#tim's whole everything is so good

[itemfinder]

hey if you like Batman fic DON'T read the above yet but go read the series it's kind of epilogueing

https://archiveofourown.org/series/3102600

Hello! I absolutely adore your Blackbird au, I've recommended it to all my friends and reread it dozens of times. I saw your answer on an ask where you said you might not be adding new installments, which, though I'm a little sad to hear it, I definitely understand and support you doing what works for you. I'm grateful for what you've shared with us as is. That being said, if you have any snippets or ideas of how the story was going to continue, I'd be thrilled to read it (if you're willing to share). Thanks!

anon you are a gift and a blessing. my greatest regret with stopping was that the third fic was the one where I was actually going to justify why the whole thing is called the blackbird AU. the third fic was going to have victor zsasz as its villain, with Tim balancing working with Jason, playing keep-away with the Bats, and not getting murdered. he was going to move more fully into the vigilante sphere in Gotham and cement his existence as a player and his relationship to the others.

with that in mind, i'm going to share 2 different scenes regarding Tim preparing for his debut (long post under the cut):

Tim takes his time putting on the layers Jason left strewn across the dining table. The underlayers cling to him in a way he’s not used to, tight against his joints. The Kevlar vest and titanium plate inserts sit more naturally, but they’re heavier than suit jackets or sweatshirts, and Tim has to shift the way he holds his shoulders to balance the weight a little better. The Teflon layers for the exterior of the outfit help hide the bulk; Tim looks like a bigger person than he is, but not an armored one.

There’s an almost-full-size mirror in the safehouse’s bathroom, with a single long crack running through a third of it. Tim stares at himself.

He looks—unremarkable. Nondescript. The majority of the suit is blacks and grays; enough variation to not stand out as a suspicious figure in a daytime crowd, but easy to melt into the shadows of Gotham’s hazy gray darkness. There are no distinguishing features, no emblems, no colors. The jacket looks like a lightly-insulated raincoat; the collar of the armored vest looks like a sweater, and the high collar of the undershirt is just that: a high-collared shirt. The pants are bulky, but still follow the line of his legs. Heavy boots.

Tim’s hair isn’t that long; his entire adolescence, it was whatever length Black Mask’s men decided to cut it when he asked them. He still has to push strands out of the way, shake his head back, to put the mask on.

It covers above his eyebrows to the line of his cheekbones. A reinforced structure runs along the line of the nose to protect it if he gets punched in the face.

He stares at himself through the white lenses.

When Tim was eleven, he dreamed of being Robin.

He’s not dressed like a vigilante. There’s too much practicality in the armor Jason got for him; no emblems, no declarations of intention. The design is meant to protect him, not to let him protect others. Tim looks like part of a strike team, not a superhero.

This isn’t a childhood fantasy. It’s an inevitability, a consequence of the person Tim was made into.

There’s no point in lingering. Tim takes the mask off and pulls himself away from the mirror, from his own reflection. He isn’t going to overthink this—to leave himself the opportunity to be convinced that this is a bad idea. Or even that it’s a good one.

It’s—it’s a purpose. It’s not a sentimental thing. Tim manipulated Red Hood into having a spare set of armor for him. Manipulated Red Hood into agreeing to help him. It’s for his own purpose, his own agenda.

He pushes aside the tangled knot in his chest; it’s not worth dealing with, not right now, not while Zsasz has just started the timer until he tries to kill Tim.

On the kitchen counter, next to the phone and the address, is a holster and a handgun.

A few trips to one of the firing ranges in Gotham had been one of those inevitable things Tim added onto his schedule, after his run-ins with Red Hood. Mostly to have a minimum cover of his bases; he knows how to load a pistol, take the safety off, and hit a still target from twenty feet away. That’s all he thought he’d need.

The gun’s heavy when he picks it up.

Tim makes himself ignore the weight of it. It’s another practicality. Another tool to remind himself that he’s a lot of things, but he’s not a superhero.

The holster is intended to conceal the pistol under his jacket. Tim buckles it on and checks the safety before he slots the pistol into place against his ribs.

There’s no point in overthinking it. It’s basic self-defense; a weapon that Tim can use with minimal training.

It’s not like Tim can’t make the call whether or not someone needs to die. He’s done it before. Jason pulled the trigger, but Tim’s the one who killed Roman Sionis.

It’s not like Tim’s intending to let Victor Zsasz live. He grabs a dark green jacket off the back of a chair, stuffs the spare phone and printed-out police photographs in his pocket, and leaves the safehouse.

Tim double-checks for cameras – very few in Crime Alley, he knows from the police’s complaints – and slips into a back alley to put his mask on. From there, it’s up the fire escape to the second-floor windows.

There’s two windows next to the fire escape landing on this floor; the first is a dark hallway. Tim spares a glance at the lock on the inside. Unlocked, if he needs to open it. Might be how Jason got into the building in the first place.

The one next to it has a light on. Tim stays low, moving forward just enough to peer around the edge of the window frame.

The scene inside is familiar. A table in the center of the room, covered in notes, markers, maps; the men that surround it, nearly half visibly armed; the single individual at the head of the table as the immediate threat in the room.

Except this is Red Hood, not Black Mask.

Tim looks over the others in the room. They’re varying states of attentive; it seems like four are actively engaged in discussion at the moment, and the rest are hanging back for now.

The ones hanging back aren’t even really paying attention to the proceedings. From what Tim can hear of the muffled voices, it sounds like Red Hood’s working something out with the ones he’s talking to.

Some part of Tim wants to wedge the window open and slip inside. He wants—

Oh.

He wants to be in this room.

The desire sits at the front of his breastbone like a thread drawn taut. Tim wants to hear what Red Hood’s saying. How he determines orders, how he distributes them. How crime works on this smaller scale, where Jason cares about individual people.

It’s not—the desire isn’t totally unreasonable. These would all be useful things to know. Things Tim could justify knowing, things that would make it easier for him to help Jason, to make use of him, to plan around him for other parts of Gotham.

Except Tim’s not sure this want is about any of those things.

He’s been hesitating outside the window too long. He’s too visible, and Red Hood’s helmet turns sharply, facing directly towards him.

Tim takes a step back, but not fast enough. He sees the posture of the men in the room react; sees a few reach for weapons. The muffled sound of conversation stops, and then the bottom half of the window slides up.

Red Hood sticks his helmet out. “We’re running late,” he says, tone flat through the filter. “Get in here.”

He moves back out of sight, further into the room. Tim approaches slowly, apprehension mixing with the desire in his chest into something sharp and uncertain.

Every face in the room is turned towards him. He slips through the window, privately relieved that he’s not large enough to make it an awkward fit.

Tim stands with his shoulders set, confident in the way he learned through blood and mistakes. Confident in a way that gives away nothing of the ache in his chest, the way Tim desperately wants to move to the planning table, to see and assess and maximize Red Hood’s resources, give the orders and watch Gotham reform under his guidance.

Confident in a way that gives away none of the reasons Tim isn’t going anywhere near Batman.

Inside the room, he can make out that this is about a dozen men, plus Red Hood. Somewhere from half to a third of the people in Jason’s employ, then; Tim’s not positive about the exact number, but it’s at minimum twenty-six, based off what Red Hood can do in a single night.

“This is a friend of mine,” Red Hood says, turning away from Tim to move back towards the central table. “And he’s good at what we do. He’s free to know anything you’d tell me.”

There’s deliberate undertone to that introduction that Tim’s not nearly skilled enough to start to unpick. But he can watch the reaction to it—the relaxing of bodies, hands moving another inch or two away from the visible weapons.

It’s easier to gauge the room’s reactions than to try and figure out why Jason just gave Tim, known criminal schemer, free reign to ask questions. Even maybe, implicitly, permission to ask questions when Jason isn’t around.

And fuck if Tim doesn’t want it.

Tim can’t be what Roman Sionis made of him. But Jason isn’t thinking about that, isn’t thinking about anything beyond his inexplicable attempt to gain Tim’s trust, and the casual extension of control in his organization makes all the sensible parts of Tim want to turn and start running.

He can’t show it. Tim rolls his shoulders back, shifts his weight deliberately. He’s the shortest and the youngest and the newest in the room, but he has no intention of letting any of that make him a target to these people.

Tim moves further into the room with no hint of hesitation. He circles behind the people standing around the table to fill the empty space of the room at Red Hood’s back, close enough to see what’s on the table but keeping Red Hood well out of his personal space. Keeping everyone in the room within his line of sight.

There’s a stilted pause, where Red Hood’s men are clearly hesitant to continue the conversation in front of an audience. But Jason starts them up again, leaning down to tap his fingers against a specific building on the map of Crime Alley spread out on the table.

“Li Wei, you’re doing inspection on our manufacturers in two days, aren’t you?” Red Hood asks.

Li Wei pulls his gaze away from Tim, to look towards Red Hood’s helmet. He glances down to the map, and says, voice accented, “Yes. Three labs heroin, one lab crystal. Also, we have three-man team doing quiet check on new interested parties.”

“Don’t bother,” Jason says. “I’m gonna be too busy to meet new suppliers for a bit. Reassign ‘em to run last minute inspection on a few of our currents. At least one’s selling whatever is mixing badly.”

“You’re investigating the speedball deaths,” Tim says.

The few people in the room who’d let their guards down snap back to attention. Tim makes himself take a couple steps forward, moving away from the back wall to put himself in Jason’s periphery.

There have been a few reports he’s seen in the police database: an uptick in deaths of drug addicts. Higher presence of both cocaine and heroin in the blood; speedball is the common name for the mixed drugs.

“Yes,” Red Hood says, turning just enough to see him. The mild, business-like tone falls away, replaced with something harsher. “One of my suppliers sold us coke cut with something that reacts with heroin. Killed nearly half the people who mixed ‘em.” Low and lethal: “Motherfucker’s gonna die painfully.”

Drug dealing is the main profit area that Red Hood makes. Tim’s managed to narrow down that he doesn’t technically manufacture anything himself, but his men throttle suppliers and keep track of dealers and drug dens in Crime Alley. They provide some oversight in an attempt to minimize overdoses, make sure what they’re selling isn’t laced or cut with anything, and try to support rehab attempts.

It’d be a terrible business model if Red Hood was in it to make money.

Tim pulls his gaze from the impassive surface of Red Hood’s helmet to look down at the map. Individual buildings marked out, a zoomed-in snapshot of the parts of Crime Alley that Red Hood manipulates.

There’s an offer on the tip of his tongue. Tell me who you buy from, and I can tell you who’s doing it. Because Tim could, he knows it. He knows enough about drug manufacturing – about both the pharmaceutical and the criminal aspects – to be able to pinpoint who’s weak enough to be used as an entry point to hit the people under the protection of Red Hood.

Because there’s no point in a single drug manufacturer lashing out at Red Hood. There’s simply not enough incentive in it; Red Hood holds them to slightly higher standards, but it’s hardly guesswork at all to figure out that he pays them appropriately for their conscientious effort to avoid low-quality product. A single manufacturer is just an avenue to hit Red Hood where it hurts.

The anger in Jason’s voice, the threat towards the manufacturer—he hasn’t realized that yet, has he?

Who are Red Hood’s competitors in the drug market? Who is he taking customers away from?

Tim asks, tone mild as anything, “You took a team against a tong’s incoming shipments a few weeks ago, didn’t you?”

The Xingyun Shou tong – officially recorded by the police as the Lucky Hand gang – has been scrambling for power in the last few months, ever since they had several large-scale issues with their drug trafficking. A mostly-unintentional side effect of some of the plans Tim implemented after he’d gotten the Drake Industries CEO position. It does set them up to act desperately, without considering Red Hood’s penchant for revenge.

Red Hood says slowly, “We took the Lucky Hand’s narcotics shipment, yeah.”

Ah. He needs more detail.

“Which of your manufacturers might respond to coercion from one of the tongs?” Tim asks.

He watches the anger roll slowly into Jason’s body. The slight drawing back of his neck, the set of the shoulders. The gloved hands that flex and curl into fists.

Tim’s closer to Red Hood than he wants to be, watching the anger build, but moving backwards out of Jason’s space would be too obvious. There’s too many eyes in the room, and Tim holds himself still, waiting patiently for the response. Waiting to see if he needs to duck.

Even through the distortion, the finely-held rage is clear in Jason’s voice. “Li Wei. That quiet team?”

Li Wei’s response is immediate. “Reassigned.”

“Good.” The deep breaths are visible, the rise and fall of Jason’s shoulders.

There’s a slow loosening of tension in the room, as Red Hood keeps holding himself still, keeps breathing, slow and silent under the helmet. Tim can finally tear his gaze from Red Hood, looking out around the room, at the faces of Red Hood’s men.

They’re—apprehensive, but none of them seem actively afraid. This is an acknowledged part of working for Red Hood. They’re waiting for the rage to pass before they move on.

It’s probably easier to be less scared when Red Hood doesn’t kill his own lackeys. Roman Sionis in a similar mood would’ve already killed at least one person here.

Red Hood stretches his hands, uncurls them forcibly. Turns back to the table, places his palms down over it and looks over the scattered documents.

“Was that the last of our business?” he asks.

No one speaks up.

“Great.” He spends a few long moments looking down at the table before he straightens back up, the last of the anger sliding off him like snow off a roof. There’s the hint of something like warm familiarity in his voice, Tim’s pretty sure, when he adds, “You should come by more often, birdie.”

“Blackbird.”

The name is out before Tim can swallow it back. He makes his body perfectly neutral—doesn’t allow a flinch, a flicker of an expression, an inhale or exhale too deep.

It’s too telling. Jason hears more than Tim ever intends to say, and this—Tim didn’t intend to say it in the first place. He has no way of knowing what Jason will find in it.

Except that people who don’t want to be superheroes don’t pick out superhero names.

And good people don’t name themselves after supervillains.

“Blackbird,” the Red Hood repeats.

Then again, Jason knows that last part already.

Tim thinks there’s more Jason wants to say. But this isn’t the place, it isn’t the time, not with a dozen career mobsters watching the two of them, trying to figure out if the tension in Red Hood’s body is the signal for an upcoming fight.

“Let’s get moving,” Red Hood says instead, and heads for the window.

[hypewinter]

Early Accident AU

So Danny becomes Phantom at like age 8 or something right. And everything goes just about similar to canon, including TUE. The only difference is that instead of the meeting being called because Danny cheated on a career aptitude test, it's now because his teacher is just worried about him and is staging a sorta intervention thing.

So anyway, Danny cannot stop the Nasty Burger explosion and ends up going to live with Vlad. Which isn't going well. He's constantly crying and feeling guilty for not stopping the incident. There's also the constant fear that he'll become Dan. Vlad is doing nothing to address any of this. Instead he's showing off his godson to anyone and everyone and bragging about how smart he is. In fact, that's exactly what he does when he gets invited to a Wayne Gala.

The bats take one look at this kid, who's eyes are still red from crying, being dragged around by his guardian and alarm bells immediately start ringing. Especially for Tim who experienced what it was like being dragged around to special events even when he was incredibly ill.

The bats get even more concerned when Vlad pulls his charge into a corner to scold him for looking miserable instead of comforting him. He's telling the kid stuff like only babies are allowed to get away with crying and that if he continues making the man look bad, he'll be punished when they get home.

Danny does his best to suck it up. He tries to push down all the swirling emotions surrounding his powers, the death of all his loved ones, and even the unprocessed trauma of his own death. He ends up going to the bathroom to try to splash some water in his face and calm down.

As he's making his way back to Vlad, he is intercepted by Tim. When this kind stranger sincerely asks him if he's ok, he breaks down. This is the first person to genuinely ask him how he's doing since he's family's death outside of people doing it for the sake of pleasantries.

Now the boy is absolutely ugly crying in front of this whole party of people and Vlad is not pleased to say the least. He tries to snatch Danny up and whisk him away but the bats intervene. Bruce says something about knowing how to console children as Dick ushers Danny into a separate room where Alfred is already waiting with some hot chocolate.

After a while Danny starts to calm down and he goes to wipe his eyes. As he's doing this, his sleeve slips down a little, revealing an arm covered in bandaids. To explain, it hasn't been that long since Danny came to live with Vlad. Couple that with his healing factor being slower due to his emotional state and he has a couple of small wounds still remaining from his fights that have yet to heal.

Of course the bats don't know where those wounds are from. All they know is that there's no way in hell Danny is leaving this manor with Vlad.

[cluescorner]

I cannot imagine being a Damian stan right now. You've got both Zdarsky's bullshit (where he clearly doesn't give a shit about your boy) and The Boy Wonder (where Juni Ba clearly gives so many shits about your boy) coming out on the same day. The whiplash must be insane. I hope y'all get some nice warm soup for your efforts jfc

[theflyindutchwoman]

This is work. This is work. ↬CHENFORD MOMENTS | 4.22 - A day in the Hole

[fiendishartist2]

height chart/character sheet for all of the main tma cast feat. my headcanons (and misconceptions about canon desc. O_O) of them

and an extra georgie <3

[batbabydamian]

i read Batman 138 and i’m still trying to process it lol i have such mixed feelings 😭

[favoritejohn]

he definitely is the moment

[notagaybastard]

I think I am finally In love

[daz4i]

yknow it's interesting how conceptually, and when it comes to its impact on the overall lore of the series, and its use of the playable characters, the presequel is like. one of if not the best game in the borderlands series. and yet despite that, due to how its story is told, it's considered the worst by almost everyone in the fandom. really goes to show how important gameplay and pacing can be

[t1erradelfuego]

[kristiliqua]

[read this after reading the tags because fuck i hit the tag limit LMFAOO]

— and jason (n the bunch) definitely makes fun of him for it because holy shit you absolute tryhard (he copes and seethes every time tim manages to snipe his slow ass dynamo — which is basically every fucking time tim is there . he has to rush tim like a fucking madman in order to actually splat him , and then usually dies right after bc he rushed into their base , tunnelvisioning tim and tim only , as a fucking Dynamo . tldr he calls him a tryhard to cope)

(and do Not get me wrong ; its not as if jason’s a thoughtless or bad player [i hate ppl calling him a brute . like istg he’s smart too] . its just that dynamo vs charger is a horrible matchup for him , as the dynamo . he Does manage to get tim without rushing him sometimes , but he needs coordination with his team distracting tim or smth in order to get the advantage he needs , since theyre both equally skilled pretty much . but a 1v1 is just Hard in this matchup [said by a dynamo And charger main . trust me on this one LMAO] , and he usually just gets sniped in those situations — its either a trade or death for him most of the time . thats not a jason thing ; its a charger vs dynamo thing lol)

golly i’ve been talking abt this too long (esp abt tim and jason when tim is nowhere to be found in the og post LMFAO Uhm .! i just like them . jason n tim are my boys) . in fact im going to yap more bc i feel i havent given dami enough appreciation

jason would totally love rolling damian over while dami’s sharking him . he’d laugh in his face and clip it on his switch , before saving the clip on his phone or smth just in case damian attempts to delete it

see it as a punishment for trying to shark a dynamo as a splatana/octobrush instead of just ,,, outmaneuvering the dynamo . bc both splatana and octobrush have good enough range to easily take down a dynamo (he outmaneuvers a lot too ofc ; he just tests his luck sometimes by sharking around jason , wanting to surprise him lol)

they are a Unit on the same team tho . damian as the faster splatana/octobrush supporting jason’s slower dynamo/stamper (he’d play that too . def didnt start playing it bc it pairs rlly well with [damian’s] splatana ,, no siree ,,,) as they both kill the enemy team with terrifying efficiency . (i’d say they’d be extra good with tim making callouts in comms — bc ofc im still thinking abt tim too istg 😭 — but i also feel like neither of them would listen to him half of the time . and take joy in his misery whenever they lose , ignoring their own misery from losing in favor of making fun of tim and blaming each other for losing [like “if you hadnt died when they started pushing we could have defended successfully , todd !” / “oh MY BAD that i TRADED with their stupid quick-respawning motherfucker and couldnt paint under my feet to get away from their bomb because im a fucking DYNAMO —” (can you tell i definitely main dynamo and have experienced similar situations . WHY is it so FUCKING BAD at PAINTING UNDER YOUR FEET . MY GOD .)])

anyway holy shit thats it im done Fucking Hell . here’s your essay op ! i love the art . it has clearly stirred my love for batfam and splatoon (im sorry LMFAOAO)

is this too niche

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: The Fawn Instinct.

Pairing: Yandere!BatFam x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 5.0k.

TW: Implied Non/Con, Implied Dub/Con, Kidnapping, Prolonged Captivity, Social Isolation, Stalking, Obsessive Behavior, and No Actual Incest, But Boy If Those Freaks Aren't Trying. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

If it’d only been Bruce, you might’ve been able to live with it.

You didn’t love him, but you could imagine a world where you tried to. Most of it was circumstance; as upset as you were about the whole kidnapping thing, it wasn’t exactly a Herculean feat to endear yourself to the idea of being a handsome vigilante millionaire’s stay-at-home captive-spouse. You had no room in your heart for the stoic, reclusive, untouchable Bruce Wayne, but you could remember the adoration you’d once held for your masked hometown hero, the pride that’d once given you the force of will to all-but carry a half-conscious man in a torn cowl and a familiar suit into your apartment and lie to the cops when they came knocking. If the conditions had been different, if he’d spent a little more time as something more intimate than a stranger and a little less damning than a captor, then maybe, you could convince yourself to love him. Or, convince yourself to try, at least.

But, the conditions weren’t different, and you’d never quite had the time you would’ve needed to align Bruce Wayne with his more heroic alter ego. It’d been doomed from the start – Icarus jumping from his tower, already knowing his wings were destined to fall apart.

That aside, though, there was the more glaring issue: all his fucking kids.

Calling them kids might’ve been too generous, actually. Only Damian and Duke were younger than eighteen, and as far as you were concerned, they were your saving graces – Duke for meeting the bare minimum requirements for human decency and Damian for adamantly denying you were anything but an unwanted burden on his father. The rest were more-or-less adults, as little as you wanted to acknowledge the nonexistent age-gap between you and your gaggle of stepchildren. They were grown. They should’ve known better.

Tim, for example. He had to be… what? Nineteen? It wasn’t the pinnacle of maturity, sure, but he should’ve known you’d be able to hear your own sheets rustling through the bedroom door, should’ve assumed that you’d know he’d know Bruce would be out on patrol until sunrise. He should’ve known to wait until you were in another wing of the sprawling Wayne estate, somewhere far away from the master bedroom, or better yet, skipped rummaging through your things entirely. You knew better than to dream, though.

The door was still shut, but what was happening behind it and who was responsible were both foregone conclusions.  It was Tim, because of course it was Tim, and he going through your meager possessions, because what else would he wait until Bruce was gone to do? Cringing, you rested your shoulder against the steady wood and knocked gingerly. “…Drake? Are you in there?”

Immediately, the rustling stopped. You went on. “I think Bruce is out, if you need him. Is there something you’re trying to find?”

It was a good out. An easy out. Thankfully, he was smart enough to take the bait. A few seconds later, the door cracked, a disheveled Tim emerging with a dark blush spread over his pale cheeks and his hands shoved conspicuously deep into the pockets of his hoodie. It was a struggle not to roll your eyes. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d come out with his dick still in his hand.

Your cheeks ached as you put on your dozenth unstrained, unworried, everything’s-fine-because-why-wouldn’t-it-be smile of the day and moved aside to let him out. “I’ll let him know you were looking for him when he gets home,” you assured, like you couldn’t see the way his bright eyes were fixed to the carpeting. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help. You all are just so heroic – it’s still a little hard to believe I’m a part of this at all.”

“You’re perfect,” he muttered, and you pretended not to hear him, cocking your head to the side. When he corrected himself, his voice was a bit louder, a bit clearer. “Don’t worry, I… I found what I was looking for. You don’t have to bother Bruce.”

“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He’s so proud of you and your siblings, after all – it’s practically all he talks about.” A lie, but a fair one to tell. There was no reason Tim should have to know Bruce spent the majority of your time alone with his teeth buried somewhere in your neck, muttering paranoid fantasies about how many different ways you could be killed, mutilated, or otherwise indisposed by the members of his rouges gallery. “Honestly, sometimes, it’s hard not to feel like I’ve been here for years, rather than just a couple of months.”

You only realized your mistake when those bright eyes shot to you, suddenly wide and blown out with desperation. A hand darted towards you, and you stumbled out of the way, but not quickly enough to avoid Tim’s vice-grip on your forearm, to spare yourself the feeling of something cold and wet sinking into your sleeve. “You’re leaving?” The words seemed to slur together, spilling out too quickly to be restrained or refined. “You can’t leave. Bruce won’t be able to handle it, and Steph, she’ll—I mean, security-wise, we won’t be able to make sure you’re—”

Internally, you were keeping up a steady mantra of ‘Thisissogrossthisissogrossthisissogross.’

Externally, by some miracle, your smile never wavered, only growing sweeter as you cut him off with a chirping laugh. “I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, and then, after a slight lapse, “Would you mind letting go of me? It’s—uh, it’s kind of starting to hurt.”

As if on a switch, he let go of you entirely, pulling away as abruptly as he lashed out. There was a mumbled ‘I’m sorry’, and he made a swift retreat, disappearing around the next corner before you could so much as think about bringing up Bruce, again. You watched him go, only letting your expression fall once you were sure he was out of sight.

Without further caution, you slipped into your bedroom, glazing over the mess of pulled-out drawers, overturned clothes and scattered dirty laundry in favor of falling into bed, rolling onto your chest, and screaming into your pillow as loudly and for as long as your lungs would allow.

~

You tried your best never to be alone. It was a little draining, to be honest – having to keep a running chart in the back of your mind of who you could trust and who you couldn’t, constantly trying to guess whether it’d be safer to be alone with someone or if you were better off taking your chances on your own – but you’d learned your lesson the first time you’d fallen asleep in the Wayne’s at-home movie theater and woken up to Cassandra spread over you like a human weighted blanket, staring unblinkingly at your face and playing half-consciously with your hair. You tried not to leave yourself unguarded, after that.

Alfred was your first choice, Barbra your second, with Bruce as a distant third. Sometimes, you could get away with loitering near Damian (something you hated nearly as much as he did – you could only stand to be addressed as his father’s “jezebel lover” so many times), but Bruce was at one of Damian’s school events, leaving them both conveniently unavailable, and Alfred would be locked inside of his underground shooting range for another hour and a half, an activity you knew better than to interrupt. Meaning, you were on your own.

Meaning, you’d picked a very bad time to need something to drink.

The kitchen was deathly quiet, but you still made an effort to keep your head on a swivel as you made your way carefully to a corner cabinet, like stepping on the wrong tile would trigger a pit trap, or a flurry of arrows, or one of another million terrible things you hadn’t thought were possible before Bruce dedicated himself so entirely to proving you wrong. Mentally, you reviewed your haphazardly assembled schedule as you fumbled with the wood paneling and reached for a mug from the highest shelf. Tim was definitely out, touring local colleges on Bruce’s behest, Step was supposed to be in class, and Dick—

Your fingertips made contact with cool ceramic half a second before another, larger palm wrapped around yours, a broad chest pressing into your back as your mug was stolen out of your hand. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

And Dick was on bed rest with three broken ribs. Right. Of course.

You really shouldn’t have bothered leaving your room at all. Suddenly, dehydration didn’t sound like such a bad way to go.

“Let me get that, baby bird.” You cringed at the petname, but nodded, letting Dick confiscate your mug and with it, your ability to make a swift exit from a conversation you’d rather not have. “Green tea, right? I know it’s your favorite.”

“On the mark as always, Dick.” There was just enough enthusiasm in your voice to overshadow the despair. You waited until you heard the muted click of an electric kettle before turning around and settling against the counter. “I wish you wouldn’t dote on me, though. I already feel useless enough as it is.”

“Don’t sweat it, I’ve been going stir-crazy all week.” He flashed you a quick smile – tooth and beaming – before pulling open the silverware drawer and rummaging through it, like Alfred would keep his teabags with his cutlery. He was topless, wearing the same pair of black sweatpants he must’ve slept in. He didn’t plan to go out, clearly, and it wasn’t like you had much of an alternative. “This is just the basics, too. For a while there, I had your breakfast, lunch, and midnight snack preferences memorized.”

You forced yourself to smile, albeit, not as brightly as him. “…did you, now?”

“Mhm. B had us running in-person surveillance before he finally bit the bullet and brought you home, and—” He cut himself off with a sudden laugh, shaking his head. “And, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that part. Oops.”

Mercifully, the kettle whistled before you could start to consider the implications, and you reached behind you, fishing two bags out of a teacup-shaped jar. It was easy enough to edge him out of the way, but not having to worry about pretending he’d ever made himself a cup of tea meant he could devote more of his energy to talking, so you still managed to lose, in the end. “He’s stingier with the surveillance footage, now. I’ve never seen him so jealous.”

“He can definitely be a little overprotective.”

You tried to keep your tone even, polite, but Dick was like his siblings – quick to action and slow to take a hint. A hand curled around the counter next to you, and you dumped an extra spoonful of sugar into the darkening water. “It’s just us in the manor, right?”

Another spoonful, just to be safe. “I think Alfred is—”

“Out for the day. Wayne Enterprise emergency – I let him know as soon as he finished down in the range.” In your peripheral, you watched his other hand come to rest on your opposite side, caging you in. “I wouldn’t mind the company, if you were starting to get lonely.”

Another spoonful. It’d be too sweet to drink, but anything not to have to look at him. “I’m afraid wouldn’t be a lot of fun, Grayson. Honestly, I was just planning on getting a little sle—”

“That’s perfect,” he cut in, too eager to wait his turn. “I’m a great cuddler.”

You curled your hand around your mug, hoping the warmth would be enough to ground you. Instead, it only burnt your palm, and for a second, you could imagine a world where your teeth weren’t buried in the plush of your cheek, where you didn’t have to remind yourself that turning around and splashing boiling-hot water on an all-but superhero’s face wasn’t a good idea. For a second, you genuinely considered it.

And then, a sound not totally dissimilar to thunder filled the kitchen; loud enough to leave your ears ringing and your adrenaline spiked. You flinched into yourself, but it only took a moment for fear to shift to relief as you noticed the bullet lodged into the wood less than an inch from your head. Your expression lit up just as Dick’s fell.

Without waiting for him to let you go, you slipped away – sprinting across the kitchen and throwing yourself into Jason’s – brave, bold, beautiful Jason – chest. He caught you one hand and finished re-holstering his handgun with the other, laughing as you hugged him as tightly as you could manage. Dick huffed, playful offense failing to mask real agitation, and you felt Jason brace against you. “Jerk off and shut the fuck up, Oedipus.”

Dick’s smile turned uneasy. “It’s good to see you too, man.”

“I didn’t come here for you,” he snapped, as short-tempered with his siblings as you wished you could be. He looked down, holding you that much tighter. “How’s my best girl holding up?”

“I’m just fine, Jason. I do think we have to have a talk about how you treat your brother, though.” You glanced over your shoulder to Dick. “A little privacy? You really ought to be staying off your feet, too.”

Reluctantly, Dick slinked out of the kitchen, hesitant to go but eager to nurse his wounds. You only went on once you were sure he was gone.

“It’s been awful. I found another hidden camera in my bedroom, and I think Tim’s tapping my—”

“I’ll do a sweep.”

He let you go, but you caught his arm. “Please, I know it’s important, but—” You cut yourself off, swallowing. It was irrational – the way you let your guard down so quickly around Jason. The mask never slipped around anyone else, whether you were afraid of them or they were one of your rare, precious exceptions. Jason existed outside of the Wayne family, though, outside of Bruce’s corrupting influence. He wasn’t going to hurt you. More importantly, he wasn’t going to let anyone else hurt you, either.

“But I really don’t want to think about that, right now,” you finished. “Just… just for a little while, alright? I don’t want to constantly feel like I’m walking on eggshells, at least not while you’re here.”

Jason stood strong for all of three seconds. With the fourth, he sighed, buckled, and shook his head, his exasperation brimming with affection. “How long until Bruce gets home?”

“Six more hours. He’s not due to check-in for another three.”

“I’ve got my bike out front. How do you think he’d feel about a joy ride?”

And just like that, you lit up. “It’d give him a heart attack.”

Jason pulled you close, kissing the top of your head.

“Perfect.”

~

Unfortunately, Jason’s visits were few and far between. You had to find ways of fending for yourself, in the downtime.

“I miss the city.”

Bruce glanced over his shoulder, gaze flickering over you before returning to the buttons of his dress-shirt. You sunk that much deeper into the mess of sheets and pillows, taking some small amount of solace in the way the cool silk felt against your warm skin.

(Sex wasn’t something Bruce came to you for often, but when he did, you gave it to him willingly, albeit with no more enthusiasm than was absolutely necessary. You rarely enjoyed it and always regretted everything you did or said during the act, but it was better than the alternative. Part of you trusted him, trusted Batman, enough to believe that he’d take your refusal for what it was, that you wouldn’t have to say anything more than ‘no’. The remaining overwhelming majority was able to look around you, to remember the way he’d held you down as he forced a needle stocked with medical-grade sedatives into your throat, and recognize that your opinion probably didn’t mean very much to him. Still, you couldn’t let things get that bad. Even if you had to surrender every other facet of your being, you couldn’t let things get that bad.)

“You hated the city. You said your landlord was a tyrant and that even the criminals were living paycheck-to-paycheck.” And then, after a second of thought, “And that there were more rats in Gotham than people.”

“Well, he was, they are, and you know I love animals.” You pushed yourself up, keeping a sheet bunched against your chest as you slumped against the headboard. “I was tired and overworked – you could see that. But, things would be different if I was staying with, say, my wealthy trillionaire boyfriend in one of the penthouse apartments that I know he has because his youngest son got in trouble for bragging about them in school last week?”

Bringing up his kids was a dirty tactic – the fastest way to get Bruce’s undivided attention. This time, when his eyes shifted in your direction, they stayed there, and he made his way back to your side of the bed. He collapsed next to you and, with no resistance on your end, pulled you into his lap. He didn’t seem to care whether or not his immaculately tailored, freshly pressed suit was creased in the process, but you did your best not to squirm. “You want to leave the manor?”

The first half of a frown tugged at the corner of your lips. “That’s not what I—”

“Elevated pulse, avoidant eye-contact,” he muttered. “Something’s bothering you.”

It wasn’t a question. He wasn’t wrong, either, but still. You would’ve preferred to be asked.

“…it’s your family,” you admitted, feigning guilt. “They’re all—” Horny, depressed, creepy little orphans. “—great kids, but it’s just been so much so quickly, and I think it… I think it might’ve been too much too quickly. For them and for me.”

“They adore you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Dick was close to moving back in when I decided it was too dangerous to leave you to your own devices.”

You melted into his chest, sighing. Reflexively, he curled around you – a good thing, if a bit claustrophobic. Bruce liked feeling like a shield between you and harm, between you and the world he couldn’t control. Hopefully, eventually, he’d realize he had more to shield you from than greedy landlords and villains who always seemed to be just out of sight. “It’s not that easy. It’s just been such a rocky adjustment period, and…” You curled your hand around his wrist and squeezed, hoping the force would be enough to communicate what you couldn’t put a word to. “I’m really afraid something bad might happen, Bruce.”

For a moment, he seemed to consider it. There was a kiss to your shoulder, solemn and lingering, then another to your cheek, more fleeting. “I’ll talk to them. They’ll give you space, if they’re told to.”

If he told them to. You doubted you held much authority, here. “And the apartment in the city? On the highest floor, tall enough to see from Gotham to New York?”

Bruce smiled, and your heart soared.

Then, he started talking, and it crashed back down, dying upon impact. “Once I know it’s safe for you, sweetheart.”

There was another kiss, this one to the nape of your neck, then another, lower down on your spine. A calloused hand slipped underneath the sheet still hugged against your chest, and you allowed it to.

Honestly, it would’ve been kinder if he’d cut you into pieces and fed you to the wolves himself.

~

You made a run for it as soon as the arguing started.

Arguing, not yelling – the distinction was minor, but significant. Yelling would’ve meant an injury, or a mission gone wrong, or something else that signaled a sudden complication that couldn’t be smoothed over with sugar-sweet sentimentality or orders issues with an ice-cold strictness. Yelling would’ve meant Bruce didn’t mind letting you overhear, which usually meant you didn’t need to be involved. Arguing, all hushed whispers and hissed explanations and vague warnings, was different. Arguing meant, more often than not, that they were arguing about you.

It was Tim’s fault, as far as you could tell. Barbara had been the one to find the conspicuously encrypted file on one of Dick’s civilian devices, the one to mention it to Stephanie as a point of concern who went to Tim within the hour, but it was still his fault. He’d gotten Bruce involved, let his need for approval tip the tenuously balanced scales that kept his family whole and you safe. He’d talked them all into waiting until Dick was close enough to confront in-person, stopping by for his weekly equipment pick-up and check-in. He was the reason you’d gotten close enough to hear something about ‘pictures’ and ‘inappropriate use of reconnaissance material’ before fleeing to the mansion’s foyer – the only part of the house you could be sure wasn’t occupied. If you were lucky, you’d only be there for half an hour or so, enough time for them to compromise on some non-solution and return to your carefully maintained status quo. If you weren’t, you’d spend the early hours of the morning—

Something small but forceful hit the nearest window, shortly followed by another projectile, then another. The glass was too thick and the world outside too dark to make anything out, but you didn’t need to see anything to know who’d come to your rescue.

Jason.

You rushed to the door, then hesitated. Jason would only get a slap on the wrist for luring you out of the estate, and Bruce could never bring himself to be that strict with you, but now might’ve been a bad time. Tensions were already running high. Your little disappearing act wouldn’t—

A sudden rush of footsteps clattering through the ceiling from the floor above you, hushed voices raised just to the point of audibility. None of it was entirely coherent, but Dick’s came the closest. You managed to make out a half-choked “If you’d just let me—” before someone cut him off.

With your better judgement reduced to buzzing static, you pried open the closer of a pair of huge, mahogany doors and slipped out of the estate entirely.

Of course, Jason was waiting outside, a small stock of pebbles still in his left hand and, of course, you threw yourself at him, letting him catch and spin you twice before setting you back onto your feet with an airy laugh. A pitch-black sports car was waiting at the end of the driveway, the engine purring loudly enough to drown the rest of the world out. “Rough night?”

“You have no fucking idea,” you muttered, breathless. “I don’t care where we go, just get me out of here.”

There was a reason Jason was your favorite. There was no argument, no prying, just his arm around your waist as he herded you into the passenger seat. Fifteen minutes and a little over fifty miles later, the mansion was little more than a dull glow on the horizon, and you could pretend you’d stopped thinking about Bruce entirely.

There was no effort to make conversation, as bad as you felt about pulling Jason into your prolonged tryst with self-pity. Instead, you sunk into the leather of his seat and fixed your gaze on the passing landscape, clinging to any detail you were able to latch onto as it flew by. It was possible, between the subways and boarded-over windows and perpetually overcast skies, to go days without seeing the sun in Gotham. Still, your life had felt brighter there than it ever did in Bruce’s estate.

Jason turned down a road you didn’t recognize, and you managed to find your voice. “Are we going into the city?”

“Even better.” He flashed you a smile, the engine purring as he accelerated. “You’ll like it, I promise. Just sit tight.”

As if you had much of a choice.

Road gave way to forest, forest to empty plains, and empty plains to the dilapidated remains of what you could only label as a long-abandoned amusement park – like Disney World if there’d been some terrible, possibly nuclear accident followed by twenty or so years of absolute neglect. Jason’s car glided past the rusted remains of an iron gate, past the corpses of rides buckled under their own weight, and came to a stop in front of a paint-stripped merry-go-round almost entirely sheeted be vines and weeds and overgrowth. You let out a low whistle as he threw the gear shift into park and, for the first time in any vehicle you’d ever shared with him, pulled his keys out of the ignition. He’d always left the engine running while visiting the mansion, but then again, you’d always been pretty eager to make a hasty escape, too.

“I love it, Jason. I’ve always wanted to get tetanus from a broken down carnival.”

“A fair, actually,” he corrected, slipping his keys into his jacket pocket. Like he expected you to try and steal them while his back was turned, or something. “My parents used to take me here, before I met B. There weren’t a lot of Ferris wheels after that.”

There was a short lapse, the sound of lips moving against teeth. You made the mistake of humming, of glancing over to him, of leaving yourself open for another question, and Jason, as nice as he was, was more than happy to take advantage of you. “So, when did you and B start…”

He trailed off, drumming his fingers against the wheel. You filled in the rest with a breathy chuckle. “When did I start sleeping with your dad?”

He jabbed an elbow into your side. “First of all, you can admit you’re fucking him or call him my dad, but you’ve gotta pick one.” You opened your mouth, already ready to spit out some dumb joke about what Bruce would’ve preferred to be called, but Jason cut in, sniping your stupid joke out of the air. “Secondly, answer the question. I get enough of your diversions back at home.”

“Being a buzzkill must run in family,” you sighed, but gave in quickly enough. “It happened once before the whole kidnapping thing, when he was staying at my apartment and sleeping off a broken leg. I hadn’t even seen him without his mask on at that point, but I figured it was a sign – destiny, or something.” You did your best to smile, slumping against the door. “It was dumb. He gave me a couple weeks after bringing me to the estate, mostly because of the crying and stuff, but things started up again pretty quickly.”

“Do you… like it?”

“Do you like asking about your dad’s sex life?” He flinched back, and laughing, you went on. “I guess I don’t care. There’s not a lot else to do.” You swallowed. “Would it matter if I didn’t?”

For someone with so many questions, he didn’t leave a lot of time for yours, the hypocrite. Moving on swiftly, he asked, “And the others, have they…?”

“No.” And then, after a beat, “Not yet.”

He seemed to relax, at that. His back was still straight, his shoulders still squared, but his grip on the wheel loosened, his jaw unclenching ever so slightly. You tried the handle – locked. Obviously. As if you’d ever get that lucky.

His voice was soft, sweet. The kind of tone you’d use on a child, or an animal, or a doll. “This would probably be easier in the backseat, right?”

“Let me out.”

“So you can go where,baby? It’s just us out here.” He laughed, resting a hand on your thigh. You slammed your shoulder into the door. It didn’t budge. “Hey, hey, this doesn’t need to get rough. I’m not going to be like Dick. The others – they’ll do it wrong, treat you like a cut of meat they have to get to before anybody else. I just need to make sure you get out of this in one piece.”

Nails embedded in leather, body crammed as far from him as you could force it be. You weren’t hyperventilating, but only because you’d stopped breathing entirely. “Let me out, Jason.”

“I love the way you say my name. It’s pretty, and delicate – just like you.” He sighed, shook his head. “I know you don’t get it, but I’m just trying to take care of you, like you’ve been taking care of me for the past few—”

“Stop acting like I’m your mom.” A sob fractured the final syllable, another bubbling up from deep in your chest a moment later. Your body was beyond the point of rationality, but the soft, preservational part of your mind wasn’t so beyond the point of seeking refuge. There was a way out of this, as ghoulish as it seemed. You couldn’t stop it from happening, but you could make it better. You’d regret it in an hour, when it came time to explain yourself to Bruce, but what happened in an hour didn’t matter, not if you couldn’t survive the next few minutes.

You might’ve done it, too – or, you might’ve tried, at least. You wanted to. You planned to. And yet, when you opened your mouth, there was only one thing you could seem to say. “I don’t want to do this, Jason.”

His nails bit into your thigh, his smile easing at the corners. For a second, you almost thought he’d pull away. For a second, you almost thought he’d sigh, straighten back up, and admit this was all part of some cruel, unfunny joke that the two of you would remember fondly, later on.

Then, he laughed and leaned forward, lips brushing against the top of your head. You felt him speak before you heard his voice, but the cloying reverberation alone was enough to tell you that you would’ve been better off never saying anything at all.

“Welcome to the family, sweetheart.”

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Not So Artificial Intelligence

Barbara thinks it was Bruce, with his love for new additions to the Cave. Bruce thinks it was Tim, with his late hyperfixation on AI. Tim thinks it was Babs, with her ever evolving network of keeping everything under control.

They are all wrong, but the fact stays a fact: the BatCave has an AI assistant now.

It is not very good at first, not recognizing voices very well and messing up commands, but the Bats write it off as a learning curve. Besides, it never makes the same mistakes twice, and in a couple of months, even the tiniest slip ups fade away.

Its name is Betty. First, Dick named it Bat-AI (a reasonable name), then it transformed into Bat-I for easier pronunciation, and then Steph called in Betty once, and the name was sealed.

And they all love Betty. Betty is the best, keeping track of their everyday lives, reminding them of their civilian meetings and vigilante business, alerting them of any suspicious activity in the city. Oracle finally gets to sleep for more than 4 hours in a day with Betty's help. Tim gets company when he is three weeks in and elbows deep in a case - it's easier when he has an illusion of someone to discuss the matter with, and Betty even offers him insight. Damian learns to do digital art just to have a little competition with Betty. He wins, but the AI is a worthy opponent, in his opinion.

Even Bruce begrudgingly likes the AI assistant. She is competent and helpful, and Alfred seems to approve of how she doesn't let Bruce overwork himself when he escapes medbay to keep searching for answers.

That is, until one day, Tim installs speakers specifically for Betty in the Cave.

The voice that comes from them is not robotic or mechanical.

It definitely has human intonation.

"Hello, Red Robin," the voice - a male voice, actually - greets him with slight amusement. Tim feels an uneasy feeling sinking down in his stomach.

"Betty?"

"You know me as such. I would prefer it if you called me Danny. He/them pronouns."

Remind him, who installed the AI?..

---------------

Danny got trapped inside the Batcomputer somehow - I suspect Technus had a hand in it - and decided to embrace it. He used to be a vigilante himself, so why not help this whole family of vigilantes while he is at it? They look like they need a hand.

[confused-wanderer]

It would be hilarious if villains loved Nightwing and were terrified of Officer Dick Grayson.

Dick Grayson- who is used to open spaces and adrenaline- being stuck in a boring bleak office, surviving on shots of coffee and red bull with caffeine that would make Tim concerned.

The thugs soon realised that unlike most of the other cops - Dick was from Gotham.

No one fucks with Gothamites.

Villain *shooting at Dick with machine guns*

Dick *appearing from the shadows behind him*: Boo.

Villain: THIS IS A FIVE STOREY BUILDING HOW THE HELL DID YOU GET HERE

Or

Thief *throwing a counting down bomb at Dick*

Dick: *catching and tossing the bomb at a safe distance before turning round and shooting it so it explodes mid air while running after thief*

Thief: .. what the actual fuck

Dick: Gee look at all that time you had! Shame you threw it away :D

Thief:

Dick: I’m from Gotham

Thief *realising they fucked up* : Please don’t steal my bones

OR

Shooter: *sets elaborate booby traps throughout the houses in an active hostage situation*

Dick *using his training as robin and inhuman flexibility to surpass them with ease*: Ah been a while since I got to have a nice stretch thank you.

Shooter:

Dick:

Shooter:

Dick: .. Hi :)

Shooter: Are you Satan?

AND

In interrogation room

Murderer: I think I’ll take your eyes and add them to my collection

Dick *running on spite and caffeine that could give Superman a sugar rush* : Funny.. I was going to say the same thing to you

Murderer: .. what

Dick: I wouldn’t take your eyes though.. they look like the inspiration behind the whole Medusa’s “look at it and you turn to stone” thing-

Murderer: Hey! Take that back before I gut you

Dick *smile stretching wider without blinking* : oh? Or what? I know everything about you. Who says I can’t kill you and walk out with everyone being none the wiser? I know how to kill someone too..you aren’t special.

Murderer:

Murderer: I’m scared for my safety.

Because the thing is, Nightwing is who Dick really is. It’s who he can be free as, be himself as without red tapes and regulations. Where he can give as good as he gets, and he’s kind and empathetic. He gets to help the downtrodden and goes easy on most of them if they give up right away, not to mention the fact that he never causes permanent damage.

But officer Dick Grayson is a different story. He runs on sleepless nights and no self preservation. Seeing an officer with an uncanny skill set they’re scarily good at, not to mention the cheery attitude he always has scares the shit out of criminals. Cuz no way in hell is a smiling Gothamite not a deranged one. He chases crimes like a bloodhound, and isn’t afraid to make good on threats he makes to ensure they never hurt anyone again.

Bonus if the batfam doesn’t know about this.

Red hood: Shit I can’t believe we ended up in Bludhaven

Red Robin *tying up the corrupt politican* : Since this is a sensitive case, we need someone we can trust to make sure it is seen through.

Red hood: .. So we paying a visit to Officer Grayson?

Politician *screeching* : NO NO NO NO! PLEASE NOT HIM!! JUST KILL ME INSTEAD AND TAKE ALL MY MONEY I CANT DEAL WITH HIM!

Red hood: .. is he fucking serious?

Henchmen: Sir he is. And we agree. Please take our bones and kill us but don’t take us to Officer Grayson.

Red Robin: Wait what did he do?

Henchman 1: He asked boss if the hat was sentient.. and said that if it was would it make that hat the top and boss the bottom.

Henchman 2: Last time we met I tried to shoot him but suddenly my gun was blank and he raised his hand and let the ammo drop

Red Hood: Well even I could do that-

Henchman 2: They were my bullets. I had selected the colour personally.

Red robin *growing concerned*

Henchman 3: He sang a lullaby to a child when we were holding the station hostage, and replaced the people with my family members. He even sang their social security numbers!

Henchman 4: He’s the most dangerous of them all. I ain’t shitting ya when I say he’s as scary as the bat from Gotham.

*all nodding in agreement*

Red hood:

Red Robin:

Red hood: Nah that doesn’t sound like Dick

Red Robin: Agreed. Let’s go there Hood.

*villains’ sobbing intensifies*

[prlssprfctn]

The first time, Tim notices someone observing them from afar, it is when they are all settled for a brief dinner together. It is the middle of the week, and Bruce gathered all of them together to... relax. Which is strange but not unwelcome. Everyone is so involved in chattering and bantering that they don't notice a lingering gaze through the window; they don't, but Tim does.

It takes him a few seconds to figure out that it is Jason.

He is not sure if Bruce reached for him to invite, and Jason just declined, or there was no offer to begin with, but Tim knows for sure Jason lurkes behind windows for a few minutes before disappearing in the night.

And the funniest thing? Tim understands him.

He thinks he is not Jason's replacement — never truly was, despite what the other thought — but in a way, they did swap their places. Because in the past, it was Tim, who hid on the rooftops, staring at Bruce and his family, listening to the snippets of their conversations. And now it is Jason.

It is still different, of course. Tim had a choice, and it was his... enthusiastic project, if anything — Jason doesn't really. But if anyone understands the feeling of standing far away from everyone, it is still Tim.

That's why the next time in happens, Tim reaches out.

It is after the particularly easy mission, when Tim spots the red motion on the rooftop. He slips away from Nightwing and Robin, who debate about something with Batman through the comms, and finds himself standing behind Red Hood.

The way Red Hood taps his fingertips on the balustrade makes Tim remember that he is not included in their comms anymore. He wonders how lonely it is, to hear the voices of his brothers, but never being able to grasp the whole conversation they have.

'Hood,' he calls for him.

To Jason's credit, he doesn't scramble in panic, even if it seems that he is surprised by his appearance.

'Red,' he mutters back, instantly defensive. 'What, came to mock me?'

Tim rolls his eyes; he wishes things would be easier with Jason, but they are not, and he can't really blame him for that.

'Had I ever mocked you?' He copies his stance, arms folding in the chest. When Jason tilts his head, almost asking, "Really now?" Tim rolls his eyes again. 'Okay, I did a few times. But it mostly were jokes about your death.'

Jason chuckles.

'Good one, punk. It changes everything.'

'You like jokes about your death,' Tim protests. 'And I know you allow Arsenal to joke about it, so it is not entirely closed topic.'

'I don't remember allowing you to joke about it, though.'

...

This conversation is so fucking stupid. Tim didn't even came here for this, but-

But fine. He still can win.

'So, you only allow it to your friends. Fine. Let's be friends,' Jason chokes on his own exhausted sigh. 'Do you need some friendship questionnaires to fill to be my friend? I can arrange that.'

Jason kindly flips him off under his breath before disappearing in the night, leaving him alone with whining Nightwing and irritated Bruce in his ear.

The next time he stalks down Jason, who in turn is stalking Damian and Bruce, he shoves in his hand twenty three papers filled with bunch of friendship questions — half stripped from internet, half made by Tim that involve the specifics of their jobs.

He doesn't expect anything to come after it, but in two weeks after Jason returns to the city after his mission with Outlaws, Tim finds these papers filled with surprisingly neat, calligraphic answers.

And he gets the printed copy of the same questions, with one page of an additional one, written in the same handwriting, and with a little sticky note atop of it.

Your turn, Timbo.

Tim smirks.

Oh, he will so drag Jason back in the family, somehow.

[bluemoonbun]

Reader is implied to like feminine things, though gender identity is kept ambiguous.

Damian was a good brother. That’s what he always told himself. He was a good brother, a good son. He was cold, rude, and erudite, but he was able and willing to help anyone who needed it.

When he arrived at Wayne manor, Bruce told him the general run down of why you were to be avoided when it came to anything vigilante related. You were still pure, a year younger than Damian but without any of the pain. The only one in the Wayne manor that could have a shot at becoming a normal person. Damian envied that, but kept it to himself. His anger often boiled to the top, drops of green venom dripping from his mouth when you tried to annoy him into spending time with you.

Your complaints of him ignoring you was scalding water on his already raw nerves. Why would you complain about not being the center of attention for five damn seconds? He would trade anything for the life you had. A life where you could lay around after school and never worry about a rogue bullet lodging itself in your arm, or a poisonous plant releasing psychedelic spores into an open wound.

You could and would never join the Robins. You were weak; it was in your blood. Always sickly, always the pacifist. You wouldn't survive a day in his life. And you weren't living his life; you were living his dream.

But apparently the effort the family was putting in wasn’t enough.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed that the manor felt… off about two weeks before the fight with Joker. He couldn’t trace it for the life of him at first. When he realized by the second week that he hadn’t spoken to you in days, or really seen you around the manor at all, he wrote off the worms writhing in his stomach. You must’ve been busy with a class assignment and had little time to annoy him with your demands of time together.

After the fight, however, he was a war of a thousand emotions. How dare you leave them? Why would you turn away an easy life fat on nepotism for a group of murderers, con men, the dredges of Gotham’s society?

Were you truly that desperate to be acknowledged that you’d turn your back on the family who did everything for you? He hopes you’re happy there, since you were clearly so upset at not being given attention.

Over time, however, things start to change. A few days after Jason made a full recovery, Damian looked at one of the drones Tim managed to get a chunk of code from. It took a lot of trial and error, and the development of an entirely new program to grab some of the code before it bricked itself, and enough all nighters and energy drinks that any doctor would faint, but it was managed. The code was dense, optimized to work with the least bloat possible, well tagged variables, and even a handful of comments in the code.

//Buy Bane those Boston Donuts from the donut shop on 5th //Why does this code need to be here so it doesn’t auto brick itself. What is in the code protecting it from the wrath of God //Louie likes Texas barbecue ribs. Possible treat? //DO NOT FEED THEM WHOLE RIBS. COOKED BONES BAD. //SINCE WHEN WAS THIS VARIABLE A STRING??? IT WAS AN INT 5 LINES AGO //Help the hopeless lesbians get together. //Would Harley and Ivy dating make Harley my mom or Ivy my big sister? Both???

His eyes skimmed the retrieved comments, laughing at a few. It seems that Bane, Poison Ivy, and Harley Quinn were the most common subjects of the notes, though a few mentioning the Iceberg lounge asking what non-alchoholic drink you’d like added, or Riddler offering you another puzzle to keep your mind active. Even Joker was mentioned, though it seemed mostly transactional.

It was strange seeing you in this light. You seemed to have a lot of spice in you, but a heart made of gold. You were definitely surprised whenever one othe villains offered to take you on some trip to amusement parks, regular parks, even just willingly watching anime with you. It was odd to see. Surely someone at the house did those things with you? He didn’t but he was extremely busy with school and vigilantism. Jason was legally dead, so surely he had all the time in the world.

“How was I supposed to relate to them? They’re what, 12 and into shit like that one with the cat looking dog thing and the robot girl. I have shit to do. Y’know, managing Crime Alley?”

Well, Dick had come over to hang out plenty of times. Surely he’d spent at least a few hours with you every now and then? “I have an entire team and criminals to manage of in another city, Damian. I don’t have as much time as you think to do whatever it was with them they’d wanted to do”

Maybe Tim? “I have college and stuff, Damian. And I don’t have the energy to put into hanging around them. I’d probably just be sleeping most of the time.

Bruce? “I have to manage you, Gotham, and the Justice League, Damian. I barely have time for myself.”

… Alfred? “I tried, Master Damian. However I’m constantly pulled thin between so many tasks. Besides, all you have is school most days, and you’ve had summer vacations and weekends. Shouldn’t you’ve had plenty of time to spend with your younger sibling?”

… He did have the most time outside of vigilantism. And it took him a week to realize you were missing.

You had to realize that they were under extreme stress though, right?He couldn’t spend all his free time with you. He had his own friends to hang out with. How were you two even supposed to relate?

One day at dinner, the thoughts were thrashing in his head, slamming against soft tissue and tearing through brain matter. He aimlessly poked at the food on his plate.

“You alright, replacement?” Jason asked, pausing in his extremely rare dinners with everyone else. Alfred had promised him a tray of fudge to take home this time around, and nobody made fudge quite as good as he did.

“… They were gone for two weeks.”

Everyone stopped eating as he continued.

“Two weeks. Two full weeks before they showed up at that fight. Did anyone here even know? I only noticed after a week and assumed they were just holed up in their room with a class assignment or something.” He was rambling. Everyone was quiet and looking at each other. How did it manage to slip past everyone? They were detectives, for Christ’s sake.

They were your family.

—

Dinner ended with guilt wrapping around their throats and pulling.

Eventually, all of them found themselves in your room. It had been emptied, but showed no signs of struggle. All the small items, the comforter, and your clothes were gone. But what was taken left something behind. Copies of photos of you winning state level competitions, letters requesting your attendance at seminars, photos of gold medals and blue ribbons spread across the floor. Most damning of all was the most recent photo. A certificate by some big time tech company being handed to you. Edward Nashton stood behind you, a firm, reassuring hand on your shoulder.

When had this happened? They never remembered hearing of something like this. A news clipping on the back told them it was maybe a week before you left.

“The Wayne prodigy stated that their family had more important things to see to than such an occasion. I can’t imagine something more important that either of my kids being recognized by a multi-million dollar tech company! I remember postponing an anniversary with my husband to celebrate our child placing second in the science fair. But I guess that’s just the Waynes for you!”

That’s just the Waynes to you.

But it’s ok. He can make it better. He can be a good big brother. He can spend time watching anime with you and decorating your room with lace and fairy lights and go makeup shopping with you. You just need to come home. Now.

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