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lulu103 · 2 months ago

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Batboys x Reader

Batboys with a loving couple

Richard "Dick" Grayson

Dick has always been open and expressive, and although he’s a naturally affectionate person himself, discovering someone who matches and returns that love leaves him speechless. From the start, he’s fascinated by the way you hug him without fear, how you hold his hand in public, or how you leap into his arms the second you see him.

If you’re walking down the street, you never hesitate to wrap your arm around his waist or cling to his side. Dick always smiles with that warm look in his eyes, and he kisses the top of your head. “You know how much I love this?” he whispers in your ear, and you just hug him tighter.

When you kiss his cheek out of nowhere or gently run your fingers through his hair while he’s watching TV, he absolutely melts. His smile widens and he kisses you back like he can’t stop. There’s nothing he loves more than seeing your tenderness overflowing.

At night, when you’re curled up in bed together, he wraps his arms around you and plays with your hair. “You make me feel so loved…,” he admits softly. Because for Dick, there’s nothing more perfect than having a partner who reminds him that love can be simple and sweet.

Jason Todd

Jason has always had a huge heart, even if he tries to hide it behind jokes or his tough guy act. But when he feels your love, all his walls crumble. At first, he’s a little awkward, as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with all the affection.

When you hug him out of the blue, Jason freezes for a second, like he’s processing that warm feeling you’re giving him. Then, without hesitation, he wraps his strong arms around you and pulls you against his chest. “You’re too cute…,” he mumbles, though sometimes he tries to say it in a gruff tone to hide how much he’s blushing.

If you’re watching a movie and snuggle up to him, Jason immediately relaxes. He’ll stroke your arm, kiss the top of your head, and even if he doesn’t say much, his gestures say everything: your touch soothes him like nothing else.

He also starts to match your affectionate energy with his own. He’ll cradle the back of your head when he kisses you, shield you with his body like you’re the most precious thing he has. And even if he sounds rough sometimes, his words are always soft when it’s just the two of you: “You drive me crazy when you do that… don’t ever stop.”

Timothy Drake

Tim is always thinking, always planning… but when you surprise him with a hug or gently stroke his cheek, his brain just stops. He blushes so hard he can’t help it, and his voice catches in his throat.

He loves how you hold his hand and play with his fingers, how you lean against him while he’s working at his computer. Even though he pretends to stay focused, the truth is that every brush of your skin makes his heart race and his lips curl into a shy smile.

When you kiss his cheek or loop your arms around his neck, Tim sighs and lets all his worries fade. “You make me feel so… cherished,” he confesses, with a spark in his eyes that very few get to see.

If you’re feeling nervous or insecure, he’ll take your hands and press gentle kisses to your knuckles. “Everything’s alright, my love,” he whispers. And though he might not always be the most outwardly expressive, he starts to seek out your touch too: leaning in to rest his forehead against yours, cuddling up with you on the couch, letting your gentle touches soothe him like nothing else can.

Damian Wayne

Damian takes the longest to get used to it. At first, he doesn’t know how to react to so much affection—not because he doesn’t like it, but because he’s just not used to it. Every time you hug him from behind or kiss his cheek, he stiffens for a moment… and then slowly relaxes, like he’s learning to trust that warmth.

Once he realizes your love is genuine and unwavering, he starts to crave it more than he’ll ever admit. If you’re walking together, he’ll grab your hand with a fierce protectiveness, like he doesn’t want anyone else near you. If you hug him after a rough day, he’ll bury his face against your shoulder and take a deep breath, letting your love calm him down.

Damian won’t say it outright at first, but his actions say everything: he lets you run your fingers through his hair, he lets you rest against his chest, and even though his kisses start off a bit clumsy, they grow passionate and intense.

“Thank you… for being like this,” he whispers sometimes, his voice almost too quiet to hear. And even if he pretends your sweetness annoys him, the truth is that every one of your hugs teaches him that love can be gentle, warm, and safe.

#jason todd #timdrake #damian wayne #dick grayson #batman comics #jason todd x reader #tim drake x reader #red hood x reader #damian wayne x reader #batboys x reader #timothy jackson drake #richard grayson #jason x reader #batboys

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cinemaastimegoesby · 1 year ago

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Brenda Starr (1989). dir. Robert Ellis Miller

#brenda starr #robert ellis miller #film #brooke shields #timothy dalton

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newobsessionweekly · 3 months ago

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Aftershock: Bradford's Barbie

Main Masterlist | The Rookie Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Tim Bradford x younger!reader

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: You and Tim are not dating. But also aren't not dating. Until he pulls back, you shut down and every feeling comes crashing down on you both.

Angst to fluff

Warnings: description of gunshots maybe? not proofread yet

Words: -

It didn’t start with fireworks. Or candlelight. Or anything remotely poetic.

It started with a crash.

Not the earthquake kind, not this time. Just you—exhausted, makeup smudged, hair in a bun that had declared war hours ago—falling asleep on his couch after a late-night takeout run and a shared bottle of whiskey neither of you meant to finish.

You woke up tangled in his arms. The next morning, you told yourself it was a one-time thing.

It wasn’t.

Somehow, in between shifts and field assignments, takeout orders and inside jokes, it became a routine. Your body in his bed. His scent on your clothes. His lips on your skin, hot and heavy in the silence after dark. And, weirdly, you slept better at his place. He did too, not that he ever said it out loud.

You weren’t dating.

You weren’t not dating, either.

Tim called it “convenient.” You called it “friends with benefits.” Lucy called it “a catastrophe waiting to happen,” though she didn’t know the half of it.

Because somewhere between him calling you a menace and you calling him a fossil—somewhere between him brushing your hair off your face and you learning how he liked his coffee—you started catching feelings.

Like a dumbass.

And the worst part? You didn’t even mean to. It just… happened. The way feelings do. Quiet at first, like a hairline crack. Then spreading, splitting, splitting, splitting.

Until something inside you started to break.

You told him once.

Sort of.

A few weeks ago, lying in his bed with your cheek pressed to his chest, you’d murmured something dumb and sleepy like, “I think you like me, Bradford.”

He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t kissed you either.

He’d just gone still.

“Don’t make this complicated,” he’d said finally, voice low. “It’s already risky. You’re… you’re too young. This thing is just for fun. Let’s not pretend it’s more than it is.”

And like a fool, you nodded.

You told yourself you could deal with it.

But here you are, two months later, being reckless all over again.

Because now, thanks to a shiny new contract between LAPD and your father’s construction firm, you’re officially partnered with none other than Timothy “Emotionally Constipated” Bradford.

You might’ve pulled a few strings. Okay, a lot of strings. But in your defense, it was the perfect setup: a project pairing cops with civil engineers to evaluate post-quake building damage. Everyone wins. Especially you.

Except you forgot one detail.

You’re still in love with him.

And he still thinks you’re a goddamn risk.

You’re halfway through assessing a condemned strip mall in East Hollywood when it all goes to hell.

The street’s quiet, a little too quiet, the kind of quiet that prickles under your skin. Tim’s beside you, hand on his vest, eyes scanning every window and alley like he’s waiting for something to jump.

You’re marking a crumbling doorway with bright red chalk when it happens.

A pop.

Then another.

Gunfire.

You drop instantly, instincts kicking in, but not before Tim grabs your shoulder and yanks you behind the rusted frame of a dumpster. His body covers yours, warm and solid, one arm braced against the metal and the other curled around your waist.

“Stay down,” he growls, eyes blazing.

Your heart is beating in your ears, faster than it should. Too fast. His breath is hot on your cheek. His chest rises and falls against your back, firm and steady, while yours feels like it might explode.

And all you can think is: this isn’t casual. This isn’t just “fun.”

This is him shielding you like he’d die for you.

When it’s over—when backup arrives, when the scene clears, when the world rights itself again—you’re sitting on the tailgate of an LAPD shop with an ice pack pressed to your knee and a very pissed-off Tim looming over you.

“You okay?” he asks. The words are tight. Controlled. But his hand won’t stop gripping your thigh.

“I’m good,” you reply lightly. “But damn, Bradford. You almost made me think you caught feelings.”

His jaw ticks. “Don’t.”

“What? Can’t a girl joke around with her—what are we again? Bed buddies?”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps back like your words physically burned him.

You wait for him to say something—anything. But all you get is silence. His walls are up again. Brick by goddamn brick.

You nod, lips tightening.

“Got it.”

You stop texting him after that.

No goodnight emojis. No sarcastic memes. No more midnight rides to each other’s places. You pull out. Clean cut. No drama.

You tell yourself it’s the right thing. The smart thing.

You also start sleeping like crap again.

You expect him to call.

He doesn’t.

You expect him to knock on your door like he always does when things go sideways. Show up with a six-pack and that dumb grumpy look he pretends isn’t fond.

He doesn’t.

Instead, silence.

You last three days before deleting his name from your favorites. Five days before you fold the hoodie he left behind and tuck it in a drawer. Nine before you hear through one of the engineers that he requested a reassignment. A new partner.

The hurt isn’t new.

You just didn’t expect it to land like this. Like a slow tear in your chest every time you turn a corner expecting to see him, but don’t.

Tim is worse.

He doesn’t talk about it. Not to Lucy. Not to Thorsen. Not to Lopez. He just… broods.

He snaps faster. His fuse is shorter. He works more shifts, runs more drills, volunteers for the worst hours.

Lucy notices.

Of course she notices.

“You’ve been insufferable lately,” she says one day while they’re stuck in the locker room post-shift, both drenched in sweat and sun. “Worse than usual.”

Tim grunts, slamming his locker shut harder than necessary. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit.”

He shoots her a look, but she doesn’t back off.

“Is this about her?” Lucy asks casually. Too casually.

Tim stiffens. “What?”

“The blonde. Barbie. Earthquake Barbie. Whatever nickname you gave her in your grumpy little brain.”

Tim says nothing. Just pulls his shirt over his head like the conversation’s over.

It isn’t.

Lucy leans against the row of lockers, arms crossed. “Look, I didn’t want to get involved, but you’re spiraling. And when Tim Bradford spirals, people start punching walls and doing push-ups until their triceps cry for help.”

Tim’s voice is low. “She’s fine.”

“She’s not talking to you.”

“She doesn’t have to.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow. “So you were hooking up.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch.

Lucy whistles. “Damn. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Tim exhales slowly, resting his forehead against the cool metal. “It wasn’t supposed to be anything.”

“But?”

He hesitates.

Lucy watches him carefully. “But?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “She got under my skin.”

Lucy nods. “Yeah. That tends to happen when you’re in love.”

Tim turns to her, eyes flinty. “It wasn’t love.”

“Sure.”

“She’s almost twenty years younger than me.”

“And?”

“She’s reckless. She pulled strings to partner with me.”

“She also stood her ground during a live gunfire incident and patched your hand when you busted your knuckles punching a brick wall.”

Tim doesn’t respond.

Lucy softens. “Look. I don’t know what happened between you two. But I’ve known you long enough to know when someone’s got you twisted in knots. Go to her. Fix it.”

It takes him until midnight.

You’re not surprised when he knocks.

You hear the heavy sound of his boots on the hallway first—then the pause, then the knock. He doesn’t knock like a neighbor. He knocks like someone who built you into his routine and doesn’t know how to function without it.

But you don’t answer.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, hoodie pulled over your knees, and sip from a lukewarm mug of tea you don’t even like.

You hear the second knock. Then his sigh. Then silence.

“I know you’re there,” he says through the door, voice low and rough. “You’re loud in heels. But I swear—you’re louder barefoot.”

Your heart stutters.

You stay quiet.

He exhales, palm pressing to the door.

“I didn’t mean to push you away.”

You roll your eyes. “You didn’t push me away, Bradford. You made it very clear where I stand. Or don’t stand.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Yeah. I’m a dumbass.”

You don’t deny it.

Tim leans closer. “I just… I didn’t want to ruin what we had. And I thought keeping it casual would keep it safe.”

You raise an eyebrow even though he can’t see it. “Casual? You kissed my shoulder when you thought I was asleep. You stocked your fridge with my favorite iced coffee.”

Silence.

“Casual my ass,” you mutter.

You still don’t open the door. You hear his exhale through the wood.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says, quieter this time. “You know I didn’t.”

You hate that his voice still does that to you. That low rumble laced with something vulnerable. Something only you ever get from him—when no one’s watching. Not Lucy. Not his team. Not his goddamn conscience.

“You said I wasn’t worth the risk,” you remind him, because he needs to hear it. Needs to sit with the way it burned through you like acid.

A pause.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

Silence.

You wait. The kind of silence where seconds stretch until they feel like bruises. He doesn’t answer, and that tells you enough.

You move to the door, pressing your back against it, still not ready to open it. “Go home, Tim.”

“I am home,” he says softly, and fuck. Fuck him for saying that.

The ache spreads. It’s not even anger anymore. It’s that thing you hate admitting even to yourself. Longing.

You press your palms to your eyes. “You don’t get to say that.”

Another pause.

“Okay. Fine. You won’t talk to me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He must hear the way your breath hitches through the door, because his next words come sharp.

“Then I’ll make you talk.”

The knock stops. The silence twists.

Then the click of the door handle turning, slow—because you forgot to lock it. You never lock it when you expect him.

The door opens, and there he is.

Post-shift, tired eyes, hand still on the doorknob like he’s giving you one last second to throw him out.

You don’t.

He steps in and shuts the door behind him.

You’re still in your hoodie, hair up in that messy knot he always said made you look like you “tried not to look hot,” and failed.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just drinks you in. Quiet, serious, unreadable. Then, in three strides, he’s in front of you, his hand tilting your chin up.

“I fucked up.”

You blink. “You think?”

He doesn’t smile. He just leans in—closer than he’s let himself in weeks.

“Say something.”

You don’t. You won’t.

So he does what Tim Bradford always does when he’s cornered by emotion—

He acts.

His lips crash into yours before you can say another word. It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Like he’s trying to apologize with every breath he pulls from you.

Your hands fist in his shirt before your brain catches up. Before your heart can argue. Because you’ve missed this. Him. The heat. The feel of his body like a shield and a furnace all at once.

He pulls back just far enough to murmur, “You’re mine.”

You open your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to fall apart—but he kisses you again before the words come.

“Say it,” he breathes against your skin, kissing down your jaw. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper, dazed, breathless, undone. “And you’re mine as well.”

His hands tighten around your waist, like he’s trying to ground himself to the words. Like you’ve said something dangerous, holy.

“I’ve been yours,” he says hoarsely, “since the moment I met you, Barbie doll.”

Your knees nearly give out.

He lifts you—effortlessly—and carries you to the couch, laying you down like you’re something fragile and irreplaceable.

This isn’t just sex anymore.

This is everything that’s been building. All the friction, the denial, the tension that snapped the moment he let himself feel.

The hoodie is the first thing to go. His hands slow, reverent. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

He kisses your chest, your neck, your mouth again. “I don’t care about the age gap,” he murmurs. “Or the job. Or the risk. I care about you.”

You close your eyes and arch into him. He’s not just making love to you. He’s choosing you. Out loud. Without hesitation.

And the best part is—you’re finally choosing him back.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the blinds, casting a warm glow over the room. You stir, feeling the steady rhythm of Tim’s heartbeat beneath your cheek.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.

You look up at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Morning.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “So, does this mean we’re official or something?”

You chuckle. “I think last night made that pretty clear.”

He grins, pulling you closer. “Good. Because I don’t plan on letting you go.”

You nestle into his embrace, feeling a sense of contentment you hadn’t known you were missing.

And in that moment, everything feels right.

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livingund3ad · 4 months ago

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[for the last time || в последний раз]

warnings: depictions of drowning, mentions of murder, suicide and death. read with discretion

» you are here | 02. | 03. | ... |

From the eyes of [ ? ]

Transcript of Gotham Gazette’s Breaking Report - July 26th, 20XX

4:12 AM:

A tip-off was received from an anonymous source regarding unusual activity at Gotham’s Westriver district. Police vehicles and ambulances were spotted converging near the secluded edges of Gotham River—an area notorious for its dense forestry and dark history.

4:45 AM:

Journalists began arriving at the scene, their vehicles halted by police barricades and vigilant security guards. Under the waning moonlight, the air was thick with dread, murmurs building as scattered information trickled down to the press like blood seeping from a fresh wound.

5:03 AM:

The first confirmation: It was a recovery mission. A body had been pulled from the lake.

Witnesses reported seeing Bruce Wayne himself, dripping wet, his clothes clinging to him like the weight of his own name. Beside him, Richard “Dick” Grayson, his adopted son, equally drenched and disheveled, his eyes wide and haunted.

The two had been escorted away from the lake by paramedics, refusing medical attention despite the chill in their bones. The urgency of their movements was eclipsed only by the sheer devastation etched into their faces.

5:18 AM:

Timothy Drake and Damian Wayne emerged from the thick of the woods. Neither of them bore the dampness of the lake but their expressions spoke of something far worse. Something hollow and undone.

Photographs capture Timothy hunched over his phone, his fingers shaking against the screen, his lips moving but producing no sound. Damian, the youngest of the Wayne family, wore a scowl so vicious and desperate. Belongings that appeared not his held tightly in his hands.

5:35 AM:

Paramedics wheeled a gurney draped in white cloth towards the ambulance. Flashes of cameras ignited the darkness, stuttering against the crisp material of the sheet. The body beneath was small. Fragile.

The public’s fixation shifted from the family to the figure hidden beneath the shroud. The rumors were relentless, each theory more grisly than the last. But the truth was far simpler. And perhaps far more tragic.

It was J*** “Doe” Wayne.

A name only whispered in tabloid columns and murmured through charity event speeches. Another ward of Bruce Wayne, adopted into the sprawling empire with little fanfare or spectacle. The papers had only touched upon her existence over the years—a young girl hidden from the public eye, shielded by the iron gates of Wayne Manor and the shadows of Gotham’s elite.

6:00 AM:

Questions splintered through the media like glass. What was she doing at the river in the middle of the night? Was it an accident? Foul play? A desperate attempt to escape the crushing weight of the Wayne legacy?

The officials refused to give statements, urging the press to maintain their distance. No confirmation. No denial. Just the lingering, oppressive silence of unanswered questions.

But the most damning piece of evidence came from the Waynes themselves.

Photographs circulated of Bruce Wayne’s face, pale and slack, eyes unfocused as he sat slumped on the hood of his car. Beside him, Dick Grayson, fists clenched at his sides, tears smudged into his cheeks like war paint.

For a family so used to presenting perfection to the public, their grief was painfully, brutally exposed.

6:45 AM:

The ambulance departed, sirens off. A grim omen. The kind reporters recognize all too well.

Rumors sparked like wildfire—J*** had drowned. But was it her own doing, or had someone pushed her? Had the burden of living under the Wayne name finally cracked her fragile frame, or was there something darker at play?

Theories were exchanged in frantic whispers, reporters scrambling to piece together fragments of truth from the ashes of tragedy.

7:30 AM:

Police issued a statement confirming the body belonged to J*** “Doe” Wayne. Age eighteen. Probable cause of Death—Asphyxiation by Submersion. No further details were provided.

Bruce Wayne and his sons were escorted away from the scene shortly after. Their silence a fortress built of agony and guilt.

Now, in the wake of her death, the public demands answers.

Was it murder? Suicide? An accident? Or something far more sinister lurking beneath Gotham’s glittering surface?

What had exactly happened to J*** “Doe” Wayne?

Authors note: Yes, it's a Yan! Batfam. Whodunnit. Erm there's a likely possibility that this will end up in the unfinished yan! batfam fics archive. I will attempt to write this I promise, cuz like I've been reading some Yan!Batfam fics and I haven't seen one yet that's been finished so why not write one that starts at the ending(?). Lol I'm just a dumbass who's a sucker for angst idk what's happening tbh. Also yes, I will be using she/her pronouns, and the reader darling is going to be called J*** or "Doe" in this cuz I have a reason for that. It's a secret for now. Or maybe you guys already do know from the theme I suck at being subtle.

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hjbirthdaywishes · 1 year ago

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February 13, 2024

Happy 58 Birthday to Neal McDonough.

#Neal McDonough #Happy Birthday #Dum Dum Dugan #Timothy Dugan #Captain America The First Avenger #Agents of Shield #AoS #Agent Carter #Marvel Cinematic Universe #MCU #Marvel #February #2024

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thealexandriaarchives · 1 year ago

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I can't stop staring at Feyd-Rautha's walk here and what it implies about his fight with Paul now that I'm able to stop just comparing it to Timothy's killer body work matching it (or vice versa).

Villeneuve takes the book canon, that the Harkonnens took the Atredies's morbid heirlooms of an oil painting of grandfather's death and the bull's head with his blood still dried on his horns to hang above the arena as trophies to the next level: making Feyd-Rautha the victorious young matador with the guards dressed as bull-minotaurs, circling to play banderillos and sink banderillas into the backs of the Atredies bull if it gets too close before the final faena has Feyd-Rautha pulling his opponent past him in the close, intimate passes that show off his athleticism and skill before his false blade is exchanged for the one that will be used for the killing blow and oh my god there are whole schools of thought on coming forward to meet your opponent vs waiting for them and killing with a single blow to the heart and honoring the fight and if anyone who knows how to make gifsets wants make one about this to I'd LOVE to rant more about the breakdown of these two fights and how Feyd is 1001% Matador Machismo but my point to all of this is:

Look at that Sand.

Look at his feet dig deep and kick it up as he strides out into the heart of that arena. Is it a rhythmic walk? Oh yes. Confident. Powerful. In the book this will be his 100th arena kill as he comes of age. This is his natural habitat. Where he learned his skills, for us to parallel with what we saw for Paul in Part 1.

This matters, because it's one of the main premises for why the Fremen are so Good At Fighting. When everyone is trained to fight with shields (stun then slow) and bulky armor, and on flat, solid ground with lots of cover, it's easy to be fast and silent and terrifyingly effective against them. Gurney Halleck is shown to be one of the best fighters in the franchise and the film makes a point of showing how his (recognizable) footsteps are not suited to move quickly, lightly, and with stability on sand like they are on solid ground.

Only... Bullfighting rings aren't sandy. They're fairly hardpacked. Earth for the bull and Matador to maneuver in quickly. There is a layer of albero traditionally layered on top, a chunky yellow clay dirt that serves aesthetics but also absorbs blood quickly. The idea the sand may not be white because... With Giedi Prime who knows?! Is Fantastic.

Paul Muad'Dib became the only Atredies to be recognized as Fremen, to see his father's dream of Desert Power recognized, to fight as Fedaykin, to be recognized as the Mahdi, the One Who Points The Way, and it is made clear to us from the opening words of a Child's History of Muad'Dib that Arrakis was his Home, and yet every major one-on-one duel he had from Jamis to Feyd-Rautha was on solid ground, giving him an advantage that made him respected as a fighter among the Fedaykin right away as part of his training.

Feyd-Rautha was the one Harkonnen who may have learned combat primarily or even exclusively with sand beneath his feet, and he died on Arrakis on the polished stone floors of a palatial residence, still trying to play by Matador rules.

thank u for coming to my Ted Talk

#dune meta #feyd rautha harkonnen #paul atreides #dune part 2 #burn after scrolling #dune #dune 2024 #feyd rautha #house harkonnen #feydpaul #duneposting

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deadsetobsessions · 2 years ago

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AU of my Gotham/Tim Drake! Danny where Danny doesn’t know any knowledge beforehand about the DC universe.

Danny doesn’t know how he got here, but the fact that he now shares something in common with Vlad other than their technical halfa status disgusts him

His new name is Timothy Jackson Drake. It’s so far removed from Danny that his parents had him examined for deafness because he didn’t respond to it. He got better at it, at putting on the mask Janet and Jack Drake wanted to see. So they took him to the circus.

He meets Dick Grayson. Danny thinks the kid is adorable, even if Danny himself is technically younger. He sees the flying Graysons fall. The buzzing in his head doesn’t go away.

He’s five, when the fading spirit of Gotham reaches out and pleads her King to protect her city in her stead. She is fading. He says yes, because she’s one of his. The buzzing in his head settles and oh because that’s what’s been missing this entire time. Danny didn’t have a haunt and Gotham gave him one.

He grieves when she dies, the new title settling around small shoulders, and the city grieves with him. In the city proper, Batman and Robin are having the worst night of their lives in the sudden storm.

He’s nine. Robin is Dick Grayson. Dick Grayson, in turn, is an idiot. Batman… well, he’s at least mentoring and protecting the child vigilante, which is more than Danny ever had. He grows fond of them. How could he not, when they tried their hardest to help his city? To help him?

He shows himself, to the duo, in his Phantom form. It’s still him, still modeled after Danny Fenton’s face instead of Tim Drake’s. Ghosts are a reflection of the soul, after all.

“Who are you,” Batman demands, shielding Robin with half a step.

“Gotham.” He replies. Danny wills the city to affirm his claim and the city wraps its arms around the vigilantes. Batman and Robin understands, a deep well of pure knowledge being tapped into in ways they weren’t truly meant to understand.

“…How?”

“Magic,” Phantom says, dry. He tells them of city spirits, and that they can call him in times of dire need.

Dick calls him to help with Two Face. Two Face learns the pain of unmelting ice to the balls.

His core aches when the Bats fight, but Danny knows now that it is inevitable. They’re part of his haunt, his ‘fraid. He knows these things far before they come into fruition.

Dick moves to a sister city. Phantom expands his haunt to Bludhaven because he doesn’t, won’t, ever leave his Robins to themselves.

Nightwing is hopeful, is pleasantly surprised, and very suspicious when he shows up during patrol.

“Gotham…? What are you doing here…? This isn’t, well, Gotham?”

“Satellite City. It is an extension of myself. You were Robin, yes. You’re Nightwing, now. But that doesn’t mean I won’t protect you when I can.”

Phantom goes back, and finds a kid trying to steal tires to make a living. He guides his Knight to him. The starved features, the bones Danny could see, it tugs at his core. It feels like the Ancient of Fate themselves were pulling him along.

“How’d you know I was taking the wheels?”

“Gotham.”

“Are you… high on shrooms or something?”

Bruce sighs. Batman asks Gotham to meet the new Robin, and chuckles when Jason is surprised by the glowing green figure.

Phantom hides this Robin just as much as the last one. He curls shadows around his vigilantes, sometimes at the same time, and softens what little sounds they made while stalking through his city for crime.

He makes small jokes with Jason. Danny forgets, a little, the crushing loneliness of being Timothy Drake.

“I didn’t kill Garzona!”

“You-”

Batman stops as a chill he’s never had experienced directed at him weaves around his neck. An angry Gotham.

“He didn’t kill him.” Danny slides a cold hand on Jason’s shoulders.

But the damage had been done and the next day, Batman is begging Danny to tell him any clues of where Jason had gone.

“Ethiopia.”

He clears the way for Batman to get to Robin. He clears the way for Bruce to get to Jason.

He’d fallen into the trap of believing that Batman would handle everything when in the end, he’s just a man in a mantle that demands more than he ever thought he’d have to pay.

Robin is dead and Danny grieves. The skies crack open and pours a torrent of smogged rain water upon the streets of Gotham. Despite that, Crime Alley is untouched by flood. They say the second Robin was protecting his home.

In a way, it’s not wrong.

Gotham fishes Batman from the bay, carelessly tossing the broken Joker against a shipping container.

“You can’t keep doing this. You’ll die.”

Bruce, Batman, lays on his back, eyes glazed and empty. “Maybe I want to.” He admits. And Danny can’t lose someone else. It’s already bad enough he feels the death of everyone in his city, he can’t lose him too. But Dick won’t come back. He already denied Gotham when Phantom had asked him to come back. Granted, Dick was nervous about denying him the entire time, but Danny realized that he’d lost a brother in the colors his parents chose for Dick. Danny- Phantom had cradled Dick in a swaddle of shadows and comfort.

“Alright.”

“Is it? Alright? I- I don’t want to fail you, Gotham.”

“It is. You’ve always made me proud. You will always make me proud. Whether it be by different name, it matters to me not. Stay. Heal.”

Like Dick was given permission, like he received a hint of peace, Dick Grayson crumpled to the floor and sobbed into Gotham’s shoulder.

(Later, long after Dick Grayson realized his little brother was also his city personified, he cries again into Tim’s shoulders after the later dropped a flower pot perfectly on top of Catalina Flores’ head.)

Gotham, Phantom, Danny makes a choice.

“Tomorrow, a child will show up at your door. You will let him in.”

“No- I can’t. I won’t.” He knows what Danny will ask of him.

“You will.” Danny doesn’t ever do it with his people, with his city, but dire times call for dire actions. It is an order. And Batman is Gotham’s knight. “You will. You will train him. You need a Robin to leash your brutality. I need a Robin, for Robin is my hope. The city’s hope. Our people’s hope. Do not forget the goal you have set out to accomplish in my city.”

Batman rages at him, until he falls unconscious from the wounds he’s gathered. Danny brings him home. He tells Alfred what to expect tomorrow. Bruce wakes up, eyes fixated on the crack that appeared on Danny’s neon green face. “Did. Did I do that?”

Danny nods slowly.

Batman crumples into Bruce Wayne. “Okay.” He says. “Alright. Tomorrow.”

Gotham watches him, unreadable. “Tomorrow.” He says, before fading away.

Tim Drake shows up at the door. Nightwing shows up not long after. Tim Drake adapts to Bruce Wayne’s cold looks and brutal training. Slowly, but surely, he leashes in Batman’s grief fueled brutality and less criminals go to prison with half of their lives beaten out of them.

Batman doesn’t see Gotham as much anymore. He feared that he’s angered his city, that he is no longer welcome.

When Tim figures it out… he allows the roads and the shadows to help Batman once more.

Batman stared intently at the extra coverage. “Thank you,” Tim hears him whisper. “I’m sorry.”

And when Jason Todd comes back to life and attacks Tim in the tower, Tim lets Hood beat him. Gotham had failed him, as Jason’s city. He deserves it. (He doesn’t but Danny had gone past the point of being healthy about his own physical wellbeing. Perhaps being a city spirit this long had affected him, even with the King’s title mitigating the worst of the damages.

“HE REPLACED ME!”

“Because I ordered him to.” Tim whispers, past the pain of a broken leg.

“You? Order Batman around? If you’re going to lie, make it a better one, Replacement.”

Tim catches Jason’s wrist, the one holding the knife to Tim’s throat.

“Robin,” he says simply, allowing Gotham to come out and peer at the child that is his.

Jason stares, disbelieving. Gotham had… Gotham had come by and approved of his plans to clean up Crime Alley. Gotham had extracted a promise not to damage the buildings.

“No.”

His city stares back and him and Jason stumbles away. Tim shifts into Danny, into Gotham.

“You…”

“I am Gotham. I- I did not want to wear these colors. They were yours and Dick’s. But Bruce was hurting the city, he was hurting me. So I made sure he stopped.”

Jason stares at the new cracks, the fresh ones he just caused and the old ones he does not remember being on Danny’s ghostly skin.

Jason swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“As am I. I am sorry I was not there to save you. I am sorry that you died.”

Jason stares at him. The Replacement is Gotham. Jason almost destroyed his city.

“I am glad that you’ve returned. That you’re alive, now.”

“…Really?”

“Always.”

Alternative Version of the above Tower Scene:

Jason slides the knife against the Replacement’s neck.

Danny sighs. “I can’t believe I’m dying again.”

Jason pauses. “What the fuck did you just say, Replacement?”

Danny rolls his eyes at him and Jason rethinks his decision of not offing the little fucker right away.

“You think you’re the first one to die in this household? Get a grip. I did it first, way before you did, jackass.”

Tim is 14. He’s a child. What the fuck is Jason doing?

“When…?”

“How do you think I became Gotham, little bird?”

Jason freezes. And then he’s scrambling backwards, the knife flung away in his horror.

Tim shifts into Gotham and Jason bites back a cut of regret and bitterness.

He… no, what? What even is happening?

“Why is the Joker not dead? You… you told me that you loved me. That Gotham… that-”

“I’m cruel, little bird. The Joker would not suffer as much if he were dead.”

“He’s killing people! He’s killing your own!”

“So everyone thinks.”

“What?”

“I am Gotham, little bird. Mass hallucinogenic gasses are so within my reach to the point it is concerning. Perhaps you should help Ivy with the city clean up?”

“Huh?!”

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