I Fuckin Love Reader Insert Fanfic

“If you could.” Buzz. “I'd appreciate it.” Buzz.

You grit your teeth, “Great.” Buzz.

You glare at your phone, hoping the intensity of your stare will compel him to stop texting you.

Buzz.

You sigh, rubbing your temples as you click send. “Alright, I just sent them.”

“Thank you,” your boss says your name. “I'll be in touch.”

You nod, “Let me know if anything else is needed.” Your boss hangs up. The display on your phone changing back to your home screen. Buzz. You are going to kill this man.

Tim: at this point i feel like you're just ignoring me 😔

Tim: i KNOW you're home right now

Tim: gotta admit you're dedicated tho

You glare at your phone, quickly typing out a response.

hey sorry to disappoint but i can be at home AND still work, some of us are actually employed

He instantly responds.

Tim: tf you talking about?? I am literally the ceo of wayne enterprises bro 🥀

I thought that was Lucius??? and even if you are employed you sure act unemployed bro 🥀

Tim: are you calling me chronically online?

Tim: how do you think we met???

Tim: it's a two way street 😭

yeah but like

Tim: 🤨🤨

ok fair enough, but I was working 😭 what was so important that you had to spam me while I was talking to my BOSS

Tim: mb gang i didn't know :(((

Tim: I figured if you didn't respond the first time you'd respond by the 15th time

Tim: and it worked soooo….

get to the point

Tim: so consider

Tim: dinner

You feel your heart skip a beat, your thumbs freezing as any comments you had evaporate from your head.

Tim: at the manor

Oh… That makes more sense. Why would you assume he was asking you out? You scoff, feeling a low surge of disappointment run through your chest.

again??

Tim: yeah i don't wanna be alone 💔

won't there be like 10 people there??? how would you be alone?

Tim: can you just be there pls

no

Tim: please?

i'm busy

Tim: doing what

i shouldn't tell people online what i'm doing, that's creepy of you to ask there buddy 🤨

Tim: you've literally been in my ROOM before hello??

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair as you type. Any prior work you were doing is entirely forgotten.

that's an issue, what if I stole something? clearly SOMEBODY forgot to tell you never to tell strangers online your address 😔

Tim: fyi i can handle myself PERFECTLY fine

yeah huh

Tim: and are you implying you stole something from me???

no but i could've, you wouldn't have even noticed

Tim: no I would've

then why'd you ask me if I did?

Tim: to see if you'd admit guilt

I didn't steal anything though??

Tim: that's what a LIAR would say

oh my goodness

you're on your own for dinner

Tim: WAIT PLEASE

Tim: IM SORRY PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME WITH THEM

Tim: WE CAN HANG OUT AFTER MAKE IT A WHOLE THING

Tim: ACTUALLY WE CAN JUST DITCH LIKE HALFWAY THROUGH AND HEAD UP TO MY ROOM

damn you're acting as if they burn you at the stake each time there is dinner 😭

Tim: please be there i beg of you 🙏

mmmm i dunno you don't sound desperate enough

Tim: now I KNOW you're lying cause there's no WAY you just said that

Tim: I'd literally get on my knees and beg if I could

lmao what's stopping you?

Tim: my dignity

😔

Tim: u being fr rn?

the mental image is very funny

Tim: i'm sure it is, now can we get back on track? could you PLEASE show up to dinner Sunday I'm LITERALLY begging you

THIS SUNDAY???? I THOUGHT IT'D BE LIKE NEXT WEEK OR SOMETHING

Tim: PLEASE I KNOW IT'S SHORT NOTICE I WILL MAKE IT WORTH YOUR TIME 🙏

Tim: I'LL EVEN ASK ALFRED TO MAKE YOUR FAVORITE FOOD AND DESSERT

That makes you pause.

you will? 🤨

Tim: YES JUST PLEASE SHOW UP

mmm okay

gotta ask, why do you need me there that bad??? don't just say your lonely or smth stupid

Tim: if you're there, it forces everybody to act normal

You furrow your eyebrows, pondering what “abnormal” would look like for the Wayne family. They seemed kind of normal when you met them. Maybe it's some Wayne thing you just don't understand.

what does that even mean??

Tim: just trust me, you being there makes my life 1000x easier

oh so I'm bait 💀

Tim: nononono not like that

Tim: it's nothing actually bad I promise

relax Tim I'm joking lmao, I'll gladly be bait to make your family behave normally 🫡 (as long as you hold up with your deal with Alfred of course)

Tim: you're literally my favorite person in the world right now

Smiling, you chuckle at the message, leaning back into your chair. You are not going to read too much into that.

after this I better be, I'll see you later then

Tim: I can pick you up Sunday around five

perfect, see you then

Tim: see you

You place your phone down. Dinner, huh? It's not like you haven't been to the Wayne's for dinner. This shouldn't be any different. The only other time Tim invited you to dinner was when you were starting to get to know him in person. To be fair, he didn't exactly “invite” you. His family actually insisted that they had to meet Tim's new friend. Tim had quickly informed you that you could decline the “offer,” but you had went anyway. It's not like you could just decline an invitation from Bruce Wayne himself.

The difference between now and then is that Tim is not only inviting you, but practically begging you to show up. Sure, he had snuck you in a few times, but formal invitations were not something that either of you did, not anymore.

What changed?

It's not something you should read into. However, your mind keeps going back to that one line. You open your phone again, scrolling to look at the messages. Your thumb hovers over the message: “if you're there, it forces everybody to act normal.”

Now, it should not be something you should read into. However, the strange thing is, you know exactly what Tim is talking about. When you met the Wayne's everything was seemingly normal, but the issue was that it was too normal. It set off some alarm in your brain, but you couldn't figure out what they did that set it off.

Normal.

What defines normalcy?

Is it the standards that you are accustomed to? Is it expectations one expects a well-adjusted person to have? Either way, it set off some alarms because while you didn't know how to describe their usual behavior, Tim does.

They act normal when you're there. This implies that there is a time where they don't act normal.

Your finger lightly traces the edge of your phone as you stare at the messages. Now, you're definitely reading into this, but the fact of the matter is something is up.

You're going to figure it out.

Meeting Tim had been, potentially, the most unexpected event in your entire life. Now, since both of you live in Gotham, one might presume that perhaps you met somewhere in the city. Perhaps you went to the same university or bumped into each other on the street. Perhaps you had met him at one of the dozens of events hosted by the Waynes every year. The possibilities were endless.

Instead, you met him on a thread online.

You didn't even know it was him.

It had been an online forum. You don't even remember what the exact topic was. It was something photography related. One of the users— TimTam— had been discussing something about how to balance one's subject with the environment around them. They had gone on and on about the rule of thirds, and how the the environment was meant to enhance the subject. Curiously, you had checked out their profile. After all, you'd expect somebody who talked the talk to be able to walk the walk. You'd found a link to a blog he had.

Apparently, you should've never doubted TimTam because the photos he took were absolutely breathtaking. You've lived in Gotham for decades, and yet the photos that TimTam took exhibited an unconventional beauty of the otherwise deplorable city. For a moment, you wondered if this was his job. Some of the photos looked too perfect to just be a mere hobby. He had shots next to the gargoyles on Wayne Tower with angles that looked unfeasible for any sane person to achieve.

Who was this guy?

Curiosity got the better of you. You had attempted to look him up for any other social media accounts, but your efforts were fruitless. A conclusion that only made you more curious.

You wanted to find more about this mysterious individual, so you sent him a quick message. Polite and inquisitive.

Hello! I stumbled onto your page, and I adore your photography! I was wondering if you had any other social media accounts. I would love to follow some of your other socials.

Checking the original forum, you noticed that the timestamp was from over a week ago. Hopefully he'd respond. You didn't really keep up with online photography forums much. Stumbling onto this had been an accident, but a happy accident nevertheless. You were about to get up from your chair, when you saw a little bubble signifying a notification.

Your mouth parted in surprise. That was quick.

TimTam: Hello. I don't have any other socials at the moment for photography. I only really post it occasionally on my main.

You nod, understandable. It's a shame, but you weren't about to ask a random stranger for what may be their potentially personal account. You were about to type your response, when TimTam sends another message.

TimTam: You think I should make a photography accoutn?

TimTam: account*

You slowly blink at the message followed by the typo correction. Somehow this person seems a lot less intimidating than they did five seconds ago.

Absolutely! It's rare that I can find somebody capture Gotham in the perspective you do. I would definitely follow you if you make any other socials.

There's a pause for a moment. The bubble appears, disappears, and reappears again. You tap the space bar of your laptop idly, curious what TimTam has to say.

TimTam: Like right now?

You can't help the surprised snort that escapes you.

I mean if you want? I meant more generally, but now works.

TimTam: Right, right, of course

You like their message, unsure how to respond to that. You think that's the end of your adventures with TimTam, but about ten minutes later you get another message. You open the chat back up. It's an Instagram link.

TimTam: Thanks for the advice. I made the social.

You nod as if they can see your physical response. Tapping onto the link.

For sure! Honored to be the first official follower :)

You actually are their first follower. The account's user is Tim_Tam with a profile picture sitting on the ledge of a building overlooking the sunset. Zero posts, one follower, zero following. It was brand new. Not even a bio present.

Satisfied with how the interaction went, you had presumed that your conversations with TimTam had ended. You didn't exactly give them a reason to keep contacting you.

A few days went by, and slowly TimTam began to post on social media. His first posts garnered thousands of likes, which you found impressive for such a fresh account. You did tell him that he'd do well on other platforms. It didn't take long for him to build up a following. Nothing insane, but definitely a good start.

You had been keeping up with TimTam. You weren't sure what drew you to him, but you found yourself liking each post of his. You found a smile appear on your face each time he posted.

Perhaps you were a tad bit proud that your suggestion led to such fruition.

Judging by the way he had immediately asked you if he should make a photography account, you assumed that he had previously considered the idea. Either that or he was a very spontaneous person.

Either way, you took some satisfaction out of it.

Days had gone by and you watched as his followers trickled up. You found yourself living vicariously through TimTam, silently celebrating ten thousand followers with him.

Then you saw it.

You had been about to go to bed. It was nearly midnight, and it was freezing. The comforters weighed heavily onto you, shrouding you in warmth. On top of that, you had pulled the Batman throw blanket up to your neck, nearly suffocating yourself with the soft material. The blanket had the different symbols of all the Bats plastered onto it against a light gray backdrop. You'd gotten it years ago, and to this day it was still one of your favorite blankets.

You squinted your eyes as the bright light of your phone shone through the otherwise dark room. Your eyes started to feel the strain as you continued to fight the urge to sleep.

Then you saw the notification.

The first thing you registered wasn't the message, but the sender of the message.

TimTam (or is it Tim_Tam now?) had sent you a message.

Sitting up, you read the notification, not wanting him to know you're reading his message.

Tim_Tam

[Image attached]

Sent now

Tim_Tam

[Image attached]

Sent now

Tim_Tam

Which one do you think looks better?

Sent now

You paused, thumb hovering over the Instagram notifications. You couldn't see the photos if you didn't click the message. However, if you clicked the messages, he'd know you're awake.

Would it be weird to respond? It's nearly midnight. What if he judges your poor sleeping schedule?

Then again… He texted you first. If anything he should be worried about how he comes across. Also, why should you care? It's just a stranger on the internet.

Before you could reconsider your actions, you clicked on the messages.

Nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.

The two photos looked practically identical. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a few discrepancies, but they were so insignificant that they were practically the same photo.

It was taken on a rooftop. Nightwing and Robin were shown to be conversing with one another. It was, quite possibly, the clearest photos of the vigilantes you had ever seen.

Of course, you've seen the blurry images and videos of the vigilantes captured by the news or even by Gothamites themselves, but none of them were this sharp. It was evident that the photo was taken from a distance (likely due to TimTam not wanting to be spotted), but that didn't change the fact that this was potentially the best photo you'd seen of the vigilantes before.

Sure, you've seen a whispered shadow pass over your head, or even heard the roar of the Batmobile echo across the city, but you had never gotten a clear look at their faces. It's blurry enough where specific identifiable facial features may not be evident, but it's clear enough that you can actually deduce their facial expressions.

Nightwing appears to be smiling, a wide grin plastered onto his face. Robin doesn't share the same expression. It's more difficult to tell what he's thinking, but it's evident that he does not share Nightwing's apparent amusement.

You swipe between the two photos TimTam sent. You were only able to make out five differences total. In the first photo, Robin's shoulders were more tense, Nightwing's mouth was slightly open (though still grinning) as if caught mid-speech, and the lights of the city shined down a low red lighting onto their costumes, bathing them in the ominous color.

The second photo had Nightwing simply offering an amused grin, smiling with his teeth on display. He wasn't saying anything. Robin's shoulders were more relaxed, but the unamused expression was a constant in both photos. The low red lighting from the first photo turned into a slightly more vibrant scarlet that enveloped the subjects. If you looked closely, you'd notice that Nightwing had a couple strands of hair out of place. The change making him look slightly more unkempt. The only other noticeable change was the direction Robin faced. In the second photo, he is angled just ever so slightly more towards Nightwing.

The second one for sure. It makes them both look cooler with the lighting and it feels slightly more personal.

Tim_Tam: Okay, thanks.

You stare at the photos for a moment longer, waiting for something else. No other response came. You furrow your brows, typing another message. Before TimTam was interesting. But now?

Wait that's it?

Now he's borderline unreal.

Tim_Tam: Yeah, I couldn't really decide

Tim_Tam: It's not like I could ask Nightwing and Robin their opinions. I doubt they even know the photo was taken.

Who even is this guy?

You're telling me that you snuck up on NIGHTWING and ROBIN

and you can't choose which photo looks better???

Tim_Tam: In all fairness, their vibes are VERY different. I couldn't tell which one to go for.

He's right. Despite capturing the same moment, the minute differences change the interpretation of the photos immensely.

That's fair.

Should I even ask how you got these photos?

Tim_Tam: It sounds like you are asking

Tim_Tam: Let's just say I have my ways

You frown. That was entirely expected, but still disappointing.

Are you planning on selling them?

There's a pause for a moment. The bubbles appear, then disappear, then reappear.

Tim_Tam: What?

Like the photos. You could probably sell them to the Gotham Gazette and get a quick buck or something.

I don't think I've ever seen any news agency with photos THIS clear. I'm sure they'd eat it up.

Tim_Tam: Maybe? I hadn't really considered that

Wait wait you're telling me you stalked after vigilantes for love of the game??

Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much

At this point, you're wide awake. All sleepiness that clouded your brain fanned away long ago.

Are those the only ones you have?

There's a long pause.

Tim_Tam: At the moment.

I'm not saying you should follow the Bats again but like…

These photos are actually phenomenal, you could get famous for this.

There's another long pause.

Tim_Tam: You think?

100%. I've NEVER seen such prisitine photos of Nightwing and Robin. It's genuinely impressive.

Tim_Tam: Hm

Tim_Tam: I'll see what I can do.

That was the start of your friendship with TimTam. Vigilante photos. Two nights after the Nightwing and Robin photo situation, you received another text.

Tim_Tam

[Image attached]

Sent now

You nearly dropped your phone upon opening the message.

If you thought the Nightwing and Robin photo was clear? This was night and day. It was single handled the best photo of Red Robin you've ever seen. The image pictured Red Robin kicking some criminal. The dynamic pose combined with the sheer clarity of the photo made for an actual masterpiece. You could see the way that his suit fit his form. The way he clenched his jaw as he struck the criminal. It was so close. It almost looks like TimTam had taken security camera footage, zoomed in, and somehow enhanced it.

???

Tim_Tam: Is that a good or bad ???

GOOD DEFINITELY GOOD

HOW IS IT SOMEHOW BETTER THAN THE NIGHTWING AND ROBIN ONE

Tim_Tam: I'm good at photography I guess

Tim_Tam: you're a Red Robin fan?

Were you imagining the smug tone behind that? Was Red Robin even your favorite? You liked Red Robin, but your favorite?

I suppose

Tim_Tam: You suppose?? Damnnnn okay

My bad 😭 didn't realize you were a big Red Robin fan

Tim_Tam: No no it's fine

Tim_Tam: Perhaps I'll have to get more to convince you

At that point just interview him. You're already stalking the poor guy.

Tim_Tam: He's finr

Tim_Tam: fine*

He paused.

Tim_Tam: For the record though, I probably could

You chuckled. Whoever this was seemed very confident they could get an interview with Red Robin. Have you even seen vigilante interviews? Maybe a statement or two here and there, but never full on interviews.

Maybe stick to your day job

Tim_Tam: I feel like you're challenging me 🤨

Nonono

Just like

I'd hate to read in the paper that Red Robin beat you up

There was a long moment of silence, Tim_Tam wasn't even typing.

Tim_Tam: Nah I can handle him

You were full on laughing at your phone by this point.

Tim_Tam: He didn't even notice me taking the photos or anything

And that translates to his fighting ability??

Tim_Tam: I mean all you got to do is get one really good hit in and he's out

Tim_Tam: he's only human

you sure of that? 🤨🤨

Tim_Tam: Positive, I think I have a shot

Well then, I await the day I see the headline

“photographer takes out Red Robin with a single hit”

Tim_Tam: Oh yeah that'll for sure be the headline

Tim_Tam: I'll personally get the photo for that story. Send a photo of it just to you to prove myself

Do you always look for validation from strangers on the internet??

Tim_Tam: Do you always judge the photos of photographers on the internet??

do NOT pin this on me, you asked me to pick between the two :(

Tim_Tam: mhm

I wasn't even being critical of them, all I said was that I liked the second one better

Tim_Tam: I believe your exact words were that they looked “cooler” and “felt more personal”

I didn't say the other ones were bad though!! I'm pretty sure I said they were the BEST photos of Nightwing and Robin I've seen so far

also

Tim_Tam: ?

You hesitated. Was this being too casual with TimTam? The two of you seem to be getting along fine, but you hadn't asked him any truly heavy questions.

I was just curious— feel free to not answer— but are you planning on posting the Nightwing and Robin photos?

Somehow, you felt as if the tension rose at your question. TimTam diidn't immediately respond. There was no indication that he's even read your message. Then you saw the bubble. Typing. Not typing. Typing.

Tim_Tam: No

Tim_Tam: I can't

Absentmindedly you tapped the side of your phone, eyebrows furrowing.

Ah okay

The response was lame, and both of you knew it. You silently berated yourself for ruining the atmosphere. TimTam didn't respond after that. He didn't react to the message, but you still saw that he was online. Resigned, you slowly put your phone back on the nightstand. Shutting your eyes, you twist your body in the opposite direction of the device. Out of sight, out of mind—

Bzzt!

Your phone's vibration caused you to freeze. No, no. You needed to sleep. It might not even be TimTam. It could've been a random email that you'll never look at. Even if it was TimTam, it was completely understandable if you didn't respond, given how late it is.

However, curiosity did kill the cat.

You turned over, slowly grabbing you phone. You had zero expectations (at least that's what you told yourself). TimTam was probably asleep too. It's not like you two were close enough to be chatting casually this late.

Tim_Tam: It's not that I don't want to don't get me wrong

Tim_Tam: It's just that something happened, and I can't do it

Without thinking, you opened the message. Damn it, he's going to think you're a loser, immediately coming online the moment he messages you.

No need to justify yourself, I get it

I'm glad that you decided to share the photos you've taken with me though

TimTam paused, but his next reply had you reeling.

Tim_Tam: Robin paid me a visit

You felt your heart start to pound as if it was you who Robin visited. You could only imagine how TimTam handled the situation. How did he neglect to mention that?!

Are you serious??? Thought you said that he and Nightwing weren't aware you were photographing them?

Tim_Tam: So

Tim_Tam: How do I say this

The responses were rapid, you could feel TimTam's unease through the screen.

Shoudl I be concerned??

should*

Tim_Tam: Would you believe me if I hypothetically said I sought out Robin

like you took more photos of him??

Tim_Tam: No like I talked with him

He did what?

Tim_Tam: And hypothetically he said that the photos must never be seen by the public

hypothetically did you agree??

Tim_Tam: kinda??

oh my gosh are you going to be on a vigilante hit list?

Tim_Tam: I don't think that's a thing 💀

you THINK? the same guy who THOUGHT Nightwing and Robin weren't aware of you??

Tim_Tam: TECHNICALLY they weren't, I just wanted to show them the photos get their thoughts

…my guy this is on you why would you TELL them??

praying for you 🙏

Tim_Tam: Are you still implying that Robin is going to off me??

I'm JUST saying, now they know who you are

if they see any photos like the ones you took they'll know it was you

probably dox you or something idk

Tim_Tam: You make an excellent point

Tim_Tam: eh It'll be fine though

Did you get Nightwing or Red Robin's opinion too?

It felt stupid to ask. You imagine he would've said something if he met another vigilante. TimTam took a minute to respond.

Tim_Tam: Nightwing no, Red Robin yes

Or not… What kind of guy just casually forgets to mention he met not one but two vigilantes?

What'd he say?

Tim_Tam: He thought it was cool

You stared at the message for a long moment, waiting to see if he'd elaborate.

He thought it was cool??

Tim_Tam: Yep

and that's it..?

Tim_Tam: Uhh I can't really remember

did he knock you out or something??? you conversed with RED ROBIN and can't even bother to remember what he said??

Tim_Tam: to be fair he didn't say much

You're telling me he SERIOUSLY just said “cool” and then left??

Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much

You let out a puff of amusement. What a weird world you live in. This random internet photographer you found has somehow met two of Gotham's vigilante's, been threatened by one of them, and is still acting like this isn't a big deal.

Tim_Tam: Oh and he said he didn't mind the photos

Finally, something.

Are you going to try and catch him again?

I feel obligated to preface this by saying this is NOT me encouraging you to go track down vigilantes

Tim_Tam: uhhhh

???

Tim_Tam: [Image Attached]

Tim_Tam: You're a bit too late, already caught him again

You stare blankly at the new image. It's another image of Red Robin. This time it's not an action shot. Instead, it capture the vigilante sitting casually on the edge of the building. His knee is propped up in front of him, his arm casually resting on it. The angle of this photo is different. It isn't taken from above, nor from the streets below. Instead, it's taken from the very rooftop Red Robin is sitting on. If you had to hazard a guess, TimTam took this photo from the ground of the rooftop with his camera at a low angle.

Dude did you CRAWL to get this photo???

Tim_Tam: …why would you ask that??

Cause how else did you get a get that specific angle of Red Robin?? Did you share a rooftop with him??

You pause, scrutinizing the photograph. There's a figure in the back, and upon further examination, you realize who it is.

IS THAT NIGHTWING IN THE DISTANCE???? YOU CAUGHT HIM AGAIN???

Tim_Tam: What???

There is a pause for a moment.

Tim_Tam: Huh didn't even see him lol

“Didn't even see him lol.” You weren't even sure if you're surprised anymore. All you can do is stare at the photograph with Red Robin (and Nightwing pictured in the back) in awe. For a moment, you considered whether TimTam truly asked Red Robin to pose for it. It certainly looked like it.

you ACCIDENTALLY got a picture of Red Robin posing with Nightwing in the distance???

Tim_Tam: Red Robin isn't posing what??

dude he is LITERALLY posing for the photo

There was a momentary pause.

Tim_Tam: idk it looks pretty natural to me

sure we'll go with that

You sighed, rubbing you temples. This guys has to be playing you.

Tim_Tam: damn okay fine doubt me

Tim_Tam: I'll try again

You almost felt your blood pressure spike seeing the message. What kind of person gets threatened by Robin and decides to pursue the guy? Determined, you pick up your phone, fingers flying over the keyboard.

You are not going to be a bystander in this guy's inevitable demise.

Was it an unconventional way to befriend somebody? Perhaps, but it was Gotham. TimTam seemed relatively nice, a trait found few and far between in a city like this. It helped that he enjoyed your company as well. There were many nights where neither of you could fall asleep, and the only thing keeping you up was the quiet vibration of your phone going off, signaling that he was still there.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, months dragged on for a year.

After a year, you’d think that you’d know a bit more about who TimTam really was. Perhaps a small slip up that leads to a meet up? Did you even want to meet up with TimTam? What if he’s been playing the long game, waiting to get your trust before inevitably killing you in a back alley, your name never to be mentioned again outside of a True Crime Story podcast in a few years. You shuddered at the thought.

Dramatic? Yes. Paranoid? Absolutely.

Still doesn’t stop the growing desire to know who he is.

Have you walked past him on the street? Maybe you went to school together? Perhaps you both frequent a place with no idea the other is there. The possibilities were endless. They were killing you, and yet neither of you brought up the topic.

The closest you got to hints was talking about the latest news.

did you see hear about those buildings that Firefly lit up?

Tim_Tam: “see” would be an understatement, closer to felt

Your eyebrows raised into your hairline.

oh shit, are you okay??

Tim_Tam: i’m fineeee

Tim_Tam: tis but a scratch

Tim_Tam: or burn

You back straightened as you sat up from the curb. Police sirens still rang out, the blaring noise causing your eardrums to vibrate in an unpleasant manner. You frantically looked over the crowd of people: officers, paramedics, examiners, victims, detectives.

Is he one of them?

You weren’t sure what he looked like. He’d been (frustratingly) vague about who he is, but, to be fair, you weren’t any more explicit.

you’re here?

The message is sent and read almost immediately. You watch as the bubble of him typing appears. On. Off. On. Off. You stare at the screen, squinting, attempting to block out the noise of your environment. For a moment, you wonder if something happened. Does he not want to answer that question?

Tim_Tam: wait you're here??

Tim_Tam: shit what are you doing here?

Against your will, your heart started pumping. The accelerating rhythm causing your hands to shake as you typed out your next message, even if— at the time— you insisted it was just the cold, damp, air of Gotham.

Tim_Tam: are you okay?

Tim_Tam: did anything happen to you?

Tim_Tam: are you still here?

You didn't get a chance to respond. Tim manages to send three messages in the time it takes your freezing hands to type half of one. You ran your finger slowly against the screen of your phone, your hands leaving imprints on the device.

not for much longer, I’m planning on leaving soon

“I’m free to go, right?” You confirmed with the paramedic on your right, looking over a young boy. The kid was unharmed, but apparently did not appreciate the examination. The paramedic turned to you, looking you up and down.

“You were already checked for other injuries? Concussions? Anything?” They slowly turned away from you back to the kid. You nodded, “Yeah, I feel fine.” You weren’t lying either. If anything, you were more shaken up then injured.

The paramedic sighed, “Alright, just make sure to rest. It’s been a long night. Take it easy for the next few days. If you notice anything, I’d go to any of the Wayne sponsored health facilities.” They pasued for a moment. “If anything, I’d recommend the clinic near Crime Alley if you want to avoid wait times.” They shined a light into the boy’s eye, “Sketchy area, but the General Hospital tends to get overcrowded fast.”

You blinked, surprised by the helpful advice. “Thanks,” you nodded slowly, “I’ll keep that in mind.” You waited there for an extra beat to see if they’d respond, but it seemed as if that was all they had to say. Slowly, you made your way around the scene, ducking under the caution tape as you attempted to find a way out of the area. Reporters and police officers appeared to be stationed at every corner of the scene, and you didn't particularly want to look at the burned down section of the Upper West Side mere blocks away from the university.

Braving the crowds of cameras it is.

Slowly, you made your way over to the least crowded corner of the scene, nodding at the officer. He returned the nod and watched you raise the caution tape and walk past the dozens of journalists and reporters.

Then you felt it.

You’re no stranger to the sensation of having eyes on you. In fact, it’s a universal experience for every Gothamite. You’d heard stories from friends who committed crimes, albeit petty ones, that even if they got away with a crime or two, they always felt like he was watching. Despite avoiding crime as much as possible (a challenge on its own), you somehow understood them.

The sensation of somebody always there.

Somebody always in the shadows.

Somebody watching.

Usually, you’d describe that sensation as heavy, looming. It was akin to a shadow being cast over you, blocking out any source of light, essentially leaving you in the darkness with nothing but your own doubts and fears. It's part of how Batman was able to have some semblance of control of crime.

However, contrary to that fear, it also provided a sense of safety. You knew you weren’t a target, you’d never be a target. That fear that’s instilled by Batman wasn’t meant for you, it was meant to help people like you.

This, though, is different.

There is no doubt in your mind somebody is watching you. Your skin prickles at the thought, yet the longer you wait for that sharp spike of fear…

It doesn’t come.

Now, you’ve lived in Gotham for a long time. Perhaps your instincts aren’t perfect, but you’d say they’re pretty damn good.

So the fact that somebody is singling you out and watching you? Your brain screamed at you that there was everything wrong with that, which made sense. It’s an assertion most people would agree with.

However.

With an almost dramatic turn, you slowly lifted your gaze up to the buildings across the street. Far enough to be safe from the fire, but close enough to have the perfect view.

You huffed, a small smile on your face.

In the distance, you saw two figures on the rooftop. While it’s hard to deduce the exact builds of the tem, what you could see were the colors.

You could also tell that one of them is looking directly at you. After seeing who knows how many Red Robin photos in the past year (courtesy of Tim), you concluded that Red Robin was most definitely watching you from across the street.

Yep, this is normal. Perhaps Red Robin knows that Tim sends you the photos he takes of him.

You slowly raised a hand up, hesitantly waving at him.

For a moment, nothing happened, and you felt a tad bit stupid for waving at a vigilante and expecting him to wave back. Awkwardly, you lowered your arm, grabbing your phone out of your pocket to check the time. Shutting your phone back off, you shifted your eyes up, expecting the vigilantes to have vanished (something you’ve heard they’re notorious for).

Instead, your mouth parted in surprise as Red Robin slowly waved back at you.

You blinked slowly at the vigilante in the distance in sheer disbelief, not physically reacting otherwise. Almost as if he’s embarrassed, Red Robin slowly lowered his arm back down. The two of you stared at each other for a moment longer before, inevitably, something else caught his attention. His head tilted away from you, and you watched as he turned to face Spoiler and Black Bat (when did Black Bat get there?).

You used the opportunity to slowly raise your phone up, zooming your camera in on the small group of vigilantes before snapping a photo.

Tim won’t believe this.

Tim did, in fact, believe you.

Truthfully, he was… not as impressed with you as you were with yourself.

Tim_Tam: lowkey?? why is the quality pixilated 💀

I’m sorry I don’t walk around with a professional camera around my neck???

Also what happened to “man that was really scary” and “I hope you’re okay”

Tim_Tam: man that was really scary

Tim_Tam: I hope you’re okay

Tim_Tam: quality could be better tho (genuinely glad you're okay though)

damn I’m sorry not all of us have vigilantes on call to do photo shoots with

I tried my best and I was lucky I even got that shot

you know he WAVED at me

thought he’d ignore me

Tim_Tam: Why would he ignore you??

idk maybe he’s like “eugh look at the civilian waving at me like a loser”

Tim paused for a moment.

Tim_Tam: why does he sound so mean in your head??

oh right mb, forgot you're the #1 RR apologist

Tim_Tam: okay now THATS an exaggeration

is it though??

Tim_Tam: very much so yes

if you say so

You snorted, putting your phone on the nightstand and turning the lights off before you nestled yourself into bed. Gotham's freezing weath showed no mercy tonight, and the warm blankets made you brain leap with joy, sending tingles throughout your body. Your phone was charging, the night was young, you’d actually sleep well tonight, and—

The light of your phone flashed, blinding you temporarily. The accompanying vibration didn’t help because now you knew it was Tim. Huffing, you turn your body away from the device that attempts to lure you in.

You needed to go to sleep early, you had an eight AM the next day. You couldn't afford to lose sleep talking to—

The light from your phone manages to light up the whole room, even if you’re not facing the source.

Okay, you will check the phone once to turn the brightness down. You would not read the messages. Tim would understand. You have to sleep, being a responsible adult and all that. With a slow, deep sigh, you reached over to grab your phone, squinting when you realize just how bright it was. That’s when you saw the messages:

Tim_Tam

Would you want to meet in person?

Sent 3m ago

Tim_Tam

Sorry that was really abrupt

Sent 1m ago

Tim_Tam

Just ignore that lol

Sent now

You had never sat up so fast from your bed, and that’s including the times he sent you those photos of the Bats the first few times.

Tim wants to what?

You haven’t even called the guy before.

Wait you can’t just drop that on me and leave

Tim_Tam: sorry?

Where would you want to meet?

Tim_Tam: Wait you’re saying yes?

Tim_Tam: What if I’m like a creepy serial killer who befriends people on the internet and then takes them to their house to kill them?

You paused.

Are you?

Tim_Tam: No but like

Tim_Tam: how would you know I’m NOT?

I can’t tell if you’re trying to defend yourself

I’m like 99% sure you’re not a killer though?

Tim_Tam: Okay but like

Tim_Tam: 99% isn’t 100%

Tim_Tam: chances are not 0

Tim

Tim_Tam: yeah?

If you want to meet, where would it be?

Tim_Tam: uhh

Tim_Tam: Robinson Park work?

Yeah I can probably head there after my classes

I’ll be done around 11

Tim_Tam: Alright cool

Was it you, or did this feel a little anticlimactic? Perhaps it just hadn't hit you yet? You waited for another message, yet the bubbles of forming messages continued to taunt you.

Tim_Tam: Sorry I gtg, we can work out more details later?

Yeah sure, have fun photographing your fav

Tim_Tam: haha you’re SO funny

I know :)

The next day came all too soon yet not quick enough. The second you opened your eyes, a singular thought implanted itself in your head:

Today was the day you were going to meet Tim.

Despite the quiz you had during your early morning discussion, and the midterm prep went over during your following lecture. Neither of the them made you as anxious as meeting Tim. As the final minutes of your lecture passed, you felt a nervous excitement run through your body.

Okay done with my classes, omw

You sent the quick text, giving him a heads up. It’d probably take you a bit to walk there, but it gave you enough time to plan this out.

Like… Do you need to worry about first impressions?

Is this a first impression?

You're technically meeting him for the first time, but it’s not like he’s a stranger.

It's... First-impression-adjacent. Yeah, something like that. You still weren't sure, but you didn't get a chance to dwell on it because you felt your phone vibrate. You didn't stop walking as you check the screen.

Tim_Tam: Hey there is something I should tell you before we meet

Tim_Tam: It’s a little important

uh oh, you’re not actually a killer right?

Tim_Tam: no, no, no

Tim_Tam: Nothing like that

Tim_Tam: but uh

Tim_Tam: My name

Tim_Tam: it’s Tim Drake

You halted. Staring at the words laid plainly on your phone. Tim Drake?

That Tim Drake? The one Bruce Wayne took in? You weren't well versed in the intricate details of the Wayne family lore, but you know about as much as any other Gotham citizen. Bruce Wayne’s parents were murdered in front of him when he was a kid, and now he’s a billionaire playboy with a known habit of adopting kids. Tim Drake is one of them. You didn't actually know much about him, but you’ve seen him on TV or on the news every now and then talking about Wayne Enterprises or something.

woah that’s crazy

I didn’t wan tot tell you but I’m actually Bruce Wayne

want to*

Tim_Tam: I’m not joking I swear

nor am I

Tim_Tam: You don’t believe me

I believe you when you say you aren’t a killer

idk about the Tim Drake thing though

Tim_Tam: should I be concerned that you somehow find me being myself is less probable than me being a killer?

Probably

Is this like a new catfishing tactic

There was a long pause.

Tim_Tam: I’m sorry what??

You could almost hear the bewilderment, and you chuckle at the thought.

oh you know

Tim_Tam: I don’t actually? Is this a common occurrence for you??

no

hence why I ask what’s with the Tim Drake catfishing tactic

Tim_Tam: I really hope it’s NOT a thing? How would it even work??

idk probably something like “Hey baby my name is Tim Drake, I have lots of money do you want to meet at the park to get to know each other better?”

Tim_Tam: I have never ONCE in my LIFE said that

Tim_Tam: I swear I am Tim Drake, we’re literally meeting in like five minutes

Tim_Tam: I promise I’m here, just meet me around the gardens

Now, was it stupid to potentially walk into such an obviously fake trap?

Absolutely.

Did you do it anyway?

Absolutely.

It wasn’t long before you had found a bench not too far from the gardens. You sent Tim-Maybe-Drake a quick update on your location. In spite of how ill-prepared you may seem to the naked eye, you did ask one of your friends to check your location and check in to make sure you don’t die.

Oh and pepper spray. Better safe than sorry.

Tim-Maybe-Drake reacted to your message with a quick thumbs up, and you fidgeted on the bench. You loosely kicked a rock with your foot, taking note of old footprints on the dirt path. As the minutes passed by, the anxiety began to creep back in. What if this was just a joke? What if you were dead-on with the catfishing Tim Drake idea? It was a strange idea, but it got you to come meet in person, didn’t it?

Somebody cleared their throat from the left side of the path, and you turn to look up.

Holy shit.

You blinked rapidly as if Tim Drake will vanish from your eyesight. He looks both the same and different from what you’ve seen in photos. Physically, he mostly looks the same, perhaps a bit leaner than you expected. He must workout, you idly note. His hair looks the same as it does in the photos, perhaps a bit more messy? It also seems too perfect in every photo you see of him.

However, the way he carries himself?

When you searching up information about a billionaire and his children, you saw what you expected online. Articles written on the Wayne children weren’t nearly as ever present as ones about Bruce himself, but every now and then there would be something.

In the few minutes before Tim arrived (you may have looked him up mere seconds before his arrival), you noticed that he looked confident, composed. He had that air about him that only comes from growing up in such a high-end environment.

On one hand, you see the Tim Drake that the media portrays. The adopted son of Bruce Wayne. A man who has clearly grown up in an environment so unlike your own it’s a miracle you even crossed paths with him.

However, you also see the hint of uncertainty that bleeds through his fleeting glances to you. The way his eyes rest on you anxiously, as if waiting for your judgment. For a moment, you consider that he was just as anxious about meeting you than you were meeting him. The prospect seems absurd, but looking at him now, you believe it.

“Oh…” You commented eloquently.

He furrowed his eyebrows, “That’s— That’s it? Just ‘oh?’”

You nodded slowly, “I mean— I… You know I had like zero faith in you.” That’s a lie, you had at least a sprinkle of faith that he was telling the truth. Not that you’ll tell him that.

“That’s reassuring. Thank you for that.” Tim replied dryly.

“You know the whole photographing vigilante’s thing makes so much sense now.” You stood up, hesitantly approaching him.

He tilted his head, “How so?”

“Only rich people would have such an insane hobby. The adrenaline rush or something I assume.” You shrugged casually, and Tim had the gall to to look offended.

“Okay, but my main thing isn’t even photographing vigilantes. I don’t even post those, and you know that.” He raised a finger indignantly. “And they aren’t even intentional anyway! I’m just lucky.”

“Luckiest guy I’ve ever met then.” You smirked, “Save some for the rest of us.”

He chuckled, “Of course, it’s my fault whenever somebody has bad luck.”

“At least you acknowledge it.” You huffed, a grin plastered on your face.

He laughs, and it hits you that this is Tim, as in the Tim you’ve been talking to day and night. That Tim also happens to be the billionaire Tim Drake, and you are having a normal conversation with him in a park in Gotham. You watch as his eyes crinkle in amusement, and you feel yourself mirroring his expression involuntarily.

You stifled your laughter, clearing your throat, “You know, I was actually worried you were catfishing me.”

He groaned, rolling his eyes. “If I wanted to catfish you, I’d have gone about this way different.” He pauses, "For the record, I do not want to catfish you."

“That’s reassuring.” You threw his own words back at him, and he sighed.

“It should be.” He paused for a moment, and the two of you continue to walk down a path. “Did you really not suspect anything?”

You blink, “About you being…” you gestured to him, and he nodded. You shook your head, “Not until you said anything, no. You don’t give ‘Tim Drake vibes’ when we text.” You did air quotes.

He let out a surprised laugh, “What— What are ‘Tim Drake vibes?’” He looked amused at the prospect.

You shrugged, “I don’t know. It’s just, when I text you, I don’t think ‘wow this guy seems like Tim Drake.’”

He nodded as if that made sense, “I’m going to take that as a good thing?”

You shrugged, “I mean it’s certainly a thing. Your call about whether it’s good or bad.”

He sighed, and you laughed at his exasperated expression. “Y’know now that I actually know you’re you, I’m surprised you actually showed up.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise, “Why would I not? I asked you?”

“You had no idea who I was up to like five minutes ago, what if I had planned this and planned on using you for ransom?” You teased, and the two of you exit the park. You weren't sure where Tim is taking you, but you’re heading back in the direction of Gotham University.

“Been there.” By his tone alone, you believed him. “And trust me I can handle myself perfectly fine if you tried kidnapping me.”

You raised an eyebrow, “If you can handle yourself so well, how come people were able to kidnap you for ransom in the past?”

He opened his mouth, glaring at you, ready to defend himself, but no words came out.

“I… Those were extenuating circumstances.” He scoffed.

“Mhm, real extenuating.” Your voice contained the utmost sympathy for him.

“And I feel like you’re mocking me.” He tutted, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“It’s okay, I probably wouldn’t have been able to escape the thugs too.” You winced, patting his shoulder sympathetically.

“That’s not—” At your laughter he stops talking, and instead stares dumbly at you, slowly blinking, as you continue to laugh at him. He released a half-amused exhale while you snickered at him for the next few minutes.

The rest of the meeting went well, very well. The two of you had instantly fell back into your familiar banter, except it was a thousand times more exciting in person. After that meeting, Tim had started asking if you wanted to hang out regularly. It was a safe distance for both of you. Neither of you got too close.

Then he invited you to one of Bruce Wayne’s charity events. It was a casual invite, it meant nothing, and you knew that. He wasn’t inviting you as a partner, but as a friend. It was a completely normal invite that had no other implications. Why would you stress over that?

It certainly didn’t help your stress levels when you realized that if you accepted you’d have to meet Bruce Wayne himself.

You had— not subtly— asked Tim if this meant that you would be subjected to the judgment of his family. He had told you that you “Don’t need to worry about that” and that “They should be the last people judging.” Both of his “reassurances” did little to truly ease your worries.

Eventually, you had accepted, attempting to dress your best. The actual event itself was as you expected. Long and filled with lots of meaningless chatter. The main joy found was snickering with Tim off to the side. You had teased him for the sheer switch in personality he would make every time one of Gotham’s elites approached you both. It was kind of jarring, the phoniness of everything here. It made you feel better every time would side eye you with a look reading “Get a load of this guy.”

It reminded you that somehow you had worked into one of the highest circle’s in Gotham without even knowing. Seeing him turn to you, relieved to have somebody who knows him?

It may sound silly, but it made you feel good, like your friendship actually means something.

Your gratification at the prospect was short lived. Quickly replaced with the familiar stress of meeting Bruce Wayne. Tim reassured you that it would not be as bad as you were imagining, and that he’ll like you. You didn’t share his confidence, but you appreciated his optimism. You ignored the idea in your head that this could be interpreted as you both dating.

Cause that’d be stupid.

It turns out that Tim was right though. Bruce was actually not as bad as you expected. He was a bit brash and you definitely forced some laughs in the conversation, but he seemed to approve of you the second that Tim introduced you. You didn’t miss the look that he gave Tim when first introducing you. Tim never mentioned it afterwards, and while you were curious about it, you didn’t feel the need to bring it up.

By the end of the night, he had introduced you to most of his family, and— like Bruce— they all seemed to like you. The consensus seemed to be positive, which was what you were hoping for. After leaving your final introduction with Duke, Tim had placed his hand on your shoulder with a grin as if saying “See? You lived!”

After that event, you had assumed that meetings with his family would be few and far between. Perhaps for a social event every now and then, but you didn’t expect to start seeing them regularly.

It felt strange at first, like visiting someone’s house for the first time and always having to go through the unavoidable phase where you practically tip-toe everywhere, not wanting their family to hate you.

It was that but tenfold.

Tim had welcomed you in, soon followed by Steph and Duke. You felt more at ease the longer the four of you spent time together. By the time it was time for you to return home, you had practically forgotten your earlier worries.

It quickly became routine. At least once a week, you’d come over to hang out at the Manor. Sometimes Steph would be there, sometimes some of his brothers would be, and sometimes it’d be just you and Tim. As time went on, you started to hang out with his family without him, and you quickly found yourself recounting stories about Tim over girl’s night with Steph, Cass, and occasionally Barbara. You had told them how the two of you met, and somebody must have talked because you had received texts from Tim the next day saying that everybody was making fun of him. You felt a tad bit bad for him, but both of you seemed more amused than genuinely angry.

You were happy.

It seemed like everything was going right for once. You were doing well in university, your job was paying the bills, and you had a group of friends you truly liked being around. Your life felt normal, and that felt good.

Obviously, that normalcy didn't last for long.

You got out of the taxi, walking up the stone steps as you put your phone away. Unfortunately, registration this semester was not kind to you, and you ended up with a lecture at seven in the evening on a Friday.

Not ideal.

You had debated skipping this class, but you told yourself that you’re going to do the responsible thing and show up to class. After all, with finals coming up, you didn’t want to make any risks that could lead to failure.

The lecture itself was the same as always. You had definitely spaced out a few times, and the dim lighting of the room combined with the slow tone of the professor was not helping one bit. By the end of the lecture, it seemed like everybody was eager to go home, and the professor had even let the lecture end ten minutes earlier.

Instantly packing up all your notes, you had promptly left the building. The chilling breeze of Gotham immediately hit you, and you sighed realizing it had begun raining. Typical Gotham weather strikes again.

You had attempted to stay under any roofs you could, but eventually you were forced to venture out into the pouring rain. Before reaching the main streets, you had taken a shortcut. A shortcut you had taken hundreds of times in the past. It was a lot less crowded, and did a better job of shielding you from the rain.

Weaving around puddles on the ground, you attempted to get out of the path as fast as possible. All you could think of is that warm taxi that would be awaiting you at the end of this alley. The end was in sight, but that vision crumbled before your eyes when the resounding blow of gunfire echoed in your enclose space. It caused you to flinch, and you immediately spun around, attempting to determine the source of the sound. You didn’t see anybody behind you, so you came to the dreadful conclusion that it came from your intended destination.

You slow to a stop, is it worth just pushing forward and attempting to run for the first taxi you see? You already made it this far, and you’d have to retrace your steps just to take the alternative path. Sighing, you move to turn around when four men in balaclavas entered the alley, running like their life depended on it. Fuck.

“You think we lost em?” One of them, still looking back, asks. He turns to face you, and you stare at each other awkwardly.

“Scream and we put a bullet through you.” Another one hisses, raising his gun to point at you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you silently raise your hands, nodding.

They don’t separate as they each point their gun at you, slowly moving around you. They keep their eyes trained on you, and you aren't entirely sure which one to look at. They eventually made their way around you, and you were stuck in this awkward stalemate. They don't move to lower their guns.

“We can’t just let her go! She’s gonna run out and yell for someone!” One of them whispers to his friend.

“So what're we gonna do?” He whispers back.

“We can kill her?” Another one suggests. Please no. You bite your tongue to keep from saying something stupid.

“No, no, bad idea. The Bat will be on our ass if we leave a body behind.” A different one responds.

“So what? We just knock her out?” One of them gestures to you with his gun.

“Probably the best idea. We’re taking too long to debate this, somebody knock her out.” The one next to him points to you. You let out a sigh of relief, at least they won’t kill you. Maybe you can get away with just pretending to get knocked out and waiting for them to leave?

“Alright, I can do it.” One of them approaches you and raises the butt of his gun. He’s about to strike down, when he is flung against the wall, startling all of you.

“Who the hell?!” A thug cries out, raising his gun, finger twitching on the trigger. You instinctively cover your head and hunch over as he swings his gun to point to you. Once you realize he’s not aiming for you, you turn your gaze from the ground up to your savior.

Red Robin? Huh, what are the chances?

You watch as he effortlessly disarms the goons before sweeping two of them off their feet. Red Robin rushes to pin them back down, but one of them uses the opportunity to strike the vigilante just above the eye with the butt of his gun. You wince, hissing in sympathy. Red Robin barely reacts, instead giving them a quick strike to the head, silencing their yells.

You feel yourself relax as you watch Red Robin turn his head to the remaining thug. He’s attempting to run away, and Red Robin pulls out a grappling hook before launching it and yanking the guy back. “Please man! Let me go!”

“Not a chance.” Red Robin replies dryly before knocking him out, similar to the guys before. With all the threats neutralized, he turns to face you for the first time. Instinctively, you stand up straighter.

“Are you okay?” He asks, shifting on his feet under your gaze.

Huh, you didn’t expect him to sound like that. You weren’t sure what you expected, the voice modulation wasn't a surprise, but his tone is somewhat discernable. You had expected something similar to the grittiness of Batman or even the charismatic confidence of Nightwing.

If anything, you’d say Red Robin sounds just as awkward as you feel right now.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You nod, “Thanks.” You smile at him.

He returns the nod, “Yeah, of course.” He nods at you, and you smile at him. For a beat, neither of you say anything.

Well, this is going great.

“He didn't hit you too hard, right?” You break the silence, and Red Robin gives you a questioning frown. You gesture up to your own forehead, around the area you saw him get hit.

“Oh, that,” he mirrors your action, offering a small smile. “Nothing I can't handle, barely even noticed it.” He waves off your concern.

You nod, accepting that answer. “Were you the one who was chasing those guys?” You ask, and you want to smack yourself for the stupid question. Obviously he was the one chasing them.

“Hm? Oh,” he blinks down at the unconscious thugs, “yeah that was me.” He confirms. “They mention me?”

“Not by name. They just said they were being chased.” You watch as he grabs a bag off one of the thugs.

“Ah,” he clicks his tongue, “yeah that was me.” He’s not really facing you, but you can tell he’s smiling.

You purse your lips, unsure how to proceed with the conversation. Do you just leave? As you look over the scene, you notice something glint out of the corner of your eyes. You turn to Red Robin, but he isn’t looking at you. Hesitantly you approach the object, and you crouch down to look at it. It’s one of those Bat-shaped objects that the Bats carry on them.

Carefully, as if it's fragile, you pick it up. You’re surprised at first. It’s heavier than you expected, but you suppose that makes sense. To be able to do damage, it’d have to have some weight for something so small.

“You want to keep it?”

You jump as Red Robin’s voice suddenly appears right next to you. He raises his hands up, and gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No worries.” You offer him a small smile before returning your gaze to the object. “Don’t you guys need these things?” You wave it up.

He shrugs, and the action is so normal that you want to laugh. “Batarangs?” Huh, that’s what they’re called. He waves a casual hand at you, “We have plenty. Plus, we lose them all the time. You can keep it.”

Your mouth parts, and you’re about to open your mouth when he adds on. “Consider it a souvenir.” He grins looking down for a second before reaching to rub his back, meeting your eyes again as he massages himself. You watch as his eyes flicker over your form, looking up and down.

You freeze.

Not because of the Batarang, but because of the actions.

He chuckles at your appalled expression. “I mean you don’t—” he abruptly stops speaking before letting out a deep sigh.

His sigh only causes your jaw to drop even more, yet he doesn’t notice. He mouths a quiet “Sorry” before turning away from you, speaking to whoever is calling him.

You aren’t sure what he is talking about or even who he is talking to, but you’re hit with what may be the most insane conclusion you’ve ever reached (even more insane than Tim attempting to catfish you).

You steel yourself before turning your full attention to Red Robin. He’s restless, shifting on his feet in a way that tells you that he’d rather be pacing at the moment.

There’s no way your hypothesis is correct.

Red Robin sighs again, and you see him place his hands over his mask. You narrow your eyes at the action.

It’d make sense though.

You’re willing to chalk up a few shared mannerisms to just basic human traits. A couple makes sense, that’s normal. Now if you add the fact that Tim has been the best photographer for the vigilantes you’ve ever seen?

That’s a little more suspicious.

Then if you add on the fact that he has confirmed that he’s conversed with Robin in the past?

Your eyes are locked onto Red Robin, and he must feel your piercing gaze because he turns towards you. He seems to be taken aback by your blatant staring, but you can’t even help yourself because how else do you process this? He tilts his head, and you offer a strained smile in apology before averting your gaze.

The reason he couldn’t post the photos was because the vigilantes asked him not to.

The reason he could take the photos wasn’t because he had insane luck.

You watch as Red Robin shifts on his feet once again, before tilting his head up to the sky in an exasperated motion. The action uncannily familiar.

Holy shit.

You don’t a chance to process the revelation because the reason Red Robin was looking up quickly becomes evident. You jump back as Nightwing lands casually behind Red Robin and in front of you.

He turns to face you and for a moment he looks startled by your presence before he smirks. “Ahhh, I get it now.” Nightwing grins as Red Robin slowly turns to face him. “Real important stuff to handle, huh?”

“Can you not—” You watch as Red Robin furtively glances between you and Nightwing. “I did handle stuff.” He gestures down to the unconscious bodies below, "As you can see.”

Nightwing nods, “Yuh-huh,” he places his hands on his hips as he turns around to look at the entire scene. “I’m sorry, Miss. Is this guy bothering you?” Nightwing gives you a shit-eating grin, and yup.

If you didn’t know that Red Robin is Tim before, you certainly know now. Dick looks nearly the exact same, and for a moment you ponder how people have never connected him with Nightwing, especially with the devious grin he is giving you now.

“I am not bothering her! I just sav—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Nightwing raises his finger and shushes him softly, and you have to look away in order to avoid laughing. “Let her speak for herself.” Nightwing gestures to you in a slight bow.

Yeah, Tim. You snort as Red Robin takes a deep breath in order to calm himself. You offer a small grin to Red Robin, and he keeps his gaze trained on you, “He wasn’t a bother. He saved me from these guys. In fact—” you raise the Batarang up, “—he gave me a souvenir.” You grin at Dick.

He lets out a surprised bark of laughter before turning to Tim, who refuses to look at either of you. You think you can hear Tim mutter “Oh my God.”

“Aw, givin' out gifts to civilians now?” Dick teases Tim.

Tim groans, and you think you can see him turning red. You feel a little bad for embarrassing him in front of his brothers, but this reaction makes it all worth it. “I’m leaving.” He declares before launching his grappling hook up to the railing at the roof above you. He gives you one last look, a minuscule nod, before leaving.

You and Dick watch as he leaves before he turns back to you. “You are actually okay though, right?” He reaches out to put his hands on your shoulders before stopping and awkwardly putting them down.

You smile at Dick, nodding. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

He nods, “Well, get home safely. I’ll handle these guys.” He gestures his thumb down to the thugs on the ground. As if on cue, one of them begins to groan as they wake up. “You might wanna stay down, bud.” He gives you one last glance before winking and turning back to the thugs on the ground.

You watch him for a moment before walking out of the alley and waving down a taxi. You tell him your apartment complex, and look out the window. You rest your head on the window as you watch Gotham pass by you. You feel yourself truly relax for the first time in an hour before immediately stiffening.

How the hell are you going to tell Tim?

The day of the dinner arrives sooner than you’d like.

You are no closer to figuring out how to tell Tim that you know. You debated just texting him, but quickly threw that suggestion in the trash. Bad idea, terrible idea.

You pace your living room back and forth, trying to calm yourself. It’s not even dinner you’re worried about. What if you act oddly? Tim will definitely figure it out if you are fidgeting every five seconds. You must act normally, that can’t be too difficult? Just don’t think about it. It’s not like Red Robin or even Nightwing will come up in conversation with his family, right? That’s not really a dinner table topic.

Yeah.

You’ll be fine.

Just act normal—

Tim: I’m here

You swallow as you grab your items, giving your apartment one last look over, before exiting. You find Tim waiting in the parking lot, and you make eye contact through the windshield. He raises a hand, giving you a small smile, his other hand is lazily tapping the steering wheel.

“Thank you again for doing this.” Tim smiles gratefully at you as you step into the passenger seat. You attempt to smile back at him. You observe the interior of his car.

Hm. Red. Interesting. Almost like Red Robin—

You chuckle, more out of nerves than any actual amusement, “Yeah, no problem."

He pauses, giving you a long look before laughing softly. “Don’t be nervous. It’s relatively painless, and Alfred is making your favorite.”

You smile at the thought, “How’d you convince him to do that?”

Tim smacks his lips, “Let’s just say that my dignity isn’t in tact anymore.”

You raise an eyebrow, “I thought you didn’t have much of that?” He takes his eyes off the road for a second to give you a decidedly unimpressed expression. You return it with a smile, “I mean you practically had to beg me to show up with you—”

“Woah, okay.” His eyebrows shoot up, “First off, that wasn’t begging—”

You pull out your phone, “— ‘I'd literally get on my knees and beg if I could’” You recite his words to him, reading the text directly. When you look up, his face is a light red. You try and catch his eyes, but he is stubbornly refusing to meet your own, instead focusing on the road. “Sound familiar to you?”

He remains silent for a bit. “I— Uh— Well, no. I never heard that before.”

“Mhm, sure.” You lean your elbow against the side of the car, propping your face up. His eyes flicker over to you, and he somehow gets more red. He looks you up and down for a brief moment, and while Tim usually does that, you did notice that Red Robin also—

Nope. Do not think about your best friend’s alternate vigilante identity while in the car with him. Stay focused.

The remainder of the ride is filled with light banter, your teasing provides a reprieve from your thoughts. It’s not long before you both pull up. “Master Tim.” Alfred greets Tim before turning to you and greeting you in similar fashion. “A little birdie told me to put your favorite on the menu for tonight.” Alfred offers a small smile, and both you and Tim stiffen.

Oh. Bird puns.

Yeah, Alfred definitely knows.

“Aw, thank you, Alfred. I think the little birdie knew I wouldn’t have come otherwise.” You nudge Tim teasingly. For a moment, he doesn’t react and you wonder if he’s even breathing. “Right, birdie?” You lightly nudge Tim again.

“Yeah, uh— mhm?” You frown at the reaction. Tim shifts on his feet, and waves you off casually. “Sorry, just uh— dinner, you know? Got me stressed?”

You nod, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, “Right,” you turn back to Alfred, “Thanks again, Alfred.” You grin at him.

“My pleasure, Miss.” He inclines his head to you, “Now, if you’re ready to greet the others.” He turns around, tossing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure you and Tim are following.

“Look who finally showed his face— Oh,” Steph abruptly cuts herself off.

“Hello to you too.” You respond dryly, taking a seat at the table.

Steph grins at you, “Hello!” She greet you before glaring at Tim. “You know what you’re doing.”

“Yep.” Tim replies dryly. He takes the seat across you, he offers you a small smirk.

“And you know we can’t do anything about it.” She huffs, shaking her head disapprovingly.

You nod solemnly, “I was informed that I was bait.”

Dick chokes on his water, “You told her that?”

“I did not tell her that.” Tim furrows his eyebrows at you, raising his hands in surrender. “She reached that conclusion on her own.”

“Is that all you told her?” Duke asks, raising an eyebrow. He looks between you both.

“Yes.” Tim nearly hisses, eyes wide as if saying “Not one more word.” He clears his throat, sparing you a quick glance, and releases a long sigh, “Is Bruce here, yet?”

“You’re attempts to change the topic at hand are futile.” Damian looks between you and Tim, evidently bored.

Dick frowns at Tim before sighing, “No… He had some last minute business to take care of. He’ll be a little late.”

“Perfect.” Tim abruptly stands up, and your mouth parts, taken aback. “It’s getting kind of hot in here. I think I need a minute. I— Uh— Do you wanna head up for a bit until Bruce shows up?” Tim turns to you.

You furrow your eyebrows, if he needs a minute, why is he asking you to come with him?

“Sure?” Tim is already walking around the long dining table, he raises his hand to gently guide you away from everybody before you get a chance to say anything else. “Isn’t this rude?” You whisper to him, his hand is still guiding your back.

“Not with them. That kind of rude doesn’t count.” Tim huffs, and you two begin the familiar trek to his room.

You release an amused huff, “For you. What if they think I’m rude or something?”

Tim spares a glance at you, as if the idea you presented is absurd. “They’ll just blame it on me.” He shrugs. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it later.” He rubs your shoulder casually, offering you a smile that tells you he’s used to this.

You furrow your eyebrows in concern, “If you say so…” You trail off, hesitant. He gestures for you to enter his room. The space is familiar. You’ve been here many times in the past. However, never had you known that Tim is Red Robin during those times. Your eyes survey the room in front of you. Nothing is different about it (why did you expect there to be anything different?). You slowly make your way over to his desk, a few pieces of scrap paper lay on it. Nothing incriminating. You frown looking over the contents of the paper.

Tim appears at your side, “You okay?” He asks, following your gaze to the paper.

You nod, turning to him, “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?” You pace the room for a beat before planting yourself onto his bed, something you’ve done a million times before.

He looks you up and down, and you resist stiffening under his scrutiny. He must’ve found something because he frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, then slowly walks over to you. “I… Sorry, was asking you to come for dinner too much?” He sits down next to you, and his gaze falls down to your hand on his comforter.

You blink, looking off to the side before returning your attention to him. “No, no, it’s fine.” You shake your head, “It’s not something I haven’t done before.” You shrug, attempting to offer him a reassuring smile.

Tim’s frown doesn’t change. “You don’t actually have to do this if you don’t want to… I know I was kinda joking about needing you here, but if there’s something—”

“Tim, there’s nothing wrong. What gave you that impression?” You feel your heart race. Does he know that you know?

He meets your eyes, your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and his eyes trail down to your shoulders. “I… You just seem—” his eyes look off at something off to the side, “—distracted, is all.” Your lips part, and his gaze returns to you. “You don’t have to say anything. This isn’t me trying to pressure you into telling me if something is up.” He rambles, shaking his head.

You heave a sigh, “It’s— I don’t think you want to know, Tim.”

Perhaps that’s the wrong thing to say to a detective because Tim— despite his attempts to be sympathetic— also has that spark of curiosity in his eyes. He trains his eyes on you, as if expecting to you to continue. When you don’t, he hesitantly responds: “If— and again, this is not me pressuring you— If it helps you get something off your chest, then I will always be here to listen.”

You swallow, looking toward Tim, “That’s… Thanks, Tim. I really appreciate that.” He nods, offering you a smile, and slowly inching his hand closer to yours. You pretend not to notice. “Are you sure you want to hear what I want to say?” You whisper softly to him, smiling nervously.

He blinks, “If that’s what you wish,” he changes his focus from your hand to your face, “then yes.” He gives you a disarming smile.

Your smile grows, “This is your last chance, Tim.”

His eyes lighten up, “Well,” he chuckles, “I’m not planning on changing my mind.”

You smile, leaning closer, and Tim mirrors the action whether he knows it or not. His chest rises and falls, slow, and you look into his eyes. The blue diminishing by the second as its replaced by the growing size of his pupil.

“Do you remember the other night?” You keep the same quiet tone, the words are meant for him— and him alone.

Tim’s eyebrows raise, evidently not expecting that, “What?” His words are breathless, but still ring of confusion.

“I just… I appreciate you helping me out.” You smile at him, watching as he processes the information.

“Yeah…” He slowly nods, eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, that… It’s no issue it all. I…” He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes are turned away from you. His eyes gloss over the ground. He must remember that you’re watching because he suddenly turns to look at you tight-lipped smile. “Yeah...” he trails off, “Could you remind me exactly what I helped you with?”

You chuckle at his attempts to play it off— and failing. “Oh, come on, Tim.” You tilt your head at him, “You remember. You gave me the souvenir.”

You can see the exact moment his soul leaves his body.

He doesn’t instantly react. Instead he stares at you (or, more accurately, through you) unblinking. At his lack of a functioning reaction, you worry that maybe this wasn’t the best idea to go about this. After all you still have to sit through dinner after this. You aren’t even sure if he’s breathing when his smile strains in a way that almost looks painful.

“What?” His voice is quiet, as if incapable of mustering up any more volume.

Your purse your lips, taking a deep breath. You don’t get a chance to respond because he continues. “I… I haven’t given you anything— I think I’d remember if I gave you a souvenir.” He laughs, slightly hysterical. “You might be thinking of somebody else?”

You sigh, slowly reaching your hand up to his chin. Tim immediately stiffens at the contact, as if afraid him moving would deter you. A small smirk grows on your face when you realize how red Tim is at your touch. Gently, you move a few strands of hair out of his face, and he doesn’t stop you. They were covering up a specific spot, and while it appears Tim did try to cover up the bruise he received from the other night, he did not do a clean enough job.

“That’s,” he swallows, “That’s uh— I fell off my skateboard.” He doesn’t attempt to move your hands away from his face.

“Mhm,” you hum disbelievingly, “in the same spot Red Robin got hit, right? You two skateboard together?” You tease lightly.

“Well, I—” he clears his throat, leaning away from you, and you don’t try to stop him. “I… think?” He presses his hands onto his face, shielding his face from your view.

You frown, amusement evident in your tone. “You don’t know?”

He shifts his hands slightly, peaking through his fingers to look at you on his side. “I… You know, maybe you were right that I didn’t want to know.”

You let out an startled puff of air, “Oh,” you begin slowly, “now you heed my warnings?”

He avoids your eyes, smacking his lips. “Okay, fine, but how did you figure it out?” He asks, resting elbow on his knee. He props his head up, rubbing his forehead as if to remove tension.

“You share mannerisms with Red Robin.” He squeezes his eyes shut at the mention of his alter ego.

His jaw drops. “There’s no way you figured me out just because I acted kinda similar. I had a voice modulator!” He whisper-yells.

You nod, “Well, yeah, initially it was just suspicion. Then Dick showed up.” You watch as Tim mouths the words “Oh my God.” You smile sympathetically at Tim, “Yeah, I don’t know how anybody who looks at Nightwing for longer than a minute doesn’t put two and two together.”

“So what you’re saying is that it’s Dick’s fault.” Tim furrows his eyebrows at you. His hands aren’t covering his face anymore.

You frown, “You sent me photos of yourself.” Tim instantly gives you a look of horror, and you watch as he begins to turn red again. “Uh— I mean you were posing for the camera as Red Robin.” You elaborate, and Tim looks no less embarrassed.

“Okay,” he holds a finger up, adjusting his position on the bed next to you. “I did not pose for the camera. I just took a photo of whatever I was doing at the moment.” He grumbles.

You nod, “Modeling, apparently.” You quietly respond, at his glare you smile back at him. “I kept the Batarang by the way. It’s sitting in my room.” His glare softens at that, and he looks at you for a beat before flopping onto his back. The action causes the bed to jostle a little bit. You follow suit, turning to face him. “I wasn’t gonna tell anybody, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He turns to face you, and the two of you are inches apart, “That wasn’t my worry. It never was.” He whispers back.

You use your arm as a pillow as he continues to stare at you, “Then what is?”

He doesn’t immediately respond, but when he does his words are soft. “I didn’t want you involved in this.” He begins. “I… I don’t want you getting hurt because you know me.”

You let out a long exhale, “Tim,” you start, reaching for his hand, “if I didn’t want to be involved, I would’ve stopped the moment you started ‘chasing after vigilantes’ for photos.” You chuckle as he sheepishly looks away at the mention of his escapades. “I like being around you, Tim. That doesn’t change just because you go out as Red Robin every night.”

He swallows, squeezing your hand, “I… I like you—” He hastily cuts himself off, “—I like being around you too.” He smiles at you, and you feel better seeing that familiar spark in his eyes. “I… You’re not mad or anything right?”

You furrow your eyebrows, “That you like me?”

Instantly, that spark is replaced by pure unadulterated horror. He sits, startling you, “No! I meant the—” at your laughter, the tension leaves his body, and he releases a soft puff of air before slowly settling next to you again. “You know what I meant.” He scoffs, but it appears more endearing than anything.

You chuckle, smiling at him, “I’m not upset, Tim. If anything it makes sense. I was wondering how you always had such clear photos of the vigilantes. Oh— Terrible way to hide your identity by the way, going around and taking selfies of yourself.” You watch as he lightly glares at you before settling down closer than he was before. “And your terrible sleeping schedule makes sense now.”

He smacks his lips, “Okay, but I have an excuse. You—” he lightly points an accusing finger at you, “— do not.”

You grin, grabbing his hand, pressing it against the soft mattress of his bed. You adjust your position, ready to defend yourself, “Oh, really—”

“Father is here. He requests your presence—” Both you and Tim jolt as if caught doing something illegal before turning to look at Damian. To nobody’s surprise, he looks wildly unimpressed (and perhaps a little disgusted) by you both.

“Damian, can’t you knock?” Tim groans, brushing off imaginary dust off himself.

Damian’s eyes linger on your hand laid casually over Tim’s. Slowly, you remove it, and Tim frowns down at his lone hand. “I did knock. I took your lack of response as permission for entry.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works… like at all.” Tim stands up, and you follow suit.

Damian eyes you both accusingly then huffs. He whips around before shutting the door behind him, leaving you and Tim there standing awkwardly.

“We… We better get down there. He’s going to tell everybody.” Tim looks over to you, eyebrows creased in worry imagining what might be conversed at the dinner table. You nod solemnly, that would not be ideal.

“Lead the way, Birdie.” You walk up to his side, and Tim freezes at the nickname. You release a loud laugh at the reaction.

“You’re lucky I don’t have time to address that.” He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s a smirk on his face.

“Aw, I knew you like me.” You grin, nudging your hand against his own.

He lets out a long sigh, and his smile turns soft. “Yeah,” he swallows, “I do.” He clasps your arm, and you give him a blinding grin.

A/N: Maybe I should just start up a collection of “civilian reader scaring the shit out of her boyfriend after figuring out he’s a vigilante but being unsure how to tell him so she goes about it in the most stressful way possible for him.” We’re going 2 for 2 and I absolutely LOVE this trope. Anyway, sorry this took a while! I have one more final then I’m FREE! I absolutely LOVED this idea, and I really hope I did it justice. Online friend!Tim Drake has so much potential and it’s definitely an idea I wouldn’t mind revisiting in the future. As always, feel free to let me know about any major errors :)! Funny thing, I actually had to write some small headcannons for myself of some random traits I think Tim would have so that Reader could inevitably realize Tim = Red Robin. If you guys wanna see that let me know, they aren’t very long, but you might notice a few things if you go back and reread it :)!

this post was created with NO HELP from Artificial Intelligence.

dividers credits: @/saradika-graphics

I wasn’t planning to do another SMAU anytime soon, but because of all the love and support on the first WFGC SMAU, i decided to do another SMAU so i hope you enjoy it!

— tim drake

— dick grayson

— jason todd

a/n: baby's first SMAU! this is a prompt that has floated around in my brain for a while and i'm honestly kind of shocked that i've never seen it done before (let me know if u have). all the pictures are from pinterest btw. let me know what u think!

likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3

So did knowing which blocks to avoid after sunset, which dealers would ignore a starving kid in their bins, and which shouts in the alleyways meant nothing more than another drunken fight that would burn itself out on its own. Other shouts meant blood. Those, he learned to run from.

Bravery didn’t keep anyone alive in Crime Alley. Timing did.

That was why you made no sense to him.

You should have known better than to interfere. Everybody did. You were old enough to know how Gotham worked, old enough to understand that stepping between violence and the people it wanted usually only meant getting hit first.

But you did it anyway.

Not because you were fearless. Jason knew what fear looked like. He’d seen your hands shake after fights you barely won, watched you rinse blood from your knuckles in the sink of a gas station bathroom, jaw set tight while younger kids hovered nearby pretending not to stare.

You were afraid plenty.

You just never seemed willing to let fear make your choices for you.

At twelve, Jason had thought you looked half-grown and indestructible.

Looking back, he understood you were neither.

You were only a two or three years older than him, all sharp bones and stubborn posture, with the rangy build every underfed Gotham kid seemed to end up with. Adults still towered over you. Older teens could still throw their weight around with you if they wanted. There was nothing about you that should have made anyone in the Alley think twice.

And yet they did.

Because if someone smaller got cornered, you stepped in.

If a kid got their food stolen, you split yours.

If someone cried, you stayed.

You couldn’t stop everything. You couldn’t stop the disappearances, the beatings, the cold nights, the empty stomachs, or the way the Alley swallowed kids whole and kept going like nothing had happened.

But you tried.

Jason had never understood why.

He met you behind a convenience store with somebody’s filthy hand twisted in the front of his shirt.

One second he’d been digging through the bins, sorting through wet cardboard and spoiled food for anything salvageable. The next he was yanked off the ground hard enough to make his teeth click together.

The man smelled like stale beer, piss, and general old stank.

"Thieving little bastard," he slurred, spit hitting Jason’s cheek. "Think I don’t see you?"

Jason kicked hard, shoes scraping uselessly through the air. Panic struck fast and hot, filling his throat until breathing hurt. He’d been grabbed before. He knew how this would g. Bad. Fast.

Nobody was coming.

Then metal cracked against bone.

The man swore and dropped him.

Jason hit the pavement hard, palms scraping on gravel.

"Run!"

Your voice.

He barely saw you at first. Just the rusted length of pipe in your hands and the wild, furious look on your face as you planted yourself between him and a grown man twice your size. You’d hit his shoulder hard enough to stagger him, but not hard enough to keep him down for long.

Jason ran.

He ran because he knew how to survive, because you’d shouted it, because staying would be stupid.

He made it halfway down the block before he realised he couldn’t hear your footsteps behind him.

He kept going for three more strides.

Then he stopped.

Every instinct he had screamed at him not to turn around. Survival had rules, and one of the biggest was simple: if somebody bought you a chance to escape, you took it and you didn’t look back.

Jason broke that rule anyway.

When he crept back behind the shop, the man was gone.

You were sitting on the ground with your back to the brick wall, one eye swelling, blood working its way down from a split lip in a thin line. The rusty pipe lay a few feet from your hand. You were staring at the pavement like if you concentrated hard enough, the pain might become somebody else’s problem.

Your head lifted when you heard him.

For a second, you just looked at him.

Then your expression changed. Surprise first, then something softer and more disbelieving.

"..You came back?"

Jason frowned like the question itself was stupid. "You got left behind."

You stared at him a beat longer.

Then you laughed once, short and broken off by a hiss when it pulled at your mouth.

"Yeah," you muttered. "Guess I did."

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, Jason started looking for you.

Not because you were the strongest kid in the Alley. You weren’t.

Not because you won every fight. He saw pretty quickly that you didn’t. Most times, stepping in just meant you walked away with another bruise blooming under your skin, another split knuckle, another limp you tried to hide from the younger ones.

But you kept doing it.

You kept choosing people.

He never figured out how to make sense of that.

He only knew the Alley felt different when you were close.

Not safer, exactly. Crime Alley didn’t become safe just because one stubborn kid with a bad temper and a worse savior complex was nearby.

But it felt less final. Like the world had missed a spot. Like maybe it hadn’t finished swallowing the two of you yet.

Without ever meaning to, you had become the standard Jason measured everyone else against.

Bruce had expected resistance.

He had expected suspicion, anger, hell even a bolt for the nearest unlocked door. Jason had survived by trusting no one, and Wayne Manor, with its polished floors, its cavernous ceilings, was the sort of place a boy like him would sooner flinch from than accept.

What Bruce had not expected was for Jason to stop in the middle of the foyer and refuse to move another inch.

The front doors were still open behind them, breathing cold night air into the warm gold of the entrance hall. Alfred had gone still near the staircase, wise enough not to interrupt whatever fragile thing was happening. Bruce turned back just in time to see Jason tighten both hands around the straps of his backpack hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

The boy’s boyish blue eyes were bubbling up with tears.

He was staring past Bruce, past Alfred, straight through the open doors.

Bruce followed his gaze and found you standing at the bottom of the steps.

You had not come in.

Of course you hadn’t.

You stood with your shoulders hunched, as though trying to make yourself smaller against the sheer size of the manor. The porch light caught on the frayed cuffs of your sleeves, the worn toes of your shoes, the fading marks on your jaw and throat that no child your age should have known how to carry so casually. You looked like someone already preparing to be left behind with dignity.

Bruce felt the shape of the problem at once.

“You’ll still see them,” he said carefully.

Jason did not look at him.

“They’re not coming in.”

Bruce kept his voice even. “That doesn’t mean you won’t stay friends.”

Jason’s jaw set. “No.”

“You can visit. They can visit. Nothing has to end tonight.”

“No.”

There was no petulance in it. No ordinary childish refusal. Every answer came out low and hard, like something dragged up from much deeper than anger.

Bruce watched the boy for a long moment.

Jason’s breathing had gone shallow fast. There was grief in the room already, absurd and premature, as if he had only just been handed a future and was already bracing for it to take something from him.

“Jason,” Bruce said quietly. “Tell me what you want.”

Only then did Jason tear his eyes away from you long enough to glare at him.

The answer came like it was obvious.

“They come too.”

Silence.

Bruce looked back outside.

You had taken half a step away already. Leaving before anyone had to tell you there was no space for you here.

He could tell you didn’t want to. But, in your mind, Jason had been chosen.

You hadn’t.

And Bruce understood, with sudden uncomfortable clarity, that if he let that happen, Jason would never forgive him for it.

Not later. Not ever.

Alfred cleared his throat softly.

“Master Bruce,” he said, “I believe the young master has made his wishes rather clear.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose.

Then, he called, “Would you come inside for a moment?”

You looked over your shoulder.

A ridiculous reflex, really. As if there might be someone else on the steps. As if a place like this could not possibly be asking for you.

Jason made an impatient sound and flung one hand in your direction.

You looked at him first.

Only after that did you come.

Slowly. Carefully. Like a stray coaxed toward a doorway it had no reason to trust.

You crossed the threshold and stopped immediately, feet close together on the polished floor, hands shoved deep into your pockets. You’d reeled your pheromones in quickly.

Bruce saw the way your eyes flicked over everything without resting anywhere long. Chandeliers. Marble. Staircase. Paintings. Wealth enough to feed whole neighborhoods, gathered under one roof and lit warm enough to make it seem kind.

You did not touch a thing.

Bruce had seen that before too.

Children who grew up with nothing often learned to move through beautiful places as if beauty itself were breakable, and they would be blamed if it cracked.

He crouched so he would not tower over you.

Up close, the details sharpened. Old bruises. New bruises. A split at one knuckle. Exhaustion hidden beneath sheer stubbornness.

“If Jason would feel more comfortable with you here,” Bruce said, choosing each word with care, “then I would like to speak with you about staying as well.”

For a second, you only stared.

“Me?” The disbelief in your voice was quiet enough to hurt.

Bruce nodded once. “If you want that.”

Your head turned so quickly it was almost painful to watch, eyes going wide as they landed on Jason.

Jason was already smiling.

It changed his whole face.

Not the sharp little smirk Bruce had seen in the car, not the wary, defensive thing he wore like armor. This was open. Bright. A child’s expression, sudden and unguarded and so full of relief that Bruce felt something in his chest go tight.

It was the first time Jason had looked happy since Bruce had met him.

And it was because of you.

So you remained.

Your clothes began appearing in drawers instead of laundry baskets. A second toothbrush appeared in one of the upstairs bathrooms when Alfred informed you, with measured horror, that of course you should have your own. School uniforms were tailored. Shoes replaced. Bruises treated before they could fade into old ones.

Dick adored you almost instantly, which was unfortunate for everyone involved, because Dick adored loudly.

He inserted himself into your orbit with the natural confidence of someone who had never once doubted he belonged where he stood, and before long he had taken to dragging both you and Jason through the manor in search of hidden staircases, disused rooms, and places Alfred absolutely did not want children climbing on.

You humored him with an ease Jason found suspicious.

Jason tolerated him because you did. That was as generous as he ever got about it.

He got used to the manor in ways that made Bruce hopeful and uneasy all at once. He learned the rhythms of the house quickly. Learned where the floorboards sang beneath careless feet and where the sunlight landed best in winter. Learned how to sleep through thunderstorms beneath a roof that did not leak.

And, more than any of that, he learned where to find you.

In the library, cross-legged on the rug with a book half-open in your lap.

In the gym, sweating through drills while Bruce corrected your stance and Dick offered commentary nobody had asked for.

On the east balcony after nightmares, face turned toward the dark grounds beyond the gardens as if habit still expected danger to come from open space.

Wherever you were, Jason’s body seemed to know it before the rest of him did.

At first, Bruce thought very little of it. It was not unhealthy. Not yet. Jason had spent too long surviving alone. There were worse things than attachment.

But attachment, Bruce learned, was too small a word for what formed between the two of you.

It showed itself in strange, quiet ways.

Jason could be laughing with Dick one moment and looking toward the door the next, distracted by some shift Bruce could not track until you entered the room and Jason settled without seeming aware he had gone taut in the first place.

If dinner ran late and you had not come down yet, Jason lingered instead of eating.

If you were sent on an errand with Alfred or kept behind after a lesson, he became brittle around the edges. Sharper. Easier to provoke.

Jason lasted nineteen minutes before throwing his escrima stick across the mat.

Dick blinked. “Okay, wow. Dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic.”

Bruce folded his arms. “Then what are you being?”

Jason did not answer.

He stood with his shoulders tight and his mouth drawn thin, furious with Bruce and clearly angrier that he could not explain why.

The gym doors opened.

You stepped in, late from another lesson, apology already on your tongue.

Jason visibly relaxed.

It happened so quickly Bruce might have missed it if he had not already been watching for patterns. The stiffness bled out of him. His breathing evened. The violence in his posture simply... vanished.

Dick looked between the two of you, brow furrowing.

Bruce said nothing.

But afterwards, he began adjusting schedules.

Jason trained better with you there.

That was true in every measurable sense. He listened longer. Focused harder. Recovered from frustration faster. Even his temper, so quick to flare under criticism, seemed steadier when you were close enough to brush shoulders with in passing.

He learned your movements along with his own.

And you, without realising it, learned him just as thoroughly.

A hand at the nape of his neck when his breathing went wrong after sparring. A quiet nudge of your knee against his under the dinner table when Dick needled him too far. Your voice, low and familiar, cutting through the noise in his head before it built into something ugly.

You steadied him.

More dangerously, Jason was beginning to understand that you could.

It was Alfred who noticed the presentation first.

An old shirt of yours vanishing from the laundry and turning up two days later under Jason’s pillow.

Blankets smelling faintly of him in places he had no business sleeping.

The armchair in the library, the window seat in the second-floor hall, the corner of the couch where he liked to wedge himself beside you, all carrying that soft, newly-developing trace of omega scent that was behind in places his instincts had claimed safe.

Bruce had not noticed.

Alfred had.

“He has began presenting.” Alfred said one evening over tea.

Bruce looked up from the file in his hands. “He’s already scenting? Where?”

Alfred’s expression was both fond and deeply telling.

“Primarily,” he said, “wherever they are.”

Bruce leaned back in his chair. That explained more than he wanted it to.

By then Jason had started borrowing your things shamelessly. Jackets. Hoodies. A scarf once, though he denied it until Dick found him asleep with it looped around one wrist like it had wandered there on its own.

He gravitated toward you naturally, and you, probably from habit, made space.

As an alpha, you should have clocked the changes before Jason did.

The shift in his scent. The instinctive seeking. The way his body had begun orienting itself around you with a devotion it did not yet have language for.

But you never pushed him away. Didn’t laugh or force distance when his instincts asked for closeness.

Bruce wondered if you understood more than you let on.

Alfred, predictably, understood everything. “I suspect Master Jason has already decided where his pack lies.”

Bruce’s gaze drifted towards the study window.

For Jason’s sake, he only hoped that instinct would never have reason to change.

Jason’s first heat broke over him like a fever dream.

One moment he had been sitting on the floor of the sitting room, pretending to read while actually listening to the older two argue over patrol routes. The next every sound in the manor was too sharp. The clock too loud. Dick’s laugh unbearable. Even the collar of his own shirt felt wrong against his skin.

He stood too quickly.

Dick looked up. “Jay?”

“Don’t.”

The word came out clipped. Breathless.

Bruce was already moving, all attention sharpening at once. “Jason.”

“I said don’t.”

He didn’t know what was happening.

His skin felt too tight. His thoughts all jumbled up and cloudy. Every unfamiliar scent scratching at his nerves, and beneath all of it was a crawling, awful ache for something he could not name.

He made it halfway upstairs before panic took him properly.

By the time Bruce and Dick reached his room, it was empty.

They found him eventually in yours.

Not in your bed.

In your closet, curled into a miserable knot between clothes, clutching one of your hoodies to his chest so tightly his hands had twisted in the fabric. His cheeks were wet. His eyes feral.

Bruce stopped in the doorway. “Jason..?”

“Fuck off.”

“We’re trying to help.”

“No.”

There was no reasoning with that tone.

Bruce lowered his voice. “Would it help if we called them home?”

Jason’s answer broke out of him so quickly that he hadn’t even waited for Bruce to finish the thought.

“Yes.”

You were home in less than twenty minutes.

Bruce met you in the hall. “He’s in your room.”

Your expression changed fast. Alarm, understanding, then something softer.

Bruce remained near the door.

From where he stood, he could see the exact moment Jason realised it was you.

The air changed before Jason did. The moment your scent reached him, something frantic in the room seemed to recoil and loosen all at once. His shoulders shook with one sharp breath. Then another. His grip on the hoodie slackened.

You crouched in front of the wardrobe and spoke his name like you had all the time in the world.

No urgency. No pity. No fear.

Jason looked at you as if he had been drowning.

“Hey,” you murmured.

His face crumpled with mortification almost immediately after relief.

“Sorry.”

Your brows furrowed. “For what?”

“I don’t know what’s happening.”

There was a crack in his voice now, small and young enough that Bruce had to look away for a moment.

You did not.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” you said.

Then you sat on the floor and leaned against the side of the wardrobe, close enough for him to reach out if he needed.

Jason stared for two long seconds.

Then, while trembling, he moved.

Like an animal approaching warmth after too long in winter. He folded into your side and went still the moment you let him.

Bruce had never seen an omega in heat settle so fast.

The panic did not vanish entirely, but it softened. Jason’s breathing steadied against your shoulder. His fingers loosened. The wildness left his eyes as your hand rose to the back of his head and stayed there.

From that point on, Jason’s instincts did not merely prefer you. They arranged themselves around you.

He slept easier if he had one of your sweatshirts. He calmed faster after nightmares if you were the one who found him.

He grew territorial. Drifting closer when strangers stood too near, bristling when others, omegas and alphas alike, touched you too casually.

He did not know yet that devotion could become hunger.

Only that the shape of his peace had become embarrassingly, helplessly, yours.

And because he was still young, because the manor was warm and you were always there and the world had not yet taught him what it would cost to lose you, he let himself believe that was enough.

And for a while, it was.

The first time Jason kissed you, he was fourteen and furious about it.

Not with you.

Mostly with himself.

A little with Dick, because he had a talent for making everything worse merely by existing nearby.

It happened in the cave after patrol.

Bruce had gone to change. Dick had been talking a mile a minute about some acrobatic move he swore Jason had nearly ruined by not trusting his timing. Jason had called him insufferable. Dick, of course, had preened under it.

Then Dick had thrown an arm around your shoulders. Casual. Mindless. The kind of easy touch Dick gave everyone he loved without thinking.

Jason saw it and something hot and ugly flared low in his stomach. Too quick. Too sharp. Too much.

He hated how his first urge was to knock Dick’s hand away.

“Get off,” Jason snapped.

Dick blinked. “Excuse you?”

“Get off them.”

Your head turned, surprise knitting your brows. “Jay-”

Dick’s arm slipped away, but his expression shifted. Curious. Then knowing in that awful older-brother way Jason wanted to punch on sight.

“Oh,” Dick said.

Jason wanted to kill him.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Dick’s grin turned bright and dangerous. “Was I?”

Jason took a step forward.

Bruce appeared from the corridor at exactly the right moment to prevent a fight and exactly the wrong one to spare Jason his dignity.

“What is going on?”

“Nothing,” Jason said flatly.

“Jason’s in a mood,” Dick supplied, cheerful as a knife wound.

Jason looked at you, expecting amusement.

You were not laughing.

You were watching him.

He muttered something rude under his breath and stormed out before anyone could stop him.

He ended up on the east balcony.

Gotham spread below in wet black glitter, all streetlamps and distant sirens and the low hum of a city too ugly to sleep gracefully. Jason braced his hands on the stone rail and tried to breathe through the storm in his head.

It should not have mattered.

Dick touched everyone. You had known Dick longer than Jason had. You sparred with him, laughed with him, leaned on him after hard patrols with the easy trust of family. Jason knew that. None of it was new.

So why had it felt like a threat?

Why had his chest gone tight enough to hurt?

Why had he wanted, so suddenly and viciously, to drag you away where no one else could touch you at all?

The answer came to him in pieces he did not want.

Because you were his.

His first thought in the morning. His refuge. His temper’s leash. His safest place. The person his body looked for before his mind had even caught up.

“Oh.”

He heard the balcony door slide open.

Of course it was you.

He knew your footsteps too well by now. Knew the exact sound your boots made against stone, the pause before you spoke when you were deciding how hard to push him.

You stopped beside him instead of in front of him. Good. He did not think he could have handled your face straight on just then.

“Dick says you want to murder him.”

“I do.”

You hummed, not sounding especially alarmed.

Jason scrubbed a hand over his face.

You let him come apart at his own pace. He had always loved you for that, though perhaps love had become too small and fragile a word for what this was growing into.

When you finally spoke again, your voice was soft. “You want to tell me what happened?”

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

Jason stared out at Gotham and said, “I don’t know.”

You leaned your elbows on the railing beside him. Your shoulder almost touched his.

“That’s not usually true.”

He huffed a humorless laugh.

For a while, neither of you moved. The wind stirred your hair. Somewhere far below, a car horn blared and was swallowed by distance.

Then Jason said, before he could lose his nerve, “When he touched you, I wanted to break his wrist.”

You went very still.

Jason forced himself to keep going. “I know that sounds insane.”

“It sounds jealous.”

He turned his head sharply.

You were still looking out over the city. Calm. Thoughtful. As if the word had not detonated his whole nervous system.

Jason’s ears burned. “I’m not jealous.”

You glanced at him then, one eyebrow lifting.

He glared. “Don’t.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. Not mean. Somehow that made it worse. “Jason.”

“Don’t,” he said again, but there was no heat in it now, only embarrassment stripped thin.

“Do you want to know something?”

He should have said no.

Instead he muttered, “what.”

“I would have been surprised if it took you longer to figure out.”

Jason stared. The city seemed to drop away beneath him.

“What?”

You turned to face him fully now, leaning one hip against the stone rail. There was no mockery in your expression. No pity either. Just a strange, quiet fondness that made his pulse trip over itself.

“You’ve been following me around like I hung the moon for years,” you said. “You scent half the things I own. You glare at anyone who stands too close. Last month you nearly started a fight with one of the Titans because he hugged me hello.”

“He smelled weird.”

That made you laugh.

Jason might have died on the spot.

He loved your laugh. He had always loved your laugh. But right then it felt lethal.

His throat tightened. “You knew?”

“Jay.” Your voice gentled. “I know you.”

Something in him went raw at that.

Because you did.

You knew where he hid when he was angry and where he curled up when he was hurt. You knew the exact tone his voice took before a nightmare and how to keep him from spiralling after patrols that went bad. You knew him better than anyone alive.

And you were still here.

“If I kissed you,” he said, each word deliberate and low, “would you stop me?”

You looked startled. Surprised by the directness of it.

Jason’s heart slammed hard against his ribs. He had not meant to say it like that. Or maybe he had, and some more honest, more instinctive part of him had finally won the fight.

You did not answer immediately.

Then you lifted one hand and touched the side of his face.

The world narrowed to that point of contact.

“No,” you said.

Jason kissed you before you could finish.

It was not graceful.

It was sudden, too hungry, and full of things he had been swallowing for far too long. His hand caught at your wrist, then your jacket, then settled clumsily at your waist as if unsure whether to hold or anchor or keep you from disappearing. He was trembling by the time your mouth softened beneath his.

You kissed him back.

God.

You kissed him back.

The sound he made was humiliating and helpless and entirely out of his control.

When he pulled away, it was only far enough to breathe.

You stayed close.

So close your forehead nearly brushed his.

Jason stared at you, wide-eyed and wrecked.

You looked dazed.

That pleased something ugly and possessive inside him more than it should have.

“Okay,” you murmured after a moment.

“Okay?” he echoed, offended on reflex because he did not know what else to do with all the feeling climbing up his throat.

Your mouth twitched. “Yes, okay.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

You reached up and smoothed one thumb beneath his eye. Jason had not even realised he was tearing up until then.

“No,” you said quietly. “But I think if I start talking right now, you’re going to bolt.”

“I’m not bolting.”

“You literally ran here.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

You smiled, small and devastating. Then you kissed him again, brief this time, but oh so tender.

Jason felt it all the way down to his bones.

Jason wanted more.

Your attention first when you entered a room. His messages answered before anyone else’s. Your scent on his clothes, his sheets, his skin. Your time. Your mouth. Your loyalty.

A future so tightly braided with his that the thought of anyone trying to pull it apart would seem laughable.

He did not know yet how dangerous that kind of wanting could become. He only knew that every time you kissed him, the hunger eased for a few precious hours before returning worse than before.

And every time you touched him like he was something beloved, his instincts learned a little more certainty.

Mine, they whispered.

Mine.

He was still young enough then to be frightened by that voice.

Because fear meant that there was still a line he did not want to cross.

Jason Peter Todd-Wayne died at fifteen.

For three days, nobody had the courage to open his door.

It stayed shut at the end of the hall, white-painted and ordinary, as if there were any world in which something ordinary could still be waiting behind it.

The house was too quiet.

Not the good kind. Not the soft, restful quiet Wayne Manor sometimes fell into in the early hours, when the grandfather clock in the foyer and the wind in the trees were the only sounds left. This was a wrong kind of silence. A strained one. Like the whole house had gone still around a wound.

Bruce had not slept.

You knew because every time he came back up from the cave he smelled less and less like himself.

The clean cedar and expensive cologne he wore for galas had long since been overtaken by cave-damp, machine oil, old blood, and the bitter edge of the leader of the pack running on too little sleep and too much guilt. It clung to him when he crossed the breakfast room without eating. Sat down at the table and never touched the coffee Alfred poured. Stood in doorways as if he had forgotten what he meant to do when he got there.

He had not said Jason’s name out loud once.

Neither had you.

There were some words that became impossible the second they turned true.

On the fourth morning, Alfred opened the door.

You had not meant to be there for it.

Your feet had carried you down that hallway without permission, stopping a little short of the room you had spent years walking into without knocking.

Alfred stood in front of the door for a long moment with one hand on the knob.

He did not look at you when he said, gently, “You needn’t do this, if you’d rather not.”

You should have said no. Instead, you heard yourself answer, “If I don’t go in now, I won’t.”

Alfred’s hand tightened once. Then he turned the knob. The room still smelled like Jason.

You forgot to breathe.

It was not strong. Not fresh. Nothing so cruel as that. Just there. Folded into the blankets, caught in the curtains, buried in the clothes slung over the desk chair. Soap, leather, clean cotton, the lingering sweetness that had always lived under Jason’s skin no matter how much sweat or rain or Gotham grime tried to cover it.

Home, your body said at once.

Your mind followed too slowly.

There was a bed with one corner of the comforter hanging loose where he had left it. A book face-down on the desk. One boot by the wardrobe, toppled on its side. A hoodie half-falling out of the laundry basket because he had never once in his life put things away properly.

You made it all the way to the bed before your legs stopped working.

You sat because if you did not sit, you were going to end up on the floor.

The mattress dipped under your weight, and that was somehow what finally made you break.

Not the smell. Not the room. Not the sight of the stupid book with a page he was never going to finish.

It was the ordinary intimacy of the bed giving beneath you like it recognised you.

Like if you waited long enough, he might come in toweling his hair dry after a shower and say your name in that rough, impatient voice of his.

Your throat closed so fast it hurt.

Alfred said something, your name, maybe. But it blurred at the edges.

You reached for the pillow without thinking.

The scent on it was fainter than the room, but warmer somehow. Closer. The last place his face had rested, maybe. The last place he had drooled in his sleep and denied it the next morning. The last place he had curled up after patrol, all jangly limbs and half-healed bruises, clutching one of your sweatshirts in a fist like he thought no one noticed.

Your body leaned into it before your mind could stop you.

That did it.

Grief did not come neatly. It tore.

One second you were sitting very straight, trying not to make a sound. The next your forehead was pressed into the pillow and your whole chest was caving in around a noise you did not recognise as yours until it would not stop. Tears soaked into the case. Your shoulders shook so hard your teeth clicked together. You tried to muffle it because Alfred was still there, because some ugly pride in you could not bear to be witnessed like this, but grief did not care what dignity you had left.

Jason still smelled like safety.

That was the part that made it unbearable.

Some deep animal part of you did not understand death. It understood absence, yes. Distance. Hurt. But not this. Not gone in any final sense.

Your instincts kept reaching for him inside the scent, trying to find the living thing attached to it. Your body was readying to soothe, to gather, to pull him close and check him over and make sure he was still breathing.

There was nobody there.

Only the smell of an omega who had once belonged to you so completely.

A hand settled between your shoulders.

Alfred.

He did not hush you. Did not say it would pass. Did not offer the kind of comfort people gave when they wanted your grief smaller and easier to look at.

He only stayed.

You cried until it left you shaky and emptied-out and raw.

When you finally lifted your head, there was a damp patch on the pillowcase and a smear of blood where your teeth had broken skin somewhere inside your mouth. Your face felt hot. Your hands would not stop trembling.

“I’m sorry,” you said, because it fell out on instinct.

Alfred looked at you in open pain.

“For what, my dear?”

You had no answer.

For not saving him.

For loving him.

For still breathing when he wasn’t.

For the way part of you had, in the first insane second after the door opened, expected him to be here.

You looked away.

Alfred squeezed your shoulder once before he crossed the room and opened the window a fraction. Just enough for the cold to slip in.

Not to erase Jason.

Just to make breathing possible again.

Dick found out from the newspaper.

Bruce had wanted to tell him himself. You knew that much. He had been waiting for the right hour, the right flight home, the right way to put words around something that would wreck the boy on the other end of the line no matter how gently it was done.

Gotham did not wait for right.

The phone rang after midnight.

You were still awake. Sleep had turned slippery these last few nights, never staying long enough to matter. Alfred had gone to bed because there was nothing else he could do. Bruce was underground.

You picked up on the second ring.

“Tell me it’s bullshit.”

Dick.

No hello. No breath between the words. Just Dick’s voice gone thin and ragged and wrong in a way that made something in your spine go cold.

You sat down without remembering to.

The little table in the hall pressed hard against your knee. Somewhere downstairs, the grandfather clock ticked on, indifferent.

“Dick-” “Tell me they got it wrong.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

On the other end of the line, Dick made a sound like he had been hit.

A low, strangled noise dragged out of somewhere deep enough that it barely sounded human. The line crackled. There was a crash, then another. Maybe he had thrown something. Maybe he had dropped. You did not know.

“I was supposed to be back next week,” he said.

The words were shredded. Half breath, half denial.

“I know.”

“I told him I’d be back next week.”

You pressed your free hand so hard against your mouth it hurt.

“I know.”

Silence.

Then, very quietly, like he was confessing to something filthy:

“I left him here.”

Your eyes burned. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” you said again, and this time it came out sharp. “Don’t do that.”

But he was not listening anymore.

Or maybe he was and simply could not follow you into a world where this was survivable.

He started breathing too fast. You could hear it. Hear him trying and failing to get enough air into his lungs through whatever had split him open. You shut your eyes and pictured him somewhere strange and far from home, hotel lamp on its side, newspaper spread open, the whole room stinking of panic and guilt.

“I should’ve been there.”

You had nothing that could touch that.

Nothing that could fix what distance had made possible.

So you stayed on the line while he broke.

You did not know how long. Ten minutes. Forty. Three hours. Time had become slippery too. At some point his breathing calmed enough to sound like a person again, though only barely. At some point Bruce came up from the cave and stopped dead when he saw you on the floor with the phone still pressed to your ear.

You looked at him.

Bruce knew at once.

His eyes closed for a second. Then he held out his hand for the receiver.

Dick must have realised who it was from the change in your breathing, because the moment Bruce got the phone to his ear, Dick spoke first.

“How long were you going to wait?”

Bruce did not answer quickly enough.

That, more than anything, told you how bad the conversation on the other end was about to become.

You stood up and walked away before you had to hear it.

Dick came home smelling sour.

The front door had barely shut behind him before you knew he was here. It hit first. Stale recycled air, rain caught in fabric, the sharp chemical edge of suppressants burned through too quickly, then underneath it all the hot, ugly scent of an alpha running so close to feral on guilt that the whole house seemed to tense around him.

You were halfway down the stairs when he stepped into the foyer.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Dick looked wrecked.

There were shadows under his eyes so deep they changed the shape of his face. His hair was flattened strangely on one side like he had slept against an airplane window and never really woken up. His duffel hung from one hand, forgotten.

His gaze found you and stayed there.

Then he crossed the room in three fast strides and folded into you so hard you staggered.

You caught him because of course you did.

Dick had always hugged like he meant it. Arms everywhere, too warm, all heart and momentum. This was different. This was a collapse disguised as contact. He bent over you like if he let go for even a second he might crack apart completely.

“I left him,” he said into your shoulder. His voice broke on the last word.

You tightened your arms around him. “No.”

“I did.”

“No, Dick.”

He made a wrecked sound and clutched harder at the back of your shirt. His scent was bleeding off him by then, hot and wild. His grief had teeth. You could smell it spiking in the air, bitter and sharp enough that your own body answered before your mind did. Shoulders tightening, pulse jumping, every old alpha instinct waking up to the distress of pack.

You guided him down before his knees gave out.

The two of you hit the foyer rug in a graceless tangle.

Dick didn’t seem to notice.

He was crying now, properly crying, face turned into your shoulder, fingers knotted in your shirt like he needed something solid under his hands and you had been the nearest thing. He was bigger than he used to be. Broader. Heavier. But grief made everyone young again. You could feel it in him, that old terrible helplessness stripped bare.

“I wasn’t here,” he kept saying.

You stroked a hand over the back of his head because there was nothing else to do.

Above you, the staircase stayed empty.

No Jason sitting halfway up with his chin in his hand, making some awful joke to cut the tension. No sharp voice telling Dick to quit being dramatic. No annoyed eye-roll before he inevitably came down and pressed into the side of the pile anyway because for all his complaints, he had always hated being left out of affection.

The silence where he should have been was a living thing.

Bruce stopped in the doorway.

Dick must have heard him. Or smelled him. His shoulders went rigid.

Slowly, Dick lifted his head.

You felt the moment something dangerous passed through him.

Not hatred.

Something worse. Something he would hate himself for later.

Blame.

It flashed hot and acrid through his scent before he managed to drag it back under control. Bruce took it without moving. Without defending himself. Maybe because he agreed. Maybe because he had not slept in days and no longer had the strength to lie about who he thought had failed.

No one spoke.

Dick looked away first.

Bruce turned and left.

That was worse than if he’d stayed.

After that, the house stopped pretending.

It no longer smelled like a home. Not really.

Even clean, even aired out, even with Alfred opening windows whenever the weather allowed, there was grief trapped in everything. Bruce’s office smelled like old paper and stress. The cave smelled metallic and mean. Dick’s room shifted by the hour. Sour suppressants, dried tears, sweat from training too hard and not enough sleep. The corridor outside Jason’s room remained the worst of it. Faded now, but still enough to make your breath catch if you came around the corner too fast.

You started changing your route through the house to avoid it.

Then you started changing your route through your own thoughts.

The kitchen hurt because Jason used to come in barefoot and half-awake, stealing toast off plates like Alfred would not see him.

The library hurt because one chair by the window still smelled faintly of him if the day was warm.

The gym hurt because you kept glancing toward the doors expecting him late, grumpy, pulling wraps over his hands with his teeth.

The cave hurt because every crackle over comms made your body sit up before your brain could remember there would never be a reply in his voice.

The body was stupid that way.

Instinct was stupid.

It kept expecting what it had known longest. Kept seeking the shape of him in passing air, in old laundry, in the echo of motorcycle engines on the drive. Sometimes you would turn too quickly because you were sure, sure, that you had caught his scent under the detergent in a stack of clean towels, only for it to vanish the second you chased it.

Each time felt like you were dying.

You lasted longer than you should have.

Partly because leaving felt like betrayal.

Partly because Bruce was unraveling in ways that frightened you. He vanished into Batman so completely that some mornings you only knew he had come home because fresh blood smelled copper-sharp in the laundry room sink and Alfred’s voice had that clipped, brittle edge it got when he was angry and trying very hard to be polite about it.

Partly because Dick had started haunting Jason’s door at night.

The first time you found him there, he was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and one of Jason’s old sweatshirts twisted in his hands.

He looked up like he’d been caught stealing. Then his mouth twisted.

“This is pathetic.”

You sat down beside him. “It isn’t.”

“It is.”

But he pressed the sweatshirt to his face anyway.

You didn’t argue again. There was no point. Sometimes grief made fools of everybody. Sometimes that was the only honest thing left.

He breathed in once, sharp and desperate, then shut his eyes.

You looked at the door and thought: I can’t do this forever.

The thought frightened you.

It should have felt impossible. Instead it felt true.

Alfred found you packing on a Thursday afternoon.

Bruce was asleep. Dick was out. The house was so quiet you could hear birds chirping in the garden.

Your suitcase sat open on the bed.

You had not realised how little of your life here had remained purely yours until you started sorting through it. Shirts Alfred had bought because the old ones no longer fit. Books Bruce had handed you because Diana and Clark had spoken about them. Socks Dick had stolen, then returned, then stolen again. Hoodies that belonged to Jason but ended up in your room anyway because he left things everywhere and liked finding them on you later.

That one almost put you on the floor.

You folded it anyway. Put it in the suitcase. Took it back out. Sat there with it in your lap until the knock came at the door.

Alfred stepped in.

His gaze moved from your face to the suitcase to the hoodie in your hands.

“Oh,” he said softly.

You laughed because if you did not, you were going to cry again.

“Yeah.”

He came farther in.

For a while he said nothing. He only began straightening a stack of folded clothes that did not need straightening, giving you the dignity of talking first if you wanted to.

“I can’t stay,” you said at last.

Alfred nodded once. No surprise. No argument.

It hurt.

Your fingers dug into the fabric in your lap. “I keep thinking I hear him.”

Alfred went still.

“In the hall. On the stairs. Coming in from patrol.” Your voice thinned. “Sometimes I smell him and for a second I forget.”

You looked down hard, blinking at the blur in your vision. “And then I remember again.”

Alfred sat beside you on the edge of the bed. “You are not leaving him.”

You let out a broken breath.

“..Yes, I am.”

“No.” His voice was gentle, but firm in that way of his that made contradicting feel childish.

You looked at him and nearly came apart again. “I don’t know what to do with loving him if he’s gone.”

Alfred’s face changed. The old beta’s faint scent circling around you comfortingly.

“Young Master,” he said quietly, “if I knew how to answer that, I would have spared Master Bruce the question years ago.”

You made a small, broken sound that might have been a laugh.

He put an arm around your shoulders then. Formal even in comfort, somehow. You leaned into it anyway.

Bruce found the bags in the foyer that evening.

He stood in the doorway between the hall and the stairs, taking in the suitcase, the duffel, you.

“Apartment?” he asked.

You nodded.

The silence stretched.

He looked tired enough to disappear standing up. “Have you signed the lease?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

Rain tapped against the tall windows. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock chimed the quarter hour.

Bruce looked at the bags again, then at your face.

“I thought about asking you to stay.”

You swallowed.

He did not dress the truth up. He never had, not when it mattered.

“But it would be because I don’t want one more empty room.”

Your eyes burned. “I know.”

He looked away first, toward the dark glass of the front doors. “I keep thinking if I come upstairs quickly enough, I’ll hear him before I remember.”

You nodded because your throat had locked up.

Bruce stepped closer and pulled you into his arms.

He had hugged you before, but rarely. He was not a man who rea by instinct. Bruce’s love came in training schedules and spare helmets and making sure the lights were always on when his children came home late.

So when he held you now, broad hand braced between your shoulders, the grief in him felt enormous.

He smelled wrong.

Like exhaustion left too long on the body. Like metal and antiseptic and old adrenaline. Like a man whose instincts had nowhere to go now that the one he had failed to protect was gone.

“This is still your home,” he said.

You shut your eyes.

“I know.”

“Alfred will send food.”

A helpless sound escaped you, half laugh, half sob.

“I know.”

“He’s already packed some, hasn’t he?”

You nodded into his shoulder.

Bruce’s mouth moved, maybe toward a smile, maybe not. It didn’t hold long enough to tell.

When he let go, he kept one hand on your shoulder for a second more, as if steadying you or himself.

Neither of you said goodbye.

You were both too old, by then, to use a word that sounded so much like being left.

The apartment was small enough that your grief could not build an echo.

That was the first thing you noticed.

The second was that it smelled only like you.

Not Bruce’s stress-sour exhaustion. Not Dick’s frayed grief. Not old linen and polish and cooked dinners and rain seeping under the manor doors.

Just you.

Dust. laundry soap. the faint sharpness of the cheap lemon cleaner the last tenant had probably used on the counters.

It should have felt lonely.

Instead it felt like lowering a weight you had forgotten you were carrying.

One bedroom. One bathroom. Peeling wallpaper by the radiator. Pipes that knocked when the neighbors ran water. A kitchen too narrow to turn around in without bumping a hip against the counter.

You set Alfred’s food in the tiny fridge and sat on the floor because you did not own enough furniture yet.

The room held.

No ghosts waiting at the edges of your vision. No old scent trapped in cushions. No hallway outside your door where you could accidentally believe for one sick hopeful second that Jason had just come home.

You slept through the night.

When you woke, the shame of that was immediate and vicious.

But beneath it, quieter, meaner because it felt like relief, was the knowledge that you had actually rested.

You spent years there.

You still answered Bruce’s calls.

You still came when patrol needed another body.

You still showed up every third Sunday because Alfred would have tracked you down himself if you tried to miss dinner.

You’d even helped Bruce’s new kid settle in. Even when everything inside of you screamed that it was wrong. That Tim wasn’t Jason.

But when it was over, you left.

And sometime in the middle of all that, a new name started surfacing.

At first it was just something muttered over police bands. A rumor passed between henchmen. A body count attached to a mask no one knew yet.

Then it was everywhere.

Red Hood.

Dick hated him before either of you had seen him properly.

Bruce never said much when the name came up.

Robin seemed to be the only one interested.

You told yourself your unease meant nothing.

That the prickling at the back of your neck when someone said his name was just pattern-seeking, just the body finding omens where there were none.

But some nights, lying awake in your too-small apartment, you would stare at the ceiling and feel your instincts turn restless under your skin for reasons you could not name.

As if the city itself had started pacing.

As if something that had once belonged to you had put its hands against Gotham’s throat and was finally trying to find its way home.

He died afraid.

He had known fear all his life. Fear in alleyways. Fear under fists. Fear in the split second before a body hit pavement hard enough to maybe not get back up. He knew what it was to be hunted, cornered, hurt.

But this was different.

This was the kind of fear that made his body remember what it was before it remembered who it was. Prey, young, trapped, omega, with nowhere to run and nobody getting to him fast enough.

The warehouse stank.

Oil. mold. rat shit. old blood. chemical cleaner trying and failing to cover rot. Under all of it was the Joker, sweet and spoiled and wrong, the omega’s scent so sharply unbalanced it turned Jason’s stomach every time the man leaned close enough to breathe.

His own blood was everywhere.

He could smell it thick on the concrete, soaked into his shirt, drying tacky at the corner of his mouth.

He had fought until he couldn’t. Then he had fought after that too. It had changed nothing.

Every hit had driven the room deeper into unreality. The crowbar had made a different sound against bone than Jason would have thought. Wetter. Duller. Like meat struck on a butcher’s block. He would remember that too, in flashes.

The worst part was what his body did. Every instinct he had spent years learning to master came apart under pain. His scent had gone wild.

He could smell it himself through the blood and fear, sweet with distress, blown open in the room like a distress flare. Vulnerability, terror, omega, omega, omega. Every part of him advertising hurt in a world that devoured the hurt first. He hated it. Hated the humiliation of it almost as much as the pain. Hated that his body was begging in a language it could not stop speaking.

The Joker loved it. “Oh, Batsy’s little bird is scared now, isn’t he?”

Jason spat blood at his shoes. The Joker only laughed.

At some point the rope around Jason’s wrists had come loose enough for him to wrench one hand half-free. He got the shard of glass. He got one good cut in. He got hope for maybe three seconds before the beating that followed taught him not to mistake desperation for victory.

After that, everything narrowed.

Noise blurred. Light bent strangely at the edges. The bomb ticked somewhere nearby with an almost polite little sound.

Joker was gone. Sheila was crying. Jason couldn’t feel his left hand.

He looked at the timer and understood, with a clarity so clean it felt holy, that Bruce was not going to make it in time.

For one mad second he thought of the Manor.

Not the cave. Not Robin. Not Batman.

Home.

The library window cracked open in spring. Alfred pretending not to notice Jason stealing food while packing him extra anyway. Dick laughing too loud somewhere down the hall. Your hands on his face after patrol, turning his head toward the light to check a cut over his brow. The smell of your room on nights his body didn’t know how to calm down until he curled into it.

You.

Always you.

He should have thought of his life. He thought of your hands.

The blast hit before he could decide whether that was pathetic.

Then there was nothing.

Death should have been quiet. Instead, it was dirt.

He came back choking.

His nails tore bloody crescents into satin first, then splintering wood, then wet-packed earth that filled his mouth when he screamed. Panic hit so hard it erased language. There was only need. Air. Up. Out. Claw. Kick. Tear.

His body moved with a violence that did not feel human.

His fingers broke. Still, he dug.

Roots caught under his nails. Mud jammed in his nose. The coffin had scraped skin from his shoulders. He did not know when he started sobbing. He only knew the sound of it, ragged, animal, high with terror.

Omega instincts, some cracked part of him thought later. Buried alive. Alone. Trapped. Every nightmare his body had ever been built to fear, all at once.

He breached the surface half-mad and vomiting mud.

Cold air hit his face.

Rain. Graveyard. Hands on him.

He lashed out before he could see.

A grunt. A curse. Someone caught his wrist.

“Easy, boy.”

Not pack. Not home. Not safe.

Jason tried to crawl backward and found his limbs barely listened. His muscles shuddered uselessly. His lungs burned. His skin felt too tight, too filthy, too wrong. He could smell wet grass and old stone and his own terror still pouring off him in humiliating waves.

Then came the pit.

Later, he would try to remember if anyone had explained it to him first.

He would never know.

All he remembered was hands, chanting, green light, and the moment his body understood before his mind did that whatever waited below was alive in the wrong way.

“No,” he rasped. It came out broken.

The hands did not stop.

He hit the water hard enough to swallow some. It tasted like rot. Like metal. Like bile. Like blood left too long in the mouth. Like every instinct in him shrieking at once that this was wrong wrong wrong.

Pain arced through him so violently he thought, absurdly, that he must be dying again.

His spine bowed. His teeth cracked together. Something inside him seized. The Pit climbed into every wound death had made and tore them open wider.

Jason screamed. He did not know how long it lasted.

Time in the Pit did not move properly. It convulsed. It snapped. Memories came apart under it. He was twelve and fifteen and dead and drowning and in your room and in the warehouse and under the dirt and in the dark and in green fire and he could not hold any of it still.

Then something changed.

Not the pain. Worse. His own scent hit him.

He had lived inside that scent all his life without thinking about it. It was himself. The base note of every shirt he had ever worn, every blanket he had ever slept in, every instinctive comfort he had ever left behind in the world. Omega. Warm. Sweet under stress, sharper in heat, softer in sleep. Him.

It was burning away.

Jason came out of the Pit retching.

He sprawled on the stone with water pouring out of his nose and mouth, hands slipping beneath him as he tried to push up. The air smelled too loud. Every body nearby hit him at once - male sweat, old leather, incense, blood, iron-rich alpha musk, something medicinal crushed under the damp mineral stink of the chamber.

He gagged.

Someone laughed softly. “Breathe.”

Jason tried. The scent crashed into him again, and he froze. It wasn’t right.

He knew fear-sour omega. Pain-struck omega. He knew the sharp edges of his own distress, the changes heat made, the low comfort of his own body at rest. He knew what it was to be himself.

This was none of those things. This was heavier. Hotter.

It sat lower in his throat and spread through the room in dense, violent waves. Not the exposed sweetness of an omega in pain. Not need made visible. This was pressure. Challenge. Teeth. Blood. It rolled off his skin raw and unstable, edged so aggressively it made even the men standing nearest adjust their stance.

Jason stared down at his own shaking hands.

No.

He dragged in another breath and nearly choked on himself.

No.

The body knew before the brain. The body always knew first.

The broadening line of scent. The way aggression now surged faster than fear. The nauseating new density of him. The absence where an old instinct should have been. The place inside him that used to curl toward safety had been ripped out and replaced with something that wanted to bare its teeth at the world.

“No,” he said again, louder this time.

One of the League men reached for him.

Jason bit him. Hard.

The taste of blood burst hot across his tongue. The man shouted. Jason struck again with no plan beyond get away, get away, get away, body moving on a new axis that felt stronger and filthier and entirely unearned.

They put him down eventually. Not gently.

The days after came in pieces.

Sometimes he was lucid enough to know where he was.

A cot in a room that smelled of stone and old smoke. Bandages changed by silent hands. Food shoved toward him that he either devoured with ugly, startling hunger or knocked across the floor hard enough to make a point of the mess.

Sometimes he woke convinced he was still in the coffin.

Sometimes he woke with the taste of Pit water in his throat and attacked whatever had tried to touch him.

His body was unbearable. Everything about it was wrong.

He ran too hot. Slept too lightly. Woke ready to fight from a dead sleep with his pulse already hammering. Scents that once would have washed past him now hit like blows. The rank challenge of unfamiliar alphas, the stale nervousness of betas, the sweet curl of omegas somewhere deeper in the compound that set his teeth on edge for reasons he did not want to inspect too closely.

He hated them for smelling it. He hated himself more.

The first time he caught sight of his reflection long enough to really look, he almost punched through the mirror.

Not because he looked monstrous. Because he looked like Jason. Close enough to be a cruelty.

The same eyes, only meaner somehow. The same mouth, harder at the corners. The same body stretched older, sharpened by death and Lazarus and rage.

Sure, he was taller. Broader. Stronger. But he still looked like himself. He simply did not feel like anyone he knew.

An older alpha brought him suppressant tea on the fifth or sixth day. Bitter, steaming, laced with something medicinal enough to burn the nose.

Jason slapped it out of his hand. The ceramic shattered. The alpha went still.

“Drink it, or the instability gets worse.”

“I’m not an alpha!” The words tore out of him. The room changed.

Scent first. That subtle shift as everyone nearby caught the edge of what he had just admitted without meaning to. Their pity came next. Their caution.

Jason lunged.

He barely remembered the fight afterward. Only pieces. His hands around a throat. Stone against his spine. Somebody’s knee in his ribs. Someone else saying sedate him and Jason nearly vomiting from the fresh humiliation of that word.

When he woke again, his wrists were tied.

He sobbed until he couldn’t breathe.

After that, he stopped letting them see as much.

He learned to sit still when fury wanted out. Learned which scents in the compound meant stay back and which meant attack first. Learned that his pheromones moved strangely, too strong one day, almost suppressed the next, always wrong, always unstable. He did not blame them.

Sometimes even he could not stand to be inside himself.

Memory came back mean. Not as a gift. As shrapnel. Bruce first. Not the good parts. Not Alfred’s dry patience or Dick’s laughter or the warmth of family dinner with six conversations happening at once. No, the Pit handed him Bruce through anger: the empty promises, the missed rescue, the impossible standard, the coffin, the dirt.

He should have come. He should have known. He should have killed the Joker.

Hatred rooted fast in ground already poisoned by grief.

Dick came next in broken flashes. A laugh. A hand on the back of his neck after a hard patrol. Acrobat shoes hanging from a chandelier because Alfred said absolutely not and Dick, naturally, had taken it as a challenge.

Then another memory over it. Gone. Not there. Away. Not home. Jason did not remember the reasons at first. Only the absence.

It curdled quickly. And then there was Tim. Not a full memory, because he had none of the boy himself in the beginning. Just the shape of an insult delivered by rumor, League whispers, information stolen in drips and pieces once he was violent enough to be useful and sane enough to be pointed.

Robin.

Another Robin. A replacement. The word sank in like a blade. Something inside him that had already been ripped open simply tore wider.

Bruce had let him die. Dick had not been there. And in the space Jason had left behind, someone else had taken his name.

The Pit loved that kind of wound. It pressed on it until it bled rage.

They replaced me.

The thought came at him over and over, obsessive in its rhythm, until it was less a sentence and more a heartbeat.

They replaced me. They replaced me. They replaced me. They replaced me. They replaced me.

But you-

You did not come back all at once.

At first you were just hands.

Cool fingers tipping his chin toward the light. A palm at the nape of his neck after training. Knuckles brushing his cheek when you checked whether he was really listening and not just pretending to.

Then scent.

That was the worst and best of it.

He would wake half-crazed from dreams full of green water and dirt and smoke, body already flooding the room with angry alpha pheromones he could not drag back under control, and in the middle of it some ghost-memory would break open:

Your room after rain. Your hoodie twisted in his fists. Soap, skin, clean cotton, the quiet iron steadiness of an alpha he had trusted more than his own pulse.

Like being spun blindfolded and suddenly finding north.

He chased it the first time by accident.

One of the League guards had tried to steer him back toward his room after training. Jason had been shaking with the ugly aftermath of a dominance spiral, every scent in the corridor too loud, his own pheromones making the omegas on the lower floor panic. Then a memory hit him.

You.

A faded shirt of yours. Your scent on a pillow. The place in your room where sunlight used to warm fabric and make everything smell softly, unbearably like home.

Jason stopped fighting. The guards nearly stumbled from the change.

Jason stood there panting, every muscle still taut, but the black-red edge he’d been riding eased by a fraction.

One of the guards stared. “What was that?”

Jason did not answer. He was too busy realising what had happened. He thought of you again that night on purpose.

Curled on the cot with his jaw locked and his hands aching from how hard he’d clenched them all day, he dragged your face up from memory piece by piece.

Your eyes. Your voice. The exact shape of your shoulder under his cheek. The old safety of your scent woven through every room he had loved best.

Slowly, his body unwound. Not all the way. Never all the way. But enough that he slept.

After that, he became careful with the memory. Greedy with it. He hoarded every detail that returned.

The way your laugh changed when it surprised you. The scrape in your voice after patrol. The firm alpha scent that used to settle his omega instincts without effort. The touch of your hand in his hair the morning he woke on your shoulder and realised, in some young and wordless way, that safe had become your shape.

As an omega, he had gone to you for comfort.

The memory made him sick with longing now.

Because the instinct had not vanished with the rest of that life. It had twisted. What had once curled toward you now pulled like a leash around his throat.

A claim.

Jason sat up hard on the cot one night, breath coming rough. The room smelled like him. Anger, restless alpha heat, instability barely leashed.

Mine, something inside him said again.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until sparks burst behind them.

You were the only thing that made this body bearable. The only thought that quieted the noise. The only memory the Pit had not managed to poison.

Of course his mind would fix on you. Of course it would get worse.

He had heard that you were alive.

You had left the Manor after he died. That should have hurt. Instead it settled something viciously tender inside him. You had not stayed.

You had not pretended everything was fine. Had not settled into the den without him. Had not let the space he left close over neatly.

You left.

For him, some ruined part of Jason decided instantly. Because of him.

Because unlike them, you had not replaced him with whatever came next.

He lay awake that night staring at the ceiling, your memory in one fist and his new alpha instincts pacing under his skin like an animal.

By the time he was strong enough to leave the League, he no longer mistook what he felt for recovery.

He was not recovering. He was narrowing.

Everything in him kept arranging itself around the same brutal little truth. The only relief he had found since clawing his way out of the grave wore your face.

He hated Bruce. Hated the symbol. Hated the replacement. Hated Gotham for continuing. Hated himself for what his body had become.

And threaded through all of it, bright as obsession and twice as merciless, was you.

He imagined your home before he knew whether you had one. Imagined your scent on sheets, on clothes, in the air of rooms no one else should have been allowed into. Imagined some stranger touching the back of your neck and felt his vision go white at the edges.

This was not how his omega instincts had loved you.

He wanted to see you. He wanted to hear you. He wanted to press his face into your throat and breathe until his head stopped ringing. He wanted to know whether your instincts would still answer his. He wanted to put his hands around every throat that had ever had the audacity to take comfort in his place.

Above all, he wanted certainty.

He had died once already. He would not be left behind again.

The night he finally chose to return to Gotham, he stood alone with a duffel at his feet and looked out over the dark horizon.

His pheromones had settled into something colder over the last few weeks. Less frantic and more dangerous. Still wrong. Still too sharp around the edges. But controlled enough now to pass for intention rather than injury.

He knew what the League thought of him.

Useful. Unstable. Half-feral. They were right.

Jason picked up his helmet. In another life, as an omega, the thought of you had meant safety.

Now it meant something far more dangerous. Direction.

He did not know what he would say when he saw you. Did not know whether you would touch him or flinch. Did not know whether the thing inside him would quiet at your feet or bare its teeth and call that devotion too.

He only knew he was going to find out.

Because in the end, after death and dirt and green fire and replacement and hatred and this body that no longer felt like mercy, every road in him still bent the same way.

Back to you.

You knew the second you walked into the apartment that you were not alone.

The air was wrong. Too thick. Too hot. It clung to the back of your throat before you had even shut the window behind you.

Your knife was in your hand before you remembered reaching for it.

The apartment was dark. Quiet. The kind of quiet that only existed when someone was listening.

“Come out,” you said.

Nothing. Then, from the corner of the room nearest your bed: “I was waiting for you to notice.”

Your whole body locked. He stepped into the thin spill of streetlight from the window.

Jason.

The dagger nearly slipped in your grip.

This wasn’t the boy you had buried. Not the fifteen-year-old omega with sharp eyes and quick hands and too much tenderness hidden under all that temper. This Jason had been dragged through death and brought back meaner. Broader shoulders. Harder mouth. White at the temple. A scar down one side of his face. The violent dark of his scent filling your tiny apartment until there was no room left for your own.

Alive.

Wrong.

Watching you like a starving thing watches food.

Your pulse stumbled so badly it hurt. “Jason.”

His eyes closed.

The expression that crossed his face was raw enough to make something in your chest twist. Relief. Agony. Want. All of it naked for one terrible second before his control slammed back into place.

“You know me,” he said softly.

Your instincts had already surged forward, hackles high in recognition. The room tightened around it immediately. His scent pressed harder. Yours answered before you told it to stop.

Jason inhaled. You watched the exact moment it hit him. His pupils blew wide.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath, like the sound had been punched out of him. “You still smell like..”

He stopped himself.

Your hand tightened around the blade. “Don’t.”

His gaze dropped to the metal, then rose slowly back to your face. “You were never going to use that on me.”

Something dangerous flickered hot through your chest. “Try me.”

And there it was.

That awful, familiar spark in his expression. The one that had always shown up right before he did something reckless and impossible and deeply Jason. Except now it lived in a grown man’s body. An alpha’s body. One remade by rage and Lazarus and grief until there was nothing soft left in it that he had not hidden under his teeth.

He took one step forward.

Your scent rose fast in warning. His sharpened at once in answer. The apartment became a pressure chamber.

“Stay back,” you said.

Jason laughed. It was not a nice sound. “You really think that’s gonna work on me?”

“It used to.”

His face changed. Something inside it turned black and wounded all at once.

“Yeah,” he said. “Before.”

Before death. Before Bruce. Before the pit. Before he came back with his omega scent burned out of him and something violent living where all that old softness had once gone to rest.

You should have said something careful.

Instead, because he was here and alive and already pushing every instinct you had into a corner, you said the one thing guaranteed to cut.

“You don’t get to break into my home and act like this is normal.”

Jason went perfectly still. For one awful second, the whole room seemed to hold its breath with him. Then his pheromones crashed outward.

Not enough to force or to dominate. But enough to hit like a wall. Dark, bitter, distressed, furious. Alpha. Pit-made. Possessive in a way that made your own instincts rear up at once, every muscle in your body tightening in challenge before your mind caught up.

“My home?” he said quietly.

You knew that tone.

“You left me in the ground,” he said.

The words punched the air from your lungs. “I buried you.”

“You left.”

The knife dipped. You hated that he saw it.

Jason took another step. “You left that house.”

“Because you died!”

His whole face twisted. “That’s the point.” The shout hit the walls and seemed to make the room smaller. Rain lashed against the glass behind you.

Jason was breathing hard now. You could smell the instability in him beneath the fury, the way his scent spiked and recoiled like something barely under control. Not fake. Not tactical. Real. His body was reacting faster than his mind, and your own was answering in kind, alpha instincts flaring sharp enough that your skin felt too tight.

He pointed at you with a shaking hand. “You left because I died. You didn’t stay there and pretend they were enough. You didn’t let them replace me.”

“Jason-” “There was another Robin.” The words landed between you like a snapped bone.

You saw it then. Not just the anger, but the wound beneath it. Rot-deep, never closed, fed by Lazarus and grief until it had become religion. Bruce failed him. Dick wasn’t there. Tim existed. You left. Somehow, in that ruined head of his, yours was the only part of it that still meant love.

He was breathing your air like it hurt.

“I came back,” he said, voice dropping again, rough and ugly now. “And the only thing that stopped me from tearing my own skin off was thinking about you.”

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. “Jason-”

“Don’t.” He stepped closer. “Don’t say my name like that unless you mean it.”

Your apartment had never felt so small.

He was close enough now that if you lifted the knife again, you really would have to use it. You both knew it. He didn’t even glance at the blade this time. His whole attention was fixed on your face with the kind of intensity that made your pulse skitter for reasons fear alone could not explain.

You could smell rain on him. Gunpowder. Leather. The wrong dark edge of Lazarus still tangled under his skin. And under all of it.. Jason. Twisted. Buried. Alive.

You lowered the knife first. The second you did, something in him snapped.

He moved. So did you.

The knife clattered somewhere across the floor as Jason hit you hard enough to drive you back into the wall beside the window. Not enough to injure. More than enough to pin. One of your forearms jammed across his collarbone on instinct, shoving. His hand caught your wrist before you could get proper leverage. The other planted beside your head with a force that rattled the frame behind you.

“Mine.” The word came out shredded.

You shoved at him harder.

His body answered instantly, instincts colliding with yours like flint. He pressed in, not graceful, not gentle, all desperation and force and the terrifying strength of someone who had been dreaming this moment for too long. Your own scent spiked hot in challenge. His went savage with relief.

“Get off!”

“No.”

His forehead struck the wall beside yours with a dull thud as he crowded closer, breathing wrecked, eyes blown wide. “No, no, no. I-I found you.”

The sound of it made something inside you lurch.

You tried to knee him. He blocked it with his thigh and made a rough, almost broken noise low in his throat.

Your free hand went for his face. Jason caught that wrist too.

Now both your hands were pinned.

The realisation was hot and humiliating.

His whole body shook. Not from effort. From need.

He pressed his face into the side of your throat and inhaled so hard your vision blurred for a second. The sound he made should not have come from a human being. It was too raw. Too hungry. Too relieved.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “You still smell the same.”

Your head knocked lightly against the wall as you jerked back. “Jason, stop-” “No.”

His mouth dragged against your pulse, not quite a kiss, not yet a bite, just desperate contact. Breathing. Scenting. Taking. Your instincts went incandescent under your skin. Fury, grief, recognition, want, all of it colliding too fast to sort. You strained against his grip.

It only made his pheromones go black with possessive pleasure.

“You’re fighting me,” he said, and there was something cracked in the way he sounded. “You really are.”

“Of course I’m fighting you!”

A laugh tore out of him, half hysterical, half exultant. “You’re still you.”

Then he lifted his head and looked at you. And God, that face. Devotion rotted through into something unlivable.

His eyes moved over you like he was memorising proof of survival. Your mouth. Your throat. Your wrists trapped in his hands. The rise and fall of your chest. He looked half-drowned in the sight of you.

“When I was dead,” he said, voice fraying at the edges, “I thought about your hands.”

You stopped moving. Just for a second. It was enough. Jason felt it immediately.

His grip loosened enough to shift from restraint to touch. One hand slid down your wrist and laced with your fingers so tightly it bordered on painful. The other came up to cup the back of your neck with a reverence so at odds with the pinning force of the rest of him it made your stomach drop.

“I dug my way out,” he whispered. “I drowned in that fucking pit. I came back wrong and every part of me was screaming and the only thing that made it stop was you.”

Your throat ached. “Jason.”

“There was another Robin.” He repeated the words like he was reopening his own wound with a blade.

“I know.”

“They replaced me.”

“No one replaced you.”

His expression twisted violently. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not-” “I came home and there was somebody else in my place.” His scent turned sharp enough to sting.

You could feel the spiral coming before he did. The way his breathing shortened. The way the room thickened with him. Too much alpha in too little space, too much grief with nowhere to go. And still he held you like if he let go, he would come apart molecule by molecule.

You knew this. Not this exact shape. But Jason unraveling in your hands? Jason needing the world narrowed down to one voice, one body, one touch? You knew that.

Your own wrists were still pinned.

You looked him in the eye and said, low and hard, “Let go.”

He froze.

That old familiar commanding voice. The one that used to cut through him before he’d learned how to hide how much.

Some stubborn, wounded part of him wanted to refuse. You watched it happen.

Then, breathing like it hurt, Jason let your wrists go.

You moved fast, catching his face in both hands before he could mistake mercy for rejection. He made a broken sound.

“Look at me,” you said.

He did.

“Breathe.”

His nostrils flared.

“Jason.”

He sucked in one breath. Then another. Badly. Angry with it. But he did it.

Your thumbs dragged under his eyes, over the sharpness there. His lashes fluttered.

You had loved him too long to pretend touching him didn’t matter, because your own instincts were losing the fight between anger and grief and something far more dangerous, you pulled him back into you.

Jason groaned. Not a soft sound. Not a grateful one. A starving sound.

His hands came to your waist instantly, then higher, then around you with bruising force. He bent over you like he was trying to climb inside your ribcage and live there. His scent dropped heavy and dark around the two of you, possessive now without apology.

“You can’t do that,” he muttered into your throat.

“Do what?”

“Touch me like you still-” He broke off with something that sounded too much like pain.

Your fingers went into his hair, caught at the white streak near his temple.

Jason shuddered so hard his teeth clicked.

“I buried you,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You were dead.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to come back and just decide-” “I do.”

Your hands tightened in his hair. Jason lifted his head, breathing hard, face close enough to blur.

“Yes,” he said, and there was no missing the possessive certainty dragged up from the pit with the rest of him. “I do.”

Your own instincts flared hot at being challenged. You shoved at his chest.

He rocked back half a step, more startled than moved.

“You don’t own me.”

Something terrifyingly soft came over his face. “No,” he said. “I love you.”

The words hit harder than the shove had.

Before you could answer, he leaned in again, and this time when his mouth found your throat, it was no confused search for comfort.

It was intent.

You felt the scrape of his teeth and every nerve in your body lit up at once.

Your hands flew to his shoulders.

“Jay!”

“Tell me to stop.”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

He laughed once against your skin, wrecked with triumph and grief and disbelief all at once. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he bit you. Hard.

He was tearing through the flesh. Marking you. Sending a hot white shock through your whole body and dragging a sound out of you that you would hate him for later. Your instincts exploded in pure outrage, body arching, hands shoving, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

Jason only held tighter. The sound he made against your neck was obscene. Relief. Devotion. Claim. All of it dragged through something sick enough to make your knees weaken.

He licked over the mark as the blood began to pour out, almost frantically, then pressed his mouth there again like he couldn’t help himself. Like if he did not keep touching the place he had marked, he would lose his mind.

“You’re mine,” he breathed.

Your pulse thundered under the bite. “No.” The denial came thin.

Jason pulled back just enough to look at you. There was blood on his mouth. Your blood.

“Yes,” he said softly. “You are.”

You should have hit him.

Instead you were breathing too hard, every instinct in your body in chaos, the claim burning hot at your throat while his pheromones rolled over the room in dark, satisfied waves. Possessive. Settled. For the first time since he had stepped out of the shadows, he smelled almost calm.

That frightened you more than the bite.

Jason touched the mark with trembling fingers. Then, gentler than he had any right to be, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“They can’t have you,” he whispered.

Your hands were still fisted in his shirt. “Jay..”

“I already lost you once.”

“You died.”

“I know.” His eyes opened, black with certainty. “It’s not happening again.”

The room felt warped around the edges. Rain on the glass. Knife on the floor. Your heartbeat in your throat where he had bitten you. His body boxing yours in like a verdict.

He smiled then. Small. Wrecked. Beautiful in the way disasters sometimes were.

“If Bruce comes,” he said quietly, “I’ll put him down.”

Cold shot through you.

“Jason-”

“If Dick tries to take you, I’ll break his jaw again.” Again. Your stomach turned. He said it like weather. Like inevitability.

“I’m done giving things up for them.”

His thumb traced once under the mark on your neck, almost tender. “I died,” he said. “I think I get to keep one thing.”

You stared at him. One thing.

Like you were an object small enough to fit in his hands. Like devotion had not turned him into something that would burn the world for you and call it romance.

And the worst part, the most horrifying, rotten part, was that somewhere under the fear, under the anger, under the instinctive alpha flare at being claimed against your will, there was grief twisting into relief because he was here.

Alive.

In your arms. At your throat. Choosing you with the full violence of everything he had become.

Jason saw it on your face. He always had been too good at reading you. His expression softened into something almost unbearably fond.

“You still love me.”

Yoour silence was answer enough.

He kissed you then. Blood-taste and rain and desperation, one hand cradling the back of your neck as if he had not just marked it, the other locked at your waist hard enough to promise you he had no intention of ever letting go. It was not gentle. It was not sane. It was full of every ugly thing he had dragged back from the grave and every tender thing death had failed to kill.

When he finally pulled away, your head was spinning.

Jason looked wrecked by it.

Good, you thought savagely. Let him be.

But then he smiled again, slower this time, like he had already won something ancient and irreversible. And maybe he had.

Because when he gathered you closer, you did not fight quickly enough. Because your apartment smelled like his claim now. Because your blood was on his mouth. Because somewhere in the ruined dark of both your instincts, something had already started closing around this as if it had always been inevitable.

Jason pressed his mouth to the mark on your neck once more and whispered, almost prayerful, “There you are.”

Then he walked you backward toward the bedroom like he had all the time in the world.

And this time, when you shoved at him, he only smiled against your skin and held on tighter.

Please reblog and comment!! :)

This is part one of a multipart omegaverse series. I’m thinking the next one will either be for both Clark and Lois or Dick Grayson.

15K+ words, 82K+ characters, 1K+ sentences, 992 paragraphs, 54 min average reading time, 1 hr 23 min average speaking time.

I apologise this took like two weeks to come out, I’ve been put on a full time roster at work + I’m also a full time uni student so I haven’t had any days off at all. I’m genuinely scared that I’m going to fail one of my classes and have to pay like four grand for a redo😩💔

Because of this new schedule I’m going to work on this omegaverse series over both July and August rather than just July. (As well as completing some requests and getting out chapter 3 of the incident.) Then hopefully during uni break at the end of August I’ll be able to get back into the rhythm of different themes every month.

Loki and you had been... childhood friends.

You're an Asgardian, one who often disobeyed their parents. You'd always find yourself running through the golden city with curiosity, playing with other children as you went. You were curious like most children... It's all innocent.

You had managed to meet Loki on one of your little outings. The Asgardian prince was of a similar age to you and due to his skills in illusion magic often... snuck out. You had managed to meet him and while he thought you'd squeal about him escaping...

You offered to play.

Originally Loki couldn't believe it. Some common person from Asgard wanted to mingle with a prince like him? Granted... he isn't a true prince... but he could have fun with this.

With you Loki never really felt... judged. In his family, a family he never really fit in... he always felt he wasn't getting the attention he wanted. His father and mother knew what he was... they always spoiled Thor more....

But with you? Loki never felt persecuted for using his illusions and playing tricks. In fact you seemed to go along with them. You two became quite rebellious little children...

Surely enough to drive both of your parents mad.

Loki often tried to sneak out to meet you. You even picked a spot in Asgard to meet in. Your time together was a break you both needed....

Loki probably has never had such fun outside of scheming. He always adored using invisibility to spook you. That or hide and seek with his clone magic...

He even showed you his capabilities with ice magic... even if he hasn't honed it as well.

You two played all the time before your parents stepped in. Loki's heard the excuse before. He's a poor influence... he's corrupting you...

They treat him like a demon.

Even when you two were teens Loki could barely see you. He had his ways, of course.... How could he ever give up his near only friend?

He did the usual tricks. Disguises, invisibility... the usual. Unfortunately your parents always got word of it. Thor also wouldn't stop his endless teasing...

His little brother is in love... oh, the horror... Why couldn't Thor keep quiet?

Before you ended up distancing yourself... Loki remembers when you got curious. You were both your closest companions... and when you were teens, you suggested something to him. You wanted to kiss...

Originally he was unsure... wondering if that's what you'd truly want. Yet you were insistent, smiling softly as you encouraged him. When the kiss eventually did happen...

Loki knew you had to be his the second your lips touched... the second he got a hint of your taste.

As you both grew up your parents had changed you. While you were mischievous like him when you were like him into your teen years... eventually you had matured. While Loki embodied deception, illusions, and trickery... you became a pure little thing.

He only found himself falling harder after that.

Loki knew there was something special between you. He knew it in the way you smiled at him, the way your eyes sparkled. Loki may not be the next in line on the throne, Thor may get all the love...

Why can't he at least be allowed to have you... the one person he loves?

Your parents had separated you from him. They always have. Despite this... Loki never let go. He could never let go.

He wants the opportunity to have what HE wants for once, damn it!

It's painful watching you mature without him. You two could've been together earlier... You could've been his consort. But here he is... a misfit scheming for power... a god of mischief who seems to have the universe against him.

But maybe... with some persistence and reminders of what you once had... he can have someone to call his own.

....

"We shouldn't be meeting like this." You say, settling against the wall. You remember this place, of course.... It used to be the small corner of Asgard you'd run to in your youth...

Yet instead of a certain mischievous child in front of you... a charming man stands in his usual Asgardian garb.

"You act like you still have a curfew." Loki mutters, tone both teasing yet irritated. "We're adults now, aren't we? We can make our own decisions."

You sigh and glance down at the parchment in your hands. It's a handwritten letter, one that instructed you to come to this place. You didn't know what Loki wanted now of all times... It's been years.

"... You have a much greater purpose than me, Loki." You laugh in a bittersweet tone. "Why bother with me after all this time?"

"I... suppose I couldn't get you out of my head." Loki confesses, his eyes never leaving yours. "I've... been doing a lot of thinking, actually."

"About?" You ask, yet fear you already know the answer.

"Us...." Loki murmurs, trying to hide how damn frustrating this is for him. You're the only one that makes him so... vulnerable.

"Loki..." You sigh, a sympathetic look on your face. "We... We were children. Playmates. If this is a confession..."

"You felt it back then, didn't you?" Loki presses and for a moment you hear... anxiety. "We were happy together, truly happy. But then your parents..."

"Loki." You say again, making Loki look at you expectantly. You sigh, as though you're having just as much trouble as him. "... Yes... Yes we had fun and were happy... but surely you have royal duties now, don't you? I'm sure your father wouldn't want you gallivanting with some random Asgardian—"

"Damn him!" Loki snarls, shifting to lean on the wall near you. "Damn him, damn your parents... We don't need them, love."

"Loki, don't call me that... We were just—"

"Experimenting? Maybe we were back then... but since then... I needed you to be mine...." Loki pleads, his eyes now holding a desperate look in them.

"We're not the same anymore!" You try to reason...

"Only because you let them change you!" Loki fires back, his tone accusatory.

"We can't work, Loki... We were secret. You're royal, I'm... nothing compared to your family. It's not right... think of what the people will say if you try anything—"

“It’s only taboo to those who’ve never loved like us.” Loki cuts you off, his body immediately stepping in front of you. You freeze at that, his hands on either side of your head. "Why do you deny me this...? You mean everything to me... I haven't gone a night without wishing you were mine."

You look like you want to protest... but it dies on your throat. You stare at Loki... and he stares back. Yet you can see the manic desperation deep in his gaze.

"... I don't care what others think. All I care about is what you think. And even then..." Loki admits, hands soon moving to trail down to your waist as he leans closer. “No matter what you do to me, I’ll worship the very ground you walk on. That's what it means to love someone.”

"Loki... I appreciate it but..." You don't even know why you bother trying to reason... Loki just tightens his grip.

"You're still thinking of them... of appearances..." Loki grumbles... and you swear his grip turns cold.

A deafening silence follows after... only for Loki to speak in a colder tone.

"... I could just kill them all."

You feel a chill run down your spine.

"... what?" You whisper, anxiety spiking.

"I've dreamed of taking over, sweetheart. I've spent years watching you... fantasizing of taking Asgard and making you my beloved consort... I want a world where I can finally have what I want..." Loki's breath then ghosts over your own, a loving... yet delusional... grin on his face, "A world where I can have you... and people will give us the recognition we deserve."

"... No, Loki, you can't—"

"And WHY not?" Loki seethes, glaring. "Why can't I, hm? I deserve to be worshipped... I deserve to have the love of my life in MY arms. I. deserve. you."

"... I'm not doing this." You scoff, pushing him away. "You've changed, Loki... I can't believe you'd suggest a coup... let alone murder just because I won't date you. I'm going home."

You move to leave... only for Loki to roughly grip your wrist. His last ditch effort.

“If you leave me now I’ll die. I can’t survive without you.”

You pause, feeling yourself whirled back to look at Loki.

"... run away with me at the very least. Darling, I need you... I can't let you leave me...."

"You have my answer." You respond as coldly as you can... but fear creeps into your voice now.

"And I refuse." Loki snarls, pulling you against his chest. "You're coming with me eventually... I just thought I could convince you before I had to do anything... drastic."

"Drastic?" You try to ask, only for Loki to lean in and kiss you.

The kiss reminds him of the one you did all those years ago. It brings back memories... except you were squirming a lot less then. Loki finds himself pressing you closer... lost in the taste of your lips.

By the time he pulls back you look... dazed. Frightened, maybe.

Perhaps your parents were right... Maybe he is a monster here to corrupt you.

"I'll give you two choices, sweetheart..." Loki murmurs against your lips, caressing your cheek. "You come with me willingly... or I drag you."

Loki then trails his lips up to your ear, a dark look in his eyes.

Loki... has had a rather lonely life. Sure, he has siblings, but they always managed to make him feel like an outsider. Loki has never felt like he belonged.

He desires recognition and love, a chance to prove himself... but he never got it... it's caused him a great deal of envy towards Thor...

Until now.

Ever since Loki discovered this Chronovium Yggdrasil has been producing he's been fixated on a version of Asgard that he helps make prosper. He's been chasing a vision with him on the throne. Such a vision showed someone by his side... someone who held a certain power to them... but he didn't recognize them.

Originally he thought it was Hela... yet it wasn't. Hela was helping him keep control of Yggdrasil... but she wasn't exactly ruling with him. No... what he saw in the Chronovium was someone ruling with him out of love...

Love... hah... how pathetic to think about... even if part of him wanted that.

Alas... he's a god skilled in deception... sure he's charming... but just who was this mysterious figure...?

Well... Loki thinks he found his answer....

Occasionally Loki allies himself with... heroes... to further his own goals. There's some threats he'd rather not deal with on his own. Especially with this whole 'Timeline Entanglement' some of the mortals keep calling it....

He's seen a lot of faces he's recognized unfortunately enough. However, there's been one face he hasn't met. You... a Strategist that he's had to often work with to keep a team alive.

Originally he didn't think much of you... oh fun... another mortal for him to work with. Granted, you're quite fun to tease at times... yet still a mortal. Meanwhile, he's a god destined for greatness, and he'll make the whole world see—!

Then he sees your magic... and he freezes so bad he nearly forgets he's supposed to be healing too.

That magic... those swirls of color... he saw that. In the Chronovium... the visions Yggdrasil gave him... that was you. You were the one helping to treat him and his people, you were the one who ruled by him.

You were the one who loved him in the one future where Asgard didn't fall.

His breathing picks up as he watches you. You're a mortal... yet you're skilled in magic. He... can respect such a prowess... even if compassion will be your undoing—

"Hey, Loki? You alright?"

Your voice cuts through the battlefield, making Loki's eyes quickly dart over to you. He barely even noticed the way his breath hitched or the fact he was staring like an idiot. He takes a deep breath... then pulls on that smile he's so skilled with...

"Why of course...! I was just... scheming, as usual. Why do you ask? Is it because a pretty little thing like you is worried about me~?" Loki purrs, barely realizing he's laying his charm on thick.

You sigh and roll your eyes, an expression he finds strangely charming on you. His smug smile stays on his face as he looks you over. Yes... the one in the vision was you... yet you definitely looked more appealing by his side and in Asgardian attire....

"Yeah, yeah, whatever... We have a job to do. Our team needs us." You reiterate, moving past him to focus on the Vanguards. Loki's eyes trail after you, a slight grimace on his face.

Right... the team. There you go so focused on others. He's envious... not because he wants the job or anything like that...

But because he's not the center of your attention.

"If you say so!" He responds, keeping his usual smile on his face. "Let me offer my assistance then...."

Since realizing who you are and believing you are his key to success... Loki keeps you close. After all, to him you are valuable. As much as he doesn't want to admit it... as much as he wants to believe he's doing what he's doing completely out of strategy...

Loki can't help but yearn for the idea of your acceptance of him... of you acknowledging him and offering him solace....

Determined... the god of mischief attempts to charm you. He offers flirtation and compliments, slowly inching his way closer to you. You typically brush him off... but he always seems to have an offer.

Eventually he even gets bold with voicing his propositions.

"My dear, I've missed you!" Loki greets, approaching you with his trademark confidence while you think of what to do next. You tense a bit, already tired of Loki's schemes. The timestream is full of issues... and you're looking right at one of them

"Yes, Loki?" You ask, already dreading what he's about to say.

"I have a... grande proposal for someone of your expertise...." Loki hums, taking his time to try and settle beside you a little too close for comfort.

"... what might that be...?" You ask, not trusting his words. With him, that could mean anything...

"I am offering you the chance to rule over Yggsgard with me... as my consort... where you are mine and I am your king for the good of the people... How does that sound? I assure you I can be great company...." Loki smiles, his eyes hard to read. They look both soft... yet mischievous....

... of all the things he could've said... you wouldn't have guessed this.

"... I'm sorry?" You ask incredulously, wondering if you heard the god right.

"You heard me... did you not? A king knows what he wants... and you have proven to be quite charming." Loki continues, gently reaching to touch your arm. "So compassionate... even towards those who don't deserve it."

"You're plotting." You accuse simply, pulling your arm away roughly. Loki just laughs.

"Nothing malicious, dear... Are you not charmed by the god of mischief taking interest in a specimen such as yourself?" He purrs, leading to you to shove him back.

"Drop it. I'm not interested." You growl while Loki takes a moment to recover from your shove. He feels frustration building and with anyone else he'd probably want their head for trying to touch him. With you... it just felt like a challenge.

He was supposed to get you in the end, right?

"You will eventually be~!" Loki coos, watching you run off. He chuckles to himself, scepter tapping against the floor.

"Fate says you'll be mine... and who am I to fight that?" Loki muses to himself before walking the other direction. You'll fall for him eventually. He just needs to work harder.

Loki... becomes persistent with you. Frequently he's at your side, insisting he just wants to offer you aid. Yet soon enough he brings back his earlier proposal, his respect for you growing...

Your rejection is starting to get annoying though.

It soon gets to the point you try actively avoiding the god. You stay with the rest of the team. You try to find comfort in others.

It only makes Loki more frustrated... he wants to give you the world... sure, it was originally for selfish means...

But you've changed him.

You can hide all you want, avoid him all you want, but Loki will find you. How could he ever forget that pattern your magic has? That or the kindness you spare towards all others but himself?

Eventually the god of mischief has had enough of toying around. Playing with you was fun and all, a cute little game of courtship. However, Loki has come to collect...

Even if you hate being cornered.

After a mission in yet another realm, Loki quickly followed you. You had been avoiding him... yet it seems you've both been brought together again. You probably weren't meaning to encounter him again...

But it's too late now.

"Hiding from me, are you, dear?" Loki calls, a smug grin on his face. "Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?"

You jolt when you hear his voice, quickly spinning around. There he was... the enigmatic trickster god standing before you. Despite his smug confidence... you can sense he has some frustration.

"You! Haven't I made it clear I want nothing to do with you...." You hiss yet stand your ground as Loki steps closer.

"Yes you have... but I think you're simply being... foolish. You have not seen your fate, but I have. Your fate is by my side..." Loki's voice holds a growl to it as he glares a bit, "I know how this will end... and you clearly do not."

"What are you talking about... more lies, trickster?" You antagonize him, which makes Loki scoff.

"For once... what I say is true. Yggdrasil has shown me you by my side... I know it's true. You may reject me now... However..." Loki then pauses, taking a deep breath. He needs to play nice... You're just uninformed...

He can change that with a few tricks.

"No matter how long you make me wait, our love will never die." Loki promises, but to you it just seems delusional.

"We have no love." You scoff... then you feel the air go cold. Before you can question it though...

Loki pins you to the nearest wall.

"Not yet." Loki hisses, holding you against his chest. "We do not have love because you won't see it yet... but you, my dear, will love me eventually... and I am determined to make it happen.... I've always hated my destiny... but if it gives me you..."

The god's grip tightens, you can barely breathe... it's as though he's scared you'll run... yet he masks it well.

"... As long as it gives me you, I could care less how it happens... Stop fighting me, it's a pathetic struggle... as much as it is cute." Loki huffs, yet you keep trying to shove him off.

"I want nothing to do with you! Get that through your head!" You bark, but Loki just glares.

"Let me show you what adoration truly looks like." Loki pleads, now surprisingly desperate. "Let me show you I can love you as a king would his consort... Let me show you I can be worth it. I'll love you like no other can."

The sight is... upsetting to witness... yet you assume it's another trick. He just wants to manipulate you. You shove again, he holds. So...

You scream.

"LET ME GO!" You scream, probably loud enough to cause attention. Loki pauses, covering your mouth quickly... Yet it's too late.

Heavy footsteps enter the area he has cornered you in.

"Brother?" A deep voice calls, one that makes Loki want to scream out of frustration. Of course that's who comes. Thor, hero at heart...

His damn brother.

Loki begrudgingly lets you go, a look of disdain in his eyes. In comes Thor, no doubt noticing you two were in the middle of a scuffle. You keep glaring at Loki... and Thor seems to understand.

"What is the meaning of this brother? What are you doing with them?" Thor accuses, making Loki quickly find a way to brush things off.

"Oh nothing bad, brother... I am simply teasing them. I might've gotten carried away... that is all." Loki hums, acting innocent as Thor looks between you both. You go to say something, but Loki nudges you.

"Right... Anyways, I'm going to need them. We have another big fight soon." Thor laughs, gesturing for you to follow. "Come with me!"

As Thor leaves the room, you move to follow...

Yet Loki grabs your arm.

"This isn't over, my dear...." Loki's voice growls, glaring at you in frustration. "You will be mine eventually... ignore me all you want but you will crack and i will be here to support you... I just need to wait you out."

You don't even look at him or acknowledge his threat. You'll probably tell Thor all about this later... but that won't stop Loki. He lets you pull your arm away from him and leave the room...

But Loki knows you'll love him eventually...