#but it was just said by the climbing comm

[airosuiren]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔊𝔦𝔯𝔩 𝔚𝔥𝔬 𝔚𝔞𝔰𝔫’𝔱 ℭ𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢𝔫

A/N: OHHHH we’re starting like this??? Yes. Yes, we are. 😌 Welcome to the fic where the Batfamily fumbled so hard they created a monster. A genius. A legend. And then had the audacity to be surprised when they saw what they lost. This is not your usual redemption arc. This is the reckoning. This is "you had one job and still chose emotional neglect" energy. This is found-family-who-found-better-family energy. So grab a snack. Grab your emotional support crowbar. It’s time to show them what happens when you build yourself from the ashes they left you in.

Thank You @arislia for this Idea! I don't think this is that good (suffering from writer's block😭😭) I still hope you like it!

You showed up at Wayne Manor the week Jason Todd’s body was lowered into the ground.

Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong life.

Grief soaked the halls like rot. No one spoke louder than a whisper. No one looked you in the eye. You were just another weight dropped onto a family already breaking.

Bruce didn’t welcome you. He tolerated you. Barely.

You could feel it every second—the tension, the blame, the absence. Jason’s ghost loomed larger than any living presence. His name was written in the silences. The locked doors. The way Bruce never quite looked at you when he spoke.

Still, you begged to stay. Begged to be part of it. You saw the cave, the mission, the masks—and you thought maybe you could matter if you bled for the same cause. You thought pain could buy you a place.

Bruce said yes.

Not out of hope.

Out of apathy.

You were never trained. You were thrown to wolves. Half-hearted lessons. Cold shoulders. Every patrol was a test you weren’t told how to pass. You were a cautionary tale in the making. The other kids avoided you. Damian sneered. Tim didn’t even register your presence.

And then you messed up.

It was supposed to be simple. In and out. You panicked. Damian got hurt. Bruce’s voice over comms was the coldest thing you’d ever heard.

You were benched. Permanently.

No conversation. No second chance. Just silence.

You became furniture in that house. A shadow. A mistake no one wanted to acknowledge. Alfred stopped knocking on your door. Meals went cold before they reached you. You were invisible—but not gone enough to be mourned like Jason.

So you pivoted.

Desperation turned inward. If you couldn’t fight beside them, maybe you could outthink them. Outshine them. Outgrow them.

You stopped sleeping. You studied until your hands shook. You pushed your body until it gave out. You vomited from stress and kept going. You begged the universe for one thing—see me.

Then came the others.

Dick came home. Tim got promoted. Cassandra arrived like poetry in motion. Bruce remarried. And the new daughter? She was everything you weren’t.

They loved her instantly. She had your dream. Your place. And she didn’t even have to ask for it.

You hated her.

You hated yourself more.

One fight. One moment of pettiness. You said something cruel. The kind of cruel that comes from years of being nothing. And they turned on you like wolves.

Even Alfred.

Especially Alfred.

They made it clear—you were the problem.

So you vanished.

Not physically. But emotionally. Mentally. You became a ghost with a pulse. But outside the Manor?

You became a monster.

You devoured every competition. Dominated every room. Wrote like your soul was burning. Played music like it was a scream for help. You climbed ranks in circles that didn’t even know what a Robin was.

Gotham called you a prodigy.

The Manor never called at all.

So you made new homes. The Queens in Star City. The Kents in Metropolis. They gave you warmth you didn’t know you missed until it wrapped around you.

Clark looked at you like you mattered. Lois praised your fire. Oliver bragged about you at every event. You were someone to them.

And that was everything.

Until the League got a threat.

Someone wanted to expose them. Hurt their families. Drag the secrets into the light.

So they gathered everyone.

And for the first time since you were benched, the Batfamily saw you again.

And they didn’t recognize what they’d thrown away.

A/N: AND THAT’S HOW YOU CLEAR A WHOLE ROOM WITH A SINGLE VIBE. They looked at you like a stranger—and you? You looked like a legacy they never deserved. This chapter is for every reader who's ever been benched, pushed aside, or underestimated. Who found their worth in new rooms, louder voices, and softer families. You weren’t broken. You were unseen. And now? Now they see you. Too late. 😈 Next chapter? Gloves off. Power on. Let’s give them something to regret.

—Your drama-feeding, applause-giving, justice-wielding author 💅🖤✨

Taglist: @feral-childs-word, @trashlanternfish360, @astro-girly1, @suneaterscape, @thatcatladywrites, @arislia, @kittzu, @ottjhe, @tinybrie, @wpdarlingpan, @ryuushou, @simpingpandas

Let me know if I missed someone!

[natsaffection]

Innocence. pt 2 | N.R

Older!Sargent!Natasha × Younger!Soldier!Reader

Warnings: Gore, description of death, dismemberment, injury’s, explosion, blood

Word count: 7,4k

A/N: Penultimate chapter, until we get to the end. All images used are my own (except the Natasha icon)!! So please ask if you want to use them! :)

Part 1

Sleep didn’t come easy.

You lay on your back, staring at the dull ceiling of the container, the small fan above you creaking as it rotated with a lazy, rhythmic whine. Outside, the desert wind whispered against the walls — dry, soft, constant. You’d stripped down to your undershirt, your dog tags resting cool against your collarbone, your hands folded on your stomach like you were already in a coffin.

Your mind wouldn’t shut off. Tomorrow was the day.

Your first real mission. Not a drill. Not a simulation. No instructor with a stopwatch waiting to yell “reset.” This was boots-on-ground, civilians bleeding, enemies possibly lurking in the shadows kind of mission.

You didn’t know if you were scared or excited. Maybe both. Probably both. Rae had passed out hours ago, breathing softly on the other side of the room, still wearing one sock and half-hugging a med bag like a teddy bear. You had smiled at the sight, but now, hours later, you’d stopped smiling.

Every time you closed your eyes, you imagined what you might see. A child missing limbs. A man screaming. A woman with glass embedded in her skin. The unknown made your bones ache. Eventually, exhaustion won.

The alarm hit like a slap. You bolted upright, breathing hard, heart thudding. Your eyes were dry, your mouth dryer. It felt like you’d only closed your eyes five minutes ago. You didn’t speak. Didn’t think. Just moved.

Boots. Vest. Gloves. Radio. Helmet. Sidearm. Canteen. Dog tags tucked. Every motion was mechanical now. Your hands trembled just once, zipping your pack, and then steadied. Rae was already up, tying her hair back. She looked at you, nodded once. You didn’t speak. No one needed to. You both knew what the day was.

You stepped out into the pale early morning light. It was cooler than expected, but the wind carried dust that clung to your lips and lashes. At the rally point, the vehicles were already prepped, dusty, armored trucks fitted with mounted comms and open hatches. Soldiers moved around them in silence. No jokes today. No banter.

This was real.

Natasha stood near the first vehicle, arms crossed, headset slung low on her neck. She gave a quick signal. No speech. No send-off.

Just: “Mount up.”

You climbed into the second vehicle with Rae, Martinez, and two others you hadn’t trained closely with. You slid into your seat, back pressed against the hot metal interior, helmet secure. The hatch slammed shut behind you.

And then, you were moving. The base vanished behind you, replaced by the open sprawl of desert and broken earth. No trees. No grass. Just wind, sand, and the occasional distant shape, twisted wreckage, forgotten fences, lone figures moving slowly with the horizon.

You passed a small cluster of homes, if they could be called that. Shacks built from sheet metal and stone, half-collapsed, windows covered in fabric. Children ran alongside the vehicles, barefoot and thin, laughing like they didn’t notice the rifles pointing past them. One girl waved at you. Just waved. Big smile, missing two front teeth.

You blinked, stunned, and instinctively waved back. Rae elbowed you gently. “First time seeing them?”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“Some just want to feel safe,” Rae said. “Others want answers. Some don’t even know who we are.”

You watched a woman carrying two plastic buckets stacked with water. Another walked with a child on her hip and two more trailing behind her, eyes wide and sunburned.

Through the vehicle comms, a calm voice filtered through, “Convoy One, approaching high ground. Eyes open. Light movement on the north ridge.”

“Copy. Looks like shepherds.”

“Shepherds don’t carry scopes.”

Your chest tightened. Your grip on your rifle increased but nothing happened. The convoy moved forward. Just tension. Just silence.

After 30 minutes the vehicle slowed. And when the hatch opened, the smell hit you first. Burnt wood. Rot. Blood. Ash. The air was thick with heat and the copper tang of death.

You stepped down from the vehicle, boots crunching into the dirt. What had once been a village was now a battlefield without bullets. Collapsed homes. Charred trees. Rubble scattered like the aftermath of a god’s tantrum.

White medical tents flapped in the wind like ghosts. The red cross barely visible beneath layers of dust and smoke. And then the sounds started.

A man screaming. A child sobbing for someone who wasn’t there. The bark of a medic yelling for supplies. The squelch of blood-soaked bandages being changed.

You stood there, frozen. A body lay just fifteen feet away, partially covered in a sheet. Bare feet, darkened with soot. A hand poked out, fingers curled. A fly buzzed around the exposed skin.

You turned slightly, and saw more. A boy, maybe ten, holding the limp hand of his younger sister while a medic worked on a burn across her face. Another man had a gaping wound across his thigh, shrapnel still visible. His leg was blackened with dead tissue.

Some just sat. Still. Staring at nothing. One woman, blood on her arms, cradled a bundle wrapped in white cloth and didn’t look up as the soldiers passed. You didn’t want to know what was inside. But your gut already did.

Over comms, Natasha’s voice came through:

“Echo 9, this is command. Secure perimeter and begin patrol grid. Keep your distance from civ medical tents unless requested. Watch for movement past the east road. We’ve had reports of looters.”

You looked up and saw her. Natasha stood arms crossed, headset tilted, watching everything like it was a chessboard. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

You were supposed to be watching the eastern trail. But your eyes kept drifting back to the field. It wasn’t the smoke, or the tents, or the scorched buildings that held you there.

It was the people.

This was your first time seeing real pain. Not a training scenario. Not a documentary. Not blurry footage edited for public consumption. This was raw, loud, undeniable.

You had seen pain before, bruised ribs in hand-to-hand, blood on the sim floor, a dislocated shoulder during drills. But it had always come with the safety of structure. A start. A stop. A reset.

This had none of that. This was endless. Then, the sound of engines. You turned in time to see another convoy pulling in, three trucks, armored, each marked with the red insignia of a partnered med relief group. They rolled into the center field, tires kicking up dirt.

The back of the lead truck opened with a groan, and a stretcher was pulled out, fast, desperate. Two medics barking words you didn’t understand over each other. Blood soaked the sheet. It trailed behind them, painting the dirt with a thick, dark smear.

The man on the stretcher wasn’t moving. One leg was gone from the knee down. His eyes were open. But he wasn’t seeing.

You turned your head, you stomach tightening. You stared at the horizon instead. Squinting against the sun. This is real, you thought. This is what it looks like when someone’s body gives out before their soul knows how to leave.

You felt something shift inside you. A quiet part of yourself shrinking. And time passed like syrup.

You hadn’t moved much, only rotated position once, now stationed at a higher vantage where you could see the slope leading out of the village. Your comms buzzed faintly, distant voices, check-ins, status updates.

“Report from Bravo-3: local dispute broke out west sector, perimeter holding. One potential hostile removed.”

“Copy that. Civilians reacting erratic, no threat yet.”

“Randals started west of the crater site, looters maybe.”

Your posture stiffened. Your back went straight, your stance shifting slightly, fingers tightening on the grip of your rifle.

Randals. Looters. Opportunists. Or worse.

Your eyes scanned faster now, no more blank stares. Just tight, mechanical sweeps across the road, the rooftops, the edges of the ruins. You saw movement, just a man at first, standing near a torn wall where a roof used to be. Alone. Not near the med tents. Not walking. Just standing.

He was watching you. Your eyes met. Even with the distance between you, something about his stare sent cold sliding down your back. His face didn’t shift. No scowl. No grin. Just locked, unreadable stillness.

Your fingers curled tighter around your rifle. You didn’t lift it. Not yet. But you didn’t look away either. Your pulse tapped faster at your throat. You heard the crunch of boots behind you.

“Easy.” came a voice. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. She came up beside you, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the same man. Her presence was like armor.

“He’s not moving.” Natasha added. “Not armed. Not stupid.”

Still, she looked at you now, a glance, sharp and assessing. “How are you holding up?”

Her tone wasn’t soft. It never was. But it wasn’t ice either. You hesitated, then answered. “Still standing.”

Natasha gave a single nod. Like that was the only acceptable answer. Then she reached into her vest and held out a plastic bottle of water. You took it without a word and unscrewed the top, drinking half in a few quick gulps. You hadn’t realized how dry your throat was. How dry everything was.

“You’re processing.” Natasha said after a moment. “That’s normal.”

Your jaw clenched. “I didn’t freeze.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“But I looked away.”

“Only once.” Natasha replied. “And then you kept watch.”

You looked at her, not quite challenging, but asking something you couldn’t put into words. Natasha didn’t flinch.

“You’re not here to be desensitized. You’re here to act. There’s a difference.”

A pause. The wind carried a scream from somewhere back at the tents. A child crying.

“First missions don’t leave you.” Natasha added, her voice quieter now. “They shape you. That’s the point. Let it hurt. Just don’t let it stop you.”

You blinked, and nodded. Then Natasha turned, her radio already clicking to life again as she walked back toward the main road, her voice low and command-clear. You looked back to the man by the wall.

He was gone.

10 hours later

You stirred awake to the gentle shake of a hand on your shoulder.

“Your shift.” Rae murmured. You blinked, disoriented for half a second. The tent canvas above you rustled with the wind, shadows flickering from the med lights in the distance. Your body ached, but there was no sharp pain, just the dull, heavy kind that came from a long day of watching people bleed.

You rolled out of your cot, boots already halfway on from when you collapsed into sleep earlier.

“Thanks.” you muttered.

Rae just nodded and lay down. You geared up in silence. Vest, helmet, comm clipped to your collar, rifle slung across your back. The routine movements steadied you, anchoring you in something normal.

You stepped outside. And froze.

Out here, far from cities and light pollution, the stars were alive. Not just visible, blazing. Endless pinpricks scattered across the sky like shattered glass. The Milky Way hung thick across the dark like a brushstroke. You tilted your head back, mouth parted slightly, breath caught in your throat.

You’d never seen it like this. Not even on base. The desert was silent. Just the low hum of equipment. The occasional distant cough or rustle. No gunfire. No screaming.

Just… stillness.

You reached your watch point, a small hill with sandbags and a rusted bench set up behind a camo net. From here, you could see the edge of the village. The lights were still on in the med tents. People moved like shadows, dim shapes working through the night.

The pain doesn’t sleep, you thought. You didn’t sit at first. Just stood. Watching. Breathing.

Then, a presence. No footsteps. No noise. But suddenly, someone was there. You turned slightly. Natasha sat down on the low bench beside you like she’d been conjured from the air. No helmet, just her standard fatigues, her braid falling over one shoulder, her face unreadable in the low light.

You tensed. Not because you were scared. Because this was the first time you’d been alone with her. Really alone. No training. No shouting. No commands. Just… a desert, a shared silence, and stars.

Natasha didn’t speak right away. She looked out over the same view, elbows resting on her knees, fingers loosely laced.

“First time overseas?”

Her voice was quiet. Not cold. Not soft, either. Neutral. You took a beat too long to answer. “No. It’s my third.”

That made Natasha turn her head. Just slightly. You didn’t look at her. Kept your eyes forward.

“Third?” she echoed. A note of surprise beneath the calm.

You nodded.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

A pause. Natasha blinked slowly. “You enlisted young.”

“Nineteen. Straight out of school.”

“You volunteered for this deployment?”

You looked down at your gloves. Then, after a beat, “No.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“I wanted another unit. Echo-One.” A faint, humorless smile pulled at your lips. “Didn’t make the cut.”

There was no judgment in Natasha’s face. Just quiet understanding. “Why them?”

“They were the best..” you said simply. “At least… that’s what I thought. It felt like the fast track. Like everything I worked for led there.”

“And when you didn’t get it?”

“I was crushed.” you admitted. “Then they handed me your file. Said echo 9 wanted me. I didn’t know if it was a pity assignment, or a joke.”

Natasha actually huffed, a very soft laugh under her breath. “Believe me..” she said, “I don’t do pity.”

You glanced at her. Natasha’s gaze was fixed ahead, but her mouth turned ever so slightly upward. “You’re doing good.” she added. “Better than you think.”

Your chest tightened. It wasn’t praise shouted across a drill yard. It wasn’t encouragement forced from a superior. It was just truth, said in the calm of night.

“…Thank you.” you said quietly.

The silence after was comfortable. For the first time, it didn’t feel like command sitting beside you. It felt like Natasha. You hesitated. Then bit your lip. Then, because the quiet gave you courage:

“Can I ask you something?”

Natasha turned to look at you. Not hard. Just direct. “You can ask.”

You flushed a little. “It’s kind of personal.”

Natasha didn’t move.

“Was yours like this?”

Natasha turned to you again. “What do you mean?”

“Your first time outside. Was it like… this?”

A beat. Then Natasha smiled, just barely. “No. Mine was worse.”

You blinked.

“It wasn’t a humanitarian op..” she continued. “We weren’t guarding medics. We were the medics. Improvised evac from a collapsed tunnel system. No command. No backup. I was the youngest.“

You studied her. There was no brag in her tone. No drama. Just.. fact.

“We’re you scared?”

“Of course.” Natasha said, almost gently. “I still am. That’s the job. You just learn how to breathe through it.”

You had imagined her as cold steel. Untouchable. Sharp edges and closed doors. But now…you could feel the history in her voice. Not brokenness, but survival.

“Do you ever…wish you’d done something else?” you asked.

Natasha’s eyes flicked back down. And then..softly, she smiled.

“Every day.” she said. “And none of them.”

Then, without a word, she reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a slim, scratched phone. The kind soldiers carried overseas. Secure. Tough and personal.

You watched in stunned silence as Natasha unlocked it and pulled up a photo. She turned it slightly, offering it to you.

A girl. Maybe eleven. Dark hair, same sharp eyes. Laughing in a backyard with a dog chasing her.

“My niece.” Natasha said. “She lives with my sister.”

“She’s beautiful.” you whispered. “She looks like she laughs a lot.”

“She does.”

You smiled a little. Then swallowed thickly. Your fingers twitched at your thigh, the photo was still being held toward you, but what made you freeze wasn’t the picture.

It was the way Natasha was watching you. Not casually. Not with suspicion. With…confirmation. Her gaze was fixed on you, steady and analytical. Like she was adding another bullet point to a mental file she kept locked behind her eyes.

“You get soft when you see kids.” Natasha said, not accusing. Just…naming it. You tensed slightly, the smile slipping from your face. “Is that bad?”

“It’s human.” Natasha replied. “But out here… softness gets turned into leverage.”

She turned the phone screen off, not like she was hiding it, but like the moment was over. Then she leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees again, voice shifting lower, not sharp, but serious.

“You need to be aware of what this place can do.”

You nodded slowly. Natasha didn’t flinch. “You know what children are used for in places like this?”

You blinked, the answer cold on your tongue. “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

You swallowed. “Cover. Distraction. Suicide ops if they’re trained.”

Natasha gave a single, sharp nod. “Or they don't know. You can’t forget that. Doesn’t mean you stop feeling, it means you never let the feeling override your judgment.”

You didn’t look away. “I understand.”

Romanoff studied you for a moment longer, then her posture softened just slightly. She pulled her phone back. With a few taps, she flicked through a few more pictures and showed you a new one.

Same niece, maybe a year younger. Sitting on Romanoff’s lap in a living room cluttered with pillows, a birthday cake half-cut on the table.

“She thinks I’m boring.” Natasha said.

You laughed. Quietly. “You? Boring?”

“I don’t talk about superheroes or animals enough.”

“I mean…valid critique.”

Natasha smirked..barely. Then she said something that surprised you both.

“She reminds me of you.”

You blinked. “Me?”

Natasha didn’t backpedal. Just shrugged, eyes back on the screen.

“You both have that same thing. That softness under all the armor. Most people out here…they build walls. You came here with doors still open.”

Your breath hitched. Not from flattery. From truth. Because it was you. And no one had ever said it like that.

“You sound like you think that’s bad.”

“I think it’s dangerous.” Natasha said softly. “But powerful. If you survive it.”

You looked back out at the desert, letting the words settle.

“I don’t want to lose it.” you admitted. “The softness, I mean.”

“Then don’t.” Natasha replied. “Just protect it better.”

Another silence, but this one felt different. Like something had clicked. You kept talking after that, not about tactics or protocol or pain. Just…life.

Natasha showed you a few more pictures, a snowy street in St. Petersburg, a blurry photo of her sister holding a wine bottle triumphantly, a candid of Romanoff in civilian clothes, smiling like she wasn’t aware the camera was on her.

You couldn’t believe you were seeing any of it. And Natasha watched you see it, like she was testing how much she could give before it felt like too much. You talked about music. About food you missed. About things you’d do after this deployment, even if neither of you believed in the word after.

“You’ll make it through this.” she said. “Just keep that door guarded.”

Silence stretched again, but this time, it wasn’t awkward.

Then Natasha stood. The spell didn’t break. It shifted. Stretched. She looked down at you, “You’re doing fine, Y/l/n.” she said. “Don’t overthink. Just watch. Breathe. Stay present.”

You nodded, mouth dry. Then Natasha reached into her vest and pulled out another bottle of water. She placed it beside you without a word.

And left.

The mission had ended hours after. But the mission inside your head hadn’t. You were pacing. Still half-geared, your helmet tossed onto your cot, your comm still clipped to your collar. You ran a hand through your hair and stopped at the small table in the center of the container.

Rae sat on her bunk, unwrapping a ration bar, watching you with an amused expression that bordered on knowing.

“…and she said it just like that..” you were saying. “Not soft, not cold, just there. Like she meant it. Like she could see straight through me and still…I don’t know. Trusted me?”

Rae smirked, took a bite of her bar, and spoke through the chew. “You’re quoting Romanoff now?”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“You just said it again. That line. About the door.”

You flushed a little and looked down at your hands.

“She said…” your voice dropped, quieter now. “‘You’ll make it through this. Just keep that door guarded.’”

There it was again. The echo of Natasha’s voice. Burned into your memory like it had been spoken under your skin, not just into your ears.

Rae raised a brow. “Damn. That’s kind of poetic, honestly.”

You sat down on the edge of your bunk and unlaced one boot. “It stuck with me.”

“It tattooed itself onto your soul, you mean.”

You threw the boot at her. Lightly. She caught it midair and dropped it with a thud, grinning.

“I’m just saying…” Rae leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’ve never talked about anyone like this. Ever. You’re doing the whole starry-eyed, quiet-smile, soft-voice routine.”

You snorted. “I am not.”

“You are, and it’s adorable.”

You tried to hide your grin, but it crept up anyway. Rae tilted her head. “So. Are we thinking it’s admiration? Respect? Or, and hear me out..!” she wagged her bar like a pointer, “..a possibly hopeless crush on the unit’s most terrifying woman?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then buried your face in your hands with a groan. “Oh my God.”

“That’s a yes.”

“It’s not.”

“It so is.”

You sat up and threw a small towel at her this time. “She’s my commanding officer!”

“Mmhm.”

“She’s literally trained to kill people with a spoon!”

Rae nodded, chewing. “Hot.”

“Rae!”

“What?! I get it! She’s intense. Brilliant. Completely unreadable. Gives you the kind of attention that makes your skin feel electric.”

You froze. “…okay, how do you know that?”

Rae just grinned wider. “Because you’ve been acting different ever since she talked to you. And you’re not the only one who notices. Martinez saw her hand you water and practically wrote a fanfiction about it.”

You laughed, loud and sudden, falling back onto your cot. A pause. Then you added, quieter, more honest: “She even showed me pictures of her niece..”

That made Rae blink. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” You turned your head, staring at the ceiling. “And then she told me to be careful about getting too soft out here. That kids get used for weapons. That…I needed to be more aware.”

Rae nodded slowly. “Classic Romanoff. Emotional intimacy, followed by a lesson in emotional survival.”

“I guess.” You exhaled. “It felt like… like she was trying to prepare me. Not scare me. Like she’s letting me in, but still making sure I know the cost.”

Rae didn’t tease now. She just looked at you, softer. “She’s watching you.” Rae said. “Not like a boss. Like someone who’s already chosen whether you’re worth something.”

Your chest tightened. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Rae said. “Just… keep showing up. Keep earning it.”

You sat in the silence for a moment. Just the creak of the wind against the container walls. The hum of a generator in the distance.

Then Rae grinned again. “But if you two do run off into the sunset together, just know I’m totally raiding your locker for snacks.”

“RAE—”

Five Weeks In

You sat inside one of the lead vehicles, knees drawn up slightly, rifle rested across your lap. The sun filtered through the slits in the armor plating, casting long lines of light across the cabin.

Rae sat to your right, gear rattling softly. Across from you, two others from the unit: Martinez and Gage, looked half-awake, the kind of tired that lives in your bones after five straight weeks in the heat.

And next to the comms, facing you all with one boot braced against the bench, was her. Sleeves rolled up. Vest spotless. Gun strapped over her shoulder. She leaned forward, pointing at the map pinned to the wall behind her.

“We reach the collapsed checkpoint, set perimeter, and assist in clearing wreckage. Eyes open, if they hit it once, they could do it again.”

You watched her speak, and something inside you warmed. The tone. The calm precision. The way Natasha’s voice cut through dust and static like it was sharp enough to split tension in half. You found yourself liking it. Not just the words, but the sound of her. The way she took up space without shouting. You didn’t even realize you were staring, not really, until the next moment shattered everything.

A blast. No warning. No time.

The vehicle lifted. A guttural roar of metal shrieked through the cabin as the truck tipped, hard, thrown to its side like a kicked toy. Your shoulder slammed into Rae. Equipment flew. Dust and sand poured through the cracks. The world became a storm of sound and pain. The vehicle hit the ground again with a metallic scream.

Your ears rang. Your helmet had tilted sideways. Your ribs screamed. Someone was coughing. The radio hissed, voices cutting in and out.

“…Echo 9, come in—copy, copy—what’s your—”

“—Vehicle down, IED—no follow-up fire—stand by—stand by—”

Natasha’s voice sliced through the chaos, harsh and controlled. “Status check! Everyone sound off!”

Rae groaned, “I’m good, I’m..fuck, bleeding, but it’s surface!”

Martinez coughed. “Here. Damn, I hit my head..”

“Y/l/n?” Natasha called.

You blinked again, pushing yourself upright. Your side screamed at you. “I’m okay!”

Natasha twisted toward the radio again, tone crisp. “Command, Echo 9. We’ve hit a device. No secondary detonation. No hostile contact visible. Requesting drone recon for eyes on. Holding position.”

A long beat. Then she turned back toward the others. “Everyone out. Stay low until the drone confirms we’re clear.”

You moved with the others. Rae kicked the door, and it slid open with a groan. Heat and dust poured in. You crawled out, coughing, brushing dirt off gear, checking your weapon. Your legs were shaky, boots slipping in the loose gravel. Every step sent pain lancing through your side. You bit down hard, jaw clenched, blinking spots from your eyes.

You planted your feet outside the vehicle, stood up straight, and Natasha’s eyes locked on you. Not a second of hesitation. Not a flicker..She knew.

“Y/l/n.” Natasha barked, stepping closer, her boots crunching into the dust. “You’re holding yourself wrong.”

“I’m fine.” you said automatically, sucking in breath through your teeth.

“No, you’re not.”

You didn’t respond. Natasha’s eyes narrowed, then flicked to the others. “Rae, Gage, gear a 360. Martinez, eyes on that ridge. Move.”

They obeyed instantly. Then it was just you and Natasha, standing there in the heat, the wrecked vehicle beside you and silence pressing in from every direction.

“Where.” Natasha said, not asking, stating.

You swallowed. “Ribs..”

She stepped in, close. “You breathe tight. You’re protecting your side.”

“I said I’m okay.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but her voice dropped half a tone. “You don’t get to lie to me about injuries.”

You flinched. Not from the voice, from what it meant. Natasha’s eyes flicked down.

“Give me your rifle.”

“What?”

“Your weapon, Y/l/n.” she repeated, sharp. “Now.”

You stared at her. “I-I’m not supposed to handing over my gun-”

She stepped back just enough to unsling her own rifle, lowering it carefully to the ground. Then her sidearm. Her vest still on. She looked up.

“Now give me yours.”

The unspoken message was clear: This is not about trust in weapons. It’s about trust in me. You slowly unslung your rifle. Handed it over. She set it gently next to hers in the dirt. Then stepped in again.

“Arms up.”

You hesitated. Then lifted your arms. Natasha’s fingers went to the vest clasps. Quick. Efficient. Tactical. She unhooked the buckles, sliding the gear off your chest with practiced care, and as she did, you let out a breath that sounded too much like pain.

Then she touched your shirt. You flinched. “Easy.” she said. Not gently, but low..She lifted the edge of your shirt, just enough.

And there they were. Bruises. Deep purple shadows already blooming across your ribs, like a storm trapped under skin. Not broken, not life-threatening, but they’d ache like hell. Every breath. Every turn.

She stared at them. Then exhaled through her nose. “Damn lucky.” she muttered. “If that blast was two feet closer, we’d be dragging you out in pieces.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. For a moment, there was no sound but wind and the soft buzz of radio static from the wreck.

Then, “Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked. Still low. Still unreadable.

“I didn’t want to be a problem.” you answered honestly. “I wanted to keep moving.”

Her eyes flicked up to yours. “You’re not a problem.” she said. Then, quieter: “But you’re not immortal either.”

She stepped back, letting your shirt fall back into place. She reached down, handed you your rifle. Picked up her own.

“You’re off combat rotation for the rest of the day. Command it as injury management if anyone asks.” You opened your mouth to protest. Natasha just stared and you closed it. And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel reprimanded.

The sound of boots crunching through gravel snapped you out of the haze of pain. The others had returned from securing the area, rifles still slung, dust smeared across every inch of gear. No more movement. No threats. Just the ghost of a blast and the burn of adrenaline slowly draining.

Natasha stood near the overturned vehicle, already speaking into her comm. “Echo 9, requesting ground evac. We’ve got wounded, non-critical. Vehicle disabled. No hostiles in the area. Copy?”

The answer crackled through within seconds: “Copy, Echo 9. Evac in fifteen. Sit tight.”

You stood stiffly, arms hugged around your midsection without realizing it, pressure holding the ache in place. Natasha walked past you, crouched beside the wreck, and started unstrapping gear, one pack, then another, and yours.

She didn’t say anything. Just clipped it over her shoulder with her own like it was nothing.

You took a step forward. “Sargent, I can carry it-”

“No.” she cut in, not sharply, but with finality.

“I’m fine. I can-”

“You’re not fine.” she said, standing now, boots planted in the dirt, her voice quiet but unshakable. “And this isn’t about proving anything. You’re not a burden. You’re a soldier who just walked away from a detonation. Let me carry it.”

Something in your chest cracked, just a little, not from pain. From the care tucked inside the command.

“…Yes, Sargent.” you said softly.

Fifteen minutes felt longer when the world had gone sideways. Rae checked your pulse just in case. Martinez kept rubbing the back of his head. No one really spoke. It wasn’t needed.

When the evac truck pulled up, loud, armored, dust blooming behind it, Natasha helped load gear and guided everyone in without a word. You moved slowly, one hand pressed against your ribs. Natasha walked behind you like a shadow.

Once inside, the door slammed shut, and the world became metal and vibration. She sat across from you, arms crossed, eyes scanning. Always working. Always watching. You hated how it made you feel: weak. Exposed. Like you were wasting everyone’s time.

You shifted your weight, and of course, she noticed.

“You’re not deadweight.” she said suddenly, voice low so only you could hear.

You blinked. “I didn’t say any-”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your eyes met. And in that moment, you saw something different. Not softness. Not warmth.

Just…truth. That she meant it. And somehow, that meant more than sympathy ever could. The gates opened, and the vehicle rolled to a halt near the med tent. The second the doors opened, the heat surged in again, and with it, movement.

Medics were waiting, already briefed. Rae climbed out first, joking with the first responder about “light trauma and one badass bruise.” Martinez waved off help but got pulled anyway. Gage limped a little, grunting, but fine.

You hesitated. Your hand hovered over the wall of the truck before you pushed yourself upright and stepped down. Natasha, already waiting at the foot of the ramp, holding both your packs.

She handed off her own to a supply officer without looking. Then, she looked at the medic. “Possible rib trauma. Checked for internal signs. Minimal distress response.”

The medic nodded, gesturing you toward the tent. You didn’t move right away and Natasha stepped closer. “Go. Get checked. I’ll hold your gear.”

“…Sargent-”

“It’s an order.”

You sighed, and finally moved, ducking into the med tent, your heart pounding harder than it had during the blast. And behind you, you didn’t have to look to know..She was still watching.

You sat on the field cot, back straight, hands clenched in your lap. Sweat clung to your lower back despite the chilled air blowing through the tent. The sounds around you were all soft: a pair of boots pacing on the canvas floor, the rustle of a clipboard, the distant hum of a generator.

“Name?” the medic asked, a pen poised over your file.

“Y/l/n.” you answered hoarsely.

“Last four?”

You rattled them off. The medic nodded, jotting.

“Pain scale?”

“…Five.”

The medic gave you a glance that said: You’re full of shit. You exhaled. “Seven. Maybe.”

He crouched in front of you, pulled up your shirt with permission, and pressed gently at the bruises on your right side. Your jaw locked. His fingers were clinical, impersonal and fast, but the second he hit the impact point, your whole body flinched.

“No fracture.” he murmured. “Just deep bruising. Pulmonary signs are clear, no coughing blood, no fluid. You lucked out.”

He stood, marked something down. “I’m clearing you for limited movement only. No drills, no fieldwork, no gear for four days. Compression wrap, painkillers if you want them, rest. Understood?”

You nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The medic handed you a printed sheet, already signed. “Dismissed.”

You didn’t ask questions. You just grabbed your jacket and left the tent. Inside your container, you leaned against the door for a long moment. The silence was suffocating. Your gear was still off. Your skin was sticky with sand and dried sweat. Your ribs ached.

You paced. Sat. Stood. Sat again. Your hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting, twitching against your thighs. You kept hearing the boom. Kept feeling the side of the vehicle lifting, the brief, weightless moment before impact.

What if it was closer?

What if it wasn’t just bruises?

What if-?

Your breath hitched when someone knocked at your door. You swallowed, stood quickly. “Rae?” you called, half-expecting the familiar teasing voice.

But it wasn’t. When you opened the door, your stomach dropped.

Natasha.

Still in uniform. Hair tied back, boots dusty, jaw tense. She held your gear in one hand, the pack, the vest, your weapon, cleaned and locked.

“I figured you’d want your stuff.” she said quietly.

You blinked. “I-I was gonna grab it later-”

“You didn’t,” she said. “So I did.”

You stepped back, unsure of yourself. “Right. Thanks.”

She entered. Her presence filled the room without effort. She set the gear down at the foot of your cot, then looked around briefly, checking, scanning. Habit.

“How’re the ribs?”

“Bruised. Four days off.”

She nodded once. “Could’ve been worse.”

You let out a quiet laugh that didn’t sound right. “Yeah, I figured.” Your jaw tensed. “I keep thinking…what if it was worse?”

Silence.

“I mean-” you shook your head. “If the blast was stronger, if I wasn’t sitting how I was, if I didn’t grab the frame in time?”

Your chest rose sharply. “I keep picturing it. Over and over. My body crushed. Legs gone. Bleeding out. Rae screaming.”

You pressed your hand against your sternum. The panic was rising now, hot and fast. “I can’t stop it. It just keeps looping. And I know it’s over, but it doesn’t feel over, and-“

Natasha crossed the space between you before you could finish. “If it was worse.” she said flatly, “you’d be zipped into a body bag right now.”

You froze. Breath stopped. She didn’t blink. “You’d be cold. On a gurney. Covered head to toe. With someone else writing your death report while they washed blood off the walls of a truck.”

The words were brutal, but her voice softened.

“But you’re not.”

Your hands were shaking. “You’re breathing. You’re sore. But you’re here. And that means you get the choice to recover.”

She didn’t touch you. But she didn’t leave, either. Your body trembled again, and your knees nearly gave out. You braced yourself on the edge of the cot, tears welling, not from pain, not exactly. From shock. From survival.

“I’m sorry..” you whispered.

“No.” she said sharply. “Don’t apologize. You’re reacting like a human. That’s allowed.”

You pressed your fist to your mouth. She crouched then, not to her knees, but just enough to be eye-level.

“You’re not weak.” she said. “You’re processing. That’s what happens when you realize how close you were.”

“I feel stupid.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Your eyes were glassy. Then, slowly, she reached to her own side. Pulled her vest away. Unclipped the top buttons of her uniform, just slightly.

And there, beneath the collarbone, was a jagged, faded scar. Long, pale, old.

“I got this in Fallujah.” she said, voice even. “Close quarters. My partner went down. I hesitated.”

She paused.

“I watched someone die because I wasn’t fast enough. And I almost joined them.”

You stared.

“I have twelve scars like that. Some you can see. Some you can’t.”

Silence, then, “Why are you telling me this?”

Her eyes didn’t leave yours. “Because I don’t want you to think fear makes you less of a soldier.”

Your lip trembled. You looked down at the floor, arms wrapped tightly around yourself.

She didn’t say anything. She just sat beside you on the cot. The quiet sat heavy between you. You hadn’t spoken for a few minutes. Not since the scar. Not since the cot shifted slightly under your weight and your ribs throbbed, reminding you you were alive, and maybe that was the worst part.

You weren’t sure what pulled your eyes to Natasha’s hands, still resting against her knees, knuckles scuffed, veins taut under pale skin, but you stared. Until your gaze climbed up again. Until your eyes met.

And stayed. Your voice broke the silence. “You weren’t supposed to stay.”

Natasha’s brow twitched. “What?”

“with all due respect..You weren’t supposed to check in. Bring my gear. Sit here. Talk like this.” Your throat tightened. “You’re not here for me. You’re not supposed to be.”

Natasha’s face didn’t move. But something behind her eyes flickered. “You want me to leave?”

The silence between you curled tight. Natasha didn’t stand. Didn’t move an inch. Just stared at you with a kind of weight you could feel pressing against your skin.

“No.” you said finally, breath catching.

Natasha’s shoulders eased, barely. Her voice dropped, low and even. “Then don’t ask me to.”

The air between you shifted. Hot and thick. Your ribs ached, but you barely noticed. You were still sitting so close. Shoulders brushing. Legs almost touching. And your eyes..Didn’t move.

Your heart thudded. Your breath shook. Your mind screamed don’t, but something else, something deep in your chest..whispered do it.

And you leaned in. Not fast or dramatic. Just drawn. Like gravity pulling you into a space you didn’t fully understand. Your lips parted. You could feel Natasha’s breath. Your foreheads almost touched. Your fingers twitched against the cot.

The container door burst open. “Y/N, YOU HAve-”

You and Natasha jumped apart like you’d been struck by lightning. Rae stopped dead in the doorway, half-crouched like she expected to see an ambush or a rat. Her eyes scanned the room-

And landed squarely on Natasha. “…oh shit.” Rae blurted, going rigid. Her hand shot up into a textbook salute. “Sargent-!”

Natasha stood, fast. Smooth. Like nothing had happened. Her face locked down so fast it was like flipping a switch. “At ease.”

Rae dropped her hand, but her eyes were massive.

“Sorry, I didn’t.. I thought- I was just-“

“It’s fine.” Natasha said coolly. “I was just leaving.”

She looked at you one more time, just a flicker. Something unreadable in her eyes. Then she was out the door before either of you could speak.

The door clicked shut behind her. Silence. You sat there, stunned.

“Oh my god..!” Rae hissed.

You turned slowly. “Don’t.”

“No. No, no, no- do not tell me I just walked in on you about to kiss the actual, living, breathing, deadly Natasha Romanoff.”

You groaned. “Rae-”

Rae pointed dramatically. “YOU. And HER. Two seconds closer and I would’ve walked in on a war crime.”

“We didn’t even-”

“Oh please, you were inhaled.”

You threw a pillow at her. Rae caught it mid-air like a grenade.

“I need answers.” she said, flopping down beside you. “I want timelines. Did she smell good? Did your knees go weak? Did you black out?!”

You buried your face in your hands. “She brought my gear and I was having a moment..”

“Oh honey, she was the moment.”

You groaned again. And Rae just grinned, vibrating with uncontainable delight. “God, I love this deployment.”

The evening air was cooler now, desert heat giving way to a quiet stillness that only came at night. The stars were just beginning to claim the sky. Someone had dragged a crate and a few foldable chairs into a loose circle, cards already being shuffled by Martinez while Johnson argued with Rae over something dumb.

You sat a little stiffly, one arm curled around your ribs, the dull ache still lingering, manageable now. Rae had all but dragged you out of the container after your Natasha-escape scene with a look that said you’re not hiding from this.

And maybe Rae was right. You needed normal. So now you sat, legs stretched, an energy drink in your hand, trying to laugh at Martinez’s awful bluff and ignore the way your heart still hadn’t calmed.

“You in or what?” Gage asked, grinning.

You blinked. “Yeah. Deal me.”

Cards slapped the crate. Talk flowed. Rae kept giving you that I know what you almost did smirk every time your eyes met. You elbowed her once. Not that it helped.

And then, Boot-steps and low voices. Two shadows joined the edge of the circle. Natasha and Maria Hill - Sergeant of Unit 3.

Hill had her sleeves rolled, casual but sharp-eyed, a cigarette tucked behind her ear. Natasha looked the same as always: unreadable. Confident. Steady. Her gaze flicked across the group once before settling, briefly..on you. You felt it like a pin pushed into skin.

Hill smirked. “What, no invite?”

Johnson scrambled. “Always room at the table, ma’am.”

The group shifted, made space. Hill pulled up a chair. Natasha took one beside her.

Rae nearly vibrated next to you, nudging you under the crate with her boot. You gave her the look of death and pretended you weren’t aware of anything except the five of hearts in your hand.

The game went on.

Talk drifted between units. Some mission banter. Some teasing. Gage bragging about a shot he definitely didn’t make. Hill cursing about someone in command. Natasha barely said anything, just played her hand cleanly, collecting wins without reaction.

You tried to be normal. Tried to breathe. You even cracked a joke about Johnson’s poker face, which earned a real laugh from Maria. But Natasha… Natasha didn’t laugh. She just watched you for a second too long.

One by one, people started heading out. Hill was first, clapping Natasha’s shoulder. “I’m gonna grab rounds with the command team. You staying?”

Natasha just nodded. Rae followed not long after, mouthing good luck to you like this was a goddamn battlefield. And then, it was just the two of you.

You and Natasha. The cards. The stars. The low hum of distant base activity. And a silence that grew thick.

You played in it. Two more hands. Quiet shuffles. Hands folded. Cards drawn-

“I made you uncomfortable.”

You looked up. Natasha wasn’t looking at you. She was adjusting her cards.

Your chest tightened. “What?”

“Earlier. In the container.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Natasha glanced at you, quick, sharp. But not cold.

“You don’t have to explain. But I saw it.”

You looked down at your hand. Queen, seven, ace. Crap..

“I wasn’t uncomfortable.” you said. And Natasha didn’t speak.

“I was…” You exhaled. “Caught off guard. And you’re..” Your voice dropped. “You’re you.”

Natasha set down her hand slowly. King, ten. Beat you easily. “I’m not used to getting that close with anyone out here..” you added.

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “That makes two of us.”

The words landed like a stone dropped in water. You sat with it. Then she picked up the deck, started shuffling again. Not looking at you. Hands steady.

“I don’t let people in easily.” she said, quiet now. “Especially not soldiers I’m responsible for. It complicates things.”

You swallowed. “So…earlier was a mistake?”

A long pause. Natasha looked up. Eyes steady. Locked on yours.

“No.”

Your breath caught. “But it’s not something we can rush. Or take lightly.”

You nodded. You understood that. All of it. The chain of command. The danger. The risk.

Still.. “I didn’t want you to leave.”

Natasha’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Good.”

You played one more round in silence. And when Natasha finally stood, gathering her cards, she paused. Looked down at you.

“Get some rest.” she said softly. And then added, just for you, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And you? You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips.

-

-

-

-

(Original picture of the vehicle who drove on a deterniation)

[sportsallover]

"Purple-kissed clouds in the background"

This is so sweet 🥹

[retiredteabag]

Chilled to the bone

When you were enlisted as a sidekick with The Genius Office agency, you had been hoping to work as a supporting hero for Best Jeanist, you were, in fact, not expecting to be sent into the mountainous wilderness to aid in the apprehension of a snow villain.

Even more so, you were certainly not expecting to be working alongside pro-hero Dynamight.

And yet here you were.

You had been assigned plenty of gear for the mission. The support team at TGO was renown as one of the most competitive in the country for UA support course students. That being said, they were incredibly cautious about the safety of their heroes. They had even provided an earpiece system so your communication through the torrential snowstorm wasn't so tedious.

Your pro counterpart on this mission, however, insisted on screaming over the wind, determined that he didn't "need that nonsense."

And anyway, It had been all for nothing, unfortunately. The mission had been a bust, the villain you were trailing had been apprehended by the time you had reached his hiding point on the mountain and it was fair to say Bakugou was pissed.

There were several expletives shouted into the wind before he eventually fizzled out. He ranted on and on about poor communication between agencies and regional hero work.

The comms between the agency and yourself had given way hours ago and Bakugou now trudged ahead in the snow. You felt as if your body was fighting against every element as the storm pushed you away from your destination.

No matter how often you clicked your ear piece to try to call for help, all you heard was the gentle *da-ding* before static resounded.

You were stuck. Wandering in a complete wasteland, and since the trip had been all for nothing, you couldn’t even feel content.

You had no idea how the lumbering man in front of you was able to pick up his steps so readily and march onward. Lucky as you were to (literally) follow in his steps (deeply planted in the icy snow) it was still difficult to not be discouraged by the blizzard ahead.

After what felt like hours, and a fully uphill climb, the sun finally began to set.

Your ham radio buzzed suddenly in your ear and you realized as it startled you how drowsy you were.

“Are ya still followin’? Ain’t got time to slow down.” Your vision was blurry, but you couldn’t tell if it was because of the snow, or another reason. Dynamight had his earpiece roughly grasped beside his head while he spoke to you.

“Copy. I’m here.” You say, and even just those words seem to take a lot out of you.

Dynamight hums gruffly, “Good. Cause we’ve got a ways to go before civilization.” And eventually, “God it’s cold.”

His words are a huge discouragement, you aren’t sure what to say, so you simply agree, “Yep. Freezin’ my balls off.”

He coughs out a single ‘ha!’ And continues onward. But with everything happening: the raging storm fighting against you, the icy cold frosting your bones, and the sun now beginning to fade, you’re starting to wobble where you stand.

Eventually you cannot even keep your head high enough to watch your partner, maintaining to follow his footprints, one step, then the next, then the next, over and over.

It’s strange, after a bit, it almost starts to get easy, to walk on, your cheeks and ears are starting to feel hot, and it’s as if your legs are floating as you stomp into the large shoe print left for you.

You start to tilt but catch yourself, making an embarrassing sound, luckily your comms weren’t on and Bakugou couldn’t have heard you over the wind.

You rip the covering from your face, the heat becoming uncomfortable now. When you lift your neck, you see the crux of the hill you had been climbing, but the motion thew you, and blood seemed to rush to your skull. It was as if one moment you had been marching onward and then next you were face up in the hard and icy snow.

Awe damn it…

You tried to click your comms, to connect with Bakugou and call for him but it was as if the snow had your arm caged where you had landed.

It didn’t take long for you to accept this position. Your body had never felt so weak. This was nowhere near your first mission, in fact, you were a colorfully decorated sidekick. Who would have known that a little snow would take you out. This was it…

Your head was pounding so you closed your eyes to help block it out. You were so sleepy… maybe it wasn’t so bad here.

You truly and no idea how long it had been but what felt to be all to quickly, you felt your eyes being forced open.

There was shouting, but you couldn’t understand the words.

Bakugou was before you, his hero costume was unbuttoned at his mouth as he yelled at you, condensation puffing out around his face.

He kept brushing you with his hand, he was doing it rather harshly as well.

“S-haap-“ was all you could get out, you made an effort to push him from you but it was fruitless. You were properly immobile.

A new sensation, a strong wave of nausea came over you as your world was thrown upside down. Quite literally, Bakugou had reached under your back and thrown you over his shoulder.

Blood rushed to your head once more as you stared at the back of his uniform. Sick grunts left you as his weight shifted quickly from foot to foot.

He heard none of it.

This time, when you fell asleep, it took much longer to wake you.

When you were finally roused, there was a crackling fire to your back and a broad black and orange chest directly in your face.

You pressed with as much strength as you could harness in your state and realized that it was real.

He was real.

“Huuuua?-“ you gasped, attempting to roll from him. Only to be met with a firm grip on your waist.

“Quit moving you idiot! First you try to freeze to death and now your want to go up in flames??!” You could feel him speaking aggressively into your hair.

There were a million things racing in your mind, but the first thing that escaped you was, “It’s hot…”

A tight hand was roughly making friction on your arms, Bakugou was aggressively petting you. “No, that’s your mind playing tricks on you.”

“Oh…”

Later you would look back on this and bang your head against the wall, throw a fit in your apartment, maybe even consider putting in your two weeks, but in this moment, you burrow your head into the large man’s chest.

“Th-e” you cough, your whole body shutters, “the villain-“

“It’s handled. No thanks to us. But they’re coming out to get us. Helicopter and everything. I’m gonna kill Jeanist.” He’s gnashing his teeth.

“Where are we?” You attempt to turn to the fire you know lies behind you. But a firm hand keeps you from turning.

“Made it to the town, apparently they were expecting us. Agency called once our comms gave out.” He grumbled. “Told ya it was useless.”

You just hum, successfully ignoring how insane it is to be sharing body heat with a top hero that you had previously shared so much as 10 words with.

But as your eyelids began to droop again, you felt his hand grace your cheek, sliding down your back and lifting you towards him once more and he leaned his head back and waited for the agency to retrieve its cold lost hero’s.

��・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

No, I don’t know where this came from, and no I didn’t edit it

[wroetolando]

𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍-𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜 | 𝙻𝙽𝟺

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where she's the only mechanic who truly understands his car, and he's the only driver who truly sees her

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: formula - labrinth

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The McLaren pit was a flurry of motion, a carefully choreographed chaos of engineers, mechanics, and pit crew members working in perfect harmony. The air reeked of oil and rubber, the sound of impact wrenches and radio traffic blending into the background cacophony that had long ago faded into background noise for you.

But in the noise, in the dozens of people who collaborated to make McLaren's car able to fight at the front, your attention was always on one person.

Lando Norris.

Not because he was the star driver. Not because his face was plastered on billboards or millions of supporters chanted his name every race weekend.

But because he was yours. Though neither of you ever said it out loud.

You'd been with McLaren's team for three years, rising from junior mechanic to become one of the lead engineers on Lando's vehicle. You knew that car inside and out like the back of your hand—every shudder, every subtle imbalance in the suspension, every adjustment that would make it hum through the corners just the way he liked it.

And Lando knew that too.

That's why, when something did not feel right, he relied on you to fix it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Thursday – Media Day

The weekend was yet to start, but the paddock was already buzzing. Fans swirled around the entrance, cameras snapped as drivers came in, and reporters filled the media pen, waiting to get their soundbites.

You were concealed in the garage, reviewing the setup notes, your hands already smudged with grease despite the fact that it was early in the day.

You felt his presence before you saw him.

Lando had always possessed this energy—a presence that filled a room even when he had nothing to say. He strode into the garage in his McLaren polo, sunglasses perched on his head, and an effortless smirk on his lips.

"Look busy," he teased, resting against the workbench beside you.

"Unlike some people, I actually do work," you shot back, not looking up as you double-checked the tire pressures.

He clutched his chest in feigned indignation. "Excuse me, I do work extremely hard."

You finally looked at him, an eyebrow lifted. "Oh yeah? Sitting through media commitments and signing posters is exhausting, huh?"

"It's brutal," he theatrically sighed. "You wouldn't understand."

You rolled your eyes, but a little smile was playing on your lips. This was how it always was with Lando—teasing, banter, effortless back-and-forths that had started the moment you'd met.

But something was off today.

You noticed it in the way he lingered a moment longer. The way his fingers drummed against the table, a restless energy building in him.

"You good?" you asked, head tilting.

He hesitated.

It was only for a moment, but you caught it.

And then, in a flash, the smirk was back. "Always."

You didn't believe he meant it. But you let it go—for the moment.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Friday – Free Practice

Something was off with the car.

You knew it before Lando even said anything over the radio.

You watched the telemetry, how the speed traces weren't lining up properly, how he was losing time in the high-speed corners. Then his voice crackled over the comms.

"Yeah, something doesn't feel right. Rear's not stable through Turns 8 and 10."

You exchanged a glance with another of the engineers as you grabbed your tablet and walked towards the garage door. You were waiting there by the time Lando pulled in and climbed out of the car.

He ripped off his helmet, running a hand through his sweaty curls, and scanned the room looking for you immediately.

"Talk to me," you called out over the noise of the garage.

"Feels like the rear's stepping out more than usual. Can't get the rotation I need."

You nodded, already running through possible causes in your head. "Okay, let's check the suspension setup. Could be a balance issue."

Lando didn't argue. He never did with you.

Because he knew you'd get it right.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Saturday – Qualifying

Tension was palpable in the air.

This was what it had all been building toward. The entire garage was locked in, eyes fixed on the timing screens, heart rates rising with each lap.

Lando was on fire.

You were on the pit wall, headset on, fists gripped on your tablet as he stitched the track together immaculately. His sector times were improving. If he could keep this up, he'd be in the fight for pole.

Then—

"!"

His voice came over the radio as the car nipped at the exit of Turn 14.

Your heart missed a beat.

The McLaren wobbled, taking the slide, but it had lost him time. He crossed the line—P4.

Good, but not good enough.

You ripped off your headset, exhaling sharply. He could've been on the front row. That mistake had cost him.

As he climbed out of the car, his jaw was tight, annoyance clear in the way he tore off his gloves. But as soon as his eyes locked with yours, some of that tension eased.

You didn't say anything immediately. You just kept looking at him, unspoken comprehension between you.

Then, finally—

"We'll get them tomorrow," you whispered.

His shoulders relaxed. He nodded. "Yeah. We will."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Sunday – Race Day

The Monaco Grand Prix was ruthless.

Year after year, it was chaos. Crashes, strategy gambles, pit stop drama—it was never an easy race.

And today was no different.

You were on the pit wall, gripping the rail as Lando fought lap after lap, hanging onto P3 for dear life. His tires were going. The Ferrari behind him was closing in. Your heart was in your mouth each time he came through the tunnel.

Five laps to go.

Three.

Final lap.

He took the line—P3. Podium.

The garage erupted. Cheers, hugs, high-fives. But you barely heard any of them since you were already heading towards parc fermé.

By the time Lando emerged from the car, champagne still dripping from his suit, his eyes were only looking for one person.

You.

And once he saw you, he didn't waste any time.

Helmet off, curls wet with sweat, race suit undone at the top—he didn't care about the cameras, the thousands of people watching. He just walked right up to you and pulled you into his arms.

It was quick, barely a second, but the way he held on to you—his forehead against yours, his breathing rough with adrenaline—you knew.

"Thank you," he whispered, voice rough.

"For what?" you whispered in return.

He pulled back slightly, only enough to be able to look at you properly. His hand was still at your waist, fingers drawing along the fabric of your team uniform.

"For believing in me," he said simply.

Your heart missed a beat.

And in a moment, it did not matter that you were before the world. That the cameras were capturing this moment. That there were rules governing how close a driver and a mechanic could be.

Because this?

This was yours.

And nothing—not even Formula 1—could ever take that away.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

[romerona]

Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part II

You knew today was going to suck the second your alarm went off and you briefly, genuinely, considered faking your own death.

Not in a dramatic, movie-worthy kind of way. No, more like… vanish-into-a-data-breach, throw-your-phone-in-the-ocean, start-a-new-life-in-Finland sort of way.

But instead, you got up.

Because apparently, national security outranks your crippling fear of flight—not that it makes the simulator any less hellish, with its cold metal, stale coffee, and that faint chemical tang of fear.

You were strapped into the rear seat of a flight simulation pod, hands locked in your lap like they might betray you at any moment and start mashing random buttons. You exhaled slowly as your eyes flicked across the control panel. So many switches. So many lights. Half of them blinked like they were mocking you. The other half were labeled with words like “altitude” and “engine throttle” and “eject.”

Great.

You adjusted your headset as the technician’s voice crackled through. “Sim will start in thirty seconds, Doctor. We’ll be monitoring vitals and control input from the tower."

You forced a nod, even though your stomach was already trying to escape through your spine. Your breath fogged the inside of the visor. You clutched the tablet tethered to your vest like it was a stuffed animal and you were six years old again.

“Try not to scream this time,” came Cyclone’s voice through the comms, calm and flat like he was asking you to pass the salt.

You offered a shaky thumbs-up that somehow felt more like a surrender flag.

The sim operator spoke next, voice crackling through your headset once again. “Doctor, your objective is to remain conscious, keep your hands away from the panel, and activate the Ethera interface when prompted. We’ll simulate turbulence, evasive maneuvers, and mild G-force changes. Ready?”

No. Never.

“...Sure.”

The sim lurched forward with a roar, and your whole body snapped back into the seat. You let out a startled “whuff!”, eyes wide, heart in your throat. The room around you—walls disguised as sky—blurred as the machine banked hard to the left.

“OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGOD—”

There was no gentle start. No soft acceleration to get your bearings. Just a violent jolt forward, and then you were climbing—straight up, like gravity had been turned into a weapon and pointed directly at your lungs.

Pressure slammed into your chest. The world outside the cockpit blurred. You couldn’t hear anything except your own heartbeat.

“WHY ARE WE TILTING—”

“Initiating evasive pattern,” came the tech’s voice, calm as ever.

The sim jerked again, this time into a sharp roll. The world flipped sideways. Your ears popped. Something primal in your brain screamed: This is how you die.

Your ears were ringing. Your pulse thundered against your ribs. Somewhere beneath the pressure and panic, you could hear the tech’s voice cutting in again—calm, detached, and utterly unhelpful.

“Doctor, you need to deploy the program,” he said. “Fifty seconds. Starting now.”

Oh, shit, you couldn’t even see straight.

Your breath came in short, shallow gasps as the simulated jet banked hard to the right, pressing your spine into the seat like it wanted to keep it. The G-forces made your vision tunnel, your stomach lurching somewhere around your throat.

Your hand fumbled toward the tablet mount, fingers shaking so hard they were basically useless. You tapped the corner of the screen. Missed. Tapped again. The jet jolted. The tablet shifted. Your palm slammed into the side instead of the input.

Forty seconds.

The Ethera prompt blinked up at you—green, glowing, go—but it may as well have been a mirage. You squinted through the dizziness, swore under your breath in three languages, and tried again.

Thirty-five.

The turbulence kicked again, harder. Your chest seized. The tablet slipped slightly in its latch. You tapped the input.

Too late.

“Simulation failed,” the system announced flatly. “Target missed.”

Everything halted—the motion, the noise—everything except your pulse, which pounded on like it hadn't gotten the memo.

The sim pod cracked open with a sharp hiss, releasing a rush of cool air that hit your sweat-slicked skin like a slap to the face. You didn’t move. For a second too long, you just sat there, fingers clenched around the armrests like they were the only things keeping you from unraveling completely. The silence pressed in, thick with the weight of your own embarrassment, humiliation settling low and heavy in your gut like a stone.

Your fingers fumbled at the release on your helmet, hands still trembling from the G-forces and adrenaline. The inside of your mouth tasted like copper and failure. You tugged off the headset next, wires dragging like they were reluctant to let go. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

Your boots scraped against the cold floor as you shakily swung your legs out, and there he was, Vice Admiral Beau Simpson, standing with arms crossed, expression carved from steel.

You wanted to disappear into the floor.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you. Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just… calculating. Like he was already assessing the cost of putting you on a real jet.

“I missed the mark,” you said first, because silence felt worse. “I know.”

Cyclone gave a short nod, like that much at least didn’t need explaining. “You froze.”

You exhaled slowly, willing your heart to stop trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “Yeah.”

His eyes didn’t waver. “You had a job. Not to fly. Not to fight. Just to stay calm. Deploy your program.”

“I know.”

“And you failed.”

You stood on legs that didn’t feel like they belonged to you, one hand gripping the edge of the simulator for balance, the other still clutching the edge of the tablet even though the prompt had long since vanished.

“If this had been real,” he continued, “that satellite would still be feeding your government false intelligence. That jet would’ve been intercepted. And you, Doctor, would’ve been dead, and so would've your pilot.”

You flinched. Not visibly—hopefully—but the words hit harder than they should have. You stared at the scuffed metal floor, heart thudding against your ribs.

“You’re not a soldier,” he said. “And you’re not trained for this. That’s clear.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to defend yourself—but he raised a hand, cutting you off with one sharp motion.

“That’s not an excuse,” he added, voice sharp. “It’s a reality. One you’ll have to overcome, and fast. I don’t expect perfection but I do expect progress. And I expect you to walk into that sim tomorrow knowing what you did wrong—and ready to fix it.”

You blinked hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Yes, sir.”

Cyclone gave you one last look—disappointed, but not hopeless—and then turned, then paused, glancing back.

“And see medical,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You’re pale as hell.”

Then he walked away, boots echoing down the corridor, leaving you standing there with a spinning head, a shattered ego and the feeling of wanting to curl up and cry.

As you moved to make your way toward medical—because yes, apparently nausea, disorientation, and a near-death experience weren’t enough on their own— you skidded to a stop just short of slamming into a very broad chest.

Of course. Of course, it was him.

The handsome, mustached pilot. The one who’d handed you your tablet like it was a glass slipper, back in the briefing room. The one who hadn’t laughed when you dropped it, but definitely thought about it.

His hair was slightly mussed, curls pushed back from his forehead like he’d run a hand through them one too many times. He held two water bottles, one in each hand, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to stay—or if he’d just pretend this was a casual “what a surprise” moment if anyone asked.

You froze. He straightened.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than you expected. A lot softer than earlier. Less smirk, more... sincerity.

“Uh… hi,” you said finally. Nailed it. Pure elegance.

His expression didn’t change much, maybe just a flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth. He held out one of the bottles. “You looked like you could use this.”

You hesitated—more from surprise than anything else—then took it. You took it, fingers brushing his as you did. His skin was warm—too warm for how cold you felt. You tried not to notice.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, unscrewing the cap with hands that still trembled, ever so slightly. The water was blissfully cold against your throat, but it did nothing for the embarrassment still curdling in your stomach.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentler than you expected.

You hesitated, then tilted your head in a noncommittal shrug. “Define okay.”

A ghost of a smile touched his face. “Not crying, not puking, not passed out? That’s the general baseline.”

You cracked a reluctant laugh. “Oh, sure, I’m totally thriving.”

He nodded once, and the silence settled again—less awkward now, more… charged. The kind of quiet that hummed between words. The kind that made your skin feel too tight.

He looked like he might leave, but then he didn’t.

Instead, he shifted his weight, adjusting his grip on the second water bottle like it was some kind of anchor or maybe just something to do with his hands while he said, “You weren’t terrible in there.”

Your stomach jolted—sharp, unexpected. Like missing a step on the stairs. Heat bloomed beneath your collar, crawling up your throat as your fingers tightened around the plastic water bottle.

“You…” Your voice cracked a little, and you cleared your throat. “You were watching?”

God. No.

Why did you ask that? Why would you ever want confirmation?

His expression shifted—just slightly. Not quite sheepish, not quite smug. Just something in the middle.

“I was passing by,” he said, entirely too casual.

You groaned softly, dragging a hand over your face. “Fantastic. I didn’t just humiliate myself in front of the brass. I also had an audience.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he said, his voice laced with something between amusement and sincerity. “We’ve all been there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “In a classified sim seat with national security riding on your ability to not pass out?”

He grinned wider. “Well. Maybe not exactly there.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you take another sip of the water.

“You’re not supposed to get it right the first time." He said, "No one does. You think the rest of us were born knowing how to pull 7 Gs without losing our lunch?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t believe him—maybe part of you even did—but because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if it would come out as a laugh or a cry.

He noticed.

“You know, most people don’t get in the backseat of a fighter jet without years of prep. You? You've got a couple of days, a tech background, and a pulse. That’s it and you still got in. That counts for something.”

You stared at him. “Why do you even care if I mess this up?”

He looked at you then, long and quiet.

“You built something that could change the world,” he said with an easy shrug. “That kind of genius doesn’t come with an eject handle. So yeah. I care.”

You looked away fast, suddenly too aware of how warm your cheeks were.

He leaned back again, casual as ever. “Besides, if I'm the one you are gonna fly into enemy territory, I’d rather know you’re not gonna scream the whole time.”

You snorted. “I’ll scream quietly. Into my elbow. Like an adult.”

He chuckles and you looked at him. Really looked at him. Still in partial uniform, flight suit unzipped to the waist, sleeves tied and hanging loose around his hips. His shirt clung to his chest, slightly sweat-damp at the collar, and that damn mustache made him look both out-of-place and weirdly grounded at the same time.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was kind of infuriatingly steady.

“Can I—” You paused, surprised by your own voice. “Can I ask your name?”

His brows lifted, just slightly, like the question had caught him off guard. But then he shifted forward and extended a hand—open, easy, completely steady in a way that you most definitely weren’t.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” he said. “But most people around here call me Rooster.”

You blinked. “Rooster?”

A grin tugged at his mouth, soft and lopsided. “My call sign. It’s a long story.”

You hesitated for a beat, then reached out and slid your hand into his.

His palm was warm—really warm—and calloused in a way that made you feel every inch of the difference between your worlds. His grip was firm but not overwhelming, grounding. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to apply without overdoing it. His fingers curled around yours with quiet confidence, like this was nothing, like it didn’t send an unexpected little jolt of awareness all the way up your arm.

Your hand was smaller than his, your skin cooler, trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t notice—but something in the way his thumb shifted, just the tiniest bit, made you think maybe he did.

You weren’t sure how long you held on. Long enough to register the strength in his hand, the steadiness, the solidness of someone who lived in the sky but was somehow more grounded than anyone you knew.

“Y/N L/N,” you said finally, your voice softer now. "But I guess you already knew that.”

He gave a small nod, his eyes not leaving yours. "You're hard to forget,"

You didn’t let go right away.

Neither did he.

Then, as if realizing the moment was hanging just a second too long, you both released at the same time—too quickly. Like a secret exchanged and immediately tucked away.

You took a half step back, pulse thrumming in your throat, fingers still tingling from the contact.

Bradley, however, didn’t step away immediately instead, he lingered for just a second longer, watching you with a look that wasn’t teasing or cocky or smug. Just something quiet and steady, then he smiled—small, crooked, the kind that didn’t feel all that teasing but still carried that glint of mischief behind it. The kind of smile that said he saw more than he let on.

“You’ll get it,” he said, voice softer now. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.”

His eyes flicked to yours, and something about the way he looked at you—like he meant it, like he believed it, made your chest tighten.

“But you will.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what you were about to say—maybe thank you, maybe don’t say that unless you mean it—but the words never quite made it past your lips.

Because Bradley gave you one last look, a flick of something unreadable in his eyes, then turned down the corridor, water bottle still swinging lazily from his fingers while you stood there for a moment, then finally exhaled. “Okay,”

Days went faster than you were ready for.

You hadn’t slept much. Not from fear exactly, though there was plenty of that still hanging around like a ghost in your chest—but more from the afterglow of adrenaline. The kind that leaves your body tired but your mind racing.

You’d replayed Bradley's words a dozen times. You’ll get it. You weren’t sure if they’d stuck because you believed them… or because you wanted to.

But when you arrived at the simulator bay, you were expecting to meet with Cyclone, just like every other day, but he wasn't there waiting for you.

It was a new pilot.

She stood near the simulator controls, arms crossed loosely over her chest, already in her flight suit, her expression somewhere between mildly unimpressed and genuinely curious.

“You’re my new project, huh?” she said as you approached.

You blinked. “Um. I—guess so?”

“I’m your point of contact now,” Phoenix said, nodding toward the simulator. “Cyclone thought a different approach might help. And I volunteered.”

You tried not to look too relieved. But you were. God, you were. Cyclone, well, he was rough, for lack of better words, Rooster had been kind, yes, but his presence was a lot. Intense. Distracting.

Phoenix, on the other hand, had that kind of practical, no-nonsense confidence you could actually lean on. She didn’t feel like a storm waiting to happen. She felt like structure.

“I’m Lieutenant Natasha Trace,” she said, extending her hand. “Call sign’s Phoenix.”

You shook her hand, your grip steadier than yesterday—though your palm was still a little clammy, and you were pretty sure she noticed.

“Y/N,” you said, then added with a tired smile, “Doctor. Uh, the nervous one.”

Phoenix huffed out a short laugh, a glint of something sharp but not unkind in her eyes. “I read your file.”

She stepped back, folding her arms as she leaned one hip against the edge of the sim console. Her stance was relaxed, confident, comfortable in her own skin in the way only someone who’d already proven themselves a hundred times could be.

“I also watched your sims,” she added, voice casual.

You winced, your smile turning into a grimace. “Oof. That bad?”

She tilted her head, as if considering how honest she wanted to be. Then gave a light shrug, eyes steady on yours. “I’ve seen worse. A lot worse.”

You let out a low hum, arms crossing loosely over your chest in mock thought. “That’s… reassuring.”

“Isn’t it?” she said, with just enough of a smirk to make you feel like she was on your side. “You hadn't passed out nor puked. You followed instructions until your brain short-circuited. Classic first-timer move.”

You laughed under your breath, surprised at how easily it came.

She finally looked at you then—steady, knowing. “We’re not here to make you into a pilot, Doc. We just need you ready for the mission. The rest? We’ll cover you.”

Something in your chest loosened at that.

Support. No condescension. No sharp edges. Just a quiet kind of strength you could lean against.

“Thanks,” you said. “Really.”

Phoenix nodded once. “Let’s get you in the seat.”

Inside the simulator, everything felt smaller than you remembered.

Not physically—just heavier. Like the air had thickened, like the walls had learned your fears from yesterday and decided to lean in a little closer.

You sat in the back seat again, the tablet already secured to its mount beside your right leg. Your fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, like it might bite. You could already feel your heartbeat in your palms.

“Straps secured?” Phoenix’s voice crackled through the headset. Her tone was crisp, even, the kind that didn’t rise to meet panic—it smothered it before it started.

You exhaled and gave a tight nod, forgetting she couldn’t see it. “Y-Yeah. Good to go.”

“All right,” she said. “We’re starting slow. Just basic turbulence patterns. No evasive maneuvers, no tricks. You’re not here to impress anyone. You’re here to breathe, and press a single button when I tell you.”

You nodded again, this time speaking aloud. “Sure.”

The sim hummed to life around you, and your body tensed automatically—like it remembered what came next, even if you swore it wouldn’t be that bad.

“Relax your shoulders,” Phoenix said, as if she felt the stiffness from her end. “You’re holding tension like you’re about to punch the air.”

The screen in front of you blinked to life. The sim took you airborne, but the motion was slow this time—steady, like a calm climb on a commercial flight.

You forced yourself to breathe out slowly and unclenched your jaw, trying to follow her lead. The shaking wasn’t nearly as bad as the previous day's simulated madness. No rolls. No sharp drops. Just steady pressure. Unnerving, but survivable.

Your eyes flicked to the screen.

The prompt glowed softly. Ethera. Standing by. Timer: 02:00

“This is just a systems check,” Phoenix said. “You don’t have to engage. Just keep your eyes on it. Notice the screen, your pulse, your breath. You’ve got time."

The pod dipped gently into a banking curve. You swayed, stomach flipping. "Keep breathing, Doc."

You gripped the edge of the seat, fingers twitching. “This still counts as breathing, right?”

“As long as you’re not blue in the face, yeah.”

You smiled—barely—but it helped.

The Ethera interface activated on the mounted tablet in front of you. The same prompt, The countdown. You glanced at it and your heart gave one uneasy thud.

“Don’t rush,” Phoenix reminded you, voice even. “One thing at a time. Don’t try to win. Just try to finish.”

You nodded again, reaching out slowly—deliberately—and tapped the screen to begin the simulated deployment sequence. The code began to unfold, and the sim didn’t break into loops or chaos. It kept going. And you were still breathing.

Your hand trembled slightly, but you stayed focused, eyes on the sequence as it loaded in steady green waves. The turbulence passed. The sim steadied.

“Ten seconds,” Phoenix said. “You’ve got it. Keep it locked.”

You kept your hand on the panel. You didn’t blink. The screen counted down.

3… 2… 1…

Deployment successful.

The soft chime of success echoed in your headset.

“Target received,” the system confirmed.

You blinked, then blinked again. “I… I got it?”

“You got it,” Phoenix said, the faintest edge of pride in her voice. “Nice and clean.”

You slumped back in the seat, suddenly aware of just how hard your heart had been working. Your eyes stung—not from panic this time, but from sheer relief.

“Doctor,” Phoenix said after a beat. “That was not bad.”

You couldn’t help the grin that broke across your face, exhausted but real.

And when the pod finally powered down with a gentle thunk, and the hatch hissed open, you realized you’d done the whole thing without white-knuckling the seat.

You’d finally made it through.

Phoenix was waiting for you, arms crossed, leaning one hip against the console like she’d known all along you’d handle it.

You stepped out, legs a still stiff, but your head was clear.

“Not bad,” she said, and this time her smile wasn’t just professional. It was small, but real. “No ejections. No nausea. No hysterics.”

You let out a dry laugh, breath catching on the edge of it. “Just mild existential dread.”

She shrugged, cool as ever. “That’s standard issue.”

Then smiled—really smiled—for the first time since this whole classified, terrifying, completely-out-of-your-depth mission had begun. The kind of smile that pulled dimples you hadn’t felt in days.

“Thanks,” you said again, quieter this time. Not just for the training, but for not making you feel like a burden.

Phoenix nodded once, like she already understood all of that.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said. “We need to move faster. Real evasive sequences. Simulated pressure. Maybe even some yelling.”

“Yours or mine?”

She smirked. “We’ll see who breaks first.”

You laughed again—easier this time—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were pretending.

By the time the week came to an end, you and Phoenix had become friends.

Not in the polite, nod-in-the-hallway kind of way—but the real kind. The kind built through shared silence in the simulator bay, through low chuckles after a successful run, through Phoenix’s calm voice in your headset, cutting through the static and the fear. She never coddled you. Never sugarcoated anything but she never made you feel less, either.

There were moments where fear absolutely took over—where your breath hitched too high in your chest or your fingers trembled too much to find the prompt in time and there were other moments, rarer but growing, where you managed. Where you pressed the button, where you kept your head above water.

Phoenix never made a spectacle of either.

When you panicked, she talked you down, when you succeeded, she just clapped you on the shoulder, tossed you a bottle of water, and said, “Told you. You’re getting it.”

And somehow, that meant more than any standing ovation ever could.

By Friday evening, you had survived four more simulations, logged two successful Ethera deployments, and stopped referring to the ejection lever as “that red death stick.”

Progress.

“You coming to the Hard Deck tonight?” Phoenix said casually, already slinging her duffel over one shoulder as you both headed toward the lockers.

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “What?”

She paused mid-step, turning just enough to glance back at you with that crooked grin she reserved for moments like this—half dare, half invitation.

“The Hard Deck,” she repeated, now walking backward toward the hangar doors. “Bar. Pool tables. Bad decisions. You in?”

You stared for a beat too long, processing.

The Hard Deck.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You’d heard about the place in passing—mostly through muttered comments and laughing threats. It had sounded like a local haunt. Loud. Messy. Full of people who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t care that you didn’t.

“Wait, is that—like, is that a thing?” you asked, trailing after her. “Do people… actually go?”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow like she wasn’t sure if you were messing with her. “Only the ones worth talking to.”

You hesitated.

She paused at the doorway and tossed the final hook. “You’ve survived a week of sims, didn’t puke on anyone, and haven’t cried once. That makes you officially less pathetic than half the new guys. You’ve earned a drink... So?

Your brain, naturally, tried to stall. A bar? With actual people? And more pilots? But your mouth moved faster.

“Uh—yeah, sure,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before your usual social panic could hit. “I could go for a drink.”

Phoenix gave a little nod, like she’d already known your answer. Like this was the inevitable next step in whatever strange, reluctant journey you’d found yourself on.

Then she jerked her chin toward the exit, already on the move.

You hesitated. “What now?”

She didn’t stop walking.

“You go back to wherever you’ve been hiding, put on something that doesn’t scream ‘high-stress lab goblin,’ and I’ll swing by in an hour.”

You blinked. “That specific, huh?”

Phoenix half-turned, walking backward again like she had a personal vendetta against stationary conversations. “It’s a bar, not a Senate hearing. No briefing, no simulations, no threat of fiery death. Just drinks. Loud music. Maybe pool. Probably bad flirting.”

And with that, she was gone—leaving you standing in the middle of the hangar, sweaty, slightly stunned, and suddenly very aware that you owned exactly one outfit that wasn’t issued or work-adjacent.

Oh no. Now you actually had to get ready.

A/N:

Heyyyyy, OMG the support for this story is wild, thank you all so so muchhh!! I honestly did not think it would get this much attention, my first draft was actually a Charlie's Angel reader lol, but I'm so happy you all enjoy this version. I did try to make it as realistic as possible, after all reader does not like to fly I can only imagine being put in her position, so she being frozen out of fear and not completing the mission feels real, at least to me.

And my apologies it took me so long to put it out. Part III is already in the works, so I think it will be out soon.

Thank you all so so much for the support and the comments and reblogs, really.

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[rosemaryhoney27]

Dont mess with our daughter

Wrath of the Fentons

Jason Todd had seen a lot of weird things in Gotham. Lazarus pits, immortal assassins, fear gas-induced nightmares—hell, he'd been one of the weird things, once upon a time. But watching a bunch of black-market meta traffickers haul a very pissed-off redhead into an unmarked van in broad daylight was quickly climbing the ranks of what the fuck moments.

She wasn't screaming. That was the first sign that something was wrong. Most metas—or normal people—would be terrified. Instead, this girl looked annoyed.

Jason had been tracking this particular ring for weeks. They specialized in kidnapping metas with "unique features"—horns, glowing eyes, animal traits, things that marked them as different. The bastards made a killing selling them off to the highest bidder.

The girl—Jazz, he caught one of the thugs saying—fit their usual type. Her hands, bound behind her, had faint green veins pulsing under her skin, as if something otherworldly coursed through her. Her eyes flickered a ghostly green before settling back into a sharp, human blue.

Jason knew that look. It was the look someone got when they were waiting.

For what? Backup? Did she have a tracker? A hidden weapon?

He was about to interfere when Jazz sighed dramatically and muttered, "You poor, poor idiots."

Jason didn't have time to wonder what she meant before his comms flared to life with a frantic Oracle.

"Red Hood, stand down—I repeat, do not engage—the girl's parents are en route, and—holy shit—these guys have no idea what they just did."

Jason frowned. "Parents? Who—"

And then he saw the tank.

It barreled down the street, mounted with weapons that absolutely should not be street legal, glowing green with ominous energy. The side of the vehicle had a logo painted in jagged white letters:

FENTON WORKS

The doors flew open, and a massive man in an orange jumpsuit leaped out, wielding what could only be described as an anti-aircraft cannon converted into a rifle. His wife followed, a visor covering her eyes, her sleek blue bodysuit glowing with strange symbols.

"JAZZ!" the man bellowed, aiming the cannon at the traffickers as if they were just another ghost to blast into oblivion.

"Hey, Dad!" Jazz called, still completely unbothered as one of the thugs tried to hold a knife to her throat. "You might want to be careful. They think I'm a meta."

"Oh, honey," her mom said, pulling out a gun that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi horror movie. "They won't be thinking anything in a few minutes."

Jason took a slow step back.

He'd seen Bruce handle hostage situations with surgical precision. He'd seen Dick talk down armed criminals with nothing but charm and a smile.

He had never seen two civilians go full scorched earth on a meta trafficking ring without so much as a plan beyond "rescue daughter, destroy everything."

The traffickers barely had time to react before green energy blasts tore through their van, their weapons, and the street around them. The sheer destructive enthusiasm was a sight to behold.

One thug made the mistake of aiming a gun at Maddie Fenton. She shot him with a glowing net that phased through his skin before electrifying him into unconsciousness. Another tried to run—Jack Fenton threw what looked like a modified bear trap, which snapped shut around the guy’s legs and dragged him back, screaming.

Jazz, still tied up, sighed as one guy tried to use her as a human shield. "You do realize that you're standing between me and them, right?"

The thug barely had time to consider his life choices before Maddie calmly shot him in the leg.

Jason, crouched on a nearby rooftop, slowly exhaled.

Well. The ring was definitely out of commission.

As the Fentons loaded the unconscious criminals into their highly illegal ghost-proof containment units, Jazz finally noticed Jason watching. She arched a brow.

"Hey, Red Hood, right?"

Jason, still processing, just nodded.

Jazz smirked. "You look like you're having a what the fuck moment."

Jason stared at the still-smoking wreckage of what used to be a human trafficking operation and then at the grinning, trigger-happy Fenton parents.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that about sums it up."

[natalievoncatte]

Content Warning: It is very lightly implied but there’s part of this that may be upsetting.

Kara bolted awake to the sound of a scream, and when she bolted awake, she bolted. Her forehead thumped the ceiling and someone in the loft above hers yelled for her to stop that fucking racket, but it didn’t matter. The blood curdling, gurgling shriek of terror was still ringing in her ear and she had but a single thought: Lena.

She threw up the sash of her window so hard the wood chipped and leaped into space, alien power folding the air behind her so hard that the entire building shuddered, and she had to stop herself from going hypersonic and breaking every window on the block.

It was Lena. Her voice cut through the constant barrage of human and mechanical and animal noises around her. It sliced through a wall of arguing spouses and sighing lovers and wailing sirens, through the secret language of cats and the grinding of the tectonic plates beneath all their feet. It was not a mere scream but a shriek, a wail of agony and terror that made her blood freeze even as she rocketed through the city in a blur, dozens of pedestrians looking up as she blasted overhead.

Lena’s place was across town, an hour on foot- for a human. Kara made it at the speed of thought, arriving so fast that Lena was still screaming as she landed and wrenched open the balcony door and stormed through the penthouse.

When she brushed open the bedroom door she found a cowering Lena curled in the corner in a pile of bedsheets, staring at nothing, shaking violently and shrieking.

Kara jabbed the comm bead in her ear.

“Alex!”

“What?” Alex said, groggily. “Kara? What time is it? Why… who’s that screaming?”

“It’s Lena. I need help. It’s like she’s still asleep but she’s screaming and her eyes are open. She’s not reacting to me.”

“What the hell is she doing at your apartment at three in the morning?”

“I’m at her place. I heard her screaming and flew.”

Alex let out a pained sigh. “Please tell me you remembered the suit.”

Kara looked down at her threadbare pajamas and frowned.

“Yep, sure did. What do I do?”

“Get off me!” Lena choked out, “get off me!”

Her eyes wide wide with horror, but worse, her heart was beating incredibly fast, her pupils tiny points. She began swiping at nothing with hooked fingers, tangling herself in the sheets, which only drove her into a deeper frenzy. L

“Alex! What do I do?”

“Try to get her back into bed. Gently. Speak slowly and calmly.”

Kara nodded. “Lena?”

She was met with another round of screams.

“Lena, it’s me, it’s Kara. I’m hear to help you.”

“Kara?” Lena choked out. “No, you have to go, you can’t, they’ll hurt you too.”

“No, they wont,” Kara said, soft but firm, kneeling in front of her. “No one can hurt you when you’re with me. I’ll protect you.”

Kara gently placed her hands on Lena’s shoulders. Her skin was fever hot and a vein stood out on her forehead, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

Very slowly, Kara began to shift her towards the bed, finally giving up and lifting her entirely. Lena clung to her in a full body arms-and-legs hug.

Alex crackled in her ear.

“Stay there. I’ll have J’onn do a sweep of the area just to be sure.”

“Don’t go,” Lena murmured, “Kara please, don’t go please.”

“I’m right here and I’m not leaving,” Kara said, lowering her to the bed.

It was… awkward. Kara had no choice but to climb in with her. She grabbed an armful of silk sheets and down comforter and sheltered them both within it, packing herself up into a tight roll with Lena, arms locked around her.

Lena’s screaming had stopped but she still seemed unaware, her focus entirely on Kara as she sobbed lightly into her chest.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you, it’s okay,” Kara repeated, like a mantra, lightly running her fingers over Lena’s scalp.

“You’re safe, I promise.”

Lena buried her face in Kara’s throat and sobbed. Kara continued to stroke her hair, and almost without realizing it, started singing.

“Kara,” Alex said in her ear, “the channel is still open. Kara, you’re singing a Kryptonian lullaby!”

She didn’t care. She jabbed her ear to silence the little voice and continued to sing, the same song her father used when she had nightmares in the groundquakes when their world was shaking itself apart.

Lena’s breathing finally slowed. The tension slid out of her and her breathing and pulse eased. She fell into a deep, deep sleep.

Kara could leave now, if she wanted. Skip away and let Lena think it was all a dream, though she might wonder what happened to the lock on her balcony door.

She could, but a promise was a promise.

Eventually, her own lullaby lulled her to sleep, and she drifted off into a dreamless rest of her own.

When the sun draped a warm touch across her skin and Kara opened her eyes, she found herself oddly well rested for someone who’d woken up at three in the morning and flown across town. Lena dozed lightly in her arms, tucked against and under Kara so naturally it was as if they were made to slot together this way. Kara lay turned and curled around Lena, a fortress of living walls around her smaller frame, even as she clung to Kara’s waist.

She still had time to leave, to let the night be a mystery… but something stopped her. She wasn’t sure if it was the soft, sweet scent of Lena’s hair or the way Lena’s breath tickled her throat or the soft weight of her or the delightful sensation of her breasts pressed against Kara’s own but she needed this, she wanted this.

Lena was looking at her.

“Are you real?” she whispered.

“It’s me, Lee.”

“Why are you here?”

Kara licked her lips and sorted through fifty lame excuses. What would it be this time? Lena butt dialed her in the middle of a night terror? She forgot her hairbrush?

No.

“I heard you screaming and I flew here to protect you.”

Lena blinked, clearly groggy, her brows pinched in consternation as she worked it out. Kara waited.

“Oh,” Lena said, finally.

“Yeah,” said Kara. “I can go if you’re upset, or you need time,” her voice grew thick, “or if you’d rather not see me anymore.”

“No,” Lena snapped, almost angrily, then more softly, “please stay. I’d like you to stay, I… I need you to help me feel safe for a while.”

Kara nodded.

“I had a terrible dream. It was so real. I dreamed Lex sent people after me in my office, but they weren’t there to throw me off the balcony this time. I tried the gun I keep in my desk but it had no effect on them, and Jess didn’t hear me screaming and no one would help me.”

“It wasn’t real,” Kara murmured. “That will never happen. I will always be there when you need me.”

“What if you’re too far or you’re too busy?”

“I’m never too busy and I’ll never be too far. I’ll give you a signal watch.”

“A signal watch?”

Kara nodded. “Like my cousin gave James. If you use it I’ll be able to find you anywhere.”

“God, Kara in can still feel the hands on my throat. It was so real.”

“It wasn’t, I promise. I’m real. Can you feel me?”

Lena suddenly seemed a touch embarrassed, but didn’t pull away.

“I can definitely feel you.”

“Good. You’re safe. We don’t have to get up yet. Just lay here with me in the sun and you’ll be safe.”

There was a knock at Lena’s door and they both jumped.

Alex’s voice crackled in her ear.

“I’m at the door, Kara. Let me in.”

“Kara? What’s going on?” said Lena.

“Alex is at the door.”

Kara started to slip out of bed and Lena almost frantically followed her, pressing close behind. Kara looked through the door -a little relieved that Lena hadn’t lined it with lead- and saw Alex standing there in full agent gear. She opened the door.

Alex raised a brow. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” said Kara. “We were going back to sleep.”

Alex swept into the apartment.

“J’onn caught a guy. Two-bit mercenary hack, calls himself Doctor Destiny. Uses a drug to enhance latent psychic abilities- he’s a dreamer, messes with people’s heads while they sleep. J’onn gave him a taste of his own medicine.”

Lena tensed beside her, and Kara felt it.

“Alex, where is he now?”

“Back at headquarters in a holding cell. I made arrangements for him to be transported to Belle Reve, with a cape escort.”

Kara paused for a long moment.

“Alex, can you stay with Lena for a few minutes?”

Lena paled even further, the blood draining from her face.

“Kara?”

“I won’t be gone long, baby. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

“Baby?” said Alex.

“Shut up,” Kara snapped.

Lena gave her a slight nod of assent.

Kara decided to make this quick. She flew home first, changed, and landed on the DEO balcony all in less than five minutes. When she reached the holding cells, she told the guard on duty to get a coffee and let herself in.

He was an unassuming man, average height and build with scruffy hair and a five o’clock shadow. He looked more like a petty crook that got caught robbing a corner store, less like a supervillain.

“You’re ’Doctor Destiny’?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you do this on your own or were you hired?”

“Fuck off,” he said, with a shrug. “I’m going to the hole until Waller comes in to cut me a deal. You’re a Supe, you don’t scare me. Maybe send the Bat if you want to-“

Kara took two steps across the cell, seized his throat in a crushing grip that almost crushed his windpipe, and pinned him to the wall like a struggling insect beneath a sadistic child’s thumb.

“What the fuck?” he croaked out.

Kara turned her head slightly and hit the wall with a pop of heat vision that scorched the concrete and left a warm red spot.

“What the fuck?” he said again.

“I can see it,” Kara said, her voice as cold as ice. “I can see the little quirk in the back of your brain that gives you powers. One little blink and it’s gone.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“It’s too bad that there’s some important structures in the way, but you probably don’t need those language and motor skills.”

“You can’t!” he screamed.

Kara leaned in close, eyes smoldering so that he could feel the heat begin to sting his flesh.

“Wrong. I’m Supergirl. I can do anything.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! It was Edge! Morgan Edge! He paid me fifty grand!”

“Fifty g-“ Kara snarled, gritting her teeth. “Listen to me. They’re taking you to Belle Reve. I want you to tell everyone there. Everyone, do you hear me?”

“Tell them what?”

“If anything happens to Lena Luthor, I have no rules.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll tell everyone I promise! I swear!”

Kara let go and turned, ignoring his cries as his knees hit the concrete floor, and slammed the cell shut behind her.

When she landed on Lena’s balcony, Alex was sitting with her on the couch. The color had come back to Lena’s cheeks and she no longer looked small and frightened, her eyes no longer darting to corners and thresholds as if she expected something to pop out from behind them.

“Lena is going to pack a few bags and come stay with you for a few days,” said Alex. “I convinced her that crashing on Supergirl’s couch is a better security system than what she’s got, and while she’s out I’m going to have our tech team integrate her security into the DEO so we’ll know instantly if she’s in trouble.”

Lena nodded at all of this.

Kara knelt before Lena and gently took her chin by a curled finger and raised her gaze.

“You’re under my protection,” she said. “I swear it.”

Lena’s eyes sparkled and she gave Kara a soft smile, cupping Kara’s hand in her own.

“Okay, Brave Sir Kara, let’s take milady Luthor back to yonder castle.”

“Shut up,” Kara muttered.

The trip home seemed to calm Lena even more, as she laughed at the two sisters bantering with each other after Kara changed and climbed into Alex’s car, leaning forward from the back seat to poke her head between Lena and Alex and tease her sibling.

Lena ended up staying a full two weeks.

The “sleeping on the couch” concept didn’t even last the first night.

[olliev3r]

i said i would redraw it, and i’m actually pretty happy with this one. i wanna explain a few design choices/hcs

jay has a medicine pouch bc I think he’d be a field medic. zane does all the medical stuff when they’re on the bounty or at the monastery, but since jay is the fastest I think he’d serve that role during battle. he also would wear exclusively converse lol. he has lightning scars, most prominently on his face. he’s partially blind in that eye

lloyd has rosacea. it’s pretty common in fair skinned people, and i don’t see it represented often in art

nya likes to dye her hair. she dyes it blue not only because of water, but also because it’s jay’s color. he is the one that helped her dye it

kai has fingerless gloves bc his fire keeps burning the cloth off, until he finally removed them. he also regularly sets his hair on fire without realizing

nya and kai are the same exact height. the only reason he started making hair spikes is so that he would look taller than her. he ended up keeping them bc he liked how they looked

cole can’t work if his forearms are restricted. that’s it lol. he also has steel-toed boots. he has scars on his arms from various hikes and rock climbing accidents

zane uses ice skates. he mostly uses hockey style ones in battle for speed, but he sometimes figure skates for fun. he always has a comm with pixal in his ear

also just a fun note, the height diff between jay and zane is close to me and my younger brothers height diff irl (im shorter)

this is the original that this is a redraw of

[grimdarling69]

Another Dan and ellie deaged p2

Dick wasn't unaccustomed to getting calls at five a.m., but he wished it had happened less. He reached his hand out from the haphazardly placed blanket and fumbled for his ringing phone. Finally finding it, he quickly answered to the call. I swear if this is an arkham breakout, it better be the goddamn joker. He will be very upset if Tim just calls him in for condiment king.

"Hello?" He says sleepily. He winces and rubs his eyes away from the bright light of the phone.

"Dick. I need your help, Damian got spooked somehow and ran away. I'm pursuing him but i can't get him to stop."

His heart drops. Immediately awake, he jumps up from the bed and tries to find the suit pieces he threw around when he crashed last night.

"What happened?" I found myself asking, hoping this was just a misunderstanding. "I don't really know. We were down in the cave, and I guess he knocked a tool off and woke me up. I asked him what he was doing, but he didn't answer me and just ran to the bikes."

He could hear the slight panic in Tim's voice. "I'll call him."Wait -" I hang up.

I quickly dialed Babs number. If Damian left as fast as tim says he did, he probably didn't have his phone. I glance at the windows, one of my gloves is placed on the seal. Rain is still coming down hard. Thunder rumbling distantly.

"This better be goddamn joker." Me and Babs always thinking the same thing, I think fondly.

"Damian ran away, and I need you to connect me to his comms."On it now. I'm calling in the others just in case."

A click is heard, and I can hear slight wind and heavy breathing through my own comms. I hang up the call.

"Dami?" I ask hesitantly. His baby brother son was out there alone in the rain.

I hear a sharp intake of breath, but he doesn't speak. I quickly throw open the windows after grabbing my last glove. Skillfully and methodically climbing down. Throwing myself on my bike. Come on, Dami, answer me.

"Whatever is going on, you can tell me, okay? I'll help you no matter what. I promise." He meant every word.

The bike starts, and I race down the streets in chase of the tracker. I just need to make it to Gotham in time.

__________

Bruce was no stranger from his kids running away. They'd all done it at least once. It never got any better whether they were running from him or others didn't change it. He just had to remember they always came back.

Alfred watches off to the side. Making sure if i start to go down, he could catch me. I won't. A few broken ribs and a sprained ankle won't stop me. He had gotten the call in his bedroom. Alfred had finally wrangled him into sleeping when the call came through.

"Bruce. Damian fled the nest. Dick and Tim are in pursuit, but i don't think he's stopping anytime soon." Her tone heavy but focused.

He had quickly made his way down to the cave. Alfred had stopped momentarily to wake up his other son. He would be down soon.

I start to make my way to my suit, but I'm quickly thwarted.

"Master Bruce. You will be no help with might i remind you of five broken ribs, a sprained ankle, and a stab wound." Alfred told him stepping in front.

"My son is out there. i need to find him."he said with a deep voice heavy with memories. He knew Alfred was right he would only be a hindrance. He could walk off his injuries they were barely flesh wounds, but he wasn't good with emotions. He had plenty of arguments with his kids about it before. Whatever scared Damian into running, he couldn't help him.

Duke's footsteps sounded out behind him. He walked past, gancing at him concerned but determination on his face. He turned around and limped back to the batcomputer. He just had to trust his sons to bring their brother home.

‐---------

Jason was no stranger to long nights. He hadn't even made it to his safe house anyway, too busy with the storm, making sure all the alley kids had a warm and dry place to sleep for the night.

Stormy nights were the worst for alley kids. He hated them when he ws on the streets. The cold rain freezing your clothes to you, the cold rain soaking your shelters, the cold rain ruining any halfway edible food. He's seen a lot of kids get sick from the rain and die. If you were sick, you had to hide. If others found out you were sick, they'd leave you in a heartbeat. It caused a lot of fights with Bruce in the early days. He hid his injuries or sick days in case Bruce finally saw how weak he was and threw him out.

"Damian fled the nest. The rest of the batboys are already heading out after him." Oracle spoke into his comms.

The Batboys. What O had recently started calling Dickhead, Timbo, Duke, Demon brat and him ever since the batgirls left to Hong Kong together.

Demon brat, his obligation in the league. When he left, he'd assumed he'd never see him again, or if he did, it'd be from opposite sides. Sometimes, it felt a lot like opposite sides regardless.

Jason revved up his bike again he was mostly done with his people anyway. He would have to have some of his trustworthy men on the lookout for stragglers.

He pulled up his tracker to Damian. He winded through the streets following it.

---------

Crack

Thunder sounded out. Dick had hated the rain ever since... He just hated it. It was worse, so with Dami out there all alone. He didn't even know what had scared him enough to run. Damian would never run just cause what he knocked a tool over? That didn't sound like his brother son. Something else must have happened. He just had to figure out what.

"Nightwing. Report." Bruce growled into the comms suddenly. His throat felt dry. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't speak.

"SHIT!" A crashing sound loud enough to echo on the comms could be heard. Tim, dami, please be alright. He was just now reaching the Gotham border. Just hold on, I think desperately.

"Red Robin, what's happening on your end." Bruce demanded.

"Red Robin is fine. Damian deployed the bike sludge. He had to grapple backward to avoid the sludge. I think his leg is broken."

"Be careful, Signal, one wrong move with your powers, and you could light that right on up." Jason attempted to banter. Jason and his bad habit of deflecting by using humor. Something he's gotten in trouble because of before.

"We are on the warehouse that we busted yesterday with that drug deal across from Gotham Bridge. We lost sight of him." Duke ignored Jason's comment and carried on.

"Damian has stopped near gotham bridge hurry. Cameras aren't looking good."

"Oracle. Report, what do you see?" He can hear Bruce's gravelly voice tinged with desperation. Please don't do what I think you're going to do.

"I think he might jump."

The silence was suffocating.

Click.

Damians comms came back online.

"Damian?" Bruce's voice sounded distorted and echoes to his ears.

"Dami, can you hear me?" He knew he could.

"Yes."

"Master Damian, please come home." Alfred didn't beg, but he swore he could hear it in his voice.

"We can help you. Damian, don't do whatever you're planning. Please." Jason's voice was desperate.

" Please, Damian, listen to us. Let us help you."he was begging at this point, but he couldn't care less.

"I'm sorry Richard, but I don't think you can."

Click.

Crack

Lightning broke the illusion of quiet peace. The rain thundering just as loud against the ground.

-------

Jason drove as fast as he could, but by the time he and dick made it, the bike was the only thing left of his brother.

"Damian!" Dick tried jump off after him. "Dick! Stop!" "Let me go! I have to save him. Please..." His voice was thick and course. His brother's mask was starting to peel from the wetness.

"I know. I know..." He collapsed to the ground, taking his brother with him.

The headlight flickered ominously in the heavy rain.

[incorrectbatfam]

Damian being a gen alpha implies in gen alpha Jon too ...

[at a sleepover]

Damian, whispering: Jon?

Jon: Yeah?

Damian: Our planet is doomed.

Jon: Yeah, it is.

Jon: Wanna sneak downstairs for snacks?

Damian: Sure.

———————

Steph, as a Batburger cashier: Sorry ma'am, that product was discontinued months ago.

Jon: *secretly starts recording*

Margie: You didn't even bother to check! What kind of lazy service is this? No wonder the world is the way it is with your generation. I should call the corporate hotline right now and report you for refusing to serve a paying customer. See how you like it when you lose your job.

Damian: Hey Karen, she said they don't have it anymore. Either get something else or leave. Some of us have places to be.

Margie: And who do you think you are?

Damian, pointing to Jon's camera: The best friend of someone with 150,000 followers.

Jon: Say hi to the internet!

———————

Damian and Jon: *putting up hand-drawn posters around town*

Comm. Gordon: What are you kids doing?

Damian: Advertising our joint channel.

Jon: We're gonna have an epic Cheese Viking and Fortnite mashup tournament.

Damian: Proceeds go to the Wayne Foundation.

Comm. Gordon: *scribbles a note and hands it to them*

Comm. Gordon: If anyone asks you for a permit, it's on me.

———————

Damian and Jon: *huddled around the Batcomputer*

Jon: I think we should sort it by distance instead.

Damian, typing code: Good idea.

Barbara: What's that?

Jon: Our new website.

Damian: It allows people to report stray animals they see without the risk that comes with physical contact.

Barbara: Oh, cool. Carry on.

———————

Kara: What do you want to drink?

Jon: Mountain Dew. Dami, you want one?

Damian: Depends. Is it vegan?

Kara: *starts typing into Google*

Jon: Hey Alexa, is Mountain Dew vegan?

———————

[texting]

Jon: Dami, get on Discord.

Damian: Why?

Jon: Live-action One Piece streaming in the Gay Minecraft server.

———————

Jon: Ms. Kyle, check it out!

Selina: What is it?

Damian: TikTok added a set of Catwoman stickers.

Selina: Show me.

———————

Kate: I still think you are far too young for things like Instagram.

Damian and Jon: *snicker*

Kate: What?

Jon: Well, Ms. Kane, how should we put it...

Damian: No one uses Instagram anymore.

———————

Jon: *takes a 0.5 of him and Damian with Dick in the background*

Damian: You're in our BeReal now. Deal with it.

Dick: What's a BeReal?

———————

Damian, handing Jon a rock: I would like to buy this playhouse.

Jon: Too bad, the economy just disappeared.

Lois: What are you doing?

Jon: We're playing Society.

———————

Damian: Alfred, we're hungry.

Alfred, on the phone: *makes the thumb and pinky gesture and mouths "I'm busy"*

Jon: Huh?

Alfred: I'm on the phone, boys.

Damian: I think he meant this.

Damian: *puts his palm to his ear*

———————

Jon: Parkour!

Jon: *hops over a log*

Jon: Parkour!

Jon: *climbs a tree*

Damian: *recording*

Clark, to Bruce: That's one way to play.

Bruce: Mhm.

Clark: Do you ever get worried about, you know, how these kids are turning out?

Jon: Parkou—

Damian: Wait, stop, there's a bird's egg here. I wonder what species it is.

Jon: I have an app that can scan it.

Bruce, to Clark: I think they're gonna be alright.

[arandomao3user]

Batfam incorrect quotes because I can:

—

Dick, sitting in the middle of a hallway:

Tim, braiding his hair:

Bruce: . . . Why?

Dick: He needs practice.

Bruce: For what???

Tim: Hair braiding.

Bruce: ??? Why?

Dick: So he can braid hair, duh.

Tim: So I can braid hair, duh.

Bruce:

—

Tiny Jaybin Jason, climbing onto a table: I'm taller than you >:D

Dick: No, you're not!

Jason: Am too!

Dick: You're just standing on something! You're not actually taller!

Jason: No, I'm taller than you.

Dick: BRUCE!!!

Jason: I'M TALLER THAN YOU ALL!!! >:D

—

All the batkids standing in a bathroom:

Damian: And this is how you PROPERLY put toilet paper on the toilet paper holder.

Damian, putting toilet paper on the holder:

Dick: Why?

Damian: . . . Because I said so!

Tim: I agree with him, it's the most convenient.

Jason: ??? You're all idots.

Cass: It doesn't matter.

Dick: I wouldn't say it doesn't matter, just that way is dumb.

Damian: HOW DARE YOU!?

Tim: No wonder you take so long in the bathroom, you don't know how to manage time! Having it facing you is—

Jason: This is so stupid!

Bruce, stopping outside the door: . . . Why are all my children in a bathroom together???

Tim: YOU'RE ELDEST IS A DISAPPOINTMENT ON THE FAMILY NAME!

Damian: I for once agree.

Dick: I WISH I WAS AN ONLY CHILD!

Jason: I wish I boosted the Drake's tires instead.

Tim: WHAT!?

Bruce: . . .

Bruce, walking away as violence ensues: Nope.

—

Stephanie, under her breath while patrolling: This was never the way I planned it, not my intention,

Cass, joining in on comms: I got so brave, drink in hand, lost my digression,

Jason, shooting someone in the kneecap: It's not what I'm used to.

Duke humming and muttering from comms: Just wanna try you on,

Dick, flicking Tim in the head, singing: I'm curi-ous for you!

Tim: ??? Caught my attention—

All of them: I kissed a girl and I liked it! The taste of her cherry Chapstick! I kissed a girl just to try it! I hope my boyfriend don't mind it!

Damian: Father..?

Bruce, sighing heavily: Just let them get it out their systems...

—

Tim: I love you.

Bernard: I loved you first.

Dick, driving: You two just got caught trespassing on private property and are going to jail, can you two not?

Tim: Buzz kill.

Dick: TIMOTHY JACKSON DRAKE-WAYNE!

Bernard, snorting:

Tim: RICHARD JOHN GRAYSON!

Dick's partner in the passenger seat: . . .

—

Damian, storming in: Kane!

Kate and Cass: Yes?

Damian: The homosexual one.

Kate and Cass: Yes???

Damian: . . .

—

Bernard, staring into their oven: How much sugar did you put in those, Tim..?

Tim: It said one and a half cup, but didn't specify which cup :/

Bernard: . . .

Tim, holding up a large coffee mug: So I used this one.

Bernard: Timboo?

Tim: Yeah?

Bernard: Have you heard of a measuring cup?

Tim: ???

—

Duke: Okay, Tim, it's pride month. Y'know what that means?

Tim: Post about queer history to help educate people, donate to organizations that help trans and queer kids, and attend a couple pride parades as Robin?

Duke: You gotta stick it to the man. Your oppressors.

Tim: . . . I'm not oppressed, Duke. I'm a rich white male CEO.

Duke: Yeah, but you're French, and that means nobody likes you 'cause you can't win a world war and start a revolution every other century. Didn't even invent French fries.

Tim: ???

Duke: Anyways, next time ya see B, stick it to him.

Tim: Bruce is supportive though—

Duke: You're not gettin' the point. Just look at Dick!

Dick, flipping Bruce off while yelling from afar:

Bruce, yelling back:

Damian, yelling in between them while waving his swords around:

Duke: A natural.

Tim: He does that every day of the year and isn't even out to anyone.

Duke: He's ahead of the game, man.

Tim:

—

[sightseertrespasser]

Sunny Side Screw-Up part 2

Me: Hey, what if Bluestreak was a great sniper because Tacnet enabled him to view the world in slow motion, kinda like bullet time?

Later me: Wait, what if he experienced Bullet Time All the Time and THAT’s why he’s like that?

The mecha AU was spawned by @keferon, go check ‘em out!

———————————————————————

For hours, Prowls processor continued to spiral well after Jazz disconnected the drift bond. The steady crackle from Bluestreaks currently inactive comm lines did little to settle him.

Individually, Prowl curled each of his digits, then released. The fingers Ratchet replaced were still numb. But the phantom pains stayed sharp.

“Hey.” A hoarse whisper at his hip got Prowl to online his optic.

“You should be resting, Jazz.” The Praxian whispered back. If Ratchet saw them both up the doctor would likely make good on some of his threats. Or Deadlock would.

“I’m gonna.” The human leaned against his side, shoulders wrapped in a spare blanket.

“You’re lying.” Prowl stated as flatly as if he’d pointed out Jazz was bipedal.

“Hmm, just getting it out of my system so you know I’m gonna be serious next.” When the pilot moved to climb up Prowl’s thigh, he gave him a slight boost with one servo. Weak as Prowl was, Jazz still weighed basically nothing.

“Ratchet said you already pushed past your limits for the day. I do not think it’d be wise to reconnect right now.” Prowl watched Jazz for every minute tremble, delicately adjusting the plane of his servo to support him as evenly as possible.

“We pushed it today. And s’alright. Wasn’t going for that.” Jazz laid back in Prowls palm, getting comfortable.

Given the pattern of their past interactions, Prowl preemptively readjusted to lay down on as well, before Jazz could begin guilting/bargaining/tricking him into resting properly.

Jazz, knowingly, smiled.

“I know you’re scared for him. But Bluestreak is gonna be fine Prowler. He’s got you, and you’ve got us.”

“I had myself and you and I still got vivisected.” It was a low blow and still a raw wound for the both of them. His missing platting stung.

Jazz closed his eyes. Prowl could still hear the echos of what thoughts that would be racing through his head.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. This is a nightmare scenario and I can’t believe you aren’t completely loosing your shit right now.” A sour note came through his field. “I just don’t want you to fry yourself with worrying.”

Prowl sighed, “I have come to terms with our current limitations. The plan currently underway is definitely the best chance we can possibly give him.”

“I do not have enough information to predict how the Twins will conduct themselves..” Prowl briefly paused to send a scheduled Check In ping to Bluestreak. Continuing once he received the Return ping.

“But I know my brother, and that’s what has me worried.” Despite himself, Prowl felt his face almost twitch a smile when Jazz’s EM field chimed against his palm. He could feel the human silently laugh.

“Little brothers are something else, but have a little faith in him okay? Bluestreak just needs to play it cool until we can debrief the Twins. He doesn’t even have to actually lie. All he needs to do is walk and shoot, and I’ve seen him shoot.”

Jazz rolled onto his side to face Prowl, who still frowned but was coming around.

“Look, it took me nearly two days to figure out I was literally surrounded by aliens who weren’t even trying to hide it.”

“You had a concussion.” Prowl grumbled.

“And I’m a very clever fucker.” Jazz raised a pointed finger.

The human snuggled back into his blanket, “Never in a million years is anyone just gonna guess he’s an alien shaped like a mecha.”

Prowl hummed in assent, choosing to let his systems wind down, save for his Comms.

Yawning, Jazz finished his thought, “The only way they’d find out he’s from space is if Bluestreak straight up told them.”

———————

“And that star cluster is about where Cybertron is!”

The fading red-gold of the sunset had given way to dusty dark blue twilight. This far from any civilization, the stars did not shy from taking the stage early, casting the desert in a cool toned glow.

Sideswipe looked where he was pointing and nodded along. Sunstreaker likewise examined the sky for a moment before continuing their trek.

“You guys are good listeners.” The Praxian smiled.

Bluestreak shifted how he was holding his rifle for the nth time that afternoon. “I wish I could just subspace this but Jazz said that would be too openly weird and you guys might try tearing my hip apart.”

Unsurprisingly, Sunstreaker showed no sudden comprehension of Bluestreak’s native language. The yellow mecha was too preoccupied with digging out a quint fang from his plating. Similarly unaware, Sideswipe had found a small boulder and played an improvised game of how long he could kick it along their path.

Bluestreak checked his Tacnet Dilation: 25%.

“Did you know I taught Prowl and Smokescreen how to use Tacnet to shoot better? Cause I did. They taught me pretty much everything else though about how to function. They’re my brothers by the way, which is kinda funny to think about since you guys are brothers too but ‘organic brothers’ are kinda different from ‘Cybertronian brothers’. We’re all Cold Constructs designed by the same people but that doesn’t actually have anything to do with being brothers.” With family on his processor, the Praxian flicked a ‘Hey guys!’ out of habit without thinking. He didn’t notice the twins simultaneously pause for a second beside him.

“The word translates directly into English but I think the origins are totally different. A literal translation of “Brothers” in Cybertronian would be something like “Those who are most familiar to me.”

He counted the decimal points of each passing click to pace himself. Making sure he was talking at a socially acceptable level. After 4 clicks, his will broke down and the gap of silence was filled.

“Hey want to hear how we met?” Bluestreak looked up at the hulking mechas with wide optics, questioning tone riding through the air.

The twins looked at each other briefly before shrugging.

Aside from his brothers, mechs that knew his particular reputation would take that pause in his chatting as an escape route from the conversation.

Bluestreak understood. It’s why he tried to leave gaps in. He scuffed his peds in the dirt while waiting for a response.

A curled servo came into his peripheral vision. With a little difficulty, Sunstreaker gave him a crude thumbs up, his mecha not really built for fine motor controls.

“Really?” Bluestreak beamed, checking in with Sideswipe as well who was also nodding in the positive.

The Praxian began his tale, “So it happened a little under two million years ago.”

——————

The crowd around the train station moved in a tightly packed slow motion torrent.

“-taken at specified slots-“

“-one hundred and fifty shanix is-“

“-consult the map if she really-“

Words, sentences, broken paragraphs and contradictory orders buzzed across his processor. His internal dictionary pulling up definitions and explanations almost too fast to keep up with.

Tacnet Dilation: Increase to 75%?

Huh?

[Yes]?

Oh!

That’s so much better.

If he picked out one voice at a time, he could decipher each glyph as they came and string it together. Mildly entranced by how they interlocked and changed the information they carried as it dripped into his echoing memory banks.

For example:

“Get out of the way you useless cop!”

An upward swing from behind struck him, jamming his doorwings at the apex of their mobility.

The mech would have fallen forward if the density of the crowd allowed it. They stumbled, struggling to stay upright as the mass of mechs around him pushed inexorably toward the trains.

New information came through. Bright boxes burst across his vision and new words wrote themselves on his processor. This new sensory input was competing with every other piece of stimulus for his immediate attention.

He didn’t like it.

What is it?

[Pain]

Oh, is this a setting that can be changed?

[Pain - Repair - Reset- Doorwing (1)]

[Pain - Repair - Reset - Doorwing (2)]

How? How do I fix them?

[Pain - Repair - Reset]

I don’t understand?

[Pain - Repair - Reset]

The logic branch repeated incessantly, almost as bad as the distraction of the pain itself.

The praxian began asking every mech who passed nearby how to reset his doorwings. Sometimes, they’d kindly tell him they couldn’t help. Other times they’d push him off harshly, fields flashing with hostility. One even told him to go jump on the tracks. Before he could actually consider how that’d help, an orange mech scolded the harsh one and pulled the praxian to where they could speak into his audial.

They told him they couldn’t fix his problem, but if he found other mechs with doorwings like his, they would help him.

“How do I find them?”

The orange mech adjusted a pair of spectacles, smiling, “Just listen to your wings young one, you’ll get there.”

It was then he realized something else was coming through the sensor net of his doorwings. A muffled, irregular pulsing, coming from one of the train cars.

He forgot to thank the skinny mech and pushed through the crowd, past the overwhelmed conductor.

Reduced Sensory Input, Tacnet Dilation: Decrease to 25%?

[Yes]

The inside of the train car was packed, no one would be leaving without numerous scraps and dents by the end of their journey. He tried not to flinch every time a passenger bumped into his back with very little success. Spurred on by pain and desperation, the Praxian pushed rudely past the other passengers who each added new and exciting expletives to his steadily growing lexicon.

He followed the signals like a lifeline to the back of the train.

Two Praxian enforcers sat side by side, doorwings flicking intermittently. Both of them leaned forward with their elbows on their knees, either from the exhaustion clearly written across their faces or simply because the bench they sat on wasn’t made to accommodate the extra limbs on their backs.

One was blue with a yellow chevron, lazily leaking smoke to pool against the ceiling. Seemingly absorbed in people watching.

{ ···· · -·--     ·--· --··--     ··· · ·     - ···· ·     --- -· ·     ·-- ·· - ····     - ···· ·     ···- ·· ··· --- ·-· ··--·· }

The other was monochrome save for a bright red chevron, scanning the crowd with a critical optic, locking onto his approach.

{ ··     ·-· · --· ·-· · -     - · ·-·· ·-·· ·· -· --·     -·-- --- ··-     ·- -· -·-- - ···· ·· -· --· }

{ ·· ’ --     ···· · ·-·· ·--· ·· -· --· }

{ ··- -· -·- -· --- ·-- -·     · -· ··-· --- ·-· -·-· · ·-·     ·- ·--· ·--· ·-· --- ·- ---- ·· -· --· }

The praxians straightened, the blue one offering a casual smile and a welcoming field.

“Hey there! Can we help you?”

He almost crashed to the floor, stumbling to stand before them.

“Yes! Yes! Hello! I need help! I’ve been trying to find someone to help with my doorwings for what feels like forever but everyone I’ve talked to has told me to go away or go frag myself or go ask someone else and then somebody told me to come in here or really they actually told me to follow my doorwings which was actually kinda hard because they hurt a lot and all the warnings I’m getting are making it kinda hard to focus on anything and nobody has let me finish talking the entire time!”

The optics of the black and white praxian got steadily wider as he spoke, taking in the information with an otherwise motionless posture.

The blue one took it in stride, waving him to get closer, “Alright, c’mere and turn around real quick.”

Gratefully, he followed the clear instructions and did just that.

The blue one hummed, “Oh that’s an easy fix.”

His doorwings twinged in their slots at the feeling of the mechs servos on his back. “Sorry, this’ll pinch a little.” And with two practiced twists, the mech braced one servo against his back and popped the hinges back in place.

He hissed at the initial sting but relief immediately flooded his sensor net.

“Is the Doorwing injury related to why you are covered in ash?” The monochrome mech spoke for the first time.

“Hmm? Oh no, someone just ran into me from behind. He was yelling something about useless cops?” He could see the irises of the praxians optics cycling as he spoke. The mechs mouth thinned to a line as his brow furrowed.

The other didn’t seem to notice, laughing heartily, “Oh trust me that’s not the last time you’ll hear that. Next time call your squad in to book the guy for assault on an officer. You new here?”

He smiled, doorwings fluttering involuntarily at being asked a non clinical question for the first time ever. “Yes! I’m very new! Everything is so new! Who are you two?”

Something clicked for the other mech. Doorwings drooping, “Um, Smokescreen?”

The blue mech, Smokescreen, ignored him. Instead, he wrapped an arm around the mechs shoulders and pulled him in, “Well this here is my little brother Prowl, I promise he’s slightly less of a stick in the gears than he first appears. We’d show you around our precinct, but it kinda burnt down this morning.”

“Smokescreen.” Prowl hissed.

“So what’s your designation and your placement new guy?” Smokescreen beamed at him with a sooty grin.

“My designation is P-E 2102. Aaaand the building I was being tested in caught fire, so I have no idea!” He rocked on his peds.

Smokescreen gave him a slightly curious once over.

Meanwhile, Prowl crossed his arms and looked unimpressed with his older brother.

Prowl turned back to him, “A follow up question, if you are able to answer, P-E 2102. When were you constructed?”

He checked his memory banks, “Two cycles ago!”

Smokescreen choked, coughing up a small cloud of exhaust. Prowl automatically thumped a servo against his back to help.

“Right.” The elder Praxian recovered, coughing into his fist and straightening up again. “So you’re two cycles old huh? That explains.. some things.”

Unconsciously, P-E 2102 pulled his doorwings in, not yet knowing what to call the awkward energy that spilled into the train car. The only mech seemingly unaffected was Prowl.

“Typically, once you make it through Quality Control a mech is assigned to act as your mentor to answer questions and bring you up to speed on how to function in society.” Prowl glanced at his brother. “Their designation should be tagged with your factory designation. We’ll assist in contacting them for your retrieval.”

Internally, P-E 2102 pulled his factory designation back up, and did indeed find what Prowl was talking about.

“Oh okay, it looks like I’m assigned to someone named Barricade?” He smiled again, happy to have a clear path forward after so much uncertainty. The two older Praxians immediately, silently looked at each other.

Optics wide, Smokescreen gave him a massive showman style grin, announcing loud enough for the whole train to hear, “Nooope!”

“Um, what?” He new forge looked confused, optics flitting between the two of them.

The eldest praxian nudged Prowl to scoot over. “Nope!” He clapped his servos on his knees for emphasis. “That is not happening. You’re actually going to be my ward now. Last minute update. You know how office work gets.”

“This is a terrible idea.” Prowl grumbled but still moved to make room. “You aren’t qualified to mentor more than one ward. You wouldn’t even be my mentor if the Council hadn’t lowered the age requirement.”

Smokescreen patted the new space between them, “Go ahead and take a seat newbie. And Prowl? C’mon. You haven’t needed me for literal vorns.”

He squeezed into the space between them. It took a bit to figure out how to overlap their doorwings, but once they folded together, the new forge felt more secure than he’d ever been in his life.

Which wasn’t very long but still.

“First things first, you need a proper des.” Smokescreen poked him in the chassis. Briefly frowning at the grime left on his digit. “And a proper paint job.”

“Oh can I be red? I think I like red. And orange. And yellow. I like warm tones in general really. But I think just red for now.” He pointed up at Prowls chevron for reference.

“It is a striking color.” Prowl nodded sagely. “It will suit you fine, though I request you do not completely copy my appearance to avoid future confusion.”

He hummed, already considering the ash grey covering his plating. He didn’t think it looked too bad actually.

“We’ll get the paint sorted later, now how about a proper name? I don’t believe in assigning one over your own choice, so you gotta pick.”Smokescreen leaned back, not giving away any clues of what options laid before him.

“Hmm.” He studied the signage outside the train. “Something with blue in it?”

“Blue?” Prowl raised an eye ridge. “Didn’t you just say you wanted to be painted red?”

“Well yeah. I like the color red but I like the word blue.” He said rationally and sensibly.

Prowl could find no argument and accepted the information for what it was.

Smokescreen tapped his shoulder. “Gonna need something a little more complex than just Blue, buddy. It’s a pretty popular des.”

“Oh how about Blueline!”

A few eavesdroppers snorted at the announcement, a small wave of mirth echoing around the mostly reserved fields of the crowd.

There was a long pause.

“That.. is the name of the train we are currently riding.” Prowl slowly pointed out.

“Ah.”

Voice an octave higher, Smokescreen gave a slightly pained albeit encouraging grin. “Yeeeah. Maybe try one more time?”

The young mech rested his chin on his servos, rapidly tapping his digits. “Is Blue streak taken?”

Prowl and Smokescreen considered the name. Internally, Prowl scanned over something for a moment. “I do not see any other registrations for that designation. It is indeed available.”

“Then Bluestreak it is!” Proclaimed Smokescreen, who clapped a servo around Prowls far shoulder, squishing Bluestreak between them.

Bluestreak whooped, sirens he didn’t know he had briefly going off before Prowl rushed to teach him how to turn them back down.

With a sense of finality, the train at last closed its doors and pulled out of Praxus. Bluestreak watched the skyscrapers dance in streams of gold and red.

Tacnet Dilation: 125%

The sounds of the train car moved treacle slow. Bluestreak turned to his new brothers and in a voice that sounded strangely deep to his own audials, asked them “Why is Praxus burning?”

They glanced at each other again, passing silent communication born of familiarity. When he eventually spoke, Bluestreak could hear the buzz of Smokescreens vocalizer activating the click before the consonants of his words rumbled forward like distant thunder, “There’s a war, a civil war. We’re still deciding where to go.”

“Can I come?” The question came so easily.

A pause that lasted a thousand years crawled by, as the train swept into a long dark tunnel with no clear end.

“Yeah.” Smokescreen said, “You can come.”

——————

“And to make a long story short, we ended up joining the Decepticons because well, the Functionalist Council kinda claimed all surviving CC Praxian Enforcers as ‘Government Property’.” Bluestreak made quotations with his digits.

Not for the first time, Bluestreak glanced at his audience. It was difficult to read the twins, Sunstreaker especially, but Bluestreak thought he was starting to get a hold of their personalities.

He vaguely remembered Jazz saying he had an unusually high affinity for piloting mecha, and hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Now that he was spending time with “regular” pilots, Bluestreak couldn’t help but stare at the stark difference.

Jazz made it work, easily translating laid back body language and a friendly demeanor through several tons of non living machinery.

But the twins? There were times when the Twins reminded him of Empurata victims, their fine movements unnaturally stunted and their incredibly restricted means of self expression coming off as awkward at best. Drone like at worst.

And yet, like clouds passing through an Uncanny Valley, Bluestreak would see bits of their true selves slip out.

For example, the three of them had just come up to a broad shallow stream running across the sandy earth. Sunstreaker stalked right up to the shore, knelt down to dip a cupped hand into water and wasted no time in splashing it across his plating. While his brother attempted to clean himself of the filth they’d accumulated from the day, Sideswipe pointedly looked Bluestreak in the optics and raised a single finger to his visor.

Bluestreak tilted his helm, understanding the meaning of gesture but not the why.

Casually admiring the scenery, Sideswipe tiptoed behind his brothers back, hands clasped in the picture of nonchalant innocence.

And then kicked him square in the back.

Tacnet Dilation: 50%

BLUESTREAK: [Uh Prowl?]

Abruptly flattened face first into the sand, Sunstreaker raised one arm and punched into the earth beneath the stream. He rose with a measured, predatory speed.

BLUESTREAK: [Not an emergency. I think.]

Regardless, the Praxian still backed away from the beach. Tacnet stretching out the clicks for Prowl to answer into wisp thin strands of time.

BLUESTREAK: [But please still respond.]

Sideswipe made a show of pointing a finger at his brother while almost doubled over. Frame absolutely shaking with silent laughter.

PROWL: [I’m here. What is it?]

Whip fast, a clawed hand fisted itself around Sideswipes collar, yanking him off his feet. The red mecha vanished, reappearing on the opposite bank, laying prone in a brand new crater.

BLUESTREAK: [So the twins are fighting.]

Tacnet Dilation: 100%

Bluestreak watched as Sideswipes arms rotated backwards, punching off the earth with explosive momentum and launching himself towards the yellow mecha.

In a clear display of practice, Sunstreaker caught him with a shoulder to the chest, slamming his brother back first into the water with enough force to make it rain.

PROWL: [Each other?]

BLUESTREAK: [Yep.]

Sideswipe twisted his waist around almost 90 degrees and suddenly had the leverage to dig his clawed feet into the ground, flipping Sunstreaker back into the water.

Tacnet held steady at 100% dilation, slowing the fight to a pace that Bluestreak could actually follow. To anyone else, it’d be a blur of red and yellow plating churning through indecipherably dense sprays of water droplets.

Once, back on the Lost Light, Bluestreak had asked Prowl what was it that drew him to Jazz. Prowl, naturally, gave a highly clinical answer, “Jazz is highly competent. Tacnet likes competence.”

Of course, Bluestreak made fun of him at the time for hiding his feelings behind his battle computer.

But uh.

He was kinda getting it now.

Every awkward gesture, every stilted performance at normal body language from before evaporated instantaneously. There wasn’t a hundred feet of separation between their hands and their brains anymore, the pilots filled their mecha out to the very finger tips. Swift and precise and alive.

To Tacnet, these weren’t machines anymore, but men.

Very competent men.

PROWL: [This is apparently normal behavior for them. Keep your distance and wait it out.]

Bluestreak nearly dropped his rifle, juggling it in slow motion as his frame struggled to move as fast as his processor.

BLUESTREAK: [Yep got it.]

BLUESTREAK: [Will be observing closely.]

BLUESTREAK: [From a distance.]

BLUESTREAK: [I’ll be observing closely from a distance I mean.]

BLUESTREAK: [I am completely fine.]

By the time he’d pinned the stock against his chassis, he’d sent Prowl about half a dozen more messages, all following in a continuously self correcting pattern.

PROWL: [Bluestreak. Paragraphs please.]

He reeled Tacnet back to the standard 25% dilation and watched the fight continue at normal speed. Occasionally, Bluestreak noticed one of their visors would turn his way before snapping back to focus on pummeling each other into the ground

Are they watching to make sure I didn’t leave? Or… are they watching to make sure I’m watching?

When they were younger, Smokescreen would sometimes get a hold of fuzzy holovids of old gladiator fights, (or questionably sourced security footage) and drag Prowl and him to his hab suite to watch. On a purely superficial level, he claimed it was for “Tacnet training” and taught them both how to zero in on hundreds of little tells that’d determine who’d the winner of the match would be right from the opening move.

They played a game where whoever correctly guessed the outcome of the match first would be the winner. Bonus points for predicting the correct finishing move. Prowl and Smokescreen would get ridiculously competitive. Or rather, Smokescreen always won and it drove Prowl up the wall. Years later, Smokescreen would whisper what the secret was to him over a bottle of high grade: Prowl never considered not all mechs fight to win.

This was a performance.

Every blow the twins traded landed on the thickest parts of their armor. The flashing exposures of their most delicate components were brief but frequent, always left untouched.

His digits twitched where he held the rifle.

Two targets (moving, distracted) within close firing range. Estimated reaction time: 2.2 clicks. Estimated time between shots: 1.4 clicks.

Tacnet Dilation: 100%

Manual Override, Tacnet Dilation: 25%

Bluestreak turned up his ventilations and stamped down on Tacnet, blocking out anymore suggestions by tunelessly humming some random jingle he’d heard about a million years ago.

Eventually, the fight wound down on its own without a winner. Sunstreaker helped Sideswipe up, and that was that.

Watching the two stomp out of the water, Bluestreak raised a thumbs up, “You guys good?”

The twins responded in the affirmative, each giving the other one last shove before resuming their flanking positions beside the sniper. Setting out once more.

Several hours later, the stars had dimmed as the sky turned powder blue.

The broad flat expanse of the rocky desert begged to be raced across. The variation in the terrain with its short stoney shelves and dried river bed roads would have been fantastic tracks for a spur of the moment race.

If I was allowed to that is.

The sand and grit from the environment was starting to grind uncomfortably in his joints. His peds ached more from the knowledge that he didn’t need to walk than from the physical exertion of the hike itself.

“On a scale of one to ten, how badly would you guys react if I turned into a car right now?” He panted, keeping careful watch of his coolant levels as the sun rose over the horizon. “Like a five maybe? A five seems about right for the situation.”

The twins simultaneously stopped.

Bluestreaks doorwings flicked nervously, “Is this your way of saying it’s a three?”

Steadily, Sideswipe lowered into a low crouch, vents hissing steam and visor going dark. There was a subtle click of joints locking into place.

Sunstreaker picked a rocky shelf and sat, keeping both of them in his line of sight

BLUESTREAK: [The twins are doing something weird and new. Sunstreaker is just watching but Sideswipe is squatting for some reason and it looks like he just went into recharge?]

While Bluestreak worried the inside of his cheek, Sunstreaker waved at him and patted the stone by his side.

Hesitantly and not wanting to potentially offend the alien hunter, Bluestreak took the offered seat. Thankfully, Sunstreaker seemed mollified by this and went back to staring at the horizon.

PROWL: [Ratchet says it sounds like they’re taking shifts resting. Given the length of time you’ve been traveling together, they may expect you to “power down” for a while as well.]

BLUESTREAK: [So what you’re saying is I have to fake being in recharge while sitting upright, outdoors in the sun and in heavily implied to be quint infested territory?]

PROWL: [Yes.]

BLUESTREAK: [Great. Awesome. Thank you. This is totally fine.]

PROWL: [I’m sorry.]

Okay now that was a red flag.

Angry Prowl meant “There is a problem and I will not physically stop until it is obliterated.”

Apologetic Prowl meant even he couldn’t deal with the problem.

The sheer scale of how fucked he was finally set in.

Tacnet Dilation: 125%

Tacnet Dilation: 150%

Tacnet Dilation: 225%

Time curled up into a little ball on the floor.

The only thing that stopped Tacnet from going past 300% was a wedged in bit of coding Bluestreak had forcibly added after a truly nightmarish near death experience at 500% dilation.

Logically, he knew he still had control over his frame, but the sheer delay in response felt like he was paralyzed.

Don’t force it. Don’t force it. Don’t force yourself to move, everything you try to do will add to the queue and it’ll hit all at once.

He wished Sunstreaker could talk, Bluestreak couldn’t deal with silence. Silence was like trying to keep track of passing time by staring at a blank wall. At least when there was noise, the pitch could clue him in and keep his mind semi tethered to the actual rate of things happening around him.

The dinks of his digits curling against his servos finally registered from when he started the motion all the way back when Prowl said he was sorry.

The faint pressure just was enough to start his thought process again.

Manual Override, Tacnet Dilation: 200%

Manual Override, Tacnet Dilation: 150%

Manual Override, Tacnet Dilation: 100%

Feeling spread back into his frame as sensory input raced back to his processor. From Bluestreaks perspective, it felt like he’d just lunched forward, helm between his knees. From the outside it probably just looked like a slow miserable curl.

He tried not to purge.

When his doorwings picked up on movement from Sunstreaker, he froze. Hyperaware of how bizarre his behavior must look.

A heavy hand not designed for anything other than ripping and tearing settled between his doorwings, lightly patting.

Bluestreak chanced a glance at the yellow mecha. Sunstreakers visor was as impassive as ever but with his unoccupied hand he raised an “OK” symbol, tilting his head inquisitively.

Letting his vents run at max, Bluestreak swallowed, raising an “OK” back.

“I’m gonna go ahead and pretend to be unconscious now. Thanks for not killing me so far.”

Bluestreak crossed his arms and dimmed his optics, flaring out his doorwings to compensate for the drop in input.

To execute his performance as an unfeeling empty husk of machinery, Bluestreak clenched his jaw and vowed not to speak or move for the next several hours.

Tacnet Dilation: 50%

Or however long it felt like.

———————————————————————

Jazz: “So if you use Tacnet to crunch the numbers on crazy complicated battle simulations, and Bluestreak uses his Tacnet to pull off insane sniper moves, what does Smokescreen use his for?”

Prowl: “Gambling.”

——————

Cybertronian ages are weird and don’t really align to human developmental rates but I do roughly equate 1 millennia to about a decade in human years.

So Prowl is in his late twenties, Smokescreen is in his thirties and Bluestreak can legally buy alcohol, depending on the country.

Also, Prowl and Smokescreen don’t know about the constant time dilation Bluestreak lives with. It was an experimental feature that got turned on for testing and when Bluestreaks factory got blown up there was nobody around to disable it.

Sometime after they started living together, he asked Smokescreen what Tacnet Dilation actually was, and Smokescreen basically just went “Oh yeah that thing. Yeah just don’t touch it and you’ll be fine.” Not knowing it was already on.

As far as Bluestreak is aware, 25% is “normal speed” because that’s the lowest setting.

-SSTP

[ccupcakeyss]

HELLO AND WELCOME TO TUMBLR!

Can I request a Xavier scenario when they are have a bathtime together as the weekend finally approaches? Both fluff and smut.

HIHI THANKYOU FOR THE WARM WELCOME AND OF COURSE!!! this is such a cute idea!!

  x   𓎟𓎟  STEAM AND STARDUST ★

SUMMARY: after a particularly demanding week filled with long missions and very little downtime, Xavier invites you to stay the weekend at his place- somewhere private, quiet, far from the hum of ships and constant notifications.

CW: female reader, 18+ MDNI, romantic fluff and aftercare, sensual bathtime setting (shared bath, implied nudity), masturbation (partnered, fingering), oral-style teasing and dirty talk (light dominance), p in v, cowgirl, from behind, multiple orgasms (fem receiving), creampie (implied, no protection mentioned), gentle dom!Xavier vibes, cursing, explicit language, consensual, emotionally safe atmosphere, post-sex tenderness and cuddling.

WC: 1.0K!

NOTES: FIRST REQUEST and was super fun thank youso much!! this was a bit more smutty than fluffy, but lmk if you want more fluff in the next req!! thank you so much and enjoy!!

The sun had already dipped below the horizon by the time they arrived—his apartment dimly lit with soft, ambient lighting and the scent of something warm and earthy in the air. Xavier had planned ahead, of course. Candles glowed along the edge of the bathroom counter, casting golden light over polished tile and the deep tub that filled slowly, water laced with herbs and essential oils.

“You’ve been quiet,” Xavier said, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it by the door. “Long week?”

You gave him a tired nod, toes curling into the soft rug underfoot. “Yeah. Feels like we didn’t stop moving.”

He crossed the room in a few steps, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you close. His lips brushed your forehead, then your cheek. “Then we’re not doing anything tonight. No missions. No comms. Just this.” His voice dropped. “Just us.”

By the time the tub was ready, your clothes were somewhere forgotten between the bedroom and the hallway. Xavier helped you in first, and then climbed in behind you, his thighs bracketing yours, arms circling your waist beneath the surface of the water.

His touch was soothing at first—fingers drawing lazy shapes over your skin, voice low as he murmured about nothing and everything. But soon, the silence between words shifted, heavy with anticipation.

“You’re so soft here,” he whispered, his hand moving from your stomach down between your thighs. You gasped, leaning back into him. He groaned quietly, like the sound of your pleasure was a trigger, a signal he’d been waiting for all week.

“Relax,” he said again, breath hot against your neck. “Let me take care of you.”

One hand stayed firm on your hip, the other sliding lower, finding that sensitive spot with practiced ease. His fingers moved with a slow rhythm, teasing, circling, dipping just enough to make your legs twitch beneath the water.

“Xavier,” you breathed, hand reaching back to grip his thigh.

He chuckled, low and dark. “That’s it. Say my name again.”

He shifted behind you, and you could feel the hard length of him pressing against your lower back beneath the water. His teeth grazed your shoulder, lips moving against your skin as he murmured how much he missed you, how beautiful you looked bathed in steam and starlight.

Then, with no warning, he slid two fingers inside you—slow but deliberate—curling them just enough to make your head drop back onto his shoulder. His thumb kept its rhythm against your clit, dragging you higher, tighter.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispered. “You’ve been holding everything in all week. Jus'let go for me.”

Your breath came faster, chest rising out of the water as your body arched, hips moving to meet every stroke of his fingers. He knew your body well—knew when to slow down, when to build you up again until you were gasping his name with every breath.

He held you when you came, whispering praise into your ear, not stopping until the tremors left your body. Then he turned you to straddle his lap, water sloshing gently around you both. His hands ran up your back, mouth finding yours with hunger, and you felt him slide against your entrance, hard and ready.

“Round two,” he said with a smirk, voice low and full of promise. “This time, I get to feel all of you.”

You could feel him, thick and hot beneath you, pressed between your thighs as the water lapped around your hips. Xavier leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was deeper now—less teasing, more claiming. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your body ache.

His hands moved to your hips, guiding you as you shifted just enough to line yourself up with him. The moment the tip of his cock slid into you, both of you exhaled like the weight of the entire week had lifted. He filled you slowly, inch by inch, until your thighs pressed against his and you were seated fully in his lap.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck, holding himself still for a moment, as if savoring the feeling of being buried inside you.

Your hands braced against his shoulders, your forehead resting against his. The intimacy of it—warm water around you, skin to skin, hearts pounding in sync—felt overwhelming in the best way. You rolled your hips experimentally, and Xavier’s grip on you tightened.

“Just like that,” he whispered, breath ragged. “Use me. Take your time.”

And you did—slow, deliberate rolls of your hips that had both of you moaning softly into each other’s mouths. The water sloshed lazily around you with each movement, the heat and slickness amplifying every delicious grind, every drag of his cock against your walls.

Xavier’s hands roamed your back, your thighs, sliding up your spine and into your hair, tugging gently as his mouth found your collarbone. He murmured your name like a prayer, like it was the only thing grounding him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he said through gritted teeth, hips finally beginning to move with yours. He thrust up into you, slow and deep, matching your rhythm until every breath was a shared moan.

Your bodies moved in perfect sync, the slow burn building again—this time hotter, needier. You were close already, and he could feel it. His hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit with the same practiced care he gave to everything else.

“Come for me again,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “I want to feel you fall apart around me.”

And when you did—clenching around him, mouth falling open in a silent cry—he held you tight, fucking you through it until he followed with a groan, spilling inside you with a final thrust and a shudder that rocked through both of you.

You collapsed against his chest, the water now rippling gently around your tangled bodies. For a moment, the only sound was your breath and the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

“Think we needed that,” you mumbled, eyes half-lidded with bliss.

He laughed softly, running a hand through your wet hair. “That was just the start of the weekend.”

BONUS . . .

Later, after drying off and slipping into soft robes, Xavier wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you onto the couch. The stars twinkled through the glass above as you curled into him.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured, “we sleep in. And then…” His lips brushed your ear. “Round three?”

[moonlit-imagines]

warnings: blood/injury/knife

a/n: dick looks so funny in this gif. also inspired me to keep babs as batgirl in this.

requested by anonymous

While it wasn’t uncommon to cross paths with any of the Bats of Gotham, it certainly was never pleasant. Batman seemed like somewhat of a control freak and another masked vigilante in Gotham that wasn’t taking orders from him seemed to make him…anxious.

Well, tonight’s brush with the Bats wasn’t all that unpleasant. You were trying to hide your injury—a stab wound to the thigh that was hindering your ability to walk, climb, run, you name it. They were all detectives, it wasn’t hard for them to notice the knife you hadn’t yet removed from your body. “I left it there to stop the bleeding.” You told them.

“That’s not going to help if you’re still walking around on it.” Batgirl said, trying to help you by holding you up under the shoulder. “You know, it’d be nice if you let us work together every once in a while.” She grumbled as she took part of your body weight, Robin took the other side.

“Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice now.” You chuckled through the pain.

“You’re right about that.” She said before tapping into her comms. “Batman, we have y/v/n on a rooftop downtown. Sending coordinates now—they’re injured.” Batgirl listened for a response. “You’ll have medical attention within five minutes. Don’t worry, you won’t be compromised.”

Batman soon showed, offering his help to get you into the Batmobile. “I don’t want to blindfold you, can I trust you?” He asked.

“That’s it. I just have to say ‘yes?’” You asked in awe.

“It wouldn’t usually, but I think we can help each other.”

taglist: @captainshazamerica // @cipheress-to-k-pop // @the-did-i-ask // @azazel-nyx // @summersimmerus // @deanzboyfriend // @zoeyserpentluck // @mr-mxyzptlk-1940 // @volturi-stuff // @stilestotherescue //

[okasuka]

Damian wayne x Reader - safe in his arms.

tw: mention of scars, implied sh.

Gotham’s night sky glowed dimly through the expansive windows of Wayne Manor’s Batcave, the soft hum of the supercomputer the only sound filling the otherwise silent space. Y/N sat at the console, her eyes glued to the screens as she monitored various feeds.

“Wayne, you’re pushing it tonight,” she said, her voice firm but laced with concern.

Damian’s voice crackled over comms. “I can handle it.”

She rolled her eyes. He always said that, and yet she was the one piecing him together after every patrol. The sound of his cape rustling and faint grunts told her he was already climbing his way back to the cave.

Minutes later, the elevator dinged, and a bloodied Damian stumbled in. His face was set in a scowl, blood trailing from a cut above his eyebrow, his uniform torn in several places. Alfred stepped forward with his med kit, but Damian waved him off.

“I’m fine,” Damian muttered, his voice sharper than intended. He brushed past Bruce, who gave him a disapproving glare, and slumped into a nearby chair.

“You’re bleeding on my floor, Damian,” Bruce commented dryly.

“Y/N will handle it,” Damian said with finality, his emerald gaze flickering to her.

She sighed, pushing her chair back from the console. “You could try asking nicely, you know.”

Damian’s expression softened, though he didn’t reply. Y/N grabbed the med kit and walked over to him, ignoring Bruce’s quiet smirk as he retreated upstairs. Alfred followed with a shake of his head, leaving the two alone.

It wasn’t until Y/N crouched in front of Damian, sleeves of her t-shirt pushed up, that she felt the weight of his gaze. Her scars were exposed—the faint, silvery lines crisscrossing her tan skin like a map of battles long fought. She hesitated, her hands faltering over the kit.

Damian caught the flicker of insecurity in her expression. “You’re wearing short sleeves.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed. “It’s warm.”

“You never wear short sleeves,” he countered, his voice softer this time.

“I do sometimes,” she muttered, focusing on cleaning the cut on his forehead. She felt his eyes on her, unwavering and intense.

“Why do you hide them?” he asked, his tone lacking its usual sharpness.

Y/N stiffened, her hands stilling. “They’re ugly, Damian. They’re… reminders.” She didn’t look at him, keeping her attention on his wound. “People stare. Or ask questions.”

“I don’t think they’re ugly,” he said matter-of-factly, as if his opinion was law.

She looked up at him, her brows furrowed. “You’re just saying that.”

“I never say things I don’t mean,” Damian replied, his voice steady. He reached out, his fingers brushing the back of her hand. “You’ve seen my scars, haven’t you?”

“That’s different,” she argued. “Yours… they’re from fights, missions. Mine are—”

“Yours are proof you survived,” Damian interrupted, his eyes locking onto hers. “You’re not defined by them. But if you think for one second that they make you less than perfect…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

Y/N swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Damian didn’t give compliments lightly. The sincerity in his voice made her chest ache.

“You mean that?” she asked quietly.

“Of course I do,” he replied. He glanced at her arms again, his gaze lingering before returning to her face. “You shouldn’t feel the need to hide around me. Or Father. We’re your family.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “You’re getting soft, Wayne.”

His lips twitched in response. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

She laughed softly, resuming her work. As she dabbed antiseptic on a cut near his collarbone, Damian spoke again.

“Why do you always take care of me? Even when you’re busy.”

Y/N glanced at him, her brow arched. “Because someone has to keep you alive. And let’s face it, Bruce would probably just lecture you into next week.”

Damian let out a low chuckle, the sound rare but genuine. “You’re terrible at taking compliments, you know.”

“And you’re terrible at accepting help.”

“Touché,” he muttered.

When she finished wrapping his arm, she sat back on her heels, surveying her work. “All patched up. Try not to break anything else for at least twenty-four hours.”

“No promises,” he replied, though there was a hint of warmth in his smirk.

As she started packing up the med kit, Damian caught her wrist, his thumb brushing lightly over a scar on her forearm.

“Stop hiding,” he said quietly.

Her gaze softened. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Because I’m not going to stop reminding you.”

She chuckled, standing up. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are,” he quipped.

Y/N shook her head, smiling as she returned to the console. But for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel the need to tug her sleeves down.

The soft glow of the Batcomputer’s screens illuminated the cavernous room as Y/N continued typing, her fingers flying across the keyboard. The digital clock in the corner ticked to 4:32 a.m., but she barely noticed. Her focus was razor-sharp as she sifted through surveillance footage, cross-referenced data points, and logged updates for tomorrow’s patrol briefing.

Her eyes burned, and her head felt heavy, but she ignored it. There was always more to do.

Footsteps echoed softly behind her, and she didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“You’re still at it,” Damian said, his voice low but carrying that familiar mix of concern and disapproval.

“I’m almost done,” Y/N replied without turning, her voice a touch groggy.

“You said that an hour ago,” he pointed out, stepping closer. He leaned against the side of her chair, arms crossed, his green eyes studying her profile. “You’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, though the dark circles under her eyes and the slight sway in her posture told a different story.

Damian raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Y/N, you’re barely upright.”

She waved him off. “It’s not that bad. Just let me finish this last—”

“No,” Damian interrupted firmly. He leaned down, his hand lightly brushing hers to stop her from typing. “You’ve done enough for tonight.”

“But—”

“You’re not helping anyone by running yourself into the ground,” he said, his voice softer this time. “You need rest.”

Y/N sighed, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her temples. “I can’t just leave it unfinished, Damian. There’s too much—”

“You always think there’s too much,” he cut in. He crouched beside her, his intense gaze meeting hers. “You won’t stop unless someone makes you, so I’m making you. You’re going to sleep. Now.”

She blinked at him, taken aback by his determination. He was right, of course, but admitting it wasn’t easy. “You’re bossy, you know that?”

“Yes,” Damian said without hesitation. “And I’m right. So, are you going to listen, or do I have to carry you upstairs?”

A faint smile tugged at her lips. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He smirked. “Try me.”

Y/N shook her head, her smile fading into a sigh. She was too tired to argue. “Fine. I’ll sleep. But…” She hesitated, biting her lip. “Can I sleep with you?”

Damian’s expression softened, the hard edges of his demeanor melting away. “You didn’t even have to ask,” he said quietly.

He straightened, offering her his hand. She took it, letting him pull her to her feet. As they walked toward the elevator, her steps sluggish and unsteady, Damian kept a steadying hand on her lower back.

Once upstairs, they made their way to Damian’s room. She hesitated for a moment at the door, but he gently nudged her inside.

“You know the drill,” he said, grabbing an extra blanket from his closet.

Y/N settled onto his bed, the familiar scent of his room—clean, with a faint hint of sandalwood—immediately soothing her frayed nerves. Damian slipped out of his boots and joined her, his movements careful and deliberate.

As she curled up under the blanket, her head resting on his shoulder, she murmured, “Thanks, Damian.”

“For what?” he asked, his voice low as he adjusted the blanket over her.

“For taking care of me,” she said, her eyes fluttering closed.

He was quiet for a moment before replying, his voice barely above a whisper. “Always.”

Within minutes, Y/N was fast asleep, her even breaths the only sound in the room. Damian lay still beside her, his own exhaustion catching up to him. But before sleep took him, he glanced down at her peaceful face, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

In her presence, he found a kind of calm he couldn’t explain. And in moments like this, he didn’t need to.

The morning light seeped through the gaps in Damian’s blackout curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. Y/N stirred, her body comfortably tangled with Damian’s beneath the warm covers. She felt his arm draped over her waist, his steady breath tickling the top of her head.

A sleepy smile crept onto her face as she nestled closer to him, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of his shirt sleeve. It wasn’t often she allowed herself to relax like this, but being in Damian’s arms made it feel safe.

“Are you going to keep poking at my arm or actually get up?” Damian’s voice broke through the peaceful silence, low and teasing.

Y/N glanced up to find his sharp green eyes already open, watching her with amusement. “You’re awake?”

“I’ve been awake for a while,” he replied. “You snore.”

“I do not!” she protested, swatting at his chest.

Damian smirked. “You absolutely do.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, attempting to pull away, but Damian’s arm tightened around her waist. “Not so fast,” he murmured. “I’m comfortable.”

She sighed, her cheeks heating. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” he quipped, his lips twitching into a small smile.

Before she could fire back a retort, the door opened with a sharp knock, and Bruce strode in, dressed in a crisp black suit.

“Good morning,” Bruce said, his tone neutral, though his raised eyebrow suggested he wasn’t entirely surprised to find them curled up together.

Y/N immediately sat up, flustered. Damian, on the other hand, remained completely unfazed, leaning back against the headboard with a faint scowl.

“Do you ever knock?” Damian asked flatly.

Bruce ignored him, crossing his arms. “There’s a gala tonight. Wayne Enterprises is hosting, and your attendance is non-negotiable.”

Damian groaned. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Bruce replied firmly. His gaze shifted to Y/N. “That includes you, Y/N. If either of you need a new suit or dress, now’s the time to get one.”

Y/N blinked. “Wait—me? Why do I have to go?”

Bruce gave her a pointed look. “You’re practically part of the family, and it wouldn’t hurt to remind Gotham of that.”

Y/N hesitated, glancing at Damian. He shrugged. “You might as well come. Better than leaving me alone with the socialites.”

Bruce’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile before he turned and left the room, his voice trailing back to them. “Alfred will have the car ready in an hour.”

As the door clicked shut, Y/N flopped back onto the bed with a groan. “A gala? Really?”

Damian smirked, leaning over her. “Come on, it won’t be that bad. Besides, you’ll look amazing in whatever you wear.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Was that a compliment, Damian Wayne?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he replied, though the faint blush on his cheeks betrayed him.

Y/N laughed softly, pulling the blanket over her face. “Fine. But you’re helping me pick a dress.”

Damian lay back down beside her, pulling the blanket down so he could see her face. “Deal. But if I have to suffer through this, so do you.”

She smiled, reaching over to lace her fingers with his. “Fair enough.”

The ride to the boutique had been uneventful, save for Damian begrudgingly trying on a basic black suit. He wasn’t one for frills or unnecessary embellishments, so the simple design suited him perfectly. Y/N, however, had been trapped in the dressing room for what felt like an eternity, torn between choices.

She stepped out for the umpteenth time in a sleek navy dress, the soft material hugging her figure but still modest by her standards. “What about this one?” she asked, her tone a mix of hope and frustration.

Damian, sitting cross-legged in a chair near the fitting rooms, didn’t even glance up from his phone. “It’s fine.”

Y/N groaned. “You’ve said that about all of them! You’re no help.”

Damian sighed, finally looking up. “They’re all fine. Just pick one, Y/N.”

She huffed, disappearing back into the dressing room. After a few moments, Damian stood, wandering over to the racks of dresses. His eyes scanned the options, none of them particularly standing out to him—until one caught his eye.

It was a deep emerald-green dress, sleek and elegant with a high slit on one side and a daringly low back. He plucked it off the rack and knocked on Y/N’s dressing room door.

“Try this,” he said, holding it out.

She opened the door, raising an eyebrow. “You picked something? That’s new.”

“Just put it on,” he replied, shoving it into her hands before stepping back.

When she stepped out wearing it, Damian’s breath hitched. The emerald fabric contrasted beautifully with her tan skin, the cut highlighting her figure in ways that had him swallowing hard. He hadn’t realized just how revealing it was until now—the open back, the slit that stopped just above her mid-thigh.

Y/N frowned, tugging at the hem. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

Damian, still slightly stunned, managed to clear his throat. “It… suits you.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she gave him a small smile. “You think so?”

He nodded, averting his eyes and stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

Thirty minutes before the gala, Y/N was in the bathroom, curling her short brown hair and carefully arranging the red streak in her bangs. She had applied light makeup, her scars faintly visible under the bathroom’s harsh lighting.

She stared at her reflection, her smile faltering. The scars on her forearms were impossible to ignore in the sleeveless dress. Her chest tightened as she ran her fingers over the silvery lines.

A knock on the door startled her.

“Y/N, we need to leave soon,” Damian called from the hallway.

“Just a minute!” she replied.

Grabbing a roll of bandages from the first aid kit on the counter, she opened the door to find Damian waiting in his suit, looking more dashing than she’d ever admit out loud. His eyes immediately landed on the bandages in her hands.

“Are those for your arms?” he asked, frowning.

Y/N avoided his gaze. “Yeah. I just… I don’t want anyone staring.”

Damian stepped closer, his voice soft. “Y/N, you don’t need to hide them. You look incredible as you are.”

Her hands tightened around the bandages. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“I’m not,” he insisted, his tone firm. “I’ve already told you—your scars don’t make you any less beautiful. You don’t have to cover them up for anyone.”

She bit her lip, her shoulders slumping. “I know you mean that, but… I just can’t. Not tonight.”

Damian studied her for a moment before nodding. “Alright. If it helps you feel more comfortable, I’ll help you.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted.

Carefully, Damian took the bandages from her and guided her to sit on the bathroom counter. He unrolled the first strip, wrapping it gently around her forearm, his fingers light and precise.

As he worked, he glanced up at her. “You don’t have to hide from me, you know. Ever.”

Her chest tightened at his words, but she managed a small smile. “I know. Thanks, Damian.”

He finished the last wrap, securing it in place before stepping back to admire his work. “There. Happy?”

Y/N nodded, sliding off the counter. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good,” he said, offering her his arm. “Now let’s get this over with.”

She laughed softly, looping her arm through his. “Lead the way, Wayne.”

The Wayne Enterprises gala was every bit as extravagant as Y/N had dreaded. The grand ballroom was filled with Gotham’s elite, chandeliers casting a warm golden glow over the crowd. Waiters glided through the sea of gowns and suits, carrying trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. A live orchestra played softly in the background, but none of it made Y/N feel any less out of place.

She clung tightly to Damian’s arm as they walked into the room behind Bruce, who was immediately intercepted by a group of businesspeople. The older Wayne exchanged pleasantries with ease, leaving Damian and Y/N standing awkwardly near the entrance.

“Well, he’s gone,” Damian muttered, glancing toward the throng of people crowding Bruce.

Y/N’s grip on Damian’s arm tightened. “Lucky him,” she whispered, glancing nervously at the crowd.

Damian smirked and glanced down at her. “You’re stuck with me. Try to look a little less like you’re about to bolt.”

She gave him a shaky smile. “Sorry, I’m not exactly used to this.”

“Neither am I,” Damian admitted, his voice low. He guided her toward a quiet corner of the room, away from prying eyes. “Let’s just stay out of the way.”

They found a small sofa tucked near the edge of the ballroom, far from the main event. Y/N sat down beside Damian, feeling a little more at ease with his arm draped protectively around her waist.

“Is it just me, or does everyone here look like they stepped out of a magazine?” Y/N murmured, her eyes scanning the impeccably dressed crowd.

Damian leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “They look like they stepped out of last month’s magazine.”

Y/N stifled a laugh, earning a raised eyebrow from an older woman walking by. She quickly turned her head, biting her lip to suppress her amusement.

“Did you see that guy by the champagne table?” Damian asked, nodding subtly toward a man in a glittering gold suit. “He looks like a walking trophy.”

Y/N finally let out a quiet giggle. “He does! And what about her?” She motioned discreetly toward a woman in a bright pink dress with an enormous bow on the back. “Is she cosplaying as a gift box?”

Damian’s lips quirked into a smirk. “I’m almost certain Alfred could tie a better bow blindfolded.”

Y/N’s laughter grew louder, and Damian’s smirk softened into a rare, genuine smile. He adjusted his arm around her waist, his thumb brushing against the fabric of her dress absentmindedly.

“You’re getting more comfortable,” he noted, his tone warm.

She looked up at him, her cheeks still slightly pink from laughing. “That’s because you’re here,” she admitted softly.

Damian’s green eyes softened. “I told you, you don’t need to be nervous. Most of these people are too self-absorbed to even notice us.”

“Still,” Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper, “it’s easier with you.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but his arm tightened around her slightly, a silent acknowledgment of her words.

They fell into an easy rhythm, quietly mocking the ridiculous displays of wealth and the ostentatious fashion choices. Damian pointed out a man with an absurdly large fur coat (“Did he wrestle a bear for that?”), and Y/N teased him about a woman with an over-the-top feathered hat (“She’s clearly hiding birds in there”).

For the first time that evening, Y/N felt completely at ease.

“You know,” Damian said after a while, his voice quieter now, “this isn’t so bad. Sitting here with you.”

Y/N smiled up at him, her heart fluttering at his rare moment of openness. “I guess it’s not so bad either.”

They sat there, cocooned in their little corner of the gala, the bustling noise and flashing lights fading into the background as they shared soft laughs and quiet conversation. In that moment, the chaos of Gotham’s elite seemed a world away.

As the night wore on, Y/N leaned back on the sofa, watching Damian sip his water with his usual composed expression. Despite his flawless posture and impeccable suit, she couldn’t help but smirk.

“You look way too uptight,” she said suddenly, leaning closer.

Damian raised an eyebrow at her. “Excuse me?”

She grinned mischievously, reaching for his tie. “Just hold still.”

“What are you—” he began, but she cut him off by gently loosening the perfectly knotted tie.

“There,” she said, slipping it down a few inches. “Now these.” She deftly undid the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing just a hint of his collarbone.

Damian looked at her with mock indignation. “You’re ruining the suit.”

“I’m making you look less like you’re going to a board meeting,” she shot back, her hands moving up to his hair. “And now, this needs some work.”

He stiffened slightly as she ruffled his meticulously combed hair, making it fall messily over his forehead. She leaned back to inspect her work, a triumphant smile spreading across her face.

“Perfect,” she said. “Now you look more like your playboy dad.”

Damian gave her a flat look, brushing a hand through his now tousled hair. “I look like a man-whore,” he deadpanned.

Y/N burst out laughing, the sound so genuine it drew a few curious glances from the nearby tables. She leaned into him, her forehead lightly bumping his shoulder as she tried to stifle her laughter.

“Maybe,” she teased, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes sparkled as she leaned in, her voice dropping to a soft whisper. “But only for me.”

Before he could respond, she pressed a kiss to his lips, her fingers brushing against the side of his face. Damian froze for a moment, but then his hand moved to her waist, pulling her just a little closer.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/N grinned, her cheeks warm. “See? Much better.”

Damian huffed, though his faint blush betrayed his nonchalant expression. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it,” she shot back, settling back into his side.

He shook his head, a small, rare smile tugging at his lips. “Unfortunately.”

Y/N laughed again, leaning into him as they returned to their playful banter. For the first time that evening, Damian didn’t mind the gala—it was worth it, as long as she was by his side.

As Y/N leaned into Damian’s side, her fingers lightly tracing patterns on the back of his hand, she noticed someone approaching from across the room. It was a tall woman, a model by the looks of her, with long legs and a glittering silver dress that sparkled under the chandelier lights. Her confident stride and knowing smile made it clear she had only one target in mind: Damian.

“Well, well, Damian Wayne,” the woman purred as she stopped in front of them. Her voice was smooth, dripping with charm. “I thought you didn’t attend these events unless absolutely necessary.”

Damian’s expression instantly turned cold, his usual stoicism returning in full force. “I don’t,” he replied curtly, his arm still firmly around Y/N’s waist.

The woman’s eyes flicked briefly to Y/N, but she didn’t seem fazed. Instead, she leaned slightly closer to Damian. “Then I must say, this is quite the treat. It’s not every day someone gets to see Gotham’s most eligible bachelor up close.”

Y/N felt a pang of discomfort as the woman’s attention seemed to focus solely on Damian, completely disregarding her. Still, she stayed quiet, not wanting to make a scene.

The woman tilted her head, her perfectly styled hair cascading over one shoulder. “So, who’s your lovely friend?”

“Y/N,” Damian said, his voice firm as he glanced at her. “And she’s not just my friend.”

The woman’s smile faltered slightly, but she recovered quickly. “Ah, I see. Well, aren’t you lucky, Y/N?” Her tone was overly sweet, almost condescending.

Y/N forced a tight-lipped smile, wishing the ground would swallow her whole.

The woman’s gaze drifted down to Y/N’s bandaged arms, and her expression shifted to one of exaggerated curiosity. “Oh, what happened there?” she asked, gesturing toward the bandages. “That’s quite the… fashion statement.”

Y/N’s heart sank, her stomach twisting in knots. She instinctively pulled her arms closer to her body, trying to hide them, but the woman continued.

“Did you injure yourself, or is this some kind of edgy accessory thing?” she added with a laugh, clearly not realizing—or caring—how insensitive her words were.

Damian’s jaw tightened, his green eyes flashing with barely contained anger. He stood abruptly, taking Y/N’s hand in his. “We’re leaving,” he said sharply, glaring at the woman.

The model blinked, startled. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

Damian didn’t wait for her to finish. He gently but firmly led Y/N through the crowd and out of the ballroom, his grip on her hand protective and steady.

When they finally reached the cool night air outside, Damian stopped and turned to face her. Y/N avoided his gaze, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she blinked back tears.

“Y/N,” Damian said softly, stepping closer.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “I look ridiculous. I don’t belong here.”

“Stop,” he said firmly, but his tone was gentle. He reached out, placing his hands on her shoulders. “None of that is true. You don’t look ridiculous, and you absolutely belong here—with me.”

Her eyes darted up to meet his, tears glistening in them. “But the way she looked at me… the way she talked about my arms…”

“She’s an idiot,” Damian interrupted, his voice filled with conviction. “She has no idea what she’s talking about. You are the strongest, most amazing person I know, Y/N. Those scars don’t define you, and anyone who thinks they do isn’t worth a second of your time.”

Y/N sniffled, her heart aching at the sincerity in his voice. “But they’re so ugly, Damian. I hate them.”

He shook his head, his hands moving down to hold hers. “They’re not ugly,” he said softly. “They’re part of you. They tell your story—everything you’ve been through, everything you’ve overcome. And I think that’s beautiful.”

Her lip quivered, and she looked down, unable to hold his gaze any longer. “I just… I don’t want people to stare.”

“Let them stare,” he said, his voice steady. “If they can’t see how incredible you are, that’s their loss.”

Y/N let out a shaky laugh, wiping at her eyes. “You really mean that?”

“I’ve never meant anything more,” he replied, lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.

She smiled weakly, leaning into him as he wrapped his arms around her. “Thank you, Damian.”

“Always,” he murmured, holding her close as the city lights twinkled around them. “Now, let’s skip the rest of this stupid gala. I think we’ve earned some peace and quiet.”

Y/N nodded against his chest, finally feeling a sense of calm wash over her. With Damian by her side, she knew she could face anything.

The ride back to Wayne Manor was quiet but comforting, the hum of the car filling the silence as Y/N leaned against Damian’s shoulder. She felt a mixture of exhaustion and lingering self-doubt from the gala, but Damian’s steady presence soothed her nerves.

When they arrived at the empty manor, the quietness of the grand house felt almost overwhelming. Bruce was still at the gala, and Alfred had retired for the evening, leaving the two of them alone in the vast, echoing halls.

Damian led Y/N to the sitting room, his hand never leaving hers. He gestured for her to sit on the plush couch, and she did, sinking into the soft cushions with a tired sigh.

“Stay here,” Damian said softly before disappearing for a moment. He returned quickly with a glass of water and a blanket, draping it over her shoulders.

“Thanks,” Y/N murmured, smiling up at him.

He sat beside her, his sharp green eyes focused on her arms. His expression softened as he reached for her hands, gently pulling them into his lap. “Take these off,” he said, nodding to the bandages.

She hesitated, her fingers twitching nervously. “Damian, I—”

“You don’t need to hide from me,” he interrupted, his voice low and full of emotion. “Please, let me do this.”

After a long moment, Y/N nodded, letting out a shaky breath. Damian began to carefully unwrap the bandages from her forearms, his touch gentle and deliberate. With each layer that fell away, her scars became more visible under the warm glow of the room’s light.

When the last bandage was removed, Y/N instinctively tried to pull her arms away, but Damian held them firmly, his grip tender. He stared at her arms for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper.

Her eyes widened, and her breath hitched. “Damian…”

He looked up, his green eyes locking with hers. “I mean it, Y/N. Every part of you—everything you’ve been through—it makes you you. And I’m so lucky to have you in my life.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but they weren’t from sadness this time. She leaned forward, her forehead resting against his. “You always know exactly what to say, don’t you?”

“It’s the truth,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Then, with infinite care, Damian began peppering her arms with kisses. He started at her wrists, his lips brushing over the scars as though they were delicate treasures, and moved upward, taking his time with each kiss.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed as she watched him, her heart swelling with a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time. “Damian, you don’t have to…”

“I want to,” he said firmly, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “I want you to know how much you mean to me, how much I care about every part of you.”

Before she could respond, he leaned in, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was soft but full of unspoken emotions. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears that had started to fall.

When they finally broke apart, Y/N smiled, her heart feeling lighter than it had in ages. “I love you, Damian.”

A rare, soft smile spread across his face. “I love you too.”

They sat there in the quiet of the manor, wrapped in each other’s arms. For the first time in a long time, Y/N felt truly at peace, knowing she was loved and accepted exactly as she was.

After the tender moment in the sitting room, Y/N excused herself to change into something more comfortable. She wandered upstairs to Damian’s room, pulling open one of his drawers and grabbing a pair of his loose athletic shorts and a plain black t-shirt. They smelled faintly of him—clean and comforting.

When she came back downstairs, Damian was still in the sitting room, his tie discarded and his shirt halfway unbuttoned. He glanced up when she entered, his eyes briefly flicking over her before he cleared his throat and looked away.

“Those look better on you than they ever did on me,” he murmured, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Y/N grinned as she padded over to him, the shorts hanging slightly loose on her hips. “Comfy and stylish? You’re spoiling me, Wayne.”

She sat beside him, tucking her legs underneath her, and reached for the rest of the buttons on his shirt. Damian stiffened slightly, his hand twitching on his knee.

“I can do that myself,” he said, his voice a little too steady, like he was trying to keep his composure.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her fingers already working on the next button. “Relax. You’re hurt, remember? I’m just helping.”

He didn’t protest further, though his sharp green eyes followed her hands as she worked her way down his shirt. His cheeks flushed faintly as she undid the last button, pushing the fabric aside to reveal his toned chest and defined abs.

Y/N bit her lip, trying to suppress a smile. “You’re ridiculously fit, you know that?” she teased, her fingers lightly brushing over the smooth planes of his stomach.

Damian shifted slightly, his blush deepening. “It’s from training,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed, leaning in closer. Without warning, she pressed a soft kiss just above his navel.

Damian’s breath hitched, and he froze, his hands gripping the couch cushion as if it might steady him. “Y/N…”

She looked up at him with a playful grin. “What? Can’t handle a little attention?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out, his face now bright red.

“Relax, Damian,” she said softly, pressing another kiss to his abs, just to tease him. “I’m just appreciating how lucky I am.”

He groaned softly, tipping his head back against the couch. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered, though there was no heat in his voice.

“And you love it,” she teased, leaning back and giving him a wink.

He finally managed to compose himself, shaking his head as he reached for her hand. “You’re impossible,” he said, though the small, fond smile on his lips gave him away.

Y/N laughed, leaning into his side as he pulled her close. “Admit it, Damian. You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

He glanced down at her, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “No,” he said quietly, his voice soft and genuine. “I wouldn’t.”

After their playful exchange, Damian stood up, brushing himself off. “I’m going to change,” he said, his tone calm but a slight smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

“Sure,” Y/N said, settling back into the couch, already feeling more at ease.

When he returned a few minutes later, Y/N was scrolling idly through her phone, but the moment she glanced up, her breath caught. Damian had changed into a pair of dark gray joggers that sat low on his hips, his upper body completely bare. His toned muscles and sharp definition were on full display, the dim lighting accentuating every detail.

Y/N’s face heated instantly, and Damian caught the way her eyes widened slightly before she quickly looked away, pretending to be unbothered.

“Comfortable enough for you?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement as he sat back down beside her.

“I—yeah,” she stammered, suddenly very interested in the pattern on the couch.

Damian leaned closer, his smirk growing. “You’re staring,” he said, his tone teasing but low enough to make her heart race.

“Am not,” she mumbled, refusing to meet his eyes.

He chuckled softly, sitting back and grabbing a book from the coffee table. “If you say so.”

Y/N shifted awkwardly, trying to keep her focus on anything but him. Damian opened the book, flipping to the marked page, and began to read aloud. His voice was steady and soothing, the words flowing smoothly as he lost himself in the story.

But Y/N wasn’t paying attention. How could she, when he looked like that? Her eyes kept drifting to him—his strong arms, the curve of his jaw, the way his hair was still slightly messy from earlier. She was completely distracted, her cheeks warm as she tried and failed to focus.

Damian stopped mid-sentence, snapping the book shut and turning to her with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not even listening, are you?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “What? I am!”

He tilted his head, smirking. “Really? What did I just read?”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. She let out a nervous laugh, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Uh… something about… words?”

Damian’s smirk widened as he leaned closer. “You’re hopeless,” he said, his voice full of teasing amusement.

She huffed, crossing her arms. “Well, maybe it’s hard to concentrate when you’re sitting there looking like a Greek god,” she shot back, her words spilling out before she could stop them.

Damian froze for a split second, his cheeks faintly coloring, but he recovered quickly, his smirk returning. “So you were checking me out.”

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

He chuckled, gently tugging her hands away from her face. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said softly, his green eyes warm as he met her gaze. “I’m flattered, really.”

She glared at him half-heartedly. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, leaning back with a smug grin. “But I could say the same about you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “Fine. You’re ridiculously handsome. Happy now?”

Damian’s smirk softened into a small, genuine smile. “Only because you’re here,” he said quietly.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she leaned into his side, letting his arm wrap around her. “You’re lucky you’re charming,” she murmured, closing her eyes as his warmth enveloped her.

“And you’re lucky I tolerate your terrible listening skills,” he teased, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.

Y/N laughed softly, feeling utterly content in his arms.

The next morning at Wayne Manor was quiet and peaceful. Y/N woke up to the sound of faint birdsong outside the window, sunlight streaming through the curtains. Damian was already awake, sitting at the edge of the bed reading. He glanced over when she stirred, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Good morning,” he said softly, placing the book on the nightstand.

“Morning,” she murmured, stretching and sitting up. “You’ve been up for a while, haven’t you?”

“Only a little,” he replied, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “I was letting you sleep in.”

Y/N smiled sleepily, leaning into his touch. After a moment, she stood and wandered to the bathroom to freshen up, changing into one of Damian’s hoodies and her own leggings. When she returned, Damian was waiting for her by the door.

“Come on,” he said, offering his hand. “I’ll make us breakfast.”

Down in the massive kitchen, Y/N sat perched on a stool as Damian began pulling ingredients from the fridge. Despite his reputation as a fearsome vigilante, Damian was surprisingly skilled in the kitchen. He moved with precision, chopping vegetables with ease and setting up everything for a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast.

“Are you just going to sit there and watch, or do you want to help?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder with a faint smirk.

Y/N raised her hands defensively. “I don’t want to ruin your masterpiece.”

Damian rolled his eyes but gestured for her to come over. “I’ll guide you.”

She hesitated, but his reassuring expression convinced her to join him. He handed her a knife and a cutting board, placing a small pile of vegetables in front of her. “Just slice these. I’ll show you how.”

Standing behind her, Damian reached out to gently guide her hands. His touch was firm but careful as he adjusted her grip on the knife, his chest brushing against her back.

“Like this,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Use your fingers to guide the blade but keep them tucked under so you don’t cut yourself.”

Y/N followed his instructions, her hands moving awkwardly at first. Damian’s presence was both comforting and distracting, his warmth radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“See? You’re doing fine,” he murmured, his breath brushing against her ear.

“Maybe,” she replied, glancing up at him with a small smile. “But I’m pretty sure you’re doing most of the work.”

He chuckled softly, his hands retreating as he let her take over. “You’ll get the hang of it. Just don’t let the knife intimidate you.”

She managed a few decent slices before turning to him triumphantly. “Not bad, right?”

“Not bad at all,” Damian said, taking the board from her and adding the vegetables to the pan.

Y/N leaned against the counter, watching him cook with a sense of quiet admiration. “You’re really good at this, you know.”

“I had to learn,” he said simply, stirring the pan. “Father and Alfred can’t always be around to cook, and I prefer knowing what’s in my meals.”

“Practical as always,” she teased, earning a small smirk from him.

Once the food was ready, they sat together at the kitchen island, sharing a meal in comfortable silence. Y/N couldn’t help but feel a warmth settle in her chest as she watched Damian, his normally stoic expression softened in the calm of the morning.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly, her voice quiet.

He looked up, his brow furrowing slightly. “For what?”

“For this,” she replied, gesturing to the food and the peaceful moment they were sharing. “For being… you.”

Damian’s expression softened further, and he reached across the counter to take her hand. “I could say the same to you,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing against her knuckles.

Y/N smiled, squeezing his hand gently. Moments like these reminded her of just how much she loved him—and how lucky she was to have him in her life.

After breakfast, Y/N and Damian cleared the table together, falling into a comfortable rhythm as they washed and dried the dishes. Despite the mundane nature of the task, Y/N found herself smiling. It was the simplicity of it all—doing something normal with him, no danger, no pressure. Just the two of them.

Damian handed her a plate to dry, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Y/N couldn’t help but glance at his forearms. “You know,” she said, trying to suppress a grin, “you make doing dishes look annoyingly good.”

He raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Annoyingly good?”

“You heard me,” she teased, bumping her hip against his.

Damian shook his head, a faint chuckle escaping him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love it,” she countered with a grin, making him roll his eyes fondly.

After cleaning up, they wandered into the library, a massive room filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Damian selected a book he thought she’d enjoy and handed it to her, settling into one of the large armchairs. Y/N curled up beside him, her legs draped over his lap as she flipped through the pages.

For a while, the only sounds were the faint rustle of pages and the crackle of the fireplace Damian had lit. Y/N glanced up from her book occasionally, watching the way Damian’s brow furrowed slightly as he read, his focus intense.

“You’re staring again,” he said suddenly, not looking up from his book.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “What? No, I’m not!”

He finally looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “You’re a terrible liar.”

She huffed, closing her book and leaning her head against his shoulder. “Fine, I was staring. But can you blame me? You’re kind of distracting.”

Damian smirked, closing his own book and setting it aside. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer.

Y/N laughed, snuggling into his side. “And you’re lucky you’re tolerable,” she teased, earning a soft chuckle from him.

Later in the afternoon, Y/N decided to bake cookies, dragging Damian into the kitchen with her. He claimed he didn’t have much interest in sweets, but she caught him sneaking bites of the cookie dough when he thought she wasn’t looking.

“You do have a sweet tooth!” she exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at him.

“I do not,” he said firmly, though the faint smear of dough on his lip betrayed him.

Y/N laughed, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. “You’re such a liar.”

Damian smirked, leaning down to steal a quick kiss. “And you’re nosy,” he shot back, his voice soft but teasing.

By the time the cookies were done, the kitchen was a mess, but Y/N couldn’t bring herself to care. They sat together at the counter, eating warm cookies straight from the tray, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment.

“I like this,” she said softly, glancing at Damian.

He looked at her, his expression calm but warm. “Like what?”

“This. Us. Just… being together like this.”

A rare, soft smile crossed his face. “I like it too,” he admitted, reaching over to take her hand.

Y/N smiled, squeezing his hand gently. No matter how chaotic their lives could get, moments like these reminded her that they were worth every challenge.

Y/N was curled up on the couch, flipping through a book, when she heard Damian’s voice call from upstairs.

“Y/N! We’re out of shampoo!”

She sighed, closing her book and standing up. “How does someone who barely uses hair products run out of shampoo?” she muttered to herself as she made her way to the bathroom.

Pushing open the door, she stopped in her tracks. Damian was lounging in the large clawfoot tub, water up to his waist, his bare chest visible and lightly glistening with water droplets. His hair was damp, dark strands sticking to his forehead.

The sight made her cheeks warm instantly. “Damian!” she exclaimed, her voice rising slightly. “You’re in the bath!”

“Obviously,” he replied, smirking as he rested his arms on the edge of the tub, completely unbothered by her flustered reaction. “You came, so I assume you’re bringing me more shampoo.”

“I thought you needed shampoo!” she huffed, crossing her arms to try and cover her embarrassment.

“I do,” he said innocently, though the mischievous glint in his green eyes gave him away.

“You’re unbelievable,” Y/N muttered, stepping closer. “You’re not even out of shampoo, are you?”

“No,” he admitted, tilting his head slightly, his smirk growing. “But since you’re here…”

She raised an eyebrow. “Since I’m here what?”

He gestured to the small bottle of shampoo on the counter. “I thought you could put some in my hair and massage my scalp. It’s a relaxing experience, or so I’ve heard.”

Y/N stared at him, her mouth falling open. “You called me all the way up here to be your personal shampoo assistant?”

“Precisely.” His tone was so matter-of-fact that she couldn’t tell if he was teasing or genuinely serious.

“You’re impossible, Damian Wayne,” she said with an exasperated sigh.

“And yet, you love me,” he replied smoothly, leaning back in the tub with a faint smirk.

Y/N rolled her eyes but grabbed the bottle of shampoo anyway. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, kneeling by the side of the tub.

“I hear that a lot,” he teased, tilting his head back so she could reach his hair more easily.

Shaking her head, Y/N squirted a bit of shampoo into her hands and began to work it into his damp hair. Her fingers moved in slow, circular motions, massaging his scalp as the shampoo lathered.

Damian let out a soft hum of contentment, his eyes fluttering shut. “This is quite nice,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

“Yeah, yeah,” Y/N replied, trying to suppress a smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Why not?” he murmured, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You’re very good at this.”

“Because I’m not your personal hairdresser, that’s why,” she said, though her tone lacked any real annoyance.

Damian chuckled softly, his hands resting on the edge of the tub. “You’re always so good to me, habibti.”

She paused for a moment, her fingers still in his hair, before continuing with a soft smile. “I do spoil you, don’t I?”

He cracked one eye open, glancing at her. “You do, but I’m not complaining.”

Y/N laughed, leaning over to rinse the suds from his hair with the handheld showerhead. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Only for you,” he replied smoothly, sitting up slightly so she could finish.

As she carefully rinsed out the last of the shampoo, she couldn’t help but shake her head, her smile widening. “You’re lucky you’re charming,” she said, setting the showerhead aside.

“And you’re lucky you tolerate me,” Damian shot back, his smirk softening into a rare, genuine smile.

Y/N sat back on her heels, her cheeks warm as she looked at him. Moments like these, filled with teasing banter and quiet affection, reminded her why she loved him so much.

After Damian finished his bath, he stood in the bedroom, a towel slung around his shoulders, as Y/N rummaged through his closet to pick out something for him to wear.

“Blouse or no blouse?” she asked teasingly, holding up one of his signature button-down shirts.

“Blouse,” he replied without hesitation, crossing his arms as he watched her. “And don’t take too long. I can’t walk around shirtless all day, as much as I’m sure you’d prefer it.”

Y/N shot him a playful glare but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re insufferable.”

She tossed him a plain white T-shirt, which he pulled on quickly, and then handed him the button-down. Damian slipped his arms through the sleeves but made no move to button it. Instead, he gave her a pointed look.

“You’re perfectly capable of doing this yourself,” Y/N said, raising an eyebrow.

“But you’re better at it,” he replied smoothly, stepping closer.

“Uh-huh, sure.” She sighed but stepped forward, her hands moving to the buttons of his shirt. “You’re so spoiled, Damian.”

As she worked her way up the shirt, fastening each button carefully, Damian’s gaze stayed fixed on her face, his expression unreadable. When she reached the top, she paused, leaving the top two buttons undone.

“There,” she said, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders. “That looks good.”

Damian glanced down at her handiwork before meeting her gaze again. “You have good taste, doll.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the nickname. “Doll?” she repeated, her cheeks heating.

He smirked, leaning in slightly. “Yes. Doll. It suits you.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she quickly looked away, fussing with the hem of his shirt. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” he asked innocently, stepping even closer. “Calling you doll? Why not?”

Her blush deepened as she tried to focus on straightening his collar. “Because it’s… it’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” His voice was soft now, teasing. “I think it’s fitting. Doll. Doll. Doll.”

Every time he said it, her blush grew, and Damian’s smirk only widened.

“Stop it,” she mumbled, though the small smile on her lips betrayed her.

“Why should I? You look adorable when you’re flustered,” he said, his tone gentle but amused.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” Damian replied, leaning down so their faces were inches apart.

She smiled, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek, her lips brushing against the faint warmth of his skin. “Only because it’s you,” she said softly.

Damian’s smirk softened into a rare, genuine smile as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. “Good. Because I wouldn’t want it to be anyone else.”

Y/N rested her hands against his chest, her smile widening as they stood there, wrapped in each other’s warmth. Moments like this were all she needed to remind her just how much she adored him.

Y/N and Damian were trying their best to sneak down the hall unnoticed, their laughter muffled as they whispered to each other. Damian was leading the way, but Y/N tugged on his sleeve, holding him back when she thought she heard a noise.

“Relax,” he whispered, smirking at her. “Father’s probably holed up in the Batcave. He won’t—”

“Trying to go somewhere, are we?” Bruce’s deep voice suddenly cut through the air, making both of them freeze mid-step.

Slowly, they turned to find Bruce standing in the doorway of the study, arms crossed and his signature disapproving expression firmly in place.

Damian groaned softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Father.”

“Don’t ‘Father’ me,” Bruce said, raising an eyebrow. “Where exactly were the two of you sneaking off to?”

“We weren’t sneaking,” Y/N said quickly, though her guilty expression betrayed her.

Bruce sighed. “Right. Clearly, you need some discipline. Both of you—library. One hour. No electronics.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “You’re locking us in the library? Like we’re kids?”

Bruce gave her a pointed look. “You’re lucky it’s not the Batcave training simulator.”

Damian muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue. Grabbing Y/N’s hand, he led her toward the library with Bruce following close behind.

Once inside, Bruce locked the door, leaving them surrounded by towering shelves of books. Y/N flopped onto one of the plush armchairs, groaning dramatically.

“This is ridiculous,” she grumbled.

“Agreed,” Damian said, sitting beside her. Then, his lips curved into a smirk. “But he underestimated us.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow as Damian pulled her MP3 player out of his pocket, holding it up triumphantly.

“You stole that from me!” she said, trying to snatch it back, but Damian held it out of her reach.

“Borrowed,” he corrected. “Now, are we sharing headphones, or are you going to pout?”

Y/N rolled her eyes but grabbed one of the earbuds he offered, placing it in her ear as Damian did the same. Scrolling through her playlist, he settled on a song and hit play.

The familiar opening chords of Scotty Doesn’t Know filled their ears, and Y/N immediately covered her face with her hands. “No. You did not just pick this song.”

Damian chuckled, leaning back casually in his seat. “What? It’s catchy.”

As the chorus began, Damian’s smirk deepened. He sang along softly, his voice low and teasing:

“Scotty doesn’t know that Fiona and me

Do it in my van every Sunday…”

Y/N’s face turned bright red. She shoved his shoulder lightly. “Damian!”

“She tells him she’s in church but she doesn’t go,” he continued, completely unbothered, his smirk widening as he watched her squirm. “Still she’s on her knees, and…”

“Stop it!” Y/N said, laughing despite herself as she buried her face in her hands.

Damian chuckled, pulling her hands away gently. “You’re so easy to fluster,” he said, leaning closer. “It’s adorable.”

“You’re insufferable,” she pouted, though the small smile tugging at her lips betrayed her mock annoyance.

“And yet, you’re smiling,” Damian pointed out, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the warmth spreading through her chest. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know,” he replied smugly, leaning back with an air of satisfaction as the song continued to play.

Y/N shook her head, leaning her head on his shoulder as they shared the headphones. Even in moments like these—ridiculous and teasing—she wouldn’t trade their time together for anything.

The library had gone from a place of quiet punishment to their own little haven of playful chaos. After the impromptu duet with Scotty Doesn’t Know, Y/N and Damian had spent some time flipping through books and making up absurd backstories for the portraits hanging on the walls.

But it wasn’t long before Damian made a teasing remark about her flustered reaction to the song, and Y/N, determined to get the upper hand, decided to push back in the most Damian-annoying way possible.

She leaned casually against the edge of the long wooden table, arms folded and a sly smile playing on her lips. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

Damian smirked as he approached, his hands slipping into his pockets. “I don’t think. I know.”

“Do you, now?” she challenged, tilting her head slightly as he stopped in front of her.

Without another word, Y/N reached out, grabbing the front of his unbuttoned shirt to pull him closer. Before Damian could make a snarky remark, she closed the gap, her lips pressing against his in a kiss that was slow and teasing.

Damian’s sharp wit faltered as he instinctively placed his hands on her hips, steadying himself against the table. He kissed her back, but there was a slight hesitance, his usual confidence giving way to the softer side he only showed around her.

Y/N, emboldened, nipped at his bottom lip, then gently suckled on it before pulling back, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She smirked at him knowingly, her voice low and teasing. “Speechless, Wayne? That’s a first.”

Damian’s breath hitched, and he immediately pulled away, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of red. He avoided her gaze, clearing his throat as he ran a hand through his already-messy hair. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered, though the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed his embarrassment.

Y/N leaned against the table, crossing her arms as she studied him, her grin widening. “You’re blushing,” she teased.

“I’m not,” Damian insisted, though the redness spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears said otherwise.

“You so are!” she laughed, stepping closer and poking his side playfully. “I’ve never seen the great Damian Wayne lose his cool like this.”

He finally glanced at her, his green eyes narrowing playfully. “You’re lucky I tolerate you.”

“Admit it,” she said, her voice softening as she cupped his cheek. “You love it.”

Damian sighed dramatically, though the smile on his face softened as he leaned into her touch. “Only because it’s you.”

Y/N smiled warmly, leaning up to press another soft kiss to his cheek. “Good answer.”

Damian shook his head, the embarrassment fading into fondness as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Even when she drove him crazy, he wouldn’t trade moments like this for anything.

Y/N stayed pressed against Damian’s chest, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders as she grinned up at him. “You know, for someone who’s so stoic all the time, you’re pretty easy to fluster.”

Damian raised an eyebrow, his usual smirk starting to return. “Only because you catch me off guard, doll.”

The nickname made her cheeks flush, but she quickly masked it with a playful roll of her eyes. “Don’t think calling me that is going to distract me from how red you were a second ago.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Damian replied smoothly, leaning down slightly so their faces were close again.

Y/N squinted at him suspiciously. “You’re plotting something.”

“Always,” he said, his voice low and teasing.

Before she could fire back, Damian tightened his hold on her waist and spun her around, lifting her effortlessly so she was sitting on the edge of the table.

“Damian!” she exclaimed, gripping his arms for balance as she laughed.

He stepped between her legs, his hands resting on either side of her on the table. “You think you’re the only one who can tease?” he asked, a glint of mischief in his green eyes.

“Oh, is that what this is?” Y/N shot back, trying to sound unfazed even as her heart raced. “A challenge?”

“Maybe.” He leaned in closer, his nose brushing lightly against hers. “Though I think I’m already winning.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes, determined not to let him have the upper hand. Without breaking eye contact, she leaned forward, pressing a feather-light kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back with a smug smile.

“Still think you’re winning?” she asked sweetly.

Damian blinked, caught off guard for a moment, before shaking his head with a soft chuckle. “You’re relentless.”

“And you love it,” she replied confidently.

“Unfortunately,” he said, his smirk returning.

Y/N poked his chest lightly. “You’re terrible at pretending to be annoyed.”

Damian sighed dramatically, straightening up but keeping one hand resting on her knee. “You’ve ruined me, Y/N.”

“You’re welcome,” she said with a cheeky grin.

Before they could continue their playful back-and-forth, the sound of the library door unlocking echoed through the room.

“Time’s up,” Bruce’s voice announced from the doorway.

Y/N and Damian quickly separated, though not before Damian helped her off the table with a steadiness that seemed far too natural.

Bruce raised an eyebrow as he stepped inside. “You two actually survived without electronics?”

“Barely,” Damian said, his tone dry as ever.

Bruce glanced between the two of them, clearly suspicious but choosing not to comment. “Dinner’s in an hour. Try not to cause any more trouble until then.”

Y/N couldn’t help but grin as Bruce walked away. She glanced at Damian, who rolled his eyes but smirked faintly.

“You heard the man,” she teased. “No trouble.”

Damian leaned in close, his voice low and amused. “Since when do we ever listen to him?”

Y/N laughed softly, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the door. “C’mon, let’s keep him guessing.”