#damian X OC

[narrativeglitch]

Where No One Knows My Name

(Aged up Damian Wayne- In College )

Warm light glowed from the string of fairy lights draped above her bed, casting a soft, golden wash over the crinkled world map taped to the wall. The room smelled faintly of vanilla body lotion, the citrusy echo of her shampoo, and something cozy and sweet like sugar cookies and secondhand coffee. Marjorie knelt on the mattress in her mismatched socks and oversized hoodie, animatedly pointing at a new travel idea while the scent wrapped around them like a blanket.

Damian sat with his back on the wall and his leges sticking out on her bed, watching her with quiet amusement. He looked relaxed in his black long-sleeve tee and soft gray sweats, but behind his calm exterior, his mind never truly stopped moving.

“And then this,” she said, tapping the northeastern coast of Spain, “this is where I plan to spend all my student loan money and questionable budgeting decisions. Barcelona. Imagine it. Rooftops. Music. Tapas. Overpriced gelato. Me pretending I know Spanish.”

Damian’s mouth curved slightly. “I’ve been there.”

Marjorie froze mid-motion, her finger still pressed to the map. “Wait. What?”

Realizing what he just admitted to, He nodded, needing a quick save "Yeah.”

She turned fully toward him on her knees. “When?”

Damian paused to make sure he got his story right “My parents were... missionaries. Volunteer work. We moved around when I was younger. The last trip I took with them before I went to live with my grandfather was Barcelona.”

“Oh.” Her voice was softer now. “I didn’t know that.”

“Mhm,” he murmured.

She gave a light pout, turning back toward the map. “Still. Now if we go, it won’t be new for you. You’ll just be watching me freak out over little alley cafés you already know exist.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out and tugged her gently by the waist, pulling her down until she was nestled beside him. She landed against his chest with a small “oomph,” giggling as their legs tangled.

“Hey! rude,” she teased, looking up at him.

He brushed a curl away from her forehead, eyes soft.

“It’ll still be my first time,because I’ll be going with you,” he whispered against her temple, then pressed a soft kiss there.

She groaned dramatically. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with my emotionally constipated boyfriend?”

He laughed quietly, the sound low and warm.

They fell into a gentle silence. Her head rested on his shoulder, her hand lightly tracing the chain of the necklace around her neck, the onyx stone catching the lamp light just right.

“You know,” she said softly, “I still can’t believe you picked this out yourself. You have weirdly good taste.”

Damian didn’t look down. Just replied, just as quiet, “I had help.”

From Alfred. The only person who knew about her. It had happened by accident. Damian had forgotten a homework assignment on the kitchen counter at Wayne Manor, a first, Alfred had noted with thinly veiled suspicion. Alfred drop it off at campus between errands. He hadn’t expected to find Damian standing just outside the student commons, holding hands with a girl. 

Alfred paused, struck by the rare softness in Damian’s posture, the way his thumb traced circles over her knuckles like it was second nature. When Marjorie turned and smiled, Damian looked more like a twenty-year-old college student than a Wayne or an al Ghul.

“This is my grandfather,” Damian had said smoothly, motioning to Alfred without a hint of hesitation. And Alfred ever the picture of discretion, watched as Damian’s eyes, just above Marjorie’s head, locked with his in a rare flash of open vulnerability. Not fear. Pleading. Please, they said. Don’t ruin this.

Alfred gave the faintest of smiles and nodded graciously. “Ah. You must be Marjorie. Damian’s told me so much.”

Since then, he hadn’t said a word about it. But when Damian came to him weeks later, fidgeting with velvet in his hands, asking for help choosing something special, Alfred only gave a knowing look. He’d slipped the necklace into Damian’s palm with a quiet, approving murmur, “Something simple, but meaningful, Master Damian.”

And, of course, Damian had added a tracker in the clasp.

Not because he was watching her. Not because he was possessive.

But because this was Gotham.

And if something ever happened,if she disappeared or was taken or was hurt he wanted to be able to find her.

His hand rested low on her waist, almost forgotten, and without realizing it, his thumb began drawing soft circles on her skin beneath the hem of her shirt. Slow, Thoughtless.

Marjorie sighed contentedly and curled a little closer.

“I really love it,” she murmured, thumb brushing the pendant.

He looked down at her, gaze serious but full of something tender.

His thumb kept moving, lazy circles traced into her skin. Grounding him as much as her voice did. As much as her presence did. With her, he didn’t have to be the heir. Or the weapon. Or Robin.

He could just be Damian. Quiet. Soft. Hers.

And in this moment, that was all he wanted to be.

[caffine-addict-living-in-gotham]

Me and @gotham-witch three minutes before meeting Batman and the principal because the scarecrow decided to bomb Gotham Academy again. (Damian and Jon are standing on the other side of the elevator)

[christelgothamite]

Just watched all the kids yell "BABA" in a whinny tone and Damian going extremely still like his soul got taken or something.

[mentalteen]

Random self oc x canon art

damian al ghul Wayne x Avon(oc)

The lil sillies

[meloncat-artcult]

Haven't posted art in forever

Moth is an DC OC insert she's the main character for my fic 'what the hell is wrong with you' on ao3 still learning how I want to draw Damian

[ladycloudless]

This crackship is my brainrot right now

A next gen Lego Monkie Kid oc and a DC character what can go wrong? (⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

without the drawings

this is also for future chapters of the fic for this crackship-

[iydiamartinx]

TERRITORY, MARKED

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader ft. Dick Grayson

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 2.1k synopsis: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park—but when his older brother tags along one day and takes a little too much interest, Damian decides one thing for certain: this was not supposed to be a shared friendship. a/n: I got this cute request from @kitkatscabinet hope you liked it 🩵

He didn’t like the noise, the chaos, or the strangers who insisted on asking where his parents were—just because he was twelve and walking around with a dog half his height. The scrutiny was always the same: curious stares, patronizing smiles, or the occasional busybody who seemed convinced he was lost. He wasn’t. He had perfect directional memory and could incapacitate a grown man with two fingers.

But Titus needed exercise, and Alfred had made a rather pointed comment that morning about how “a well-socialized pet is a reflection of his owner’s discipline.”

So here he was, standing stiffly beneath a tree with his arms crossed, watching Titus bound after a tennis ball like a slobbering oaf. His nose wrinkled slightly as a group of women near the water fountain cast him a judgmental look—three of them with toy dogs tucked neatly into designer purses like accessories. Damian could feel the weight of their stares on him and Titus and he was just about ready to call it a day when he heard a voice behind him.

“That’s a gorgeous dog,” you said, gaze following Titus. “Yours?”

Damian turned, immediately wary.

He looked you over with practiced suspicion, eyes narrowing just slightly. You were older than him—maybe around Grayson’s age—but you didn’t speak to him with the gratingly high-pitched, patronizing tone adults so often used. There was no forced sweetness, no condescension, no judgment. Not even fear. Just curiosity.

An unclipped leash hung loosely from your fingers, and a husky stood at your side, tail wagging as it trotted toward Titus with a cheerful bark.

“Yes,” Damian replied curtly.

You didn’t flinch at his curt reply. Didn’t backpedal or fill the silence with awkward chatter the way most people did when confronted with Damian’s usual icy demeanour. Instead, you just nodded as your husky bounded up to Titus, sniffing noses and circling excitedly.

“They’ve got good instincts,” you said casually, eyes on the dogs. “Mine doesn’t usually approach ones that size unless they’re friendly.”

Damian followed your gaze. Titus, ever the soldier, stood tall and still, allowing the inspection without so much as a twitch. Then, with a quiet chuff, he gave a single, measured wag of his tail and lowered his head in greeting.

A rare sign of approval.

Damian’s stance eased—just slightly. “…He doesn’t usually tolerate strangers,” Damian said slowly.

You smiled a little at that. “Guess today’s just full of exceptions.”

He studied you again, this time with a shade less suspicion. You didn’t have the overenthusiastic energy most dog people radiated. You weren’t trying to pet Titus without permission, or asking how old he was like he was a child running errands without supervision. You simply stood there, hands in your pockets, content to watch the dogs with quiet interest.

“I’m Y/N, by the way,” you offered after a beat, though your tone made it clear there was no pressure to respond.

“…Damian,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Damian.”

He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, then let his gaze return to the dogs. Titus and your husky had taken to one another quickly, and Damian felt another piece of his wall chip when he saw how happy Titus was with his new friend. 

Silence settled between the two of you again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You eventually moved to the nearby bench, letting your dog roam in a wide circle with Titus while you scrolled through your phone.

Damian didn’t sit beside you—not right away. But after a few minutes, he shifted his weight. Then stepped closer. Then finally sank onto the far edge of the bench, arms still crossed but no longer on guard.

That was how it started. The next time he saw you, you sent him a friendly wave. The time after that, you offered him a spot beside you. You never pushed for him to speak but eventually he began responding to your idle chatter, until he found himself opening up and talking about his day—about school, about people who annoyed him, about books he liked. Something about you was easy to talk to, you listened with interest, asking questions when needed, and even occasionally talking about your own daily life, which he found oddly… validating. You didn’t treat him like a child and you were smart enough that you could keep up with him. 

Soon, it became a routine. Titus and your dog would charge off together the moment their paws hit the grass, while you and Damian claimed your usual spot beneath the shade. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you didn’t. Either way, it worked.

Damian had always found it difficult to spend time with kids his age. He didn’t understand them—and frankly, they didn’t understand him. They were loud, immature, easily distracted. The only exception had ever been Jon, and even then, their bond had been forged under very specific circumstances. Neither of them had to hide who they were. They were both born into the life of heroes but And even then, their friendship was… unconventional at best.

Damian rarely connected, even among the other young heroes His surly personality, sharp tongue, and rigid discipline kept most of them at arm’s length. Jon, ever the optimist, was the rare outlier—a ball of sunshine who somehow wormed his way past Damian’s walls with unwavering sincerity. 

You were something entirely different. A civilian. Someone completely outside the world he’d grown up in, that he began considering as a friend.

But, of course, with a family like his, someone was bound to find out eventually. Damian had done his best to keep this to himself—this quiet corner of his life that belonged only to him. He changed his routes, downplayed his outings, gave vague answers when asked where he’d been.

Still, everyone had started to notice the change.

Subtle things, at first. The way he stopped groaning every time he was told to take Titus out. The way he came back from his walks with less tension in his shoulders. He wasn’t snapping as much. Wasn’t muttering under his breath with the same venom he usually reserved for Gotham’s general population.

So when Dick insisted on tagging along one weekend—something about “needing fresh air” and “brotherly bonding”—Damian should’ve known his secret was on borrowed time. His friend, his quiet routine, his piece of normalcy… it was no longer going to be just his.

Still, he thought he’d pulled it off. He left early, ditching Dick. He even took the long way around, doubled back twice just to be sure he wasn’t followed. And it worked—he made it to the park alone. What he hadn’t expected was that Dick would show up anyway. 

“Hey, Dami!”

Damian tensed mid-sentence, shoulders going rigid as if preparing for an ambush. You glanced up in time to see the source of the disruption. With a coffee in one hand, and a leash in the other, the man beamed brightly. An adorable grey puppy trotted beside him, ears bouncing with every step, tongue lolling out in sheer delight. Her leash was slack—more of a formality than a necessity.

Taking a moment to study the man himself, he was tall, handsome, and fit, with bright eyes and a golden grin. There was an easy confidence to him, an effortless charm that told you he was a people person…right up until he saw you.

And then he just—froze.

You offered a polite, amused smile. “You must be his brother.” 

You’d heard Damian complain about his brothers enough to make a pretty solid guess. Drake and Thomas were still juniors—too young to be this guy—and from everything Damian had said about Todd, he sounded more like the leather-jacket, punch-first type. This guy? He was too put-together. Too clean-cut. Too… sunny. Which really only left one option.

Grayson. The apparent golden boy.

Beside you, Damian sighed loudly, rubbing his temples like this entire interaction was causing him physical pain. “Unfortunately.”

Dick blinked. “I—uh—hi. I’m Dick.” He caught the raised brow you gave him and immediately flushed, a faint pink blooming across his cheeks. “Richard. Grayson. Dick Grayson. That’s me.”

“…Right,” you said, lips curving into a slightly wider smile. 

Damian didn’t have to look at you to know. He could already feel the secondhand embarrassment crawling up his spine like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He was going to commit fratricide. Right here. In broad daylight.

Meanwhile, you let your gaze drop to the ball of grey fluff at his side, her tail wagging lazily as she sprawled out across the grass like she owned the park.

“And who’s this?” you asked, your tone cooeing.

Dick followed your gaze, smile brightening instantly. “Haley,” he said warmly. “She’s still a bit of a mischief maker, but we’re working on it.”

As if on cue, Haley let out a happy little yip and rolled onto her back, paws curled in the air, clearly angling for attention. You laughed, reaching down to scratch her belly, and she kicked her legs like she’d just won the lottery.

Titus and your dog trotted over from where they’d been playing nearby, drawn by the sight of the unfamiliar puppy. Their postures were relaxed, tails wagging in casual curiosity as they circled around to greet her. Dick crouched down and unclipped Haley’s leash without hesitation, giving her a soft pat on the side.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Haley didn’t need to be told twice. With a delighted bark, she bounded forward to meet the others. Within moments, the three dogs were weaving around each other in playful loops, tails high and tongues lolling, a flurry of paws and joyful energy filling the open stretch of grass.

Pushing past his momentary embarrassment, Dick dropped onto the bench beside you without being asked, angling his body a little too fully in your direction. His smile was quick to return, all easy charm and boyish confidence.

“So,” he said, leaning in slightly. “You’re the mysterious dog park friend. I’ve heard… absolutely nothing about, because apparently someone likes to keep secrets.”

You chuckled, casting an amused glance at Damian. “I didn’t realize I was being kept a secret.”

“You weren’t,” Damian snapped, a little too quickly and defensively. “But my brothers are like rabid dogs who I didn’t want scaring you off.”

Dick raised his eyebrows, clearly amused instead of offended. “Scaring her off? What, do we bark too loud or something?”

You snorted. “The more important question is, do you bite?”

“Only when threatened,” Dick said with a wink. Then he leaned in just a fraction, pitching his voice low enough that, presumably, only you would hear. “Or when asked.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself. There was a spark in his eyes, teasing and a little too pleased with himself, and you hated how easily it made heat crawl up the back of your neck.

You were cut off by Damian’s groan as he saw the look you two shared, slumping back against the bench with the kind of dramatized misery usually reserved for Shakespearean death scenes. “You see? This is why I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Aw, come on, Dami,” Dick teased, nudging his little brother with his elbow. “Don’t be like that. It’s not my fault our new friend is cute.”

Your lips parted in surprise, a soft huff of laughter escaping before you could stop it. 

“She is not our friend,” Damian muttered.

You turned toward him, brow arching with interest. “Oh?” you said, drawing the word out, clearly amused. “So what am I?”

Damian opened his mouth, paused, frowned like the question had personally offended him. “You’re… mi—my,” he settled on, vaguely flustered. “My friend. Not his.”

Dick raised his brows, then gave a low chuckle, the sound soft and unbothered. “Hey, no one said she can’t be friends with both of us.”

Then he glanced your way, that familiar glint in his eyes.

“Though I wouldn’t mind being a little more than friends.”

Your heart skipped, just once, and the way his smile deepened told you he noticed your flushed cheeks.

From beside you, Damian huffed, arms crossed tight. “I just didn’t introduce her because I didn’t want you hitting on her,” he grumbled.

Your smile softened as you leaned back against the bench. “Don’t worry, Dami. You’ll always be my favourite.”

He nodded like that settled the matter entirely, posture relaxing ever so slightly as he turned his attention back to the three dogs still tumbling across the grass.

But the moment his gaze was elsewhere, Dick leaned in again, his voice low and smooth.

“What do you say to dinner?” he murmured, the words warm against the air between you. “Give me a chance to change your mind about your favourite.”

You turned your head toward him, brow raised, a smile tugging at your lips. Your eyes flicked to Damian—still fully distracted— before looking back at Dick, biting your lip.

“It’s a date.”

Next Chapter →

[batsis-reader]

Batsis: Hey Jason Jason: Yes? Batsis: Can a person breathe inside a washing machine while it’s on? Jason: Jason: Where’s Damian?

[invincibledc]

ᝰ.ᐟ𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐄 𝐌𝐘 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍?

────୨ৎ────

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 (𝐎𝐂) 𝐗 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐒!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

── .✦ Summary: obsessed clown boy versus girl boss who walks him like a dog? Wait, is that the female Robin?

── .✦ Genre: crack fic(?) idk but I wrote this

── .✦ Info: this OC is an OC I’m written for my own amusement. He’s the son of Harley Quinn and joker. Full name, Jacklyn Oswald Quinn. Jack and reader are in their mid teens, 15-17. Jack is considered canonically handsome. Reader is the twin sister of Damian Wayne.

── .✦ Word count: 1,039

Being a duo, especially another Robin with your twin brother. You were patrolling Gotham in the east, sighing as you looked over the busy streets. It’s boring, but this is what you do now for a living since your mother dropped you and Damian here to meet your father.

Leaning back with a sigh, your vision was soon taken over by gloved hands. “Guess who~,” a deep raspy voice said into your ear.

Shivers ran down your spine, you pulled the hands from you, twisting the arms of the person and forcing them onto their back.

Eyes narrowed, you see the boy joker. Son of Joker and Harley Quinn. “Jack.” “Birdy~” he purrs as he pulls his arms forward. You couldn’t help but yelp, leaning forward. You were soon on the ground as well of the roof of this building.

“Isn’t it nice to just, relax with me puddin'?” Jack says gently, wrapping his arms around your waist. You stared at the boy who gave you soft puppy eyes. You.. hated him. Is what you repeat in your head despite your fingers combing through his dyed hair.

Jack knew you couldn’t resist him, and he couldn’t be with you. “Is the big bat patrolling, or did you come out to see me, sweetheart.” You hum, facing the night sky that has cloudy skies.

“The whole gang is patrolling. And if they see me cuddling up with the son of the most crazed man ever. This might not end well.” You pull your hands from his hair, Jack has already relaxed against you. He frowned at the absence of your fingers through his hair.

“Well, fuck 'em. Keep spoiling me with all your attention birdy.” Couldn’t help but laugh, you rolled your eyes as you moved from Jack. Sitting up til you fully stand.

“I love to entertain you clown boy, but I got things to do.” You said lastly before jumping off the roof. Jack grins, looking over the roof to not see you anymore.

“Damn, she’s good.”

✦

It was another night, you were defeating some goons. A tall goon came behind you, grabbing you in their big arms. Grumbling, you gritted your teeth. “Got you, you little bitch!” The male exclaims as if his favorite football team won.

But as you go to release your arms, a king card hits the goon’s left arm. The card was sharp, apparently so sharp as the male’s arm started to bleed.

“Agh!” The goon lets you go, just to try and take the card out. But you didn’t give him as much chance as you did a spinning roundhouse kick to his face. The man was then knocked out, you picked up the card that had impaled the male’s arm.

“I think that belongs to me, babe.” Feeling arms wrapped around your waist. His heavy hands gripped your hips. You jolted, turning to face Jack who had a soft grin. “You could’ve at least told me you were fighting bad guys. Then I would’ve protected what’s mine.”

Your face felt heated up as he gave your hips another squeeze. “Get off me you clown!” flaying your arms around, Jack had gotten elbowed by you. But he didn't care, he loved it.

You could have easily stabbed him, pinned him down, hurt him, or maybe even arrested him.

But you haven't.

And he loves it.

“Calm down puddin`, let me take care of you.” effortlessly, he lifts over your shoulder. Eyes widen, shocked, you look at Jack’s back, and at the knocked-out man.

“Wait! I need to tie that guy up, so Officer Gordon can get him.” pointing to the slight bleeding man. Jack sighed annoyed, his eyes relaxed and narrowed. There's one thing he hated about you, which is your empathy. He loves it, but damn was it annoying.

“Why should we, he’s just gonna try and mug someone again.” soon Jack felt a smack at his head.

“Do it now.” your voice lowered with authority. “Yes ma’am,” Jack said lastly, complying to you. He never denies his girl, if there’s one thing his mom taught him, was to always give your hardest to get what you want. And it's you.

✦

Jason and Damian hate the boy joker, mostly Jason. Jason wants to strangle Jack. Jack could try and hide, taking off his painted face and looking normally like an average boy. His blonde hair and blue eyes stared into yours as you looked completely over him.

The ‘normal’ looking boy had equipped a rose, smiling as Jason was behind you. Glaring at Jack like a protective and angry older brother.

“Get lost kid,” Jason says pointing out more. “And If I see you close to the manor, I'm shooting you.” “Jason?!” you blurted shocked at how Jason said that. Jack rolled his eyes, “whatever old man.” Jason raised a brow. “Old man?” Jack gave you the rose simply, walking off as he waved at you.

Jason slammed the door, taking the rose from you. “Of course, you get a villain’s son to fall in love with you. I can't believe this.” you chased after Jason as he ripped the flower up. “You are Bruce’s kid.” the tanned male with scars all over his body said lastly.

Scoffing, you kicked the back of his knees, having him fall onto his face. “Shut the hell up, don't try and say that shit to my face when you’re single and miserable.” you walked past his fallen body before he got up and grabbed your ankle. Leading you to scream. “AHH!! Let go!!” you screamed for the whole manor to hear.

Damian came rushing down with a katana, “Sister! I'm here, what's the problem?” “Jason’s the problem!” you exclaimed, trying to pull your leg from Jason’s tight grip. “This little shit is dating the Joker’s son!” he shouted.

“No I'm not!” you shouted at Jason with a shocked expression, your heart racing, you turned towards your twin brother who dropped his katana in shock. His jaw was wide open before he grabbed his sword and walked past you and Jason.

“Where are you doing?” you questioned Damian who went to the front door.

“I'm out to get the head of a clown.”

“DAMIAN NO!”

[dollishmehrayan]

𐔌 . ⋮ DAMIAN WAYNE AS A S/O .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ── .✦ ( solo damian wayne x reader run )

𝜗𝜚 a/n: I’ve been reading damian’s run these days and aww stop he’s so adorable anyways I thought why not to write something for him to get out my writers block sooo enjoy?? anyways I was pressured by my bbg @kyriakis to post this so after this I’ll probably write genuine hcs of him only of things he probably does / used to based off canon, tags: ( damian wayne x reader ) ! Disclaimer the following tags include jason, dick, bruce, Tim even when not mentioned this allows for the fandom to equally react since most don’t follow damian tag

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

A BIT OF A GREAT GIFTER ── .✦

Damian’s idea of romance is... a little dramatic. You once casually mentioned how you like the color purple or any other color and the next day you received an extravagant bouquet of rare lavender flowers, LIKE THIS MAN REMEMBERS WELL.

“Purple is a necessary part of your aesthetic,” he states nonchalantly as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

But then, if you ever mention how much you love a particular type of chocolate or a specific scent, he’ll track it down and somehow acquire it without you knowing and just say it’s a ‘gift’ as if he didn’t spend hours finding it.

And if you dare to ask him about it? PFFFF

“Tt, don’t know what you’re talking about. I simply noticed the details, as any competent person would.”

DRAMATIC BUT ON LEVEL 10 ── .✦

Damian acts like you’re going on an actual mission when you leave the house. “What do you mean you’re going for a walk? You can’t just walk around Gotham. There’s danger everywhere.”, “It’s just a bodega damian.”

And even if it’s just a trip to the store, he’ll insist on accompanying you with that “I’m doing this for your own safety” tone, but the moment you come back home, he acts like he’s been out on patrol the entire time.

“I’ve successfully completed the task of ensuring no harm came to you.” HIS LOVE IS IN ACTIONS NOT WORDS OKAY?!

He says this while wearing a full suit and tie, because of course, that makes sense for a walk to the bodega ( corner shop )

Not the Best at Compliments, but...

Damian’s way of showing affection can be a little... rough. But somehow, it always gets the point across, think of like people being sarcastic as a love language but his seems to be like kinda blunt? Where at first he won’t say out loud ‘oh I love you’ no but he isn’t ignorant either, he knows he loves you and that’s validated to him.

“You’re fine. I mean, I guess I could see how someone would find you attractive. It’s not the worst thing in the world.”

And then he’ll look at you, almost daring you to call him out. But in truth, his eyes are saying, “I think you’re the most beautiful person in the world, but I’ll never admit it because I am Damian Wayne, and I am far too cool for this.”

The thing is, though, he’ll do anything to make sure you’re happy, even if it means begrudgingly going out of his way to make sure you get exactly what you want.

WILL DEFEND YOU 100% ── .✦

one of his brothers say something mildly annoying to you?

“Don’t talk to them like that.”

Damian’s got your back no matter how small the offense.

Someone’s being rude to you in public? He’s ready to pull a full I’m Damian Wayne, son of Batman, sole heir to ra’s al ghul and start a verbal altercation, followed by a very intense, “No, they didn’t just say that about you” look.

You? Trying to defuse the situation like a normal person?

Damian? “Nope, too late. I already decided it’s a fight now, this is mockery.

If you’re lucky, he’ll look at you and say, “It’s okay. I’m protecting you,” with a glint in his eye that says, “And you better be grateful.”

GENUINELY DOESNT GET PDA BUT FOR A GOOD REASON ── .✦

Damian’s not one to show affection publicly. In fact, he’ll try to avoid touching you at all if he’s around anyone. But the second he’s sure no one is looking, you’ll catch him glaring at you from across the room like, “We’re together, and everyone should know it, but I won’t say it.” BUT he isn’t embarrassed by you or isn’t hiding you relationship

It’s just private not secret.

He’ll give you the occasional side-hug or brush your hand ever so slightly, then immediately retreat like nothing happened if you don’t grab it fast enough.

But if you’re standing near him, don’t be surprised when he casually places a hand on your shoulder or rests his head on yours... only for it to turn into the most awkward five seconds ever, followed by an immediate, “What? It’s not like I wanted to do that. You were in my personal space.” HE DOESNR WANT TO ADMIT HE’S DEPENDENT 😭

So, yeah. PDA with Damian is... complicated, BUT ITS DIFFERENT

“It’s a Normal Relationship. I Don’t Know What You’re Talking About”

Damian, when you ask if he wants to do something like go for a walk, or watch a movie together:

“I don’t know what you mean. We’re not doing anything special. This is just a normal... well, normal for us. What is ‘normal,’ anyway?”

And yet, there he is, sitting with you, absolutely enjoying the time together trying to act like it's nothing special, but he’s leaning in just a little too close to you to be that casual.

Sometimes, he’ll act like he’s too cool for the typical date stuff, but in reality, he’s all in. He’s just trying to pretend he’s not, to maintain his Bat-cred.

COMPETITIVE TO A TEA ── .✦

This seems like a regular occurrence for him where, it’s not only you but anyone, he likes competition and challenges in general by classmates, friends, you, teammates, anyone. ( This also why he doesn’t do well on teams in canon but we ain’t ready for this convo )

Whenever there’s something to compete over whether it’s a simple game or a sparring match damian’s all in. He takes everything way too seriously.

“I’ll beat you at Mario Kart.”

Damian: “Tt, you think I’m going to let you win? You underestimate me immensely this is social injustice to my name.”

And the next thing you know, he’s strategizing his every move, plotting out every turn like he’s planning an actual mission. MEANWHILE ITS JUST JENGA DAMN

When he inevitably wins (because he’s Damian Wayne, and you knew he was going to), he’ll throw you the most smug smile.

“I told you. You should’ve known better.”

BUT HE LOVES YOU ── .✦

Underneath the tough exterior, Damian’s a softie who occasionally lets his guard down when you're alone together. He might not say it, but you know when he's trying to be vulnerable.

For example, one evening, after a particularly intense patrol or he says something too smart during a simple game of uno , he’ll just stare at you, quietly, in the way that only Damian can.

“You’re... okay, right? I didn’t, uh, hurt you…. I apologize for my lack of understanding if that hurt you.”

You’ll blink and be like, “You literally saved me like 10 minutes ago?”

And he’ll just look away, muttering something like, “Well, I don’t want you to get hurt. I just... don’t want to lose anyone again.” ( damian ‘I will not have anyone dying for my mistakes the way he did’ Wayne ☹️

And then he’ll change the subject super quickly, because he doesn’t want to burden you with his fears

[narrativeglitch]

Where No One Knows My Name

(More Snippets (#2)/Aged up Characters)

The quad buzzed with palpable Friday energy. Laughter spilled from the dorms, friendly shouts crisscrossed the lawn, and the fading sun bled gold and rose behind the stone buildings.

Damian, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, stood sentinel near a tree, scanning the throng. Outwardly calm, inwardly his thoughts vibrated half anticipating a text, the other half meticulously planning his next visit to Marjorie’s dorm.

He didn’t register the footsteps until they were too close.

“Well, well,” a voice drawled behind him, saturated with grin and older brother mischief. “Look who crawled out of the library.”

Damian turned, jaw tightening. “What are you doing here?”

Dick stood there with his trademark casual confidence, hands in his own pockets, a knowing smirk already blooming. Tim hovered a few paces back, nursing a half-finished iced coffee.

“We haven’t seen you at the Manor in, what, ten days?” Dick said, tilting his head towards Tim for confirmation, then back to Damian.

“Alfred’s playing the long game and withholding intel, so naturally, we got curious.”

“Curious,” Damian echoed, his tone flat.

“Not suspicious,” Tim interjected diplomatically. “Just… noticing a pattern. You disappear. You’re always ‘at college.’ So…”

Damian’s mouth opened, a lie or deflection forming but his gaze shot past them.

Across the quad, a girl stepped out of one of the buildings, an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed up, oversized Gotham Academy sweats hung low on her hips, and her curls were gathered into a messy bun at the top of her head.

Marjorie.

“Maj!” he called, his voice slicing through the ambient chatter.

She paused mid stride, blinking towards the sound, then spotted him and her face lit up, as it always did. A small, almost bashful wave, and she started towards them.

Dick and Tim pivoted, eyes narrowing slightly as they took in the girl walking toward them wearing what was unmistakably their younger brother’s hoodie.

They exchanged a look. Then turned back to Damian.

Tim appeared confused but intrigued. Dick was already smirking.

“Hey, Damian,” Marjorie said as she reached them, brushing a stray curl back into her bun. Her other hand clutched the strap of her bag a little tighter. “I was looking for you earlier.”

“I thought you were heading back to your dorm.”

“Yeah, about that…” Her eyes flicked toward Dick and Tim, clearly clocking the unfamiliar faces.

Damian sighed, gesturing half-heartedly. “These are my brothers. Dick. Tim.”

Both offered smiles that were too pleasant to be anything but suspicious.

“Oh! Nice to meet you,” she said politely.

“Likewise,” Dick replied, voice practically dripping with interest.

Tim’s brow furrowed, and then realization clicked. His eyes ping-ponged between Marjorie and Damian. Oh, he mouthed.

Damian cleared his throat, laced with warning, and shot them both a glare that read: Don’t start.

He turned back to Marjorie. “So” He glanced at her overnight bag. “You’re heading back to L.A.? You didn’t say anything.”

“I was going to,” she said, biting her lip. “But that’s kind of why I didn’t. I knew if I told you, you’d try to come with me.”

“I would have,” he muttered, tension tightening his jaw.

“I know.” Her voice softened. “But it’s just a family thing. Kind of...” She trailed off

A small silence settled over them. Charged. Heavy with unspoken things.

Damian didn’t say anything, but the way his eyes lingered on her like he was memorizing her made her heart flutter and her brow arch.

She rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. “What, are you about to freak out? Come on, I grew up in L.A. I’m not gonna get lost in my own city.”

Then, with a teasing tilt of her head, she fingered the chain around her neck and added, “Unless you snuck a tracker in this thing. Should I be worried?”

All three brothers laughed with her. Sort of. Tim’s was a beat too short. Dick’s dissolved into a cough. And Damian… Damian managed a smile, but the slight stiffening of his shoulders was a tell that his brothers didn’t miss.

The air shifted, subtle yet unmistakable. Marjorie, oblivious, just chuckled and rocked back on her heels. She laughed again, oblivious.

“Kidding. Obviously.”

Her phone buzzed. She glanced down. “Oh! That’s my Uber. Gotta run.” She looked up at Tim and Dick. “It was really nice meeting you guys.”

Dick nodded, smirk firmly in place. “You too, Marjorie.” Tim offered a kind smile. “Safe travels.”

She turned to Damian, rising on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll text you when I get to the airport, and when I land.”

He gave a curt nod, one hand briefly brushing her arm as she turned and walked towards the curb.

The instant she was out of earshot, Dick swiveled to Damian, eyebrows raised high. “You definitely put a tracker in the necklace.”

Damian didn’t bother denying it. “We live in Gotham,” he stated stiffly. “I take precautions.” Tim took a finishing sip of his coffee and muttered, “God, he really is turning into me.”

[caffine-addict-living-in-gotham]

3rd anniversary gift. Thank you, @dami-wayne-al

That being said he is continuing to annoy me with elaborate puns. Help me ✨ (Grayson stop giving him more, I will end you ✨)

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Reverse Bloom (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 3

A/N: oki this one got looonngggg. But it’s the first time where we get more flashbacks and one of the brothers relationship dynamic with her. What do y’all think?:) - poppy

Wayne Manor had always been quiet, but lately it was a different kind of silence.

Not the calm kind—the heavy kind.

The kind that pressed into the ribs.

That made even the floorboards feel like they were holding their breath.

No one said anything outright, but the Batfamily could all feel it. In the halls. At the breakfast table. Between patrol rotations.

Something had shifted.

Dick was the first to notice it.

She didn’t sit next to him anymore.

Didn’t linger in the kitchen.

Didn’t poke her head in while he was doing push-ups just to say hi.

She still smiled when she saw him—but it never reached her eyes.

Tim noticed the pattern change.

She didn’t leave flowers on his desk anymore. Didn’t ask about his tech.

Didn’t thank him when he opened the door for her. And he couldn’t explain why that made his hands clench every time he thought about it.

Damian didn’t say anything out loud.

But he watched. Watched her in the mornings as she walked past him in the hall without greeting him like she used to. Watched her sit alone in the library and never asked to watch him fight.

He told himself it didn’t bother him.

It did.

Cass, when she visited, tilted her head every time she saw YN.

Her body said what the others wouldn’t: She’s walking differently. Holding herself like she’s shrinking. Or hiding. But no one really knew why.

Unbeknownst to them, it wasn’t anything they had done recently.

It was everything they hadn’t done.

Because Y/N had stopped trying.

Stopped trying to fit into a space they’d never made for her. Stopped smiling for the sake of keeping peace.

Stopped running after them like the sweet little sister they hadn’t earned.

They had all been used to her giving.

And now that she had stopped?

The silence felt louder than ever.

⸻

Rain tapped at the window.

The digital clock on her nightstand blinked at 12:31 AM. The light from her laptop cast soft shadows across her blanket. The screen was full of browser tabs—open rentals, part-time jobs, temp agencies, and fake ID generators she could barely understand.

She was fourteen.

There weren’t many options.

She’d searched every “rooms for rent” listing within city limits. Most were in Crime Alley or the Narrows. One was near Gotham Heights, overpriced and probably fake.

She chewed her nail, eyes tired, mind aching.

I don’t need much. Just a place to exist. Somewhere no one’s watching me like I’m about to shatter. Somewhere I can breathe. Somewhere I can survive.

She hated thinking this way.

But she hated feeling like a unwanted guest in her own house more.

A knock.

Not on the door. On the window.

Her breath hitched.

She turned slowly, heart already knowing.

Jason.

Only he ever used her window.

She closed the laptop quickly and slid under the covers, flattening her breathing like she used to when she pretended to sleep after nightmares.

But the knock came again.

Not urgent. Not loud.

Just… persistent.

She knew that knock. He always knocked like that—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be let in or forced in.

Her heart squeezed tight.

Jason had been the brother she got along with best.

Not because he was kind. Not because he was warm. But because he was real.

He never lied to her.

Never sugarcoated anything.

He spoke in anger and silences, and somehow that was easier to understand than the fake smiles from the others.

He was never really around.

Not after he came back.

Not after everything broke.

She remembered the mess.

The shouting.

The day Bruce stopped looking anyone in the eye. The way the whole house smelled like grief and sweat and smoke.

She had been just a kid— barely being able to talk when he died.

She thought Bruce was depressed.

She thought everyone was.

Until Tim showed up.

And then she realized…

Bruce just didn’t want her.

⸻

When Jason came back, it was like watching a bomb walk on legs.

Angry at Bruce. At Gotham. At the world.

And her.

He didn’t say it, not at first.

But she felt it every time he looked at her—like her very existence reminded him of all the things he hated.

Especially her blood.

Especially her mother.

He had shouted once—just once—and it had cracked something in her forever.

She never smiled at him after that.

After that, their relationship had slowly stitched itself into something fragile and strange.She never asked questions when he used her window. He never asked why her eyes were always tired.

It worked.

And now?

Now he was back like always. Like nothing happened. But something did happen, happen to her.

⸻

A third knock.

She sighed softly and sat up.

Her feet padded across the room quietly. She unlocked the window.

Jason was crouched on the ledge, still in his Red Hood gear, helmet clipped to his belt, hair wet with rain.

His eyes met hers.

“You’re not asleep.”

She rolled her eyes and moved aside without answering.

He climbed in, boots dripping, and stood in the center of her room like he’d never left.

She crawled back into bed, not looking at him.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

“You used to let me in after only a minute.”

“You used to be gone for weeks.”

He paused.

The tension stretched between them like a thread.

The rain slid gently down the window now, streaking light across the walls as Jason shrugged off his jacket and dropped it onto her desk chair without asking.

Same as always.

YN sat cross-legged on the bed, arms wrapped loosely around her knees. Her laptop was tucked, closed and quiet, under her pillow. The web of open tabs still buzzed in her head—cheap apartments, fake ID services, under-the-table jobs—but now she had to pretend none of it existed.

Jason stood for a minute, hands on his hips, looking around the room.

“You changed your sheets,” he said at last.

She blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded toward the bed. “I remember the old ones. Ivy-patterned. These are white.”

“People change,” she said lightly, too lightly.

Jason arched a brow but didn’t press it. Instead, he walked over and dropped onto the floor beside her bed with a grunt. His back hit the side of the mattress, arms sprawled out. He looked up at the ceiling like it had something to say.

“It’s weird being here again,” he said.

For her it has been years since he visited her. For him it has been a month or two.

Y/N hummed.

“I mean, the last time I came back from patrol and crashed at the manor, I think Tim was still using dial-up and Bruce didn’t hate me this week.”.

A tiny smile tugged at her mouth before she could stop it.

Jason heard it in the silence.

“Hey—look at that. You do still have facial muscles.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she muttered, but not unkindly.

“Don’t tempt me. It’s a skill.”

They sat like that for a moment—him sprawled out, her curled in, both listening to the rain.

It was an unusual silence.

“You used to ask me more questions,” Jason said without looking at her.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

He rolled his head back against the mattress to look at her upside-down. “About patrol. Or the city. Or my bike. You used to sit here like a baby detective and quiz me about what it’s like being the black sheep.”

Her throat tightened.

“You used to talk more,” she deflected. Her tone was calm and almost collected and void of any emotion.

Jason smirked. “I still talk. You’re just not asking anymore.”

She didn’t reply.

He sat up slightly, one arm hooked over his raised knee. “So what gives, Little Bloom?”

She flinched at the name.

Jason didn’t miss it.

He frowned. What was up with her?

“I’m just busy,” she said, too fast. “School. Life. You know.”

“You’re fourteen.”

“Exactly.”

He studied her. There was something in her voice—an edge, dull and tired. Something older than fourteen. Something she shouldn’t have.

“You’re acting different.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“You’re quieter. Colder.”

“I’m growing up.”

Jason’s gaze lingered on her, hard to read.

“Guess we all missed it,” he muttered. “You growing up.”

She looked at him then.

Something fragile flickered behind her eyes.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t remember.

Didn't remember how she died because of them.

None of them did.

“Maybe you weren’t looking,” she said softly.

Jason blinked, caught off guard by the foreign sharpness in her voice—too subtle to be cruel, too quiet to be innocent.

The silence between them stretched, thick and full of all the things that hadn’t been said in years. YN shifted under her blanket and leaned her cheek against her knee, staring past him.

Jason didn’t know what else to say. And it hit him, sharply, that maybe that was the problem.

He had never really known what to say to her.

She used to make it easy. Bright-eyed, curious, always asking questions. “What was it like out there?” “Is it scary?” “Do you have a favorite safehouse?” “What’s your favorite kind of bullet?”

Now? She didn’t ask.

She just avoided looking at him, like she didn't want to be near him.

He sighed and stood up, stretching his back. “Alright. I’ll get out of your hair.”

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t say goodnight.

Didn’t ask if he’d come back with pleading eyes.

Jason lingered for a moment longer, then walked toward the window, grabbing his jacket from the chair.

“You know,” he said without turning, “for the record, I always liked those blueberry muffins. You should tell Alfred to make them again sometime.”

She didn’t say anything.

He left before he saw the pained look on her face.

⸻

Downstairs, the kitchen was dark except for the faint under-cabinet lights Alfred always left on. Jason padded across the tile, opened the fridge, and leaned in without thinking.

He expected to see a plate of something sweet on the second shelf.

A tray. A box. A little note with nothing written but a tiny, flower-shaped doodle in the corner.

But there was nothing.

Just leftovers. Steel containers. An empty ceramic plate where something had clearly been taken out.

Jason frowned.

“Huh.”

He opened a few cabinets. Checked the breadbox. Even glanced into the oven.

Nothing.

Weird.

He’d never really thought about it before—he just assumed Alfred made the muffins. The cookies. The lemon bars.

Now it was all gone. And he felt a strange… emptiness.

Like something had been quietly taken away. But he dismissed it. Maybe the old butler had been busy with one of Damian’s tantrums again?

He grabbed a beer, leaned back against the counter, and cracked the tab open.

Took a long drink.

Frowned deeper.

Something’s off.

He didn’t know what yet.

But for the first time since he’d come back to the manor, he felt it wasn’t just the house that had changed.

It was her.

And maybe… it had been for a long time.

He just hadn’t been looking.

Jason didn’t dream much. Not really.

But some nights, the garden bloomed inside his head like it had been waiting for him.

It was always the same—ivy along the railings, fresh grass underfoot, the faint scent of rain and cookies and Alfred’s cologne. And her.

Tiny. Toddlersized. Sitting on a patch of sunlit moss with a flower crown slipping over one ear.

He couldn’t even remember her name the first time he met her.

Bruce had just brought her home. She was two—maybe younger—and barely able to form words, let alone keep up with everything that was happening around her.

He hadn’t been angry about her, though. Not then. Not yet.

He remembered standing in the hallway, boots still muddy from patrol, when he first saw her toddling out from behind Alfred’s legs, all wide green eyes and a stuffed elephant in one arm.

She saw him—and blinked. Then smiled.

Like he was the sun.

“Hi!” she chirped, stumbling forward on chubby legs. “Juh-son?”

He blinked at her. “…Yeah?”

“Hi, Juh-son!”

Alfred had chuckled behind her. The butler clearly adoring her. “She’s been practicing your name, Master Todd. Quite determined.”

“Juh-son!” she squealed again, arms up like she wanted to be picked up.

He stared at her. Then laughed—genuinely laughed—and crouched down. “Well, hey there, trouble. You always this loud?”

She hugged his neck like she’d known him forever.

And in that second, he remembered feeling something he hadn’t felt in months.

Warmth.

Purpose.

Something good.

Something worth protecting.

⸻

But the warmth didn’t last.

Not for him.

(Post-Jason’s Death)

She remembered it all wrong.

It was supposed to be the kind of day where Alfred made lemon scones and Bruce let the sun touch his office windows.

But instead, the manor went silent.

The kind of silence that felt wrong—like something had been cut out of the world.

She was small. Too small to understand what “he’s gone” meant. Too small to grasp death.

But she knew something was missing.

Jason’s jacket was still in the hallway.

His boots, still at the door.

The gun holster he never used—left behind.

She remembered knocking on Bruce’s study door.

Tiny fists. A flower in her hand.

“Daddy?”

No answer.

“Daddy…?”

She waited. Knocked again.

The door didn’t open.

She sat there for two hours before Alfred found her curled up on the floor.

Bruce stopped speaking much after that. Not that he did it much before that.

Stopped looking at her.

Stopped noticing.

She’d go days without hearing his voice.

And when she finally did, it was always for someone else—Tim. Dick. Patrol.

Not her.

When Tim showed up, she remembered being confused.

He was nice. Smart. Kind in the polite way strangers are kind to children.

But that’s when she realized…

Bruce wasn’t just sad.

He was replacing Jason.

And keeping her far away from it.

⸻

When Jason came back from the dead, he wasn’t the same. Everyone knew it.

His memories were jagged. His rage, unfiltered.

He didn’t feel warm anymore. He felt like gasoline.

And every time he looked at her—bright-eyed, hopeful, still sweet—he wanted to scream.

Because she had what he lost.

She had the love he never got back.

The affection Bruce never gave him after the resurrection.

The softness he had buried under gunfire and ash.

She was everything untouched by the world.

And he hated her for it.

It happened one night after a fight with Bruce. The kind that left Jason shaking, fists bloodied from a punch he’d aimed at a wall instead of his father’s face.

He stormed down the stairs.

Every breath was acid.

And there she was.

Eleven. Barefoot. Hair in a braid with a ribbon tied at the end. Holding something she’d baked—banana bread, maybe—and walking up toward him. With a goddamn smile.

“Jason!” she chirped, eyes bright. “I—I saved you a piece! I heard yelling so I thought—”

“Don’t.”

She froze.

He hadn’t meant to snarl it. But it came out like a snarl anyway.

She blinked, uncertain.

“I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” he spat.

Her eyes widened. Her hands gripped the plate a little tighter.

“You think I want anything from you?”

“I—Jason, I just wanted to—”

“To what? Be the good little daughter? The perfect little Wayne?”

Her lip trembled.

“You think you’re not like her?” he hissed, voice full of venom. “You’re just like your mother. Ivy’s little weed. That’s what you are. All sweetness on the surface and rot underneath.”

Her eyes welled. “I’m not—”

“You think a few cookies and smiles make you clean?” His voice cracked. “You’re just like her. Evil. Dirty. Manipulative. Bruce should’ve left you where he found you.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t cry.

She just set the plate down on the stairs.

And walked away.

Jason would never remember the exact words. He buried them somewhere deep.

But she never baked banana bread again.

He never apologized.

Not properly. Not with the words she deserved.

After that night—after he spit venom down the stairs and shattered something he couldn’t name—he just stopped talking.

And then, weeks later, he showed up at her window again.

Midnight. Rain. Bruised ribs under his jacket. She opened the latch like nothing had ever happened.

She didn’t bring up the hallway. Or the banana bread. Or the name weed.

She just let him in.

And sat beside him while he muttered about patrol and crime bosses and stupid decisions Bruce made.

And she listened.

Always listened.

Asked about his nights. Asked if he’d eaten. Asked why he never stayed longer.

But she never talked about herself.

And he never asked.

He told himself it was fine.

She was fine.

She baked again eventually. Left muffins in the fridge. Cookies in Tupperware. Pies on the cooling rack when she knew he’d be back.

And he took.

He always took.

⸻

Tonight, standing alone in the kitchen, it finally hit him.

There was nothing on the counter.

No muffins. No pies. No scones. No glass containers waiting in the fridge with a sticky note bearing a tiny hand-drawn flower.

And worse—

The houseplants were gone.

Not dead.

Just… gone.

The little pots she used to water every morning. The vines that used to curl around the cabinet handles. The single white lily that always sat in the corner by the coffee machine, just because she liked it there.

All gone.

The windowsill was empty. Bare.

The air didn’t smell like jasmine or lavender anymore—it just smelled like… air.

Jason stared.

He couldn’t explain it, but something tightened in his chest. Something low and wrong.

He opened the fridge again.

Still nothing.

His hands curled around the edge of the counter.

It wasn’t just about the food. It was never about the food.

It was her.

He stood there for a long time.

In the middle of the kitchen, hands still braced on cold stone, staring at nothing.

Trying to figure out why his chest felt tight.

Why his breathing had gone shallow.

Why the air felt heavier now than it had during any firefight.

He didn’t know what it was.

He didn’t know that it would get worse in the next few days.

Much worse.

____

It was rare for the manor to be this quiet in the middle of the day.

Dick had dropped in without warning, like always—straight from Blüdhaven after wrapping up a double-night stakeout, sore from sleeping on rooftop gravel and a little guilty for how long it had been since he’d set foot in the house.

He hadn’t seen Bruce, not properly.

Hadn’t seen the others in weeks.

Cass had texted something vague and cryptic about “things changing.”

And Alfred had responded to his check-in with a brief “We miss you, Master Richard. Some more than others.”

He assumed that meant Jason or Damian had started another round of drama.

Typical.

The house had smelled the same—lemon polish, faint smoke from the fireplace, something deeper buried beneath. Maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe not.

He passed through the library, the sitting room, Bruce’s study—

Empty.

But Bruce had clearly been there recently. The chair was warm, the coffee mug half-full. A thick, overstuffed folder sat on the edge of the desk, one word scribbled on a post-it stuck to the cover.

Y/N.

Dick didn’t touch it. Just glanced at it, vaguely thinking Bruce was probably updating school records or something—maybe another evaluation of her “involvement” in family business, which Bruce had always firmly kept her out of.

He didn’t question it.

He didn’t question much when it came to her.

He hadn’t thought about her in… he couldn’t even remember.

God. How long had it been since he last saw her?

What did she look like now?

How old even was she?

Twelve? Thirteen? No… wait. She was younger than Damian, right?

That realization hit like a quiet slap.

He didn’t even know.

⸻

He wandered upstairs, lazy steps drawing him through parts of the manor he barely remembered.

It wasn’t until he reached the east wing—the forgotten hallway, tucked behind the third landing—that he paused.

The dust here was thicker. The air colder. The lights overhead flickered faintly. There were no paintings on this side. No signs of family. Just cobwebs.

And one slightly open door.

Something pulled at him. A flicker of memory. A tiny voice calling him from years ago.

“Dicky! Dicky, look! I made you a flower crown—see? See? You have to wear it or it’s bad luck!”

He pushed the door open.

⸻

The room was small—too small for a Wayne.

Not much bigger than a closet with a window.

But he knew immediately.

It was hers.

There were flowers everywhere. Hanging vines along the walls, potted plants clustered at the window, tiny wildflowers peeking out of chipped ceramic cups like they’d grown there on their own.

They hadn’t.

She had done this. Like she always had.

Like his Little Flower always did.

The nickname struck him so hard it nearly buckled his knees.

He remembered her as a toddler. Barely talking. Always clinging. Always with a drawing or a dandelion in her hands, trying to shove it into his palm like it was treasure.

He’d called her that once.

Little Flower.

And she’d giggled so hard she fell over.

He hadn’t said it in years.

He hadn’t seen her in years.

And now?

The room didn’t look like it belonged to a child.

It didn’t look like it belonged to anyone.

The bed was neatly made, sheets no longer the soft pink-and-green florals he half-remembered. Now they were gray. Plain. Clinical.

The drawings were gone. No family stick figures. No bright crayon hearts. No mess.

It was clean.

Too clean.

Lifeless.

⸻

Dick stepped inside slowly, fingertips brushing along the bookshelf where little paper crafts used to sit.

Empty.

He moved toward the desk—stopped.

There were old impressions on the wood.

Shapes from frames that had been moved.

Photos that had once stood there.

And were now gone.

Something twisted in his gut.

He didn’t know what it was.

But it felt wrong.

This felt wrong.

The girl he remembered would’ve had plants climbing the ceiling by now. There would’ve been glitter on the floor. A pile of flower crowns made from weeds. Scribbled notes taped to the wall. Half-burnt candles that smelled like vanilla.

But this room?

It felt like someone had been erasing themselves.

Dick exhaled shakily.

And for the first time in a very long time, he realized—

He couldn’t picture her face anymore.

Not as she was now.

He could only see the toddler version. The one with dirt on her cheeks and stars in her eyes. One he had not seen in a while.

And he hated that.

taglist: @justwannabecat @c4xcocoa

@charlenexoxo1

@galaxypup

@exactlynumberonekryptonite

@runaaclou

[pomegranatelifethis]

The Invisible Girl

The hum of Gotham’s streets was a living thing, a pulse that never quite stopped. It was late—far past the hour when most respectable high school girls would be tucked away in bed, dreaming of prom or pop quizzes. But you? You were sixteen, a fleeting shadow in the city’s underbelly, your sneakers scuffing the asphalt as you leaned against the hood of a souped-up Mustang. The illegal car race was alive around you, engines roaring, neon lights flickering, and the crowd buzzing with adrenaline. You grinned, popping a piece of gum into your mouth, the sweet cherry flavor bursting against your tongue. This was your world. Not the stuffy manor you were supposed to call home.

You were the youngest Wayne, technically. A forgotten footnote in the sprawling saga of Bruce Wayne’s adopted brood. Older than you, Damian—your supposed “brother”—was the heir, the prodigy, the one who carried the weight of the Wayne legacy like it was a tailored suit. You? You were the accident. The kid they didn’t know what to do with. The one who came too late, after the family had already knit itself together in blood and trauma.

It wasn’t that they hated you. Hate would’ve required attention, and attention was the one thing the Batfamily didn’t spare. Bruce was a ghost in the manor, always buried in his mission. Dick was the golden boy, too busy charming the world. Jason was a storm, too volatile to notice anyone but himself. Tim was a machine, lost in his plans and contingencies. Cassandra saw everything but said nothing. And Damian? He barely acknowledged you existed, his sharp green eyes slicing through you like you were a smudge on his katana.

So, you drifted. School was a suggestion, not a rule. You slept through algebra, doodled in the margins of your textbooks, and skipped classes when the mood struck. The school couldn’t touch you—Wayne money made sure of that, and no one was picking up the phone when the principal called. You were free, in a way. Free to wander Gotham’s streets, to lose yourself in the chaos of the races, to be the girl no one expected anything from.

Tonight, the air was electric. Your car—a sleek, cherry-red beast you’d “borrowed” from one of Bruce’s many garages—sat waiting at the starting line. You adjusted your cap, tugging it low over your eyes, and slid into the driver’s seat. The leather was cool against your skin, the steering wheel familiar under your fingers. You weren’t here to win. You were here to feel alive.

“Hey, kid!” a voice called from the sidelines. It was Jax, one of the regulars, a lanky guy with a crooked grin and a penchant for bad bets. “You sure you’re up for this? Rico’s got a new rig, and he’s out for blood.”

You smirked, blowing a bubble with your gum. “Rico can kiss my exhaust.”

The crowd laughed, and you revved the engine, letting the sound drown out everything else. The race was a blur—tires screeching, lights streaking, your heart hammering as you weaved through the pack. You didn’t care about the finish line. You cared about the rush, the way it made you forget the empty manor, the cold silences, the family that didn’t see you.

When it was over, you pulled over, breathless, your cheeks flushed. You’d placed third—good enough to keep your rep, not so good it drew too much attention. You climbed out, high-fiving Jax and ignoring the way some of the older guys eyed you. You were a kid in their world, a cute anomaly, but you were theirs. The racers, the drifters, the nobodies—they were your family, not the caped crusaders back home.

You were halfway through a soda, laughing at one of Jax’s dumb jokes, when your phone buzzed. You glanced at it, expecting a text from one of your friends. Instead, it was a notification from the manor’s security system. *Front gate opened. 11:47 PM.*

Weird. Bruce was supposed to be on patrol, and the others were either out or holed up in their rooms. You shrugged it off, pocketing the phone. Probably Alfred letting the cat out or something.

You didn’t know it yet, but you’d just made a mistake. You weren’t as invisible as you thought.

☆☆☆☆

Back at Wayne Manor, the Batcave was a hum of activity. The massive screens glowed, casting sharp shadows across the cavernous space. Tim was hunched over the computer, his fingers flying across the keys. Dick leaned against the console, arms crossed, his usual easy smile replaced by a tight frown. Jason was cleaning a gun, his movements sharp and deliberate, while Cassandra watched from the shadows, her eyes unreadable. Damian stood apart, his arms stiff at his sides, his expression a mix of irritation and something darker.

Bruce stood at the center, his cowl pushed back, his face a mask of controlled fury.

“She’s not in her room,” Tim said, not looking up. “Tracker in her phone puts her at the docks. Again.”

“Illegal races,” Dick muttered, shaking his head. “She’s been sneaking out for months. How did we not notice?”

“Because she’s good,” Cassandra said softly, her voice cutting through the tension. “She doesn’t want to be seen.”

Jason snorted, slamming the gun down. “Or because we’re too busy playing hero to give a damn about the kid living under our roof.”

“Enough,” Bruce snapped, his voice low but commanding. “This ends tonight. She’s sixteen. She’s putting herself in danger, and we’ve let it go on too long.”

Damian’s lip curled. “She’s a liability. If she’s caught, it could expose us all.”

Dick shot him a look. “She’s your sister, Damian.”

“She’s nothing,” Damian retorted, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something that betrayed the lie.

Bruce didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the screen. It showed a grainy feed from a street camera, your figure unmistakable as you laughed with a group of racers. You looked happy, alive, in a way you never did at home. It twisted something in his chest, but he buried it. This wasn’t about feelings. This was about control.

“Tim, pull up her route. Dick, Jason, you’re with me. We bring her home. Now.”

Cassandra tilted her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “She’ll run.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Then we make sure she has nowhere to go.”

☆☆☆☆

You were halfway through another race, the city a blur outside your window, when you noticed the shadow. It was subtle—a flicker in your rearview mirror, gone as soon as it appeared. But you knew better. Gotham wasn’t just a city; it was a predator, and you’d learned to sense its teeth.

You floored the gas, weaving through traffic, your heart pounding. The shadow moved with you, relentless, a black shape that could only belong to one thing. Or one family.

“Crap,” you muttered, your gum losing its flavor. You didn’t know how they’d found you, but you knew what it meant. The Batfamily didn’t chase unless they wanted something. And if they wanted you? That was bad news.

You took a sharp turn, tires screeching, and gunned it toward the old warehouse district. You knew the alleys, the shortcuts, the places where even Batman’s tech would struggle to follow. You were good at disappearing. It was what you did best.

But as you rounded a corner, a figure dropped from the rooftops, landing in the middle of the street. Nightwing. His escrima sticks glowed faintly, and his smile was gone, replaced by something hard, something that made your stomach twist.

You slammed on the brakes, your car fishtailing to a stop. Before you could react, another figure appeared—Red Hood, his guns holstered but his presence no less threatening. And then, from the shadows, Batman himself.

You were surrounded.

Your grip tightened on the wheel, your mind racing. You could run—crash through a barrier, lose them in the maze of Gotham’s slums. But something in Bruce’s eyes stopped you. It wasn’t anger, not exactly. It was something colder, something that made you feel like a mouse staring down a hawk.

“Get out of the car,” Bruce said, his voice cutting through the night.

You popped your gum, forcing a grin. “What’s up, Dad? Miss me?”

His eyes narrowed, and you knew you’d pushed too far. This wasn’t a game anymore. This was the beginning of something much darker, something you couldn’t outrun.

Not this time.

☆☆☆☆

Gotham’s night air was heavy and humid, as if the city itself was closing in on you. Inside the car, you still gripped the steering wheel tightly, your knuckles whitening against the leather. Bruce’s silhouette stood like a monolith in the middle of the street, motionless except for the faint ripple of his cape. Dick was on his right, Jason on his left, each positioned like a trap. There was no escape. At least, it seemed that way.

You popped your gum again, just to steady your nerves. “Alright,” you said, your voice trembling with forced cheer. “Family reunion, huh? Bit late for that, don’t you think, Dad?”

Bruce’s face was stone, but something flickered in his eyes—anger, guilt, or something else, you couldn’t tell. “The games are over,” he said, his voice sharp as a blade. “Get out of the car. Now.”

You considered opening the door, but instead sank deeper into the seat. “What if I don’t?” you said, raising your eyebrows. “What’re you gonna do? Run me over with the Batmobile?”

Jason took a step forward, a mocking growl rising from under his helmet. “Kid, you can’t win this game. It’ll be easier—for you and for us—if you get out now.”

Dick tilted his head, flashing that familiar big-brother smile, but this time his eyes weren’t warm. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice soft but laced with threat. “You don’t want to make this harder than it needs to be, do you?”

A shiver ran through you. You’d never heard Dick use that tone before—not with you. They’d always ignored you, hadn’t they? You were a ghost, drifting through the manor’s halls, your presence barely registering. So why were they here now? Why had they suddenly *noticed* you?

You didn’t want to know the answer.

But your options were running out. Your eyes scanned the surroundings—the narrow street, abandoned warehouses, the flickering light of a few streetlamps. You could run. Maybe. Your car was fast, but Batman’s tech was faster. And these three? They weren’t human, not in the way you understood it. They were hunters. And you were the prey.

You took a deep breath, reached for the door handle, and slowly pushed it open. The cold air rushed in, prickling your skin. You stood, shoving your hands into your jean pockets, feigning nonchalance. “Fine,” you said, shrugging. “What do you want? Did you watch my race? What’s my score?”

Bruce stepped closer, his shadow swallowing you. “This isn’t a game,” he said. “We know what you’ve been doing. Where you’ve been, who you’ve been with. You’re coming home tonight, and this… nonsense stops.”

Your eyes widened, and then you laughed. A real, uncontrollable laugh. “Nonsense? Wow, Bruce, you’ve shown me more attention in the last ten minutes than you have my entire life. What’s the deal? Run out of criminals in Gotham?”

Jason grunted, but Dick raised a hand to silence him. “Listen,” Dick said, his voice still carrying that false calm. “We know we haven’t been… around much. But that’s going to change. You’re our family. We need to protect you.”

“Protect me?” The word tasted like poison. “You’re here to protect me? Where were you for the last sixteen years, huh? When I was a baby? At my first race? When I got kicked out of school? Oh, wait, you were busy chasing bank robbers, right?”

The air grew heavy, the silence hitting like a fist. Bruce’s jaw clenched, Dick’s smile faded, and even Jason seemed uneasy behind his helmet. You’d struck a nerve. But the victory felt hollow.

“Not anymore,” Bruce said, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. “From now on, we’re watching you.”

In that moment, you felt something was wrong. This wasn’t just a family drama. This was a move to pull you back—to what? The manor? Their control? Or worse, their world?

“I’m going home,” you said, stepping back. “But not with you. I’ll find my own way.”

You turned toward your car, but Jason was faster. In an instant, he grabbed your arm, his grip like iron. “Wrong answer, kid,” he said, his voice mocking but dangerous. “You’re coming with us tonight.”

“Jason, let go!” you shouted, yanking at your arm, but he didn’t budge. Panic surged, your heart thrashing in your chest. Dick stepped toward you, hands raised as if to calm you, but you saw *that* look in his eyes—the look of a predator.

“Easy,” Dick said. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just… need to talk.”

Bruce remained silent, but his presence said everything. This wasn’t a negotiation. This was an order.

In that moment, you realized you’d made a mistake. Even if you tried to run, they’d find you. Gotham was their city. And no matter how fast you ran, you couldn’t outrun their shadows.

☆☆☆☆

The manor was cold and silent, as always. Alfred had greeted you at the door, his usual polite demeanor in place, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. He escorted you to your room, but you heard the click of the lock after he left. A lock. As if you were a prisoner.

Your room felt like it didn’t belong to you. No posters on the walls, no personal items on the shelves. It was like a hotel room—beautiful, but soulless. You sat on the bed, pulling your knees to your chest, your mind still racing.

What were they planning? Why now? After years of ignoring you, why did they suddenly *want* you? The answer scared you, because deep down, you knew—this wasn’t about love. It was about control. And once the Batfamily took control, they never let go.

A shadow moved outside your door. Your eyes snapped to it, your heart speeding up. Someone was watching you. Damian? Cassandra? Or maybe Tim, with one of his cameras already planted in your room? Were you paranoid, or were you right?

You reached for your phone, but the screen was dark. Dead. Or… disabled. Of course. Tim’s work, no doubt. They wanted to isolate you. Cut you off from the outside world.

You glanced at the window. Gotham’s lights glimmered outside, freedom so close yet so far. You could jump. You could run. But where to? They’d find you. They always would.

But giving up wasn’t your style. You were a racer. And racers, no matter how impossible it seemed, always found a way out.

☆☆☆☆

[meloncat-artcult]

I found more

This is their dynamic Damian is just like your fucking dirt poor and moth is just like okay but no

[eternallyhauntingthehouseoflove]

Bat-Boys in Bed

I couldn’t find a good gif, sue me

Dick Grayson’s mouth is filthy. And he gets enough praise, so I think he’d be into praising you instead.” You’re so pretty, all fucked-out and dumb…just for me” as he pounds into you, panting in between words.

He’d also be into touchy sex positions, like missionary where he can hook his nose into your neck and wrap his arms around you. Dick would be into you giving him hickies.

I think Dick has an insane stamina—round after round. His hips would meet yours at a punishing pace as he muttered out praise,” this cunt is so warm and wet for me. My beautiful girl.” And he place wet kisses to your neck and cheeks.

Dick isn’t above moaning, but he’s not pornographic about it.i see him whimpering and begging if he’s getting a blow job or if you’re on top and teasing him, but I don’t see him moaning as much or more than you.

Jason Todd isn’t much of a talker during sex, but I do believe he moans. He’d be a lot more gentle with you than popular belief thinks. Especially if we’re talking older, mature Jason who’s passed his “fresh from the pit madness.”

I do believe Jason has a choking kink and I’ll die on this hill. And it doesn’t have to be his hand around your throat or vice versa. It can be him shoving his cock to the back of your throat and feeling you pulse and throb around him.

He enjoys, mature Jason too, seeing your eyes go wide and glassy. Jason loves to pull his cock from your mouth after you’ve had enough and seeing your lips plump and pink. He loves the slight flush of your tits.

Jason is a lot more eager to switch roles and be on the bottom than Dick. If you’re feeling top-ish and want to ride. Jason wouldn’t argue as you ground down on him, rolling your hips and leaving a trail of slick on his pelvis.

He’d beg through covered lips as you shushed him and picked up your pace, driving your hips forward and giving Jason the release he’d been craving.

I don’t know enough about Tim or Duke, sorry.

Bruce is harder to read because there’s decades of lore, canon, and stuff that’s not in the main continuity. Many writers have different versions of him that some favorite—however, here goes.

Bruce is a control freak. Whether you planned it or not, you’d end up in a dom/sub dynamic. He’d be choosing your clothes, picking which jewelry he buys, telling you when to cum before you even realize it.

I also think he has a power imbalance kink, just a little bit. Nothing extreme or megalomaniacal. So I truly believe you wouldn’t be rich (sorry lol); you’d maybe be a lesser known vigilante, and that’s if Bruce is healthily interested in you. I believe you’d be a civilian, but a smart and compassionate one. We know Bruce isn’t one to dumb himself down for company; we know Bruce is attracted to smart women, but none of his past relationships worked because they didn’t have a heart ( I love Talia, but he real; she wasn’t Mother Teresa).

This one may lose people, but I believe Bruce has a breeding kink. It would be a chance for him to restart. His only blood child is an arrogant, cold assassin and the rest of his children are masked vigilantes who dance with death nightly. But with you, his love, he could have a child not born in pain and anger. He’s older and wiser; he’s not as vengeful and mission oriented as he was when he adopted Dick and Jason; Tim sought him out, and Damian came with a chip on his shoulder.

Bruce is unyielding in his refusal to switch places. He’s too paranoid and enjoys control too much to bottom. The closest you’ll get to topping is bossing him around from the bottom.” faster, pretty boy.” You reached up and caressed his face as his pace stuttered and he spilled into you, gasping and groaning as he did.

You wouldn’t be fucked in the suit or the Batmobile. And he hates being called Batman in bed. The closest you’d get to mixing sex with his vigilante life is getting fucked in the Batcomputer seat.

Damian Wayne is the kinkiest Batfam member. I see Damian, who didn’t undergo such a beautiful arc, having a blood and bondage kink.

Damian preferred to tie you down rather than tie you up. He cares for you, and tying you up puts you in an uncomfortable position (he doesn’t want that) and it screws with your circulation. And if he ties you down, he can see your face as he places the vibrator right on your clit. He can see you try to knock your knees—to no avail.

Damian loved to take a small knife and inflict a wound, if you can even call it that. It was feather soft, and you loved when he would wrap his mouth around the wound and suck the blood. Then he’d kiss you, letting the saliva and metallic taste mingle.

I believe Damian would be into hickies and spanking too, but not the for the violence like I see from the kinkier side of the fandom. He would be into hickies, spanking, bandage, and blood play for the markings. It all boiled down to markings. And that’s not to claim that those activities didn’t get you both off, but Damian’s true enjoyment stemmed from the possessiveness of it all.

That’s why he likes to untie you and massage the rope imprints, then walk you to the mirror and spin you around, letting you see all the prints and marks. He could feel himself harden again, but he knew he’d break you if he ever tried to impose his libido and stamina on you.

Don’t kill me, but Damian isn’t into cunnilingus. He also wouldn’t bottom, not like you’d want him to. If, and that’s a huge “if” ( it’s months into the relationship too), he does bottom, it’s not traditional bottoming. Damian would top from the bottom,” go slower, grind harder, beloved.” And he’d grip your hips hard enough to leave prints, because marks, duh!

Damian likes sloppy blow jobs. I know he’s proper and clean, but trust me. Spit, moans, and whimpers; that’s what gets him off. And seeing your cheeks flush and your breathing quicken, but you keep going lower and taking more of him in. He appreciates the determination, and it makes him feel in control, huge, and dominant which strokes his ego.