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dreamersworldduh · 1 day ago

Note

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

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

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

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

I hope I'm not bothering you with this 😓

A LONG WAY FROM HOME

• DAMIAN WAYNE x MALE!READER

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

WARNING! FLUFF. Violence. PG.

WORDS! 15.6k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wasn't wrong."

"I didn't lie."

"I did what you wouldn't."

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

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

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

Even Bruce joined in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just wind, and concrete, and space to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, a flicker.

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

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

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

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

The light hadn't vanished.

It was growing brighter.

Larger.

And it was coming closer.

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

That wasn't a meteor.

It was a missile. Or worse.

And it was aimed straight at him.

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

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

The impact was cataclysmic.

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

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

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

And at the center of it—the crater.

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

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

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

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

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

And then he saw it. Or rather, him.

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

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

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

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

He took a half-step closer.

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

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

Still, the boy didn't move.

Was he unconscious? Faking? Waiting?

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

Who is he? What is he?

And what the hell did he just bring to Gotham?

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

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

He didn't.

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

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

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

And then his eyes locked onto the chest plate.

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

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

LexCorp.

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

Luthor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But his hand stopped.

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

Weapon. Threat. Contain it.

Damian clenched his jaw and lowered his hand.

Not yet.

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

On his own.

Before anyone else got their hands on him.

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

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

His fingers met empty fabric.

No belt.

No gadgets.

No weapons.

No commlink.

Just jeans, a hoodie, and scorched sneakers.

Civilian.

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

His mind spun fast, recalibrating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No plan. No gear. No time.

But Damian had never needed permission to act.

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

Himself.

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

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

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

Still, he pressed in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And suddenly it all fit.

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

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

A victim.

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

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

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

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

For now, that was enough.

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

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

They were running out of time.

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

Damian stepped forward, carefully, extending a hand again.

"We have to move. Now."

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

The boy tensed, eyes narrowing—

BOOM.

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

Damian's head snapped up.

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

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

Robots.

Sleek. Streamlined. Built for war.

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

Military drones—LexCorp military drones.

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

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

Damian's stomach turned to stone.

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

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

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

Rage.

Recognition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damian backed up a step, instincts flaring.

This was about to go loud.

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

"Hands where we can see them!"

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

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

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

He didn't get the chance to explain.

Because that was when the sky cracked open.

Whrrr-KRAAAACK!

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn't have to.

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

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

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

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

Mana.

Raw magic.

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

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

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

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

The drones were locked onto the boy.

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

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

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

He nodded once. Quick. Nervous. Willing.

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

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

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

"MOVE!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no more time.

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

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

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

And what exactly Lex Luthor had turned him into.

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

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

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

Damian didn't wait.

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

"Run."

They moved as one.

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

Not perfect. But fast.

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

But none of that mattered now.

Because the drones noticed.

The shift was immediate.

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

They weren't focused on the crater anymore.

They were focused on movement.

On escape.

On them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he needed time.

He needed a minute.

Even thirty seconds.

And so far, they were still alive.

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

It was open ground.

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

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

And the drones knew it.

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

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

Boxed in.

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

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

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

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

“ANODITE: COMPLY."

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

The boy behind Damian went still. Completely still.

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

Damian's eyes narrowed.

Anodite?

Not a name.

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

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

Damian glanced over his shoulder.

The boy's expression had cracked.

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

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

"He's not going with you."

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

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

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

They were preparing to end the resistance.

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

Cornered.

Outgunned.

And out of time.

But Damian didn't flinch.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Mine.’ Damian lunged without hesitation.

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

The nearest drone was already tracking him.

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

Damian didn't flinch.

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

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

CRACK.

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

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

CLANG.

Direct hit.

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

Then came the counterstrike.

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

His side screamed with pain.

But he didn't stop.

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

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

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

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

He wasn't acting like a weapon now.

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

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

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

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

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

Another hit.

Another hiss of heat.

But he was running out of gas. Fast.

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

And time was almost gone.

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

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

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

Still trembling.

Still scared.

But something in his eyes shifted.

The light stopped flickering.

And for the first time, it started to focus.

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

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

Damian didn't need to guess what was coming.

The cannons charged.

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

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

He wouldn't beg.

He wouldn't flinch.

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

Then—everything changed.

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

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

Then the world exploded in pink light.

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

Air punched from his lungs.

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

But when he looked up—he saw him.

The boy.

No longer frozen. No longer trembling.

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

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

A force becoming aware of itself.

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

And the boy hadn't moved an inch since.

He just stood there.

Breathing hard.

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

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

He did it.

He fought back.

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

Now it was them who had something to fear.

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

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

Damian's head snapped up.

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

Two.

Four.

Six.

Eight.

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

No voices this time. No commands.

No mercy.

Just war.

All eight drones raised their arms.

Click. Whine. Lock.

Then came the storm.

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

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

But they weren't incinerated.

Because the boy didn't fall.

He held.

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

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

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

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

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

The shield shimmered. Cracked. Reformed.

But it held.

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

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

The plasma never stopped.

Still, the boy didn't fall.

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

He refused.

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

Damian could feel the ground beneath them crack.

Could hear the drones' servos tightening.

Could smell the ozone burn rising sharper.

They couldn't hold out forever.

But for now—for this moment—

He was still standing.

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

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

And his eyes—

They blazed.

Not softly. Not subtly. Not like before.

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

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

It was growing.

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

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

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

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

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

Then it broke.

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

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

Damian could only watch.

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

Then his hair ignited.

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

Wings formed next.

Not feathered. Not mechanical.

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

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

No whites. No irises.

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

Power.

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

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

But this—this was different.

This wasn't a weapon.

It was a being.

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

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

Damian didn't speak. Didn't move.

He wasn't sure he could.

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

But now?

Now he was something else entirely.

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

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

Then they fired.

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

And yet—he didn't flinch.

Not an inch.

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

But this was no dome. No static barrier.

This was living defense—dense, reactive, hungry.

The plasma struck.

And vanished.

No explosion. No concussive backlash.

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

No smoke. No heat.

Just light.

And the light grew brighter.

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

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

And neither, Damian realized, did he.

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

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

But this wasn't tech.

This was instinct.

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

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

This wasn't containment.

This wasn't defense.

This was ascension.

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

LexCorp hadn't just created a weapon.

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

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

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

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

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

Then—he moved.

A single breath escaped his lips, silent and calm.

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

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

For a heartbeat, everything froze.

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

They didn't get the chance.

The boy unleashed hell.

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

Then came the sound.

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

The drones were caught mid-movement.

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

They came apart.

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

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

Gone.

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

Then—silence.

Pure, absolute silence.

When Damian lifted his head, the battlefield was unrecognizable.

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

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

His expression was blank.

Not angry. Not triumphant.

Just... still.

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

The boy—Anodite—was swaying.

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

His skin lightened.

His glow dulled.

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

And then his eyes.

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

His head turned, slowly, like he was underwater.

And his gaze found Damian.

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

Everything gave out at once.

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

"No—" Damian breathed, already moving.

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

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

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

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

But for now, they had this moment.

And then the boy stirred.

Barely.

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

The boy spoke.

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

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

It was grief.

It was memory.

It was a name—or a goodbye.

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

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

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

Then, the boy leaned forward.

And kissed him.

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

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

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

"Thank you."

Soft.

Breathless.

In heavily accented English, but unmistakably clear.

And then he passed out.

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

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

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

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

But right now, the boy was safe.

And Damian would make sure he stayed that way

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

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

The silence in the room was thick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she stepped forward.

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

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

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

All eyes turned to her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And it failed," Batman said quietly.

Damian nodded. "Completely."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then I'll give him one."

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

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

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

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

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

The Anodite boy lay within it.

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

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

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

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

Jon glanced at him, but said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damian blinked. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damian frowned. "That means something to you?"

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

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

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

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

Starfire nodded solemnly. "And failed."

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

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

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

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

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

And he meant it. Every word.

#x male reader #dc x male reader #dc #damian wayne x male reader #damian wayne imagine #gay #batboys #anodite

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aangelinakii · 8 days ago

Text

SOME TIME FOR HIMSELF.

— of course he's grateful, but...

summary : of course damian likes that you get on well with his family, he just wishes that maybe they'd let him actually pull you away from them.

note : i always feel like my damian fics are on a whole other level 💀💀 they're so poetic

the first time damian introduced you to his family, inviting you to dinner one night, he had high hopes that you would be a crowd favourite — and he was never wrong about that.

his father had welcomed you into their abode with a tight smile, kind, of course, but rather wary as to what your intentions may be with his son; by dessert (alfred's star tiramisu) bruce was laughing at every joke and grinning at every story.

his brothers — dick, jason, tim and duke — introduced themselves with their most intimidating glares, thick arms crossed over their chests, emphasising their size, and just how much damage they could do if any came to their youngest kin; as alfred's tiramisu was settling happily in stomachs, they found themselves squabbling over who deserved to get you on their team for eight-ball pool. duke won.

that night damian found himself falling asleep quickly, a soft smile plastered to his lips, images of your smile, so comfortable, as you chatted easily with steph as you awaited your turn with the cue. you'd even managed to crack cass out of her shell a little — and it was only tonight that damian realised how big of a family he had.

even alfred had good things to say when damian purposely stayed back to help him load up the dishwasher once dessert was finished.

he couldn't help that warm pride fizzing in his chest.

but that was four months ago, and damian thinks he sees more of your avatar on wii sports than he actually sees of you.

any time you come round his, you're always whisked away by tim wanting to show you the newest issue of a comic you both gushed over a month ago, or steph dragging you up to her room to update you on some gossip she told you about that time you were here last week. sometimes even ace can't help himself wanting your attention.

he doesn't necessarily want to border you from his family, but when you live in a family so big, no one understands the definition of "personal space."

it gives damian the chances to take you out on dates, go out of his own comfort zone; the arcade, the cinema, paintballing, mini-golf. when money doesn't want to be spent, you two can go on walks, or spend your time together at the library getting studying done.

but sometimes chilling at home is nice, too.

sometimes he wants to play wii sports with you, not sit back on the couch, forced to watch you play tennis against jason; sometimes he wants to play one-on-one eight-ball against you, not stand against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for the game to finish.

so today he's going to be sneaky.

it'll be difficult, sneaking around a family of detectives and vigilantes and alfred, but damian thinks he can do it.

as he creaks open the mansion's front door, the alarm disarmed by one alfred pennyworth — the only person damian had told in advance about your being there, as he realised there was nothing you could hide from that man, even if you tried — damian scans the foyer for any bystanders. once he's sure there's no movement, he looks back at you and smiles, pushing the door wider for you to step past him.

"i say let's get some food and take it upstairs, so we have steady rations for the day," damian suggests, taking this slightly more seriously than you expected; the crease in his brow reminding you of an army general checking the bunker's inventory for the week.

with a soft chuckle, you allow damian's soft palm to take yours, his nimble fingers closing around the back of your hand, tight like he hasn't been able to hold it in a long time — and he has, he's just being dramatic.

feet careful against the marble floor when the plush carpet disappears, damian leads you into the kitchen, where a softly whistling alfred is standing with his white sleeves rolled to his elbows before the sink, drying up glass cups with a cloth.

he barely sends you a glance, though the corner of his mouth curls slightly, and his whistling ceases for a moment.

"i had to tell alfred you were coming," damian explains, his voice an undertone in efforts to not attract any adopted siblings or billionaire fathers. he heads to a cupboard and opens it, pulling out a few crackly packets of crisps and other shared-favourite snacks he claims to have gone out and bought just for today. "he knows too well when i am lying, even though i hadn't lied about anything yet — i was just scared he would find out if i had."

back from the sink, alfred's whistling stops, though the squeaking of polished glass continues. "wise decision, master damian, i'm glad i taught you early on."

now he glances back. "i would go quickly now, last i saw, master dick and master jason were on their way up from the gym. if you want to avoid them, as you say, i wouldn't dawdle."

"dawdle? we are not—"

"master damian," alfred's tone lilts pointedly.

"right." and, with that, some snacks in your grip, some in damian's, he shifts the weight of them to one arm, which seems slightly uncomfortable, and carefully takes your elbow to lead you through a passage behind the fridge.

flickering flames crackle as you ascend the winding steps to the second floor.

"i get you want to have one-on-one time, damian, but you know i really like your family," you find yourself saying halfway up. "it's not that you think i dislike them, is it?"

"no," damian's quick to respond, glancing back at you. "it is that i am beginning to dislike them. they disturb our time together. every time."

you're about to reply, saying something about how maybe time together is turning into time with them, which is okay, but a cluster of voices mutters past the suit of armour concealing you in the shadows of the passageway, and damian presses a finger to his lips.

it's certainly steph, being a girl's voice, chipper, unlike cassandra's, and a boy's voice, either dick's or tim's — but there's people there, and damian doesn't want to be found. more so, you to be found.

after a few silent beats, the voices recede, as well as footsteps atop carpet, and damian leads you out from behind the suit of armour.

just as you're coming out from thr passage, your shoulder clings against the metal elbow of the knight, having misjudged the tightness of the gap between him and the wall, and a metallic twang rings out.

in a manor filled with junior detectives, nothing of the sort goes unnoticed or unchecked, and a door opens before damian can even take your hand.

"(name)!" a voice gasps cheerfully — three guesses who — and another one groans, who you know by now is your boyfriend's.

chest torn between wanting to go along with what damian had planned, and responding to steph as she emerges from her room, your instincts respond. "steph! hey!"

"i didn't know you were coming round today," she smiles, absently taking a pack of crisps from the bundle in your arms and opening it up for herself.

behind you, damian scowls, not taking it upon himself to hide it at all. "that was the point."

stephanie doesn't seem to notice damian's tone, or, seemingly, damian's presence at all, and she places a hand on your shoulder. "you'll never guess what happened the other day," she begins, guiding you back towards her room.

"more already?" you laugh, both intrigued, yet glancing back wistfully towards damian, who's been left alone in the hallway.

"like you wouldn't believe!"

just as she's about to close the door, damian appears, hand on the wood, holding it open, the food dropped somewhere back in the corridor, thick eyebrows knitted together like a sweater. "hey!"

"oh, hey, dames," stephanie takes a break in her gossip update as she sits down at the pink swivel chair at her cluttered desk. "just stealing your partner for a sec, i hope that's okay?"

"it's not," he replies before stephanie can turn back to you and continue.

the stone in his tone is abrasive, gritty, something usually unheard of. stephanie could ignore it, but she finds herself mouth open, blonde eyebrows upturned.

"oh, i'm sorry, i—"

"no, you're not sorry," damian cuts her off again, stomping towards you and takes some of the load off your shoulders, taking a few of the snacks from your arms. "you always do this. whenever (name) comes round, you and everybody else in this house take them away from me. they're here to see me, not you. not you, not dick, not tim, not father."

"hey, that's not fair—" stephanie shoots you a guilty look as her sentence is cut off once more by your emotional boyfriend.

"what's not fair is that the time i want to spend with them is diminished by my siblings, who are not even my real siblings, who insist on being utterly... utterly stupid!"

damian storms off in a huff, off into the hallway and into his bedroom, where the door slams, causing you and stephanie to flinch.

by now she's abandoned her open crisp packet, her appetite suddenly gone, and you don't feel too normal sitting on the edge of her bed with a strange array of snacks in your arms. you want to apologise, but now you understand why damian was so intent on having a day just the two of you.

the words are on the tip of your tongue, and you want to meet steph's gaze, but you can't really bring yourself to.

"i... sorry, i..."

"it's okay, i should be the one who's sorry," stephanie dismisses your apology with a small shake of the head, not watching you either. "i think you should go check on him."

you release the bundle of snacks onto stephanie's duvet, which you don't think she minds, and get to your feet.

when you pass through stephanie's doorway into the corridor, a few heads are peeking out of doors, including duke a few rooms down holding an airpod in hand, having plucked it out to eavesdrop. you offer a smile, and he shares it, putting his airpod back in and retreating to the safety of his room.

outside damian's room, you knock lightly and let yourself in, knowing he won't respond, but also knowing no one else would be knocking on his door after something like that.

he's lying face-first on his bed, fists clutching the sheets so tight his knuckles are turning white.

the mattress sinks slightly beside him as you lower yourself down, placing a careful hand on his shoulder blade.

"damian?" you try, voice just as soft as your touch. "i'm sorry i bumped into the armour, it was an accident. i didn't mean to get steph's attention, and i didn't realise how important it was to you that we got to spend time together."

though muffled, damian's voice comes from within his navy, star-speckled duvet. "it's not your apology to give, you did nothing wrong."

he shifts and you can see half his face, eyebrows still screwed towards each other. "it's everyone else. they can be too much. they always ruin our time together."

"i don't think they realise they're ruining it," you suggest softly. "i think they think they're doing good by you, by getting to know me and having a positive relationship with me. have you ever told them it bothers you?"

the gap between your question and damian's reply is long and lengthy, stretching longer and longer, and you already know the answer, that by the time it comes you're not surprised.

"no."

your hand smoothes circles over damian's upper back. "damian..." you sigh. "how can you expect them to know what you want if you don't tell them?"

mouth squishing out in a pout, damian's shoulders shrug up beneath your touch.

"i know it's difficult, and sometimes you feel like some people should know better, but i think you should tell them."

with a sigh, damian pushes himself up to a seated position, eyebrows less tense on his forehead. "i know, you're right."

improving from that pout, damian's lips pull into a small, minute smile, and he leans forward to engulf you in a hug. "i'm sorry for overreacting," he huffs into the crook of your neck.

at the affection, you feel your lips curl in tandem with his, and one of your arms comes around his back to reciprocate. "it's okay, damian, and besides, it's not me you should be apologising to. we can go together, okay? and then you can tell steph how you feel."

damian's body soaks up into yours, and he lets out a content breath through his nostrils. he doesn't respond verbally, but you can feel him nod his head against your shoulder, and your stomach drops in relief.

#aangelinakii #dc #dc comics #dc imagines #dc reactions #dc headcanons #dc universe #damian wayne #damian al ghul #damian wayne imagines #damian wayne fluff #damian wayne headcanon #damian wayne reactions #damian wayne x reader

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msfantasy-comics · 2 days ago

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My Girls an Angel

Damian Wayne x Angel! Reader

Request: idk if you'll see this or not, or even if you'll acknowledge it but.....Can you write a Damian Wayne x Female reader fic where they're together, reader dies, Damian loses his shit and is a bigger pain in the ass, some dramatic shit goes down with some ancient relic something and then reader comes back as a angel somehow? Idk....it's 5 am here where I am and I'm so high of my ass. Srry if I'm asking too much, love your fics gurl (づ￣ ³￣)づ♡

A/n: I deviated the request a bit cause as much as I love the concept I STRUGGLED

“Shit,” Damian says crashing to the floor and grabbing at your limp form. Heavens relic still clutched in your hands when he grabs you. “Shit!” He yells uncharacteristically, holding your body closer to him, his arms cradle you as much as possible. Your body is still warm but your heart is not beating.

“Robin-“ Nightwing calls gently, but Damian couldn’t care less about the voices calling out to him.

He can bring you back, he knows he can and that bit of knowledge is the only thing keeping him sane right now.

Your glassy eyes stare skyward, and despite the looming lights flashing around, your pupils do not dilate.

“Robin-“ Spoiler calls gently, reaching a hand out and placing it on his shoulder, unsure if he heard Nightwing. But Spoiler quickly reeled away from the lethal stare Robins returning.

Spoiler has looked into the eyes of many, and has only ever seen a crazed look as dangerous as that from one person.

“Shut up!” Damian hisses back, “All of you shut up! You failed as heros!” Damian bellows. “You have one job— to protect the civilians! Does she look fucking protected?! Because she looks fucking dead!” Damian rages clutching your figure closer. Your body twisting at the unnatural angle, making his stomach twist all the same. “Shit!” He yells once again, adjusting your body into a more ‘comfortable’ position. “Sorry love,” He says gently, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll bring you back, don’t worry.” He reassures himself more.

“Robin— You cant fix this.” Batman says, stern but apologetically.

Damian bares his teeth, a cacophony of words flooding past his taut mouth. “Watch me! I’ll take her to the Lazarus Pit myself since you all failed like the shitty hero’s you are!” He snaps back. But everyone’s eyes turn sad, they all look at Damian with immense pity.

They can shove their pity— because Damian was bringing you back damnit, he just needed to get you into Lazarus Pit and you’ll be—

Your body begins to rapidly feel lighter, looking down at your beautiful face, he watches cracks appear, your body crumbling like stones from an ancient building. “Oh god—“ His throat clenches painfully, watching your figure turning to dust before his eyes, “No!” He screams, scrambling to regather the dust — perhaps if he just put the dust into the Lazarus Pit then— but a large gust of wind blows through, removing any evidence of your existence. The last thing Damian saw before the world tilted off its axis.

Any shreds of humanity left within Damian was ripped away the moment the woman who soften his heart and fed his soul with love, turned to dust in his arms.

Nothing but pure unadulterated hateful wrath emanated from Damian as he stood with nothing left but his family who remain in place right behind Damian’s back, further out of reach than they ever have been before.

Just when the last flicker of humanity drained from Damian’s eyes, the sky split open with the roar of a thousand thunderclaps—so loud it was as if an angry god had torn through the heavens to make their presence known.

All heads turned upward, eyes widening as the bleak night sky was pierced by an otherworldly light. A brilliant sun burned through the rupture, and from within it, a figure descended—wreathed in radiance.

You.

An angel, halo faintly glowing, wings stretched wide in divine glory. Your face was more ethereal than ever, your eyes alight with a knowing that felt far beyond mortal comprehension.

Damian stared, frozen, convinced he’d finally lost his mind. His grief-stricken heart told him he was hallucinating—seeing his dead lover descend from the heavens as an angelic vision born of pure delusion.

But then—then you fell into his arms.

And the second he felt the familiar shape of you—real, solid, warm—he knew.

You were back.

Truly, impossibly back.

“You have no idea what I had to do to come back to you,” your voice rang out like a choir—soft, divine, and heavy with memory. “For you, I’ve only been gone seconds… but for me, you’ve been gone for millennia.”

You cradled his face, your eyes drinking him in like water after endless thirst.

His breath hitched. “Angel,” he whispered, the nickname falling from his lips like a prayer, it was more fitting then ever. “You may have waited millennia—but for me, you were gone for eternities.”

#dc imagine #dc x reader #batboys x reader #batboys imagine #robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne imagine #robin imagine

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jardanikos · 9 days ago

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#sukuna x reader #aonung x reader #toji x reader #loki x reader #neteyam x reader #bill skarsgard x reader #batmom #damian wayne x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #jjk smut #jon kent x reader #jjk headcanons #gojo satoru imagines #nct x gender neutral reader #getou suguru x reader #haikyuu drabble #haikyuu smut #haikyuu

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lin-ay · 3 days ago

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English is my third language, German my first and Russian my second. I’m going to try and involve the languages into the story. That doesn’t have to mean that the reader is German or Russian, it just means that they speak more than just English! Tho the reader will not be born in an English speaking country. If the reader speaks in their native language it will be written like this: “{Hi!}”

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

~Pretty Girl~

Last time:

Damian didn’t know what to do, he never was good at consoling people, so he did what came to his mind. He opened his arms slowly and (Name) crashed into his arms, hearing could feel his skin getting wet from her tears and he could feel her shaking.

Damian closed his arms around her, he was rocking back and forth.

They sat on the bed for another

5-10 minutes waiting for Jon and Mia to arrive.

Now:

Damian could hear Jon’s heavy footsteps along with quieter ones, he assumes these belong to Mia.

He looked at the trembling girl in his arms and tightened his hold on her. “Don’t worry, that’s Jon and Mia.” He tried to reassure her but with no luck, she seem to be spacing out, eyes licked onto the unconscious girl.

“OMG (NAME).”

(Name) could feel something impaling against her, she finally snapped out of her trance and noticed she was sitting in Damian’s lap.

She also was now aware of the hands of her roommate that were holding her face up.

“I was so worried.”

Mia engulfed (name) in a hug. She let go and pulled something out, it was a pair of fresh clothes.

“I hope they fit.”

(Name) numbly took the clothes and awkwardly left Damian’s lap, he let his hands linger on her hips as to help her stand up, as he noticed her shaking legs.

During the time Jon has already called the police. They went to another room, Jon and Damian stayed outside as Mia helped (Name) to freshen her up.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Once the girls were alone, (Name) broke down in her roommates arms.

“I fell so…. Disgusted.”

Mia closed her eyes and let a tear slip, she didn’t know (Name) for that long but she knew she didn’t deserve this. (Name) was a sweetie, nice to everyone and helped anyone who needed it.

She gave (Name) a kiss on the forehead and whispered. “It’s over now.”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Damian and Jon knew that when the police arrived and they discovered what things are happening during the party, it would be a disaster. So they decided to wait outside, Jon texted Mia to let them know and to meet them there.

“So what happened.”

“When I arrived the girl was laying on top of her with a syringe in her hand.” Damian pulled the syringe out of his pocket.

Jon took it and watched it.

“You have any idea what it could be?”

“No… I will send it to my father and have him take a look at it.”

Jon nodded. “You think there’s something more behind it?”

Damian sighed. “It could be but it also could be a coincidence.”

#xreader #damian wayne #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne x reader #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #jon kent #bi!reader #oc

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luv-lock · 21 days ago

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ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤBUTTERFLY KISSㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : When You Give Them A Soft Peck On The Lips.

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

You were never one for dramatics, unlike the man currently sitting beside you. Bruce always had this ridiculous ability to make even the smallest things seem intense. Like now, as he sat on the couch in his study, one arm lazily thrown over the back, expensive whiskey in hand, looking at you like he knew every secret in the world.

You rolled your eyes. Show-off.

"You're staring," he noted, smirking.

"You look stupid," you deadpanned, crossing your arms.

Bruce chuckled, the sound deep and amused. "Mmm, that so?"

Instead of answering, you simply leaned in and pressed a quick, soft peck to his lips. Just a simple touch—barely even a second long—but when you pulled away, his smirk was gone. He blinked, looking at you like you had just flipped his entire world upside down.

Then, a slow, dangerous grin stretched across his face.

"Oh? What was that?" His voice dropped an octave, teasing yet undeniably pleased.

You shrugged, feigning innocence. "Felt like it."

Bruce hummed, setting his drink down. "You know, sweetheart, when you start something, you should always be ready to finish it."

You gasped as he suddenly pulled you onto his lap, trapping you with strong arms, his lips dangerously close to yours. "How about you try that again?"

You huffed, smacking his chest. "Cocky."

He only chuckled, leaning in. "Only for you, darling."

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

The second your lips touched his, it was over for you.

Dick was already the human equivalent of an overly excited golden retriever, but the moment you surprised him with a soft peck on the lips? Yeah, you weren’t getting away.

"Wait—wait, no! Come back! Do that again!"

You laughed, taking a step back, but he immediately followed, his hands gently cradling your face, lips chasing yours desperately. His eyes were wide, filled with the kind of love that could melt glaciers.

"Dick, it was just a peck!" you giggled, pressing your palms against his chest to keep some distance.

He pouted—full-on, actual pouted. "But it was so nice! And soft! And perfect! Babe, please, I need more—just one more! Just—just—"

You dodged as he tried to kiss you again, laughing as he groaned dramatically. "You're so mean!" he whined, chasing after you as you playfully ducked away.

"You're so needy!"

"I'm your man, and I deserve love! Come back here!"

Eventually, he caught you—because let’s be honest, he’s a former acrobat and you were never going to escape. He tackled you onto the couch, pinning you down with his arms as he peppered your face with soft, dramatic kisses.

"You did this to yourself!" he declared, pressing another lingering kiss to your lips.

You sighed, shaking your head. "Regret. Instant regret."

"Liar," he grinned against your lips.

Yeah, okay. Maybe a little.

— JASON TODD ⋆

You should’ve expected this reaction. Really, you should have.

The second you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Jason’s lips, he short-circuited.

His entire body tensed like you had just struck him with a bolt of lightning. His breath hitched, hands tightening into fists at his sides. And when you pulled away—just slightly—his eyes were wide, pupils blown out, and—oh god, was he shaking?

"Jay?" you asked, tilting your head.

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. He looked utterly offended by what just happened.

"Wh—Y—you—WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!"

You flinched at the sudden rise in his voice, barely holding back a giggle. "A kiss?"

"A—A KISS?!" His face was so red it was concerning. "YOU CAN'T JUST—JUST—DO THAT!"

You raised a brow. "Why not?"

Jason made a strangled noise, running both hands through his hair. "Because—because—that’s—" He groaned loudly, looking anywhere but at you, his ears burning red. "You can’t just go around kissing people like that!"

"I didn’t kiss ‘people.’ I kissed you."

Jason froze. His breath stuttered. Oh, you got him.

His mouth opened and closed again, as if he was trying to find an argument but failing miserably. Then, suddenly, he threw his hands up and groaned like a dying man.

"I hate you," he grumbled, shoving his face into his hands.

You smirked, poking his cheek. "No, you don't."

Jason peeked through his fingers, glaring. "...shut up."

But when you leaned in and kissed his cheek this time?

Yeah, his entire brain stopped working.

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

You leaned in and pressed a soft peck to Damian’s lips, pulling away with a small smile.

He didn’t even blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all.

Just stared.

Like you’d just done something as mundane as handing him a pen.

You frowned. "You didn’t even close your eyes."

Damian tilted his head slightly. "Was I supposed to?"

You blinked. "I mean... yeah? That’s how it usually works."

He was completely unaffected. "If you want me to do so next time, tell me beforehand." Then, before you could even process his words, his hand grabbed your chin, tilting your face up as he leaned in.

And kissed you again.

This time, it wasn’t just a peck. His lips were soft, warm, and lingering. Not desperate, not needy, just slow and calculated—intentional. Like he was memorizing the feel of your lips against his own.

When he finally pulled away, your brain had completely stopped working. But of course, he wasn’t done.

Damian smirked. "Would you like to tell me how to hold you next time as well? Perhaps where you like to be touched?"

You choked. "Damian—"

"Or," he continued, eyes glinting mischievously, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip, "should I just figure it out myself?"

You shoved him, face burning, and he chuckled, looking far too smug.

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

Cass was quiet. Always quiet. You were used to it by now, the way he communicated in nods, soft looks, and the smallest of gestures.

Right now, he was standing beside you in the kitchen, nibbling on a cookie Alfred had made. His cheeks were puffed slightly, and his dark eyes were locked on yours, curious and observant as always.

You smiled. And, without warning, leaned in to press a soft peck to his lips.

Cass froze.

Like, completely.

His eyes widened—huge, round, confused puppy eyes—and his entire body locked up like a deer caught in headlights. You pulled back just a few inches, waiting for his reaction.

He just… kept staring.

Seconds passed. Then his face exploded in red.

He quickly looked away, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth as his shoulders curled inward. His fingers lightly touched his lips, as if checking if what just happened was real.

"Cass?" you giggled.

No response. Just more blushing.

And then—oh. Oh my god.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and tugged on your sleeve like a little kid. Soft. Gentle. Seeking.

You tilted your head. "Hmm?"

He hesitated. Then, he tapped his lips with his index finger.

Your heart melted.

"You want... another one?" you whispered.

He nodded. Fast.

You cupped his cheek, pressing another kiss to his lips. This time, when you pulled away, he didn’t run or hide. He just clutched the fabric of your sleeve tighter, burying his burning face against your shoulder.

You stroked his hair, smiling. "You're adorable."

His muffled whimper told you he absolutely agreed.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

The second your lips brushed against Stephen’s, you knew you messed up.

Because instead of a normal reaction, he immediately threw himself onto the ground.

"OH, CRUEL FATES! WHY DO YOU TOY WITH MY HEART SO?" he bellowed, clutching his chest like he’d just been mortally wounded.

You just blinked. "Stephen—"

"TO HAVE BEEN GRACED WITH SUCH A KISS, ONLY TO HAVE IT TAKEN AWAY SO SOON—OH, THE AGONY!"

You groaned, rubbing your temples.

He gasped dramatically, rolling onto his back. "MY LOVE, DO YOU NOT SEE? I AM BUT A HUMBLE MAN, A MERE PEASANT, UNWORTHY OF YOUR DIVINE TOUCH!"

"...Stephen—"

He pointed at the ceiling. "IF I WERE TO DIE THIS VERY NIGHT, I WOULD DIE A HAPPY MAN, KNOWING THAT I HAD ONCE TASTED HEAVEN—"

"STEPHEN."

He paused, blinking up at you innocently. "Yes, my dearest?"

You crossed your arms. "Are you done?"

He sat up immediately, grinning. "Nope! Can I have another one?"

You stared at him for a moment. Then promptly turned around and walked away.

"HEY, WAIT! DON'T GO! MY HEART CAN'T HANDLE SUCH REJECTION—COME BACK, BABE, I WAS ONLY PLAYING—"

You rolled your eyes as he literally ran after you, already preparing another ridiculous speech.

You were so done.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

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lavilavs · 7 days ago

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୨୧ ── Starts with a cliché, ends with a cliché

› Pairing: Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader

› Scenario: Life is full of clichés, no? It just so happens that its favorite is Damian and the stuck-up rich heiress that he met on his first day of school. He can't stand being your shojo-manga-made love guru (that sucks, sadly) anymore if you keep on having angst as your genre.

› Warnings: Light cursing and light KMS jokes

› Notes: English is not my first language + Reblogs and likes are very appreciated! + Is it obvious I like friends-to-lovers? + 80% backstory, 20% present time (jk) .. 4k words

A sigh leaves his lips. It was difficult to finish one chapter without you popping inside his mind. You've been dancing around in his train of thought the whole day. Memories of the past have resurfaced without reason.

Perhaps he misses you that much.

Damian sets the first manga you've lent him with care by the side. The bustling street across his windows entice him to stand up. It's time to do something else other than read. Apparently, reading manga fuels his desire to visit you after a week of no communication.

You've been silent since you've fought with your first normal boyfriend.

Through his window, he noticed the old bookstore a few streets down to the west was now gone. Damian watches the cranes and construction workers build something new on top of it. That store had sentimental value for both of you. You used to sneak with him there after class to recommend some manga.

His reflection on the mirror adds another thought to his head. He's changed so much. Damian was taller and mature than he was before. Everything has changed since he went to Gotham. Even when he wasn't born, everything has changed.

Change is the only thing permanent in the world. Everyone knows that. Humans have lived and gone through change that nobody could disagree with. Damian learned and accepted change at a young age, believing that it is the only thing constant in a world that is different every day.

That's what he used to believe—until he met your annoying, spoiled ass one random Monday at school.

"You're handsome. I like you, you're mine now."

"What did you just say?"

"You're mine."

And it ends up being one of the famous last words of a spoiled heiress who just got thrown onto the floor by a boy who grew up being trained since he first learned how to walk.

You pointed at him and declared that with no warnings whatsoever; how couldn't he react harshly? If you expected him to drop down on his knees to solemnly pledge his love for you like the stories your nanny told you before bedtime, you were dead wrong.

In fact, your nanny was wrong about everything! Not all men who look like a prince act like one. Even the Beast would be put to shame if they cast this little twerp as his younger brother with rabies, if he had one. Sadly, he'll be scouted as a dog in romcoms who bites nuts instead. Because he for sure looks like he will when prompted to.

To think that a fresh 14-year-old Damian Wayne would be the one to forcefully push you out of your Disney princess phase and into your typical teenage girl fixations phase. Puberty held their hands up and slowly walked away on having their job stolen away.

"Hmph."

He scoffed when he saw tears threatening to spill from your eyes as you dusted and straightened your blouse and skirt. The women in the League of Assassins was obviously much stronger and tougher than you, but it didn't make his disappointment any less.

Being surrounded with people who had a 'kill or be killed' mindset and then thrown into a normal society where safety is a given with all these superheroes protecting them... It's throwing him off.

It was apparent that you were one of those stuck-up rich kids with the way you acted. Judging with the book of cliches in mind, you'll cry about this to your parents later and have him arrested and put into a life behind bars for eternity.

Good luck with that when he has Bruce Wayne and Talia Al Ghul as his parents. Although, he can easily break out by himself.

But there was one mistake. One that cost him a life's worth of embarrassment in school. After all, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." That arrogance of his cost him his family jewels getting kicked by you.

He missed the other cliché—crying makes you stronger.

Oh, and this backstory? Yeah, totally not related to the first paragraph. It's just Damian reminiscing back to the old days because he's appalled that you're still a hopeless romantic that makes him doubt that change is permanent.

Damian Wayne-Al Ghul is sitting here listening to your girl problems. Not just any girl problem—it's your love problem! A recurring yet still difficult topic for both of you.

And how is it difficult, you may ask? Simple—the boyfriends you pick certainly aren't the brightest or the kindest, so even the logical Damian Wayne is troubled by how your boyfriend of the week is acting.

The use of their intelligence surpasses even his, and not in a positive way. How can he even begin to comprehend that one time when a guy who almost took you out on a date unhingedly recommended you not to search him up?

You must've thought, "Holy shit, is he a celebrity from another country?" and that would've been ideal if he weren't included in the local wanted list! That gorgeous specimen had charges of multiple felonies, arson, theft, and a lot more.

When you cried about it to him, you were more concerned about the fact that he specifically told you not to search him up. Like—just be quiet, bro. You didn't have to say all that. And the fact that he didn't even use a fake name? clever. Wow, Einstein would be turning in his grave from having his title of world's smartest man stolen.

With that pretty face of his, you wouldn't even think he'd do all of that, to be honest. But pretty privilege doesn't work on Damian. No matter who they were, they deserved a background check. Or perhaps a Google check would be fitting given the circumstances. Thank God he did. What could he have done when something happened to you?

Another funny, ironic cliché has happened to poor, little Damian. Fate rolled his dice of cliché, and it somehow ended up being the "the more you hate, the more you love" cliché that happens to characters that start off sour but end up falling in love with each other.

Only that it was one-sided—at the moment!—on his part.

His confession ended up being a total failure when he realized you didn't like him anymore like you once said you did. Damian still thought you did because of your words—those words of declaration you did 6 years ago, that is.

The flowers in his hand wilted downwards, saddened by the surprising rejection of their buyer.

"You told me I was yours?"

"Did I? I don't remember."

That stupid look on your face almost made him crash out.

"Do you even remember how we first met?" He groans, threading his fingers through his hair.

"What? You didn't just spawn in my life?!"

It was a miracle Damian didn't go berserk, Damian couldn't find the energy to be furious when that surprise in your voice was genuine. Did he throw you too hard, perhaps? If he did, he wanted to go back in time just to give you your own kick to the nuts. Not that you had one! Just figuratively speaking.

Damian dreads the thought of hurting you again. But if you were going to turn out less of a stuck-up rich kid and his friend? It was a small sacrifice to be made. But also... with a little hint of revenge 'cause that shit still hurts his pride.

Oh—so many conclusions in his mind that he's starting to laugh slowly like a maniac.

"None of that matters anyway! We're friends, Dami. This confession is the worst that could happen to us." You laugh at his face while having him in a headlock.

That chippy smile on your face looked so annoying to see, and yet, it also served as his tranquilizer.

How could he be mad when you already looked so happy to have him in your life? It slowly dawned on him that it wasn't that bad to be just your friend.

Only until you went on a spree with love interests that were...

1.) Had the brain of a rock

Whether emotional or plain intelligence, the contenders could never have both. Having both was only a myth. A story you would only hear from your other girlfriends. It was amazing that they were blessed in the boyfriend department. Guess God really makes all of us equal with situations like this.

And the worst of the worst,

2.) Criminals

It's self-explanatory. If that's not enough to hear, Damian swears he wants to bash his head every time you tell him about your villain hear-me-outs. In exhibit A we had Poison Ivy and Arkham Knight. It was understandable at some point. When he asked you what part of them is attractive, he wasn't ready to hear your answer.

"First of all, are you too busy fighting for your life that you can't see Poison Ivy's gorgeous face? Dude, every stolen picture of her is totally hot! She's so photogenic."

"I could hear you out on Ivy, but Arkham Knight? Please, elaborate." He was so done with your bullshit. The way you even prepare yourself into that pose before you speak into an imaginary mic has him dumbfounded.

"I can't see his face."

"Pardon?"

"All aura. No face. Very hear-me-out material." You nod in agreement at yourself whilst the boy shakes his head sideways.

And then we have Exhibit B... Yeah, no. Not elaborating.

"Hear me out on Psimon."

Before Damian could process what you said, you had already passed by him with your friends. It wasn't of importance, just another hear me out. Then it clicked.

"The big-brained midget?!"

If only he wasn't in school, he would've yelled that with all of his might. The best he could do was whisper-shout with a disgusted look. It was just too shocking for him to not say it out loud. That information was something that needed to be spat out.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, his ears perking up at that custom notification sound he set up for you.

: As if you aren't? :p

Damian suddenly felt cold. Have you developed super hearing all this time? How long have you had those powers? Oh, shit—if you have super hearing, then all the compliments he whispered into the air, you heard all of that? Okay, no need to linger on it any further, Damian! What matters is that she didn't understand the compliments you said in Arabic.

With the secret out, he typed back.

: Super hearing... That's impressive.

Within a few seconds he already got your reply.

: Do I look like Superman's secret love child? My parents are the blandest and most boring people here in Gotham, dude. How can I have powers?

: Besides, this goes to show that I know you well enough to know what you're thinking. <3

He erupts into steam, his eyebrows furrowing at the small heart at the end of the message. The warmth in his ears teases him, a reminder of his feelings for you. It wasn't even intended that way, and he still finds it cute.

Ah, where were we?

Right, going back to your dating history—it was either academically and emotionally challenged ones or plain criminals.

Have you dated the mentioned criminals above?

No, you didn't. It was just crushes.

Ask Damian about it, and he'll tell you that exhibit A and exhibit B would be far better than the criminals you actually date. Because they actually have brains that the exhibit C of criminals—don't! The Google guy about 46 paragraphs ago is one of the prime examples of exhibit C.

Either way, Damian Wayne is still your best friend through and through, even if you are... questionable. You're one of the first to have broken down his walls.

You didn't soften the devil child with love. It wasn't that you saved him from a dire moment either because let's be honest with ourselves—who'd win in a fight? A sheltered heiress who rebels or a child born from a lineage of assassins and skilled crime fighters? It was such a coughing baby vs. hydrogen bomb question.

Everything started when you started reading shojo mangas after the incident with Damian on the first day of school. You were too preoccupied by your manga that you bumped shoulders with him making you drop it onto his feet.

Damian already recognized you as the girl who kicked his nuts. A grimace on his face when he looked at the book that was once in your hands.

He picked up what you were reading and was immediately entranced by the wonderful colors the panel had. The romantic dialouge that was written with heart and soul was speaking to him so poetically. There's no context or any understanding about the story and yet he felt every word in this new profound piece of literature.

"If you want one, go ask your mommy or daddy to buy you one, because I am not sharing with the likes of you."

You really have a way of annoying him.

The confident strut you have in your walk annoys him further. It has arrogance like his. The others weren't important as long as you had fun and remained yourself. Even so, he's drawn in. He made sure to find you in recess.

Damian finds you alone in the center with that book up in your face. It was no smiling matter but he was glad there was less people around you. Guess people can't keep with your stuck-up attitude too, huh. His own attitude falters with each step he takes towards you, it was getting hard to approach you after all that planning inside his head.

Was he shy? No way! Damian Wayne Al Ghul can't be shy now. Especially not to a girl who has her head up high in the clouds. He's just here for those books of yours.

He smoothly sits down across you, eyes meeting anything but yours. And when it does, you're both surprised at the softness it held. Your mouth wants to say something. Something mean, something sassy, anything to push him away.

"Why are you here?" Your mind wants him to stay.

Otherwise, you wouldn't have questioned him.

"What's that book you're reading?" He stretches himself to get a closer look at the manga.

A big smile adorns your face. You repeatedly slap the seat beside you, getting him to stand up.

"I'm glad you asked! And correction, it's called a manga." Damian doesn't find your eye rolls annoying now that he knows there's a humorous undertone to it.

He receives the manga with a smile when you held it out for him.

"I'm Damian Wayne. You are?"

And that was just the start of Damian Wayne learning more about romance. With the help of mangas and his family, he learned to care about others and that there was different kinds of love. There was no denying that you were a big factor in creating who he is now. Thanks to you and your 'weird' interests.

It's just ironic that the knowledge he got from it is now used as reference for your bestie therapy. Damian wants to joke that you might've gotten him hooked on shojo's to make him your own love guru.

And let's face it—even if Damian was helping you by comforting and giving advice... his only experience with love was the time he liked you and prior knowledge about how couples act from shojo manga alone.

To put it simply, he wasn't the best love guru you could've picked.

Still, he tries his best for you. Damian still had you in his heart. No hard feelings if he was only your friend. All that he wants now is for you to finally find your match here in Gotham.

He once recommended you to try long distance relationships. The men in Gotham aren't exactly romancable when they have a chance of having a criminal record. And as your best friend and love guru, candidates involved in crime is a no-go.

But you refused, you only wanted a man from Gotham.

"I mean, you and Dick are from Gotham, you're both decent. Along with Bruce... I guess. So, there's hope!"

When you finally found a decent boyfriend who graduated college and has no criminal record, it was as if the heavens have heard both of your prayers to find you a man in Gotham who lives like a saint.

And yet, you're here. Crying in Damian's arms more than ever.

You clearly loved this guy more than everyone you dated. He was just a guy. And that's why you love him. And because he was just a guy, he had the balls to cheat—cheat on you of all people!

"Saint my ass, the only thing blessed about him is his looks. If he didn't have that, he would be nothing! Can you imagine waking up early in the morning to go to gym, go home, doomscroll, eat, and sleep? God, I'd kill myself."

He knows he shouldn't laugh.

"It's okay to laugh, that's how I get through knowing my roster of ex lovers." You show him a sarcastic laugh that slowly makes him cease. He puts his hands up in mock defeat with an apologetic smile on his face.

"I'm sorry. Just... still not used to your words like that. It cracks me up." He laughs again. Yes, this is your emergency contact as well by the way.

"I'd seriously kill myself if I lived like that, Dami. Imagine a life like that—imagine it was completely opposite to the one you have now—you'd kill yourself too, right?!" You were so adamant with your words that he can't stop laughing. That dead serious stare was too much.

Damian ceases his laughter for your sake, having enough of clowning the situation and focusing on the real issue at hand.

"I get that this is your coping, beloved, but you'll have to tell me everything that happened for me to help you." His soft voice almost makes you cry again. Damian's gaze has you melting beneath his sight, full of affection for you to handle just yet. You nod slowly.

"Okay, okay, but let's do that."

"We'll do that, don't worry."

Damian plops you down on his bed, shutting his blinds and locking the door before you felt the bed dip beside you from his weight. The blanket flies up in the air and landed on both of you. His scent on the fabric surrounded you, basking you more with his warmth.

It was too dark to see, just like you wanted it. He wouldn't see your face, you wouldn't see his. It was perfect to say everything without worrying about the other.

His hands search for your face, cupping it gently. As you felt his arms cage your body close to his, it was your sign to start talking.

"I don't understand how he could betray me like that. How they all could betray me. I've thought about it a lot. I can't seem to find any reason for them to leave." You notice your words and Damian could already feel how nervous you are with your slip up.

"Not that I say that in a negative way, I just—"

"I know. I know you. You've changed."

You haven't and Damian prays you won't ever change.

He feels your hold tighten around him. You're scared to lose him too.

"I say that there shouldn't be any reason for them to leave because I know our boundaries, I support them whatever and whenever I can, I give them assurance, I earn their trust, and I love them with all of my heart." Damian pats your head as you ramble.

You were tearing up, making a stain on his shoulder. He hears your hiccups beside him, struggling to contain it any longer.

"Do I have a quality that I can't see that makes people leave? Is it that unlovable and hideous? Dami, can you see it? If you do... tell me why I'm so hard to love."

The silence is agonizing for you. Damian can't even speak about it. You're overthinking that maybe you do have a bad quality that's unnoticeable to you. Is he thinking how to sugarcoat it? That only makes it worse. What's the point of doing this if he'll turn back on the agreement of saying nothing but the truth?

"Before I answer you—may I ask you a question, beloved?"

Happiness swells in your heart when you hear his voice. He smiles when he feels your nod against his chest.

"Do you think they know your worth if they treated you like that?"

You feel his eyes stare at you through the darkness. You'd know it was him based on the warmth it radiates. So intense... and it was all directed at you. He shifts you closer before speaking again.

"Even a real diamond loses its worth if its seen as a fake' heard that before, beloved? And I'm sure you've noticed the way they treated you." Damian's anger was evident in his last sentence. He was pissed that they let you think you were below them.

"If it was up to me, I'd treat you right. Even better than them."

He feels your head snap at his words, gazing back at him in the darkness. This wasn't the usual advice he gives. It doesn't sound like it came from a manga. It wouldn't have been if it came directly from Damian's heart.

He had no mangas to help you today, no mangas with wisdom to share about your predicament, no cheesy quotes to relieve you off your stress... just his heart. It was words written by his heart long ago. The unsent letters it wrote inside of him was about to be delivered by his mouth unrelentlessly.

"I'd love you right, until you're reminded of your 'worth'." Fuck, how you wish you could see him right now. You want to see his face as he tells you everything that will cure your anxiety.

The horrible dating history has left you with fear that if you let Damian in, he'll also notice that bad quality of yours that makes everyone leave. It terrifies you to even think of it. You can't handle getting your first love and friend taken away from you too. People just leave when they get to know you... or after they get something from you.

You seclude yourself to avoid that pain again. Damian understood that overtime. He also failed to see who you really were beneath that persona you created for yourself. But now that he's gotten to know you a lot better. Best believe that he'll make you feel that the 'worth' you fret so much about is as high as his inhertitance combined.

"But, do not base yourself on that metaphor. You are no diamond with an unstable 'worth'. You are you; a person worth loving." He sounds apologetic for bringing that diamond thing in the first place, but surely, you must've understood his intentions behind it... hopefully.

"And...—" A sudden bright headlight seeps through his blinds, giving you a clear view of his warm face staring at you as if you were the most precious person he's ever laid eyes on. It was quick to disappear as it was to appear, the dark room had nothing but both of you in Damian's bed having a second chance with confessions.

Has your name sounded this angelic with his tongue before? Yes, many times.

His big hand clasps with yours, the other pushes a strand back in your ear.

"I'll have various words to replace the word 'hard' in the words 'You aren't hard to love'. Be it difficult, punishing, strenous, heavy, tough, tiring, hellish, complicated—and a lot more, but shit, how can it be when its so easy for me to love you?"

Ah—don't cry, don't cry, don't cry!

Too late, you're sobbing.

He chuckles while wiping your tears away.

"Love has different forms, right? I was content having a platonic one that made loving you a dream. But if the men who can't even dream of loving you like me can have you—then, stay by my side instead." As if that wasn't making you cry, Damian wasn't done.

"I'm not difficult to love as well. I'm happy alone with the thought that the woman who taught me how to love—has learned to love me back after all these years."

His body melts at your touch, gently caressing his face with the warmth he longed for.

"Dumbass. I learned that years ago."

How cliché can this be? You've loved him all this time.

extra scene - 01

It felt right for everything to end and start this way. If only your taste in men wasn't questionable enough to make you question yourself if you're lovable, you would have been snuggling like this with Damian years ago.

He hears you grumble about it.

"We've always done this before, beloved?"

"Platonically we did!"

Okay, ouch?

Damian stays silent, trying to mask his laughter with fake cries. You feel a pang in your chest, feeling bad for what you said.

Damian doesn't stop with his noise that it starts to feel fake.

You know he couldn't see your deadpan face but he can hear you.

"Are you finished?"

The doors shoot wide open revealing Dick and Jason with their feet up high. Of course they're the ones busting down doors but why?!

At the far back, there was Alfred holding a sign that said—WHAT THE FUCK?

"Say no to teenage pregnancy, say no to teenage pregnancy!" Jason and Dick chant by the door until they walked and surrounded both sides of the bed. They both apprehended you. Dick easily held your hands behind your back with his own and Jason had to pull out ropes to keep Damian contained.

"What is this about?!" Damian tries breaking free.

"Master Dick said something about the curfew of having a girl in your room, Master Damian."

"We weren't even doing anything."

Dick flashes out a big, bright flashlight from his pants. You both look at him confused.

"I saw you both through the blinds. And Damian, your eyes... they never lie." The eldest brother gives him a questionable look.

Through the blinds? Damian's eyes? What is he saying—then the flashlight seemed oddly familiar. Damian figured it out before you.

"I thought it was just a truck."

"You don't know what it is 'til it hits you, kid." Dick smugly grins at him.

"You climbed up until the 3rd floor?"

"That's not the issue here, beloved..."

Damian groans. "I am not that type of guy anyways."

Jason laughs at his younger brother then goes silent in a flash.

"I know what you read." Damian gulps.

"What is it?" You pop in. "No—Todd, wait—"

"Best friends to lovers, 20k words, slow burn, romance, fluff, misunderstandings, light angst, heartbreak, hurt/comfort, and eventual smu—"

"TODD!"

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gay-dorito-dust · 1 year ago

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How’d they react to you calling them bro or dude whilst in a pre-established relationship…(platonic/romantic)

Dick: he’s insulted.

Gutted.

He will try to give you the silent treatment for such a shameful thing but ultimately fails as he ends up being the one pawing at you for attention.

‘Do you still like me? Or did you just run out of cute nicknames to call me?’ He’d say one night as your both cuddling in bed together. ‘If it’s the later then I can help you find something, just please spare me and don’t call me dude or bro anymore.’

He’d rather you call him Richard-wait, no he hates that even more because to him you’re not meant to use his fully name, only cutesy nicknames that’d make a grown man sick to his stomach. Nothing else would suffice other than Dickie bird, handsome, babe, hunk, honeybun or anything that wasn’t his name.

He’s go mad or would act delusional and say that everything was fine when everyone could tell that it wasn’t. People who know him have personally came to you and begged you to stop calling him dude/bro because he kept talking their ears off about how his beloved partner is torturing him, which ends up torturing them even more upon hearing about his relationship issues.

Dick would even consult Hayley on what he did wrong, only for Hayley to look at him with those big, big eyes of hers. This was not her level of expertise unfortunately. (Head empty, no thoughts. She can’t do her abc’s guys it’s a real tragedy.)

Jason: ‘I just had my tongue down your throat just now and you had to go and ruin the mood by calling me bro. What the fuck.’ - Jason at some point.

It’s a whole mood killer for him to be honest.

He’s calling you things like chipmunk or sweetheart but here you were calling him dude and bro. He knows for a fact that he’s well and truly out of the friend zone because the shit you’ve done together isn’t platonic in any sort of way.

Thinks Roy had set you up to call him dude or bro behind his back. (He hasn’t)

Jason is petty and will get his own back by referring you as ‘just a really good friend’, ‘buddy o’ mine’ or even worse than both of those; ‘chum.’ 💀

When you go low, Jason was more then willing to go to the depths of fucking hell to the point it had become a game to see who’d call out just how stupid this all was, and at the both of you for ever thinking that this was an excellent idea in the first place.

You’ll probs get punished…I’m just going to leave it there and let your minds guess what that ‘punishment’ was exactly.

Damian:

As much as Damian hates it when you call him Dami, he hates it when you call him dude or bro even more, if that’s even possible.

Damian hates it when you call him dude or bro. He’s not your dude or bro, he’s your partner and he expects no less then darling, my heart or my beloved.

So you calling him dude or bro is more than enough reason for him to give you the silent treatment.

‘Until you learn that I am your partner, I won’t want to be anywhere near you if you’re going to keep calling me your bro or dude. It is a disservice to who I actually am to you.’ He says with a huff and beckons Titus to follow, only for the Great Dane to be left confused as to why his human parents were at a disagreement over something silly.

Also Titus, Ace, Jerry, Alfred the cat, Goliath and BatCow are children of divorce because I said so.

So it’s bests that you apologise while you still can because Damian can hold a grudge unlike any other. Even if you didn’t, you’d still crack first before Damian and quickly put an end to calling him dude/bro.

He just thinks being called a dude/bro when in a pre-established relationship is an insult.

He can take a joke but not when it’s aimed at his relationship. He’s well and truly devoted to his relationship -if we’re to completely ignore the whole being Robin thing- that it might as well be an insult towards him too at this point.

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clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm · 8 days ago

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“The monsters gone and your daddy here…”

Batboys as fathers

⸻

1. Jason Todd(ALLL girls, 2-4 girls)

• Protective but soft dad: Looks like he’d teach his kid how to hotwire a car (and maybe he does), but he’s the first to tear up during a school play.

• Reads bedtime stories with dramatic flair: Does all the voices, sometimes throws in a few expletives before quickly correcting himself.

• Rides or dies for his kid: Anyone bullies them? Jason shows up at school with the most terrifying “talk” a teacher or principal has ever had the misfortune of enduring.

• Teaches them practical skills early: Like street smarts, how to throw a punch, and the importance of carrying snacks.

• “If anyone hurts you, just tell Dad” vibes: Then he vanishes for a couple of hours. No one asks questions.

⸻

2. Dick Grayson(3 girls one boy)

• Golden retriever dad: Super involved, enthusiastic, and emotionally available.

• Dance party central: His kid knows every 80s and 90s pop hit. They have choreographed routines.

• Always has a band-aid, a snack, and dad jokes ready: And somehow manages to make even the worst day better.

• Takes a million pictures: Captures every moment — first step, first fall, even the tantrums.

• Teaches empathy and kindness first: Encourages emotional expression and gentle strength.

⸻

3. Tim Drake(2 boys)

• Anxious but dedicated: Googled “how to be a good dad” about 1,500 times.

• Coffee-fueled midnight cuddles: If the kid’s up late, Tim’s probably already awake working on something — but drops everything for them.

• Super into educational toys: Probably has flashcards and a toddler coding game by the time they’re three.

• A quiet anchor: His love is subtle but steady. He might not always know what to say, but his presence means everything.

• Raises a tiny, smart-mouthed mini-detective: And secretly loves it.

⸻

4. Damian Wayne(Twin dad, one of each)

• Surprisingly gentle (with his kid): Doesn’t trust most people with them and is always watching with eagle eyes.

• Teaches discipline, but cuddles in secret: Has a hard time being emotionally open but melts when his child hugs him first.

• Introduces them to animals early: His kid is on a first-name basis with most of the zoo. Also knows how to feed a bat properly by age five.

• Mini-me energy: His kid is probably as stubborn, blunt, and deadly smart as he is.

• Takes parenting as a sacred duty: He’ll raise a warrior, yes, but one who understands mercy and love.

⸻

5. Bruce Wayne(girl)

• Trying his best: He has no idea what he’s doing, even though he has so many children

• Overprotective to the extreme: GPS tracker in their shoes, private security at the playground — you name it.

• Teaches with stories: Lessons often come through stories about “a friend” who was also a vigilante and made mistakes.

• Rare but meaningful vulnerability: Those quiet, late-night talks where Bruce opens up just a little are life-changing.

• Sees being a father as redemption: He’s determined to give his child the safety and love he never had.

⸻

#batboys x reader #damian wayne x reader #imagine #jason todd x reader #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson #tim drake x reader #tim drake #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne #headcannons #daddy’s brat

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ellana-ravenwood · 6 months ago

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“Batman, you need to-IS THAT A BABY ?!” - Batfam x Fem!reader

Synopsis : Bruce and Batmom bring their newborn daughter to the Watchtower, so she can meet their friends (or vice versa). Includes an overprotective Damian, League members who cannot believe the Batman is smiling, and other shenanigans.

Oop, I’m back (?). My dudes. It’s been TWO YEARS since I last posted here. Two. Years. I posted like, two life update...don’t know if some of y’all saw it, but long story short : I got married, I have a son now, and everything is going so well in my life that I didn’t really need the validation I got from writing online...Buuuuuuuuuuuuut, I still love writing. And so, after quite a long break, here I am :). Hope you will enjoy this, don’t hesitate to let me know if you do :

Please, do not repost my stories anywhere else, under any other form. Do not translate and then repost them either. Thank you.

My masterlist : @ella-ravenwood-archives

________________________________________________

“You’re evil, you know that right ?” You say, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my love.” He answers, a small smile on his lips. You turn to him and...Oh that smug look, that smug look you loved so much. He definitely DEFINITELY knew what he was doing.

And that it was utterly...evil.

“It’s going to be FUN !”

Ah, and here’s his little devil. Damian himself. He loved this. Partly because he thought it was funny to mess with everyone, partly because he liked showing that you guys were a family.

“They won’t believe their eyes !” His little voice kept going, followed by a big roar of laughter that sounded, by all means, more childlike than devilish.

“That they won’t, they always seem so surprised when Bruce acts like a human.”

Jason. Still not calling Bruce “dad” (except sometimes, by “accident”, and even him don’t realize he did), he’d only slowly been back at the manor, with all of you. And, for sure, a certain important event which happened about four months ago made it so he came back to live at home.

Dick chuckled and added : “Who would blame them ? We’re talking about a man who eats his burgers with a knife and fork !” He gestured to his father with his left thumb, his other hand shielding part of his mouth as if he was telling them all a secret, as if he was trying to be discreet, so his dad wouldn’t hear...Always quite the little clown, that eldest son of yours. With his exaggerated mannerism, and that sparkle in his eyes, in his smile.

“I’m certain some of them thought he was genuinely a cyborg for YEARS” Tim added, quite seriously, his tone the opposite of his older brother (and that was just his way of joking...you think). And honestly ? Yeah, you were pretty sure some of your friends at the JLA thought your husband was a robot, at one point.

Oh yes. That’s where you were going, to the JLA’s headquarters. To execute Bruce’s plan. Quite the evil plan indeed.

“Hell, even I thought he was one before I met you guys !” Duke chimed in, and that made Cassandra smile widely, as she shook her head up and down pointing at Duke as if to say : “what he just said”.

And in a very Bruce manner, your husband kept a straight face, ignoring his children’s teasing. Only you, saw that twinkle in his eyes, that smile that might not reach his mouth, but was definitely dancing in those bright blue eyes.

Oh yes. Yes, your friends were in for quite the surprise.

************

Meanwhile, in the Justice League headquarters :

“Oh, hey ! Look, Batman’s zeta tube is turning on ! We haven’t seen him in a while right ?”

Indeed they haven’t. Because, well, let’s put it this way : Batman’s wife just had a baby.

A baby girl (finally, right ? You and Cass weren’t TOO outnumbered anymore).

And Batman had been VERY busy doting over his baby girl.

Batman had been busy being Bruce Wayne.

Just a man, who thought he’d never be happy again, not knowing how to handle all those feelings he had for his wife (for you), for his children.

That was happiness then, right ?

So, yes. Batman hasn’t been much at the JLA’s headquarters lately. But your husband thought, it was finally time to go see his friends a little bit. He knew they were all up there, because it was their monthly reunion (once each month, they gathered to talk about the state of the world, the universe, what threat lingered, what lurked beyond...and to get very drunk, and see their friends, the only ones who knew what it meant to be a “hero”).

And that what’s made him particularly evil.

He knew, they would all be there. He knew what their reaction was going to be. After all, his memory was amazing, he definitely hadn’t forgot the way they reacted the first time they saw you, the first time they learned he had children (childrEN, plural !).

And he knew they were a little worried about him.

He had missed their last three reunions, and only answered : “Everything is ok” to their messages asking if he was alright (they hadn’t dared to go see if he was indeed ok, because last time they did that, they found him bed ridden with all the bones in his body broken, and he got so mad at them for butting in his business he worked twice as hard when he was fine again, and didn’t talk a WORD for months...that was, of course, years ago, before you were in his life, but the experience was still in their minds and so, they decided to respect his privacy, he would come to them when ready). And he never pushed his “red button”, him, or anyone in the family.

They just assumed he was busy, they hoped it wasn’t anything bad.

Yes. They were worried. For him. For you. For your kids. For Alfred. For your dogs, your cats, your cow...They. Were. Worried.

And Bruce knew.

You told him, when your pregnancy was confirmed, to tell his friends. That they would be happy. But after his own initial happy thought, his surge of hope and love at knowing he was going to be a dad again, he started to make his plan.

Why tell them, when you could toy with them ?

“They deserve it.” He told you, and you weren’t sure if they did, but you weren’t about to fight him on that. After all, you too, thought it could be amusing. Amusing to hide your pregnancy, making up excuses as to why they couldn't come see you, and you didn’t come up the headquarter. Amusing, to even hide it quite expertly from any form of news (Bruce was a MASTER of disguise, not only for himself), so it would be a real surprise.

Amusing, to have your little girl in secret, with only your family. Amusing, but also what you wanted. For this good news to be just between you, your children, and Alfred. Your close family. Because you had too few things that just were yours.

This had to be yours. Your thing, your secret, your own happiness. Yours, and only yours. And you found it was good, that you guys spend the first few months of your daughter’s life only between yourselves.

It was nice, to go out “disguised” as a normal couple, and show your daughter Gotham (and how her little eyes already tried to take the entire world within them).

It was nice, to live in total privacy for a little bit.

So, yes, you had been a little selfish. And he had, too. You knew it wasn’t just to prank his friends, he kept it all a secret. That it was also to have some quality time with his family. To spend the first few months of his daughter’s life being the only one being utterly smitten with her.

Though, this last thing wasn't true...You were, too. And your children ? Let’s just say your daughter had not been alone ONCE since she was born. And she seemed to love it.

Whenever she made the slightest sound, smiled, laughed (or cried), they were there, Bruce was there, absolutely loving that little baby.

She was almost 4 months old now, and Bruce thought that the gist had to be up. What scale did he use to measure this amount of “readiness” ? You had no idea. You thought he was just now ready to share his happiness with his friends, and not just his close family.

And so here you were, after months of secrecy carefully crafted and orchestrated by your husband, in the JLA’s headquarters, along with your family, the little new addition to said family in your husband’s arms.

Evil. Your husband was downright evil.

He knew that what was about to happen would have a massive impact on his friends. He. KNEW.

And as the zeta tube brought all your family up there, you knew that as he saw their faces, your husband was a little TOO happy with himself for his little “prank”.

************

“Batman, are you al- IS THAT A BABY ?” Very typical, very in character : the first to react was Flash himself.

None of the other noticed, and they seemed inclined to think Barry had lost his mind but then...

Bruce’s face didn’t move an inch, he just held that little “package”, and had his same stoic expression except...Except there was a little hand grabbing at his chin.

Then another hand appeared out of that bundle Batman carried, with a bat plushie bunched in a tight fist, shaking it and...Cooing.

Cute little sounds, and the way- EXCUUUuuUuuuUSE ME ?

The way Batman just softly looked at her, the way his cold expression was replaced by a tender one as he lowered his eyes to her ??

WHAT ?!

They knew. They knew he had THE softest spot for his family. They knew his scary aura greatly dimmed when he was around his wife and children. They knew that when they weren’t there, he was only made of shadows. They were his light, his salvation.

They knew he didn’t have the same face expression, when they were around.

Well, when they were looking at him...Barry swore that Batman loomed around his family, standing menacingly behind them, his eyes cold and calculating as if he was ready to fight any seconds to save his loved ones, and then whenever they turned to him his feature would instantly soften. He will ALWAYS remember the first time he met little Dickie, 9 years old and so full of joy and life, and how whenever he would look at Batman and talk to him, said Batman got a softer expression somewhat, but then when Dick turned around, Batman looked about to murder them whenever they came too close from him.

Once, Tim, also 9 at the time, years after the JLA met Dick, told Barry matter of factly : “He doesn’t kill people. He could break your knee caps though” in a very Tim fashion. The kid was serious. And had noticed the aura surrounding his dad, how it changed when he was around (he noticed more than his siblings, because for a while, Bruce had been really cold and distant with him, since he met him not long after Jason’s death..understandable. So he was the only one who had this sort of behavior aimed at him, the shield Bruce put in front of him to keep everyone away so he wouldn’t be hurt, the shield that now was lowered for them and only them).

It was his eyes. His eyes that were always hard and cold, became different when looking at you or his children.

Not to say that his family never exasperated him, or that he never had his “mask” around them. After all, Bruce’s stoic expression was his face by default. It’s just that he was often too focused. And that he spend years practicing hiding his emotions, practicing keeping a blank face. Because Barry also remembered seeing Dick perched on his father’s shoulders, letting himself dangle in his back, his head upside down, whistling and kicking his feet, and Bruce having this stoic mask on, concentrated.

Anyway, they knew all that. It had been years, since Bruce finally trusted them enough to bring his wife here, and his kids. But yet, yet they were still surprised sometimes.

Like today.

The picture of Batman holding a baby was...a little weird.

Even if he opened up to them over the years, he was still mostly very cold, distant and aloof. You know, Batman. That’s just who he was. So sometimes, to see him so devoted to his wife or kids, it was odd to say the least.

And right now, as he walked towards them with a baby in his arms, the shock was real. Damn it, will there be a day when the Bat didn’t surprise them with something ?

How did none of them notice you were pregnant ? Proof again Batman was a master of his craft. And that little girl...

Oh your daughter was such a beaming ray of sunshine, that in his arms it was particularly a jarring image.

The big scary bat, tall, broad shouldered, muscular in every way, his face void of expressions, holding a tiny baby who kept smiling at everyone around, and playing with her plushy.

Odd.

Yet, sweet.

Were they surprised ? Yes.

Were they a little mad he hid something (AGAIN) this important from them ? Definitely.

Were they shocked that his daughter was so darn cute and smiling and laughing that much ? Not really, because you were his mom too.

Were they happy for him ? For sure.

Were they going to adore that little girl ? Probably as much as they adored his other kids already, which meant...yes. Yes they were going to.

Damn that bastard Bruce. Always so sneaky.

Hal, couldn’t help but think : “First, he’s not a vampire, then, he’s married with children, and now, he has that cute baby. This guy ??!!”

***********

The initial shocked passed, and only after your children MOCKED all of your friends (you had to give it to Dick, he knew how to imitate them so well..and when Damian joined in ? Oh, oh it was a fit of laughter impossible to fight that attacked them), did they approach your daughter.

“Her name is Martha.” Bruce said “We named her after my mother.” and it wasn’t his usual flat tone he used as Batman. No, it was a soft voice he usually only reserved for his kids. And the reason he was using it now ? Well. He didn’t want to scare his daughter, as he still held her.

She beamed at him when she heard her name, and babbled some baby nonsense. She then turned towards all those new faces, and you saw Bruce’s hand hold her a little tighter.

Your beautiful, sweet soul husband. He clearly was worried she��d be scared, meeting all those new people. Especially since they all wore mask. But Martha-

Martha let go of her bat plushy (which Damian caught before it touched the floor, rolling on the ground in a way you thought was quite comedic. Oh, that boy), and lifted her arms up towards-

“What a sweet little girl !” Diana said with a voice you NEVER heard her use. You realized it was her “voice reserved for babies and domestic animals”, and it made you smile. It was higher than her usual voice, and full of softness.

You thought your daughter reached for her because she could feel the warmness in your friend. And after all, amongst all of those gathered here today, she was probably the one that adored babies the most.

Diana looked at Bruce, who only inclined his head a little to give her the ok to lift her from his arms but-

Another arm stopped her, and took the baby away.

Damian.

Damian, the one who took his role as a big brother a little too seriously.

He held Martha protectively against him, and literally sneered at all your friends.

************

Damian deemed most of them unworthy to hold his baby sister, and only Clark ended up being allowed to carry her. And that was partly because Clark was the only one who knew about Martha, the only one who saw her already, and he had months to convince your son to trust him with her.

Being an extremely close friend and all, you just couldn’t hide this from him and... no, really, you literally couldn’t hide this from him as he was the immediately noticed that second heartbeat when he listened in to make sure you and your family were safe. Bruce hated when he did that, but Clark wasn’t about to let them be in danger without moving an inch.

Anyway, Clark was allowed to hold her, but he gave her back to you rather quickly because your son’s stare made him uncomfortable. If eyes could kill, right ?

Damian took his job as an older brother very seriously. He would protect her at all cost. And you had no doubt that he would be the kind of person to burn the entire world down if it meant saving his family.

Damian only glared at everyone, letting them approach ONLY after they put on a surgical mask so they wouldn’t give her their “viruses or whatever”.

You had to admit he was a bit much, and you asked him nicely to calm down a little. He relented on the face masks, but made them all wash their hands (twice).

You ruffled his hair affectionately, what a sweet little boy. It broke your heart, how so many people judged him too fast. He really was, a nice kid. With a heart of gold. He just didn’t have much luck for the first few years of his life.

But he chose to be like this. Chose to love, instead of hate. Chose to protect, instead of attacking.

Although, right now, as Diana came back towards his sister, he definitely seems ready to high kick her (which definitely wouldn’t have hurt the amazon).

************

It was a hassle, to convince Damian to let go of his sister so they could hold her. As per usual, it’s Dick who managed to convince him, saying Martha was all soft and cute, and everyone deserved to hold her at least once. Adding that if one of them dropped her, he would be allowed to do whatever he wanted to them.

Some of the mightiest heroes of the planet were gathered hear, but the threat didn’t fall on deaf ears. Damian could be a little intense, and scary sometimes.

They weren’t fooled by Dick’s agreeable smile either. A smile that didn’t always reach his eyes. They knew if they messed up, he would find every way to rip them to shreds. Dick was often seen as the calmest of your children, but his anger issues from when he was a child were never far. And he could be ruthless.

Diana held her first, and your daughter babbled to her excitedly.

Of course, being only 4 months old, she just talked gibberish. And it was so sweet, how Diana answered her : “What ? *babbles from your daughter* Noooooo. *more babbles from your daughter* I can’t believe he said that. And then what ? *babbles babbles babbles*”.

After that, Dick took her back, and asked if someone else wanted to hold her, under yours and Bruce’s watchful eyes.

Then again, in the room, many were also already parents and knew how to hold a baby. They weren’t too worried, except-

Except Dick, that little sh-, had found a new game in recent weeks. Whenever he gave his little sister to someone else...he pretended to drop her.

And it made him laugh and laugh and laugh, to give mini-heart attacks to EVERYONE whenever he gave them his baby sister to them, as they always all panicked and screamed seeing her dropped (Dick always had her secure, he only pretended to drop her of course).

“Oh no careful !” He’d scream, dropping his arms suddenly (she looooved it) while still gripping her, and they’d scramble to catch her, and he would just laugh.

“You little-” Hal’s colorful words were...imaginative. And Damian was inclined to agree, since his brother pranked him oh, I don’t know, only about A HUNDRED TIMES since their little sister was born.

You wouldn’t admit it, but it made you laugh a little too. Even if he got you a few times as well, pretending he was going to drop her. Then again, you trusted your eldest son. Once you and Bruce wouldn’t be around anymore, you knew he would hold this family together.

************

Martha was a calm baby. She let people hold her, curious enough to not fuss and watch them all intently. It made Barry uncomfortable, how she held his gaze and would just stare at him.

She would stare, and stare, and stare, and her bright blue eyes were EXACTLY like Bruce’s, it felt like being stared down by a miniature version of Batman.

He didn’t like it. So he gave her back to whomever was closest, which happened to be Jason

Jason, who was always very delicate with his little sister. He handled her as if he’d break her. It broke your heart, to know he probably literally thought that.

He refused to hold her at first, sure he would hurt her. But she kept reaching for him, crying when he wouldn’t take her, and she was so adorable and-

He caved, of course. After a little while. And he was oh, the fixture of a patient older brother. You knew he would ALWAYS be part of her life, and step in whenever she needed to.

Right now, she was grabbing his hair, which were getting quite long, and pulling hard on them as babies do and- He didn’t say anything. He just let her do it.

You really hoped she wasn’t going to take advantage of this when she’d get older, even if you already had visions of her having her brothers and father wrapped around her little finger, having her sister too, and...apparently, the entirety of the JLA.

************

“How can such an a-hole make such a cute baby ?” Hal said, looking at the little girl he held. She was sort of dozing off, which for sure was adorable.

Bruce only glared at him, which amused Hal greatly. He just gave him the shock of his life, he could laugh at his expense a little, right ?

“I believe, to make a baby, you need to-”

“Um, no, Jon, please, I know how to ! It’s just-Oh, forget it.”

Flustered, Hal Jordan was flustered. Jon J’onzz didn’t seem to get why, but then again, human sarcasms and irony were still very foreign to him. He always answered pragmatically to people.

Talking about pragmatism. Hal handed back your daughter to Tim, who slipped her in his favorite new contraption : the baby carrier 3.0 (of his own design). Made so he could do all sort of work while having her strapped to him. Keeping an eye on her at all time.

Tim adopted the use of a baby carrier, so he could still work while taking care of her (he stole the idea from his dad, who definitely hung around with his daughter EVERYWHERE with that thing...which was the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen, this tall broad man and this tiny baby attached to his chest).

It was so cute to see her little feet dangling while he was working. Damian nearly lost it when he found Tim WELDING two pieces of metal together with the baby carrier on his front. Tim merely said : “I made her baby sized goggles and a fireproof pyjama, she’s fine, and she likes it” and indeed, your daughter didn’t have a scratch, and cried when Damian hauled her away from the sparks. Ooooh the smug look on Tim’s face as his brother gave her back reluctantly. Damian’s was utterly vexed.

Vexation he forgot just a few minutes later, when Martha decided she had enough of sparkles and made little sounds of protest (not quite cries), and reached her little arms to him.

As of now, Tim had her in this baby carrier again, and was strolling around the JLA headquarters, showing his new little sister to everyone.

************

Cassandra didn’t say a word, as per usual. She never liked big crowds, only spoke to those she trusted the most. Her brothers, her parents.

She only gestured to others. Remained quiet. But she monitored every little movements.

Hawkgirl approached her sister ? Noted. Carefully studying every move. Martian Manhunter asked if he could hold her ? Noted.

Superman made little babbling sound at her, while her dad held her ? Noted, with amusement. It was funny, to see one of Earth’s mightiest hero grimacing to a baby to make it laugh, while said baby was held by another mighty hero who was utterly stoned face. Cass’ smiled at her dad, who smiled back for a fraction of seconds before Clark shifted his head up to look at him too, and Bruce went back to his : “ -_-” face, by reflex really.

Cassandra never spoke much, but she loved a lot. And her way of loving her little sister ? It was to always keep a watchful eye on her, so she could react to whatever she needed. And give her space when she needed to.

She had many brothers, she often joked that if she lost one, she could just replace him (a joke you didn’t like much, because you knew it was just a self-defense from her, to shield her heartbreak at the mere idea of loosing a sibling), but only had one sister...

Yes. Your youngest child definitely held a special place in everyone’s heart.

And you could see her slowly creep in every members’ of the Justice League’s heart too.

Gods, you couldn’t even imagine what would happen to the person who would one day try to hurt her. You could bet, though, he wouldn’t get out of it unscathed (to say the least).

************

Martha was particularly fond of Duke’s inuit kiss. He had the capacity to instantly calm her, and he could easily feel her inner emotions.

As she was passed around everyone, and she started to be tired and cranky, he simply retrieved her and brought her to Bruce, because he knew that was her preferred spot to fall asleep.

He kissed her on the forehead, and sure enough, she was asleep before he could pull away. Your husband put a warm hand on Duke’s head, a warm smile on his face. That boy could always tell what others felt. It was a gift, really, and sometimes a curse as others’ feelings could leak into him. Which is to say that sometimes, when others were sad, he would be too...

But for now, he felt content. At peace. Because his dad was, too.

And indeed, Bruce, holding his sleeping daughter against his heart, his hand supporting her head gently, was utterly at peace.

He loved the idea that his arms were his daughter’s favorite place to sleep, and never refused to hold her to help her sleep. You sure were a little jealous, but he told you : “They all always come to you when they need comfort, one kid out of six, you surely can give me, right ?” and though you knew he was joking, it broke your heart a little.

So, you let go of your jealousy, and let him have this indeed. Martha was definitely a daddy’s girl. And that was good. You could see the impact on your husband, how having a baby in the house soothed him.

He loved his kids so damn much. He often said they were his lights. And the fact Martha found comfort with him ?

It reminded him of his own parents. How he would go to his mom, a Martha too, to find the same comfort. To fall asleep in the same way.

You let go of that small jealousy, as you saw her falling soundly asleep, cuddled up against her dad. And it was funny, how Bruce would take his usual Batman persona, stone faced, standing straight and-

Having one of two fingers held tightly by both of his daughter’s little hands. She grabbed them as he took her, one hand holding her (she was so tiny...and he was a big dude), the other, she used as a sort of comfort plushy. She held them with all her might, as she slept.

And Bruce was speaking battle plans, and you had to fight the laughter in you as all your friends couldn’t help but stare at the scene, not knowing how to feel.

Hal snickered at one point, and he made a gesture for him to zip it, and it was quite an odd scene, as he held his daughter and did that childish gesture.

Seriously. That guy !!

************

Batman smiling was...different.

They all got caught staring at him, when he had his daughter in his arms. Staring because his broad smile was-

Well. Broad.

It wasn’t his signature smirk. It wasn’t a soft smile. It wasn’t a half-smile. It wasn’t a smile that you could only see in his eyes.

It was a full on big ass smile (as Barry would say).

And sure, they already saw him smile like that (although he schooled his face back to “stone mode” when he noticed them looking), never that much.

As if the birth of his daughter gave Batman another new light, and it was just impossible to yield to his old demon, to brood, when holding that ray of sunshine.

It made them all feel...soft. And warm.

It was nice, to know the bat wasn’t just a machine. They forgot it sometimes, that he was, in the end, “just” a man. They forgot why he became Batman. The pain and guilt he held inside. But moments like this, they were reminded of it.

That the Batman didn’t exist because of hatred, but because of love.

Because he loved his parents, his city, and now-

His family.

It was nice, to get reminded that there was a man below the mask. And though he could be an “a-hole” sometimes, there, holding his baby, he was just that.

A loving man, who wanted to protect others.

************

You made a note of every moments you would cherish forever of you introducing your daughters to them all :

1. The shock on their faces as they beheld the sight of THE BATMAN holding a baby against him, and being so delicate.

2. Your daughter being the star of the show, all of them smitten with her !

3. Your friends wanting to hold her, and how they beamed at her (and she beamed back, except with Barry, whom she only stared at for some reasons).

4. Dick’s “game” of pretending he dropped her, and their panicked reaction.

5. The success of Tim’s baby carrier, and how now, there was always one up in the tower.

6. Diana and how it definitely seemed like she would move mountain for that child.

7. How Clark’s eyes filled with tears again, as he looked at Martha. Because it made his friends so happy. You and Bruce. And especially Bruce. And Clark was an emotional man, who suffered too, and was just so happy “The Batman” was happy.

8. How Jason seemed at peace with his little sister, and how whenever he held her, he seemed less weary than usual around everyone. Like Cass, he didn’t like much being amongst too many people. But now, it felt like he had an “emotional support baby”. Ah.

9. Their reactions, past the shock, welcoming that new life in the world.

10. How Bruce monitored his daughter being held by his friends, holding your hand. Even after all those years, when he acted close to you in his Batman costume, it made you...feel things. He always kept a facade as Batman. A facade that would crumble with his kids, and especially with you. PDA weren’t rare. And even after years at his side, it always made your heart beat wildly when he showed affection towards you in public, because it meant-

Oh it meant so much.

And you had so many more moments forever ingrained in your heart from that day spend up at the JLA’s headquarters.

Too many to count. Some sweet, some hilarious-

All positive feelings.

And as you and your family stepped back in the zeta tubes, your friends saying “byyyyye” to Martha especially, with their baby voice (making Bruce roll his eyes), and as she waved at them-

Waved for the FIRST TIME ever oh.

Oh it felt like you would die of happiness.

And still, Bruce’s hands held yours tightly.

He knew.

He knew, you were the source of this happiness he thought he could never find again.

He knew.

He never loved like that before.

Yes. It felt like you could just die of happiness.

__________________________________________________

And here we are. I hope you enjoyed this. Don’t hesitate to comment and/or reblog, it’s always greatly appreciated :).

Also, initially, the child was going to be Thomas (their son in my “main” storyline, if you already read a few works from me), but last minute, I was like : “wait no, I want to give Bruce a daughter, and the boys a sister. Also, poor Cass eh ?” and here we are. I really hope you liked this; I’m nervous for some reasons. Anyway. See you soon with another one ?

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jks1uv · 8 days ago

Text

𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑖𝑛 ; jason todd

summary: a very fucking big small side effect of being baptized in the lazarus pit is retrograde amnesia. however, love is the dimension that transcends everything; even the loss of memories.

pairing: fiancée!reader x fiancé!jason todd.

trope: partial memory loss + both parties learning to falling in love with each other again + boy who thinks he’s unworthy of love x girl who loves him like it’s breathing + she fell first but he fell harder.

genre: fluff + angst + slow-burn & rekindling romance.

warnings‼️: crude language + mentions of his murder + mentions of violence + reader’s 24, jason’s 25 + jason’s a drug / crime lord + reader & jason are yearners.

word count: 9,624.

random disclaimerrr: it can take somewhere between days to years to recover from retrograde amnesia & gain your memories back. for fanfiction purposes, i’ve dramatized the recovery. italics = inner thoughts, bold italics = flashbacks. i love this song, i breathe this song. nobody fw this song like i do. canon states he was 15 when he died but i changed things up. i haven't read a single comic & all the lore ik is from google, tiktok & this app lol. pls lmk on how i can improve! happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2025 @jks1uv

Here you are; face to face with the man whose warmth you were sure could no longer feel in the dark of the cruel, lonely night. You were sure the thread of his love was no longer in the stitches of your heart.

The one man you’ve ever loved that much and hard, is limp and unconscious. It doesn’t need to be said how he’s also very much alive this time around.

He's weighing down on the shoulders of his beloved brother, in the way eldest sons gently cradle their brave-faced youngest brothers in times of need.

Dick looks at you and you see him. For the first time, you truly see who Richard Grayson-Wayne is.

The dutiful, eldest son, yes. But more than that, something he will always be no matter the consequence of life; a brother.

You recognize that bleeding, aching heart of his and understand that it was bleeding and aching with yours too.

He’s still a brother even if he lost his. That title doesn’t just go away, lost in the wind like the smell of freshly cut grass and 2015.

You step aside and Dick wordlessly carries his little brother into your house.

“I... we can't talk here.”

You can't stop staring at the larger body of muscle on your couch. You can't believe he's just lying there, on the couch.

Suddenly, you can't seem to remember the misery that left you incapacitated. You don't taste the grief in the salt of your tears on your tongue.

Those years seem so far away, it's disorienting.

“Y/n?”

You're broken out of your trance and you swiftly move your head towards the older brother.

He sympathizes with you. He takes you by the hand and leads you to your bed. You sit down and he follows suit right next to you.

It's silent for a few moments, he's trying to find the right words to explain what you see.

“We found him, Bruce and I.”

You look at him but he refuses to make eye contact. Instead, he finds feigns interest in the scratches on his knuckles.

“Have you heard of a the new drug and crime-lord in Gotham, recently?”

You nod. You'd about of him; the man in black who hides himself under a red hood. Ironically, that's also his name: the Red Hood.

“…He’s actually Jason.”

And with the way he says it so quietly, so softly; you'd almost think you imagined him saying those two words.

Almost.

But almost is never enough, especially not in this moment. You need more.

“What?” You whisper harshly.

He still refuses to look at you but you won't have that anymore.

“Dick, look at me.”

He reluctantly looks you in the eyes and you can tell he feels awful. He feels that way because this isn’t how life after Jason’s death was supposed to be.

He was indescribably euphoric as any loved one would be, but it all came crashing down just as fast and fleeting the feeling was.

He didn’t want it to be this way but alas, when life gives you lemons.

“I’m really sorry, Y/n.”

He can’t imagine how life was like for you but he knows it wasn’t pleasant.

You look at him with gratitude and squeeze his hand in thanks. He squeezes it back and you lay your head on his shoulder as he explains everything.

Jason grumbles and groans half in pain. The other half in disorientation.

Even though your curtains are closed, they don't block the sunlight from coloring in your once-dark living room.

Dick’s lying on his stomach and snoring away.

Jason carefully gets up and sees the older man not so gracefully splayed out across his air mattress (yes, he's one of those people) on the floor.

Jason's gaze follows the confines of your living room. He scopes out the unfamiliar space and he soon finds himself in front of the fridge.

He's staring at the notes and magnets among other things you have hung up. However, his eyes stop in front of a collage of pictures.

You made a photo strip out of the pictures you took with him at this specific photo booth.

There were 5 photos that consist of the strip, each from 5 different dates.

Jason can't figure out why he feels a strange, magnetic pull towards this woman.

She shouldn't mean anything to him but that doesn't sound right.

It's like deep down, he knows- feels like there's something missing. It’s weird; feeling something’s wrong but not knowing what could possibly give that inclination.

He studies the woman that he's sure is the sun. Jason's sure this woman's smile and joy are willing and radiant. In fact, he's so sure this woman is the quintessence of all he's been missing.

A home.

Jason feels a pit of emptiness open up in his stomach that fills up with dread just as quickly.

Jason couldn't remember much of his life before the Lazarus pit breathed it back into his mangled body. His painful rage and sadness were the only evidence tying him to a life beyond revenge and strife.

When and Dick and Bruce realized who the red hood truly was, they did everything in their power to convince the broken boy to come back with them, even if it was just for a little while.

Back at the Wayne manor, he discovered a few memories of what he presumed was a better life, but he also found some things that he didn't think was possible for a man like him.

On his dresser he found what appeared to be a golden wedding band, a Revlon hairbrush, and a key with Buttercup from The PowerPuff Girls printed on it.

He asked Stephanie Brown if those items belong to her or Cassandra Cain but she dismissed the notion. She told him who those items really belonged to but he couldn’t believe it.

A woman he’s romantically involved with? His fiancé?

Yeah, right.

There wasn’t much evidence to make her claim viable, until he found a couple of words engraved inside what he found to be his golden band.

Always — Y/n

“Y/n.” He whispered your name like it was a secret only for him to know.

He stared at the band for a bit, not believing he found something so delicate and pure. A love so strong, it made him want to get married.

Stephanie got to know her older brother through the retelling of memories. Memories that people seemed so fond of. Through them, she learned what he liked, disliked. How Bruce was going to break his rule, bend his code of ethics for him.

Jason talked to her, cared for her. But he never really opened up about himself and what goes on in his head. At the very least, he was there for his little sister when times were tough and that was enough.

He was immortalized by his grave but seeing him in the flesh— at this moment, made her overwhelmingly emotional.

She hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder and he looked at her.

“It was your idea.”

“…Really?”

His heart warms with an unfamiliar fondness.

Jason never thought of himself to be a romantic but this revelation forces him to look at this ring and himself in a different light.

Now as he stands in front of your fridge, Jason thinks this must be you. The woman in these photos, the woman whose name is engraved on the inside of his wedding band, the woman of his dreams. It must be you.

Jason turns around to wake Dick up and tell him about his epiphanies but here he is. Face to face with you, instead.

Your lips part to sharply exhale and you're about to say something but your mind betrays your tongue. You don't want to say what you want him to hear because of the way he's looking at you.

His eyes are wide in surprise. It's her he thinks.

Jason slowly stalks his way towards you like you’re a doe he doesn't want to scare you away.

There's a tremble in your bones. The kind that vibrates with a desperation to pull him into you and never let go.

You want to hug him, kiss him and stare into his once-blue eyes until you count the different flecks of green in them.

But you can't. You can't touch him yet, you can't talk to him like he's your soon-to-be husband yet. You can't softly sing him to sleep when he needs it yet.

So, you’ll settle on yearning for him. You’ll brave a smile when you're wistful and you'll hold on to the hope of him coming back to you.

You're determined to make him remember you no matter how long it takes.

He's in front of you now, there's an almost dazed look on his face.

His eyes are a a grayish-teal, making you question how much of him has truly changed.

“Hello.” Your voice is a bit shaky and breathy.

Jason half-blinks and tilts his chin to the side a bit. “Hi.” He murmurs.

“Why are you two acting like side characters in a high school romance anime?”

His name ain’t ‘Dick’ for nothing!

You've spent the entire afternoon cleaning the guest bed and bath room to make space for Jason.

In the meantime, Jason is trying to figure out how not to make a fool of himself.

“I dunno… what if she's changed her mind?”

Jason’s getting cold feet but he'd never blame you if you did.

“Dude.” Tim sighs. “You were literally the loss of her life all this time.”

And he’s right, Jason knows that.

He’s just really anxious and his insecurities are bubbling up. It's inevitable when it comes to the matters of the heart.

You're not just any girl— you're his fiancé.

In his heart, you’re an integral part of him but in his mind; you’re a woman who deserves so much better.

You can't possibly want to grow old with him.

“It must mean something if she's spent years of her life tolerating you.”

Always count on Damien Wayne to say the thing(s) nobody else will.

Dick quirks up an eyebrow at his baby brother's opinion but when he looks at Jason, they both know he means well.

Stephanie and Cassandra offer him words of advice and encouragement. Though, he's not sure how helpful they'll be as they don't personally know you but apparently, ‘that's besides the point’.

“Just remember what we said and you’ll be fine!”

Duke hands Jason a small lotus plant as he ‘shouldn't show up empty-handed’ if he wants a chance at a great first— well, second impression.

Jason appreciates the gesture as the lotus sends a message of a new beginning, something he’s longing for.

He secures the plant, puts on his helmet and drives his motorcycle back to your house.

“Okay, you got this. Just be cool.”

He rings the bell and you swing open the door without even looking through the blinds. You just knew it'd be him.

You're a little breathless but you suppose he just does that to you.

The two of you lock eyes for a moment until he clears his throat awkwardly.

“This is for you.” Jason smiles politely and you swoon over the baby pink plant.

“Oh, wow.” You beam. “You really didn't have to.”

He disagrees. “I did.”

Your lips split open with a grin, touched by the gesture. “Thank you, Jason.”

He’s nonchalant when he nods, ignoring how nice it felt to see you smile because of him.

“Um,” You point at his shoes. “Could you place them on the rack next to you?”

“Oh! I-I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You say calmly.

You don’t want him to walk on eggshells around you so you won’t mind teaching him how to be familial.

He coughs, still slightly embarrassed at himself (and at how fast his nonchalant streak came to an end).

“This is your room, the bathroom is right over there and, uh, I moved your things in… I hope that's alright?”

You didn't want to overwhelm him but you also wanted him to know that he has a say in things, even though he’s living in a place that used to be a part of him.

He’s touched at your gesture but he feels… disappointed? He’s not quite sure where he wants to be but doesn’t know what the feeling of belonging is like, either.

It’s confusing, but he expresses his gratitude nonetheless.

“Yeah, that’s great. Thank you.”

You nod with pursed lips.

He looks around at the materialistic things that describe him. Posters, collectable figurines, books. He loved his books.

Jason runs his fingers along the spines of the books neatly organized on a shelf.

It's quiet, you almost leave as you deem it intimate; becoming familiar with yourself. Jason is making up for all the time he's lost, not just with you but a part of himself as well.

“I remember when I read Hamlet for the first time.” He says after a while.

You smile knowingly.

“Alfred and I would read and discuss Shakespeare together at our own little private book club.”

Jason picks the book up and randomly flips through the pages, he comes across written annotations on transparent sticky notes.

“What’s this?” He asks, curious.

“Oh,” you walk up to him and he gives the book to you. “These are my annotations from when I read it for the first time.”

You admire the book fondly.

“You’d told me all about the book club so I asked for book recommendations. That way you could talk about your favorite literature with me.”

You're still looking over your notes while Jason stares into your side profile.

He thinks it's endearing; that you care enough about him to indulge in conversation about his hobby.

You also intrigues him.

How could you just so casually think of something so kind and thoughtful? How could you want to spend your time reading and truly understanding every reference, point, plot and quote; just to understand a part of him?

Can someone really care about another person that much?

Jason doesn’t find his answers in his beloved books but something tells him he’ll find out soon enough, in you.

Jason is banned from going out on patrol for the time being.

He was actually supposed to quit altogether when he proposed to you but Joker just had to follow the instinct of his passion: inflicting misery.

Dick insisted that the rest of the members will take care of patrolling as all Jason should focus on is you.

Kinda hard to do that when you're so... well, you.

It’s been a couple of days and he still thinks you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Your beauty shines through your smile and the way you care for him. He feels it under the long, jagged scar carved atop his chest.

He’s distracted when he's reading in the living room.

There you are; in a large t-shirt that drapes over your frame and the neckline is cut. It hangs over one side of your shoulder and the sight takes his breath away.

You're cooking something you know he likes, just because you know how much it comforts him. But he doesn’t realize this yet.

“Jason?”

He averts his gaze and pretends he wasn’t staring at you since you stepped foot into the kitchen, half an hour ago.

“Hm?” His voice cracks just a bit but he hope you don’t notice it.

You turn around at his hum and walk towards the couch.

“Dinner’ll be ready in a few minutes, would you like to watch something while we eat?”

You and Jason used to watch movies and shows all the time together, courtesy of one of your love languages being quality time.

He bookmarks his page and sets his book down.

“Actually, I wanted to talk.”

You blink and show you’re listening intently.

His fingers rake through his hair nervously. “I was wondering if we could talk about stuff that would help jog my memory.”

“Yeah, of course.” You nod and smile at him.

He smiles back, albeit small but he does.

“Okay.” He claps his hands together and goes to the kitchen to wash his hands.

As you set the table, Jason watches you carefully. He wanted to know everything. Every chore, every part of your routine, every detail. He wanted to help with dinner but was nervous to be near you.

What if he made you uncomfortable? He’d thought about it; his size, his demeanor, the fact that he’s not the man you’ve been around.

Everything’s changed since his… rebirth.

Life’s been hard and Jason doesn’t understand how to cope with the new set of incongruous events.

He sits across from you, a knee bouncing up and down under the table as you sit down.

You look at him expecting to start eating but find he’s not.

“Do you not like it?”

Along with his physique and mental health, you were afraid the liking to his most favorable things had changed, too.

He blinks in confusion. “Oh, no. Not at all.”

He quickly realizes how that sounds.

“Wait, that’s not—” His eyes are wide, head shaking a bit in refusal with his hands up. “I meant, no, as in… I haven’t tried it yet.”

You don’t want to laugh but you think it’s kind of funny watching him trip over his words.

The mannerism brings you back to a kinder time.

“Are you nervous?”

His smile is a bit lopsided when he picks up the fork.

“A little..?”

You can’t tell if it’s a question but you nod, trying to make him feel as welcome as possible.

“It’s alright.” You assure. “This is all very new for you so, please don’t feel as though you have to be polite to make me feel better.”

You offer him an encouraging smile before looking away, afraid you’ll burst into tears.

He stares at you for a moment, a bit stunned at your kind and refreshing candor.

Jason begins eating and has to hold himself back from emitting sounds of surprise and approval.

As he chews, he thinks about the flavor. He believes the taste of the spices blended with the taste to be familiar but is doubtful.

“Have I…”

You look up at the beginning of his line of questioning.

“I feel like I’ve had this before.”

You hum and nod in agreement. “You have.”

You think about quoting him back to himself, hoping that would be a good start.

“You used to say it was one of your-”

“Comfort foods.” He completes.

The relief that fills your being makes your heart speed up in excitement.

There’s a glint of excitement in your eyes. One that could easily be characterized as hope.

Jason feels it, too.

When he takes another bite and lets the flavors melt on his tongue, he lets himself feel the precise taste you so carefully measured with your mind.

Jason wanted to stop by the local farmer’s market so you decide to get some laundry done.

You’re folding your clothes and are deep in thought about him.

There’s potential, you think. A lot of potential to recover lost memories and make new ones along the way.

It’s the matter of whether or not he wants to do them with you that has you stuck.

The hopeful side of you believes he’s stayed this far, surely he feels the same.

The rational part of you doubts it.

You can never find the same person twice, not even in the same person.

You think about the lost look on his face you catch at times. You see it when he thinks he’s hidden it well beyond your gaze. You see it when he’s all alone and has his mind to himself.

You’re afraid to lose him. Again.

Your vision blurs with the unshed tears pooling in your eyes and you look down to blink them away. They plop to the ground and you quietly sniffle, not wanting to break just yet.

There's an ache in your left shoulder blade and an insistent ruckus of doubt swirling in your head.

You can't sleep soundly anymore, not that you ever did since his death.

His death, you think.

It still hasn't hit you, that he's alive. He's here, in the flesh and in your home. You're able to talk to him, see him.

You remember how you'd piece your heart back together the next morning after letting it break the night prior.

You bite your tongue when the emotions overwhelm you, when you feel as though you'll die if you don't speak. So you bury those words deep in your journal, where ink meets paper and stays far away from his eyes.

Your eyes quickly gather more tears than you can keep from shedding and soon, you’re crying silently to yourself. For the umpteenth time.

It hurts. Your heart hurts and your throat hurts. Hurt is the only other feeling you’ve come close to familiarizing yourself with other than hope.

You don’t hear Jason’s motorcycle engine when he’s outside. You don’t hear his heavy footsteps mark their way onto your floor once like how they used to.

He stands outside but doesn’t have the heart to see you. Hearing how wrecked you are was enough.

It hurts him, not being able to remember from the jump but he knows how patient you are. How understanding you are.

He figures the most kindest souls are the ones that hurt the most.

So, he leaves. He spends another hour and a half out and decides to get you your favorite things.

Walking through the aisles, the plastic bags of grapes catch his attention the most.

“She loves these.” He says as he picks up the biggest, juiciest batch.

The assurance in his words gives him a confidence that rivals your doubt.

A short flashback of you munching away on the grapes as you study enters his mind.

You’re sitting by a windowsill and you’re typing away, pausing every few minutes to snack on the round fruit.

He smiles to himself and grabs a bag along with some sliced pineapples and mangoes.

“Cherries… with salt.” He hums to himself.

Yes, you like to eat your washed cherries with some salt sprinkled on top.

Jason chuckles as the memory of you whipping up that treat comes to mind.

He picks up a bag of those round, tangy red rubies and goes to checkout.

He’s practically buzzing with excitement as he can’t wait to see the look on your face when you see how much he’s gaining you back.

He returns with the sight of laundry done and put away, the dishes are washed and your lotus plant watered for the week.

But no sight of you.

Where are you?

Jason debates calling your cell.

Would it be weird?

You’re not his, well, anything. But you used to be.

Your caller ID tempts his thumb but he ultimately clicks off his phone.

You’ll show up sooner or later, wherever you are… right?

You’re a grown woman, you can take care of yourself.

His breath staggers in his throat at the thought of you by yourself.

What if some asshole creeps up on you? What if you run into some kind of problem but your phone’s drained? What if you get lost?

He groans as if the noise will silence those nightmarish scenarios. Jason’s hands pull at his hair and he paces back and forth in thought.

“Fuck it.” He grumbles.

He throws his black leather jacket on, keys and helmet in hand. Tying the laces to his boots, he twists the knob and opens the door.

“Y/n?!”

His eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his skull.

Your eyebrows jump at his sudden shout, clearly not expecting this welcome.

“Umm… expecting someone else?”

He shakes his head vigorously, depicting a relieved expression.

You chuckle at him and step inside. Jason never takes his eyes off of you, he locks the door with muscle memory.

“No, God, no. I was just worried— where were you?”

You feel the butterflies swarm your belly at his concern.

“I had to throw the trash out and it wasn't too far so I didn't take my car.” You point at the small bowl by the door and sure enough, your keys are in there.

He follows the beeline from your finger and can only say one thing.

“Oh.”

Oh? Oh?? You were losing your mind over some simple chore and all you can say is ‘Oh.’?

Jason feels stupid.

How could he not try to look for the one obvious thing you can’t go anywhere without? Just jumping to the worst conclusions without thinking straight.

He chuckles in disbelief, bringing a hand to cover the top half of his face in embarrassment.

“I’m so fucking—”

“Altruistic.”

You knew he was going to berate himself in humiliation and think of himself as stupid or some second thing so you brought it upon yourself to dismiss that notion.

Jason is floored by your ability to see things in a different light, one that makes others orientate their original position.

He never thought about it that way. Not once did it occur to him that he was being thoughtful, caring, considerate. Altruistic.

It's true that he's a vigilante. An anti-hero, if you will. Protecting others and being altruistic are synonymous.

However, to him; it's a foreign concept to be on the receiving end. He thinks it's suffocating to be looked after as if he were a child. Especially when people (his father) do things that they (bruce wayne) deem best for someone (him).

Well, he used to up until a week and a half ago. Until you came along.

“Altruistic.” He repeats, feeling the word roll off his tongue.

“You know, the term used to describe people who go out of their way to do something for someone?”

You're only joking, playing around with him.

He sees it, though. He knows you're trying to lighten the mood because of what you don't know.

Jason just nods, a short chuckle sounding as he responds to your dry wit.

“Right, right. Yeah. I think I've heard of that somewhere.”

You laugh. You laugh and it feels nice. Probably because it's the first time you've truly laughed in some time.

Jason wants to encase some of your laughter in a jar and shake it around when he feels down.

It’s a lovely sound, he notes. Like a satisfying tinkering that makes your mind just slow down for a bit. Relax and take a moment to just breathe.

Your short huffs of air dissipate. “You catch on pretty fast.”

“That I do.”

If only you knew. he thinks. He wants to tell you that it's okay to cry, to let the part of yourself break and piece back. He wants you to know that you don't have to pretend nothing's wrong and that the obvious elephant in the room can be addressed.

Instead, he doesn't do either of those things. Jason doesn't think he's earned the right to reassure you of things like that. He doesn't think it's his place but oh, the irony.

Jason Todd feels like a 16 year old boy again.

Not in the sense of being immature, stupid, and reckless. More to do with the matter of his growing body and the feelings that come with it.

He’s big, huge, even. He knows he takes up more space than he means to occupy so he does what he thinks is the least he can do.

For example, he eats more than the average man so he insists on helping with the groceries by paying for them sometimes.

You argue, and boy do you lock it down; but it’s in vain when he looks at you with those deep eyes and mutters a small, ‘just let me do this for you’.

For me.

You’re weak when he asserts himself against your judgement.

He feels 16 again when you look at him with nothing but unwavering care and respect.

He used to get those looks, he remembered. Once upon a time where he wasn’t undead.

It was from the boy he respects the most; his older brother.

Jason started getting dreams since the first night he slept in your apartment.

Usually, he can’t sleep and when he did; he’d get nightmares. But not this time around.

He dreams of a time in the past, one where he’s not beating on a lowly thug or vice-versa.

It’s oddly bright but not blinding, the daylight fills in color nicely.

You’re sitting on a bed— he believes it to be your old one— and you’re making something out of nothing.

“Whatcha doin’?” You say without breaking eye contact from the scissors cutting a heart shape into the cardboard paper.

Jason registers you’re talking to him but he doesn’t know what to say.

“Is this real?”

You snort and shake your head.

“No, Jace. You’re in a sleep-induced coma and I’m the light that’s come to finally take you away.”

A wide grin has slowly etched itself onto his lips, it lifts his cheeks and creases his eyes.

He sees your excellent timing for witty quips is still there. He also notes the way you carry yourself around his presence. You’re relaxed, calm.

You’re still the same you.

He sits at the edge down of the bed and you look at him with offense.

“Why’re you sitting so far away?” You pout

“But I’m right here.”

You lightly groan and reach out to pull him closer to you, his knees touch your thigh and only then are you satisfied.

“Better.” You express to him.

Jason takes this moment to get a good look at you.

He’s sure you’ve grown into your features now, time and style enhancing your appearance.

Everyone changes physically but he realizes it’s the inside he’s looking for.

“Jay?”

“Hm?”

“Wake up.”

That makes his heart drop out of his ass. He nervously blinks. “What?”

You look at him like you know. Like you know he doesn’t belong here, in the past.

“Wake up.”

You say once again but your lips aren’t moving. Why aren’t your lips moving?

“Hey, Jason. Wake up.”

He sharply gasps when he sits up, soft pants escape his throat and you’re here.

“It’s okay, you’re okay.” You reassure.

Your hands are on his shoulder and you’re sitting on the bed.

There’s a small nightlight plugged in beside the door to the bathroom and it illuminates your figure.

He makes out your face in the dark and once he realizes, he winds down.

“I couldn’t breathe.”

You nod. “I know. I was getting some water when I heard you wheezing.”

You were scared. You were worried and he knows it. He hears it in your wavering voice.

“I’m okay now.”

Jason doesn’t know why he feels the need to comfort you but he does.

Your hands aren’t on his shoulders anymore but he feels the warmth your touch leaves behind.

“I’m fine.” He murmurs again.

You just nod and get up to leave when his hand darts out to wrap around your fingers.

“…I had a dream. Er, nightmare? I dunno… A mix of both, I guess.”

You sit down and he wonders why he’s telling you this but the need to tell you overshadows his want to keep it inside.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”

You hope asking him won’t trigger anything because the last thing you want is to be nosy.

“We were in your room, I’m pretty sure. You were younger, though. Fifteen.”

You recall the moments Jason would sneak in from your bedroom window in your youth. He was 16 and you, 15.

Good times.

“You were making something… I don’t remember what, exactly.” He squints and moves his hands around, trying to recall the events leading up to the imagery. “I heard your voice telling me to ‘wake up’ but your lips weren’t moving.”

He looks at you, coming to an understanding. “Because you were telling me to wake me up in real time.”

You look at him and can’t help but feel sad.

“I'm sorry” You whisper, not trusting your voice.

Instantly, Jason cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the skin under your eyes tenderly.

“I’m not.” He assures. “If this is what has to happen to me to remember you then I'm good with it.”

You close your eyes and sigh, your palms full with the bunched up material of your shorts.

He tilts his head closer to you, as if the distance is what's keeping you from truly seeing what's in his eyes.

“Look at me.” He gently asks.

You comply and he almost crumbles with how much you've managed to hide from him.

His eyebrows raise a little and come together in ruth. “Don't hide from me. Don't hide how you really feel.”

Jason doesn't know how he's doing this— touching you and saying all the right things. The words are just spilling out and for once, he can't stop himself.

Maybe because it's almost 3am and that's when his tongue and spine meet; to relay all emotion without a hiccup. 3am is when he's unabashed in his feeling, unafraid of his truth.

You stare. Your big, beautiful eyes pick at the spare parts of his woeful soul and you see. You see the windows of his soul tainted with an unimaginable sorrow.

“I can't.” You choke out.

How can you not hide yourself from him? How can you look at him and not want to open up your heart and let him see what's growing inside?

You're grief-stricken, he's melancholic. That isn't going anywhere.

“Y/n.” He implores you to reason with him. To give him a chance at witnessing you.

You feel like you’re drowning. You can’t breathe, your chest hurts and you feel your lungs constrict.

You can’t tell him how you really feel. He already feels guilty as is so how are you supposed to just let him read your mind?

To know how much you long for someone who can’t remember what you mean to them, to see how badly the lack of their presence has affected you.

Jason has no idea what realizing those things does to a person, what impact it’ll have on him.

He’s not ready.

“I… Good night, Jason.” You heave.

He watches you walk away, cutting him deep and leaving him to bleed dry.

The next morning can only be described as awkward. Tense awkwardness, actually.

There’s been no sign of you leaving your room since last night and it’s currently half past 2.

Jason hasn’t slept since you left the room. He was up all night evaluating all the possible outcomes from that point on.

Should he leave?

He knows you won’t ask him to but he wouldn’t abide by the request, anyway. He’s become selfish.

Yes, Jason Todd has grown accustomed to you and this little life of peace but he can’t be blamed. This is what he signed up for when he put a ring on it.

The ring. Your ring.

Now that he’s thinking about it, he’s seen you wearing it 24/7. Your left wedding finger is always donning the engagement ring, not once do you take it off.

Even when washing the dishes.

It is at this moment he has an epiphany. You were so close to letting your walls come down but seeing how afraid he was, painted in a foreign frame; you backed down.

He’s suddenly conscious of how much anguish you’re willing to put up with if it means for him to experience a minimal amount.

You want him to remember you without accepting the consequences of mental strain. You don’t want him to push past his anxiety, to make him face his fear of the unknown; but you’ll face your tears on your own.

A deep anger simmers inside him.

The amount of selflessness you’ve shown is incredibly unfair.

Isn’t marriage a united proposition? Isn’t his duty as your husband to make your problems his, to support you through all things good and bad?

You just backed away without giving him a chance to fully comprehend you.

How could you do that? Why did you do that?

Jason’s made a visceral statement in your life and he must know. He has to remember.

With a newfound confidence, he vows to try harder. He vows to push himself past the brink of frustration to remember you. He vows to do whatever it takes and replace that vacant look in your eyes with all those years of love and care.

He swings the door open and strides towards your bedroom. He knocks, a gentle rhythm of rapping. “Y/n? Are you there?”

He waits about 30 seconds before knocking and calling out your name again.

Nothing. No response.

Jason thinks about trying the knob but the last thing he wants is to scare you away.

Invading your privacy is a hard pass but he has to get through to you. He feels as if he’s running out of time.

In a desperate attempt to get a hold of you, he twists the knob but finds the space empty without you.

He goes to the bowl by the door and finds no sight of your keys but a sticky note, instead. Be back soon it reads.

Jason walks back to your room, standing in the middle of the doorway; unsure.

There’s a magnet inside that’s poking him, coaxing him to come in.

He knows he shouldn’t but would he find clues to a past life?

He tentatively steps inside, his eyes wandering around the interior.

Your color theme is fitting. Very you.

The walls are painted a nice color in coordination to your queen sized bedding. There’s a small bedside table with a couple of drawers with the most unique lamp he’s ever seen— a white lily of the valley flower and the bulb is inside!

It’s so you. He huffs out air through his nose and smiles.

He spots a halfway closed journal with a pen inside, marking a spot atop the desk.

No. I can’t.

But he wants to. He wants to know so bad what you’re really like. Who you are when you’re not performing for anyone else.

Jason wants to read the thoughts you keep buried so deep inside yourself, the secrets your heart closets. The pains your soul harbors.

But he can’t break the only trust he’s so worked so hard to build.

Jason runs his fingers across the spine of the book, feeling the embroidered thread run along.

There’s a poster above the table, one of your favorite movies.

A flash of color and sound hits his senses all at once. It looks like a memory of the movie.

Laughter, soft gasps, theatrical music to invoke foreboding feeling; only to be met with an emotional resolution from the unfortunate scene.

Tears run down your face as the beloved character faces his untime demise.

You couldn’t believe this. After all this time, all that character development, and he just… dies?

Jason doesn’t seem as tore up about it as you are but he feels for the character.

“He doesn’t deserve this.” You sniffle.

Jason nods, his arm around makes you close you in on his side and he rubs your arm up and down in a soothing manner. “I know.”

Jason exhales harshly, like he’d been holding a breath for too long.

He moves around, trying to find more things to jog his memory.

A glass jewelry box filled with pearls, gold, silver and rose gold jewelry catch his attention.

Where have I seen this before?

It’s like déjà vu except he can feel some kind of attachment to the object.

A finger lifts the lid and he finds a gold pole with a miniature ballerina glued onto it, separating the box into four sections.

“Happy birthday, Y/n!”

You’re surprised, of course a “simple dinner” wasn’t so simple. Nothing with Jason is, and that’s the beauty of being with him.

“Open my gift first!” Stephanie exclaimed.

You chuckled at her excitement and tore off the wrapping paper, ignoring everyone’s eyes gauging your reaction.

You softly gasp as the gift becomes visible, the beautiful glass case exceeding your expectations of a perfect jewelry box.

“Thank you, Steph.” You envelop her in a tight embrace, feeling oddly emotional.

“Welcome to the family.” She warmly congratulates.

It wasn’t official, not yet; but to be loved is to be seen. Feeling so loved by people who love Jason is fulfilling.

He watches as the two most important women in his life warm up to one another and he thinks of how blessed he is.

He blinks and is transported back into the present.

It’s working.

A joyous laughter exits his lips, the air filling his once empty lungs with a newfound hope.

A picture frame of you and him lies on your dresser.

He’s carrying you in his arms bridal style while your head is tipped back; an expressive look of joy on your face. He’s looking directly at the camera, donning a proud smirk in front of the apartment.

You two are in color while the rest of the background is in black and white.

There’s a small note at the bottom left, written in cursive. Congrats to our fav couple! with a smiley face next to it.

It’s like salt on the wound, seeing this photo.

He can feel his heart growing hands, scratching at the scar on his chest to be let out. To be freed from this torment of feeling.

The photo depicts everything he used to wished for, everything he had and everything that’s faded right now.

Your diamond ring shines brightly, competing with your smile and his eyes.

His index finger traces an outline of you and him. “I’m coming back to you.” He whispers.

You've been gone for quite some time, a little over 3 hours but you needed the time. You needed the hours to take a long reflection of the current state of things.

You kept thinking he wasn't ready but you realized that it was you. You weren't ready. Aren't ready? You don't know.

How does one find a way to cope with severe loss only for the pain and yearning to be diminished overnight.

Literally, overnight for you.

Events of last night come washing over your brain like a montage of your top 10 most embarrassing moments. It easily takes the place for #1.

You sigh, curling your fingers into your hair and gently tugging on them to punish yourself.

He didn’t deserve that. Just because you’re frightened of the future doesn’t mean he has to be on the receiving end of your cowardice.

You have to talk to him, to make this right.

You come back home at a reasonable time; right before you should start preparing for dinner.

It’s kind of dark, like a gloomy gray shadow blankets your living room.

But you see him. He’s sitting on the sofa waiting for your arrival.

“Jason.” You say his name so softly, he almost doesn’t hear it.

Another side effect from being baptized by the forbidden vat of acid are his attuned senses.

“I was waiting for you.” His voice is louder and clearer compared to yours.

“I know.” You nod.

“We need to talk.” He stands slowly, not wanting to alarm you.

“We do.”

“Then why don’t we?”

The desperation seeps into his throat but he doesn’t care. He can’t help it.

You shuffle your feet, feeling lighter on your steps.

“I’m afraid.”

Your admission is out of fear, anxiety, all things quiet. But it’s brave, sound, and all things hopeful.

Your sober judgement brings him closer to you.

“I can’t lose you again, Jason.”

You’re teetering on the edge of holding back and letting go.

He sees that.

Jason slowly brings his hands up, stopping at the length of your elbow. He’s still hesitant, wanting to touch you but nervous of the contact.

“You won’t.” He’s sure of himself. “I’m right here.”

He takes a hold of your elbows and his thumb subconsciously rubs up and down the skin.

You look into his eyes and all you see is the boy you fell in love with all those years ago.

He’s still in there.

“I’m trying. For you… for us.” He whispers the two-lettered word and it weighs heavy with the connotation.

“I just need you to throw me a bone.”

Despite the plea, he gives you a lopsided smile. One that shows he’s not annoyed or agitated with you.

And it makes you huff through your nose.

“Please?” He tries once more, a cute demeanor taking the place of his more serious tone.

You nod with pursed lips. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He whispers back.

You sit next to him on the sofa, sitting upright and where he can your side profile. Jason leans back in a small manspread.

“Where do you wanna start?” You ask.

Jason sits on this for a moment.

There’s so much he wants to know and at very different points in time. He thinks to tell you about his progress, the fleeting reels of the entire picture he envisioned.

Ultimately, he decides to have a go at the start.

“What was I like? To you, I mean.”

It shouldn’t surprise you that he asked one of the most obvious questions but it does. It surprises you because he hasn’t changed much.

You smile softly to yourself as time turns back. “You’re kind, gentle. Soft-spoken, loyal and so easy to talk to.”

He notices how you speak of him in present tense and not past like how he initially asked.

“You’re still the same.” You point.

He shakes his head. ��I don’t think so.”

You tilt your head. “How do you mean?”

“I, uh.” He sighs deeply. “I don’t know how to go back to how things… were.”

It’s not an admission of guilt, so why does it feel like one?

“I don’t either.”

You bounce your knee, a subconscious habit.

Jason picks up on it though. Before he can control himself, it slips out.

“Stop that.”

You stop and meet his gaze.

He looks shocked at himself. “I- I’m sorry. I don’t know why... how—?”

“I do.” You say. “You used to say that when I’d get ahead of myself. In my thoughts.”

“In your thoughts?” He parrots.

You just nod enthusiastically, so happy with this sign of progress. “Yes! You could just tell what was going on with me.”

He nods, crossing one leg over the other.

“I didn’t mean to tell you to stop bouncing your leg.” He clarifies. “It just… it felt natural to say that.”

“It’s completely okay. I mean it.”

You titter and Jason thinks of wind chimes.

“What else?”

He hums in thought. “Our relationship.”

“I was fifteen and you, sixteen.”

Jason’s immediately reminded of his dream.

“Sorry to interrupt but was my dream real? Was that an actual memory?”

Your lips turn up at this attention to detail. “Yes. I was working on a project for my midterm and you came over to keep me company.”

“Woah.” He breathes. “We’ve known each other for that long.”

“Yeah, you asked me out a little after that and we’ve been together ever since.”

Jason thinks of his adoptive father. “Did Bruce know?”

You think of all the times you’d gone over to the mansion and acquainted yourself with its people.

“He said I was ‘probably the only good thing going’ in your life.” You quote his words and can’t help but feel a sadness for him.

You lost your lover, a piece of your heart. But he lost his son.

“Y/n?” Jason calls your name.

Your neutral expression shifts to that of being pulled from daydreaming.

“Yeah.” You blink.

Jason catches the swift switch up and wants to know if you’ll dodge him when he asks.

“Where’d you go just now?”

A lie sits on the tip of your tongue but you realize that you can’t keep him or yourself from the truth anymore. You can’t keep shielding yourselves from the inevitable reality.

“You made me think of Bruce.” You say honestly.

The man who’d gone to the ends of the Earth for vengeance. The man who was about to break his “no kill” rule.

Jason has yet to extend a helping hand in mending their fractured relationship. One person at a time he thinks.

“We got engaged young. I was nineteen.” You twist the ring around your finger.

“Was I romantic enough?”

His eyes are filled with mirth when your cheeks pull back and reveal your teeth.

Your smile is so beautiful. He takes a mental picture of it every time you show a variation.

The creases at the corners, the dimples, and lines all make your smile only that much better.

He wants to make you smile more. He’s so lost in the way your lips move that he forgets the original question.

“You proposed over a candlelit dinner at my favorite restaurant.”

He grows shy at the sentiment, hanging his head down and covering his face with a hand while his body shakes with mirth.

“Wow.” He muses.

You laugh at him, in the mood for some light teasing. “What, you getting shy Todd?”

His head snaps up at the fondness dripping from your tone at his last name. He’d never heard someone say his name like that before.

“No.”

He can deny it all he wants but the faint hue of red creeping up on his face says otherwise.

“You had the band play a song, too.”

You want to see if he can get this. It’s an incredibly important detail, one of which encompasses a very loving memory.

He racks his head around for this. A song. A song? There’s so many, which one could set the atmosphere for a promise of lifelong commitment?

Then, it’s like the whole room changes. An oil spill mirage of the restaurant paints the room.

You’re in a black dress, your hair’s done nice.

He closes his eyes and he can almost feel the air all those years ago.

The familiar melody of the tune rings in his ears and he knows he’s got it for sure.

Jason opens his eyes and is brought back to the present.

“The Flamingos.” He says.

It’s like he can still hear the song playing softly over conversation.

“I only have eyes…”

“For you.” You finish the lyric.

You two giggle, feeling silly and slightly awkward but it’s fulfilling. It’s like how it used to be.

He clicks his tongue, content with the shared experience.

“What about you?” He wonders.

“What about me?”

“Your life.”

Oh. Right.

Your eyelids flutter in a half-blink and suddenly the carpet is the most interesting thing in the world.

“My whole life fell apart. I didn’t know how to get through the day.”

I forgot how is left unsaid.

Jason eyes your mask slipping away.

“I was twenty when you were murdered.”

Murdered, he was murdered. That’s the truth.

The Joker was put away in jail for his crimes against humanity while Jason— your Jason— was lying the cold, hard ground. Barely breathing yet still alive

“I, uhh… quit college for a year. Couldn’t do it.” You pitifully chuckle at yourself.

You sharply inhale when your emotions come bubbling up to the surface again. “I eventually went back and finished my degree. Graduated cum laude at twenty-four.”

His eyes crease as his pride and joy defied the odds for her life. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.” You shyly grin.

He drums his fingers along his knees.

It occurs to you that despite your life’s lost momentum, the momentum on Jason’s life picked up faster than it ever had.

“And you?”

He doesn’t expect to be interviewed. “What about me?”

“What were you doing for the past four and a half years?”

Sweat forms under his palms and he subconsciously rubs them along his pajama pant clad thighs. Jason feels his face turn warm, he prays the redness doesn’t bloom along his cheeks.

“…I’d rather not talk about that.”

You give him a knowing look. “Jason.”

He winces, an eye closing while he sucks in air from his teeth. “Why do you sound like an upset mother?”

An incredulous laugh bubbles in your throat. “I'm not upset, just don't want you pulling a me."

He relents. “Okay, okay, alright. Fine, you win.”

He deeply sighs, rubbing his eyes and you turn your body to fully face him. You're legs are crossed and you sit up straight.

“You know Talia al Ghul.”

You nod, Damien’s mother isn’t exactly a popular subject but he is.

“She resurrected me using the pit and brought me back to train under the League of Assassins and the All-Caste.”

He was training for all those years?

“Training… for what?”

A grim expression overtakes his features. “I wanted to kill Bruce because I thought he left me to die.”

Pity is the last thing he wants but you can’t help but feel bad for him. He was tortured for so long, in the worst ways possible only to be mislead like that in the end.

“And now?” You hope he’s changed his mind.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

You unknowingly smile. “Okay. Yeah, that’s good.”

“I spent the last six months focusing solely on being a vigilante.”

“A vigilante.” You repeat.

Yes, you know there's more than what he's letting on but you want to hear his story from him. Isn't that what people who care for the other do?

“Yeah, I took care of the bad guys and started a little side hustle of my own.” He says it like it's no big deal

“I wouldn't call being a drug slash crime lord a ‘little’ side hustle.”

Jason's face blanks, he pales as you reveal the overall tone behind his cryptic message.

“You know.”

“Dick told me after he showed up with you.”

His eyes seemed to look right through you.

For the first time, you couldn't tell what was going on with him. You could no longer discern the distinction between his feelings and thoughts.

“Don't be mad. Please.” Your bargain comes rushing out.

“I'm not mad,” He voices in a hushed manner. “...’m just thinking.”

“Tell me.” You hesitantly put a hand on his. "I want to know what you're thinking."

A deep breath is sucked into his lungs. “I'm thinking about how much I want you.”

You dart back and forth between his eyes. He watches as your irises move between his slightly changed ones but contunues.

“I'm thinking about how someone like you can be with someone like me.”

He shifts his body slightly in your direction, wanting to close this space.

“I’m thinking about how despite everything, I've changed in more ways than one and you've still remained the same.”

“That's not true.” You shake your slightly.

“But it is, Y/n. My senses are heightened, my body isn't the same. I-I’m constantly feeling like I’m missing something and yet you're still here.”

Why wouldn't you be?

“Why, Y/n? Why haven't you given up on me?”

The answer to his questions are simple because it's the same answer. Yet, you're finding it difficult to say it it this moment.

“Why did you stop me from shutting you out?” You ask instead.

He stares at you, contemplating blurting out the thoughts and feelings that have plagued him since epiphany.

“Because I...”

You lean into him. “Because you?”

Jason looks away and shuts his eyes, trying to contain his brain running on a hundred thoughts per second.

“I… care about you, okay? And I’m not the same man I was before but I care.”

Your hands slide on top of his and the coldness of his knuckles diminish as your warmth spreads. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

Tears fill your eyes and he melts. His eyebrows furrow and forms a wrinkle.

“I hate it when you cry.” He says as his palm encompasses the back of your neck and he pushes you into his shoulder.

You hold his arms as you sniffle lightly into his bicep as his other hand rubs your back up and down.

“I know you’re different but he still lives inside you. I can see it.”

Jason thinks about that. Is it possible?

If you didn’t change so much then could it be that there’s a chance for him to connect to that version of himself?

It was never about going back. It was never about denying his existence now and stick who he was onto his back.

It’s always been about adapting to change. Learning to let go what doesn’t serve you and accepting that with time, you must change, too.

Jason may recover the lost pieces of who he used to be but he still has to learn who he is.

“We can make new memories.” Your watery voice croaks.

You sit back and look at him, really take your time to absorb this moment. Him. Us.

“It doesn’t matter how long it takes for everything to come back. We can still make the best of what we have now.”

He stares at you and knows you’re on the same plane as him. You always were.

He cups your face and tilts your head towards him, pressing a kiss to your head. You close your eyes at his touch.

“We will.”

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