#but i still like this version and think it could work! damian growing up in the league is not the issue really

[roobylavender]

What do you think of this reimagining of damian's origins? I remembered that you weren't really a fan of his character https://www.tumblr.com/bisexualwolverines/649093772504891392?source=share

i feel like this is the version that addresses the very pertinent question of: how did talia continue to stay pregnant all those months without ra's noticing

[dreamersworldduh]

Hi, I love your stories. The way you write is truly incredible.

That said, if you don't mind, I'd like to make a story request. You see, I couldn't help but look at your profile picture and wonder.

How about a Damian Wayne x Male Reader story where the reader is an Anodite (or Gwen Tennyson's race, I can't remember her name well, I think she was an Anodite? Correct me if I'm wrong)

I don't know, maybe during an argument with Bruce and his brothers, Damian angrily escapes from the mansion where he is surprised by a boy with apparent amnesia who escaped from Lex Luthor? It turns out the evil bald man wanted to use him to experiment with his body, Damian a little doubtful, but at the same time curious takes him with him. Maybe you could add a Thamarean rank and have them learn the language with a kiss? I don't know 🤭 but that's the main idea.

I hope I'm not bothering you with this 😓

A LONG WAY FROM HOME

• DAMIAN WAYNE x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — After a disastrous mission strains his relationship with his family, Damian Wayne isolates himself in Gotham City—only to witness a meteor crash in a local park. Expecting debris, he instead finds a teenage boy—unconscious, glowing, and surrounded by a powerful pink aura.

WARNING! FLUFF. Violence. PG.

WORDS! 15.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with our first request of the list and yes, Gwen is an Anodite. This was very interesting to write because I wasn’t sure of the angle that I was going for. I wrote two separate versions of this and chose this one. I’m still working on my other requests/works while trying to do my character animation finals. Anyway, enjoy your reading.✨🫶🏽

DAMIAN WAYNE carried a legacy that few could imagine and even fewer could survive. Every name tied to him was a weight—a title soaked in blood, power, and expectation. He was the grandson of Ra's al Ghul, a man whose name whispered through history like a ghost story told in secret, the immortal leader of the League of Assassins, who sought to shape the world through violence and control. From that lineage, Damian inherited a destiny forged in centuries of conquest, strategy, and unwavering purpose.

He was also the son of Bruce Wayne—Gotham's enigmatic protector, the Batman. A man who turned grief into mission, who wore trauma like armor and demanded excellence from all who stood beside him. Bruce raised him not as a boy, but as a soldier. Under Batman's watchful eye, Damian was expected to be more than just capable—he had to be precise, composed, and morally grounded in a world that had offered him little reason to believe in right and wrong.

Then there was his mother—Talia al Ghul. Brilliant, calculating, and lethal, she raised Damian with the League's doctrine etched into his bones. Before he could read, he was trained to disarm, to disable, to kill. Before he ever understood mercy, he understood efficiency. His childhood was a battlefield disguised as education. Every lesson came at a cost. Every success was expected. Every failure punished. He didn't grow up; he was forged.

When he finally took up the mantle of Robin, it wasn't to play sidekick—it was war. He fought beside Batman not as a boy eager for approval, but as a warrior trying to reconcile the man he was raised to be with the one his father hoped he could become. Every punch he threw, every enemy he brought down, was a step in a lifelong tug-of-war between legacy and identity.

But through all of it, there was one truth Damian held tighter than any blade: he was not a liar. He might be brutal. He might be cold. His confidence often came off as arrogance, and he rarely bothered softening his words. But he didn't deal in lies. To lie was weakness. It was dishonor. It was betrayal—not just of others, but of himself.

He had been trained to see deception as a tool, to use it, master it. But he refused to let it define him. Honesty, to Damian, wasn't kindness—it was a form of strength. It was control. Every truth he spoke was deliberate, sometimes cruel, always unflinching. It was the one code he had carved out for himself, separate from both the League's corruption and the Bat's rigid morality. Truth was the one thing no enemy could twist and no ally could question.

Damian Wayne could be many things—an assassin, a vigilante, a son, a warrior. But a liar? Never.

THE MISSION had gone sideways before it even started. The intel was bad—half-sourced chatter from unreliable contacts. The timing was off—an hour too late to catch the deal in progress, and just early enough to walk right into a kill box. It was supposed to be a clean op: in, intercept, out. Instead, it turned into a firefight in a warehouse rigged with explosives and death traps, where every exit led to another ambush. Damian fought alongside Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, and Red Robin, each of them moving like parts of a machine built for war. But even the best-trained machine breaks when every variable turns against it.

By the time they limped back to the Batcave, suits scorched, blood dried on knuckles and faces, the air was already thick with tension. No one said it, but they all felt it—that heat beneath the surface, that pressure building in their lungs and throats. The silence didn't last long.

Damian had barely unclasped his gauntlets when Nightwing's voice snapped across the cave like a whip. "What the hell was that?" It wasn't just frustration—it was betrayal, confusion, disbelief all rolled into one.

Red Hood didn't wait for answers. He stepped forward like a fuse already burning, shoulders squared, helmet off, face dark with fury. "You want to explain why the whole damn place was rigged and you didn't say a word?" His voice was sharp, his stance aggressive—like he was ready to throw more than just words.

Tim stood a little apart, arms crossed, expression drawn tight. He didn't raise his voice, but the weight of his disappointment hit harder than the others' rage. "There were choices made that didn't line up with the plan," he said, gaze locked on Damian. "You made calls no one authorized."

They closed in—not physically, but verbally, surrounding him with doubt and accusation. It was like standing in the eye of a storm while lightning cracked in every direction. Each brother threw their own version of the same demand: What were you thinking?

Damian stood at the console, the pale blue light casting shadows across his face. His arms were crossed, shoulders rigid, every muscle tight with restraint. He didn't back down, didn't shift under their stares. His expression was unreadable—anger buried beneath control, emotion masked by discipline. But his eyes didn't waver.

Nightwing moved like a caged animal, pacing in quick strides, his voice rising as he listed out every misstep. "You ignored protocol. You split from formation. You led us into the ambush."

Red Hood's voice cut in, louder, raw. "You could've gotten us all killed, and you act like it was just another sparring session."

Tim didn't yell, but his dissection was surgical. "You made decisions alone. You didn't trust us enough to share intel. That's not how a team works."

And still—Damian didn't flinch. His voice, when he finally spoke, was level. Cold. Final.

"I wasn't wrong."

"I didn't lie."

"I did what you wouldn't."

His tone wasn't defensive. There was no desperation to be understood. He wasn't trying to win them over—he was stating facts. Stone on steel. He held the line, unshaken even as Red Hood stepped into his space, fists clenched at his sides, daring a reaction. Damian didn't give him one. When Tim shook his head, eyes heavy with disappointment, Damian didn't look away.

They were furious. And maybe they had the right to be. But anger didn't rewrite the truth. He hadn't betrayed them. He hadn't sabotaged the mission. He'd made a call in the field when no one else had all the facts. And he'd saved lives, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

So he stood there, letting their anger wash over him, letting their words crash and echo through the cave. Not defending himself. Not apologizing. Just holding the truth in front of him like a blade—and daring anyone to call it a lie.

Even Bruce joined in.

He had stood apart during the chaos—silent, still, barely more than a shadow cast by the glow of the Batcomputer. Arms folded across his chest, cape draped like a curtain of judgment, the cowl masking everything but the weight behind his silence. The others had raged, thrown their accusations like blades, but Bruce had waited. Watching. Listening. Measuring.

When the storm finally began to die down, when his sons' voices dropped from shouts to heavy breaths and clipped remarks, Bruce stepped forward. One step. No theatrics. No anger in his voice—just cold certainty.

"Damian," he said, his voice low and steady, "your actions nearly cost lives tonight."

He didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice or add heat. He didn't need to. The sentence landed with surgical precision—clean, quiet, and devastating. It wasn't just a critique. It was a verdict. The kind that didn't invite a response. The kind that carried the weight of both the cowl and the father beneath it.

Damian didn't blink, but his jaw tightened like a trap springing shut. His fists curled so tight at his sides that his knuckles whitened beneath his gloves. Every breath was a battle—shallow, controlled, forced through clenched teeth. He said nothing. Because if he spoke, the words would come out as venom.

It wasn't the team's outrage that hit him hardest. It wasn't Red Hood's fury or Nightwing's disbelief or Tim's cold precision. It was that. One sentence. One judgment. Delivered without anger, without hesitation, and without faith.

The Batcave felt colder than it had minutes before. Every monitor hummed like a reminder of everything that had just been said. The shadows felt deeper. The walls closer. The air tighter.

Damian looked at Bruce—just once. His father stood like a statue of finality, eyes hidden behind white lenses, unmoved. Unreachable.

That was enough.

Without a word, Damian turned. His cape snapped behind him like a second heartbeat, echoing each sharp footfall as he walked away from the console, from his brothers, from him. He didn't have a destination. He didn't need one. He just needed distance—space between him and the fury tightening in his chest like a vice.

He wouldn't beg for understanding. He wouldn't explain himself to people who had already decided who he was. Not to his brothers. Not even to Bruce.

Let them think he was reckless. Let them believe the worst. He knew the truth. And right now, that truth was the only thing keeping him from tearing the place apart.

As he reached the main hall of Wayne Manor, the warm glow from the chandelier cast long shadows across the marble floor. Alfred stood at the base of the grand staircase, perfectly composed in his crisp suit, hands folded neatly in front of him. His expression was calm, but his eyes tracked Damian with quiet concern.

"Master Damian," he said, gently, like someone easing open a door they weren't sure they had the right to touch.

Damian didn't answer. He didn't slow. His shoulder brushed past Alfred's arm, sharp and unyielding, and he kept moving like the words hadn't been spoken at all.

Alfred didn't follow. He didn't call after him. He'd seen that walk before—shoulders rigid, head low, stride too precise to be anything but restrained fury. It wasn't the time to intervene.

Up the stairs. Down the west hall. Past oil paintings and silent clocks. Damian reached his room and shoved the door open, then slammed it behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.

He stripped off the Robin suit like it burned him. Gauntlets peeled off and thrown across the room. Boots kicked aside. The cape—torn, soot-streaked, still reeking of smoke—hit the floor in a crumpled heap. The tunic came last, dragged over his head and tossed without care. He stood there, chest heaving, the silence pressing in around him like a weight.

Cold air from the manor's vents hit his sweat-damp skin. He yanked on a black hoodie—plain, loose, anonymous. Dark jeans. Sneakers. Civilian gear. No symbol. No armor. Nothing to connect him to them.

He didn't leave a note. Didn't shut off the light. Didn't even look back.

He walked to the tall window that faced the estate's southern grounds. His fingers moved automatically—unlocking the latch, sliding the glass open, letting in the rush of cool night air. Trees rustled in the distance. The moon cut through the clouds, casting silver across the hedges below.

Without a moment of hesitation, he stepped onto the windowsill. Crouched. Focused. And dropped.

He landed in the hedges with barely a sound, rolled once, then straightened, already moving. No backup. No comms. No tracker. He'd made sure of that.

He didn't have a plan. Didn't need one. He just had to get away. From the cave. From the silence. From him.

Because staying meant swallowing what they'd said. Accepting what they thought of him.

And Damian Wayne refused to be caged by anyone's version of who he was—not even his father's.

DAMIAN’S FOOTSTEPS echoed in soft, steady beats against the cracked concrete, a quiet rhythm in the stillness of Gotham's late-night sprawl. The city, always restless, had slowed to a quieter pulse—no sirens, no crowds, just the hum of streetlights and the occasional hiss of wind slipping through alleyways. His hood was pulled low, shadowing his face. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, fingers curled tight against the lining. He walked without urgency, but with purpose, like movement alone could keep the storm inside him from surging back to the surface.

The roar of the Batcave, the voices, the judgment—all of it felt distant now, like a memory already starting to erode at the edges. The chill of the night air nipped at his cheeks, grounding him. Each breath came easier than the last. Every step further from Wayne Manor loosened something tight in his chest.

He turned a corner onto a quieter block and spotted a tiny juice bar nestled between a closed laundromat and a graffiti-covered bodega. Its flickering neon sign buzzed lazily in the window: OPEN 24 HOURS. Inside, it was empty, save for a tired-looking clerk half-asleep behind the counter.

Damian stepped in, keeping his hood up. The place smelled faintly of citrus and disinfectant. He scanned the menu, pointed at the only thing that sounded remotely tolerable. "Spinach, apple, ginger," he said, voice low.

The clerk didn't ask questions. Just gave a nod, blended the drink with mechanical efficiency, and slid it across the counter. Damian dropped a few bills on the counter—cash, always—and walked out with the cup in hand, the door's bell jingling behind him.

He made his way toward Robinson Park, slipping past shuttered storefronts and dim intersections. The smoothie was cold and sharp on his tongue—the kind of flavor that woke you up, cut through fog. The mix of bitter greens and ginger burned just enough to feel real. That was what he needed. Something real.

The edge of the park was quiet, the lamps casting soft halos across the paths. Trees rustled with wind overhead, branches shifting like old bones. Damian moved along the perimeter, not drawing attention, not needing to. His silhouette was just another shape in the dark—small, hunched, hooded. No mask. No emblem. Just another teenager in Gotham.

His heart wasn't racing anymore. The fire in his chest—the heat from the confrontation, the shame, the fury—it had cooled to a low burn. Still there, but manageable. His mind, usually a battlefield of reflexes and calculations, was still. Not empty, but quieter. Focused.

He sipped the smoothie again and took a breath so deep it stretched the tightness in his ribs. No shouting. No orders. No father waiting in the dark, arms crossed in judgment.

Just wind, and concrete, and space to breathe.

He didn't know how long he walked. It didn't matter. He wasn't chasing anything. He wasn't running from it either. He just needed to exist outside the weight of legacy and expectation. Outside the cave. Outside the mission.

Tonight, Damian was just a teen in a hoodie, walking under streetlights in a city that didn't know him.

And for the first time in hours, he could finally think.

Damian eventually drifted toward the heart of Robinson Park, his footsteps slow, deliberate, worn smooth by the weight of everything he wasn't saying. The smoothie was long gone, tossed in a bin near the rusted entrance gate, forgotten like the rest of the night's bitterness. The park was nearly deserted—too late for joggers, too early for the early risers. The only sounds were the soft hum of the city beyond the trees, the flickering buzz of half-dead streetlamps, and the breeze whispering through overgrown hedges.

Moths flitted lazily around the lamps, wings catching the dim light like flakes of ash. Damian moved along the winding path, eyes low, hands deep in his hoodie's pockets. The chaos of Gotham—the noise, the fire, the shouting—felt miles away, even though it was barely out of sight. The park existed in a pocket of stillness, insulated by tall trees and iron fencing. The skyline loomed on all sides, but here, in the center of it all, it felt like time had slowed.

He reached a worn bench near the park's neglected fountain. The wood was weathered and slightly crooked, one leg sinking into the dirt, but it held his weight as he sank into it. He slouched back, arms folded, his breath fogging in the cool night air. His eyes drifted upward, scanning what little he could see of the sky.

Gotham didn't allow for stars—not really. Too much light, too much smog. But Damian looked anyway. A few dim points of light clung to the black, stubborn and far away. A plane passed overhead, then another, blinking methodically. His thoughts quieted. The silence wasn't loaded, wasn't judgmental or tense. It was clean. Uncluttered. He could almost feel the anger draining out of him, like heat leaving metal.

Then, a flicker.

A streak of white light cut through the sky—fast, silent, unmistakable. A shooting star.

He blinked, barely believing he'd seen it. It was gone in an instant, like a thread yanked from the edge of the universe. He didn't make a wish. That wasn't his style. He didn't believe in signs or fate or magic falling from the sky.

But still... something inside him eased. Not healed. Not fixed. Just—eased.

He kept staring upward, his eyes searching the darkness, half-expecting to see another. And then, he saw something else.

The light hadn't vanished.

It was growing brighter.

Larger.

And it was coming closer.

His breath caught. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as instinct surged through him like a jolt of electricity.

That wasn't a meteor.

It was a missile. Or worse.

And it was aimed straight at him.

The moment shattered. The calm ripped away. A piercing, high-pitched whine screamed through the sky, followed by a trail of fire and smoke that tore through the atmosphere like the world was splitting open. Damian didn't think—he moved.

He launched off the bench, diving to the side just as the object blazed overhead. The heat was searing—so intense it singed the back of his hoodie and stung his skin. The air cracked with a sound like thunder and metal colliding.

The impact was cataclysmic.

The object slammed into the park with a roar that shook the earth. A shockwave erupted, ripping through the grass and soil, flinging debris in all directions. Benches splintered like matchsticks. Streetlamps bent and shattered. The fountain exploded—chunks of stone and jets of water hurled into the air like a dying gasp.

Damian hit the ground hard, skidding through the grass, dirt flying into his eyes and mouth. He rolled, coughing, until he landed behind a toppled trash bin. It wasn't much, but it was cover. He crouched low, hoodie scorched, adrenaline pumping like fire in his veins.

Everything rang. His ears. His head. The world was chaos again.

And at the center of it—the crater.

Smoke coiled from the ruptured earth, glowing embers littering the torn grass. The heat was still radiating, pulsing like a heartbeat. And in the middle of it, nestled in molten soil and fractured rock, was something that wasn't metal, wasn't stone.

It was glowing. Faint at first, but steady. A soft, pulsing light—like it was breathing.

Damian pushed himself upright, his muscles tense, boots crunching over scorched grass and broken stone. He brushed the dirt from his sleeves with short, sharp motions, never once taking his eyes off the smoking crater that had carved itself into the heart of Gotham Park. His breathing was shallow but steady, the aftermath of the blast still echoing in his bones.

Somewhere beyond the trees, car alarms blared in overlapping patterns—a chaotic symphony of sirens and panic that rolled through the dark streets like a wave. Shattered glass glittered in the grass. The park's lampposts flickered erratically, casting long, jerking shadows across the wreckage. The air was thick with the acrid scent of scorched earth, burnt wiring, and something stranger—something faintly metallic and ozone-slick, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Damian moved forward, slow and methodical, his footfalls silent despite the debris underfoot. The crater yawned before him, a jagged hole ripped into the earth, at least ten feet across, maybe deeper. Its edges were charred black, ringed with hissing embers and twisted patches of melted stone. Heat pulsed from its center, a wave of dry intensity that prickled his skin through the fabric of his hoodie.

And then he saw it. Or rather, him.

At the center of the crater—surrounded by fractured earth and glowing debris—was a boy.

Damian stopped cold, the tension in his frame going taut like a wire about to snap. His eyes narrowed, scanning the scene with trained precision, breaking it down like a tactical feed. The teen looked... normal. Human. No claws. No wings. No grotesque mutations or cybernetic implants. He appeared to be around Damian's age, maybe slightly older—fifteen, sixteen at most. His build was lean, wiry. His skin was dusted with soot and sweat. His dark hair clung to his forehead in messy strands. His clothes, though scorched and singed at the edges, were mostly intact—black pants, a thin jacket, shirt torn near the collar.

But the thing that shattered any illusion of this being ordinary was the light.

A soft, radiant aura pulsed around the boy's body. It shimmered with a strange, translucent pink hue, almost liquid in the way it moved—like it was alive. It didn't burn like fire or spark like electricity. It throbbed, slow and steady, mimicking a heartbeat. The glow bled into the surrounding crater, casting flickering shadows and distorting the air like rising heat off asphalt. Damian could feel it—tingling across his skin, humming in his teeth, stirring something ancient and electric deep in his chest.

He took a half-step closer.

Every instinct he'd ever learned screamed danger. This was unknown tech or alien power—or something worse. No parachute. No protective gear. The kid had fallen out of the sky, torn through the atmosphere like a comet, and was lying there breathing like it was nothing.

Damian's hand inched toward the hidden blade tucked inside his sleeve, fingers brushing the familiar grip.

Still, the boy didn't move.

Was he unconscious? Faking? Waiting?

The silence thickened around them, broken only by the soft crackle of burning debris and the distant wail of emergency sirens approaching from far across the city. Damian didn't flinch. He stood at the edge of the crater, eyes locked on the glowing figure below, his body ready to move in any direction—attack, defend, retreat. But his mind raced with sharper questions.

Who is he? What is he?

And what the hell did he just bring to Gotham?

Damian moved in, step by slow step, his boots grinding softly against scorched grass, crushed leaves, and fractured bits of concrete still warm from impact. The air thickened with each footfall. It wasn't smoke or fire—it was the aura, radiating off the boy like heat off molten metal. The closer Damian got, the more it pressed against him. Not painful, but oppressive. Like standing too close to a reactor—silent, thrumming, and ready to blow.

That glow—bright pink, tinged with violet at the edges—pulsed in steady rhythm, forming a thin shell around the boy. It rippled every few seconds, warping the air around it like a mirage. There was no sound, no crackle or hum, but Damian could feel it, deep in his bones. Every instinct told him to be careful. To back off.

He didn't.

He studied the boy's body, every inch of it, eyes sweeping over the shape, looking for twitches, breath, flickers of motion. Nothing moved, except the slow, even rise and fall of his chest. Not labored. Not ragged. Controlled. Like sleep—or sedation.

Damian stepped right up to the edge of the crater, the pink light casting faint shadows across his face. And now, for the first time, he got a clear view.

This wasn't some civilian who fell out of the sky. The teen was wearing a suit—a full-body tactical ensemble, sleek and streamlined, with overlapping armor plating that looked forged more than manufactured. It wasn't bulky. It was precision-built, contoured to move. The materials didn't match anything Damian had ever seen in the League or the Batcave. It shimmered faintly under the aura's glow—silver and deep matte black, threaded with microscopic circuitry that pulsed through the fabric like living veins. Tech that was way beyond anything most people had access to.

And then his eyes locked onto the chest plate.

Beneath a layer of ash and dust, half-obscured by scorch marks, was a logo.

A stylized green and purple "L," ringed by a polished metallic circle.

LexCorp.

Damian went still. The muscles in his neck coiled tight. His breath slowed.

Luthor.

The name hit like a punch to the sternum. Cold. Familiar. Dangerous.

Lex Luthor didn't do charity. He didn't hand out suits to lost children or build armor for random experiments. If this teen was wearing LexCorp tech—this advanced—it wasn't by accident. He was designed for something. A test subject. A weapon. A ticking bomb. Maybe all three.

Damian's mind went into overdrive, piecing together every angle. A boy falls out of the sky in a Luthor-built suit, radiating some unknown energy, and lands in Gotham of all places? That wasn't bad luck. That was a message. Or a move in a game no one else knew had started.

He circled the crater slowly, eyes never leaving the boy. The aura pulsed again—brighter this time—but didn't expand. No sudden flares. No instability. Just that constant throb, like a heartbeat out of sync with the world.

Damian reached for the communicator in his hoodie pocket, fingers brushing the edge.

He should call Bruce. He knew that. This was bigger than him. It was alien tech—or worse. The kind of thing that demanded containment protocols, scans, lockdown procedures. A dozen contingency plans were drilled into him for situations exactly like this.

But his hand stopped.

He remembered the way Bruce had looked at him—past him, really. The cold judgment. The distance. The lack of trust. He thought of his brothers, surrounding him with doubt, accusing him, cutting him off before he could even explain. They'd see this teen and jump to conclusions. Just like they had with him.

Weapon. Threat. Contain it.

Damian clenched his jaw and lowered his hand.

Not yet.

He'd figure out who this boy was. What he was. What Luthor had done.

On his own.

Before anyone else got their hands on him.

Suddenly, Damian's head snapped up at the sound—faint, but unmistakable. Sirens. At first, just a single wail somewhere in the distance, but quickly joined by others, layering over each other like warning bells in a war zone. Red and blue strobes began flickering through the canopy of trees that bordered Gotham Park, distorted by branches and leaves, but getting closer with every second.

He clicked his tongue sharply, annoyed at himself. His hand moved on instinct to his side—reaching for the comfort of his utility belt, for a smoke pellet, a grapnel gun, something.

His fingers met empty fabric.

No belt.

No gadgets.

No weapons.

No commlink.

Just jeans, a hoodie, and scorched sneakers.

Civilian.

His jaw tightened. He hadn't planned for this. He wasn't on patrol, wasn't chasing leads or tailing suspects. He'd left the mansion in a storm of anger, needing space, needing air. This was supposed to be a walk. A night to breathe. To be left alone. Not... this. Not a living weapon falling from the sky wearing a LexCorp insignia like a branded curse.

His mind spun fast, recalibrating.

No gear meant no backup. No way to ping the Batcave, no call to Oracle, no silent signal to Nightwing or Tim. Bruce would know something had happened—he always did—but he wouldn't know Damian was here, standing at ground zero. And that mattered. Because if the GCPD showed up first, or worse, if ARGUS or DEO or one of the other government agencies monitoring Gotham's paranormal messes got their hands on this guy...

It would be over. Damian knew how they worked. The boy would be bagged, tagged, and dissected before anyone even figured out he had a name.

He looked down again, the pink light from the aura casting a soft glow on Damian's face. The kid still hadn't moved. Still breathing, still unconscious. Whatever force shield protected him hadn't weakened, but it hadn't lashed out either. It pulsed gently, steadily. Like a warning. Or a countdown.

This was no ordinary tech. LexCorp hadn't just built a suit—they'd built this. A person wrapped in power, disguised as a boy. Or maybe a boy buried under the weight of something far more dangerous.

The sirens were getting closer now, echoing across the park in sharp bursts. And then—thump-thump-thump—the deep, mechanical rhythm of helicopter blades cutting through the night sky. Searchlights flared to life in the clouds above, wide beams sweeping the park, carving through the darkness like knives.

Damian's breath hitched for a second. He backed away from the edge of the crater, eyes flicking across the treeline, scanning escape routes, blind spots, anything that would get him and the kid out before the spotlight locked in.

They had maybe two minutes. Less if someone on the ground already had visual.

No plan. No gear. No time.

But Damian had never needed permission to act.

He made a call, quick and quiet, to the only person who wouldn't question it.

Himself.

He turned back toward the crater, narrowed his eyes, and prepared to move. This boy didn't belong to the cops. He didn't belong to Lex. And he damn sure wasn't getting left behind.

Damian crouched low at the lip of the crater, the ground beneath him cracked and scorched, still radiating a dry, searing heat that clung to the soles of his boots. Smoke drifted in lazy spirals from the fractured earth, and the stench of ozone and burned metal lingered in the air. The boy lay sprawled across the torn ground like a dropped marionette, limbs slack, his chest rising and falling in a slow, almost mechanical rhythm.

Damian moved with practiced caution, shifting his weight forward until he was just within reach. His fingers hovered over the pink glow that cocooned the boy's body, the heat prickling against his skin like static before a lightning strike. The aura buzzed faintly—not a sound, exactly, more like a pressure in the air, vibrating against his bones. It was wrong. Not magic. Not tech. Something else entirely.

Still, he pressed in.

The instant his fingertips brushed the edge of the armored suit, the boy's eyes snapped open—wide, bright, and electric with terror.

Before Damian could fully process it, the boy lunged upright, his movements impossibly fast, as if his body had been spring-loaded for panic. He jerked into a crouch, limbs tense, hands braced against the dirt like an animal about to bolt. His mouth flew open, and a stream of words came tumbling out—fast, frantic, and completely unintelligible.

It wasn't English. It wasn't anything Damian had ever heard before. And he'd heard a lot.

The language was guttural and sharp, but carried a strange rhythm, like there was a structure to it, maybe even a syntax—like it was half-spoken, half-transmitted. Not random babbling. Not madness. Language. But alien.

Damian's brain raced through his mental database: not Kryptonian, not Martian, not Tamaranian or Rannian. Nothing from Thanagar. Nothing from the League's interstellar records or the Batcave's archives. This was something new.

The boy scuttled backward in jerky, uncoordinated movements, as if he wasn't entirely sure how his own body worked. He stumbled over his own legs, breathing fast, shallow, frantic. The aura around him pulsed hard—hotter, brighter, erratic. It crackled with raw energy, casting streaks of pink light across the crater walls like lightning in a storm cloud. Damian could feel it on his skin now—tingling, alive, almost sentient.

The boy's eyes darted everywhere—trees, sky, shadows. His hands clenched into fists, then opened again like he couldn't decide whether to attack or run. His muscles were locked in survival mode. His face—too young for this, too human for this—was twisted in fear, not aggression.

Damian slowly raised his hands, palms up and empty. No weapons. No sudden moves. His voice was steady, even. "Easy. I'm not here to hurt you."

The boy didn't flinch at the sound of his voice—but he didn't understand it either. His eyes locked onto Damian's face, scanning him with a mix of suspicion and desperate hope, like he wanted to believe the tone, even if the words meant nothing.

Damian held his ground, every instinct telling him to stay low, non-threatening, patient. He watched the boy closely—the way his gaze jumped to exits, the way his body flinched at every distant noise, every flicker of movement. There was trauma behind those eyes. Not fear of a stranger—fear of what would happen next.

Someone had done this to him. Had conditioned this kind of reaction.

Damian's gaze dropped to the chest plate again, and the LexCorp insignia stared back at him like a brand burned into steel. Green and purple. Cold. Corporate. Clinical.

And suddenly it all fit.

This wasn't just a LexCorp suit. It was containment. Control. A cage. The boy wasn't wearing it. It was wearing him.

Someone—Luthor—had built this boy into a weapon. Had torn out whatever life he had before and filled it with fear, programming, instinct. Damian didn't know if it had been surgery, brainwashing, genetics, or all of the above. But he knew what he was looking at now.

A victim.

And possibly the most dangerous one he'd ever encountered.

Damian's jaw clenched. His voice dropped to a near whisper—more for himself than for the boy.

"I don't know what he did to you," he said quietly, "but I'm not him."

The boy didn't answer. Didn't understand. But he didn't run either. Didn't strike. His breathing was still ragged, but slower now. Controlled.

For now, that was enough.

However, the sirens were no longer a distant echo—they were here, howling through the city like wolves circling prey. Their pitch bounced between the high-rises that framed Robinson Park, echoing off steel and glass with maddening intensity. Spotlights from incoming helicopters swept across the treetops, cutting long, blinding arcs through the smoke and casting flickering shadows across the cratered ground.

Damian's pulse surged—not with fear, but with focus. His mind snapped into overdrive, calculating routes, timing, probabilities. If the GCPD arrived first, they'd lock the scene down, raise questions no one had answers to, and cart the kid off to a black site before anyone could intervene.

They were running out of time.

He turned to the boy, still seated at the center of the crater like a fuse waiting to be lit. The pink aura around him sparked erratically, no longer a steady pulse but a wild, unstable shimmer, like the shielding was struggling to hold its form. The boy's chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, but his eyes were locked on Damian—watchful, cautious, uncertain.

Damian stepped forward, carefully, extending a hand again.

"We have to move. Now."

The words were firm, urgent—but low. Controlled.

The boy tensed, eyes narrowing—

BOOM.

The sky split open above them with a sound so loud and sharp it tore through the air like a bolt of steel. Not thunder. Not natural. Something designed to announce its presence.

Damian's head snapped up.

A streak of silver and violet burned through the clouds, trailing smoke and static behind it like an open wound in the sky.

They came in fast��two of them—descending with terrifying precision.

Robots.

Sleek. Streamlined. Built for war.

No bulky joints or exposed mechanics—these things were clean-cut and refined, humanoid only in shape. Their alloy plating was matte silver with faint traces of violet light pulsing beneath the surface, and propulsion jets roared from their backs and legs in perfectly controlled bursts. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

Military drones—LexCorp military drones.

Each one had a red, horizontal visor glowing across its faceplate like a scanner locked in permanent sweep mode. Their arms, thick and modular, were weaponized—no hands, just built-in tech: plasma cannons, grappling systems, something bristling beneath panel plates that hadn't fully deployed yet.

And right in the center of their chests, plain as day, was the LexCorp insignia.

Damian's stomach turned to stone.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement—fast. The boy reacted the moment the drones pierced the cloud cover.

His entire body tensed, every line of him pulled taut like a bowstring. His fingers clenched into trembling fists, and his aura surged with raw, unfiltered energy. What had been flickering and weak suddenly roared to life—brighter, angrier, hotter. Pink light bled into white at the edges, casting wild shadows against the crater.

His breathing shifted—sharper, rougher. His eyes flared, fully glowing now, not just lit by panic but something else. Something darker.

Rage.

Recognition.

Damian didn't need translation. The boy knew exactly what those machines were.

These weren't just weapons. They were memories. They were trauma in metal form.

Damian's mind connected the dots instantly: LexCorp drones. Precision-engineered. Retrieval tech.

This boy didn't just fall out of the sky. He escaped.

The boy sucked in a breath, chest rising like he was about to scream or explode. Maybe both. The air around him began to shimmer with raw heat, distorting reality like a broken lens.

Above them, the drones locked on, their visors glowing brighter as targeting systems engaged. Limbs shifted. Panels opened. Servo motors adjusted with terrifying exactness as they initiated descent, flanking the crater like vultures circling a carcass.

Damian backed up a step, instincts flaring.

This was about to go loud.

The first GCPD squad cars screeched to a halt at the edge of Robinson Park, their tires carving deep grooves into the grass as they swerved off the road and slammed to a stop. Doors flew open. Officers spilled out in a rush—guns drawn, eyes wide, adrenaline firing before they even knew what they were looking at. Flashlights flicked on. Shouts pierced the night.

"Hands where we can see them!"

More cruisers arrived behind the first wave, their red and blue strobes bouncing wildly across the trees and grass, throwing frantic shadows across the crater's edge like a strobe-lit battlefield. Within seconds, the chaos multiplied. GCFD trucks rolled up next, firefighters already jumping from their rigs, lugging stretchers, oxygen tanks, and hose reels. Smoke still hung in the air like a shroud, forcing some to pull masks up over their faces as they moved through the wreckage, looking for casualties.

In the center of it all, Damian and the boy stood alone—surrounded.

The boy was still in the crater, huddled in the pulsing glow of his aura, which flared and dimmed like a short-circuiting sun. Damian crouched close, shielding them both from panicked eyes and twitchy trigger fingers.

He didn't get the chance to explain.

Because that was when the sky cracked open.

Whrrr-KRAAAACK!

The sound ripped through the night like a lightning strike from a god.

The human-sized machines, built like soldiers—sleek, armored, efficient. They didn't hover awkwardly or stumble on landing. They glided, using bursts of blue-white propulsion to position themselves with surgical control.

Damian didn't have time to react before the first drone opened fire.

Blue plasma streaked through the air in neat, controlled bursts—retrieval fire, Damian realized instantly. Designed not to kill, but to disable. Paralyze. Subdue.

One bolt struck just feet from a GCPD officer, sending him flying into a tree with a choked cry. Another tore a gaping hole through the side of a fire engine. Panic exploded across the scene. Officers dove for cover, some screaming into radios, others dragging the wounded out of the line of fire. Firefighters dropped their gear and scrambled behind their trucks, eyes wide with disbelief.

Damian reacted on instinct, spinning toward the boy. "Get down!"

But he didn't have to.

The boy's body was already responding. His eyes flared—pink light pouring from them in full, unfiltered brilliance. His hands snapped up, not in defense, but in reflex—pure, unconscious survival. The aura around him swelled outward with a sudden boom of invisible force, expanding into a dome of shimmering light.

The plasma bolts struck the barrier with high-pitched hisses, splashing across the surface like acid on glass. The dome held. It absorbed the hits, sending ripples across the mana field that shimmered like heat over asphalt.

Damian blinked. His knees hit the scorched ground beside the boy.

Not tech. Not Kryptonian shielding. Not a force field.

Mana.

Raw magic.

The energy wasn't being controlled—it was channeling through him, untrained, instinctual, but real. The boy didn't even seem to realize he was doing it. His jaw was clenched, his breathing ragged, sweat beading on his face as he tried to hold the shield. His gaze flicked wildly between the drones above and the cops behind them, panic fighting instinct in every movement.

He was protecting everyone. Even the people who had pointed guns at him moments before.

The drones kept firing—precision bursts, low-yield plasma meant to weaken shields, not destroy. The aura flickered under the pressure, pulsing erratically, and Damian knew it wouldn't hold forever.

His brain shifted gears. He scanned the battlefield like a general, every moving part a variable. The cops weren't the target. The fire crews weren't even in the equation.

The drones were locked onto the boy.

They're following a directive, Damian realized. Retrieve the asset. Ignore everything else.

He crouched beside the boy, voice low and sharp. "They're here for you. Just you. If we can draw them out of the park, they'll follow."

The boy didn't speak. He didn't need to. His glowing eyes locked onto Damian's with recognition—maybe not of the words, but of the intent.

He nodded once. Quick. Nervous. Willing.

Damian rose to a crouch, scanning the perimeter. Flashing lights. Guns. Civilians. Confusion everywhere. No time to explain. No time to get clearance. He shouted toward the nearest group of officers, ducked behind a cruiser.

"Get everyone out of the park! Now! They're not after you—they're here for him!"

An officer popped up. "Who the hell are—?"

"MOVE!"

The tone in Damian's voice cracked like a whip—pure command, clean and lethal. It was the kind of voice Batman used when the time for questions was over.

That got them moving. One of the lieutenants began shouting into a comm unit, barking orders.

"Evacuate the perimeter! Move the wounded to the south end! Get the civilians clear!"

Damian turned back to the boy, hand on his shoulder.

"Drop the shield when I say. Then run. Don't look back."

The pink dome flared again as another volley slammed into it, cracking the air with heat and static. The drones tightened their formation, weapons whirring, scanners pulsing red.

There was no more time.

Damian's plan was reckless, half-formed, and dangerous as hell.

But it was better than watching this kid get dragged back into whatever nightmare Luthor had built.

And if they pulled it off, they'd both live long enough to figure out who he was.

And what exactly Lex Luthor had turned him into.

The instant the last of the civilians were cleared—herded south under frantic GCPD commands, stumbling through smoke and flashing lights—Damian acted.

"Now," he said, low and sharp, eyes locking with the boy's.

The boy hesitated—just for a breath—but then exhaled hard, a ragged, shuddering release of tension. The barrier flickered, pulsed once in defiance, then shattered like glass under pressure. Pink light dissolved into a mist of glowing particles that drifted upward, catching in the smoke before fading entirely.

Damian didn't wait.

His hand snapped out and latched onto the boy's wrist—tight, firm, not hurting but unbreakable. He pulled.

"Run."

They moved as one.

Damian led the charge, weaving through the edge of the crater with fluid speed, his boots hitting scorched grass and cracked soil in perfect rhythm. Behind him, the boy stumbled at first, legs unsure, body disoriented from trauma and overload. But Damian didn't slow. He yanked once, just enough to force motion—and then, the boy matched his pace.

Not perfect. But fast.

They tore through the wreckage-strewn remains of Robinson Park, weaving around shattered benches and smoking rubble, darting between trees half-crumbled from the crash impact. Sirens blared behind them. Radios crackled. Shouts echoed off the trees.

But none of that mattered now.

Because the drones noticed.

The shift was immediate.

In the sky above, the two LexCorp units pivoted mid-flight with eerie synchronicity, scanners pulsing a deeper red, their bodies rotating with a mechanical hiss. Their weapon systems shifted, recalibrated. Their target designations changed.

They weren't focused on the crater anymore.

They were focused on movement.

On escape.

On them.

A shrill whine split the air as both drones surged forward, propulsion systems igniting in a howl of blue light. They dropped altitude fast, engines screaming as they locked in on their fleeing targets.

"Move!" Damian barked, yanking the boy hard as they ducked around a crumbling statue, the marble split from base to head by the shockwave. They dove through a twisted line of hedges, limbs whipping at them like claws, dirt and soot kicking up underfoot. "They're locked on. We pull them away from the park, they'll follow. They won't risk hitting bystanders."

The boy didn't answer. Couldn't. But Damian felt it—the resolve in the way his grip tightened, in the way he kept pace, his breath ragged but steady. No more hesitation. Just forward.

They sprinted through the park's darker edges now, where the lights from the police cruisers couldn't reach and the trees formed jagged silhouettes in the smoke. Around them, the world became a blur of motion—branches cracking underfoot, ruined lampposts leaning at dangerous angles, scorched grass giving way to raw earth.

A plasma bolt struck behind them—FOOM!—exploding a tree in a burst of splinters and flame. Another followed, slicing through the air with a flash that lit Damian's path in eerie blue. Heat licked at his back, close enough to feel, not close enough to kill. Yet.

"Keep low!" Damian shouted. "Cut left!"

They ducked beneath a bent steel archway once meant to mark a walking trail. The boy moved faster now—fear or instinct, Damian couldn't tell—but he was keeping up. Close.

More shots rained down, tearing craters into the ground just feet behind them. One bolt slammed into a light post ahead, sending it crashing across their path. Damian vaulted it in a single motion, tugging the boy with him. They rolled, hit the ground, and kept going.

His mind ran calculations with every breath. The drones were fast, but predictable. Tactical AI. They'd prioritize capture over chaos. That gave him an angle—if he could get enough distance, enough cover, he could set an ambush. Maybe hijack one. Maybe lure them into a blind spot. Something.

But he needed time.

He needed a minute.

Even thirty seconds.

And so far, they were still alive.

His lungs burned—not from the exertion, but from the pressure that tightened in his chest with every step. The tension was suffocating, coiled tight beneath his ribs, a mix of calculation and cold adrenaline. They were nearing the edge of Robinson Park now, the eastern border—where the trees thinned out, the manicured grass gave way to cracked pavement, and the ruins of an old greenhouse rose up ahead like the bones of a forgotten time.

It was open ground.

No dense foliage to duck into. No alleyways. No shadows deep enough to disappear in. Just broken walkways, overgrown vines, and shattered glass that crunched underfoot like brittle ice.

They had maybe twenty more yards of breathing room. No more.

And the drones knew it.

With a thunderous boom, the ground jumped under Damian's feet. A LexCorp drone dropped from the sky in a controlled descent, landing directly in their path. Its propulsion jets scorched the ground in a flare of blue light, blasting debris outward in a ring of smoke and ash. The pavement buckled beneath its weight, and it landed in a low, mechanical crouch—like a predator bracing to pounce.

A second later, another drone crashed down behind them, cutting off their retreat with the same brutal precision.

Boxed in.

Damian skidded to a halt, boots grinding against cracked stone. His arm instinctively shot backward, tightening around the boy's wrist to steady him. He shifted, placing himself slightly in front, his body falling into a low, ready stance—compact, balanced, dangerous. His eyes locked on the machines.

The drones stood tall, rising from their landing crouches with eerie synchronization. They towered over Damian, their frames built like humanoid tanks—sleek matte alloy plating with violet-blue trim, no wasted mass, just pure design. Their visors glowed blood-red in horizontal bars across expressionless faces, pulsing in slow sync like they were breathing together. Shoulder panels hissed open with sharp mechanical bursts, revealing retractable weapon ports and compact launcher units embedded just beneath the surface.

The air felt charged, vibrating faintly with the hum of active systems powering up.

Then, for the first time, one of them spoke.

“ANODITE: COMPLY."

The voice was low, processed, and inhuman—cold as steel, flat as glass. It echoed slightly, like it wasn't meant for ears but for data logs.

The boy behind Damian went still. Completely still.

"ANODITE: STAND DOWN. RETURN FOR IMMEDIATE DECONTAINMENT."

Damian's eyes narrowed.

Anodite?

Not a name.

A classification. A tag. The way you labeled a weapon, a test subject—something made, not born.

The boy—Anodite—reacted like the words had struck him across the face. His chest hitched. Shoulders tensed. The soft pink glow that had been dimming since the start of their flight now flared to life, bursting in erratic pulses down his arms, lighting up the veins across his neck like molten lightning. The air around him seemed to warp, distorting slightly with every flicker of the aura.

Damian glanced over his shoulder.

The boy's expression had cracked.

Terror still lived behind his glowing eyes, but something else was bleeding through now—anger. Raw, wounded, buried deep and starting to surface. The kind of fury born from being caged for too long. From being named by people who never once asked who you were.

Damian's voice cut through the silence, sharp and flat.

"He's not going with you."

The drone's head tilted—just slightly. It processed the voice. The refusal.

"NONCOMPLIANCE DETECTED. LETHAL FORCE AUTHORIZED IF RETRIEVAL FAILS."

With a high-pitched whine, the drones' weapon systems extended fully—barrels telescoping into place, emitters glowing with concentrated plasma, targeting optics clicking and adjusting with precise, cold efficiency. Their stances shifted, locking into combat posture. No more warnings. No more restraint.

They were preparing to end the resistance.

Damian felt the boy step closer behind him, his aura flaring brighter, the heat radiating in waves now—raw energy with nowhere to go.

Cornered.

Outgunned.

And out of time.

But Damian didn't flinch.

He raised one hand, fingers flexing slightly—no weapons, no tech, just intent.

"Then you'll have to go through me first."

And in that instant, between the machines' hum and the boy's rising power, Robinson Park became a powder keg.

The words "lethal force authorized" were still hanging in the air, echoing in the static-charged silence, when Damian's eyes snapped left. His mind processed the terrain in a flash—debris, shattered stone, broken limbs of trees—and then he saw it.

Half-buried beneath a mound of scorched dirt lay a fractured metal pipe, about three feet long, likely torn from underground infrastructure during the impact. It was twisted, blackened at the edges, one end jagged like a broken blade. But it was solid. Dense. Enough weight to matter in the right hands.

‘Mine.’ Damian lunged without hesitation.

In one fluid motion, he snatched the pipe off the ground, twirled it once in his grip to feel the balance—slightly front-heavy, but manageable—and then launched forward.

The nearest drone was already tracking him.

A bolt of blue plasma screamed through the air, passing inches from his shoulder and slamming into a nearby tree. The explosion lit up the park like a flash grenade—splinters and bark raining down as the trunk shattered in a bloom of fire and smoke.

Damian didn't flinch.

He'd faced live fire before. He'd trained in worse. The only difference now was that he had no armor. No gadgets. No WayneTech to bail him out. Just a pipe, his speed, and a lifetime of learned violence burning in his blood.

He ducked under another shot, muscles tight with adrenaline, and sprinted toward a crumbling stone bench. His foot hit the edge and he vaulted up, using the fractured structure as a springboard. In midair, he twisted his body, bringing the pipe down like a hammer.

CRACK.

The metal slammed into the drone's shoulder joint with a sound like a car crash. The casing dented inward with a crunch of metal and a burst of orange sparks. The impact staggered the drone, forcing it to reel back half a step, its servos whining as it recalibrated.

Damian hit the ground in a roll, recovered instantly, and came in again—this time low, swinging the pipe in a brutal arc toward the joint behind the machine's knee.

CLANG.

Direct hit.

The drone jerked violently, systems compensating to stay upright, but the damage showed—its movement glitched for a split second, just enough for Damian to register a small victory.

Then came the counterstrike.

The machine pivoted with terrifying speed and swiped at him with its forearm, the limb moving like a piston. Damian barely avoided the brunt of it, but the blow grazed his ribs and sent him tumbling across the pavement. He hit hard, rolled, and came up on one knee, chest heaving, pipe still in hand.

His side screamed with pain.

But he didn't stop.

Behind him, the second drone stepped forward, weapons still trained but not firing.

Because the boy—the Anodite—hadn't moved.

He stood frozen, his feet planted in the dirt, the glowing aura around him flaring with erratic surges of light. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white, and his whole body trembled like a live wire. His breathing was shallow, panicked. His eyes, wide and haunted, were fixed on the drones—not with confusion, not anymore, but with raw, animal fear.

The name had done something to him. Anodite. It wasn't just a code—it was a leash. A trigger. A wound.

He wasn't acting like a weapon now.

He was acting like a prisoner who knew the guards had come to drag him back.

"Hey!" Damian shouted, teeth clenched as he dodged another shot that seared past his ear. The heat of it burned a streak across his cheek. "Snap out of it! I can't do this alone!"

The drone pressed forward, stepping into range again. Damian ducked another swipe and swung upward with the pipe, slamming it into the joint beneath the machine's arm. More sparks flew, and the drone recoiled—but barely.

Damian's grip slipped. His stance faltered. One more hit, and he might not get back up.

He planted his foot, pushed through the pain, and struck again—aiming for the joint at the hip this time.

Another hit.

Another hiss of heat.

But he was running out of gas. Fast.

The drones were recovery units built for battlefield extractions. Subdue. Secure. Survive. They were machines designed to outlast resistance, not overpower it immediately. Which meant Damian wasn't fighting for victory—he was fighting for time.

And time was almost gone.

He turned, bruised and bleeding, toward the boy still frozen in place, trembling behind him.

"You have to fight," Damian growled, voice low, ragged. "Whatever they did to you—whoever they made you think you were—forget it. You're not theirs anymore."

The boy's glow intensified, veins lighting up like molten circuits beneath his skin.

Still trembling.

Still scared.

But something in his eyes shifted.

The light stopped flickering.

And for the first time, it started to focus.

Meanwhile, the drones recalibrated with cold, mechanical efficiency, their movements precise and terrifyingly fast. Both units shifted their weight in perfect sync, armor plates realigning with sharp hisses and clicks as internal systems adjusted. The one directly ahead of Damian stood to its full height—easily over seven feet—plasma cannon sliding into place along its right arm, glowing coils locking into alignment. Its chest thrummed with energy, the LexCorp insignia pulsing faintly beneath the surface.

The second flanked him to the right, every motion clinical. It stepped wide, positioning itself to cut off any escape route. Their formations were textbook—military-grade containment tactics. Squeeze the target, fire from opposing angles, eliminate resistance before it could gather.

Damian didn't need to guess what was coming.

The cannons charged.

A rising, teeth-clenching whine filled the air as energy built within the weapons—concentrated plasma, drawn into glowing, unstable spheres at the tips of the barrels. They pulsed like sickly stars, their light staining the smoke-polluted air. The frequency of the sound made his skull ache. His fingers tensed around the pipe—a weapon already warped and blackened from impact. It shook in his grip, half-useless now, but he didn't let it go.

His breath came ragged and shallow, muscles screaming from the last round of fighting, every inch of him bruised and burning. But he stood his ground.

He wouldn't beg.

He wouldn't flinch.

If this was it, he'd face it on his feet.

Then—everything changed.

A sudden pressure surged through the air, not a sound but a sensation—a deep, resonating hum that rippled through the ground like the distant thrum of a monolith awakening. It vibrated through Damian's boots, through his chest, through the bones in his arms.

He had just enough time to pivot halfway—eyes wide, instincts firing—

Then the world exploded in pink light.

A tidal wave of raw mana energy erupted behind him, slamming into the drones like a battering ram made of sound and fire. The force of it knocked Damian off his feet instantly. He didn't resist—it was like being hit by a shockwave from a grenade. He tucked into a roll, just like he'd been trained, letting the momentum carry him across the torn ground. He hit hard—shoulder, hip, ribs—but he kept the pipe. Always keep your weapon.

Air punched from his lungs.

He landed hard, dust and ash in his mouth, stars in his vision.

But when he looked up—he saw him.

The boy.

No longer frozen. No longer trembling.

He stood in the blackened heart of the battlefield, feet planted in the scorched earth, back straight, chin raised. The fear was still in his eyes, but it had changed. It wasn't paralyzing now. It was forged. Channeled. Controlled.

His arms were raised, both hands glowing with radiant pink energy, pulsing with raw power that lit up the entire clearing. Not flickering. Not wild. Focused. The aura wasn't just clinging to him anymore—it expanded outward in arcs and tendrils, crackling through the air like enchanted lightning. Magic, but alive. Elemental.

A force becoming aware of itself.

The drones had been thrown like toys—one smashed into a thick tree trunk, splitting it down the middle with a deafening crack, its body sparking and twitching. The other had been launched into a shallow ditch, skidding across gravel and soil, leaving behind a smoking trail of gouged earth and shattered plating.

And the boy hadn't moved an inch since.

He just stood there.

Breathing hard.

Power flowing around him like a storm barely held in check.

Damian, still on one knee, eyes stung from the light, felt something rare coil in his chest—a flicker of awe, tightly laced with relief.

He did it.

He fought back.

And now the battlefield wasn't two drones closing in on a boy too scared to move.

Now it was them who had something to fear.

Though the silence after the blast was short-lived—just a breath, just long enough to register the devastation the boy had unleashed. Then came the sound.

A shrill, mechanical screech tore through the smoky sky above them.

Damian's head snapped up.

From the haze and cloud cover, more shapes dropped like fangs falling from a steel jaw—dark silhouettes lit by blue flame. Jet thrusters ignited with a banshee howl, scorching arcs into the smoke as they descended. One by one, they hit the ground with bone-rattling force, their landings throwing up waves of dust and dirt, impact craters blooming beneath their armored feet.

Two.

Four.

Six.

Eight.

They formed a perfect half-circle—symmetrical, exact. No wasted movement. A wall of precision-engineered soldiers in humanoid frames, their matte alloy surfaces gleaming under the flashing light of the fires they'd left in their wake. The whir of internal mechanisms followed, a rising hum that grew into a chorus of death. Red visors flared to life across all eight units, scanning and locking on with laser accuracy.

No voices this time. No commands.

No mercy.

Just war.

All eight drones raised their arms.

Click. Whine. Lock.

Then came the storm.

A blistering barrage of plasma fire roared toward them in synchronized bursts, white-blue bolts screaming through the air in arcs of deadly light. The sky itself seemed to catch fire. The first impacts hit the ground around them like bombs, vaporizing grass, splitting earth, turning once-familiar trees into erupting columns of ash and splinters. The remnants of park benches twisted into molten slag. The very air shimmered from the heat, folding in on itself like it was being torn.

Damian barely had time to brace before the world turned white.

But they weren't incinerated.

Because the boy didn't fall.

He held.

The mana shield sprang up around them like a rose blooming through fire—vibrant, alive, defiant. The magic expanded in a radiant dome, stretching wide enough to protect them both. Every blast of plasma struck it like a drumbeat of war, hammering it again and again, and with each strike the shield rippled violently—but held.

Flashes of pink clashed against the white-blue of LexCorp's assault, bathing the battlefield in surreal, flickering light. Every impact sent tremors through the ground. Every second it held felt like a miracle.

Damian stood close, shielded just behind the boy, his arm raised to protect his face from the worst of the radiant heat. The air smelled of ozone and scorched metal. Smoke rolled around them like waves.

He risked a glance sideways—and what he saw hit harder than the explosion.

The boy was rooted in place, arms raised, fingers spread wide as if physically holding back the incoming storm. His whole body trembled—not with fear, but exertion. Veins along his arms glowed faintly pink, like the power was running directly through his bloodstream. Sweat poured from his brow in thick rivulets. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes wide, but focused.

The shield shimmered. Cracked. Reformed.

But it held.

"He's pushing himself too hard," Damian muttered under his breath, his voice nearly lost in the roar of weapons fire. He dropped low, eyes scanning the chaos—looking for angles, escape routes, blind spots in the drones' formation. Anything. He'd fought trained soldiers, maniacs, meta-humans—but this was different. This was cold, relentless, designed.

They were being driven back inch by inch. The drones advanced like a living wall, precise and unrelenting. Every few seconds, they moved forward in formation, stepping through the smoke like executioners, never breaking rhythm.

The plasma never stopped.

Still, the boy didn't fall.

He didn't cry out. He didn't collapse.

He refused.

He stood between them and death like a dam holding back a flood, his magic flaring brighter with every breath he took—every heartbeat a declaration of defiance.

Damian could feel the ground beneath them crack.

Could hear the drones' servos tightening.

Could smell the ozone burn rising sharper.

They couldn't hold out forever.

But for now—for this moment—

He was still standing.

The boy hadn't spoken—not a word, not even a sound—but his silence said everything.

His expression had changed. The fear that once dominated his face had drained away, leaving something colder, something ancient. His jaw was set. His stance, unshakable.

And his eyes—

They blazed.

Not softly. Not subtly. Not like before.

Twin beams of white-hot light erupted from them, brilliant and absolute. Damian instinctively raised a hand to shield his face, the intensity forcing his pupils to contract. It was like staring into the heart of a star.

Then he realized: the shield wasn't holding anymore.

It was growing.

No longer a barrier fending off attacks, it was a siphon—pulling in power. The boy wasn't just defending. He was feeding.

The earth trembled beneath their feet, but it wasn't the drones this time—it was him.

The grass around them blackened in seconds, shriveling into brittle curls before turning to ash. Leaves on nearby trees quivered violently, vibrating as though caught in a wind that didn't exist. Then, one by one, they collapsed inward, disintegrating as their color drained. The life was leaving them, funneled somewhere unseen.

Damian's eyes dropped to the ground. Cracks spiderwebbed beneath the boy's feet, veins of glowing pink mana pulsing through the earth like bioluminescent roots. They spread outward, claiming more of the park with every second. The boy was drawing energy from the world itself. Nature, space, air—all of it bled toward him.

Damian stepped back—carefully. His heart beat faster, not from fear, but from caution. Something was happening. Something huge. And he wasn't sure if even the boy could control it.

Then it broke.

The shield burst outward—not violently, not destructively, but like a soap bubble finally collapsing under pressure. A wave of pressure exploded across the park, visible in the way leaves and dirt flew away in concentric ripples. Trees bent. Benches overturned. The closest drones staggered, forced to adjust, recalibrating their stances mid-step.

In the center of it all—at the epicenter of the storm—he changed.

Damian could only watch.

The boy's skin darkened in real time, shifting from its pale tone to a deep, flawless shade of purple. It gleamed like wet obsidian under starlight, smooth and mirror-like. But it wasn't just color—it was texture. His form became partially translucent, as if his body was made of magic wrapped around light. You could see the mana moving within him, arcing across his limbs, pulsing beneath the surface like liquid lightning.

Then his hair ignited.

It flowed upward, no longer strands but streamers of radiant energy—pink, impossibly bright, alive. It moved like silk caught in a current, trailing behind him in long, elegant tendrils. Each strand flickered and flowed as if responding to the rhythm of the power now bursting from his core.

Wings formed next.

Not feathered. Not mechanical.

Wings of pure mana erupted from his back—arched, swirling constructs of energy that flickered like candlelight but held shape like blades. They shimmered in constant motion, wingspan wide, fluid, alive.

His eyes—if they could still be called that—were gone.

No whites. No irises.

Just twin orbs of solid, blinding white light, glowing with a purpose that was no longer human. They burned with will, not emotion. Not anger. Not fear.

Power.

Damian stood frozen, pipe still clutched in one trembling hand, breathing hard as he stared up at the boy.

He had seen gods wear flesh. He had stood beside Kryptonians. He had fought Martians. He had stared down monsters built in labs and legends born of prophecy.

But this—this was different.

This wasn't a weapon.

It was a being.

Raw magic, concentrated into form, barely human at all anymore. Alien. Elemental. Alive in a way most people could never be.

The drones hesitated. Their visors flickered rapidly, red light blinking in erratic patterns as their targeting systems faltered. They were trying to process what they were seeing—trying to match it with any profile in their databases. But this form... this transformation... wasn't in their programming.

Damian didn't speak. Didn't move.

He wasn't sure he could.

Because the figure standing before him might have once been a terrified boy.

But now?

Now he was something else entirely.

All eight drones locked on as one, their targeting systems flashing crimson in synchronized pulses like a war drum. The transformation hadn't caused hesitation—it had triggered escalation. The LexCorp protocols didn't register awe. They registered threat level. And this new form—the radiant figure cloaked in energy and pulsing with alien mana—had just maxed out that scale.

The drones reoriented with chilling precision, each adjusting its stance a fraction of a degree, forming a deadly arc around their target. Their cannons rose in perfect unity, mechanical joints whirring, targeting optics focusing to microscopic tolerances.

Then they fired.

Eight streams of superheated plasma exploded from their cannons in a blinding volley—pure destruction compressed into white-blue lances of energy. The park lit up in a cataclysmic blaze. Trees, grass, earth—everything around the line of fire was swallowed in screaming light. The blasts converged on the boy like a pack of guided missiles, air howling in protest as the barrage ripped toward him.

And yet—he didn't flinch.

Not an inch.

As the plasma reached him, his body reacted in an instant. The glowing tendrils of mana that trailed behind him like a living comet snapped forward. They coiled around him with impossible speed, weaving into a tight, spiraling shield—an armor of energy that wrapped around his form like a chrysalis.

But this was no dome. No static barrier.

This was living defense—dense, reactive, hungry.

The plasma struck.

And vanished.

No explosion. No concussive backlash.

The bolts hit the mana shield and were absorbed, sucked into its swirling layers like water disappearing into dry sand. Each blast disappeared on contact, devoured by the boy's shield with eerie, effortless silence.

No smoke. No heat.

Just light.

And the light grew brighter.

The boy's entire body pulsed with it. From his chest to the tips of his fingers, from the soles of his feet to the fiery strands flowing from his head, veins of glowing energy flared in brilliant, branching patterns. The plasma wasn't damaging him—it was feeding him. He was a conduit now. A living conversion engine. Everything they threw at him only made him burn hotter.

The drones kept firing, locked into their loop of calculated aggression, their systems blind to the futility. To them, it was just math—more fire, more pressure, more control. But they didn't understand what they were facing.

And neither, Damian realized, did he.

From his position crouched several yards away, hidden in the shadow of a shattered tree, Damian watched in stunned silence. His chest heaved. The air smelled like scorched ozone, and the earth beneath his boots was still trembling with residual power.

He had seen shields. He had seen absorption tech—hell, Bruce had once built a suit that could store kinetic energy.

But this wasn't tech.

This was instinct.

The boy wasn't just protecting himself. He was consuming their weapons. Drinking down the very force meant to destroy him. And growing more powerful with every passing second.

The energy around him shimmered in waves, heatless and surreal, warping the air like a mirage. Debris floated. Cracked bits of stone and twisted grass hovered for moments before falling again. Gravity itself seemed to bend near his form.

This wasn't containment.

This wasn't defense.

This was ascension.

Damian's jaw tightened as the truth settled like ice in his gut.

LexCorp hadn't just created a weapon.

They had awakened something ancient. Something magical. Something far beyond the limitations of code and steel and protocols.

And now, as the drones poured their fire into him—unaware that their efforts were only sharpening the blade that would soon be pointed back at them—l

Damian felt it in his bones before his mind caught up. Static crawled across his skin like a warning, prickling the hairs on his arms and neck. The ground beneath him vibrated—not violently, but with a deep, steady rhythm, like the earth itself was holding its breath.

At the center of it all stood the boy—no, Anodite—bathed in radiant, otherworldly light.

His entire form glowed now, not in flickers or pulses, but in a sustained brilliance that outlined every muscle, every motion. The pink energy around him was no longer wild—it was shaped, refined. Controlled. His skin shone like polished crystal laced with veins of liquid light. His eyes, twin spheres of blinding white, stared into the distance without blinking, emotionless and infinite. The space around him warped with heatless pressure, air bending into waves, like reality itself was trying to accommodate his presence.

Then—he moved.

A single breath escaped his lips, silent and calm.

He raised both hands, palms open toward the sky, as if offering something—or preparing to take it.

The glowing tendrils of mana trailing from his back snapped to attention, then surged outward like awakened serpents, crackling with raw power. They spiraled into the air, twisting and coiling, each one a conduit of focused energy waiting to strike.

For a heartbeat, everything froze.

The drones—still locked in combat protocol—began to reposition. Their targeting systems flickered. Red lights scanned and re-scanned, recalibrating to track this new level of power. They were preparing to adapt, to fall back, to change tactics.

They didn't get the chance.

The boy unleashed hell.

With a flash of motion and no audible command, a massive pulse of mana erupted from him—pure energy forged into a blinding sphere of pink-white light. It didn't roar. It expanded. The initial blast was silent, almost peaceful, a radiant bloom of power stretching outward at impossible speed.

Then came the sound.

A deep, thunderous boom exploded outward, rolling across the park like the voice of a god. Trees bent and snapped. Park benches were flung like matchsticks. Nearby windows shattered in waves. Dust and debris were swept up in a spiraling vortex of displaced energy.

The drones were caught mid-movement.

They didn't burn. They didn't explode.

They came apart.

The mana hit them like a cleansing flame, unraveling them on a molecular level. Their sleek, armored shells cracked and split open, light spilling out through every joint. Their bodies disintegrated into showers of particles, glowing briefly before dissolving into the air like ash in a storm.

One by one, the eight advanced LexCorp combat units were erased.

Gone.

The explosion left behind a massive crater that radiated outward in jagged lines, earth torn up in concentric rings around the boy. Chunks of soil and stone still rained down as Damian threw himself behind a nearby tree stump, shielding his head as the heat of the blast rippled over him. The sound left his ears ringing, and for a moment, his vision blurred from the intensity of the light.

Then—silence.

Pure, absolute silence.

When Damian lifted his head, the battlefield was unrecognizable.

The scorched remains of the park smoldered quietly. Trees were stripped of leaves. Ground was blackened and cracked. At the epicenter of the blast, framed by a slowly fading corona of pink lightning, the boy stood motionless.

His body still glowed, though the light had dimmed slightly. Mana flared gently along his skin, flowing through him like a current. His hair—still a streaming flame of ethereal light—floated weightlessly in the air behind him, shifting in patterns that made no sense to physics.

His expression was blank.

Not angry. Not triumphant.

Just... still.

The ruined earth beneath Damian's boots crackled faintly with residual mana, glowing pink veins slowly dimming, pulsing slower and slower as the energy bled away into the cooling night. The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was unnatural—too complete, too heavy, like the entire park was holding its breath.

The boy—Anodite—was swaying.

His body, once radiant and charged with impossible power, now shimmered weakly, the glow around him flickering like a dying star. His dark, obsidian-like skin rippled as if struggling to hold its shape, until slowly—inevitably—it began to fade. His ethereal form unraveled in layers, like a mask peeling away under heat. The mana tendrils that had whipped and defended, that had torn drones apart like paper, flickered out one by one, vanishing into the night like embers carried off by wind.

His skin lightened.

His glow dulled.

The celestial pink fire that had made up his hair collapsed into soaked, black strands clinging to his face and neck, heavy with sweat and heat. His wings, once broad arcs of liquid energy, crumpled inward and dissolved into thin air.

And then his eyes.

The blinding white orbs dulled. Dimmed. Faded until only his natural eyes remained—glassy, dazed, unfocused. He looked around like he didn't recognize any of it. Not the crater. Not the smoke. Not even himself.

His head turned, slowly, like he was underwater.

And his gaze found Damian.

No fear. No panic. Just exhaustion so deep it looked ancient. Like he'd been carrying it for years, not hours. Their eyes met—and then his body collapsed.

Everything gave out at once.

His knees buckled. Shoulders sagged. His entire frame folded like a puppet whose strings had been cut mid-movement. He hit the ground with a heavy, graceless thud, the impact stirring a cloud of dust and ash around his slack body.

"No—" Damian breathed, already moving.

He sprinted across the crater without thinking, his boots kicking up broken earth and scorched grass. In seconds, he dropped to his knees beside the boy. His hands moved with urgency born from training—checking the pulse in the neck, pressing a hand to the chest. Still breathing. Still alive. But barely.

His skin was damp with sweat, clammy and cold beneath Damian's palm. His breathing was shallow, every breath thin and uneven. His limbs trembled faintly with residual power, like the echo of a storm long passed. He wasn't injured. There were no burns, no bruises. But he was spent—drained down to the bone, every ounce of energy poured into that final surge of defense and release.

"You held it together through all that," Damian muttered under his breath, more to himself than to the boy. "You don't get to crash now."

He pulled the boy gently into a recovery position, cradling his head with one hand and keeping the other steady over his chest, counting the rhythm of each shallow rise and fall. Damian's eyes flicked up to the skyline beyond the shattered treeline. Still no movement. No cops. No drones. But they wouldn't stay alone for long. Someone was coming. Bruce, probably. Or worse—LexCorp, ready to reclaim what they'd lost.

But for now, they had this moment.

And then the boy stirred.

Barely.

His lips moved—dry, cracked, trembling. The sound that came from them was a whisper. Delicate. Soft and fragmented, like a language bleeding through a cracked window. Damian leaned closer, heart thudding in his chest.

The boy spoke.

The words were foreign. Not gibberish—structured. Beautiful, even. Fluid and melodic, filled with syllables that had never been shaped by a human tongue. The language wasn't from Earth. Damian knew dozens of alien dialects, and even he couldn't place it.

But the meaning... something about the tone hit differently. It wasn't a command. It wasn't even a warning.

It was grief.

It was memory.

It was a name—or a goodbye.

Damian didn't know which. And he didn't ask.

Before he could try to respond, the boy moved again.

Slowly, trembling, one hand rose and found the front of Damian's hoodie. Fingers brushed the fabric, soft, searching, as if to confirm something was still real. Damian froze, uncertain.

Then, the boy leaned forward.

And kissed him.

It wasn't forceful. Wasn't romantic. It was gentle. Quick. A press of warmth against Damian's lips—trembling and featherlight. Not driven by adrenaline. Not desperation. It was something quieter—a gesture stripped of logic, shaped by instinct.

Then the boy slumped, the last of his strength gone. His head rested against Damian's chest, body limp, his eyes fluttering half-closed.

But just before he slipped away, he whispered one more word.

"Thank you."

Soft.

Breathless.

In heavily accented English, but unmistakably clear.

And then he passed out.

His body went still, a faint smile ghosting across his lips as unconsciousness took him.

Damian knelt there in silence, the smoke still curling through the ruined park, the ground warm beneath them. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, growing louder. The breeze stirred ash and leaves, but he didn't move.

He just held the boy close, watching over him as the chaos faded.

Whatever this was—whoever he was—this wasn't the end.

But right now, the boy was safe.

And Damian would make sure he stayed that way

LATER THAT night, high above the Earth, the Justice League's Watchtower hovered in its eternal orbit—silent, pristine, a fortress of steel and starlight among the void. Inside, in one of the war rooms ringed with holographic panels and data streams, Damian stood with his arms tightly crossed, his posture rigid. Behind him, a large 3D projection of Robinson Park flickered in midair, the display rendering the damage in hyperreal detail.

The scene spoke for itself: a blackened crater at the heart of the park, ringed in scorched earth, melted walkways, and fragmented metal. Traces of pink energy shimmered faintly across the terrain like residual heat from an invisible fire. The flickering trails of magic danced in slow pulses, still too volatile to classify by Watchtower sensors.

The silence in the room was thick.

Superman stood nearby, tall and unmoving, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was set in a mask of quiet concern, but his eyes betrayed unease—an unease that deepened as Damian finished recounting what had happened.

Jon Kent stood beside his father, posture tense and leaning forward slightly, eyes wide. He kept glancing between the projection and Damian, like trying to reconcile the two—what he was seeing and what he was hearing.

Batman loomed behind his son, cape draped over his shoulders, silent and unreadable. His face betrayed nothing, but Damian could feel the intensity of his father's scrutiny, the sharp, surgical calculation of a man who was already mapping out contingency plans behind that mask.

"And that's when he passed out," Damian said flatly, his tone stripped of emotion but not of weight. "After obliterating eight fully armed LexCorp drones in under ten seconds. They were in kill mode. He didn't hesitate. The amount of mana he drew in... it wasn't ambient. It was alive. Instinctual. Like it responded to his will the way muscles respond to pain."

Superman exchanged a glance with Batman, his brow furrowed. "And you're certain the armor was LexCorp?"

"I saw the insignia myself," Damian said. "It wasn't slapped on. It was part of the suit's internal architecture. He wasn't wearing it—he was fused to it."

Jon spoke next, his voice quieter. "But... he looked human?"

Damian paused, eyes narrowing as he remembered the boy's collapse, his hands shaking, the soft weight of his body against the charred grass. "Almost. But when he changed, it was like watching a mask dissolve. His entire physiology shifted. Skin, bone structure, light displacement. Magic didn't just cloak him—it rewrote him."

Until now, Starfire had remained silent, her arms loosely folded, her golden gaze fixed on the projection. The soft glow from the hologram lit her orange skin with shifting patterns of light, but her eyes were focused far beyond the room.

Then she stepped forward.

"You said he became dark," she said, her voice calm, thoughtful. "Semi-translucent... and his hair became pink flame?"

Damian nodded slowly, gaze narrowing. "Like it wasn't hair at all. More like... energy, shaped into strands. It moved without wind. It moved like it was alive."

Starfire nodded once. Her eyes flared slightly as a memory surfaced. "I know what he is."

All eyes turned to her.

"Or rather," she corrected gently, "what he is. He is not from Earth. That boy is an Anodite."

Damianmoan straightened slightly. "That's what the drones called him before they initiated fire."

"They knew," Starfire said. "Because they built their weapons with him in mind."

She turned to the others, her voice steady, but serious. "Anodites are ancient. A race of mana-based beings that exist almost entirely outside known galactic governance. Most of them dwell in uncharted sectors—places not even the Green Lanterns map regularly. Their bodies are not made of flesh in the way we understand it. They are born of magic—pure magic. They do not learn to wield it. They are it."

Jon looked visibly stunned. "You've seen one before?"

"Yes," she said. "Tamaran was briefly allied with their world during a peacekeeping mission in the Outer Nebula. They are not violent. But they are feared. Because if provoked... a single Anodite can alter the course of a war."

Superman's eyes narrowed. "And this one was enhanced by Luthor."

"Worse," Damian said. "He was altered by him. Engineered. That armor wasn't armor—it was a cage. A conduit designed to control how and when he accessed his own abilities."

"And it failed," Batman said quietly.

Damian nodded. "Completely."

Starfire's gaze darkened. "That makes him vulnerable. An Anodite raised away from his people, stripped of his identity, forced to serve someone like Luthor... He may be powerful, but emotionally? Psychologically? He is fractured. A being made of instinct and emotion, trained like a weapon and left to rot."

"He didn't trust anyone," Damian said. "Not at first. He didn't speak. He didn't fight until he had no choice. When he looked at me, it wasn't with fear—it was with expectation. Like he was used to being exploited."

Superman exhaled slowly. "If Luthor put his hands on something like that... we can't afford to let him get close again."

"He won't," Damian said firmly. "We'll make sure of it."

Batman stepped forward finally, the weight of his presence grounding the room. "We don't just protect him from Luthor. We protect him from everyone who will come next. Because now that he's revealed himself, every agency, every intergalactic faction, and every corporate predator who traffics in power will come looking."

Starfire nodded. "He is a star-born being of magic, left stranded among humans. If he is to survive, he will need more than shelter. He will need a place to belong."

Damian's eyes dropped for a moment, his expression tightening.

"Then I'll give him one."

The room fell into silence again, the image of the destroyed park hovering behind them like a ghost.

Outside the Watchtower's viewing windows, the stars drifted silently across the blackness—cold, endless, and watching.

THE HUM of the Watchtower's life support systems thrummed softly beneath their boots as Damian, Jon, and Starfire moved down the long corridor that curved gently with the arc of the space station. The polished silver walls reflected the low amber lighting of the simulated night cycle, casting long shadows that followed them in silence. Though Earth had long since rolled into the early morning hours, the artificial calm of the Watchtower did little to soothe the weight pressing on all three of them.

No one spoke as they walked. They didn't need to.

When they reached the reinforced doors to the infirmary, they parted with a gentle hiss, letting out a cool, sterile breeze tinged with antiseptic and ozone. The lights inside were soft and dim, set low for rest, but everything gleamed with precision. Med-pods lined the far wall in pristine rows, their curved exteriors like sleeping shells awaiting occupants. But only one was in use.

The Anodite boy lay within it.

He looked almost normal now—blanket drawn to his waist, arms limp at his sides, eyes closed. Peaceful. If you didn't know better, he could've passed for any unconscious teenager recovering from exhaustion. But if you looked closely, there were signs: faint ripples of pink light still traced delicate patterns under his skin, glowing softly with every slow breath. Mana. Dormant, but present. Waiting.

Jon drifted closer, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, the corners of his mouth turned down in something between concern and wonder. He stared at the boy's face for a long time before speaking.

"He doesn't look like someone who took out a fleet of LexCorp drones by himself."

Damian stood beside him, arms crossed tight, eyes narrowed. "That's what makes him dangerous," he said. "He doesn't look like a threat. Not until you're already on fire."

Jon glanced at him, but said nothing.

Starfire moved to the other side of the pod. Her posture was relaxed but attentive, the soft glow of her skin reflecting faintly off the medical interface. Her eyes were fixed on the boy—not in suspicion, but in recognition. Like someone looking at an ancient text they hadn't seen in years.

"You said he spoke?" she asked Damian quietly.

He nodded. "Right before he blacked out. Before he spoke English. Not any dialect I recognized. It wasn't even structured like language—more like... vibration. Something tonal. I've studied dozens of alien scripts and syntaxes. This wasn't one of them."

Starfire stepped closer, her eyes never leaving the boy. "That was Anoditian. Their speech is more than language. It's resonance. Their mana carries their meaning. They don't just speak—they express."

Damian raised an eyebrow. "Then how do you understand them?"

Starfire turned to him with a serene smile. "Again, Tamaraneans and Anodites share a long, quiet history. We shared... customs."

Jon tilted his head. "What kind of customs?"

Starfire's expression didn't change. "Kissing."

Damian blinked. "What?"

Starfire nodded. "Tamaraneans absorb language through physical contact. A kiss creates a neurological link—temporary, but complete. Anodites... their version is deeper. It is tied to mana. It creates an imprint, a resonance link between two beings."

Damian stiffened slightly. His arms remained crossed, but his jaw tensed. "So when he kissed me—"

"He was reaching for connection," she said gently. "To understand you. To anchor himself. That kind of gesture, especially for one of his kind... it means trust. Rare, deliberate trust."

Damian looked down at the boy in the pod. The calm rise and fall of his chest. The fragile mana pulse under his skin.

Jon spoke softly. "He's really not just some experiment, is he?"

Starfire hesitated for a breath. Then she moved toward the pod and laid her hand lightly on its rim. "He's more than rare," she said. "I recognized the pattern of his aura. The fractal formation that pulsed when he transformed—it's unique. It belongs to the House of Noctyrae."

Damian frowned. "That means something to you?"

"It should," Starfire said. "That is the ruling family of the Anodite system. He's not just one of them. He's their heir."

Jon's eyes widened. "He's a prince?"

"The crowned prince," she confirmed. "And he is here. Alone. Bound in LexCorp tech. That suggests only two possibilities—he was stolen... or he fled."

Damian felt his stomach tighten. "Luthor got his hands on the heir of a mana-based civilization. And he tried to turn him into a weapon."

Starfire nodded solemnly. "And failed."

The room went quiet again, the soft beeping of the pod's monitor the only sound. The boy stirred slightly, a ripple of light fluttering beneath his skin like lightning behind clouds. Damian stepped closer, watching him carefully.

"He didn't trust me at first," Damian said. "He didn't trust anyone. But when he looked at me after the fight... something changed."

Starfire gave a small smile. "You carry his imprint now. His bond. When he wakes, he will look for you first."

Damian's eyes didn't leave the boy's face.

"I'll be here," he said quietly.

And he meant it. Every word.

[fluentmoviequoter]

In Every World

Pairing: Terry McGinnis x fem!reader

Summary: Years after losing Terry, fate offers a twisted second chance to tell him how you feel.

Warnings: angst, character death, fluff, comfort, Terry is the ultimate boyfriend, if the names are confusing just pretend they're not

Word Count: 2.7k+ words

A/N: Season 2 Terry McGinnis is my everything.✨ I love him so much but I'm still watching the show for the first time so he's sure to be OOC. Sorry about that! Please let me know what you think and if you'd be interested in reading more for him!!🫶��

“Looks normal to me,” Dick says, leaning against the back of Bruce’s chair as you comb through security camera footage.

“Just a couple jokers,” Tim adds.

“Wait, Bruce,” you interrupt. “Go back a few seconds.”

Bruce drags his finger over the batcomputer-version of a trackpad before he pauses the video. You lean closer, narrowing your eyes to find what seems different about the face frozen in time.

“Look at his eyes,” you direct.

“They’re creepy. They’re all creepy,” Dick replies.

“No, she’s right,” Bruce agrees. “They look like-“

“Bat’s eyes,” you finish with him.

Something metallic crashes to the floor before Jason huffs, “That would explain the chick with ram horns I just met in an alley by the Narrows.”

“Who can do this kind of cosmetic work?” Tim asks.

“It’s not cosmetic,” Jason corrects. “It’s like… I think it’s in their DNA.”

“Splicing,” you offer. “It’s a way of altering someone’s DNA with the insertion of animal chromosomes.”

“I take it your experience with it was different?” Bruce inquires.

“Dr. Abel Cuvier marketed the splicers to high school kids. Most adults were against it, the DA, the commissioner. It was on track to be made illegal.”

“And I take it this Cuvier was too young to be here now?” Dick asks. “Which is still confusing.”

“What’s confusing about it, Bluebird?” Jason asks rhetorically. “She’s from the future and from a different timeline so not only is everything she's dealt with more advanced, it’s also completely different.”

“Focus,” Bruce calls, shaking his head. “If these people are being genetically altered, we’ll need an antidote to the foreign deoxyribonucleic acid.”

“Where’s Damian? Sounds like his lab experience could be helpful,” Tim jokes.

Bruce tunes out their brotherly banter, opting to watch your intense gaze on the computer screen. There’s a one-block radius where the spliced individuals seem to migrate. Or come from.

“What’s the address of this building?” you ask, pointing to the map showing the locations of the security cameras.

Bruce tells you the address and then says, “It’s a textile manufacturing facility—or it was before it was condemned.”

“Carmin’s Taxidermy Studio. That’s what it was where I came from. It was condemned then, too, but Cuvier used it as a hideout.”

“So, you think Cuvier is here?”

“That or there’s another timestream break and these people are coming from another dimension, universe, whatever we’re calling it.”

“Then we should get down there,” Jason calls.

“Not if this is anything like my experience with Cuvier. He had vials of splicing material ready to go and didn’t hesitate to turn people without consent. He was one of those guys you wanted to slag but couldn’t.”

“Slag?” Dick repeats, failing to hide his amusement.

“You’re all so annoying,” you groan.

“There will be time for this later,” Bruce interrupts. “We’ve got something.”

Turning your attention back to the monitors, you see an energy signature similar to the one you arrived through. The difference is that your world was ending and the portal collapsed relatively quickly, whereas this pathway is sustained. If people can come and go between the realities as they please, the splicing is the least of your concerns.

“Gear up,” Bruce announces, standing and pulling his cowl over his eyes.

Dick and Jason freeze, their eyes widening as they continue watching the screen. Bruce turns quickly, surprised to see another energy anomaly growing directly above Wayne Manor. Before he can speak, a bright white circle appears in the Batcave. You raise your arm to block out some of the light but try to watch who comes out.

Bruce readies a batarang, Jason racks his Glock, and Dick taps his Escrima sticks together as someone steps out and into the cave. Bruce throws his batarang, and the man exiting the portal catches it.

“No way,” Dick breathes.

You step forward and lower your arm. “Bruce?”

He narrows his eyes at you before complaining, “I’m so sick of time travel.”

“It’s not exactly time travel,” your Bruce – Batman – argues.

“Right,” future Bruce agrees sarcastically. “That’s an important distinction to make right now. Interesting.”

You take another step toward the older, unmasked Bruce and ask, “Are you…”

“I’m not from your world,” he offers, with his hand on your shoulder.

Nodding, you step back, allowing Bruce’s hand to slip from your shoulder.

“Why’d you step through the portal?” Jason asks him. “This Bruce would never.”

“I didn’t. I turned around and I was here.”

“Were you in the cave?” you ask.

He nods, and you pull your lip between your teeth to think.

“Father!” Damian yells.

Everyone in the cave turns. Damian went to bed hours ago, and now he’s descending the stairs dressed in his Robin uniform and extending a katana behind him.

“I found someone who may be of interest to you,” he adds.

Stepping into the light, you see who he’s directing with the point of his sword. Your eyes widen as you see the bright red marking on his chest.

“Terry?” you ask softly.

Batman – the one with the tall ears and the bright red bat insignia, held at knifepoint by his mentor’s lab-grown son – looks up at the sound of your voice. He steps forward, knocks Damian’s katana onto the floor, and says your name in reply.

He walks to you and wraps his arms around your waist, holding you so tightly against his chest that your ribs begin to ache. You don’t care, though, so you hug him like you’ll never see him again. Because you thought you wouldn’t.

Terry’s Bruce lays his hand on Terry’s back and says, “She’s not from our reality, McGinnis. She’s gone.”

“Gone?” you repeat, pulling back slowly.

“I hate to break up the reunion,” Damian calls. “But there’s a goat-faced lady trying to break into GCPD headquarters.”

You turn to Jason and say, “Batman can help.”

“That won’t get confusing,” Jason grumbles. He looks at Terry, his expression hidden by the hood, and says, “You’re with me, then, McGinnis.”

“All due respect,” Terry begins, glancing toward you.

“I’ll be in your ear,” you promise. “Like before.”

Terry smiles beneath the cowl. He nods and drags his hand across your waist before he follows Jason out of the cave.

“I guess it’s just you and me, Wayne,” you say, following future Bruce to the desk.

“Don’t get too attached to this version of Terry,” he warns. “You’ll go back to your time, and he’ll be devastated going back to his.”

“I wish,” you murmur. “I don’t have a time anymore. I lost Terry, Bruce, so if this is a chance to say goodbye, bet every cred you have that I’m going to use it.”

Bruce holds your eyes, then turns to the blinking trackers and the radio feed.

“How do we close this thing?” Dick asks.

“It’s essentially an alternating circuit of time and energy. It’s measured in seconds,” Bruce replies.

“I can measure it,” Terry assures everyone. “Once we know the unit of circulation, we can shut it down.”

“How are you supposed to get home then?” Batman asks.

“I’ll worry about that,” Bruce says. “You get that energy circuit shut down and the spliced kids in cuffs.”

“Bravo-Six, going dark,” Jason quotes.

“What?” Terry and Bruce ask together.

“He’s quoting a video game,” you explain. “Call of Duty, I think.”

“Retro,” Terry muses. “Measuring the stream now.”

“Use the reciprocal,” Bruce reminds him.

“Yeah, I got it, Wayne.”

You smile at their back-and-forth, but tears prick your eyes because Bruce wasn’t wrong. He and Terry will go back to their timeline, and you’ll be left behind. Again.

While Bruce and Batman work on creating a one-way time jump to get Bruce and Terry home, you take Terry’s hand and lead him into a secluded corner of the cave. Your hands rest on his shoulders, and he nods when you brush your fingers against the bottom of his cowl. Pulling it over his head, you look at Terry McGinnis for the first time in too long.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

“Everything’s schway,” he replies, smiling. “You?”

You nod. It’s a lie, and Terry knows it. Brushing your fingers over his jaw, you wonder what took you so long. You waited too long to tell Terry how you felt in high school. And when you were finally willing to risk everything by telling him, he pushed you to safety and told you not to look back. Like that, he was gone forever. Everything was gone when you looked back. Yet, another Bruce Wayne took you in and gave you a home when you didn’t have one.

Your hand drops as you say, “Be careful when you get home, okay?”

“What happened? On your world, I mean,” he inquires.

“It’s a long story, but it involves a bad guy trying to turn the whole world bad. As far as I can tell, it’s a bad guy you’ve already dealt with.”

“So, your version of me...”

“I don’t think Terry McGinnis was ever mine, but, yeah, he’s gone. Everybody is, and trust me, I’ve checked.”

“Well, my version of you – who wasn’t really mine either – saved my life,” Terry whispers. “She saved me after my father was killed, and she saved me again when Batman couldn’t.”

You wipe your cheeks and smile at Terry. “She was yours. She was always yours.”

Terry catches one of your tears on his thumb before he rests his palm on your cheek and promises, “He was yours, too.”

“Hey, punch some jokerz for me when you get back?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood.

Terry smiles and says, “Yeah, anything.”

On the other side of the cave, Dick and Jason watch you and Terry. Since you arrived, they’ve accepted you as part of their family.

“Why doesn’t she just go with him?” Jason asks.

“Because realities have to stay separate,” Dick replies, imitating Bruce. He sighs and adds, “No one knows.”

Jason looks away from you to watch the two different versions of Bruce work together and shakes his head. They want to see you happy but understand that things aren’t as simple as they seem.

“I think we’re ready,” Bruce announces. He turns and asks, “Where’d they go?”

“You’re going to give Bruce an ulcer,” you chide, jogging to keep up with Terry’s long strides.

“It’s around here somewhere,” Terry mumbles, unconsciously brushing his thumb across your knuckles.

“Maybe in your Wayne Manor. This one still has Alfred cleaning up after their messes.”

Terry stops and presses the side of a grandfather clock. It opens a dimly lit passage to an oversized balcony that looks like a simple roofline from the ground.

“How’d you find this place?” you ask, leaning against the rail to enjoy the view of Alfred’s garden.

“I broke in, remember?”

You turn toward Terry, and your breath catches when you realize how close he is. Years after losing him, you’ve been given another opportunity. Fate took Terry from you, but, for some twisted reason, you’re standing face-to-face yet again. It is the last time, though you suppose there should be comfort in knowing.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

Terry sighs and leans closer, gripping the railing as he cages you in. “Bruce would say that it wasn’t really me.”

“What do you think?”

“That we’re the same across all the realities. We may be older, younger, more jaded, but deep down, we’re still the same.”

“If anything, you’re less jaded than the Terry I knew.”

He smiles and brushes his arm against yours. “It isn’t fair.”

“No,” you agree softly. “But it’s the way it is.”

“What if it doesn’t have to be?”

“We don’t get to decide, Terry.”

Terry pushes off the railing, running his hands through his hair as he turns away from you. “Then who does?!” he exclaims. “You stayed here, moved away from your time, so why is everyone here so sure that we can’t do it again?”

“Because your version of me could come back,” you try to explain.

“She won’t.”

“I escaped my reality, Terry, you never know if-“

“We buried you!” he interrupts, his chest heaving. “This is my only chance to get you back, and you’re telling me that I can’t have it.”

“Terry,” you call.

He shakes his head and continues pacing. Finally, you step in front of him and press your hands against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” you begin. “I didn’t know. But we both know we can’t fight Bruce about this.”

Terry doesn’t reply. He watches you and continues breathing against your touch.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you before…”

Terry’s brows lift nearly imperceptibly. He notices your use of you. It sounds like you’ve stopped seeing him as a different Terry. The moment he laid eyes on you, he knew you were his. Maybe not the exact girl he loved and never told, but still the same. You’re his and always will be, even if he has to leave you behind.

“I love you, Terry McGinnis,” you confess. “And I always will.”

Terry smiles, and his hands move to your waist. “We can’t fight Bruce about this,” he repeats.

“Good,” Bruce interrupts before you’re separated and blinded by a bright, white light.

A calloused palm brushes up and down your arm. Squeezing your eyes closed, you try to remember what it was like to stand with Terry, to tell him you loved him. There should be closure, but you only feel a growing pit of emptiness. Yet, the touch against your skin makes the heartbreak seem mendable.

“No, Ace, don’t lick her,” someone chides gently.

You open your eyes immediately, sitting up to find him. Terry’s hand moves from your arm to your shoulder, and he chuckles at your sudden movement.

“How’s your head?” he inquires. “Wayne didn’t think it through when he pushed us through a portal without knowing where it opened.”

“My head’s fine,” you assure him. “Why’d he do it?”

“Something about knowing that heartbreak makes it hard to be a good Batman.”

“Hi, Ace,” you greet as he presses his snout against your hip. “I missed you, buddy.”

“Good, you’re awake,” Bruce says as he enters the room. He tosses a bag onto the bed and says, “Your alternate-reality brothers sent that.”

“Thank you, Bruce.”

“I just carried the bag.”

Smiling, you say, “You know what I mean.”

Bruce nods once, then leaves you alone with Terry.

“You loved me in the other world,” Terry says. “I’ve lost two chances to say it.”

“You’re just mad I said it first.”

“That is so not kicks.”

You laugh because you're glad to be back with Terry and excited to be around people who understand your slang again.

“Well?” you ask, leaning closer to Terry. “Are you going to say it now?”

“McGinnis,” Bruce calls. “There’s a crew of Jokerz outside City Hall.”

Terry sighs and asks, “Do you think we’ll ever have another moment to ourselves?”

“Keep looking for hidden balconies,” you encourage. “And stay safe.”

“I’ll be back,” he promises.

You pet Ace as Terry leaves, but he rushes back into the room a moment later.

“Forgot something,” he says, leaning against the mattress to be closer to you. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you reply, smiling as you lay your hand over his.

Terry kisses your forehead and promises to return to you.

“You better,” you call after him.

“Hey, I’ve got a kiss to deliver,” he says from the doorway. “I’ll be here.”

You stand nearly an hour later, eager to get to the Batcave and help him as best as possible.

“I think you’re supposed to be in bed,” Batman chides, leaning against the Batcave entrance with his arms crossed.

“And you’re supposed to be back to give me something, I think,” you reply.

Ace barks at your side, and Terry pulls the cowl off his head. He drops it to the floor and takes two long steps to reach you. His gloved hands rise to your neck, and you hold his waist as you kiss Terry.

You both missed your first chance, but your worlds collided, and now you have Terry back. As you move with him, you know this is where you’re meant to be. You love Terry McGinnis in every world, but you belong beside him.

[necrotic-nephilim]

For the au ask game

What do you think would happen if damian got a crush on dick and a good while after he proposed to dick in front of the 'bat-fam', they weren't dating so obviously dick is surprised but do you think they'd get together, how would the rest react?

for the ask game!

oooh, this is fun, bc there are a lot of directions to take it, how i think i'd write it tho is-

Damian would wait until he's an adult. he knows that's when it becomes Permissible to court Dick publically. everyone's always sort of known that Damian had a childhood crush but hey, he can join the club, most of them have gone through it at some point. no one says anything, bc they assume Damian will grow out of it, and even assume he has, by the time he's an adult. maybe he's dated and had brief flings that never worked out. no one realizes how *planned out* this is for Damian. he's in it for the long haul, having distractions thrown up to throw everyone off his scent. silently sabotaging Dick's relationships in ways no one even realizes, especially not Dick. Damian has been waiting for this, and he plans to do it the way he's been raised: romance is a lifetime bond that cannot be severed, and thus, it includes marriage. i like the idea that no one *told* Damian this explicitly, but how his mother taught him about love and how he sees Western relationships naturally led him to this assumption.

when Damian properly proposes, i think everyone would be so baffled, Dick included, that it'd come across as a joke. Damian planned it in front of others on propose- he wanted to mark his territory clearly and put the social pressure on Dick to have to navigate the situation correctly. bc Dick never wants Damian to feel embarrassed or humiliated. so there's a long, tense silence. someone maybe laughs and tries to crack a joke, with Damian calmly saying he's deadly serious. he expected the ridicule and it's not getting to him. i think it's extra fun if Dick quietly asks Damian to talk in another room about this and they leave and everyone is trading jokes and comments about what Dick is saying and why on earth Damian would even do that, trying to decide if this is a weird version of a prank. so an hour later when Dick and Damian come back out and DIck is *wearing the ring*, everyone is baffled.

Dick intends to say no. he's going to be *kind* about it but of course he's saying no. Damian might be in his 20s now, but he's still a *kid* in Dick's eyes, and Dick could never see him that way. but Damian lays out his reasoning, because he expected a rejection. he's very clear about the logistical aspect of it. how he objectively makes a good partner for Dick, and how getting married would provide stability for the family dynamic as well as the legal aspect of Bruce's company. it's all so well laid out Dick can barely get a word in edge wise. Dick tries to bring up how they're basically family and Damian calming corrects him that no, Dick was only ever Bruce's ward. Damian even brings up instances where Dick expressed a romantic love. bc i do think it's fun if Dick briefly Noticed Damian in that way. never deep enough to develop a full crush, but he definitely noticed when Damian went from a scrappy kid to an adult with toned muscles and his father's jawline. and Damian concludes his speech by saying if Dick has no arguments, then Damian assumes they're proceeding. and well, Dick *has* no real arguments. besides the fact he doesn't want to, which given Damian knows there's attraction there, he's able to easily combat that argument, saying Dick does want it, he's just doubting himself. so, frustrated and not prepared for this argument, Dick says yes, mostly bc of how flustered he is.

Dick's intended plan is to show Damian how bad of an idea their relationship would be. which is what he tells everyone, saying he's just doing this so Damian can learn how terrible their relationship would be and Damian will get it all out of his system. it's like indulging a child trying to set their own bedtime and letting them so they learn why they need sleep. and that works well for about a month, until Dick is realizing, he kind of enjoys this relationship. Damian is a dotting lover, and he's *right*, that he well balances most of Dick's worst traits in a relationship. it has been canonically said that Dick would do best with a partner like Bruce and well, what's Damian if not a more feral clone of Bruce. he has the same intensity that Dick needs, while also respecting he can't control everything about Dick's life. he doesn't expect or demand intimacy of any kind out of Dick, but Dick somehow finds himself sleeping in Damian's arms. (i'm a fan of Damian being a brickhouse as an adult and actually slightly larger than Dick) their first kiss isn't a surprise, bc Damian calmly asks if he can kiss Dick, what's surprising is that Dick says yes before he even thinks about it. he tells himself he's just curious. and it's a *good* kiss, which is even more frustrating. it's the sort of kiss where his hands wander and he's pulling Damian into his lap before Damian pulls away and calmly says he needs consent from Dick to go further. which makes Dick go pink bc, all of this was *not* how this was supposed to go. this was supposed to be a bluff, and now he thinks he's actually dating Damian.

the reactions would take a while to settle in. everyone still sees this as a ridiculous thing that'll blow over, eventually. bc Dick promised this wasn't a *real* thing and well, it *sounds* so ridiculous it can't really sink in. Damian's at that age where he's *just* now transitioning into being seen as an adult by the family. everyone who's on the younger side of the family will know, there's when you become an adult legally, and then there's when you become an adult socially, and those are very different times. Damian's just on the cusp, where a lot of the Batfam still see him as a kid. so it's difficult to grasp that he's old enough to be dating, let alone dating Dick. the longer it lasts the more the hidden laughs become shared looks as it sinks in. i think Bruce wouldn't know *how* to react. so many emotions just cancel out to the point that if he's asked, he just walks out of a room. Tim would be on the more negative side of reactions, whereas Cass is on the more positive. it's heavily varied, with the typical concerns being brought up. but no one can really *do* anything about it. and Dick is *Dick*, he's more trusted than Bruce is by the family, so they sort of have to go along with whatever he does. and more importantly, they trust his judgment. if he's riding this out, then everyone's riding it out with them. eventually, it sort of just becomes part of the dynamic. it goes from a joke to accepted so easily no one really notices when they started taking it seriously. which is the fun of it being so normalized that they don't realize it as a Thing anymore. it's just how Damian and Dick are, which is my favorite brand of things.

[brucewaynehater101]

Recently my mind has been plagued with ideas about things Tim could be other than human and what would both fit him and make an interesting story. I believe I might have found something that suits him rather well.

Tim has always been a strange child, always silent and always watching. Learning everything he can about everyone he has to interact with so that he can best make sure every interaction goes in his favor. He learned his manipulation from his Mother after all. She was the very best at it so he will be the very best too. She nor his "father" have watched over him since he was very small, after all they are creatures that do not raise their own young. Her returning to see him every few months, teaching him how to hide what he is and how to defend himself, *and* making sure he has food and shelter is far, far more than most of his species could ever even dream of. Janet is their version of Best Mom In The Universe, even if she's horrifyingly neglectful by Human Standards.

As for how Jack treats Tim, he doesn't. After all, once they were married and she had everything, she didn't need him anymore. Jack died before Tim was even conceived and the current Jack is nothing more than a husk, a living puppet that his mother walks around with as a shield to keep herself safe from prying eyes and questions. Perfect for keeping her cover as Just A Human. She has taught Tim how to do this same thing using small animals from the garden (and making sure he eats them after. He's still a growing boy who needs to eat after all) si that one day he can have a few living puppets of his own.

Tim does not tell anyone he isn't human, as per his mother's instructions. After all, he shares quite a few traits with a type of creature that humans *hate* and actively go out of their way to kill. Well, most do.

As he grows and ages as Robin, he never let's anything slip, he can't afford to let them know. He knows that Bruce doesn't trust magic in Gothem (or at least, Tim thinks that's the truth) and even if he did, the others have shown a distaste for the creature that he shares so much with. Especially Alfred and Dick, the later of which he has verbally claimed to *hate*. Given, one of them was in his hair when he yelled this but it still stung quite deeply and Alfred works hard to make sure that not a single trace of them can be found anywhere in the manor, even scolding Tim once for letting so much proof of their existence pile up in the corners of his room. But Tim doesn't blame him either, Alfred's job is to keep the house clean after all.

Eventually he must come clean though and what a way it is. Bruce has been working a case with Constantine about people going missing in Gothem. Turns out, everyone who has was some kind of magical creature and the people doing it are likely poachers. The others have been informed of the case so that they can report anything they know or anyone they know who could be a target. Tim doesn't say anything, instead keeping a closer eye on those he does know. He would never, ever sell out another creature. He would rather die.

A week later, an attempted raid on the poachers goes wrong and ends up with Jason, Tim, Bruce, and Damian all captured by the poachers. Tim is the last to wake up and when he does, the poachers are discussing what kind of undead Jason is, scanning the tied up vigilante with a device that simply says again, "subject, magical. Type, undead. Futher information, unknown."

At this point Tim realizes he's the only one not tied up. He's also the only one in a cage. He tries to pretend to be asleep but the one watching him says, "look who's awake. You know, we had bets on how many of you Bats were part of the magical community. Seems like I won the bet since only you and Red Hood over there are. Don't bother trying to lie your way out, our scanner can see through your Glamor spell, no matter how powerful it is. And this?" They hold up a small remote control with about a dozen buttons on it, "this does a wonderful little thing where it makes a specific pitch at a specific volume that causes Magical Creatures to drop their Glamor Spells or Shifts. Luckily it's nothing more than mildly annoying to humans."

A button is pressed before anyone can ask questions and the remove makes a loud, buzzing sound. It's not painful for the trio who are tied up, but Tim? Tim is shaking and writhing and *screaming* with both hands pressed over his ears. He is rolling back and forth across the ground as he screams for the person to stop, just *stop*. Bruce is almost free when he freezes upon realizing something. There aren't two tear tracks on his sons face. There's a lot. A pair of eyes have opened on his cheek bones and above his eyebrows and a smaller pair between them. Tim has gotten much paler and his canines have turned long and sharp like his nails. Tim rolls onto his stomach and curls up as best he can, screaming as there is a cracking sound. A long spindly, spider like leg shoots out of his side and slams into the floor, curling up in pain like the rest of Tim's limbs.

When the device is finally turned off, Tim is laying on his side, wheezing in pain and his legs are gone. In their place is the body of a giant spider which has sharp points at the tips of its legs instead of the regular spider feet. Tim has 8 eyes and is totally limp as he tries to recover. The Poacher simply laughs, "A Jorōgumo, a real master of puppets you are. But weak without them. God, your kind is so rare, you'll fetch us the price of at least 4 normal monsters. Add in you're a famous vigilante and we could break a few million dollars off *just* you."

Tim glares weakly at them and hisses softly. He knows the numbers are true. It's the secondary reason he never told anyone. He knew he would either get squished or sold off. How he just needs to figure out how to escape from Gothem before Bruce can confront him on this. He doesn't want to explain.

Aww... was he collecting little spiders and getting upset when his family kept expressing their hatred/distaste for them? Did he have to hear them talk about how creepy their eyes are, their weird abundance of legs, and how disgusting their overall being is before he excused himself to stare in a mirror and compare the similarities?

Does he dare to meet their eyes after the reveal, or does he fear finding the look of revulsion?

Also, would he find comfort in knitting, crochet, and weaving? Is his house full of hand-made blankets?

Anyways, enjoyed what you have and would definitely read more

[infpravenclaw5w4idkwhatelse]

Apparently its just in my brain rn but I wanted to make this list for me or for anyone out there who gets into editing before I do (pleas please please idk how to edit and unless I hyper fixate hard enough, I probably won’t take the time to learn lmao) but anyway this is a list of the Robins and songs (by Taylor Swift so there’s a theme and the list has a finite end) that I desperately need an edit of them with.

Stephanie brown- the man (literally can’t hear the song without thinking of her), mad woman (I can see this with interspersed scenes of her father, fighting villains specifically black mask, and Bruce)

Jason Todd- my tears ricochet (absolutely devastating w/ under the red hood, specifically comic version iykyk the difference between that and the movie), haunted (I need this with Bruce and dick and Tim’s reaction to his death), bigger than the whole sky (similar to haunted but more resigned? And still more about characters responding to his death but still His Death), who’s afraid of little old me (red hood transitional period. You see the vision? I know you do.) look what you made me do (obviously. I keep imagining him listening to this song while being the red hood and it’s great), the Great War (just. The imagery. There’s so much potential here. “maybe it’s the past that’s talking, screaming from the crypt, telling me to punish you for things you never did” with a cut to Batman and Joker would go so hard)

Dick Grayson (there’s really no order to this list is there? Lol anyway.)- never grow up (focused on his relationships with his siblings and then after the bridge with the “wish I’d never grown up” with flashbacks to him as Robin oh my god I’d cry), 22 (idk it feels very early Nightwing to me. I need a happy one for him bc he deserves it. Just an edit of him winning and being iconic), New Romantics (in that same vein, with the titans because it’d be fun), the story of us and I forgot that you existed (him and B fighting because I feel people ignore that they do fight quite often and IFTYE especially feels the right amount of petty and sincere for him, you know?), last but not least (can you tell I love him) Style (this and any love interest he repeatedly dates, I was thinking specifically Barbara but I could also see kory, I just think this song is fun for any relationship that gets rebooted in multiple formats)

Tim Drake- enchanted (as itty bitty Tim Drake or Robin, meeting them at galas and Knowing or just working with the bats in the beginning when he was star struck), mirrorball (“I can change everything about me to fit in” …yeah. This is more a fanon interpretation but I read a really interesting fic where Jason comes back and meets Tim and all he can see is his and dick’s Robin mannerisms in him, and can’t find anything that’s just Tim’s until he’s too tired to pretend anymore and it’s stuck with me) you’re losing me (this would be a sad one of people generally looking over or hating him, specifically Bruce calling him Jason, finding out dick made Damian Robin, Damian and Jason verbally attacking him, the events that led to Red Robin) Tis the damn season (for when Red Robin arc is over and he’s still angry but doesn’t know what else to do)

Damian Wayne: a place in this world (it’s not his aesthetic, but the themes of the song are very raised-in-the-league-trying-to-be-a-functioning-family-member), the best day (with him and Dick generally him getting to be a kid, I’m not crying you are), mean (I think the “swords and weapons that you use against me”would be funny with him drawing assorted weapons on people), Innocent (“your string of lights is still bright to me oh, who you are is not where you’ve been” oh my god. I just feel like he needs someone to mean this about him) exile (Talia leaving him, even if she meant to do it for his own good, having to recon with not being in the league anymore), this is me trying (I don’t have words for this one, it’s a vibe)

Bonus:

Anti-hero: you can give all of them different verses that fit best, but I think they’d all sing the song and feel like it was them and I’d love to see an edit of them to it.

Epiphany: Alfred. You don’t even have to listen to it, just look at the lyrics and you’ll Get It.

robin: this I see for both Jason and Dick, so probably split between them.

Mastermind: first off, shameless TimSteph shipper, not even necessarily romantically, it’s just that they’re soulmates and I don’t care what canon says; I know that because they told me personally. Anyway the song is from both of their perspectives. They both think they’re the mastermind

State of Grace: also TimSteph. Fight me.

[whywoulditho]

I'm glad, that DC writers are changing constantly and therefore the characters are protected from the Bat-family. The Bats are the cancer of DC comics. There wouln't be any independant characters anymore if they could gez their grubby hands on the other DC families

That's another way to look at it.. I agree that they're trying a bit too hard to connect every character to the bats' storyline. so you might have a point there. maybe it would create more bad than good if they let batfam authors interfere with the other storylines... but i still wouldn't call the bats the cancer of DC. I think if you took the bats out of DC, it would lose like half of its charm and quality.

with all that being said though, i still think the biggest problem of DC romances (or comic book romance in general) lies in each run having separate authors. think about why harley x ivy worked. it's because both of those characters already existed before they got together. both of them were loved villains and later anti-heroes, they both have their own story, their own past and their own redemption arcs. they're both INTERESTING. and when DC made the risky choice of making them a couple, it worked.

i'm not saying it would work with any other characters, or that they should make all their major characters date each other. but if you want to explore romance in your comics you have to give the readers an actual relationship, involving two realistically written and interesting people. not a major character and their accessory love interest. that's my issue with tim x bernard, or jon x jay. no one will get attached to, or even invested in, these relationships because we don't know anything about the love interests. they're just some random people. even if you try to give them personalities they will still not have a story outside of their relationship with the major character. bernard and jay were only created so tim and jon would have someone to kiss. it's hard to care about them, and therefore their relationship. they're just boring romance side plots.

you can introduce a character with the sole purpose of making them a couple with one of your major characters and still make it work, like batman and catwoman. you can create chemistry with a new character just as well as you can with already existing ones. but i think we need more of the first option. less last minute love interests and more people falling in love. i think what makes DC special is that they show us so many different versions of their major characters, we get to see them grow and change (take notes, marvel) so it wouldn't be off-brand to see already existing major characters, like superboy and robin, ending up together. not when it's DC. to be honest i think it would be like super iconic of them to do that. and i also think that DC fans would much rather have their favorite characters end up with the kind of person they went through hell and back with instead of like, a random citizen. tim and kon have so many parallels. they're both people who didn't have to be heroes at all, but still chose to do it. they both struggle with carrying a mantle too big and the fact that they were not chosen for it makes them even more insecure. they also have a past together, they're close friends, they would take a bullet for each other. so much potential. dont even get me started on damian and jon. those two are like, literal mirrors of their fathers. they have huge legacies on their shoulders and they're like quite literally the only people that could understand one another. again, so. much. potential. i'm not saying they have to be together, but if DC was gonna write romance for these characters I wish it could have been with each other.

[bolilloquemado]

While talking with my dear friend @i-like-cats-and-stars36, he came with a crack idea. Damian's love language is free cats. If he likes you enough, or considers you as part of the family, he would gift you a cat that is personally selected.

I, cat lover, obviously said that yes, that's him. 100% Damian behavior. So when the question of what type of cats would Damian give to his family, I went a bit frantic to be honest 😔👊. And that ended in a list of cats that suddenly got to powerful and now we have, kind of, an Au for your entertainment.

We called it: Picking up Strays.

(This family has a problem, dear god)

So, buckle up Batfam lovers. I'm not kidding. (Btw, credits to all the lovely people who took pics of their cats and ended in pinterest, you're life saviors)

LET'S BEGIN (this is only pt 1, the rest of the family will come soon) (pt2 is up now!)

Dick

The first person I feel he would give a cat to is Dick, we all know why. Since Dick already has Haley and she is the precious energetic baby she is, I feel like Damian would give him a more relaxed cat. So maybe a 5 years old cat could fit, they're not as crazy as the young ones (my cat is nearly five years old and he only knows the activity of sleeping) and probably they could handle Haley without problems.

So I landed with this; a gray mixed between tabby and russian blue with blue eyes, obviously. Is a male and 5 years old. He fits the aesthetic.

Dick arrives at his loft in Bludhäven one night, probably after his shift, to find a cat calmly sleeping on his couch next to a, now awake, Haley. There's food, a bed, some toys, sand, and a note. Something something I know you would take good care of him something something.

Dick is clearly confused, "Damian, wtf are you doing in Blud?!", but upon seeing the cat on his couch (that now was looking at him) Dick just, well, he has a cat now.

He calls the cat Zbor (romani for fly or flying) and Dick's phone is full with how many photos and videos he takes of Zbor and Haley sleeping or hanging out. Zbor would occasionally smack Haley on the head while playing and Dick finds it utterly adorable. All his socials are full of Haley and Zbor.

Jason

Next is Jason. I'm a firm believer of the hc that Damian and Jason meet at the League, maybe they didn't bonded that much, but still knew eachother. So maybe Dami has a different kind of respect for Jason.

Jay ended with a cat by accident. Damian found this 1 month old baby, lost and hungry and probably hurt and Jason's place was the closest so he bringed the baby to him. At firts it was just for a few nights meanwhile Damian found her another place.

So this 1 month old moggies ends at the care of Jay. How many nights has to pass before Jason falls in love with her. Four? Six? A whole week? Wrong. Two nights. She yawns and falls asleep on top of Jason's jacket by accident and that's it.

Jay is a father now. Congratulations!

Later that week, when Damian goes for her Jason invents the most stupid reason for Damian to let her stay, surprisingly Dami doesn't insist, he's just like "Okay." The reality is that Damian's plan worked just fine.

He names her Cat. That's it. Cat. Everyone thinks he's pulling a Jonh Wick situation, and Jay rolls with it. Truth is (thanks Astro) that Cat is the short version for Catherine, as his mother. Jason never calls her Catherine when other people are around, but wait until he's alone in his room with Cat in his chest and Jason would scratch behind her ears while saying, "You're so beautiful, Catherine."

Cat, as she grows, becomes a chaotic good. I also feel like she would LOVE sleeping inside of Jason's shoes until she doesn't fit anymore. Lian and Cat would become best friends, and she would occasionally sleep on Lian's bed too.

Cass

Next is Cassandra. (This one is Astro's favorite). Cass comes back from a trip, probably, and the first thing Damian does is give her a black cat. Not any cat, a brainless stupid cat. Cass, eyes landing on yellow ones, and they have a connection.

Brainless eyes upon seeing Cass (with the tongue out): Mother.

Cass, looking at her cat: Stupid. No brain. Lover her.

Cass names her Blob. Is a british shorthair of 2 years old and likes to headbutt Cass. Have you seen those special bags for chihuahuas?, Cass gets one for Blob, to take her in all of her trips like the spoiled princess she is.

(Credits of the photos and fanart to Astro ♡)

Blob follows Cass blindly everywhere. This often ends with her getting lost on some street meowing loudly until Cass finds her and carries her home calling her stupid affectionally all the way.

Blob is probably the must unproblematic cat of all of them, but I don't recommend leaving her without supervision.

Bruce

When Bruce gets his cat, the rest of the family already has the idea of why Damian suddenly is giving cats to everyone. Dick cried for two hours knowing he was the first.

Anyway, with Bruce's cat is a bit more difficult. The grey turkish angora Damian gets to rescue has been a stray for a long long time. He's 6-7 years old and fights. He doesn't trust humans and Damian has a big scratch in the cheek to prove it with more adding up. No one understands why he brings him to the manor, but Damian is determined.

A few days passes and the old cat finally seems to settle, but he's still wary of them. Nevertheless, Damian claims that the cat is Bruce's. He argues, he doesn't want a cat, he doesn't need one. In the end, Bruce treats the cat carefully. He doesn't know how to handle him nor exactly what to do.

Slowly, the cat seems more at peace at Bruce's side. The kids starts pestering him with a name but Bruce doesn't know. He doesn't know how to name things, by god's sake he named the Batcomputer. Dick jokes about Batcat as a name, you know, for the aesthetic and the Theme. Bruce turns them down while everyone laughs at him.

The problem is that the cat needs a name, he can't keep calling him The Cat and is not like Damian's constant glares makes everything better. So, for now he would call the cat Batcat. Just for now. Until he finds a better name.

He doesn't.

He never finds a better name. And all his children laughs at him. It's Batcat now.

+ Bonus story of Bruce and Batcat

One night, after a rough patrol, Bruce's arrives at his room and nothing feels quite real. Sitting in his bed, maybe a panic attack starts. Everything is too much. Bruce tries to calm himself but he just can't. Hw breathing becomes labored. A warm, heavy and soft something places himself on his lap, and slowly starts purring, Bruce puts his hand on the cat, slowly petting him. And as the purring grows he can finally calm himself enough to come back.

[spider-jaysart]

1: how did Jon and Damian meet in earth 1015?

2: how would they tease each other romantically?

3: how do they cuddle?

4: is the super-sons stories canon? Is so is it exactly the same or is there some difference?

5: who is their arch nemesis? Both together and separate

@pin-crusher2000

1: how did Jon and Damian meet in earth 1015?

The same way as the books, but they were slightly younger instead, like Damian was 10 1/2 and Jon was 9 1/2. Currently in my canon, Damian is now 12 and Jon is 11

2: how would they tease each other romantically?

It's pretty similar to how they used to do it when they were just best friends, but the only difference is that there are plenty of snuck in flirts thrown into it now lol and ends with some kind of affection or them playfully trying to hit eachother. Their love for eachother is too disgustingly cute and it grosses everyone out lmaoooo. It makes them wonder if their old constant fighting was better before this lol/jk

3: how do they cuddle?

Hmmm, the regular position usually. Jon is also the big spoon and initiates them a lot. He is always ready to grab Damian into one lol, even in his sleep, and he doesn't let go so easily when passed out

Despite being annoyed with it way back in the beginning of their friendship, Damian has grown used to them overtime ofc and now loves being in Jon's arms. Sometimes he even initiates them himself too when he's had a bad or long day and just wants peace and comfort to destress and get away from it all in his head, and his boyfriend is the biggest go to for all of that

Sometimes one of them sleeps on top of the other, while the other wraps an arm over them while also playing with their hair. Whenever Jon is laying on Damian, he's listening to his boyfriend's heartbeat, which is his favorite sound out of all things hehe

Other times they just come back from patrol and fall on top of one another and end up in a messy cuddle in their sleep lmao

4: is the super-sons stories canon? Is so is it exactly the same or is there some difference?

Yes, they all stayed the same for my universe, but that only goes for the og books, nothing after those like the age up and Jon solos for example are canon in it. The only thing I would change up though is the way Talia was written, but that's it. What I would rewrite entirely is the after books to fit my version of my universe better, which I already already have kind of done actually lol

5: who is their arch nemesis? Both together and separate

Hmm well, I saw your ask about Jon and a villian Peacock Boy/Man lol and I think it's a very clever and cool idea you came up with, so that's who I pick for him (I haven't answered it yet btw because I have a design that I wanted to put with it lol, so dw). I'm thinking it could be a creepy man who represents Peacocks as something more terrifying then what they are (to Jon at least lol) and happily uses Jon's fear to his advantage as much as he can to overpower him and win in fights between them. But overtime, Jon being forced to deal with this villian a lot of the time only helps him to unexpectedly become stronger against his big phobia so much better, helping him grow the courage to really start kicking this dudes butt and show him who's really boss. But the guy ofc always comes up with new ways to get back at Jon once again until next time, since he is so used to the good old pattern of messing with him as a victim before he learned to finally stand up to him properly, so with this, they still stay arch nemesis no matter what

And then for Damian, hmmmmmm, I got this on the spot tbh, but maybe someone who is just as skilled as him in combat, but with different techniques ofc, and they also have the ability to control the minds of animals they kidnap and makes them commit crimes for them (I'm thinking it should be a girl) and Damian is ofc very against it since he's an animal lover. I have don't have further details to go into rn, but I think it works well as something😅

And then for together, mmmmmm, I feel like this maybe needs more thought since I can't think of much rn, so I'll probably have an idea next time if that's alright

Thanks for the ask, crusher! :)

Hope I answered these well. Send in more if you want

[laiosynth]

remembering i can just post about whatever i want whenever i want

KABRU AND THE BATS AU HCS !!

(for context, an AU where kabru and tim have switched places in the multiverse at birth. i'll make tim's post soon)

- kabru was convinced dick was going to kill him when he first met him as nightwing and accidentally gave away that he knew their secret identities. ever since, dick has been unbelievably gentle with kabru while also being SO relentless in his teasing. kabru will always be known as "the crazy one" to dick and it confuses everyone else.

- kabru and bruce are literally exactly the same. kabru acts like a tiny version of bruce to everyone (in reality, he's just paranoid-- and also knows exactly how bruce's paranoia works, as well.)

- when kabru first arrives at wayne manor, dragged there LITERALLY carried by the scruff by dick, he still puts on his absolute best manners when greeting alfred at the door. alfred was ready to keep him right then and there.

- kabru freaks out, panics, and starts biting people whenever he accidentally acts like a real boy in front of the bats for the first month he knows them. real of him

- kabru has an entire complex view of the world and the people in it and himself-- he sees himself as a fox, wearing a mask to fit in with the world of hounds. a mask, to him, is a tool to survive.

- when kabru goes to save batman and nightwing from scarecrow, he doesn't take the robin suit. he just takes a domino. kabru doesn't take the title of robin like tim did.

- when jason attacks the titan tower, kabru survivors by using EXTENSIVE psychological warfare and then forcing the guy on a 5-day road trip from the west coast back to the east with him. this somehow works.

- jason hates kabru and also would kill and die for him. calls him "foxface" ever since kabru told him about the fox in a mask thing.

- kabru hates jason but also relies on him for literally all of his emotional needs and also would drop everything at any moment if jason asked

- jason has forced kabru to watch star wars and read the hobbit. kabru forced jason to read PJO

- when damian arrived, kabru was instructed "absolutely NO psychoanalysis". he did not listen

- damian, surprisingly, did not see kabru as that much of a threat. kabru took advantage of this big time

- they bonded surprisingly quickly. kabru showed damian how to use kohl, and they bonded over a shared interest in fashion and clothing as a tool

- kabru quickly became damian's favorite, to everyone's dismay

- when cass first arrived, she didn't like kabru that much. he had a lot to hide, and she didn't like that. she could sense the apprehension and careful precision in every movement of his, and she didn't trust it in the slightest.

- until she realized that he was just a weirdo, and resolved to fix his caution with Extreme Prejudice (lots and lots of love)

- kabru doesn't know what to think of cass at first, because she's... almost entirely unmasked. the only mask she wears is one that's entirely blank.

- she grows on him. aggressively.

- steph didn't like him very much for a long, long time. kabru could tell why- his mask was working too well. and she didn't like his mask at all. "mr perfect goody two-shoes" was her go-to nickname for him.

- the only thing that fixes the disconnect (because kabru's too scared to take OFF his mask, that's too far) is dick telling the story of the time kabru bit him. kabru is mortified. steph is delighted. and a bit disappointed she hadn't realized he was just a Freak earlier.

- duke figures out his act quickly and harshly. kabru is a bit worried, actually, until he realizes that people have just started chalking his entire mask and persona up to "bat weirdness"

- duke gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder when kabru realizes this crisis

- bruce is trying SO HARD at this point to bond with kabru any further than "batman and protege"-- pulls out all the stops! calls him chum, literally OFFERS TO ADOPT HIM. kabru is fucking oblivious to bruce's attempts.

- (he's in denial. everyone in the batfam has to get on their case to shake some sense into him)

uhhhh thatd all right now. yay

[mandatory-blog-stop-asking]

Weird thing, but I miss Alfred.

It's shaping up to be one of the longest "deaths" of a famous, legacy secondary character, at least in modern DC history. And in that way, it served the narrative pretty well, subverting the usual problems with death in comics. Sure, it was all over an ego trip some bad former Editor in Chief decided to have on a whim; King didn't really plan to kill off Alfred so nonchalantly and it wasn't meant to stick. People know that, it's well documented and they even had foreshadowing that he was Clayface being a part of the plan. So the fact that it sticks should be lauded, right? This is, after all, how death works.

And, sure, it made some characters grow. Bruce, specifically, moving to a brownstone and taking care of his son all by himself is a genuinely cool idea and I'm enjoying seeing him bond with Damian in ways he never bonded with the others. Dick as a billionaire philanthropist dedicating his newfound fortune to Alfred, his late sponsor, is a genuine stroke of genius. Actual change and progress in comic books, holy shit. A feast Spider-Man fans don't even remember how it tastes!

Yet it sometimes feels like you're reading a Batman book in an empty house, because Alfred is gone, and it was over nothing. An unplanned death that took him suddenly with no real gravitas or preparation. Not exactly the same -- okay, not the same by a wide margin, -- but it kinda reminds me of how Buffy fans reacted to The Body.

The character was here, and now they're not, and it genuinely feels empty and real in a way you're not really expecting popcorn media to feel. There's no power fantasy or melodrama or anything. Someone broke his neck and threw his body on the floor, and that's the end of Alfred Pennyworth.

And like, yeah, man, people obviously write stories about other versions that are alive and flashbacks. Nobody is literally gone from comics, things don't move forward *exclusively*, Alfred is a brand unto himself and will never be truly gone. It's the same reason why aging up Jon Kent isn't that big a deal; Super Sons will release as long as someone gets the approval, it's just going to be a flashback. It's fine. But to see the world having to move forward without him has been quite something, you know? People have had big personal moments that he's not there for.

Dick and Barbara got back together, Jason moved to the Hill, Tim got a boyfriend -- it's the kind of stuff these kids could rely on Alfred to talk about, or to help out with, or to simply Be There as a zealous figure for them, and he's just. Not. And the story moves on all the same, yet now it feels like there's a panel missing, somewhere.

Albeit they had like two or three individual times when the actual fucking ghost of Alfred Pennyworth came to say goodbye and peace out to Bruce, I still think it's a pretty solid guess that he'll come back before the end of the decade. The nature of comics means sometimes you need a back from the dead story to keep things fresh, and those can be done extremely well -- Resurrection of Magneto might be the best thing released in the Krakoa era, as far as fully realized minis go. But...

Shit, Alfred missed Damian going to school, you know? That's really sad. I miss Alfred. In a way I'll never miss Uncle Ben or the Wayne couple, I really miss opening a monthly and reading the latest wit out of Alfred's mouth at his silly son and his funny crusade. The nature of comic books being infinite until they're cancelled means this sort of relationship just doesn't get cut like this very often, and I can't recall the last time I *cared* when they tried cutting it.

It will be an awkward day when he comes back and it's back to normal business again, honestly. There's now an understanding of what Batman is without Alfred that I feel they don't have a great way of addressing. Don't really envy the writer who gets the job.

[technarchussy]

it’s been eating me alive thinking about how much more poignant the storytelling for timbern would have been if tim and the rest of YJ had been aged up earlier in the canon and KEPT aged up instead of playing catch-and-go to the point where tim and cassie’s asses are whole ass adults with lives versus bart and kon who are still suffering from the comic book version of developmental hell by being stuck in high school as adult learners bc nobody cares about them enough as a collective to really write them beyond their rehashed identity issues.

cuz when i think about kon’s sad romantic life, timcassie, and even timsteph, a lot of the drama could have been tied up neatly a long time ago if they were just allowed to grow up and grow out of their childhood demons, but they didn’t. in a way, they’re all still stuck in a hellish timeloop. when i think about why kon’s on his nine millionth identity crisis, or why bart’s Just There, or why tim can never rid himself of bruce’s influence, i just think it’s bc editorial simply cannot give a single shit about what the 90s set of legacy characters go onto do, even tho they have longer and richer histories than nepo babies like damian and jon.

and when i think about timbern SPECIFICALLY and how a lot of folks have rightfully clocked that it’s pretty bland and BL-centric, it just kills me bc timbern as a narrative from START to now is such a powerful story when you disregard fitzmartin and editorial framing their narrative to cater to the americanized BL market. like if tim and bernard’s romantic dalliances had popped off at 35 instead of this weird place where they’re 19/20, i feel like we could have had a much more distinctive narrative about queers coming out much later in life. if bernard’s characterization was truer to his OG personality versus the BL-model, we could have have had a much more nuanced approach of depicting gay folks who used to be assholes and still have a bit of the asshole in them even as adults. more than that, i feel like the story would’ve been richer if bendis had gotten a longer run on yj 2019 and naturally broken timsteph up, versus what actually happened. which is sad bc there’s so much story here that i think got squandered bc of bad context framing and just weakass storytelling. makes me wish bernard had reentered the narrative as an antihero and editorial let him and tim have a violent run of will-they-won’t-they until they absolutely will-they’d by hatefucking on a roof. except tim isn’t bruce and he accepts he can have toxic relationships with men too, and goes onto splitting his time between bernard’s bed and stephanie’s bed. the more i read fitzmartin’s work, the more i want to shoot myself.

[satyricplotter]

Since you like both series have you ever considered what godly parent/canon the Batman characters would be in? I mean, I know it wouldn’t work too well considering heavily established backstories tied to dead parents (I feel like Duke is the only character I could plop into the PJO universe and his backstory would be nearly the same), but in a if you had to or they took a quiz for it kind of way?

ohh. duke would kill it at camp half blood. damn i wish i could draw. i think an AU of this type would have to overtake the heroing thing, yep, full AU, no capes. i think it being an actual story with intention would make results shift quite a bit, so i've just assigned them a god mostly by personality/vibe, sort of removed from context in both universes.

Bruce: Pluto, the roman version of Hades. This one has a more immediate connection with riches, I believe, and the harsher, more disciplined attitude of the roman pantheon suits Bruce better imo. Bit obvious. Nemesis would've been a good choice, too.

Dick: Apollo. Tried to search for an underdog there, but most other options were missing something and Apollo's multifaceted, lowkey powerful but silly-and-goofy kind of demeanor won out.

Jason: Athena. This one I'm not entirely happy with, but I think it's due to the way Jason changes. I still think the brains/stories/crafting/warfare combo is the most suitable for him.

Tim: Hermes. This one is a little sad to me because I think he would be quite at home in the cabin with so many other children after growing up alone. Tim's always been a little squirrelly to me, and there's a certain malleability to Hermes that reminds me of him. My runner up here was Aphrodite, for her persuasive capabilities.

Steph: Nike. I keep going back and forth between her and Hephaestus (volcanos, blacksmiths and sculptors--I don't know why it's giving me Steph, but it is), but I think Nike fits the vibe better.

Duke: Jupiter. This is kind of another obvious one, but I think Duke's got enough mettle and leadership in him, as well as presenting a really good face as the daytime hero. I gave him the roman version because that is the most respectable one lol I was actually thinking of Theia, the titan of Light and Sight, but I thought that'd be cheating.

Cass: Nyx, in her roman form. This one has a little more backstory: I think Cass is a demigod, but she's skilled to the point that she's sort of in the same level as Nyx's godly children. She eventually joins the Hunters of Artemis, though, and I think Artemis likes her very, very much.

Damian: Demeter. Would this be a wild card? I Think Dami holds much gentleness within him. But there is also a certain severity and viciousness in what chaos earth can wreck. I also don't think Damian likes her very much lol

Babs: Hecate. Technology is a form of magic, walk with me. I also think Hecate's manipulations line up with Barbara's way of proceeding, though I'm thinking mostly of her time as Oracle.

[dudethatsmyundeaduncle]

Reblogging my own post cuz I have more to say! (PT. 2)

To me the most poignant part of this Reverse Robins idea is that without Dick Grayson you don't have Robin.

Cuz when you get down to it every Batkid has worn the Robin costume, with the exception of Cass. (BECUZ Duke WAS ROBIN read We Are Robin 🙄)

Meaning every single one of those kids, in cannon, is chasing after the ideal kid-gilante that Dick Grayson left behind.

Every. Single. One.

And then a Reverse Robins AU asks you to think about those same kids without the shadow of Robin. Which is incredibly interesting! Because while I don't think Damian would create a worse or inherently less appealing/impactful first sidekick for Bman, on the contrary I think a young Damian would make an incredibly compelling and heartbreaking sidekick, he couldn't/can't create Robin. It's not who he is.

The same goes for Duke, Tim, and Jason who would follow after him. None of these kids could create Robin.

Fundamentally they can't, Robin's creation so singularly belongs and is unique to Dick Grayson, it's LITTERALLY the name his mother gave him.

But beyond that, the reason it's so poignant to me is that even after the RR Batkids have grown out of the roll of Batman's sidekicks, learned their own lessons, and moved on, I think the first time they see Robin still has to be a life changing moment for all of them!

So much of these charcters development belongs to or is in part because of the time they spent as Robin, because Robin meant something special to all of them.

For Damian it was legacy, for Duke it was the power to make a change, for Tim it was his childhood dream, for Jason it was a chance to fight back.

And I think while they still reach those developments being whatever version of Bman's sidekick that they were, when they see Dick Grayson's Robin they all think " I wish I could have seen Robin as a kid."

Because that's Robin's magic! He makes you feel like you can do anything! Like everything's gonna be ok!

Like grown up Damian,whose probably nightwing, feels, down to his bones, that if he could have brought a fraction of that magic to being the first Batkid maybe the early days would have been better. So he works hard to make sure Robin is safe to be that Symbol now.

And grown up Duke, whose the Signal, probably walks around in Robin merch and hands out Robin stickers to kids on patrol because he knows that Robin makes them feel powerful/strong. (Even if he's still probably looking out for mini fans of his own version of the batkid sidekick)

Tim, who I think definitely has to get lazrus pitted or joker jr'd in RRverse, at all of 19 sees Robin fly in his first days and thinks "I would follow that kid anywhere." Like Tim sees Robin and knows that if he'd seen Dick Grayson dashing across rooftops laughing as a kid he probably would have turned out so differently.

Jason, whose just barely growing out of the batkid sidekick mantel, sees Robin and yeah probably feels insecure about this little kid prodigy but also feels this very embarrassing sense of awe. Like at some point Jason just has to shake his head and make sure his astounding little kid brother doesn't brain himself and gets to keep the magic around a little longer.

Anyway much food for thought I guess, as you can see I'm very normal about this thanks!

The thing I love about a Reverse Robins AU, but I never get to really see fleshed out, is that Dick Grayson's Robin changes everything about being Batman's sidekick.

Like you can make up ur choice of bird or bat themed sidekick to ride along with batman during their tenure at his side and that's cool but the title is Batman&Robin. Like they are thee dynamic duo.

So what I'm saying is, in a reverse robins AU no matter whose sidekick is the first and what name they take inevitably the best team up is Gonna end up being 40+ yrold Bruce Wayne and 8 yrold Dick Grayson.

Like the drama there y'all!? Not just in sibling rivalry, because I'm sure they were all good sidekicks in their own right, but Dick and Bruce together are just different.

Dick as Robin comes out of the corner with a steel chair leaving everyone stunned because he's the best of them. It's not even a competition. If he's not the first then everything from the way he moves, the way he quips, the way he fights, makes him the last.

I can't imagine getting a new little sibling who is just suddenly like a fuckin prodigy out of nowhere. And like yeah obviously he's gonna make mistakes and get into fights with Bruce and constantly be learning.

But can u imagine those older Batkids getting to stand back and watch in awe as Batman&Robin is born. As this little kid who lost everything, home to no place but a circus cart and with nothing but the clothes on his back, creates a legend in Gotham. A legend the city holds their fuckin breath to see born because Robin is magic.

Just...like can u imagine how devestating and amazing that would be as a previous batman sidekick? He's not even a replacement for you because he's so different he's, dare anyone say, better.

This kids in a league all his own and he's your little kid brother Dick Grayson and that's terrifying.

[rapz-rites]

Demon Spawns

Damian Wayne x Powered!Fem!Reader

When your’s and Damians future kids come to the present

A/N: Inspired by @cipheress-to-k-pop version of this. Please give me some feedback, it’s always appreciated :3

Word Count: 2500+

Warnings: mentions of a miscarriage, was lightly proofread and revised

Future

-Honestly, it’s not Mar’i’s fault

-You needed someone to watch the twins as you and damian had to go away on a business trip for a few dayside hours hours and I

-Mar’i eagerly accepted

-Yes, she knew she wasn’t supposed to bring the twins to the cave but she didn’t think this would happen

-The worst she expected was that they broke on of Tim’s gadgets

-She didn’t expect them to accidentally send themselves to the future

-You were going to kill her

-Mar’i did the only thing she could think of at the moment, call her best friend, White Rabbit, aka Lian Harper, to help her get them back

Present

- You and Damian had been dating for a year already

-You really loved him

-After 3 years of knowing him and 2 months of dating, it was only a matter of time until you both found out about each other

-Damian being Robin didn’t entirely surprise you, it just made a lot of sense

-The constant disappearing, the odd phone calls, the weird excuses

-At least he wasn’t cheating (Damian would NEVER cheat)

-Growing up adopted you never knew your birth parents, just that they had to have been metas because you have powers

-You had powers like Kori and more, you even kind of looked like her

-People joked that you could have been her daughter before she came to Earth

-Those jokes make her uncomfortable

-You thought everything about her was interesting: she’s heir to the thrown on Tamaran, her sister sold her, she’s been married 4 other times, and even the fact that she 9 stomachs

-Today was a normal day at the Manor

-Everyone was just chilling in the BatCave

-Bruce and Tim were working on a case on the BatComputer

-To you, everything in the BatCave started with a ‘Bat’

-BatKeys

-BatSeat

-Your secret name for Alfred was Batler (Bat + Butler )

-Dick and Kori we flirting talking by the weapons

-And you were watching Damian train with Jason

-Watching Damian train was one of your favorite pastimes whenever you were in the cave

-Suddenly a bright light purple light flashed in the middle of the cave, right between Damian and Jason as they were jumping to attack each other,

-The light startled them, causing then the jump back

-All the heroes prepared themselves in a fighting stance

-Next thing everyone knew, two small babies, a girl and boy, were in the middle of the cave

-They looked like they could be twins, but you couldn’t say for certain from where you were standing

- Everyone was surprised, two random babies just appeared out of nowhere

-“Aye, Big Bat. Bet you don’t have a protocol for this, do ya?” Jason says trying to break the silence

-The two babies looked around confused

-They couldn’t be older than a 9 months

-Last they checked they were with Mar’i in the BatCave, now they were in the BatCave with strangers they didn’t recognize

-BOOM, waterworks

-“I’ll go and get Alfred” Tim said dashing up the stairs

-Everyone knew he was probably the least qualified to deal with children, mainly because he’s always sleep deprived

-Naturally the two most recent parents went and scooped one up

-“How did they get here?” Dick asked rocking the girl in his arms

-They both calmed down a bit looking at the person holding them and back at each other and back at the adult

-They stopped crying, but were still fussing

-“While they’re like this let’s get saliva for a DNA test to find out who their parents are”

-Bruce took two swabs and collected saliva from each of the babies

-After, Dick and Kori passed the babies around to see if anyone could calm them down

-It wasn’t until Bruce handed you the little boy that he stopped crying, cooing in your arms and little hands reaching for your face

-Jason stopped, looked at Damian, and questioned if it would be the best idea to hand a baby to him

-“Is handing Damian a crying baby the best idea?”

-“Probably not, but it’s the only idea we have” Dick responded

-Handing the baby girl to Damian, she looked at him and stopped fussing, smiling at the face in front of her

-“Never thought I’d see the day” Jason chuckled

-“What do you think their names are?” Kori asked gaining everyone’s attention

-“How about we get in a circle, go in a circle calling out random names and see who they go to” you spoke

-Everyone nodded and hummed in agreement

-You and Damian placed the babies on the floor jointing everyone else in the circle

-Before you could call the first name, a voice interrupted you

-“After this game, I believe you will be needed these”

-The voice belonging to none other than Alfred said

-Tim decided to join the circle at that point

-“Thank you” you called out

-Alfred gave you a small smile and nod before heading up the stairs

-You all started with your little game ‘Name the Babe’

-“Makayla”

-“Isaiah”

-“Nick”

-“Elizabeth”

-After 5 minutes of calling names and receiving no reaction from the babies, a ding

-It was from the BatComputer, signaling the results from the DNA test

-Dick and Kori

-Bruce opened the test and everyone had a face mixed with shock and confusion

-Under ‘FATHER’ was a picture of Damian

-”The Demon spawn had a spawn.”

-Under ‘MOTHER’ was a question mark and underneath it was ‘match not found’

-You turned to Damian with a look a shock, confusion, and… betrayal and one that said ‘please don’t tell me you cheated on me’

-Damian took a step towards you, and you took a step back

-You rushed up the stairs heading into the manor

-Damian rushed after you

-“This makes no sense. Damian has only ever been with anyone other than YN and Raven”

-“And he’s not the type for random hookups”

-Bruce checked the database and noticed he didn’t have yours or Ravens DNA in the system

-“Kori contact Raven and have her come to the BatCave”

-“Bart!” Tim shouted

-“What? Haven’t you been paying attention, Damian is the father not Bart” Jason retorted

-“I know that! But Bart’s from the future. Who says the babies can’t be too?”

-Back in the manor, Damian was looking all over for you

-Your car was still parked in front, so you were somewhere in the manor

-Fifteen minutes later Damian found you on his bed, facing the window, looking at the garden

-You’ve always loved how Damian’s room faced the garden

-He slowly walks towards you until he’s also on the bed

-“Beloved-”

-“I was pregnant”

-“What? When?”

-“Four months ago. I lost the baby early on, I didn’t even know until I went to the ER. I thought it was food poisoning from that Thai place I went to with Steph and Cass, but they told me I had a miscarriage. I was 3 weeks”

-“Why didn’t you tell me?”

-“I didn’t know how and I was somewhat relieved. I always told myself I’d wait until I was married to have kids. Also we can’t raise a kid now Dami. We’re only 21 and you work in a dangerous field.”

-You put your foreheads together, caressing his cheek with your hand

-Damian just wrapped his arms around you, pulling you down, forcing you to lay with him and you accepted his embrace

-“Todd messaged me”

-“What did he say”

-“Tim come to the conclusion that the babies most likely came from the future and father doesn’t have yours or Raven’s DNA is the system, Raven is on her way so they can run the test again”

-“And if they’re not mine”

-“Let’s not worry about that right now”

-After an hour of silence and Damian just holding you, you both make your way back to the BatCave hand in hand

-Raven, and even some League members, are now there too

-“Can I see the little ones” Diana asked with a smile on her face

-She has always had a soft spot for children

-“Careful. She just ate” Kori informed her, handing Baby Girl over

-While you and Damian were gone, Tim made the executive decision to call them Baby Girl and Baby Boy until the mother was determined

-“Awww, so precious”

-The Themyscrian rocking the small baby in her arms

-Baby Girl soon became fussy, most likely from Diana’s cuffs

-Diana handed the baby off to Raven

-It made sense

-We were here to see if you or Raven would be their mother (yk that motherly connection)

-Once Baby Girl was in Ravens arms she quickly calmed down, almost as quickly as she did with Damian

-You didn’t show it, but you felt a pang in your heart

-Damian just squeezed your hand lightly but you couldn’t take your eyes off Raven and Baby Girl

-Bruce spoke up, breaking you out of your trance

-“I need both of you to get a good saliva swab”

-You and Raven both did as told

-“Here. My arms are getting numb” Dick says handing Baby Boy to you

-You smile at the tiny human in your arms

-After 10 of waiting, a BatComputer dinged

-Bruce went to open the results

-Damian standing right behind him, and you and Raven on each side of him

-On the screen where a picture of the babies

-When did they take that picture?

-The babies were at the bottom middle and above them was the same picture of Damian as earlier and under ‘MOTHER’ was a picture of…

-You

-WAIT! How did they get that picture?

-You were too happy to question that

-“Happy to say that Baby Girl and Baby Boy are Y/N’s and Damian’s ”

-“Thank Azarath”

-You laughed at Raven, she pulls you into a hug

-“These babies are so adorable but I don’t think I’m cut out to be a mother. I’ll gladly babysit though”

-“Wait. You guys have been calling them Baby Girl and Baby Boy?”

-No one other than Wally West would ask that question

-“Come one. You can think of something better to call them”

-Before you could say something, Damian stepped in

-“Actually we already know their names”

-You smiled

-You handed Baby Boy to Damian

-“This is Soren Jackson Wayne”

-“Jackson after Drake”

-You walked over to Raven, who was holding a sleeping Baby Girl, and picked her up

-“And my gorgeous daughter. You are Jaylena Mariah Wayne. Jaylena inspired after Jason but means blue crested bird aka Nightwing. For that time you both saved me”

-You and Damian make eye contact not breaking it even when the others spoke

-Dick and Jason both smiled

-Jason punched Roy’s side

-”See that. Demon spawn named his spawn after me”

-“Don’t worry father we plan on naming the next ones after your mother and father”

-You looked away quickly,

-Bruce had a shocked look on his face

-“There’s going to be more?!”

-Jason could already see it: A demon army

-Suddenly another bright light flashed in the middle of the BatCave

-Everyone but you and Damian had a fight stance ready

-Bruce and Dick stood in front of you and Damian

-Two people now stood in the middle of the BatCave, they looked like vigilantes

-One was dressed in all white, with a matching white masked with bunny ears falling along her wavy ginger hair

-The other, well anyone could tell who she was

-Mar’i Grayson

-“Hi mom. Hi daddy”

-The girl in all white removed her mask as she walked towards Roy giving him a big hug

-“Hi dad”

-It was obvious to say that Dick, Kori, and Roy were baffled

-It wasn’t even a few hours ago they saw their daughters in the care of Barry and Iris, playing along with the other superhero kids

-Now they were teenagers, vigilantes at that too

-Mar’I was walking towards you with a pleading look

-“Sis”

-Sis?

-Mar’I never called you sis

-She always called you this funny tamaranean name she heard from Kori, it’s supposed to be a pretty flower but dangerous or something

-“I am so so so so so sorryyyyy. I know you told me not to bring them to the BatCave by myself but it was only for a minute to get something. I didn’t think they would get sent to the past. I put Sor and Lena down for a second then boom they’re gone. Please don’t kill me”

-She turns to Kori and Dick

-“Please don’t ground me”

-You step towards her

-“I can tell you didn’t want this to happen and I know my future self will probably get on you for this. So just please, please get my babies home safely”

-Mar’i nodded eagerly as you handed her Jaylena

-“I promise. I really don't want to be on the LoA’s bad side” she chuckles

-Damian looked slightly confused at the remark

-He gave Soren to Lian, staring her down with a look that says ‘drop or hurt my son, I’ll hurt you’

-“Daaaaddd”

-“Stop scaring my daughter Damian”

-“Tt”

-“Anyways… Congrats on your…nevermind” Mar’i stops when she noticed your promise ring that Damian gave you

-Soren looks at Mar’i, reaching for her but found it no use when Lian wouldn’t let him

-He looked upset

-As he started fussing a blue power orb slowly started to form about a foot above him

-Thinking of only your kids safety, you quickly absorbed the energy

-“Our kids have powers?” Damian asked in shock

-Naturally you were in shock too

-You barely knew the full extent of your powers compared to other metas your age, and now at least one of your kids will have them too

-“At the moment only Soren does. He uhm… does that sometimes. So far it only happens when he’s mad or extremely fussy.”

-Lian’s watch starts beeping

-Before she can even open her mouth Mar’i talks

-“We really have to go now”

-Damian walks up next to you, placing a hand on your waist

-“Bye Uncle D. Bye bye sis”

-Again with the sis?

-You and Damian give a small wave goodbye

-Just like that, with a flash, they’re gone

-Everyone goes their respective ways

-Tears start to well in your eyes when it’s just you and Damian in the BatCave

-“Let’s go to bed, Beloved. It’s been a long day”

-You follow him to his room and you both go to sleep

-That night you dream about your future with Damian, Jaylena, and Soren

Back to the Future(hehehe see what i did there)

-“Great! They’re still sleeping. We can get them to bed before Y/N and Damian get home”

-Mar’i was ready for this day to be over

-She knew she would get hell from you and Damian for what happened

-“Oh. We’re home. What happened?”

-Hearing your voice, Lian took that as her que to hand Soren over to Damian and hop out

-Mar’i turns around to see you and Damian dropped head to toe in LoA attire

-“Uncle D. Sis. Back already?”

-Damian walks over to Mar’i also taking Jaylena in his arms

-He walks over to you, with both twins in his arms, placing a kiss on your temple

-“I’ll put them to bed while you deal with Mar’i”

-With that Damián walks up the stairs into the manor

-“Before you blow a fuse, I know I shouldn’t have brought the twins to the Cave but I had no choice. I couldn’t leave them upstairs by themselves. As soon as they flashed to the past I immediately got help to go get them. And I almost ruined your proposal surprise but i didn’t so that’s something. I promise this will never ever EVER happen again”

-“Go home”

-“What?”

-“Go home. It’s late and we’re all tired. We’ll talk tomorrow”

-“Oh ok”

-You retire to yours and Damian’s shared bedroom as Mar’i leaves

-“What did you tell her”

-“To go home and we’ll talk tomorrow. You know she almost ruined your proposal”

-“Not surprised”

-You slip into bed, cuddling up next to Damian, head on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around your waist

-You bring your left hand up admiring your engagement and wedding rings

-“It was a great proposal”

-“Damn right it was”

-You chuckled

-You look up at a sleeping Damian, admiring the man he grew to be

-Physically he’s always been attractive, but he grew mentally and emotionally

-He wasn’t the same boy who entered the manor when he was 10, emotionally and mentally detached from everyone, doors and windows shut to everyone, stubborn as a mule

- Actually, Damian will always be stubborn

- You both grew to care deeply for each other

… after writing for about 15-20 minutes I decided I wanted to make a part 2 but of the proposal…😚

I kinda want to make another version, the kid is like a teen. Should I???

Should I write why Mar’i called the reader ‘sis’?? Wouldnt y’all like to know? Do you have any ideas?

[thesmollestsnek]

My headcanons for the batfamily’s body types, in no particular order;

Jason - Big. Tall, broad, insanely big muscles hidden under a healthy layer of fat. No particular part of him is more defined, or even particularly defined at all, he’s just Big with a capital b. Absolute powerhouse, the definition of a bear.

Dick - He’s got the gymnast’s build. Probably the most “cut” of the family he’s got the trim waist and extremely defined shoulders you’d find on any high level gymnast/acrobat. Tons of muscle definition even when he’s relaxed but especially when he flexes. Most of his muscle mass is up in his shoulders, seeing him work those back shoulder muscles is a work of art. And of course, you can’t forget that iconic ass ;)

Tim - Honestly, Tim Drake is the kinda guy who looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over. Super pale and insanely skinny with very little definition. Stick thin limbs that pack a surprising punch. He’s got wiry muscles built for speed and endurance over brute strength

Damian - Best word I can think to describe Damian would be “lithe”. He’s small, still a kid and with some of that childlike roundness to his features. He’s a vegetarian which greatly reduces his potential sources of protein, so he’s definitely more on the lean side, at least for now. He may grow into a build more like Bruce’s as he ages but for now he’s short and fairly skinny.

Bruce - Think of a famous actor you’d see posing on a magazine. That’s him. Dorito figure, six pack abs, muscle definition out the ass. He’s the fucking Batman, and has an absolutely insane workout routine to boot. Super tall with the widest shoulders imaginable, but still capable of making himself soft when comforting kids (his own or other people’s).

Cass - Typical ballerina build. Super petite with a surprising amount of strength hidden behind soft slender limbs. Short with a tiny waist and no hips or chest to speak of, she’s silk over steel with an insane of muscle control she uses to make herself as soft and pretty as possible. 100% capable of knocking a man out with one punch, though you’d never know it by looking at her otherwise.

Barbara - First off, my version of Barbara is still in a wheelchair, though she definitely didn’t let that stop her from working out. She may be the girl in the chair both literally and metaphorically, but she still likes to make sure she’s fully capable of defending herself if necessary. Iirc her specific flavor of wheelchair bound is paralysis, so her legs would be fairly small with very little definition, even if she does all she can to exercise those muscles and keep them from atrophying, considering. That being said she has arm muscles for days, super strong both from working out and just using her arms to propel herself and to transfer in and out of her wheelchair. 100% capable of doing a weird little army crawl using just her arm muscles to get around in an emergency if something were to happen to her chair.

Steph - Definitely the squishiest of the girls, though considering they’re all vigilantes that doesn’t necessarily mean much. She seems like the type to have curves, and not work towards having any specific kind of figure. Think a bit of a stocky pear kind of shape. She’s definitely got some muscle definition, but not nearly as much as she could she focuses more on actually being strong than just looking it. A bit on the short side, but not overly so.

Duke: I… honestly know the least about Duke out of the whole batfamily, so he’s definitely the least defined in my head. From what I’ve got, he’s probably more than a bit lanky. I picture him being super tall but not having the body mass of Jason, Bruce, or even Dick to go with that height. Decently strong but more speed oriented, with more of a basketball player build.