’s polite — in that blunt, vaguely condescending way — but he keeps emotional distance from both you and your child.

• It’s not personal. He’s terrified of failing. Of becoming like his mother. Of inheriting the worst of both legacies and ruining a child that isn’t even his.

• He watches from the sidelines — his expression unreadable as your child laughs, clutches your hand, calls out to him with easy affection. Something tightens in his chest every time.

• One day, your child gets hurt. Not seriously — just a scraped knee, a tumble. But Damian’s reaction is instant and furious — with himself. He cradles them gently, whispering in Arabic, not realizing he’s shaking.

• He tries to push you away afterward. “They deserve someone better,” he says. “You both do.”

• But your child draws him a picture of “Dami, Mum, and me.” It’s crudely drawn — your child has given him a sword and a heart.

• He keeps the drawing folded in his wallet. No one knows it’s there.

• Damian doesn’t say “I love you” easily — but he shows it in quiet acts. Fixing your child’s broken toy with surgical precision. Standing watch outside their door during storms. Holding you in the quiet moments and asking, “Are you sure you want this? Me?”

• He eventually starts calling your child “my son” or “my daughter.” Quietly. Fiercely. As if daring the world to question it.

[yannawayne]

If I can't have you baby, no one else in this world can!

SYNOPSIS: The Batboys & Cass at their most unhinged, most protective, and most devoted. TAGS: FEMALE Reader! Fluff! Jealousy! Fake Marriage, Mild possessive behavior, Mild innuendo / suggestive banter, Mentions of weapons/violence + Older! Of-Age! Damian NOTE: Don’t take the content or characterizations too seriously! It’s literally just a goofy, for-fun fic :ppp AO3: yenwayne Ko-Fi: buy me a coffee!

જ⁀➴ RICHARD GRAYSON

“I hate these missions,” came Dick’s voice, petulant and immediate in your earpiece.

You didn’t pause. Instead, you stepped delicately around a marble column, your heels tapping rhythmically across the ballroom floor. Your dress shimmered with every movement, a slinky midnight blue number that hugged your form like it had been stitched by jealous gods. Your fingers grazed the low curve of your hip, pretending to adjust the fabric, when in reality you were activating the mic hidden beneath a faux diamond brooch.

“Nightwing,” you said calmly, smiling at a champagne server as they approached. You took a glass with a graceful nod, flipping your hair over your shoulder with casual elegance. “We’re at a gala. There are hors d'oeuvres and a string quartet. Try not to combust.”

“I am combusting,” he muttered, like he was personally being subjected to torture. “You’re pretending to be married to Barry Allen. That’s basically infidelity.”

“We fake-filed a fake tax return together like, five minutes ago,” you said dryly. “Relax.”

Dick huffed—huffed—and you could practically see him brooding on some rooftop, arms crossed like a bat-gargoyle. “I just think I, your actual husband, should be there.”

You let out a quiet sigh, walking toward the ornate staircase where Barry stood chatting up a senator. You could already see the knowing glint in his eye as he spotted you, lifting his glass like a man trying too hard to appear casual.

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath, smiling sweetly as you closed the distance. “You are literally in my ear. You’re more present than Barry is right now, and he's the one touching me.”

“What?!”

You glanced sideways at Barry. He shifted, his palm resting in the safe, polite territory of your lower back as he leaned in to whisper something to the senator. “Arm, Dick. It’s just an arm. We’re blending in. No need to send in the Batjet.”

“I swear to god if he tries the forehead kiss thing—”

You blinked. “What forehead kiss thing?”

“He does this thing,” Dick said, his voice a little breathless with outrage, “where he smiles all slow and soft and tilts his head, and he leans in like he’s gonna whisper something but instead he does this little forehead press like he’s in a rom-com. I hate it. That’s how he seduced Iris that one time!”

You bit the inside of your cheek to suppress a laugh, shifting your weight subtly as you allowed Barry to guide you toward the center of the room. The music shifted into a softer waltz.

“Pretty sure they were already dating when that happened.”

“Not the point. I should be the one fake-forehead-kissing you at fancy galas.”

You stepped past an older couple slow-dancing near the fountain centerpiece and turned, giving Barry a small apologetic smile as you pretended to be distracted by something in your clutch.

“Would that make you feel better?” you whispered.

“Immeasurably.”

You were about to respond when you caught the faintest flicker of movement overhead. The security camera nearest you pivoted. Just slightly. Just enough.

Your smile vanished.

“Did you just hijack the camera feed to watch me?”

Silence.

“Dick.”

“…No?”

“Dick.”

“Camera’s just doing its job.”

“You are the camera.”

There was a beat of long, silent guilt on the line.

“It’s a security sweep,” he finally muttered, defensive. “Totally standard.”

You turned and stared directly up at the rotating lens, narrowing your eyes. “You’re pouting, aren’t you?”

“No,” he said, full pout in his voice.

You glared at the camera, already knowing the exact pout he was pulling behind the cowl. Barry chuckled beside you, still in his gala-husband role. You looped your arm through his and leaned in with a soft smile, playing along for the watching donors. Wealth glittered across the ballroom. Pearls, tuxedos, and dresses worth more than a small country’s GDP.

And then Dick dropped the line.

“You just had to wear that gown, didn’t you?”

Your eyebrows twitched.

“It’s a dress.”

“It’s a crime scene, actually.”

You nearly snorted champagne up your nose. “Are you okay? Do you need to go punch a mugger and walk it off?”

“You don’t understand,” he hissed. “There are at least six guys pretending not to stare at you right now. One of them dropped a canapé. I watched it happen. I’m seconds from pulling the fire alarm.”

You hummed in amusement and tilted your head, letting the chandelier light catch the sheen of your lashes.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

You swirled the champagne in your glass, then took a slow, knowing sip, the bubbles tickling your lips as you smirked. “Are you gonna rappel in through the ceiling and punch Barry in the face mid-waltz?”

He didn’t answer immediately. And that was the worst part.

“…Maybe.”

You laughed under your breath, drawing curious eyes from across the floor. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever married.”

“I’m the only man you’ve ever married!”

“For now,” you teased.

Dead. Air.

You could feel it through the silence. The precise moment Dick’s jaw clenched, the way his hands probably curled into fists on some high-rise ledge. You almost felt sorry for the next criminal who looked at him funny.

“Sweetheart,” he said finally, voice dropping into that dangerous purr he only used when he was 70% teasing and 30% ready to commit felony assault. “If Barry so much as breathes too close to you, I’m driving over there and disguising myself as a waiter just to strangle him with a linen napkin.”

You giggled again, covering it with the rim of your glass and a quick flutter of lashes.

“Relax. You’re still my real husband.”

“I should hope so. I signed that marriage license in blood.”

“You pricked your finger opening the envelope.”

“It still counts.”

જ⁀➴ JASON TODD

The dim light of the bookstore warmed the space, the faint scent of old paper mixing with the musky air of Gotham’s streets. It was the perfect Saturday afternoon. You and Jason had been to this little corner bookstore a few times, tucked away near the flat you shared, where no one bothered you, just the way you liked it.

Today, the place had a sale. And you were taking full advantage. Because, books.

You bent slightly, pulling another book off the shelf. Your fingers lingered on the spine, the title catching your eye, but your gaze drifted briefly to Jason beside you.

He was holding a stack of books you'd already picked up, his strong arms braced beneath the weight. His other hand was occupied, casually flipping through the pages of a suspense novel. His worn-out motorcycle helmet hung off his elbow, the strap digging into his skin like it always did when he wasn’t too concerned about making a spectacle of himself.

The sight of him in his usual attire, tight compression shirt, cargo pants, and those damn ratty boots, was almost enough to make you forget why you were even here. You couldn’t help it. Your husband, who exuded that rough, untamed charm that always made your heart skip a beat, even after everything.

You coughed, quickly pulling your focus back to the shelf, cheeks flushed. You weren’t here to ogle at him. You were here to buy books, to stock up for the upcoming winter nights in your cozy little flat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him glance over at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he noticed the way you’d momentarily gotten lost in thought.

“You okay there, doll?” His voice was low, but that teasing drawl was there, practically sending your internal warning system into overload.

You snapped back to the shelf, cheeks now officially flushed. “Fine. Just… you know, checking out some new releases. That’s all.”

Jason took a step closer, his hand reaching out to adjust the stack of books he was holding, brushing against your side. You could feel his eyes on you, that damn teasing look in them. He knew.

"Uh-huh," he muttered, clearly amused.

You shot him a glare. “Stop being so obvious.” You grabbed a couple more books, pretending they were the most interesting thing in the store, while mentally trying to avoid imagining how good he looked in those pants.

The moment passed, and you made your way to the counter. But, of course, Jason insisted on carrying all the books for you, despite them weighing next to nothing. Which, really, wasn’t a huge shock. The man could bench press a car if he felt like it.

The cashier, a young guy in his twenties, greeted you with a friendly smile as he began scanning your newest babies.

“Oh, you read The Cruel Prince?” the cashier suddenly asked, lifting the book from your pile with excitement. “I’ve been dying to meet someone else who loves it.”

You couldn’t help but grin, excited to talk about one of your favorites. “Yes! It’s amazing. I love Jude as a character. She’s so strong, and the plot twists? Wild.”

The cashier, clearly eager to engage, leaned in slightly, his elbows resting casually on the counter. “I know, right? I just finished The Wicked King,” he said with a boyish laugh.

“I’m almost done with The Queen of Nothing now.” His eyes flicked up, lingering a moment too long on your face. “You into high fantasy like this, or was it just a one-time thing? ‘Cause if you’re looking for recs… I’ve got a few I think you’d really love.”

You smiled, delighted by the conversation. “Oh, I’m always open to fantasy suggestions. I love character-driven stuff with sharp worldbuilding.”

Completely absorbed, you missed the way the cashier’s eyes dipped briefly down your frame before flicking back up to meet yours. "Lucky for me, you stopped by today.”

Jason, who had been standing just behind you, tensed. Subtly, he stepped closer, the warmth of his body brushing your back as he shifted the weight of the books in his arms. His free hand settled on your waist, low and firm.

It was casual, at least outwardly, but there was nothing casual about the way his fingers flexed slightly against your coat.

The cashier, oblivious or ignoring the shift in energy, handed you the receipt, gaze still lingering. “Seriously, though. A doll like you geeking out over The Cruel Prince? That’s rare. Real rare. Kinda makes a guy believe in fate.”

Jason’s voice cut through the moment, cold enough to make the air around you drop a few degrees. “Yeah,” he said, eyes locked onto the cashier’s now, unreadable but intense. “She’s one of a kind.”

The cashier blinked, clearly feeling the shift, but tried to laugh it off. “Right, of course. I’ll, uh, finish ringing this up.”

Jason didn’t move, didn’t blink. “You do that.”

A moment later, the books were bagged, and the cashier’s enthusiasm had visibly dimmed. He offered a half-hearted smile, handing you the bag. “Enjoy your books.”

Jason took it before you could, his hand brushing against yours as he did. “We will.”

You followed Jason out of the store, blinking at the sudden rush of cold Gotham air. You were about to say something when you caught the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes stayed forward.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Jealous?”

He scoffed, but didn’t deny it. “Nah. Just making sure it’s clear. You’re mine.”

You slipped your arm through his. “Always.”

જ⁀➴ TIM DRAKE

“Hi, Timmy Junior,” you crooned, crouching low to the penthouse floor with a dramatic sweep of your coat as it slipped from your shoulders. Your fingers found the cat’s chin, scritching gently beneath the plush fur.

The feline let out a noise of pure bliss, an undignified grrrrrr-rup purr as he leaned his entire ridiculous body weight into your hand.

“You’re so spoiled,” you whispered like a secret, ruffling his ears. “Where’s your dad, huh? Inventing new molecules? Hacking the Pentagon again?”

You padded deeper into the apartment, your heels left by the door, your coat sliding neatly onto the rack with one smooth toss. The air inside was warm and low-lit, cast in that signature honey-gold glow Tim always adjusted for you when you worked late at the hospital. Cozy, inviting. The kind of lighting that lured you toward rest like gravity.

Your gaze landed on him instantly. Folded up on the couch in a soft Gotham U hoodie and well-worn sweatpants, socked feet tucked beneath him, glowing laptop balanced on his knees.

The blue light framed his face like a crime scene photograph. His fingers flew across the keys, precise, fast, controlled. His brow furrowed, and his jaw clenched just slightly, like whatever he was typing deserved war.

You didn’t say a word.

Instead, you launched yourself forward like a sleepy jungle cat and collapsed into his lap, head-first, limbs folding as you burrowed in like you belonged there. Because you did.

Tim paused, but only for a second. Then one arm wrapped around your waist, locking you into place as his other hand resumed its furious typing like your sudden weight had simply activated some comforting subroutine. Like muscle memory. Like ritual.

“You’re late,” he murmured, finally meeting your eyes with that gentle, tired smile you’d always been weak for.

“Code blue,” you mumbled, curling tighter into his hoodie. “And two separate idiots who thought knife fights belonged in the ER lobby.”

He hummed low and familiar. “Gotham.”

You exhaled slowly, melting into him. The scent of him wrapped around you—green tea, clean soap, and ozone, like he hadn’t moved from this couch in hours. The safest smell in the world.

But something… tugged.

You felt it now. His body didn’t soften the way it usually did when you came home. His hold was there, but too controlled. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t gone away. He hadn’t kissed your forehead.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong?”

Tim’s lips parted like he wanted to deny it, but instead, he let out a breath that deflated his whole chest. “It’s nothing,” he said, almost too fast. “Just… internet drama. Dumb stuff.”

“About work?” you asked, brows raising.

“No,” he said after a beat, tone shifting. “About us.”

You stilled.

Tim blinked at you, then sighed. “You did an interview with Vicky Vale today?”

You blinked again, slower this time. “…Yesh,” you mumbled into his neck. “She was a nightmare in heels, but Bruce said something something ‘positive press,’ ‘curated coverage,’ PR speak, blah blah—”

“Right,” Tim cut in, nodding slowly. Too slowly. “And in that very public interview, broadcast to half of Gotham… you said Nightwing was your favorite vigilante.”

Silence.

You shifted.

“I stand by my words.”

He gasped in faux betrayal and grabbed your hand, holding it up like a piece of evidence. The diamond on your engagement ring caught the light dramatically.

“This is a literal rock,” he said, dead serious. “A shiny, cut-from-the-mountain, six-years-of-our-life-together rock. And that,” he gestured vaguely in the air, “is slander.”

You bit back a grin as he continued, spiraling.

“…Treason, even,” Tim added dramatically, eyes wide with mock hurt. “I should call Bruce. Or the League. Or Alfred. Someone’s has got to arrest you.”

You covered your mouth to stop the laugh threatening to bubble out. “You’re going to tattle on me to Alfred?”

“Damn right I am. He likes me best. He’ll understand.” He pointed a finger accusingly. “And you—you—are officially banned from Titans reruns, YouTube edits, and any content where Nightwing is in leather and doing that thing with his sticks.”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “What thing with his sticks?”

Tim looked personally wounded. “You know what thing. The twirly thing! The one with the hip pivot.”

You smirked, throwing your arms around him like a blanket. “Hm. But you're still my favorite fiancé.”

He scowled into your hair. “Not good enough. I want it in writing. Signed affidavit. Notarized.”

“Fine,” you deadpanned. “I, under oath, declare Timothy Jackson Drake to have the second-best butt in Gotham.”

Tim pulled back sharply. “Second?!”

“Best fiancé,” you corrected with a squeal, kicking as he launched a tickle assault. “Best fiancé! Tim! Stop! I swear to—!”

He kept going, merciless and grinning, until you both dissolved into laughter and flailing limbs on the couch. Tim finally flopped beside you, chest heaving, arms still tangled around you.

You were still breathless, clutching your stomach, when he murmured:

“…Still should’ve been first-best butt.”

You reached over and kissed his nose. “You’re number one in my heart.”

“And in Alfred’s rankings.”

“Exactly.”

જ⁀➴ DAMIAN WAYNE

The wind bit at your exposed skin, Gotham’s chill cutting through every crack in your suit, making you shiver despite your best efforts to hide it. You tried to pull the oversized cape tighter around your shoulders, Damian’s cape, and flicked it dramatically, hoping for a bit of extra warmth. It made you feel a little ridiculous, but god, it was warm.

You glanced sideways at Damian, the stone wall of a man beside you, not even acknowledging the cold as he stared down at the street below, his jaw set and his posture as rigid as a statue.

You raised an eyebrow. “You know, I’m freezing my ass off in your oversized cape, and you’re standing there like a stone wall, making me look like a damsel in distress.”

Damian flicked a glance at you, his lips barely twitching into a smirk. "You do look ridiculous."

You rolled your eyes, adjusting the cape again. It really did swallow you whole. You felt like an overgrown child in a giant’s cloak.

"Well, at least I’m warm," you muttered, "unlike some people."

“Tt. I’m fine, beloved,” he said, but there was a little something extra when he said beloved.

Something warm. Something intense. And despite the cold, your heart did a little leap.

Sexy stone statue, you grumbled to yourself. You were so not above it.

The night air crackled with tension for a moment before Damian broke the silence. “Something’s off. Stay close.”

You straightened, your body on high alert, instinctively leaning closer to him. You followed his gaze toward the flickering lights…A bank alarm.

The unmistakable shriek of Gotham’s most wanted sound—bank robbery.

“Trouble,” you said, giddy with the thrill.

“Indeed,” Damian replied, voice low and dangerous. Before you could respond, he vanished into the night, melting into the shadows.

“Show-off,” you muttered, launching a web and following him across the rooftops.

You landed beside him, crouched above a black van outside the bank. Thugs were unloading duffle bags—money and cologne, Gotham’s finest.

“Someone’s making a withdrawal,” you whispered.

“Then let’s make sure they don’t get too comfortable,” Damian muttered. With a single flick of his wrist, a Batarang flew out, slicing through the air and knocking one of the thieves out.

“Smooth,” you swooned, eyes wide with admiration. “Hey, this might be the best date night we’ve had all month.”

“Tch. I prefer less… crowded dates,” Damian shot back, already taking down another guy with a fluid motion that made it look effortless.

Fast. Precise. Unfairly hot.

You couldn’t help but grin, heart racing as you jumped into the action, doing a flip over one of the thieves to disarm him mid-air. You were all set to land on your feet, ready to keep up the momentum, when suddenly, a shadow slammed into you from nowhere.

The impact knocked the wind from your lungs, sending you crashing into the rooftop with a grunt.

Damian’s head snapped your way, eyes dark, hand flying to his blade. Ready to kill.

"Wait!" you said, breathless, as you pushed yourself up and caught sight of the person on top of you.

"Black Cat?" you breathed, disbelief flooding your chest.

She grinned down at you, that too-familiar cocky smile spreading across her face.

"Hey, Spider," she said, pressing a hand down on your shoulders, keeping you pinned, her fingers firm and possessive. "Long time no swing. You look… deliciously out of breath."

Your brain short-circuited. "Holy shit. What are you doing in Gotham?"

Before she could answer, a shadow dropped hard beside you. Damian. Radiating absolute fury in a tight, concentrated glare.

“Get. Off.”

Two words. Ice-cold.

Black Cat didn’t flinch. In fact, her grin widened.

"Ooooh," she said, drawing out the syllable like she’d just tasted something expensive. “You must be new. You gotta get in line, cutie. Spider’s got fans, you know.”

“I am not a fan,” Damian snapped. “I am her partner.”

You sat up. “Aw.”

Damian flushed.

“In combat,” he added stiffly.

You winced. “Less aw.”

Black Cat howled. “Oh, this is so much better than I hoped. You got yourself a territorial one, huh?” She leaned in close to Damian, eyes twinkling. “Tell me, do you bite?”

“I don’t bite,” Damian said coldly.

“Oh?” she said with a smirk. “Shame.”

“I maim.”

“Well, you’re no fun,” Black Cat tsked, her hips swaying as she walked forward with that signature, cat-like confidence. “Relax, Bird Boy. Just saying hi to my favorite Spider.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Guys! Seriously? We are not doing this right now. We’re literally in the middle of a robbery!”

Black Cat flipped her hair over her shoulder, unfazed. “Handled it already, sweetheart. I snagged the bank’s security drive, webbed the goons to their getaway van, and took care of the heavy lifting before I jumped you. You’re welcome.”

“…You webbed—my web fluid?!” you gawked.

“Borrowed,” Black Cat said airily. “Don’t be stingy.”

“I made that with bio-polymers and blood, you kleptomaniac bat-licking menace—”

“Oh, please,” she rolled her eyes. “I'm sure you can make another one of your web knick-knacks.”

Damian’s eyes flashed. “Those cartridges are proprietary.”

“Pro‑pri‑e‑tar‑y!” you echoed, stabbing a finger at her. “He means off-limits, you thieving furball!”

Black Cat rolled her shoulders, utterly unbothered. “I’ll return them. Hm… rented at a fair rate, of course. Maybe half a million an ounce?”

Damian growled low in his throat. “You—I'll—”

“Okay, okay, enough. Look. I’ll put them back before breakfast tomorrow, deal?” Black Cat offered, waggling her fingers like this was a brunch invitation and not felony-level theft.

You opened your mouth to protest because you absolutely did not agree to that, but it was too late. With a mock curtsy and a wicked glint in her eye, she vanished into the shadows, her laughter echoing like a warning shot.

You turned back to Damian, who stood tense, blade still in hand, every muscle in his jaw working overtime.

“I should have let her fall off the building,” he muttered.

You snorted. “You would never.”

“I could have accidentally loosened her grip.” He sheathed his sword with more force than necessary. “No one touches you like that. No one pins you but me.”

Your brows shot up. “So you do want to pin me—”

“Strategically,” he snapped.

“Strategically?" you purred, arms wrapping round his shoulders. "That’s what we’re calling rooftop makeouts now?”

“I—Tt—focus.” But Damian's hands settled at your waist anyway, traitorously warm. “We need to debrief. Secure the scene. Call in the GCPD. Recheck the vault—”

“Oh, Dames…”

જ⁀➴ CASSANDRA CAIN

You were no better than a man.

You were definitely not supposed to be staring. Or, at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself as you tried to focus on the workout in front of you. But there was no way you could ignore Cassandra right now.

She was… perfect.

Her form was flawless as she moved through her calisthenics routine. Push-ups, pull-ups, even backflips! Nothing seemed to faze her. And here you were, struggling not to turn into a puddle of goo on the gym floor.

It wasn’t fair, honestly. How was one person allowed to be so hot? You were supposed to be stretching, but instead, you were completely fixated on your girlfriend, who was now hanging effortlessly from the pull-up bar.

She wasn’t even breaking a sweat. Meanwhile, you were sitting here pretending to stretch, but your eyes couldn’t stop following her every move. How could you not? She was making calisthenics look like some kind of sexy ballet, and you were feeling some type of way about it.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you barely heard the guy who suddenly sidled up to you. You looked up, confused, to see him standing a little too close.

"Hey, uh…" He cleared his throat, clearly trying to sound casual. "I noticed you were watching your friend there… I could totally show you how to lift weights, you know. Maybe even you."

You blinked at him, trying to suppress a laugh. Your brain was still stuck on your friend? Was that supposed to be his pick-up line?

“Uh… really?” you said, raising an eyebrow as you glanced back at Cassandra, still breezing through her workout like she was in some kind of fitness commercial. You could barely keep your mouth from hanging open.

"Yeah!" He puffed out his chest like he was some kind of Greek god. "I can handle lifting your body weight, no problem."

You blinked again. "Oh??"

"Yeah," he said with a cocky grin. "I can totally do it."

You crossed your arms, trying not to burst into laughter. “Okay, then. Show me.”

The guy dropped to his knees in front of you and looked up, ready to lift you. You tried to brace yourself, but honestly, you weren’t sure what was going to happen. This was either going to be impressive or a disaster, and you were pretty sure it was going to be the latter.

He grunted. Nothing.

You raised an eyebrow, watching as he struggled. His face was turning red, sweat starting to drip from his forehead, and—yeah, this was as bad as you expected. He couldn’t even get you an inch off the floor.

“Need help with that?” you asked, barely able to hold back the giggle bubbling up.

“No—no, I’ve got it!” he snapped, lifting harder, but the effort only made him wobble like a newborn giraffe.

"Maybe next time, huh?" you said with a sigh, holding back your amusement.

Then, just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, Cassandra appeared. You didn’t even see her coming. One second, the guy was still struggling with the whole “lifting you” thing, and the next, Cassandra was casually stepping between the two of you. She looked at him like he was a bug she couldn’t be bothered with, then lifted you effortlessly with one hand.

You froze.

One hand.

The guy’s face drained of color as Cassandra set you down like you were a stuffed animal she was tossing back on the shelf. She didn’t even glance at him as she flicked her hair back, returning to her workout like nothing happened.

Meanwhile, the guy? He was just standing there. Shocked. Maybe a little bit scared. His mouth was moving, but no words came out.

Could not have imagined a more embarrassing moment for him…

Turning to Cassandra, your grin only widened. “Baby… you just broke his soul.”

Cassandra didn’t even glance your way. She simply raised an eyebrow, then shot you a small smile as she signed, He should have known better.

As you were about to respond, the guy finally seemed to snap out of his daze. He stammered something about ‘his form’ and ‘next time’ before practically sprinting off, likely rethinking every choice he’d made that led him to this moment.

You chuckled under your breath, eyes flicking back to Cassandra. “Well, looks like you just ruined his chances of ever lifting a girl again.”

Cassandra shrugged, clearly unfazed, and went back to her pull-up bar. Not my problem.

As she started packing her things, she shot you a sly smirk. Let’s go home. I’ll give you a workout of your own.

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile pulling at your lips. “That… sounds promising.”

And just like that, the gym, the only thing on your mind now was what your workout would look like tonight.

Goopyness... This was very fun to write!

My requests are open! Please...Uwu

[anothertimdrakestan]

living with the batboys headcanons!

req: begging on my hands and knees for what it's like moving into an apartment w/ the batboys/yj boys. like just gimme all the domestic fluff you can think of and all the things they'd be annoying abt yk

jason:

- he would be sooo annoying just wanting to sleep on the floor and leave everything behind

- "all we need is each other! let's forget the world babe!" to which you'd remind him "jace you literally have no clothes here and i'm not letting you spoon me on the wooden floor, i need a bed!!"

- begrudgingly, your strong man would move the boxes and happily hang any high-up decorations

- under your supervision, the apartment would become beautiful

- jace would put little locks on the windows so he could crawl in at any time of night, and his red hood gear would probably be strewn around until you put it back in the closet

- friends would come over and say "love what you've done with the place" to you, and give jason a thumbs up for trying

- he'd also bolt the bed to the wall so it doesn't shake when you- you know. yeah. it's jason todd after all.

tim:

- mr. gadget definitely has a techy house, the type where you can turn the lights on with your phone and set the AC from bed

- he's be sure to get a penthouse with a view and a grass balcony. he knew how you'd always wanted a pet and somewhere breathtaking to read, while gotham isn't the most beautiful, an ocean view would do!

- he never wants to stress you out, so he'd take it upon himself to schedule movers and place furniture in the ideal style

- he'd happily push the giant IKEA cart around if it meant he got to watch you skip through the store happily pointing at the things that would make your apartment a home

- champagne and a small get together once everything was finished, he'd be unable to look at you without a little tear in his eye, he never though the universe would grace him with your warmth, he'd buy you a million more houses if it meant you'd be calling his arms your home

- after long vigilante nights he gets a little too excited guessing where you'll be in the home, watching tv on the couch, curled up in bed, trying another internet recipe- he still gets butterflies when he opens the door and smells you in the air, and his heart skips a beat when you give him the first smile of the day in the morning

- though everything was moved in efficiently, you two still take trips to art galleries and farmers markets, looking for local treasures to bring home

- when you're at a wayne ent. gala tim waits excitedly for you to say "ready to go home?" because finally, home means being together

dick:

- richard asked you way too soon to move in

- you accepted because you needed your goofball around as much as possible

- with a rented u-haul and a dream you carried your stuff together. left airpod in his ear right in yours. showtunes, rap, and pop blasting at all times

- once the apartment was passable, you both slumped into chairs with bowls of cereal

- dick was excited to invite his family over to see the new place and you couldn't help but agree

- the family had a move-in party where everyone helps unpack the final pieces

- now looking at the mantle makes you think of roy, the animal-centric artwork of damian, new computer set up had to be tim, and the beautiful silk sheets and candles in the bedroom had to be dick himself. jason did leave a half drunk bottle of brandy though which was as warm a welcome gift as you expected

- for you and dick, it was home because the people you loved were there. it was rare to get time alone, but that's how you both preferred it, wrapped in the presence of the people you care about

- they say home is where the heart is, and your heart has never been more full than it was curled up in bed with dick, watching the batboys rip each other apart- hey everyone has their own definition of peace!

damian

- damian, when he's paying attention and not thinking about one of his many pets, is scarily good at reading your mind

- the minute you started thinking "this commute is awfully long" and "wouldn't it just be better if we were in the same home?" he was signing the lease to your new dream home

- full of natural light for both of your art work and ample room for the few pets that would move with you, it was perfect

- except the "art of surprise" excited dami so much he forget to ask if you were ok with moving

- you came home to an empty room and though you were robbed

- technically you were? but ii was worth it when damian unveiled his master plan

- with a little tweaking and a few target trips, everything was perfect, and like the gentleman he was, he there would always be a driver parked outside to take you wherever you wished to go

- dami couldn't contain his excitement that you both got to create daily schedules that revolved each other, dog walks in the morning, gossiping over lunch, and exploring the city together at night. even when you went out alone, he would insist he couldn't sleep until you were at home in his arms

- though you would protest, secretly you were the same way. nighttime routines just weren't the same without those green eyes staring lovingly at your every move

[mitsulov]

Chapter 1: A New Beginning(?)

Trigger Warnings include: Depression, Suicidal thoughts / ideation, Mental health struggles, Family issues, Emotional manipulation, Violence (mild to moderate), Blood (brief mention), Strong language.

“This building is far too small for a suicide attempt, kid. At most, you'll end up with a few broken bones.”

The voice belonged to a woman with long white hair streaked with black, an eyepatch covering her right eye. She stood with her arms crossed, wearing a tight black and red outfit, staring straight at you with an intensity that made you shiver and furrow your brows. But before you could speak, she interrupted you.

“The name’s Rose Wilson. And I’ve got an offer for you. If you listen, it might just change your life.”

Years passed.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, retouching the dye on the left side of your hair—pure white. In the reflection, you saw Rose walking into the bathroom.

“For Christ’s sake, [name]! Every single time with this. Slade’s going to be back any minute, and you’re still at it!”

You rolled your eyes. You knew your mentor wouldn’t care. When he said he’d arrive at a certain time, it usually meant he’d be at least four hours late. Typical.

Placing the dyed section of your hair in the sink, you turned on the faucet to rinse it. That made Rose freak out.

“What the hell—no! Not in the sink—”

“Don’t worry,” you cut her off calmly while washing. “I’ll clean it up. Like I always do.”

After rinsing your hair, you grabbed the hairdryer. You could hear Rose leaving the room, muttering about how stubborn you were. You chuckled quietly to yourself.

Once your hair was dry, the sink cleaned, and your look finalized, you headed off to change. You chose something casual: a tank top, cargo pants, a leather belt, and combat boots.

Admiring yourself briefly in the mirror, you suddenly felt a presence behind you. Instinctively, you launched a front kick at the figure. A hand caught your foot—not without effort—and you recognized your mentor, Slade.

“You’re improving. But now’s not the time to fight.”

“Sorry, reflex.” You laughed awkwardly, lowering your leg and straightening up

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go. I’m on a tight schedule.” His tone made his impatience clear.

Where were you heading? Therapy, of course. Where else?

Nothing escapes Cassandra’s eyes.

She’d noticed Jason disappearing more and more around the mansion. He wasn’t in the library, nor his old room. It wasn’t something recent—this had been going on long before she’d joined the family.

One day, she quietly followed him, watching from a distance and choosing to confront him only after she knew where he was going.

He led her to the hallway where the four guest rooms were located—a section rarely cleaned, filled with cobwebs and layers of dust.

She saw him enter one of the rooms and slowly approached, opening the door carefully. Inside was a small room with faded walls, a neatly made bed, a shelf crammed with trophies of all kinds, and a small wardrobe.

Sitting on the bed, Jason was gently cleaning a first-place trophy. Cassandra had never seen him look so… vulnerable. So sad.

“Are all of those... yours?” she gestured toward the trophies.

Jason sighed, clearly aware she’d been following him, but for some reason, hadn’t stopped her.

“No. They belong to someone special…”

Cassandra tilted her head, puzzled. She wanted to ask who—but Jason spoke before she could.

“Come here. I’ll answer all your questions.” He patted the bed beside him, and she obeyed, sitting down, curiosity sparking in her eyes.

“Can you tell me who this special person is?”

Jason scoffed softly, but continued.

“Damian’s not Bruce’s first child. Bruce has a kid from his first marriage. Their name is [name].”

Cassandra’s eyes widened in shock. Bruce had never mentioned this. Not once.

Jason went on.

“You probably don’t know because Bruce avoids talking about it. I only know because I grew up with [name]...”

Cass began connecting the dots but sensed it went deeper. She kept listening.

“[Name] worked so hard to be recognized. But Bruce never even looked their way...” Jason gripped the trophy in his hands—not hard enough to break it, but firm enough that Cass noticed his anger.

“Even so... [name] was special. They’re my younger sibling. And I’m going to bring them back.”

“What happened to [name]?” Cass asked the question despite the fear in her chest.

Jason hesitated, then spoke.

“They disappeared. After I died... they vanished. No body, no trail. That’s why I believe they’re still alive. And I’m going to find them.”

Cass saw the fire in his eyes. She’d never seen Jason so determined—not even when he went after the Joker.

She couldn’t help but wonder what [name] was like. Would they accept her as a sister? Would they be someone special to her too?

“Just... don’t tell anyone about this. Especially Bruce. Please.”

Cass was surprised by his plea, but nodded without hesitation. If needed, she’d help Jason in his search—no matter what.

I wish I had made it longer😫, but besides my creativity having gone out the window🥲, I have so many mock exams to do😒, my brain is toast😭.

[the-fictional-wife]

WEDDING WITH JASON TODDD YAY

I was following a niche little trend on tiktok, havent posted there you and Instagram got first dibs! Spent 30hrs on this bad boy so enjoy Jason Todd in a pretty little wedding dress

[wisteria-bae]

Genuine question, not my intention to be rude or anything.

But how come every time I see a batboys drabble or blurb they almost never include Tim? Like I’ve even seen people genderbend Cass and Steph but no Tim Drake whatsoever 💀

Sometimes I even see Duke get included before him.

I’m not hating(they’re really good),I just noticed the pattern and got curious.

[jellyfishsthings]

Wayne Diaries

WARNINGS: this came to me in a dream, geniually a crack fic, for the general plot it follows the story of the reader, who finds out is the child of Bruce and Diana, a drunken one night stand that resulted in her and now she tries to be a part of the family, also Bruce and Selina have twins named Amanda and Martha, two three year olds who run the monor like mafia bosses, also the episodes where they mention their alter egos wouldn't be posted .... that's pretty much it, hope you enjoy it because it is the first fic I have written for them and there will be more in the future hopefully

navigation , dc navigation

You hadn’t known what to expect when Diana led you up the steps of Wayne Manor. You’d met Bruce once—formally. Stiff handshake, brief glance, and the quiet kind of gravity that pulled every room into his orbit. You didn’t know how to look him in the eye for too long without feeling like you were being x-rayed. It had been too hard already to show vulnerability to Diana, the mother you just met two months ago.

Now he was your father, your biological father.

Now you were living in his house. The gates of Wayne Manor loomed ahead, all ornate iron and mystery, as if the building itself had opinions—and none of them were welcoming. You took a breath, squared your shoulders, and reminded yourself: you deserve to be here.

You held your overnight bag like a lifeline as Alfred opened the massive front doors.

"If it helps," he said with a soft, knowing smile, "the rest of them felt this way too."

"Terrified?" you asked.

He inclined his head. "More like quietly bracing for impact."

As he led you through the halls—each one more intimidating than the last—you heard a crash, followed by a shout.

"Damn it, Dick, that was antique!"

"Then it shouldn’t have been in the middle of the cartwheel zone!"

You turned the corner and saw what could only be described as a chaotic gymnastics battle royale. Dick Grayson was mid-flip, Donna Troy held up a scorecard that read “9.2,” and Damian Wayne stood beside her, giving half-hearted commentary into a foam mic with “Wayne Diary” painted on it.

"You’ll want to go slow on the introductions," Alfred said lightly, as if he wasn’t leading you directly into a war zone. “The family can be... enthusiastic.”

"Stick the landing, Donna!" Dick Grayson shouted, standing barefoot on the coffee table.

Donna Troy, who was apparently not above flipping through midair in the middle of a mansion, did a near-perfect roundoff back handspring, skidding to a halt in front of the fireplace. She looked smug.

“Ten out of ten,” Damian said, holding up a cardboard sign scrawled in red Sharpie.

“That’s not even laminated,” Steph complained from behind a tripod.

Tim, seated beside her and carefully adjusting a microphone, looked up and waved a little. “New subject in the frame. Confirming visual. Steph, start rolling again.”

You stood frozen. Damian turned.

“You're new.”

You nodded slowly.

He turned to Steph. “She’s new.”

“I know, I invited her to star in today’s episode.” Steph grinned wickedly and waved her phone like it was a magic wand. "Smile for the first ever crossover of Wayne Diary: Myth Meets Mayhem."

You were still processing that when Jason burst into the room wearing a trench coat, sunglasses, and what you sincerely hoped was a fake mustache. He collapsed onto the couch.

“Abort. Abort the public polling segment. Gotham is unwell.”

“Did you ask the question?” Tim asked.

Jason nodded solemnly. “I asked thirty people if they’d date Bruce Wayne. The answers ranged from ‘absolutely, that man screams damaged billionaire’ to ‘only if he keeps the eyeliner.’”

You turned slowly. “Why would—does he wear eyeliner?”

Cass silently slid past the camera, holding up a makeup palette.

You rubbed your temples. Steph trained the camera on your face.

“On a scale of one to accidentally drinking glitter glue, how overwhelmed are you?”

You sighed. “Somewhere between ‘this is a sitcom’ and ‘I should’ve stayed on the orphanage.’”

Stephanie returned to her position which was being perched on the arm of a couch like a gargoyle, after a solemn nod and warm smile. Tim sat beside her with a headset on and a laptop open, whispering things like, “Okay, if she survives the intro, I say we move to confessionals by lunch.”

You just blinked.

“Welcome to Wayne Diary,” Steph said brightly. “You’re officially part of the content pipeline now.”

“Content—what?”

Before you could protest, you were handed a mug that said “I Survived Wayne Brunch,” shoved onto a beanbag, and positioned under soft lighting.

“Alright,” Steph said. “Question one: are you more terrified of Bruce, Diana, or group dinners?”

You stared at the camera, at the siblings surrounding you, and muttered, “Yes.”

The first official week in the manor was like living in a reality show that refused to tell you the rules.

Your room was larger than any apartment you’d ever seen, but the noise bled through every wall. Somewhere, someone was always arguing, laughing, or accidentally blowing something up in the name of "science" (read: Tim).

You had developed a theory—chaos levels increased exponentially in this household based on the number of Wayne's awake at any given time.

Cass appeared in your doorway silently one morning, handed you a mug that said “World’s Okayest Sister,” and pointed to the living room. You followed.

Cass and Steph had set up an interview corner. They’d hung a soft curtain as a backdrop, adjusted the lighting just so, and were prepping cue cards while Tim fiddled with the sound system.

🎥 Episode Title: "Meet the Myth Baby"

Shot: Close-up of you in front of the fireplace, bundled in a hoodie five sizes too big—possibly Dick’s—looking equal parts tired and overwhelmed.

You: “I don’t even know where they get some of this stuff. Tim asked me how I felt about vengeance. Like, on a scale from ‘meek librarian’ to ‘season two anti-hero.’ I’m just trying to figure out how to turn on the shower without it talking back.”

🎥 Cut to: Jason sipping coffee.

Jason: “She’s cool. A little shell shocked. She has that look I had when I first moved in, like someone switched my blood with espresso and said, ‘Run.’”

🎥 Back to you, wide-eyed.

You: “Someone put a batarang in the cereal box.”

🎥 Steph (off-camera): “That’s Bruce’s love language.”

🎥 Clip: Damian sprints through the hall, your book in hand.

You (chasing him): “Damian, give it back or I swear on God I’ll put Nair in your shampoo!”

It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

You were curled in the library, reading quietly, sunlight pooling over the pages of a rare Themysciran text. Then the air shifted.

Damian appeared in the doorway like a cat with malicious intent.

“I’m borrowing that,” he declared.

“No, you’re not.”

He lunged.

You shrieked and took off after him, shouting colorful curses. He darted past Alfred, who sighed but did not intervene. Past Jason, who immediately started filming.

"Ten bucks says she tackles him before the koi pond."

Tim: “Already betting on chapter titles: ‘Library Larceny Ends in Near Drowning.’”

You finally tackled Damian mid-hallway. The book flew. Cass caught it one-handed.

Donna looked up from her coffee. “Do you all do this daily?”

Cassie: “Hourly.”

🎥 Cut to the twins, Amanda and Martha, in their own ‘segment’ holding juice boxes.

Amanda: “We saw her chase Dami with a sandal.”

Martha: “She said a bad word. Two of them.”

🎥 Back to you in confessional, face in hands.

You: “I’m not a fighter. I’m a reader. I wanted a library card, not a grappling hook.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Operation: Parental Recon”

Cass had stolen Bruce’s calendar.

“Why is that... concerning?” you had asked.

“Because it says ‘dinner with C,’” Tim replied, whispering like you were in a spy movie.

Jason, holding binoculars and wearing a fake mustache, explained: “That’s obviously Selina. Which means they’re on a date. And it is our civic duty to observe and gather intel.”

Cue the worst stakeout in Wayne history. All of you in terrible disguises—Jason wore a neon tracksuit, Cass had a fake baby doll strapped to her chest, Steph tried to pass you off as a foreign exchange student named “Philippa,” and Damian wore a fedora and trench coat two sizes too big.

🎥 Cut to: the group huddled in a car, parked awkwardly across from the restaurant.

Dick: “Do you think she’s gonna propose?”

Cass (writing on a notepad): ‘Selina looked at Bruce and laughed. Record: 2 laughs, 1 almost-smile.’

Steph: “Their server is named Dante. That’s a date name.”

You: “This is absurd.”

🎥 Cut to: Amanda and Martha in the backseat with their faces pressed to the window.

Amanda: “They kissed! Blegh!”

Martha: “Nuh uh. He just did the bat-glare.”

Back at the manor, everyone sat around the dining table watching the raw footage.

Selina: “You filmed my date?”

Jason: “In fairness, you’ve done worse to us.”

Selina: “True. Carry on.”

🎥 Episode Title: “From Mascara to Manor: Is This Real Life?”

You sat in front of the camera, fingers knotted together.

“I didn’t grow up with this. With any of this.” You laughed awkwardly, pushing hair out of your face. “Sometimes I feel like I’m dreaming. Like if I blink too fast, I’ll wake up in a dorm room or something.”

You exhaled slowly.

“I don’t know if I fit. They’re all so loud. So connected. They move around each other like magnets and mess and muscle memory.”

You paused, eyes flickering off-camera.

“But... sometimes I catch them watching me. Not in a creepy way. Just like... they’re waiting. Like they’re trying to make space without saying it out loud.”

You smiled, just a little.

“Maybe I’ll find my place in the noise.”

🎥 Comment pinned by WayneDiaryOfficial: “You already have.”

Dinner was never normal, but tonight was... special.

Yara (off camera): Here we see two very stubborn people trying to parent their long lost child

Dick (also off camera): In this battle of wits who would win as they desperately try to make up for the long lost time

🎥 Shooting like it’s a wild animal documentary

Bruce sat stiffly at the head of the table. Diana sat beside him, her posture regal and her expression unreadable. Amanda and Martha were smearing mashed potatoes on each other.

“I think she needs more structure,” Bruce muttered, glancing at you.

“She has discipline,” Diana replied. “What she needs is freedom. And more protein.”

“I allow freedom.”

“You installed tracking in her shoes.”

Bruce blinked. “Safety protocol.”

Selina sipped her wine across from them. “You’re both wrong. She needs a punching bag, a decent therapist, and a new pair of boots.”

Steph: “That’s a blog title if I’ve ever heard one.”

Amanda threw a pea. It hit Tim square in the forehead.

“Why do they have better aim than me?” he whispered.

Selina deadpanned: “Genetics, honey.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Vigilante Thirst Traps & Fishbowl Dares”

One morning you woke up to find Steph and Tim knocking urgently.

“Emergency filming. No time to explain.”

You were half-dragged downstairs where a table had been set up. In the center: a fishbowl filled with folded papers.

“Wayne Diary: Lightning Round,” Steph announced. “Each paper is a challenge. You read it, you do it.”

You pulled the first one: “Dramatically re-enact Alfred scolding Bruce in Shakespearean style.”

You stood tall. “Master Wayne, wherefore dost thou insist on brooding in shadows, clad in cape and consequence?!”

Cass clapped. Tim cried actual tears.

Jason pulled: “Ask strangers what they’d name Bruce’s next child.”

Twenty minutes later, you were all in the park.

“Sir,” Jason asked, “if Bruce Wayne had yet another child, what should their name be?”

The man answered, deadpan, “Regret.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Jason Todd vs. The Streets of Gotham (and Loses)”

“Okay,” Steph said, pressing record, her grin borderline villainous. “New episode. Jason goes undercover to ask Gotham citizens the real questions. Since you all liked the last one so much, we simply had to deliver.”

Jason adjusted his oversized trench coat and dollar-store sunglasses. “I feel like I’m about to get arrested and develop trust issues.”

“Lean into the chaos,” Tim said from behind the camera. “Now go ask strangers if they’d date our dad.”

Jason blinked. “This family needs therapy.”

🎬 Cut to: Jason approaching a woman outside a bakery.

Jason: “Excuse me, would you date Bruce Wayne?”

The woman looked him up and down. “If he came with a dog.”

Jason perked up. “Like Ace?”

She shook her head. “No, like a golden retriever. Something emotionally available.”

🎬 Cut to: Jason interviewing a guy holding a skateboard.

Jason: “Bruce Wayne. Date or ditch?”

The guy smirked. “Ditch. Too broody. I’d date Nightwing, though. Have you seen those glutes?”

Jason stared into the camera like it had betrayed him.

🎬 Cut to: a goth teen with black lipstick.

Jason: “Thoughts on Bruce Wayne?”

Goth teen: “He looks like he eats cold steak for breakfast and listens to Gregorian chants in the shower.”

Jason: “He does.”

🎬 Jason to an old man in a park.

Old Man: “Bruce Wayne? I thought he was a vampire. Still looks 35.”

Jason: (sighs) “You’re not wrong.”

🎬 Cut to: Jason trudging home, trench coat flapping dramatically, narration playing over the footage.

Jason (V.O.): “Today I learned Gotham has opinions. And those opinions are brutal.”

🎬 Back at the manor. Everyone is gathered around the couch, watching the footage on the big screen.

You’re half-sprawled across the couch with a bowl of popcorn. Amanda and Martha are using Damian’s head as a footrest. He’s too distracted laughing to protest.

Bruce, standing with arms crossed, watches silently.

Jason groans. “I have been emotionally destroyed by ten strangers, a senior citizen, and a goth with better eyeliner than me.”

“Speaking of eyeliner,” Bruce mutters, eyes narrowing. “Why am I always wearing it in these clips?”

Cass held up a sparkly eyeshadow palette triumphantly. “Aesthetic.”

Tim chimed in, “Technically it’s ‘Wayne Diary Visual Cohesion Protocol #3: Everyone Looks Hot, Even Dad.’”

Selina, sipping wine, leaned back with a smug grin. “It’s called branding, darling. You're lucky Cass didn't give you highlighter too.”

Bruce turned slowly to Cass.

Cass blinked innocently.

Jason waved toward the screen. “The Nightwing glutes guy will haunt me for life.”

Dick, casually flexing beside the fridge: “I mean, he’s not wrong.”

Stephanie cackled. “You’re never recovering from this, Jay.”

“I want a refund on this family,” Jason said dramatically. “Where’s the customer service number?”

You threw a pillow at his head. “It's the Bat-Signal.”

🎥 Bonus Segment: Watching Vigilante Thirst Traps

The idea had seemed innocent enough. Maybe even fun.

You, Tim, and Steph were reviewing video ideas when the concept came up: Reacting to vigilante thirst traps. It was framed as satire. Analysis. Research.

It was a disaster.

Cassie Sandsmark had joined for this one, parked beside you with popcorn while Donna stood behind the couch laughing uncontrollably.

"Okay, first up," Steph said, playing the first clip. “Nightwing.”

Dick swung through the rain, shirtless, backlit by the Gotham skyline. Dramatic orchestral music swelled.

“Artistic!” Dick shouted from across the room.

Cass wrote something in a little notebook and showed it to you. It read: 9/10. Rain adds dramatic tension.

Next came Red Hood, slow-motion walking through an explosion.

Jason: “Hell yeah.”

Cass: 8.5/10. No helmet = more face time.

Selina strolled by, picked up a cracker, and said, “You’re lucky. Your mom would never let me do this with Diana’s footage.”

Donna: “You tried?”

Selina: “She caught me. Lassoed me. Long story.”

Bruce (walking by): “You’re all grounded.”

🎥 Five minutes later (Spongebob meme voice)

“You guys,” he said. “You GUYS. I just found something… cursed.”

Tim squinted. “Worse than that ‘Gotham’s Got Talent’ clip of Dick trying to backflip while holding a mic?”

“Worse,” Jason said gravely, casting the video to the big screen.

The title alone made your stomach twist: “BatDaddy Energy | Gotham’s Dark Snack 💦🦇🔥”

Steph: “No. No. No—”

Too late. The video played.

It was a 30-second fan edit. Batman landing dramatically on a rooftop. Slow-motion cape billows. Close-ups of his jawline under moody lighting. That one shot where rain streamed down his cowl, making him look like a shampoo commercial for trauma.

Set to some deeply questionable music—low bass, breathy vocals, and moans in the background.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, clutching a pillow to your face.

Cass actually recoiled.

Damian made a strangled sound. “Whoever made this belongs in Arkham.”

Dick walked in just as the beat dropped and a slow zoom on Bruce’s rear filled the screen.

“Why do I hear boss music—oh GOD,” he gagged.

Martha toddled in with Amanda behind her. They stopped mid-run.

Amanda blinked. “Is that... Daddy?”

Martha frowned. “Why is he sad-sexy?”

The room fell into pure chaos.

Steph dropped her phone like it burned her. “I’m getting bleach. For my eyes.”

Tim stood, dramatically unplugging the screen. “Society is broken. There is no redemption.”

Jason was on the floor wheezing. “Dark snack! Who let them say that?!”

Cass, blinking slowly, held up her notepad: ‘Therapy. Gotham needs therapy.’

You, clutching your stomach from laughter and horror, managed: “The comments are worse. Someone said they wanted to be ‘grappled like a criminal.’”

Dick flinched. “No. Absolutely not. I'm done. I’m moving to Blüdhaven and changing my name.”

In the corner, Damian was furiously typing on his tablet. “I am tracking the IP address of this monstrosity and reporting them for war crimes.”

Selina peeked into the room, coffee in hand. “Did you find the video?”

Jason pointed at her. “YOU KNEW?!”

She shrugged, sipping. “I have fan edits too. Way better lighting.”

Bruce walked in just then, perfectly timing his dramatic entrances as always. “Why is the living room in an uproar?”

Everyone fell silent.

Martha, very seriously, turned to him. “Daddy... are you a snack?”

Bruce stared at her. Then on the screen. Then to all of you.

He turned around and walked out without a word.

Jason fell over laughing again. “HE SAID NOTHING. NOTHING. HE ACCEPTED IT.”

Steph, red-faced from laughing, muttered, “This better go in the Wayne Diary: Trauma Dump Edition.”

🎥 Episode Title: “What Do You MEAN You Used to Be a Spy?!”

It started like any normal Thursday—if normal Thursdays involved balancing a toddler on your hip while Steph tried to teach the twins how to do a TikTok dance and Tim muttered about shadowbanning.

Then Alfred walked in with tea.

“Alfred,” you said sweetly, “how do you stay so calm?”

He poured tea into your cup. “Well, I once disarmed a nuclear warhead using only a bobby pin and a dead man’s watch, so your sibling drama rarely registers.”

You blinked. “You what?”

Jason froze mid-dance. “Repeat that.”

“Oh, yes. That was in Budapest. Or was it Marseilles?”

Cassie leaned over. “You disarmed a bomb?”

“Not just a bomb,” Alfred corrected. “A diplomatic incident. Also a tiger. Long story.”

Everyone stared.

Dick: “You’re telling me you’ve had more near-death experiences than Bruce?”

Alfred smiled kindly. “Child, I trained him.”

Steph whispered, “He’s cooler than all of us.”

Amanda clapped. “Alfie is a ninja!”

“Please,” Alfred said, exiting the room. “I was MI-6. Ninjas have better PR.”

You looked into the camera, stunned. “We need a spin-off.”

🎥 Cut to: a logo idea sketched by the twins that read: ‘Alfred: Gentleman of Shadows.’

The camera turned on mid-commotion.

Steph was holding the mic upside down, Tim was adjusting the lighting with scientific intensity, and you were on the couch nursing a mug of tea Alfred had brought in ten minutes ago.

“Alright,” Jason said, sitting backwards in a chair like a troubled substitute teacher. “Today’s theme: Alfred tells us something wild and pretends it’s normal.”

You blinked. “That’s... a theme?”

“It’s a lifestyle,” Dick said, entering with a tray of cookies. “Alfred has lore, and it’s terrifying.”

Tim raised a finger. “Remember when he casually said he used to fence with royalty in his youth, and none of us questioned it?”

“Or when he mentioned being shot in the leg in 1974 but still baked a soufflé?”

You looked toward the kitchen, where Alfred was calmly dusting powdered sugar on pastries.

“Wait, we’re filming this without asking him?”

“Oh, he knows,” Cass said from her perch on the back of the couch. “He always knows.”

And then, like a storm in a tuxedo, Alfred entered the room with a fresh pot of tea.

“Ah,” he said, “the children have gathered to procrastinate productively.”

Steph turned the camera toward him. “Alfred, what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

He didn’t blink. “Define ‘craziest.’”

“You pick,” Jason said, crossing his arms.

Alfred poured tea with perfect calm. “Well. There was the time I impersonated a dead Russian diplomat to smuggle classified information out of Geneva.”

You choked on your tea. “I’m sorry—what?!”

“Oh yes,” he continued. “Quite the mess. Had to fake a limp and everything.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “You’ve never told me this.”

Alfred offered him a cookie. “Because, Master Damian, I knew you would attempt to recreate it for sport.”

Tim had stopped breathing.

Jason leaned forward. “Please. What else.”

“Well, there was also the time Master Bruce disappeared in the Himalayas, and I had to arm-wrestle a monk to retrieve him.”

Bruce—who had just walked into the room unnoticed—froze mid-step.

“That never happened,” Bruce said stiffly.

Alfred sipped his tea. “Then where did I get the bruise, Master Wayne?”

Steph was vibrating with excitement. “We need flashbacks. Can we do flashbacks? Dramatic re-enactments?”

Cass raised a hand, deadpan. “I’ll be the monk.”

Amanda peeked in from behind the doorway. “What’s a Himalaya?”

Martha followed. “Is it where Daddy gets sad and disappears?”

Bruce turned to leave.

“Again.” Jason snorted.

But Alfred wasn’t done.

“Oh, and then there was the time I buried a safe house in Prague beneath a fake antique shop. Very convincing work. I believe Interpol is still baffled.”

Tim finally broke. “YOU BUILT A WHAT?”

“I was bored. And the wine cellar was lacking.”

You couldn’t breathe. “Alfred. Have you considered writing a memoir?”

“I have,” he replied. “But I fear it would be classified as fantasy fiction.”

Steph clutched the camera. “This is the best episode we’ve ever done. I’m naming it Alfred: The Lore Files.”

Jason turned toward you. “Okay. Top ten facts. Go.”

You raised a finger. “One, Alfred could kill us all and no one would suspect him.”

Cass: “Two, he’s probably already done that. Temporarily.”

Tim: “Three, he casually manipulated the stock market once.”

Alfred looked mildly pleased. “That was a good quarter.”

Dick: “Four, he’s the only person who can yell at Bruce and survive.”

Bruce sighed loudly in the hallway.

“Five,” Steph added, “he has royal tea gossip and refuses to spill it unless we’re bleeding.”

Jason nodded solemnly. “Six, he once stared a hitman into changing careers.”

“Seven,” you whispered, “he never trips over Legos. Ever.”

Martha walked in with a crayon drawing. “Uncle Alfie’s magic.”

“Indeed,” he said, taking it gently. “And magically immune to nonsense. Now go draw the Manor without adding a disco ball.”

Everyone watched him leave in awe.

“Was that—” Tim whispered. “Was that... the best episode ever?”

Steph hit stop on the recording. “We’re putting this one behind a paywall. Alfred content is premium.”

You stared at the now-empty hallway.

“I’m scared to ask what he did before becoming a butler.”

Jason grinned. “A menace. Clearly.”

And as the episode faded to black, Cass held up a sign she’d written in bold Sharpie:

“THE BATFAMILY FEARS ONE MAN — AND HE SERVES THEM SCONES.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Who Gets the Rose? (And the Batmobile)”

The living room no longer resembled a place for human habitation. Furniture had been shoved to the walls. Fairy lights tangled with batarangs dangled from the ceiling. The fireplace blazed, illuminating a very suspicious red carpet rolled out across the floor.

“Tell me again why this is happening?” you asked, leaning over the kitchen island, munching an apple with a vague sense of dread.

“Because Bruce hasn’t emotionally engaged with a woman onscreen in years,” Steph replied, clapping a headset onto her ears as she adjusted the tripod. “We’re doing the world a service.”

“Also because Jason has a tux and no shame,” added Tim, already wiring a mic into Jason’s lapel.

Jason grinned at the camera and struck a pose. “Tonight on Bat-Bachelor, we take Gotham’s most emotionally unavailable billionaire and pair him with the city’s most dramatic disasters. Who will win the key to his armored heart?”

From stage left (aka the hallway), Dick entered in a synthetic wig that belonged in a dumpster fire, tottering in heels he absolutely couldn’t walk in.

“I’m Veronica Steele,” he purred, striking a pose. “I’m mysterious, emotionally guarded, and I bake. Brownies that could kill a man.”

“I want her to win,” Steph whispered, almost reverently. Donna and Cassie provide color commentary: “He looked at her once in 2006. That’s basically marriage.”

Next came Cass, gliding in like a silent knife in the dark. She said nothing. Simply placed a single dagger on the coffee table, stared at Jason for ten seconds, then vanished behind the curtain again.

“Her name is Knife Girl,” Tim narrated. “Her love language is smoke bombs.”

You nearly choked on your apple.

“Next up,” Jason continued, “we have Charles Charming.”

Tim, dressed like a trust-fund magician, walked in with a cat plushie and winked. “I bring quiet nights, shared secrets, and a strict skincare routine.”

Donna entered last in a long gold dress and combat boots. “I’m not here to win. I’m here to make them all lose.”

The final rose ceremony began, with Jason dramatically holding up a plastic flower.

“Bachelor Bruce,” he intoned. “Who will you choose?”

That’s when Bruce walked into the room.

He blinked. He stared.

Dick was mid-wink, one heel kicked off. Tim was holding up the cat plush like it was Simba. Cass was halfway through rappelling down the stairwell for dramatic effect. Jason had just declared, “Tonight, we choose love... or vengeance.”

Bruce took in the scene, exhaled slowly, and asked, “Why is Dick in a wig and heels?”

Cass, from above, whispered: “Commitment.”

Without another word, Bruce turned and walked out.

Steph yelled, “ROLL CREDITS!”

🎥 Episode Title: “Hero or Himbo: The Identity Crisis Special”

The rules were simple. Steph held up a cue card that read: “Rate the vigilante footage: Hero or Himbo?”

You sat with Donna and Tim, each holding a red buzzer. A screen flickered behind you with clips queued by Alfred (unwillingly, but efficiently).

First clip: Nightwing mid-backflip in low lighting, slow-mo sparkles added by Steph.

“Hero,” Tim said immediately.

“Himbo,” you countered.

“Himbo,” Donna agreed. “That’s a showboater’s flip.”

Clip two: Red Hood leaning on his bike, helmet off, hair tousled like a shampoo commercial.

Cass buzzed in: “Hero.”

Jason appeared behind the couch. “Why is this in here?!”

Steph: “Because it got 200k views in 3 hours.”

Jason: “I was posing for intimidation.”

Steph: “Intimidating... to your fan club.”

Clip three: Wonder Woman in full armor, sword catching sunlight, walking out of flames like an apocalypse made pretty.

The room fell silent.

You slowly reached over and turned off your buzzer. “...That’s my mom.”

“New category,” Steph said, typing it on screen. “INTIMIDATING GODDESS.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Cat Class 101”

“Today’s challenge,” Selina announced, looking regal in black satin and diamond-studded earrings, “is theft.”

Everyone turned to look at her.

You raised an eyebrow. “Of what?”

She smiled. “Bruce’s favorite pen.”

“The silver one?” Damian asked.

“The one he locks in a drawer with a retinal scanner.”

The entire room collectively groaned.

“Why does he even have that?” you muttered.

Steph: “We don’t ask questions here.”

Cue training montage:

You’re all in cat ears.

Jason tiptoeing in socks.

Tim building a laser map on a tablet.

You, crawling across a marble floor whispering, “This is beneath me.”

“That pen is locked behind a biometric scanner and a drawer with titanium alloy.”

“Exactly,” Selina said, tossing you velvet gloves. “Class is in session.”

Jason tried crawling through an air vent and got stuck.

Cass knocked out three motion sensors with hairpins.

Tim hacked the scanner. “He added a heartbeat verification system?!”

Meanwhile, you baited Bruce with a fake ‘Gotham Times’ article about a stolen WayneTech prototype. As he read, Amanda walked in with her crayon drawing.

“Look, Daddy! Mommy’s punching an alien!”

He smiled faintly. That was your cue.

You slid beneath the desk, retrieved the pen, and replaced it with a carrot.

Later that night, Bruce stared at the carrot in silence.

Selina, sipping wine nearby, said, “She’s good, isn’t she?”

He didn’t respond. Just reached into a drawer behind a hidden panel.

“New pen,” he muttered. “More lasers.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Law & Disorder”

“Court is now in session!” Steph yelled, slamming a spoon against a mixing bowl before dramatically swinging a robe over her shoulders..

Cass stood silently by a projector screen with one message typed out: ‘Someone deleted my dance video. Vengeance shall be mine.’

“Objection!” Jason shouted.

“You don’t know what that means,” Tim replied.

“You don’t know me.”

Donna: “Why are you the judge?”

“Because I have the best robe.”

Cass wrote on a whiteboard: ‘It was my best routine.’

Everyone gasped.

Dick : “It was such a good routine!”

Alfred brought in tea. “Should I also bring the polygraph?”

“I can rig one!” Tim offered.

You brought out the evidence: a screenshot of the deletion time. 3:04 a.m.

Jason waved a chili-stained oven mitt. “I was cooking. Google ‘exploding crockpot fix.’”

“I did,” you said. “It was the next tab over from ‘how to delete cloud videos.’”

Dick cracked and collapsed dramatically. “IT WAS ME! I was trying to make a remix and deleted the master file! I FAILED CASS!”

Cass walked over, gave him a silent hug.

Then she turned and wrote on the board: ‘Retribution postponed.’

Steph banged her spoon again. “Court dismissed. But I’ll see you all next week for the case of Damian vs. The Lego Fire.’”

🎥 Episode Title: “Rated T for Therapy”

The camera zoomed in on Steph, who was sitting in the Batcave with a gleam in her eyes, and Tim, who looked just as evil but with a knowing, mischievous smirk.

"Alright, Batkids," Steph said, flipping through a thick binder labeled ‘Fanfic That Haunts Us’, “Tonight’s episode is about to get real uncomfortable. We're diving into the depths of the internet’s most dramatic, absurd, and confusing fanfiction.”

Steph dumped a stack of printed fanfiction on the table.

Jason: “Absolutely not.”

You picked one up and read aloud. “’Red Hood smirked, pulling her into his arms. ‘I kill for you,’ he growled.’”

Tim whispered, “Oh my god.”

Dick nodded solemnly. “I’ve read that one. It gets worse. There's a musical number.”

“Where did you even find these?” Jason asked suspiciously, sitting in the corner, clearly bracing himself for whatever horror was coming his way.

Tim tapped his tablet with exaggerated smugness. “Don’t worry, Red Hood. I made sure to find ones specifically about each of you.”

Jason paled. “Please tell me you didn’t—”

“Too late!” Steph announced dramatically. “We’re starting with you, Jay.”

Jason shot to his feet. “No. No way. I’m not doing this.”

Steph grinned. “You’re reading it aloud. Deal with it.”

She handed him a sheet of paper, and the camera zoomed in on the title: "The Vampire Barista’s Dark Brew." Jason immediately buried his face in his hands.

“I can’t… I can’t believe this exists,” he muttered.

Steph read aloud the opening line in a mocking voice: “‘The dimly lit café smelled of espresso and danger, but no one knew that the barista behind the counter was more than just a coffee expert. He was a creature of the night. A vampire, with an addiction to both blood and caffeine.’”

Jason was absolutely mortified. “I’m not doing this.”

“Too bad,” Tim said. “You’re up.”

Jason sighed dramatically, snatched the paper, and began reading, his voice dropping into the deep, brooding tone of someone who could only be described as trying too hard:

"‘The vampire barista wiped his hands on his apron, his fangs gleaming as he leaned forward. ‘Do you want the usual, or something... darker?’ he asked, his voice a low, delicious growl. The woman at the counter shivered, but not from the cold. ‘I’ll have the blood latte,’ she whispered, her voice barely audible over the steam of the espresso machine.’”

Everyone burst out laughing. Even Bruce cracked a smile behind his stoic mask.

Jason, red-faced, pushed through the increasingly ridiculous lines, each one more cringeworthy than the last. Finally, he dropped the paper with a loud sigh. “I’m done. Someone else take over.”

Steph threw her head back in laughter. “Next!”

Dick and Donna sat together, looking incredibly uncomfortable. "Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this?" Dick asked, eyeing the fanfic Steph handed him with suspicion.

“Oh, you will,” Tim said, tapping the tablet like a villain plotting doom.

The title read: “The Forbidden Circus Romance: Night of the Highwire Lovers.”

Dick read the first line aloud with dramatic flair, immediately sounding like he was taking himself way too seriously: “‘The circus was in town again, and with it, the air was thick with both magic and danger. The acrobat and the ringmaster locked eyes from across the tent, the chemistry undeniable, but forbidden. They were from two worlds that could never collide. Or could they?’”

Donna snorted. “Oh no.”

Dick continued, dramatically flipping through the pages. “'Their forbidden love burned like a firecracker in the night sky, hot, fast, and dangerously beautiful. The crowd roared, but the acrobat’s heart beat only for him—the daring ringmaster who had promised to teach her to fly... and never let her fall.'”

Donna bit her lip to stop from laughing. “Is this… is this a romance or a trapeze act gone wrong?”

Dick, trying to maintain his dignity, read another excerpt: “‘As the acrobat twirled high above the audience, the ringmaster watched with a longing that could never be fulfilled. He knew that if she fell, he would never be able to catch her... but that didn’t stop him from reaching for her anyway.’”

Donna and Dick locked eyes. “I’m regretting everything,” Dick said under his breath. “But also, that’s kind of beautiful?”

“It’s definitely dramatic,” Donna replied.

The group erupted into laughter, and even Dick couldn’t help but chuckle. “I swear, if anyone ever writes this about me in real life, I’ll leave Gotham.”

Bruce was up next. He wasn’t thrilled to be part of this, but Steph gave him a look that said, ‘You’re reading this, and you’re doing it dramatically.’

He cleared his throat and adjusted the paper. Everyone leaned forward in anticipation.

The title was unassuming. “Alfred’s Perfect Day: The Fluff Chronicles.”

Steph squinted. “This is… is this even fanfiction?”

Tim shook his head. “Apparently, Bruce has a softer side.”

Bruce stared at the first line, his voice barely above a whisper. “‘It was a quiet Sunday afternoon in Wayne Manor, the only sounds the occasional hum of the grandfather clock and the soft rustle of pages turning. Alfred was at peace, sipping tea in his favorite armchair, when a familiar voice broke the silence. ‘You seem content, Alfred,’ Bruce Wayne said, stepping into the room.’”

Everyone was staring at Bruce. “Uh… is this… is this your ideal Sunday?” you asked, genuinely curious.

Bruce didn’t even respond, continuing with the story. “‘Alfred smiled, his eyes twinkling behind the rim of his glasses. ‘I am, Master Bruce. There is nothing quite like a quiet afternoon with good tea and company.’”

“I didn’t write this,” Bruce muttered.

“Of course you didn’t,” Steph said, stifling a laugh. “But the family fluff is strong in this one.”

Bruce read on. “‘Master Bruce took a seat next to him, the warmth of the sun from the windows casting a soft glow over both men. ‘I’ve been meaning to thank you, Alfred,’ Bruce said quietly. ‘For everything you’ve done for this family.’”

You blinked. “Oh no. Wait. Everyone’s going to cry, aren’t we?”

And they did. By the time Bruce finished the story, everyone had something in their eye. Even Damian was wiping a stray tear from his cheek, trying to pretend it wasn’t happening.

“That was…” Donna started, voice cracking slightly. “Beautiful.”

Jason sniffed. “Are we going to do something about this vampire barista situation, though?”

“You can never unhear that,” Tim said, shaking his head.

Steph hit the button to stop the recording. “Best. Episode. Ever.”

Bruce set the paper down with a quiet sigh. “I’m still questioning my life choices.”

Alfred, who had walked in quietly, overheard and gave a knowing smile.

“You’re not the only one, Master Bruce,” he said, voice rich with amusement. “You’re certainly not the only one.”

Your eyes scanned another. “Why am I described as ‘a storm in silk and steel, doomed to ruin mortal men’?”

Steph: “Because the author gets you.”

Cass held up one tagged: ‘Enemies to Lovers—Nightwing x Reader x Red Hood.’

Jason: “WE’RE RELATED.”

Then Diana walked in.

She read one paragraph, paused, and calmly took the laptop.

“I’ll be speaking to their mother.”

Steph screamed: “NOOOOOOOOO!”

Everyone dived after her as Diana left the room.

🎥 Episode Title: “Can’t Stand the Heat”

The challenge: make Alfred eat your food without judging you aloud.

You were paired with Tim. Five minutes in, he set a pasta pot on fire.

“WHY IS IT ON FIRE?” you screamed.

“I DON’T KNOW, IT’S WATER.”

Jason and Steph went full spicy. Jason added a hot sauce labeled ‘Lazarus Heat.’

Damian and Cass made perfect dumplings, quietly plating them with precision. You suspected witchcraft.

Amanda and Martha made a cake with so much frosting it was a structural hazard. Shaped like the Bat-Signal. With gummy bats.

Bruce tried one bite of each. His expression didn’t change. You thought maybe he died mid-taste test.

Alfred took one bite of Cass and Damian’s dish.

“Acceptable,” he said.

Cheers erupted. Cass bowed. Damian nodded like a samurai who’d just won a duel.

You and Tim looked at your charred noodles.

“We tried,” you said.

“No, we didn’t,” Tim replied.

🎥 Episode Title: “Ghost Protocol”

It started as a prank. Tim uploaded spooky ghost sounds into the Manor’s speaker system. Steph set up glowing sheets to fall from chandeliers at random intervals.

“I give it two hours before someone cries,” Jason said, sipping cocoa.

Cass, face painted like a skeleton, hid behind curtains whispering “Join usssss.”

You set up a ‘mysterious’ shadow to walk by Bruce’s study. Amanda and Martha insisted the manor was haunted by a cat ghost named Meowsephine.

Selina fully committed: black candles, ouija board, and a crystal cat figurine.

Bruce finally snapped the breaker.

“Go to bed.”

Then the suit of armor moved.

Amanda screamed. “GHOST!”

Alfred appeared behind you. “Oh, that’s Gregory.”

Everyone: “...Gregory?”

“He’s haunted. But very polite.”

No one slept that night.

🎥 Episode Title: “The Breakdown Round”

Steph turned to the camera. “Welcome to sixty seconds of vulnerability. You’re not allowed to make fun of anyone until after the cookies.”

Tim went first. “I haven’t slept properly since I was 15. Sometimes I pretend to nap just so people stop asking.”

Jason: “I once ate an entire cheesecake alone on the roof. Blamed it on Tim. Felt no guilt.”

Cass held up a sign: ‘I don’t talk much because people fill silence with their worst thoughts. I like to leave them room to surprise me.’

Dick danced across the floor "I would have been the world's greatest gymnast, I just know it."

Damian: “I’m not cute. I am FEARSOME.”

You hesitated. Then, “Sometimes... I miss not knowing. I miss being just a girl. I didn’t grow up with all of this, and some days, I wish I could go back. But then I see all of you, and... I wouldn’t trade it. Not even for a quiet life.”

Silence fell.

Alfred entered with cookies and tea. “Your parents love you. Even when you’re insufferable.”

Everyone got up and hugged him.

Even Damian. Especially Damian.

And the camera caught it all.

Fade to black.

Your room was a mess of lighting cables, half-drunk tea, and a dry-erase board covered in blog ideas. Amanda and Martha had colored a “Wayne Diary” logo on your wall with crayons.

You stared at your reflection.

You didn’t look like her yet. Like the daughter of legends.

But when you walked into the chaos of the manor—past Jason play-wrestling with Damian, past Tim frantically uploading a new episode, past Dick teaching flips to the twins while Donna rated his form—you didn’t feel invisible anymore.Somewhere between sword fights in the foyer and Cass teaching Amanda and Martha how to somersault through laser traps, you realized you weren’t surviving this family. You were becoming part of it.

One night, Martha climbed into your lap holding a glittery card that said, in shaky marker: “You are our hero.”

You felt real.

You helped Steph and Tim edit Wayne Diary episodes. You designed a logo. You started answering fan comments anonymously—sometimes with your own memes.

And when you sat on the couch, mug in hand, and smiled for the camera as Steph said, “Welcome back to Wayne Diary,” you believed it.

Even in the madness.

Especially in the madness.

[mintyys-blog]

ROOFTOPS | tim drake x reader

DC MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: smut, power play, slight dom! tim, uniform kink, slight degrading.

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work, whether AI-generated or otherwise, without my permission.

© @mintyys-blog

IMAGINE THIS: Tim thinks his shy girlfriend is innocent—until she confesses a secret kink for his Red Robin suit. Intrigued, he agrees to meet her fantasy on a rooftop, only to discover she’s a total freak for his dominant side. What starts as curiosity turns into a charged, masked powerplay neither of them expected.

Tim had always found your shyness adorable. The way you’d fidget when he looked at you too long. The soft voice you used when you complimented his work. The flushed cheeks whenever he teased you. He liked it. You were soft. Safe. The kind of gentle presence that helped him unwind from Gotham’s shadows.

But that night… everything changed.

It began like most of your visits to his patrol. You’d asked him if you could tag along while he made his rounds. “I just want to be with you,” you’d said sweetly, bundled in your coat as he suited up.

He’d smiled under the cowl. “Of course.”

The city was quiet, relatively speaking. He’d cleared two attempted break-ins, scoped out a drop point, and now stood with you on a rooftop, the wind brushing past. You leaned against the ledge, watching him with a look he couldn’t quite read. Your eyes followed every motion he made as he adjusted the gauntlets on his forearms.

“You like watching me work?” he asked playfully, walking up behind you.

You hummed softly, but didn’t turn around. “I like you in that suit.”

He chuckled. “Well, it’s not exactly cozy. Kevlar and utility belts don’t scream luxury.”

You finally looked at him—except it wasn’t shy anymore. Your eyes were darker now, pupils blown wide with heat, the kind of look that sent a quiet jolt through Tim’s chest. Your lips were parted slightly, your breath shallow but steady—measured. Like you’d already made a decision.

“It’s not about comfort,” you said, your voice a soft, silken thread. “It’s about… what it does to me.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. “What it… does to you?” he echoed, almost cautiously.

You took a step closer, slow and deliberate, like you were approaching something dangerous and wanted it to bite. Your fingers came up to the center of his chest, just above the black-red emblem etched across the armored suit. You didn’t hesitate. You touched him like you’d been waiting—aching—for the chance.

You traced the Red Robin symbol like it was something sacred, eyes locked on his. “You look powerful in it,” you said, voice low, steady. “Controlled. Cold. Untouchable. But I know you. I know what’s underneath.”

His heartbeat stuttered—and then picked up. Not out of nervousness.

Out of recognition.

Something in the way you said it—the subtle shift in your tone, the desire barely veiled behind it—triggered a darker instinct in him. One that lived beneath the training, beneath the responsibility. A part of him that always walked the edge between control and chaos. The part of him that thrived in the suit.

His gaze sharpened.

“And tonight…” You looked up at him from under your lashes. “I want you in the suit.”

He stiffened slightly, surprised—but not flustered. Not this time. He stepped in closer, backing you up a few inches with nothing but the weight of his presence. “You want me,” he said, voice dropping low, gravel threading through it, “like this?” He gestured to the armor, the mask, the full persona of Red Robin. “You want me to fuck you in it.”

You nodded slowly, lips parted, almost breathless from how close he was.

That was when it hit him. The way your thighs pressed together. The way your fingers trembled just slightly as they traced over his suit. You were already aroused. Barely touched, and already wet for him.

Tim inhaled slowly, gaze dropping to your mouth before dragging back up to your eyes. He crowded you with his body, forcing your back against the rooftop’s brick wall in one fluid motion. One gloved hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your jaw just firm enough to make you gasp.

“Oh,” he murmured, lips curling into a quiet smirk. “So that’s what this has been about.”

You squirmed beneath his hold, blinking up at him, and for the first time that night, he saw the flash of the girl who usually hid behind the quiet. Now she was exposed, caught, pinned—and loving it.

“You like this suit?” he whispered, leaning down, his mouth brushing your ear. “The mask? The gloves? Is that what gets you so worked up?”

“Y-Yes,” you whispered, voice breaking slightly.

“Good,” he said darkly, dragging his fingers down your throat to your collarbone, savoring the way you arched into him. “Because now you’re going to take everything you asked for. Everything. Right here.”

You shuddered. “Tim…”

“No,” he interrupted, mouth brushing hotly against your cheek as his gloved hand slid under your coat, fingertips grazing bare skin. “You wanted Red Robin tonight. Not Tim. That’s who you’re getting.”

He grabbed your thigh and hiked it around his hip, grinding into you—slow, firm, with purpose. You moaned, and he smirked against your jaw.

“Already this wet for me?” he murmured. “You’re filthy. Sweet little girl with her shy voice and innocent smiles—turns out you’re just a freak who wants to be fucked in an alley by a man in body armor.”

You whimpered, clinging to his shoulders. He tilted his head back just enough to look you in the eye through the mask.

“You’re going to do exactly what I say. You’re going to let me bend you over this ledge, glove over your mouth so no one hears you, and you’re not going to come until I tell you.” He dragged his fingers lower. “And you’re not going to take your eyes off me. Not for a second. Got it?”

You nodded quickly, breath catching, pupils blown wide. “Yes. Yes, sir.”

He growled softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “Good girl.”

And just like that, he reached behind you, grabbed your coat, and spun you around, pressing your front against the rough brick. His cape shifted over both of you like a dark curtain. Gotham stretched out before you—but all you could feel, all you could think about, was the masked vigilante behind you, already pulling your panties aside and growling against your neck.

“You wanted Red Robin?” he whispered, pushing into you slowly, deliberately. “Then take him.”

And God help you… you did.

This was the shy girl who blushed when he said “good morning.” Now she was panting, crying out, taking him in the open night sky like a fevered dream.

The bricks were cold against your chest, your breath fogging in the night air as you braced yourself against the rooftop’s edge. Gotham glittered below like a city that would never sleep—but up here, you could barely see straight.

Not with him behind you.

Red Robin.

Not Tim. Not the quiet genius with the sharp eyes and steady hands who held you like something breakable.

This version was different.

Dominant. Dangerous.

Deliberate.

“You’re quiet now,” he murmured behind you, voice filtered through the modulator built into his cowl. It made him sound deeper. Rougher. Like he was made of smoke and threat. “Not so bold when I’ve got you where I want you, huh?”

You gasped as his gloved hand smoothed over your hip, fingers curling under the waistband of your panties and dragging them down in one smooth motion. He didn’t even wait for them to fall—he kicked your feet apart with a controlled nudge of his boot, then pressed his hand to your lower back, pinning you in place.

“Tim—” you started to whisper, needing something to ground yourself.

“I told you,” he cut in sharply. “You don’t call me that up here.”

You trembled under him. “Red Robin,” you breathed, the name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“That’s better,” he growled.

You could hear the shift of armor, the telltale click of his belt coming undone, the hiss of his breath as he gripped himself behind you. You tried to twist and look, but he was already crowding you again, one hand on your hip, the other sliding up to press over your mouth.

“No turning around. You wanted me like this—so take it like this.”

And then he was inside you.

Slow at first, torturously controlled. He pushed in deep, inch by inch, until your back arched and a muffled moan broke against his gloved hand. He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep inside you, letting you feel all of him while the city breathed beneath you both.

“You’re so wet it’s disgusting,” he muttered in your ear, and yet his voice trembled—barely. “You got off on this before I even touched you. Didn’t you?”

You nodded desperately under his hand, moaning again when he drew back—then slammed forward, hard enough to make your knees buckle.

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed. “That’s it. Arch your back. Let me see you take it.”

He set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping against yours with the kind of force you weren’t expecting. The cape draped over you like a shroud, hiding you from the sky while he ruined you—each thrust hitting deeper than the last, every snap of his hips paired with a rough grunt in your ear.

“This what you wanted?” he growled. “Me, in the suit, in the mask? Filling you up while you moan into my glove like a little slut?”

Your moan came out broken, tears springing in your eyes from the sheer intensity. He was everywhere—his scent, his voice, his body pounding into yours like he was staking a claim.

And still, you nodded.

Because this wasn’t just about the kink. It wasn’t just about power or danger or masks.

It was about him. Tim Drake. The man who held everything in—who wore masks inside of masks—and how you were the one person who could make him let go.

And he was letting go.

You could feel it in the way his hand tightened on your hip. The way his rhythm faltered just slightly. The way he leaned down and whispered—voice raw now, not modulated anymore:

“You’re mine. No one else gets this. No one else gets you.”

You sobbed around his glove, coming hard—your whole body locking, then trembling as you shook apart around him. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The suit creaked as he braced both hands on your hips now, driving into you, chasing his own edge.

“Gonna—fuck—inside you,” he grunted. “You’re gonna take all of it, and you’re not gonna waste a drop.”

You whimpered something that might’ve been yes, or maybe just please.

He groaned—a low, primal sound—and then thrust deep one final time, burying himself inside you as he came hard, hips jerking, breath ragged in your ear.

The rooftop was silent for a few heartbeats after. Just your gasps, and his uneven panting against your neck.

His hands slid up your back, slow now. Gentle.

“…You okay?” he whispered, voice finally soft again. Not Red Robin. Just Tim.

You nodded weakly, turning your head to meet his masked eyes. “More than okay,” you rasped. “Holy shit.” He pulled you close against him, the cape still around both of you like a shield.

Tim finally spoke, voice low. “You’ve been hiding that side of you this whole time?”

You grinned into his neck. “I didn’t want to scare you off.”

He pulled back to look you in the eyes, still flushed and disheveled. “Scare me?” he repeated, laughing breathlessly. “You just gave me a new reason to love rooftops.”

[athenagc94]

Making Tim and Damian roomates would be sooo interesting! I think they're a rare pairing (in a strictly platonic/familial sense lol) that we barely ever see explored. Tim's so underrated, and I'm super excited see your take on him.

Yes!

I think Tim and Damian are two sides of the same coin and that’s why they’re so volatile at the start. I plan for Tim’s fic to take place in the same universe as Dear Daddy Long Legs, but six years in the future.

I want Damian—who has given up the Robin mantle to pursue a medical degree to live with Tim, who becomes more and more like Bruce as time goes on. He came from the same naive privilege. He’s so ingrained in his vigilante role and putting on a persona when out of the mask that he doesn’t really know who Tim Drake is anymore, so he leans into what society expects him to be—a bit of an asshole.

Damian is the one who has learned to slow down and be more vulnerable, while Tim is hardened by the obstacles life threw at him.

This Tim won’t be that likable to start, but that’s kinda the point. Nor is it the reader’s job to fix him. My man will have to put in the work and I can’t wait to see how that pans out once I start plotting.

In case you were curious. Here are some themes I plan to explore in the fic:

[rainydaygotham]

Imagine “borrowing” the left glove of your man’s super suit for a bit while he’s napping and stitching a small band of embroidery thread around the ring finger. The thread is colored only slightly darker than the original color of the fabric. It was so inconspicuous that no one who wasn’t looking for it would notice. In fact, it takes your vigilante fiancé about a week to find it himself.

He has to do a little double take, momentarily forgetting what he was doing in favor of inspecting his hand. It’s not an accidental loose thread or anything, it’s an intentional alteration to his uniform, meant to be there. And it’s very clearly supposed to be a wedding ring, so he knows exactly how it got there. He just doesn’t know when. Oh, hopefully he hasn’t been oblivious to your handiwork for long. The thought of you thinking he knew about it and just didn’t care was agonizing. He cares, baby! He cares so much you wouldn’t believe.

It makes him giddy. You’ve marked him. What an adorable thing to do.

He was planning to get the ring tattooed onto his finger already, so he wouldn’t lose the real one out in his dangerous life of fighting crime. But even that would be under his gloves, invisible to anyone on the streets of the city. This, however, announced it loud and clear: sorry, but this vigilante is taken.

When he makes it back from the mission that night, he finds you lounging in your shared bedroom. You’re too engrossed in whatever you’re doing on your laptop to notice him creeping in yet, so he gets a moment to just admire you. To his delight, he recognizes the fabric that clings to your body as one of his shirts.

You finally realize he’s there, lookin’ like the cat who got the cream,

“Hey Babe, was it a good night?”

“You want to marry me~” he croons.

“We are literally engaged,” you shake your head in fake-exasperation.

“I found your little gift,” he gives you the clue to why he’s got hearts in his eyes.

“Oh,” your smile gets bigger, “that.. I take it you like it?”

He takes your head in his hands, thumbs gently brushing the tops of your cheeks, “it’s perfect,”

He presses a cute little kiss onto your nose. He laughs as you open your eyes and whine about having expected a real kiss. Well, he’ll just have to give you one of those too, then… or maybe a few…

[invincibledc]

You: I’m not that pretty/handsome….

Damian who busted through your door: BLASPHEMY! WHO SHALL I END THE LIVES THAT TOLD BLATANT LIES!

Jason who came out from under your bed: I second on what the demon said.

Tim who was suddenly disguised as a giant teddy unzipping the suit: me three, what’s their name?

Dick who bursted through your windows: My Y/N distress signal alerted me! Who said that to you!!?

You: WHERE TF DID YALL COME FROM?!!

All of them: THAT DOESNT MATTER!