Bottom Tim

ANGEL

꒰ pairing. batfam x journalist male reader ꒱

꒰ synopsis. you’re a journalist who’s soon to lose your job and breaking into the wayne manor sounds like the best way to get gossip. once inside you find yourself in an unexpected situation.. (also slightly based off the song in the title!) ꒱

꒰ wc: 3.4k ꒱

꒰ database ꒱

You stare at the email for a long time before closing your laptop.

We need better material. Real exclusives. Not recycled gala fluff.

Translation? If you don’t bring in something explosive soon, you’re done.

You work for one of Gotham Gazette’s more ruthless competitors—one that thrives on scandal, affairs, secret investments, quiet settlements. The kind of paper that lives and dies on the words anonymous source confirms. And lately?

You’ve had nothing.

No senator caught with a mistress. No mob connections exposed. Not even a decent celebrity breakdown.

Your editor had leaned over your desk this morning, tie loosened, voice low and sharp. “You live in Gotham City. If you can’t find dirt here, you’re not looking hard enough.”

You are looking.

But everyone worth exposing is either smart enough to hide it—or powerful enough to bury you. Which leaves one name that has never, ever truly been cracked open.

Wayne.

You lean back in your apartment chair, staring at the ceiling.

Bruce Wayne.

Billionaire recluse. Philanthropist playboy. Public sweetheart. Private enigma. The man funds half the city and somehow never has a scandal stick.

Not permanently.

There have been whispers. Disappearing staff. Sudden renovations. Odd security upgrades. Adoption records that raise eyebrows. Late-night deliveries to Wayne Manor that don’t match charity galas or wine shipments. Nothing provable. But you don’t need proof yet.

You need leverage. And leverage starts with access.

You sit forward slowly, heart beginning to pound—not from fear. From possibility.

                          ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

Step one is research.

You don’t rush in. That’s how you end up arrested… or worse, sued into oblivion. You dig. Property blueprints filed decades ago when the manor underwent restoration. Old permits. Landscaping contracts. Utility access maps.

You find an archived architectural overview from before the east wing renovation five years ago. Security companies contracted over time. Patterns in guard rotations during charity season. Drone footage posted by overeager influencers who flew too close to the grounds.

You compile everything into a folder labeled; “W.”

You tell yourself it’s for professionalism.

It feels like obsession.

Step two is routine.

You camp out near the outer gates for three nights. Not obvious. Not creepy. Just a journalist “working on a long-form piece about philanthropic elites.” If anyone asks.

You log delivery trucks (wine, catering, floral arrangements), cleaning staff arrivals, landscaping crew schedules, security shift changes.

You notice something interesting. On Thursdays, between 1:15 a.m. and 1:27 a.m., there’s a small window where the western grounds patrol overlaps poorly.

One guard finishes a sweep early; the next begins slightly late.

Twelve minutes.

Not long. But enough.

Step three is finding an entry point.

The manor’s perimeter is formidable—but old estates have old weaknesses.

There’s a drainage culvert partially concealed behind ivy on the north side. It connects to storm runoff leading toward the lower grounds. According to municipal records, it hasn’t been modernized with motion sensors—likely considered too narrow for intrusion. You’re not broad-shouldered. You test your measurements at home using your bathroom doorway. If you exhale and turn slightly? You can fit.

The idea both thrills and terrifies you.

Step four is the objective.

You don’t need to break into bedrooms or safes. You need; photographs of private documents left carelessly, evidence of undisclosed guests, something inconsistent with public image, proof of secretive late-night activity. Even just internal scheduling records could reveal contradictions.

You’re not trying to expose a crime. You’re trying to expose a story.

You imagine the headline.

WAYNE MANOR SECRETS: WHAT THE PUBLIC ISN’T TOLD

Your byline in bold. Your editor apologizing. Your job safe.

Step five is figuring out a cover story.

If you’re caught? You got lost while hiking. Your car broke down. You were investigating environmental runoff complaints.

None of them are great. But they’re something.

You rehearse them quietly in your apartment. You practice steady breathing. You remind yourself; journalists chase truth.

You just happen to be chasing it over a wrought-iron fence.

                          ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

The night you choose is moonless. Cloud cover. Good.

You dress in dark clothing—not dramatic, not tactical. Just forgettable.

Your camera is compact but powerful. Flash disabled. Sound muted. You park half a mile away. You walk the rest. The manor looms ahead in silhouette, massive and silent against the skyline of Gotham City.

It looks less like a home and more like something ancient and watchful.

You swallow.

This is insane.

This is career-saving.

You check your watch. 1:14 a.m.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you slip along the tree line, counting breaths, counting steps. One minute. Thirty seconds. You crouch near the ivy-covered culvert. You glance once toward the distant glow of the manor windows.

Just one good story.

That’s all you need.

1:15 a.m.

You move.

The culvert scrape leaves your palms raw, your breath shallow as you ease through the narrow stone opening and into the lower grounds. You move exactly how you planned—low, quiet, controlled. Across the lawn. Into the shadow of the west wing. A service door you’d identified from old renovation permits gives with less resistance than you anticipated.

You did the research. You timed the patrols. You deserve to be here.

You slip inside.

The manor is darker than you imagined. You keep to the edges. Camera ready. Gloves on. Every footstep measured against the rhythm of your own pulse. You find what looks like a study off a side corridor. Not the grand library—something smaller.

Private.

Perfect.

You ease inside, shutting the door almost fully behind you.

The interior smells faintly like polished wood and something expensive you can’t name. You don’t switch on lights. You move through the dark with the faint glow of your phone screen dimmed nearly black. Your camera rests in your hand, ready.

You pass through what must be a secondary hallway—ornate portraits, marble flooring, antique tables. Nothing incriminating at first glance. You lift your camera for the first shot. Then you stop.

There’s something on the wall ahead.

Not a painting.

Paper.

A photograph.

You step closer and your breath falters.

It’s you.

And it’s not just a photograph, it’s photographs. Printed, organized, pinned in neat rows.

You step closer before you can stop yourself.

It’s you—outside your office building, shot from across the street. Another—leaning against your car, checking your phone. Another—sitting at your desk through the newsroom window.

The dates are written in small, precise ink in the corner of each photo. You don’t remember anyone being that close.

Your throat tightens. You scan faster.

You, leaving a coffee shop. You, buying groceries. You, unlocking your apartment door.

Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure it’s echoing off the walls. Then you see one that makes your knees almost buckle.

Your bedroom.

Taken from inside.

You’re asleep.

Shirtless. Sheets twisted around your waist.

The angle is wrong for any outside window. This wasn’t long-range. This was inside your apartment.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself not to panic. You can’t panic. Panic makes noise.

Your fingers tremble as you turn toward the adjacent wall. More photos. Closer now. You at your kitchen counter. You in your living room.

You stepping out of the shower—

Your breath catches violently in your throat.

Steam still curling in the frame. Water on your skin. The photo intimate, invasive, unmistakable.

You clamp a hand over your mouth before you can make a sound. Someone has been in your home. Long enough to set up angles. Long enough to watch.

You feel stripped raw.

Not just physically—but existentially.

Every private second. Documented. Displayed.

Why here? Why pinned up in Bruce Wayne’s manor?

Your mind scrambles to connect it. You had been watching Wayne Manor. But someone had been watching you first.

You force yourself to look past the terror.

The photos grow more recent as they move deeper into the corridor. Arrows drawn between your office building… and Wayne Manor’s grounds. One word circled several times; “Curious.”

The last one—your car parked half a mile from the estate tonight.

Taken minutes ago.

Your breath leaves you in a silent, broken exhale.

You step back slowly.

This isn’t just surveillance. This is evaluation. And someone knew you were coming.

Your brain screams at you to run. But you don’t. You force yourself to think. If you sprint back the way you came, you’ll make noise. If someone is watching, they’ll intercept you. If these were placed deliberately… they want you to see them. Which means—you are being observed right now.

Your skin prickles violently as that realization sinks in.

You take a single photograph from the edge—one of you walking down the street, nothing too intimate. Something that won’t be immediately obvious. Your hands shake as you slide it into your inner pocket.

You need evidence. Proof you’re not losing your mind…

A floorboard creaks somewhere down the hall.

Your entire body locks.

Footsteps.

Your breathing becomes the enemy. You slow it.

Count in your head.

One.

Two.

Three.

The handle shifts slightly.

You press yourself flat against the wall beside the door, just out of sightline.

The door opens halfway. Silence. You don’t dare move.

A pause.

Then the door shuts again. Footsteps retreat.

Your knees feel like they might give out, but you can’t stay here. You can’t stay anywhere in this house. Because if there’s a room dedicated to you—how many more are there? And how long have they known you were planning to come here?

You slip out of the study and back into the corridor, every shadow now suffocating instead of protective.

                          ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

You don’t know how long you walk.

Long enough for the shock to settle into something colder. Quieter. Strategic.

If someone wanted you gone, they would’ve grabbed you already.

If someone wanted you dead—

You push that thought away.

You move carefully down another corridor, following faint light spilling from somewhere ahead. The manor is too big. Too layered. You need a landmark. A grounding point.

You find it in the kitchen.

It’s massive—industrial-grade appliances disguised behind polished wood panels. Marble island. Copper pots hanging from a rack. A faint hum from a refrigerator that probably costs more than your yearly rent.

You swallow. Your mouth is dry.

You step closer to the counter, eyes scanning automatically.

Mail stacked neatly. A tablet docked. A calendar page partially visible beneath a folder.

You move toward it.

A mistake.

The overhead lights snap on.

Bright. Blinding.

You freeze.

Two figures stand in the doorway opposite you.

Not security guards.

You recognize them immediately—not from tabloids, but from galas, charity features, school award photos.

Wayne’s sons.

Tim Drake is the first one you clock—slighter build, sharp eyes that assess you in half a second flat. He’s in casual clothes, but there’s nothing relaxed about his posture.

Beside him stands Dick Grayson, broader shoulders, stance balanced like he’s already anticipating your next move.

Neither look surprised.

Tim tilts his head slightly. “You’re not catering.”

Your brain screams.

You bolt.

You vault the island instead of running around it. Your camera nearly slips from your hand as you hit the other side.

Behind you—

Movement.

Fast.

“Go,” Tim says sharply.

You hear the split-second decision in it.

Footsteps divide.

Dick comes after you.

Tim doesn’t.

You hear him pivot the opposite direction, already moving fast. Alerting someone else.

That realization nearly trips you.

There are more.

Of course there are more.

You sprint down the hallway you memorized earlier, lungs burning. Your shoes barely make sound against the polished floors, but his—

His are silent.

You risk a glance back.

Huge mistake.

He’s closer than you thought.

Dick moves like gravity doesn’t apply to him—vaulting over a console table, one hand catching the wall to swing himself forward, closing distance effortlessly.

“You’re quick,” he calls, almost conversational.

Not winded.

Not strained.

You slam through a set of double doors into a gallery room, knocking over a small decorative stand behind you. It clatters loudly, echoing through the manor.

Good. Noise and chaos are harder to track.

You veer left instead of heading toward the exit you planned. Predictable paths get you caught.

Behind you, a soft thud—he clears the obstacle without slowing.

You cut right suddenly, ducking down a narrower corridor.

Your mind races.

Culvert. North grounds. Twelve-minute window.

But that window is gone.

You hear distant movement ahead now too.

Tim must have looped around.

You skid to a halt, doubling back at the last second through a side passage you almost missed earlier.

Footsteps thunder past where you were seconds ago.

You press yourself flat into the shadow of an alcove, breath barely moving your chest.

Dick slows.

You hear it.

A shift in cadence.

He’s listening.

You clamp a hand over your mouth to steady your breathing.

Silence stretches.

A shape moves at the end of the hall. He steps back into view, eyes scanning.

For a split second, his gaze drifts right over you.

You don’t move.

Don’t blink.

Don’t exist.

Then—

He moves again, taking the opposite turn.

You don’t wait.

The second he’s out of sight, you slip from the alcove and sprint the other direction, heart hammering so violently it makes your vision blur.

You’re not caught.

Not yet.

But they’re organized.

Fast.

And now fully aware of you.

Somewhere deeper in the manor, you hear another set of footsteps joining the hunt.

You are prey in a house that was never meant for you.

                          ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

You don’t think. You only run when it’s clear.

Left, right, down a corridor you don’t recognize—your lungs burning, vision tunneling. You don’t care about stealth anymore. You care about distance. The front doors. Massive oak.

You remember them from charity photos splashed across society pages in Gotham City. If you can make it outside—trees, open ground, unpredictability.

You see them. Tall. Imposing. Moonlight bleeding faintly through the glass panels. You sprint straight for them. Your hand slams against the brass handle—

And a body steps into your path.

You collide hard with something solid. Unmoving. You stumble backward, nearly falling. He doesn’t.

Jason Todd looks down at you like you just mildly inconvenienced him. Broad shoulders. Solid stance. Arms crossed loosely like he’s been waiting. You freeze.

Your brain calculates and fails at the same time.

He shouldn’t be this quiet. He shouldn’t be this calm. “You’re persistent,” he says, voice low and almost amused. “I’ll give you that.”

You pivot instantly to run again—too slow.

His hand shoots out and grabs your wrist. You twist violently, trying to wrench free. You drive your elbow back. He absorbs it like it’s nothing. You kick. He steps aside and uses your own momentum to spin you, your back hitting his chest. His arm locks around your upper torso.

“Let— go!” You thrash, clawing at his grip, trying to stomp his foot, trying to get leverage.

He tightens just enough to stop you from moving without crushing you. “Easy,” he mutters near your ear. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

The understatement nearly makes you feral.

You slam your head backward. It connects with his jaw. He grunts—but doesn’t let go.

Adrenaline floods you.

You twist again, almost slipping his hold—

And then something hard presses briefly to the side of your neck. Cold. Sharp. You don’t even feel the prick at first. Just the sudden heaviness.

No.

No no no—

Your limbs go sluggish.

Your thoughts stutter.

Your vision blurs at the edges.

“What—” Your voice comes out thick, wrong.

Jason adjusts his grip so you don’t collapse face-first onto the marble. Footsteps approach. You barely register another figure entering your field of vision—dark silhouette, unreadable expression. “Got him?” a familiar voice asks from somewhere nearby. Maybe Dick. Maybe Tim. Jason’s voice is the last thing you hear clearly. “Yeah.”

Darkness swallows you whole.

                          ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

You wake slowly. Your head throbs. Your mouth is dry. You try to lift your hand to rub your eyes—

You hit glass.

You jolt upright. You are sitting on a smooth floor. Surrounded by transparent walls.

A box.

Tall enough to stand. Wide enough to pace three steps in any direction. Sealed. Perfectly clean. Brightly lit from above. Your breath fogs faintly against the surface when you lean forward. It’s not a cage with bars. It’s worse.

Your pulse skyrockets as you stagger to your feet and press your palms against the walls. No seams visible from inside. You spin slowly.

The room beyond the glass is dimmer. Concrete. Industrial. Not the main floors of Wayne Manor. Somewhere beneath it.

You back away from the wall. Your reflection stares back at you—wild-eyed, pale. Then you notice it.

On a table outside the box. Your camera. Your phone. And a neat stack of printed photographs. The same ones you saw upstairs. Of you. Work. Apartment. Shower. All of it. Your stomach twists violently.

You step closer to the glass again, scanning the shadows of the room beyond.

“You’re awake.” The voice is calm. Coming from just outside your field of view.

You turn slowly.

A figure stands in the dim light beyond the glass. Watching. You can’t read his expression clearly through the reflection and glare. But you can feel it.

Assessment.

Ownership.

You swallow hard, forcing your voice to work. “You broke into my home,” the voice continues evenly. “That complicates things.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “You were in mine first,” you rasp.

A pause. Then—

A faint, almost intrigued tilt of the head. The glass box reflects you back at yourself again. Contained. Observed. And very, very trapped.

The dizziness lingers, a fog pressing against your skull. You stagger slightly in the glass box, pressing your forehead against the smooth surface. Your chest rises and falls fast, shallow. And then you see them.

All of them.

Bruce Wayne steps forward first. Towering, calm, the presence of someone who owns every room they’re in. Behind him, almost like an unspoken formation, stand the four boys; Dick Grayson, relaxed but alert, arms crossed. Jason Todd, smirk teasing at the corner of his mouth, eyes sharp and calculating. Tim Drake, quiet, hands steepled, analyzing everything about you. Damian Wayne, rigid, dark-eyed, his glare sharp—but… almost curious.

They’re all watching you.

Silently.

Waiting.

“Why?” you manage, voice trembling. Dizziness makes your words waver, like your throat can’t quite catch up.

“Why?”

They exchange glances, brief flickers of something that isn’t surprise, isn’t anger. Something softer. Bruce tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing—not in threat, but… appraisal.

“Because.”

“Because what?” you insist, your pulse quickening despite yourself, confusion tangling with lingering fear.

Dick steps a fraction closer, one hand brushing against the wall of the box, fingers loose. “Because…” His smirk softens. “You’re… incredibly cute.”

Jason leans against the far wall, grinning, voice teasing but not unkind. “Yeah. And, well… pretty. All of you.”

Tim’s sharp gaze flicks from you to his brothers and back again. “It’s difficult not to notice. Especially when you show up like this. Uninvited, reckless, entirely unaware of what you’re doing to us.”

Damian crosses his arms, brow furrowed, and though he’s trying to be stern, his lips twitch just slightly. “You’re…” he mutters, almost to himself, “…irresistible.”

The words hit you in the chest, making your head spin worse than the lingering dizziness. You stare, dumbfounded, at five people who should be intimidating, imposing, even terrifying—but who instead are… just watching you, like you’re some fascinating object they want to keep close.

Bruce finally steps forward a fraction more, gaze leveling with yours. Calm, commanding, utterly unreadable. “We’re keeping you here. Not because we’re angry, not because you’re in trouble. Because we can’t let you go just yet.”

Your stomach twists. “You… what?”

Jason tilts his head, smirk widening. “We like you. And, well… you’re sort of… ours now.”

You stumble back, heart hammering, the glass walls suddenly feeling like both a prison and a protection. Your voice catches. “But… why?”

Bruce’s expression softens just a fraction, something unspoken passing between him and the boys. “Because,” he says, voice low and measured, “we think you’re worth keeping.”

Your knees threaten to give out. The dizziness, the fear, the adrenaline—it all mingles with something dangerously close to disbelief.

You blink at them, trying to understand, trying to process. They aren’t threatening you. They aren’t angry. They’re… captivated. All five of them.

And suddenly, the glass box doesn’t feel quite so suffocating. It feels like the start of something entirely different.

You swallow hard and step closer to the wall separating you from them. “Let me go.” Your voice cracks. You hate that it does.

“I have a job,” you push on, forcing strength into it. “I can’t just disappear. People will notice. My editor will notice. My coworkers will notice.”

At the mention of your work, Tim’s mouth twitches faintly, almost amused. “Your editor already thinks you’re unreliable,” He says calmly. “You’ve been on probation for weeks.”

Your stomach drops.

“You—” Your voice falters. “You’ve been watching my work too?”

Jason huffs out a quiet laugh from where he leans against the wall. He looks almost pleased. “We don’t half-commit.”

You turn your attention desperately to the one man who seems the most reasonable. “Mr. Wayne—”

A subtle shift. Bruce’s gaze sharpens just slightly at the formality. “Bruce,” he corrects evenly.

You ignore that.

“I have an apartment. A lease. A life.” Your breathing grows uneven. “My landlord will check in. My neighbors will—”

Dick steps closer to the glass. He places his palm flat against it, mirroring where your hand rests on the other side. “Your landlord won’t check in for another three weeks,” he says gently. “You pay on time. You keep to yourself. No close friends in the building.” His tone isn’t cruel. It’s factual.

Your chest tightens. “There are people who’ll wonder where I went,” you insist. “You can’t just—just take someone.”

Damian finally speaks from Bruce’s side, arms folded, chin lifted. His expression is cool, controlled. “You broke into our home,” he says. “Legally, your position is already compromised.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to keep me in a glass box!” you snap, fear breaking through the dizziness.

Jason straightens slightly at that, pushing off the wall. “It’s temporary,” he says, almost lazily. “Relax.”

“Relax?” Your laugh is breathless, bordering hysterical. “You’ve been in my apartment. You photographed me. You drugged me. And now you’re telling me to relax?”

Bruce studies you for a long moment. There’s no mockery in his expression. Just… certainty. “You’re not in danger,” he says quietly.

“That’s not the point!” Your voice echoes slightly off the glass. “I have a life out there.”

Silence follows.

A heavy, shared silence between them. Tim tilts his head. “You were risking that life tonight,” he points out. “Breaking into the manor for gossip.”

Your jaw clenches. “That’s my job.”

“And now,” Jason replies, voice softer than before, “we’re offering you something better.”

You shake your head immediately. “I don’t want—whatever this is.”

Dick’s expression shifts, just a little. Less playful. More intent. “You don’t mean that,” he says quietly.

You step back from the glass as if burned. “Yes, I do.”

Damian’s eyes narrow. “You are afraid.”

“Yes!” You slam your palm against the wall. “Of course I’m afraid!”

Bruce moves closer now. Close enough that you can see your own reflection layered over his face. “Fear passes,” he says evenly. “Attachment doesn’t.”

Your throat tightens. “You can’t just decide I’m… yours,” you whisper.

Jason’s smirk fades into something more serious. “We already did.”

You look from one to the other. Five unwavering expressions. Not angry. Not manic. Just… resolute.

“I’ll scream,” you say, though your voice is thin. “I’ll fight. I won’t just stay here.”

Dick’s lips curve slightly, not unkindly. “We know.”

Tim adjusts his stance. “We accounted for that.”

Your breath comes faster. Bruce holds your eyes the entire time. “You’re being chosen.”

The words don’t comfort you. They make your pulse spike.

“I don’t want to be chosen,” you whisper.

Jason’s voice lowers. “Doesn’t change that you were.”

You realize with a cold, sinking clarity—

Pleading isn’t moving them.

Not even a little.

Dicktim Ballet AU