JAHSEH DEWAYNE RICARDO ONFROY

The rogues absolutely hate them

Because the Spider person somehow manages to escape every bit of the theatrics. Riddler spends three weeks designing a complex puzzle and Spider-Person solves it by accidentally finding the answer key while looking through public records.

Riddler has never recovered from that.

Joker tries doing his usual monologue and the Spider-person starts taking notes

Joker: "What are you doing?"

Spider-Person: "This is fascinating."

Joker: "What is?"

Spider-Person: "You're the only respondent who selected all fourteen warning signs."

Joker: "What warning signs?"

Spider-Person: "The warning signs. The mental illness ones. Congratulations, you have fourteen."

Joker: "What does that mean???"

Spider-Person: "I'm making a graph later. You're welcome to swing by..haha..see what I did there?"

Tim becomes obsessed with proving Spider-Person's data collection is flawed and ridiculous because he, himself, overcomplicated things.

Tim is furious.

"You cannot just walk around doing sociology."

Spider-Person: "I can and I am."

Gotham's billionaires eventually learn that if Spider-Person approaches them smiling, they're about to go up on a chart somewhere

Every annual report just gets worse

The first one is professional, something like Appendix A

The second one is concerned, something like Gotham's (rather poorly hidden) issue

And by the third they give up and start naming it things like..

"Respectfully, What Are We Doing Here?"

"I Have Explained This Before."

"See Previous Graph."

"For The Love Of God."

If they meet a billionaire genuinely helping people, they move on. Whatever. It's cool.

If they meet a billionaire doing absolutely nothing..congratulations! You're on appendix C. Nobody wants to end up on Appendix C.

Bruce ends up in Appendix C once. It is the most humiliating experience of his life.

Spider-Person titled it "Sir, You Have The Resources."

The Batfamily finds this so funny they never let him forget it. Especially Jason who likes to wait patiently for Bruce to fuck up.

Jason pulled a Regina George and printed copies of Appendix C. He plastered it all over the Manor.

They. Were. Everywhere.

Spider-Person eventually starts recognizing repeat offenders too & this creates a bizarre dynamic

"Kevin."

"Please don't."

"Kevin, we talked about this."

"PLEASE DON'T."

"We literally made a budget together."

Batman, watching from a rooftop: "…did they make a budget together?"

Nightwing: "Apparently."

At one point Spider-Person genuinely helps a low-level criminal find a job. And then another. And another. And it becomes a thing.

Entire sections of Gotham's criminal underworld start viewing them as some weird combination of probation officer, social worker, and cryptid

Nobody knows what category they're supposed to fit into

The biggest point of contention is, obviously, the "no kill" rule. You understand the concept of morality about as well as Batman understands a joke. To you, taking out the trash is just more efficient

Because why would anyone want to keep a rapist alive???

Batman's tried to explain the whole "it'll lead you down the dark path" thing but you're straight from hell. So it doesn't really get any darker than that. Also, that ship is far sailed.

The Watchtower’s comms are frequently treated to the exact same argument every single week.

Batman will be brooding at the monitor "Reader. I explicitly said you cannot kill the cartel leaders. We needed them for interrogation."

You will literally pout, crossing your arms "But Bruce! They hurt kids! I did the world a favor. You should be thanking me, you're WELCOME, Reader" you mock

The League eventually had to create a literal "Days Since Reader Committed Mid-Tier Homicide" whiteboard in the cafeteria.

It rarely makes it past three.

Superman usually just sighs, rubs his temples, and says, "At least they're filtering for the genuinely horrific ones…" while Batman ages a good decade from sheer stress.

Being a demon means you possess an almost unfair supernatural level of physical attractiveness that breaks human brains too

You know it, you abuse it, and you use it as a shortcut for everything.

Why spend three hours hacking a mainframe or staging a complex stakeout when you can just look at a security guard, and have them handing over their keycards

and credit cards, which the league doesn't need to know about. You've got a very expensive shopping habit to pay for. It's your human hobby.

The Flash will be running around trying to evacuate a collapsing building, and he’ll look over to see you leaning against a piece of rubble, casually twirling your hair, and giving a terrified but intensely aroused mother your number.

"Hey babe, if we survive the alien invasion, you should show me around Gotham. I hear the villains suck, but I suck harder"

Your loudest and most frequent complaint while lounging around the Watchtower is the utter lack of "spiciness" in the universe

You will literally crash a high-level briefing about Darkseid just to groan loudly into the table

"Ugh, Bruce, this planet is dry. Where are the sluts? Why is everyone so repressed? I went to Central City yesterday and the most exciting thing I saw was an ankle. I'm starving. I need a real, degenerate night out or I'm going to start biting people."

Your approach to conflict resolution makes Batman want to launch himself into the sun

BATMAN: " Joker has secured three bombs across the tri-state area. We need a three-pronged approach to dismantle the triggers simultaneously…"

READER, swiveling in chair: "Or… I could just make him fall in love with me, Bruce. We don't need to do all of that."

BATMAN: "He is a homicidal psychopath."

READER: "Sounds like a great lay"

You have tried this on multiple villains.

You once casually mentioned that Poison Ivy "could get it if she stopped trying to kill everyone for a few hours," which led to an incredibly awkward silence where Green Arrow had to physically restrain a disgusted but slightly flattered Ivy.

You also treat comms like something to talk about your day to

Half the time, Martian Manhunter has to mute your feed because you're broadcasting graphic descriptions of what you want to do to various famous people (Black Canary, Richard Grayson, Oliver Queen, the list goes on)

"I want to *@#%^&*@#&^%@!%6 on that table &^*#@^% night along, %$^&*@#$ she's so hot, the way I'd %$^*$%^"

Diana is absolutely horrified.

Batman finds a way to string your ass from the ceiling for telling him you'd bang his oldest son.

You're strung up again once you let him know that you'd also do the second.

You're either talking pure thirst on comms, or you're narrating your experience with human foods

"Guys, I ate something called a 'Chipotle burrito' and I think my stomach plans to explode. Clark, if I die, tell that cute barista on 5th street I loved her. And the guy who deals drugs in Crime Alley. He gave me some free coke. Oh! And the pretty girl at the mall. Please. And the fling from the bar. And the--"

"Reader, how many people are you dating at the same time ??"

You refuse to wear a standard uniform. "Spandex makes my ass look flat and it suffocates my energy," you claim

Which is not an issue for Nightwing, but you're not him unfortunately.

Instead, you fight crime in outfits that look like they were stolen from a high-end lingerie boutique or a heavy metal video shoot.

Diana spends half her time trying to adjust your top so you don't give the evening news a completely different kind of show during a live press conference

Despite the fact that you are a walking HR violation and PR disaste you are completely indispensable

When the chips are down, your demonic magic bypasses standard physics

You can rip open portals through hell dimensions to bypass alien shield

Your raw strength rivals Wonder Woman's when you're angry, and you have a weirdly fierce loyalty to the League.

You might call Batman a "repressed old virgin" to his face every morning, but the second someone tries to take a swing at him from behind, you will literally tear their soul out through their throat before they can blink.

You're a degenerate, but you're their degenerate.

“Bruce?” Hal wheezed. “Hosting a POOL PARTY?” Diana smiled knowingly though. “It was probably Y/N’s idea.” Clark nodded instantly. “Absolutely Y/N’s idea.”

Pre-planning for the pool party starts like it’s a military operation. Bruce genuinely makes spreadsheets. Colour-coded ones.

Barbara somehow gets dragged into organising RSVPs because apparently nobody else is “capable of answering messages like functioning members of society.”

“I need final numbers by Friday,” Barbara says into the Justice League official WhatsApp group chat (look me in the eye and tell me they wouldn't have one c'mon)

Wally replies instantly: put me down for 3 Barbara: Why three. Wally: idk im hungry

The family group chat, on the other hand, becomes unbearable within hours.

Dick: Can I invite the Titans? Bruce: They were already invited. Jason: Can Roy bring his weird grill Bruce: No. You: Do you think we can hire one of those huge inflatable water slides Bruce: Also no

Costco shopping day is genuinely catastrophic.

Alfred takes you, Steph, and Cass because Bruce “doesn’t trust the boys to grocery shop responsibly.”

Which is fair because Dick once bought jalapenos and cream cheese to make jalapeno cream cheese takis but actually forgot the takis (my brother did this once)

“Guys we need mozzarella sticks.” “My dear Stephanie,” Alfred says calmly, “we already have three boxes.” “Okay but what if people want MORE mozzarella sticks?”

You and Cass disappear for twenty minutes and come back with enough chips to survive the apocalypse.

Alfred looks at the trolley.

Looks at both of you.

Then simply sighs in tired acceptance.

Cass records Steph trying to lift the giant catering-sized tub of potato salad and immediately dropping it.

“WHY IS IT SO DENSE?” “Because,” you laugh, “it’s potato salad.”

You and Alfred spend the night before the party making food together in the manor kitchen.

Sandwich platters. Fruit trays. Sliders. Pasta salad. Desserts. Mocktails. Fancy lemonade. Literally everything imaginable.

Meanwhile outside Dick and Tim are in charge of chairs, lights, and decorations.

Dick tries making things aesthetic.

Tim tries making things practical.

They argue the entire time.

“The fairy lights go HERE.” “Nobody cares about fairy lights.” ("nobody cares about TIIIM Drake" type shit) “You have no vision.” “You spent forty minutes arranging cushions.” “Because pillow decor matters, Timothy.”

Jason gets assigned floatie duty because Bruce refuses to let him near “anything expensive or explosive.”

Unfortunately, Jason takes the floaties VERY seriously.

There are giant flamingos, sharks, an inflatable Batmobile, a dragon the size of a sedan.

He’s outside sweating with an industrial air pump muttering angrily.

“If one more damn inflatable swan deflates I’m ending it all.”

Damian gets stuck wrangling the house pets into the manor before guests arrive.

Which sounds easy until you remember: Titus exists, Ace exists, Alfred the cat exists, and Elizabeth exists

Damian walks into the kitchen carrying a lot of leashes and visible irritation.

And finally everyone starts showing up, getting the party started.

The driveway becomes ridiculous.

Cars everywhere.

Bikes everywhere.

Somebody parked a spaceship nearby

Alfred starts tweaking at the sight of the horrific parking jobs the fucking Justice League of America have done.

The energy shifts instantly once everybody arrives.

Music starts booming through the speakers, of which you are in full control of because everyone agrees you have the best music taste (and spotify premium).

People jump in the pool immediately. Conversations overlap everywhere. Somebody’s laughing every five seconds.

Kori and Donna end up securing the hot tub and camp there for a significant amount of time until Dick successfully bribed them out with food

Bruce stands near the patio watching everyone anxiously for a moment before you walk over handing him a drink.

Jonathan and Damian screw off to play Cheese Vikings

Chicken fight is going on and shit hits the fan in the water.

Jason spends most of the party throwing people (mainly Damian) into the pool

Bruce spends most of the afternoon yelling about running and sunscreen and it drives him up the wall.

"STOP RUNNING." Nobody listens. "I MEAN IT." Still nobody listens.

The sunscreen situation becomes a coordinated operation.

Bruce, Diana, and Dinah have all agreed that nobody is escaping.

Nobody.

You try.

Naturally.

"I'm literally fine." "No." "Dad." "No."

Ten minutes later Bruce is physically holding your face still while applying sunscreen.

The water gun war starts because of you (Bruce confiscated Damian's nerf guns moments prior to this)

It always starts because of you.

You, Tim, and Steph form an alliance.

A dangerous one.

Mostly because all three of you are unbelievably annoying together

Steph shoots first.

Tim immediately follows.

You get Bart directly in the shoulder.

"BETRAYAL." "You were never on the team."

The backyard descends into war.

Then Steph makes a horrible decision.

A truly horrible decision.

She sprays Bruce.

Silence.

Bruce slowly lowers the martini he was holding.

Everybody freezes.

Steph immediately realises. "...Oops."

Bruce disappears into the main garage.

Nobody likes that.

Nobody likes that at all.

Three minutes later he returns carrying a garden hose.

The screaming is immediate.

"OH MY GOD." "WHAT THE FUK HE'S GOT THE HOSE." "RUN."

Bruce absolutely hoses down every single person involved.

Including you.

"DAD." "Consequences." "I WASN'T EVEN THE ONE WHO STARTED IT." "You were encouraging her."

In the kitchen, you and Cass slather vegetable oil over the melon so you guys can play Greased Watermelon and that was a complete flop when Jason tried to take the melon away from Roy and in an attempt to score, threw it out of the pool and it cracked.

Your earring falls in the water (rip)

Whenever any water games were going on, everyone would get scared and scream in terror when Arthur, Garth or Kaldur entered the pool lmao

"Can we boycott Atlanteans from water games" "Yo I lowkey second that"

You threw a beach ball at Hal and lied and said it was Barry so for the remainder of the day he had a vendetta against the poor man.

You, Dinah, Steph, Diana, Cass and Lois end up playing volleyball for a short while but Diana absolutely volleymogged everyone (#amazonianthingz)

Eventually Bruce makes the mistake of asking you to order more food.

Specifically because the heroes have somehow consumed enough food to feed a village.

"Can you order more pizzas?" "Sure."

Your brothers gather around to listen because nobody trusts you to make phone calls normally.

"Hi, yes." "..." "How many pizzas?" You look around. "How many people are here?"

Dick starts counting.

Gives up halfway.

"Like fifty?" "Sixty." "Seventy if Wally and Uncle Barry eat." "Fuck okay," you tell the employee. "Hi! Can I please get twenty pizzas?"

Silence.

"Yes." "Two zero." "Twenty."

The employee genuinely thinks it's a prank.

"No ma'am, I swear this is real." "Yes, people are actually going to eat all of that." "No, I'm not hosting a school." "Can I get 4 barbecue, 3 vegaterian, 4 meat lovers, 2 Hawaiian and a couple of pepperoni please" "Thank you, that'll be to 1007 Mountain Drive, Crest Hill, Bristol Township."

Bruce genuinely spazzes out trying to get you, Dick and Jason to stop jumping out of the second floor window into the pool.

"Do you kids not value your lives." "Chill out Bruce we jump from skyscrapers like every night"

Your siblings get on your nerves normally, but today it was particularly worse when Tim decided to run upstairs to your room and use a spare bikini of yours to catapult grapefruits at Damian from your balcony and you get your dad to yell at him.

"TIMOTHY STOP USING YOUR SISTER'S CLOTHES TO SLINGSHOT FRUIT AT YOUR BROTHER" "SORRY BRUCE"

At one point Titus ends up escaping the manor when the door to outside is left open and goes and steals food and you have to stop him from jumping in the pool.

"DAMIAN COME GET YOUR DOG"

Bruce considers the day a total disaster because his blood pressure was through the rood, but everyone else thinks it was a success.

He'll probably get pressured into doing this again next year or some shit.

But it was definitely worth it seeing the smiles on everyone's faces <3

A/N: So much of this shit was based off me and my family and extended family. I am always put on food duty when it comes to parties at my house no lie.

I read and 🩷 all comments

The Watchtower's briefing room hummed with its usual low energy as you settled into your seat, the metallic chair cool even through your suit. Another successful mission wrapped up, another debriefing complete. You'd been a member of the Justice League for years now — long enough that these post mission wind downs felt routine. Comfortable, even.

As a hero, you commanded the very essence of storms themselves. Lightning that danced at your fingertips, winds that bent to your will, rain that fell at your command. Your suit had become a symbol of hope in several cities. The tabloids that followed your civilian life so religiously would never recognize you here, masked and powerful, sitting among Earth's greatest heroes.

Batman stood near the console, cowl firmly in place, posture rigid as always. To anyone else, he looked exactly as he always did — stoic, unmovable, focused. But you'd been married to Bruce Wayne for two years. You knew the microscopic tells like the slight relaxation in his shoulders that meant he was content with how the mission went, the barely-there tilt of his head that indicated he was listening more carefully than his stance suggested.

"Great work today, everyone," Clark said, his bright smile a stark contrast to the dark space visible through the Watchtower's windows. "That could have gone much worse."

"Could have gone better if someone hadn't tried to punch a robot made of literal electricity," Barry quipped, grinning at Green Lantern.

"I was testing its defenses," Hal shot back, but he was smiling too.

You felt yourself relaxing further. These moments when the team wasn't facing down world-ending threats were your favorites. Just heroes being people.

"So," Wonder Woman said, and something in her tone made you glance over. She had that mischievous look that Diana sometimes got, the one that suggested she'd been spending too much time around the Flash. "I was on monitor duty last week, and I may have overheard some of the staff discussing something called 'FMK.'"

Your stomach dropped.

"Oh no," Hal groaned, but he was laughing. "Did you really just bring that up?"

"I'm curious about human games," Diana said innocently. Too innocently. "They were quite passionate about their choices."

Superman looked confused. "What's FMK?"

"Fuck, Marry, Kill," Flash supplied helpfully with a dutiful nod. "It's a game where you pick three people and decide which you'd... well, the name's pretty self explanatory."

You felt Bruce's attention sharpen beside you, though he didn't move. You kept your own posture carefully neutral, grateful for the mask that hid your expression.

"That seems rather crude," Superman said, frowning slightly.

"It's just a game, Boy Scout," Hal said. "Usually people play it with celebrities, or like, a fictional character. Totally hypothetical."

"The staff members were discussing three women," Diana continued, and you realized with growing horror exactly where this was going. "One was that actress... Margot Robbie? The second was the singer, Beyoncé. And the third..." She paused, and you could have sworn she was enjoying this. "Was Mrs. Wayne. Bruce Wayne's wife."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees, though that might have been your imagination. Or possibly your powers responding to your emotional state. You very carefully did not look at Bruce.

"Oh, I remember when that wedding happened," Flash said, leaning back in his chair. "It was everywhere. Every magazine, every news site. The tabloids went absolutely insane."

"She's very beautiful," Diana nodded matter-of-factly. "I've seen her photographs."

"Beautiful is an understatement," Hal said, and you felt rather than saw Bruce's infinitesimal stiffening. "I mean, have you seen her at those galas? Wayne's a lucky bastard."

You studied your gloves with intense focus, trying to keep your breathing steady. This was fine. This was totally fine. You'd known that marrying Bruce would put you in the public eye, had accepted that your face would be on magazine covers and gossip sites. You just hadn't expected to be sitting in the Watchtower while your colleagues—while your husband's colleagues—discussed whether they'd hypothetically sleep with you.

"So what did the staff members decide?" Superman asked, sounding reluctant but curious.

"The consensus seemed to be marry Mrs. Wayne, fuck Margot Robbie, and kill Beyoncé... though they felt very guilty about that last one," Diana reported. "There was quite a heated debate."

"Killing Beyoncé is a crime," Barry gasped oh so seriously. "That's the wrong choice."

"You can't kill any of them, it's hypothetical," Hal pointed out.

"I'd marry Beyoncé," Flash continued, ignoring him. "Fuck Mrs. Wayne, I mean, obviously.. and sorry Margot, but you're getting killed in this scenario."

You were going to die. You were going to spontaneously combust right here in the Watchtower, and they'd never know why. You could feel heat creeping up your neck, and you were grateful — so incredibly grateful — for the high collar of your suit.

"I don't think I want to play this game," Superman said uncomfortably.

"Batman, you're being quiet," Hal said, and you nearly choked on nothing. "What's your take?"

There was a pause. A long pause. You still didn't look at him, but you could feel his presence like a physical thing beside you.

"I don't engage in speculation about civilians," Bruce said finally, his voice flat and controlled. The perfect Batman response. But you caught it.. the slight edge to his words, the quiet possessiveness that no one else would notice.

"Of course you don't," Barry grinned. "You don't engage in anything fun."

"Mrs. Wayne seems like a lovely person," Diana said. "From what I've read, she does considerable charity work. The Wayne Foundation's programs for underprivileged children have expanded significantly since their marriage."

"She's also apparently really down to earth," Hal added. "My brother met her at some charity thing in Coast City last year. Said she was genuinely nice, not fake nice like some celebrities. Actually talked to people like they were people."

Something warm bloomed in your chest despite the awkwardness of the situation. You worked hard at those events, tried to use your unwanted celebrity status for good. It meant something that people noticed.

"Wayne definitely married up," Flash said. "I mean, the guy's rich and all, but she could have had anyone."

"Speaking of Wayne," Hal started, and oh no. Oh no. "Did you guys see that article last week? About him supposedly dating three different models at once before he got married?"

You pressed your lips together hard. You'd seen that article. You and Bruce had laughed about it over breakfast because all three "models" were actually undercover intelligence agents he'd been coordinating with on a case.

"The man has a reputation," Diana spoke, in that sort of vague diplomatic way that only she could pull off.

"Had a reputation," Barry corrected. "From what I hear, he's been completely faithful since the wedding. No scandals, no rumors, nothing. It's actually kind of weird."

"Maybe he actually loves his wife," Clark suggested, and you could have thrown yourself into his arms.

"Or maybe he's just better at hiding it now," Hal raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Guys like that don't just change."

You felt Bruce shift slightly beside you. His hand, resting on the table, curled almost imperceptibly into a fist.

"I met him once," Diana said thoughtfully. "At a museum fundraiser in Gotham. He was... charming. Very smooth. But there was something else there. An intelligence he kept hidden behind the playboy smile."

That was more accurate than she knew. You'd been at that fundraiser too, and you had watched Bruce play the billionaire fool while mentally cataloging security weaknesses and potential threats.

"I still can't believe people find him that interesting," Clark said, a bit too honestly to the point you almost laughed. "He's a rich guy who throws parties."

"A rich guy who's married to a woman way out of his league," Barry groaned and rubbed a hand down his face in jealousy. "Seriously, what does she see in him? Besides the obvious money and looks and charm and-... okay, I'm answering my own question."

"Maybe she sees something the tabloids don't," Bruce said quietly, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

"Deep," Hal deadpanned sarcastically. "Very philosophical, Batman."

"I think it's romantic," Diana smiled, her arms folded over her chest in finality. "A powerful man brought to his knees by love. It's very classical."

"It's very something," Flash muttered, his eyes flicking to you then doing a double take as if he had entirely forgotten you were there. "You've always got opinions." He prompted, hoping you'd give some insight that would prove his point over the others'.

Every eye in the room turned to you. You felt Bruce's attention sharpen, though he still didn't look directly at you.

You cleared your throat. "I think," you started carefully, "that celebrities are still people entitled to their privacy. And that speculating about their personal lives is exactly what the tabloids want us to do."

"Wow, okay, shutting down the fun," Flash booed, but he was smiling. "You sound like Batman."

If only he knew.

"She's right," Superman sighed in relief, his head tilting and the curl bouncing perfectly into position on his forehead. "We should focus on actual important matters."

The conversation shifted then, moving to scheduling and upcoming missions and the usual logistics. You felt the tension slowly drain from your shoulders, and Bruce's hand uncurled on the table.

The meeting wrapped up twenty minutes later. You filed out with the others, maintaining careful distance from Batman as always. No one could know. No one could ever know that you and Batman went home to the same house, shared the same bed, knew every inch of each other's bodies and souls.

The secret was what kept you both safe. It was also, occasionally, absolutely hilarious.

By the time you had arrived home, you found Bruce already in the Cave, cowl pushed back, sitting at the computer. He'd beaten you by minutes, which meant he'd driven fast even by his standards.

"So," you drawled, the amusement in your voice echoing slightly in the vast space as you descended the stairs. "That was fun."

He turned in his chair, and the look on his face made you burst out laughing. Bruce Wayne — Batman, the Dark Knight, terror of Gotham's underworld — looked utterly exhausted.

"I'm never going to unhear that conversation," he spoke flatly.

"Which part?" You were grinning now, pulling off your mask as you reached him. "The part where Green Lantern said I was beautiful? Or the part where Flash said he'd hypothetically fuck me?"

Bruce's jaw tightened. "All of it."

"You're jealous," you teased delightedly. "The Batman is jealous of a hypothetical game."

"I'm not jealous." He caught your wrist as you moved past him, pulling you down into his lap. His arms wrapped around your waist, solid and possessive. "I'm... irritated."

"Uh-huh." You ran your fingers through his hair, still damp from the cowl. "Is this the same irritation that made your hand curl into a fist when they suggested you were still sleeping around?"

"He called me 'guys like that,'" Bruce muttered against your shoulder. "As if I'd ever-..."

"I know." You cut him off and kissed his temple. "I know you wouldn't. Although I have to say, I enjoyed Diana's assessment of you. 'Charming. Very smooth. But there was something else there.'"

He pulled back to look at you, one eyebrow raised. "You enjoyed being discussed like a piece of meat?"

"Oh, absolutely not," you corrected without missing a beat. "That was horrifying. I thought I was going to have to blow one of them out of the room." You paused. "Although Hal's brother apparently thinks I'm genuinely nice, so that was good to hear."

"You are genuinely nice," Bruce's eyes set on yours with an intense truth and love behind them. "You're also brilliant, brave, powerful, and far too good for me, which is what I wanted to say when Flash suggested you'd married me for my money and looks."

"You do have very good looks," you teased. "And the money doesn't hurt."

He squeezed your sides, making you squirm and let out a small laugh. "I'm serious. Sitting there, listening to them talk about you like they had any right to..." The frustration was seeping through his voice.

"They didn't know," you reminded him gently. "They were just talking. People talk about celebrities. It's what people do."

"I don't like it."

"I know, me neither." You cupped his face in your hands. "But you know what I do like? Coming home to you. Being the only one who knows that Batman, the great stoic detective, gets possessive when his teammates play fuck, marry, kill with his wife."

"I'm not possessive," he grumbled, but his arms tightened around you.

"Sure you're not." You kissed him softly. "For the record, I'd marry you every time, in every hypothetical game, and definitely in every universe."

His expression softened in that way it only did for you, the hard edges of Batman melting away to reveal Bruce underneath. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You smiled. "Even if you are a rich guy who throws parties."

His head dropped onto his shoulder again and you saw his shoulders shake gently, and the chuckle that came from him rumbled against your neck. "He has no idea."

"None of them do." You rested your cheek against the top of his head. "That's what makes it perfect."

"And terrifying," he added. "If they ever found out, it would be everywhere."

"They won't," you assured firmly. "We're too good at this. We've been doing it for years."

"You almost lost it when Flash said he'd fuck you."

"You almost lost it when they said you'd married up."

"Because it's true," Bruce said seriously. "I did marry up. Significantly."

You kissed him again, longer this time, pouring three years of partnership and two years of marriage and a lifetime of love into it. When you pulled back, you were both smiling.

"We should probably get out of these suits," your voice was quiet enough that only he could hear, even though there was no one else around. "Alfred will have dinner ready soon."

"In a minute." Bruce's thumb rubbed gentle circles on your hip bone, his hands splayed firmly against you to make sure you stayed put with him. "I just need a minute to remember that you're mine. That I get to come home to you."

Your heart melted. This was the Bruce that no one else got to see — vulnerable, open, deeply in love. This was worth every awkward conversation, every secret kept, every careful distance maintained in public.

"I chose you," you confirmed softly. "I choose you every day, every mission, every ridiculous conversation about celebrity gossip. It's always you, Bruce."

He kissed you again, and for a moment, there was no Justice League, no secret identities, no tabloids or paparazzi or hypothetical games. There was just you and him, wife and husband, partners in every sense of the word.

"Come on," you whispered eventually, standing and pulling him up with you. "Let's go be normal people for a few hours."

"We're never going to be normal people," Bruce pointed out, but he had a smile tugging at his lips as he followed you toward the stairs.

"Fine. Let's go be our version of normal people. The kind who eat Alfred's pot roast and pretend we didn't spend the evening listening to our coworkers debate our fuckability."

And if Bruce was a little more possessive than usual when you made it upstairs, well.... that was between you, him, and the soundproofed walls of Wayne Manor.

← BACK. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

He asks, very softly, “Who bought it?”

You blink at him. “My kidney?”

“Yes.”

“Bruce, this was years ago.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Bruce becomes almost painfully gentle with you afterwards. Not pitying, because you would probably bite him for that, but attentive.

He starts noticing things.

How you sit with your back to walls. How you always check exits. How you flinch at hospital scenes in movies but laugh it off before anyone can notice. How you know which streets to avoid, which churches aren’t churches, which clinics don’t ask questions, which “charity vans” are not charity vans.

He asks if you want help.

You shrug. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

Bruce hates that answer.

Because it sounds too much like Jason. Like Dick after pretending the circus didn’t haunt him. Like Tim after losing too much sleep to feel real. Like every Gotham child who learned survival before multiplication tables.

If you’re dating him, he becomes deeply protective in a way that is both tender and terrifying.

He does not cage you. He knows better.

But Gotham quietly shifts around you.

The clinic that hurt you? Shut down.

The men your mother owed? Suddenly under investigation for tax fraud, smuggling, kidnapping, and six other crimes they absolutely committed.

The street where you were nearly trafficked? A new Wayne Foundation shelter opens two blocks away with security, food, transportation, and counsellors who actually know what they’re doing.

You catch on eventually.

“Bruce.”

“Yes?”

“Did you emotionally cope with my trauma by restructuring an entire neighbourhood?”

A pause.

“…No.”

“Bruce.”

“A little.”

His care is quiet but enormous. He does not always know how to hold you, but he knows how to build a world where what happened to you becomes harder to repeat.

And when you make jokes like, “It’s fine, I only have one kidney, but I have twice the personality,” he doesn’t laugh at first.

Eventually, though, when he knows you want him to, he gives you the smallest, saddest smile.

“You do have an alarming amount of personality.”

“Thank you. It’s where my second kidney would’ve gone.”

He sighs like he’s suffering.

But his hand finds yours under the table.

dick grayson

Dick’s first instinct is to laugh because you said it like a joke.

Then the words actually process.

“Yeah, I don’t go near that alley anymore. Almost got grabbed there when I was sixteen. Super embarrassing. I dropped my fries.”

Dick’s smile dies so fast it practically leaves a chalk outline.

“You almost got what?”

You wave him off. “It’s fine. I stabbed the guy with a broken umbrella and ran.”

Dick looks like he has just been shot, resurrected, and shot again. “You were sixteen?”

“Maybe fifteen. Gotham birthdays are more of a vibe than a record.”

Dick gets emotional. Like, visibly.

He’s the one who says your name in that soft, careful way that makes your defences go up immediately.

You try to dodge.

“Don’t do the concerned forehead wrinkle thing.”

“I’m not doing a forehead wrinkle.”

“You’re literally making the face nurses make before telling you insurance doesn’t cover anaesthesia.”

That makes him look worse.

Dick is a fixer, a hugger, a bleeding-heart acrobat with too much love and not enough self-preservation. He wants to wrap you in blankets and personally suplex Gotham into the sun.

But he learns quickly that you don’t want to be treated like glass.

So instead, he matches your energy—but gently.

You say, “Fun fact, don’t talk to those guys on 9th. They’re a cult. They tried to get me to marry a sewer prophet once.”

Dick, without missing a beat, says, “Was the sewer prophet cute?”

You grin. “Honestly? Great bone structure. Terrible theology.”

He laughs, but his eyes stay sharp. Later, Nightwing absolutely checks out the “cult guys on 9th.”

If you’re together, Dick becomes your safe place in a very physical way.

Not smothering. Not controlling. But he always offers his hand before crossing certain streets. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk. He texts you when Scarecrow escapes Arkham, even before the news breaks.

When fear toxin gets mentioned, his whole demeanour changes.

You once say “I hope Scarecrow chokes on his own gas. Last time I hallucinated my dead neighbour crawling out of my sink for six hours.”

Dick goes quiet.

Then, carefully, “You went through a Scarecrow attack alone?”

“Mostly. A raccoon was there.”

“A raccoon?”

“Emotionally, he did his best.”

Dick does not know whether to cry or kiss you.

Possibly both.

He is the one who helps you relearn joy without making it feel like homework. Rooftop picnics. Bad movies. Trips outside Gotham where the air doesn’t taste like rainwater and crime.

He loves your humour. He just wishes it didn’t have teeth marks in it.

jason todd

Jason gets it. That’s the problem.

The first time you casually drop something horrifying, he doesn’t freeze like Bruce or panic like Dick.

He goes still.

Deeply, dangerously still.

“Hospitals are gross. Last time I was in one, they removed an organ and paid me like it was a pawn shop transaction.”

Jason’s eyes lift to yours. “What organ?”

You shrug. “Kidney.”

“Who?”

“Jay, this is not a murder quest.”

“I didn’t say murder.”

“You thought it very loudly.”

Jason understands dark humour as a survival language. He speaks it fluently. So when you joke, he doesn’t immediately tell you to stop. He knows sometimes joking is the only way to pick up the memory without it burning your hands.

But later, when you’re alone, he says, “You know that was messed up, right?”

You snort. “No, really?”

“I mean it.”

And that’s when his voice changes. Rougher. Lower. Not angry at you. Never at you.

“You shouldn’t have had to make that normal.”

That gets you.

Because Jason doesn’t say it like pity. He says it like someone who knows exactly what it means to survive something and then get treated like the survival was proof it didn’t hurt.

If you’re dating Jason, he is fiercely protective, but he respects your autonomy more than anyone expects.

He won’t baby you. He won’t tell you that you can’t go somewhere.

But if you say, “Don’t walk down that street after eleven,” Jason hears an entire case file in one sentence.

The next week, that street has Red Hood presence.

Not flashy. Not obvious.

But people vanish from corners. Traffickers get nervous. Cult recruiters stop loitering. Predatory clinics discover that someone has burned their records and mailed copies to every law enforcement office, journalist, and victim advocacy group in the city.

You look at him over breakfast. “Did you threaten a cult for me?”

Jason sips his coffee. “No.”

“Jason.”

“I threatened a cult for Gotham. You just inspired civic engagement.”

He’s also the one who can sit with your worst stories without flinching. He might look like he wants to tear the city open brick by brick, but he won’t make you comfort him for your pain.

When fear toxin comes up, though?

Oof.

You say, “Yeah, Scarecrow gas got me once. Saw my own body hanging from the ceiling. Zero stars. Would not recommend.”

Jason’s face goes blank.

He has nightmares that night.

Not because he thinks you’re weak.

Because he can imagine too well what it did to you.

He holds you differently afterwards. Like you’re not fragile, but precious.

And when you make some awful joke like, “At least Scarecrow helped me discover I’m creative under pressure,” Jason mutters, “You’re sick.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah,” he says, too fast. Too honest. “I do.”

Both of you freeze.

Then you whisper, “That was grossly sincere.”

Jason groans into his hands. “Forget I said it.”

“Never. I’m putting it on a mug.”

tim drake

Tim’s reaction is delayed because his brain immediately starts building a conspiracy board.

You say, “Oh, avoid the blue-door clinic near Sheldon Park. They buy organs, but only if you’re desperate enough not to ask for paperwork.”

Tim looks up from his laptop. “…What?”

You keep eating cereal. “Yeah, sketchy. Bad magazines in the waiting room, too.”

Tim slowly closes his laptop.

That is how everyone knows something terrible has happened.

“Can you repeat that?”

“The magazine thing?”

“The organ thing.”

Tim is horrified, but his horror is very analytical. His eyes sharpen. His voice gets careful. He asks specific questions. Dates. Locations. Names. Descriptions.

You eventually squint at him. “Are you making a mental spreadsheet?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“It’s more of a relational database.”

“Tim.”

“I’m coping.”

Tim does not do well with the randomness of your trauma. Not because he judges you, but because he can’t stand unsolved harm.

Someone hurt you. Someone profited. Someone built a system that made it possible.

And Tim wants names.

If you’re dating him, he becomes quietly obsessive about making sure you are safe in ways you might not even notice at first.

Your phone mysteriously gets better security.

Your routes home become “accidentally” optimised away from dangerous areas. A WayneTech-funded investigation into illegal clinics begins after Tim “just happens” to mention some suspicious data to the right person.

He does not push you to talk unless he thinks you’re in current danger. But when you do talk, he listens like he is taking testimony from the last surviving witness of a buried city.

He remembers everything.

You once say “Oh, those guys? Yeah, they’re a cult. Don’t make eye contact. They love eye contact. That’s how they got Marcus.”

Tim pauses. “Who’s Marcus?”

“Guy from my old building. Nice. Bad at boundaries. Accidentally joined a basement religion.”

“Did he get out?”

“Physically? Yeah. Emotionally? Unclear.”

Tim does not sleep that night.

The next day, he has a file labelled Basement Religion???

Steph sees it and goes, “What the hell?”

Tim says, “Gotham has patterns.”

Tim’s care is practical and almost invisible. He’ll leave food near you when you’re spiralling. He’ll stay awake when fear toxin incidents are on the news. He’ll sit beside you in silence because he knows questions can feel like knives.

But sometimes your casual delivery cracks him open.

You joke, “Honestly, selling a kidney was easier than applying for college aid.”

Tim stares at you.

Then he says, very softly, “I’m sorry no one helped you.”

And that one lands.

Because beneath all the caffeine and case files, Tim knows what it is to be alone in a mansion-sized life with no adults looking closely enough.

He loves you like a promise he’s terrified to break.

damian wayne

Damian does not understand casual trauma at first.

Not because he lacks trauma.

Because in the League, pain was either weakness or instruction. You did not joke about it. You endured it. You became sharper. You buried the body and the feeling beside it.

So when you say, “Oh, I know that symbol. Cult. Big cult. Super into blood oaths and soup kitchens. Weird combo.”

Damian stares. “You were involved with them?”

“Nah. Almost. They tried recruiting me when I was homeless for a bit.”

“You were homeless?”

“Yeah, but only in the normal Gotham way.”

His face darkens. “There is no normal way to be homeless.”

You blink because, wow, okay, that was unexpectedly compassionate and now you’re emotionally cornered.

Damian gets angry.

Not loud angry. Not tantrum angry.

Cold, princely, sword-edge angry.

He sees your trauma as an insult to your dignity. He is furious that Gotham took pieces of you and then expected you to keep walking around like nothing happened.

If you’re dating him, his protectiveness is intense but awkward.

He’ll say things like, “You will inform me if anyone attempts to harvest your organs again.”

And you’re like, “Dami, babe, that is not usually a recurring social appointment.”

He scowls. “Do not deflect.”

He struggles with your humour the most.

You say, “Scarecrow gas gave me hallucinations so bad I apologised to a vending machine for being born.”

Damian looks genuinely stricken. “That is not amusing.”

“It’s a little amusing. The vending machine forgave me.”

“It did not.”

“You weren’t there.”

He has to learn that sometimes your jokes are pressure valves. If he tries to shut them down, the whole room gets heavier.

Eventually, he develops his own dry responses.

You: “I almost got trafficked on that street.”

Damian: “Then we shall not use that street.”

You: “I mean, it was years ago.”

Damian: “Then the street has had years to repent and failed.”

That one makes you laugh so hard you almost choke. Damian looks proud for three days.

His care shows up in strange, beautiful ways. He trains you—not because he thinks you’re helpless, but because he believes you deserve the confidence of knowing exactly where to strike if someone touches you wrong.

He walks with you through the city and quietly asks about landmarks.

“Bad memory?”

“Neutral.”

“And that one?”

“Cult-adjacent.”

“Noted.”

God help anyone Damian notes.

When he loves you, he loves like a blade placed between you and the world.

Still learning softness. Still learning jokes. Still learning that your survival is not a battlefield report.

But trying.

So hard.

duke thomas

Duke understands Gotham from the civilian side more than most of them. He knows what it means to be a regular person in a city where monsters make headlines and ordinary cruelty hides in the footnotes.

So when you casually say, “Yeah, I avoid that block. There was this guy offering runaway kids ‘jobs.’ Translation: bad news with a van.”

Duke’s whole expression shifts.

Not shock, exactly.

Recognition.

He says, “Yeah. I know the type.”

That makes you pause.

Because Duke does not react like you’ve revealed some impossible darkness. He reacts like Gotham has names for this kind of thing and he hates that you know them too.

Duke is steady. He does not overwhelm you. He does not interrogate you. He just steps closer in a way that makes the world feel less tilted.

If you’re dating him, he becomes your grounding force.

When your jokes get too sharp, he notices.

You say, “Fear toxin? Been there. Screamed so hard I lost my voice. Kind of peaceful afterwards, honestly.”

Duke doesn’t laugh. He gently says, “That sounds terrifying.”

You shrug. “It was Tuesday.”

He nods. “Still terrifying.”

That’s his gift. He doesn’t let Gotham normalise what happened to you. But he also doesn’t make you feel weird for having normalised it yourself.

He’ll walk with you through places that scare you if you ask. He’ll avoid them completely if you don’t. He’ll bring snacks, because Duke believes snacks are a valid emotional support system and honestly? Correct.

He also gets quietly furious. Especially about cults.

You tell him about a group that targets kids after school, offering food and shelter and “family.”

Duke’s eyes go hard. “They’re still active?”

“Probably. Gotham’s like mould. You think you cleaned it, then boom. Basement prophet.”

Duke exhales. “I’m checking it out.”

“Please don’t get culted.”

“I’m not getting culted.”

“That’s what Marcus said.”

“Who’s Marcus?”

“Exactly.”

Duke has the best balance of humour and care. He can joke with you without letting the joke erase the wound.

And when you wake up from nightmares, he doesn’t demand details. He just turns on a soft light and says, “You’re here. I’m here. Nothing from back then gets to touch you tonight.”

Simple. True. Solid as sunrise.

Duke loves like morning after a city-long blackout.

Not blinding. Just enough light to remember the world is still there.

stephanie brown

Steph’s reaction is loud because Steph’s heart is loud.

You say “Hospitals freak me out. Sold my tonsils once. Long story. Very weird Craigslist energy.”

Stephanie drops whatever she’s holding. “YOU SOLD YOUR WHAT?”

“My tonsils.”

“Can you even sell tonsils?”

“Gotham finds a way.”

“That is the worst sentence anyone has ever said.”

Steph is horrified. Furious. On the verge of tears. Also, immediately making a joke because she, too, has the sacred Gotham coping mechanism: clownery over collapse.

She points at you and says, “Okay, first of all, no more selling body parts without me.”

You grin. “You want commission?”

“I want to commit arson.”

“That’s illegal.”

“So is organ theft, babe. Keep up.”

If you’re dating her, she becomes fiercely, messily protective.

Steph knows what it’s like to have people underestimate your pain because you’re funny. Because you’re pretty. Because you’re loud. Because you keep moving.

So your casual trauma dumps hit her hard. Especially when she realises you’re not trying to shock anyone. You genuinely think these are normal anecdotes.

You say “Oh, don’t go into that community centre after dark. Cult. Very smiley. Bad vibes. They once tried to convince me my blood had moon debt.”

Steph stares. “Moon debt?”

“Yeah.”

“Your blood?”

“Apparently.”

“I hate this city.”

“Valid.”

She starts a note in her phone called Your Horrible Gotham Yelp Reviews.

Entries include:

“Blue door clinic: illegal organs, bad magazines.”

“9th Street cult: moon debt???”

“Corner near Sheldon: trafficking, avoid.”

“Scarecrow: little freak, kill on sight emotionally.”

Steph is the one who validates your anger.

When you say, “I hope Scarecrow chokes,” she says, “Same. I hope he steps on a Lego first.”

When you say, “It wasn’t that bad,” she says, “Liar, but cute.”

When you say, “I survived,” she says, “Yeah, and you deserved better than survival.”

That one shuts you up.

Steph will hold your hand in public and swing it between you both like you are just two normal people in a normal city, even if Gotham is rotting around the edges.

She makes you laugh without making you feel like your pain is the punchline.

And if someone from your past shows up?

Stephanie Brown goes full glitter-covered vengeance.

No hesitation. No mercy.

cassandra cain

Cass notices before you say anything. She sees the way your shoulders tense near certain streets. The way your breathing changes around medical equipment. The way your smile turns too bright when people talk about Gotham “resilience.”

So when you finally say something casually, Cass is not surprised.

But she is hurt.

Quietly. Deeply.

“Oh, yeah, I hate that smell. Fear toxin residue smells kind of sweet before it ruins your life.”

Cass looks at you. Really looks.

You smile like it’s nothing.

Cass reaches for your hand.

That’s it. No interrogation. No dramatic gasp. No “why didn’t you tell me?” Just her fingers around yours, warm and steady.

Cass understands bodies better than words. She reads the story your mouth tries to turn into a joke.

If you’re dating her, she becomes the safest silence in your life.

You can tell her things badly. Out of order. With humour. With no emotion. With too much emotion. With your eyes fixed on the wall.

She accepts every version.

You say “Almost got taken on that street once. Running away from home. Rookie mistake.”

Cass’s face changes. “Not mistake.”

You blink.

She says, firmer, “Not yours.”

It is four words, and somehow they hit harder than anyone else’s paragraphs.

Cass is careful with touch. She always asks without asking: a hand held out, a pause before stepping closer, a look that gives you room to say no.

If you flinch, she does not take it personally. If you joke, she lets you.

Sometimes she even jokes back, very softly.

You: “Cult guys. Smile and nod, then run.”

Cass: “I can scare them.”

You: “You can scare everyone.”

Cass, tiny smile: “Good.”

Cass is terrifying when protective.

Not loud. Not showy.

One day, the people who made you feel hunted simply begin avoiding you.

You do not know what Cass did. No one knows what Cass did.

Cass brings you tea and looks deeply innocent, which is how you know she absolutely did something.

Her love is not about fixing your past. It is about teaching your body that not every hand reaching for you is a threat.

You are standing in the Batcave under the cold white lights, still damp from Gotham rain, all huge dark insectile eyes and twitching antennae. No nose. Spiracles fluttering along your skin. Multiple arms held half-ready, half-defensive, like you cannot decide whether the room is a threat or a cage.

Bruce is speaking to you carefully. Duke is watching Bruce carefully. Jason is watching everyone like he is hoping someone makes a bad decision so he can feel morally justified about being annoying.

And Tim? Tim is staring.

Not with fear. Not with disgust.

With fascination. Which somehow feels worse.

His gaze moves over you too quickly. Too precisely. Eyes. Antennae. Hands. Shoulders. Spiracles. Posture. Muscle density. Breathing rhythm. Flight balance. Threat response. Unknown species markers. Viltrumite traits mixed with insectoid anatomy. Potential weaknesses. Potential strengths. Potential—

“Your respiration is distributed,” he says suddenly.

Everyone stops.

Your antennae stiffen.

Tim takes one step closer, eyes bright in a way that immediately makes your skin prickle.

“Do the spiracles work independently, or is airflow regulated through a central nervous response? Also, your antennae—are they sensory, communicative, balance-based, or all three? Wait, do they respond to electromagnetic fields? Because if they do, that changes—”

“Tim,” Bruce says.

Tim does not hear him. This is, unfortunately, very Tim.

He is not trying to be cruel. He is not trying to make you feel small. But that does not matter much when you are standing in an unfamiliar cave in an unfamiliar city, surrounded by humans in armour, and one of them is verbally dissecting you like a mystery he cannot wait to solve.

You go very still. A dangerous stillness.

The kind even Jason notices.

Your spiracles close halfway. Your extra arms draw inward.

“You speak as if I am not here.”

Tim stops. Finally.

His expression flickers, but the damage is already breathing between you. “I didn’t mean—”

“You are cataloguing me.”

Tim’s mouth opens. Closes.

He should say no.

He does not. Because Tim is honest in the worst possible moments.

“I’m trying to understand.”

Your antennae flatten. “You are trying to classify.”

Duke mutters, “Oh boy.”

Tim’s face tightens. Defensive now. Embarrassed, which makes him sharper. “You dropped into Gotham with meta-level strength, alien physiology, and lethal combat instincts. Understanding matters.”

“And does your understanding require staring at every part of my body?”

Tim flinches. Then, because he is tired and has sixteen bad coping mechanisms in a trench coat, he says the wrong thing. “If I don’t know what you are, I can’t know how dangerous you are.”

The Cave goes silent. Even Bruce looks like he wants to rewind the last ten seconds and delete them from the timeline.

Your huge eyes fix on Tim. No pupils he can read. No expression he knows how to translate. Just your antennae, rigid and low.

“What I am,” you say quietly, “is standing in front of you.”

Then you turn and leave.

You avoid Tim after that.

Not dramatically. Not loudly.

You just become very good at not being where he is.

If Tim enters the Cave, you leave through the upper platform. If he joins a briefing, you stand behind Jason or Duke, far enough back that his gaze cannot catch on your spiracles or the strange movement of your extra hands. If he speaks to you, you answer with brutal efficiency.

“Pass the med gel.” You pass it.

“Did you see which way the suspect ran?”

“North.”

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Then your question was unnecessary.”

Jason absolutely loves that one.

Tim does not.

Tim tries to apologise twice. Both times are disasters.

The first time, he finds you in the training room and starts with, “I’ve been reviewing my notes.”

Your antennae lift like knives.

Tim hears himself. Regrets being alive.

You walk out.

The second time, he says, “I think I understand where the miscommunication happened.”

You stare at him for four full seconds.

Then say, “You are very bad at this.” And leave again.

Tim stands there holding a peace offering protein bar like an idiot.

It becomes a whole thing.

Not enemies, exactly. You are never enemies.

Enemies are simple. Enemies are targets. Enemies can be fought, defeated, understood.

This is worse. This is awkward. This is charged. This is Tim glancing at you across the Cave and you immediately saying, “Stop studying me.”

And Tim, because he is incapable of shutting up when flustered, muttering, “I’m not.”

“You are staring.”

“I was thinking.”

“At me.”

“You were in the direction of the thought.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

“I know.”

It would be funny if it did not hurt.

Because you assume the staring is judgment. 

Of course you do. Humans stare at you all the time. At your eyes. Your lack of nose. Your antennae. Your arms. Your breathing holes. The shape of you. The not-human wrongness of you.

You assumed Tim’s staring was the same thing wearing smarter clothes. Analysis as distance. Curiosity as cruelty. Fascination as another word for disgust.

And Tim never denies it correctly. Because he is studying you. He is always studying you.

Just not in the way you think.

After that first fight, Tim cannot stop thinking about it. About your words.

You speak as if I am not here.

It keeps him awake. Not that Tim needed help with that.

He replays the moment over and over, each time finding some new way he messed it up. His tone. His posture. The way he moved closer without asking. The way he turned your body into information before he treated you like a person.

Tim knows what it feels like to be overlooked. He knows what it feels like to be reduced to usefulness.

Detective. Robin. Replacement. The smart one. The one who figures it out. The one who does not get to fall apart because someone needs to keep the case moving.

And somehow, with you, he did the same thing.

So he starts researching. Quietly. Obsessively.

Not because Bruce asks him to. Not because there is a mission file.

Because Tim needs to understand how to do better.

He digs through Justice League databases, alien contact archives, old Titan reports, off-world medical references, anything he can access without tripping twelve separate alarms. He learns what little there is about Viltrumite physiology. Even less about your insectoid half.

So he starts building from observation.

Carefully this time. Not touching. Not asking invasive questions. Watching from a distance and hating himself because even his attempt not to study you has, technically, become studying you.

But the focus changes.

Less what are they? More what hurts them? What helps?

He notices you avoid bright Cave lights, so he adjusts the settings in the rooms you use most. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough that your eyes stop narrowing when you enter. He notices smoke clings badly to your spiracles after patrol, so he designs filters thin enough to sit beneath your armour without blocking airflow.

He notices your extra arms never seem comfortable in standard chairs, so he modifies one in the Cave with a wider back and adjustable side space.

He notices you linger near warm vents after long nights, so he installs radiant heating in the corner of the training room you pretend not to favour.

He notices that certain frequencies make your antennae twitch in distress, so he rewrites part of the comm system to dampen the sound.

And because Tim is Tim, he does not tell you. Because telling you would mean admitting he is trying. And also because some part of him thinks you would reject it if you knew it was from him.

So the gifts appear like ghosts.

A new chair. Softer lighting. Gear attachments. A small, heated perch-like seat near the Batcomputer that no one comments on, because Bruce has weaponised silence and the whole family learned from the worst.

You notice, obviously. You notice everything.

At first, you assume Bruce did it. Bruce does not correct you, because Bruce is also emotionally impossible.

Then one night, you find Tim in the Cave at 3:17 a.m., hunched over a workbench, soldering something delicate beneath a magnifying lamp.

You almost leave. Then you see your name written on the side of the project file.

Not your species. Not “alien subject.” Not “bug meta.”

Your name.

You go still.

Tim does not notice you at first.

He is muttering to himself, hair a disaster, coffee untouched beside him, fingers moving with careful precision.

“Needs to flex more around the lower joint. Can’t restrict the spiracles. Maybe if the mesh anchors here…”

You step closer. “What is that?”

Tim startles so hard he nearly drops the tool. “Jesus—don’t do that.”

“I am not Jesus.”

“I know, it’s an expression.”

“What is that?”

Tim looks down at the armour piece. Then back at you. Then down again.

He looks, for once, caught. “It’s… a filter layer. For your suit.”

“My suit already has filters.”

“Not good enough ones.”

You stare at him.

The Cave hums around you.

Tim clears his throat. “Gotham smoke particles are smaller than standard urban pollutants because of all the chemical runoff, fear toxin residue, old industrial waste, and whatever Ivy did to the East End in March. Your spiracles were inflamed after the last warehouse fire.”

“You saw that?”

Tim winces. “Yes.”

Your antennae tilt back. “You were studying me again.”

“No.” Then, immediately, “Yes. Kind of. But not—” He drags a hand through his hair. “Not like before.”

You step closer. Tim does not move away.

Good. Brave.

Stupid.

“What is the difference?”

He looks at you for a long moment. All the jokes leave his face. “The difference is I should have asked.”

That stops you.

Tim sets the tool down. Carefully. Like he does not deserve to hold something sharp during this conversation.

“When we met, I treated you like a discovery before I treated you like a person,” he says. “I got excited. That’s not an excuse. I do that sometimes when something is new and impossible and fascinating, but you weren’t a something. You were standing right there, and I made you feel like an experiment.”

Your spiracles flutter.

He heard you.

That is inconvenient.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says.

Not defensive. Not rushed.

Just sorry. Real sorry.

“I wasn’t judging you,” he adds, quieter. “But I get why it felt that way.”

You cross all six arms, mostly so your hands have somewhere to go. “You stare often.”

His face goes pink. Just a little. “I know.”

“You never denied it.”

“I couldn’t.”

Your antennae lift.

Tim looks like he wants the floor to develop mercy and swallow him.

“I like researching,” he says, then laughs once at himself, tired and small. “That’s probably obvious.”

“Yes.”

“But with you…” He pauses. Swallows. “I think I kept telling myself I was just trying to understand your biology. Your abilities. Your risks. But that wasn’t all of it.”

You do not move.

Tim looks up at you.

His eyes are dark and exhausted and painfully honest.

“I study you more than I study anything else because I notice you more than anything else.”

Oh. That lands somewhere soft and unarmoured.

You hate that you have soft places. Your people would call this vulnerability inefficient. Your human teammates would probably call it having feelings.

Both are terrible.

Tim keeps talking because he is nervous, and nervous Tim is a train with no brakes.

“I notice when your antennae angle toward people you trust. I notice that you hold your lower-left hand still when you’re trying not to show pain. I notice you hate the Cave lights but like the computer glow. I notice you always stand near exits unless Duke is in the room, and you stand near Jason if you think a fight might break out, and near Bruce if you’re pretending you don’t want approval.”

You stare. “You notice too much.”

“I know.”

“Is that why you made these things?”

“Yes.”

“To make me more useful?”

Tim’s face changes fast. Hurt, then horror, then guilt.

“No,” he says. “No. To make you more comfortable.”

You do not answer.

He looks at the armour piece. “I thought… maybe if Gotham felt less hostile, you wouldn’t feel like you had to be ready to fight all the time.”

Your arms loosen. A little.

Tim’s voice softens. “I wanted you to have something that felt like home.”

That is the worst thing he could have said. The best thing. The thing that makes the whole Cave go blurry for half a second, though you refuse to acknowledge that.

You look away. “I do not know what home feels like anymore.”

Tim says nothing.

For once, thank every star, he says nothing. He just stands there with the half-finished filter between you, looking like someone who would build you an entire planet if he thought he could get the atmosphere right.

You step closer. Pick up the armour piece.

It is good work.

Of course it is. Flexible. Thoughtful. Precise. Not restrictive. Designed around you instead of despite you.

Your antennae curl before you can stop them.

Tim sees. He tries not to smile. Fails slightly.

“Do not look pleased,” you say.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m relieved.”

“That is worse.”

He does smile then. Small. Nervous. Devastating.

“I can stop,” he says. “If the modifications bother you. Or I can show you everything first. Ask permission. Actually communicate like a normal person.”

“You are not a normal person.”

“Fair.”

“You may show me.”

Tim blinks. “What?”

“You may show me. The things you made.”

His face opens like sunrise through a dirty window.

Not bright exactly. But hopeful. Dangerous.

You should leave.

You do not.

That is how it starts shifting.

Not all at once. You do not suddenly trust him because of one apology and one piece of alien-friendly armour. You are not that simple, and Tim would not insult you by expecting it.

But you stop leaving every time he enters the room. Mostly.

You let him explain the chair modifications. You sit in it. It is comfortable.

You accuse him of witchcraft.

Tim looks delighted.

You let him adjust the comm frequency. The static that had been irritating your antennae for weeks disappears.

Your whole body relaxes before you can stop it.

Tim notices.

You glare.

He looks away, smiling into his coffee like a criminal.

You let him ask questions now. With rules.

One question at a time. No touching without permission. No medical scans unless you agree. No calling anything about you “specimen,” “sample,” or “data set,” even jokingly.

Tim looks horrified. “I would never call you a specimen.”

“You called my skin texture ‘structurally fascinating’ during our second meeting.”

He covers his face. “I am so sorry.”

You find you enjoy making him apologise for things he has already apologised for. Only a little.

As enrichment.

Your dynamic becomes strange.

Still prickly. Still edged. But warmer underneath.

Tim looks at you too long, and now when you say, “You are staring,” it is not always a warning.

Sometimes it is an invitation.

Tim, doomed, always blushes.

“I was thinking.”

“At me?”

“Near you.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep lying terribly.”

Then one night he says, very quietly, “I was thinking you looked beautiful.”

The Cave does not explode. The world does not end.

You do, however, forget how to respond for several seconds.

Your antennae curl.

Tim’s eyes flick up. Then he looks away immediately, like he is trying very hard not to make you feel watched.

That is what gets you.

Not the compliment.

The restraint. The effort. The way he is learning.

“You may look,” you say.

Tim’s gaze returns slowly. Carefully. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He looks at you then.

Not like an experiment. Not like a threat assessment. Like a person he is almost afraid to want.

Your spiracles flutter.

Tim’s voice drops. “Still beautiful.”

You turn and leave before your dignity can fully die.

Behind you, Tim whispers, “Okay. Great. Smooth.”

You are smiling for the rest of the night.

Unfortunately, Jason sees. Even more unfortunately, Jason has a mouth.

It becomes lowkey enemies-to-lovers in the sense that neither of you were ever enemies, but both of you are stubborn enough to make basic emotional progress look like a competitive sport.

Tim offers you a new wrist guard.

You say, “Trying to improve your experiment?”

He winces.

You immediately feel bad.

Then he says, “Trying to protect someone who keeps blocking bullets with their forearm.”

You say, “My forearm is durable.”

“Your pain receptors disagree.”

“You researched my pain receptors?”

“I researched injury responses generally.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, yes, yours specifically.”

You should be annoyed. You are.

You are also touched. Horrifying.

One night, during a mission, everything goes wrong.

Because Gotham. Because of course.

Smoke bombs. Hostages. A collapsing floor. Too many moving parts, too many screams, too much noise striking your antennae until the whole world becomes vibration and threat and heat.

You freeze for half a second. Just half.

But half a second in combat can become a lifetime.

Tim’s voice comes through the comm.

Not loud. Not frantic.

Soft, steady, perfectly filtered through the frequency he built for you.

“Hey. Focus on my voice.”

Your spiracles flutter.

“Too much sound,” you manage.

“I know. I’m dampening the channel. Three hostiles to your left. Two civilians behind the forklift. You don’t need to solve the whole room. Just the next step.”

The next step.

That you can do.

You move.

Tim guides you through it, not controlling, not commanding. Translating chaos into pieces small enough to hold.

Afterwards, when the civilians are safe and no one is dead, you find him outside the warehouse.

He is bleeding from the temple.

You are instantly furious. “You are injured.”

“Small cut.”

“You should have told me.”

“You were busy.”

“You are not allowed to become injured quietly.”

Tim blinks.

Then, softly, “You were worried.”

You glare.

His mouth curves. “About me.”

“I am leaving.”

“You came over here.”

“To assess damage.”

“To me.”

“You are very irritating.”

“I know.”

You do not leave.

Instead, you reach out with one hand and wipe blood from his cheek, carefully, with the edge of your thumb.

Tim goes still.

Your extra hands hover uselessly at your sides, unsure what to do with the size of this feeling.

“You helped me,” you say.

His voice is quiet. “You let me.”

That is the thing, isn’t it?

You did. You let him into the chaos. Into the sensory overload. Into the place where your body becomes too much even for you.

And he did not make you feel like a malfunction. He made you feel understood.

The first kiss happens later.

Not on the battlefield. Not in the Cave.

In the lab, because of course it does. Tim Drake’s romance settings are either rooftops near death or fluorescent-lit workspaces at 2 a.m. There is no middle ground.

You find him asleep at the workbench, face pillowed on his arms, surrounded by parts for your new comm attachment.

A small note sits beside him.

Ask before installing. Do not be weird. They are a person, not a project.

You read it three times.

Something inside your chest hurts. Softly.

You touch his shoulder. “Tim.”

He jerks awake, blinking. “I’m up. I’m—oh. Hi.”

“You wrote a note.”

His gaze drops. His face goes red. “That was private.”

“It had my name on it.”

“Not the point.”

You lean closer. “You remind yourself?”

Tim looks away. “Sometimes I get too focused. I don’t want to mess it up again.”

“You have not.”

“I did.”

“Yes,” you say. “But not recently.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “That’s the most romantic performance review I’ve ever gotten.”

“I am being sincere.”

“I know.”

You study him now. The tired lines beneath his eyes. The ink on his fingers. The careful hope he tries to hide because hope is embarrassing and dangerous and terribly human.

“You stare when you care,” you say.

Tim goes still.

Then nods once. “Yeah.”

“I thought you stared because you were judging me.”

“I know.”

“Were you?”

His answer comes immediately. “At first, I was assessing risk.”

Your antennae lower.

Tim continues. “Then I was trying to fix what I’d done wrong.” He looks at you. “Then I just couldn’t stop looking at you.”

Oh.

You should have something sharp to say. Something defensive. Something safe.

Instead, you reach for him.

Slowly, so he can move away.

He does not.

Your hand touches his jaw.

His breath catches.

“You may kiss me,” you say, because subtlety is for people with fewer emotional problems.

Tim’s brain visibly crashes. “I—what?”

“You may kiss me.”

“I can?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Preferably.”

“Oh. Okay. Great. Yes. I can do that.”

“You are rambling.”

“I’m aware.”

Then he kisses you.

Gently. So gently it almost hurts. Like he is asking with every second. He remembers the first time he got too close without permission and is determined never to make that mistake again.

You answer by wrapping one arm around his waist. Then another around his shoulders. Then another hand against the back of his neck.

Tim makes a soft sound against your mouth.

You immediately decide you need to hear it again.

The romance after that is quiet and ridiculous and painfully sweet.

Tim still studies you. He always will.

But now he asks.

“Can I look at your antennae response to this frequency?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

A pause.

“…Can I show you the frequency first?”

“Yes.”

Progress.

He builds things for you constantly.

Better armour. Softer clothes with room for all your arms. A sensory-safe corner in the Cave with dim lights and warm surfaces. A custom keyboard so you can use all your hands at once, which turns out to be a mistake because now you type faster than him and he is personally offended.

“You’re cheating,” he says.

“I have superior equipment.”

“You have four extra hands.”

“Yes. Superior equipment.”

He is so proud it makes him stupid.

You catch him watching you work one day, chin in hand, eyes soft and unfocused. “You are staring.”

“I know.”

“You are not going to deny it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

His smile is small. “Because you said I could look.”

Your antennae curl so violently that one of them bumps a hanging cable.

Tim tries not to laugh. Fails.

You threaten him with bodily relocation.

He says, “Flirting.”

You hate how Jason was right about that word.

Tim loves you in details. That is his language.

Your favourite lighting settings saved in every system. Nutrient bars reformulated so they no longer taste like “compressed dirt with ambition.” A program that tracks your stress signals and quietly asks if you want reduced sensory input instead of announcing it to the whole Cave like a betrayal. His hand slipping into yours beneath the briefing table when someone says something that makes you feel too alien.

One hand at first. Then another. Then another, until he is holding three of your hands and pretending this is normal.

It becomes normal.

That is what gets you. Not the grand gestures.

The normalcy.

Tim no longer makes you feel like a strange thing in the room. He makes room strange enough to fit you.

And when you tell him that, one night, he goes quiet.

You are sitting together on a rooftop, Gotham humming below, your antennae tilted toward him because his heartbeat is familiar now. Comforting.

“You made the Cave less hostile,” you say.

Tim looks over. “I tried.”

“You made Gotham less hostile.”

His expression softens. “I don’t think I can take credit for all of Gotham.”

“You may take partial credit.”

“Generous.”

You look at him. “You made yourself safe.”

That hits him hardest.

You can tell.

Tim looks down at your joined hands. All three of them.

“I wanted to be,” he says.

You lean in and press your forehead to his.

Careful. Gentle.

“Tim.”

“Yeah?”

“You may study me.”

His breath catches.

You continue, because now you understand the difference.

“But not as a subject.”

He squeezes your hands.

“No,” he says. “Never again.”

“As what, then?”

Tim looks at you.

Really looks.

Like you are not an experiment. Not a threat. Not a problem to solve.

Like you are the question he is grateful to spend his life answering.

“As someone I love,” he says.

Your spiracles flutter.

Your antennae curl.

Tim smiles, barely. “Good reaction?”

You kiss him before he gets too smug.

But he gets smug anyway.

Because he is Tim. Because he knows you now. Because you let him.

And because somewhere between bad first impressions, secret inventions, late-night apologies, and all those stolen glances you mistook for judgment, Tim Drake stopped studying the alien in Gotham and started learning how to love you properly.

damian wayne, 4.7k

childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, childhood displacement, reader being called a monster, being hunted/feared in Gotham, child violence, trauma from violent upbringings, LOA parallels, alien cultural conditioning against love/attachment, fear of abandonment, p

You and Damian meet when you are both thirteen. Which is, arguably, the worst possible age for anyone to meet anyone.

Thirteen is all teeth. All rage. All unfinished bone and pride too big for the body holding it.

Damian is thirteen and already thinks he has survived enough to be considered ancient. You are thirteen and not human enough for Gotham to know what to call you.

So Gotham calls you a monster.

That is how Batman first hears about you. Not through a Justice League alert. Not through some clean, official extraterrestrial report. Nothing useful. Nothing kind.

Just whispers.

Something crawling along rooftops. Something with too many arms. Something with huge black eyes that reflect headlights in the alleys. Something with antennae and no nose and skin that breathes through tiny fluttering holes.

Something strong enough to tear open dumpsters and bend street signs and throw grown men into brick walls when they get too close.

A monster haunting the East End. A monster stealing food. A monster attacking first.

Batman finds you in the rain. Of course it is raining. Gotham has a flair for dramatic cruelty.

You are crouched in an alley behind a closed bodega, soaked through, all your arms wrapped around yourself except one hand clutching a dented can of food you cannot open correctly. Your antennae are flat. Your spiracles are fluttering too fast. Your huge eyes catch the white slits of Batman’s cowl and go sharp with panic.

He takes one step closer.

You launch at him. No warning. No hesitation. Just thirteen years old and already convinced that everything reaching for you means harm.

You hit him hard enough to crack the brick behind him.

Batman does not hit you back.

That enrages you.

You swipe at him with claws or fingers or whatever your strange young body has made of fear. You snarl. You try to bite. You move with ugly, desperate force, all instinct, all hunger, all the violence your people taught you was survival.

Batman pins you eventually.

Carefully. Too carefully.

You scream at him to fight properly.

He looks down at you, rain sliding off the black shape of him, and sees what Gotham refused to see.

Not a monster.

A child. A starving, terrified, furious child with too many arms and nowhere to go.

And Bruce Wayne, because his heart is a haunted house with every light still on, brings you home.

Damian hates this immediately. Naturally.

He stands in the Batcave when Bruce brings you in, arms crossed, chin lifted, green eyes sharp with judgment.

You stare back from behind Bruce, antennae angled aggressively forward.

Damian looks you up and down. “What is that?”

You hiss.

Bruce says, “Damian.”

Damian’s mouth curls. “It tried to bite you.”

“I can hear you,” you snap.

“Excellent. Then you can understand when I say your technique is abysmal.”

You lunge. Damian lunges too.

Bruce catches both of you by the backs of your shirts like two feral cats.

That is the beginning.

Not pretty. Not soft. Not some instant soul-deep understanding.

You and Damian begin as a war crime in progress.

You fight constantly. Not always physically, though, yeah, also physically. A lot.

You fight over training space. Over food. Over who gets to stand closer to Batman during briefings. Over whether your claws count as weapons. Over whether Damian’s sword is “compensating for having only two arms.”

That one gets you thrown into a mat.

Worth it.

Damian calls you undisciplined. You call him small. He calls you beast. You call him blade-child.

He pretends not to like that.

He absolutely likes that.

But the strange thing is, beneath all the insults and sparring and mutual threats of bodily harm, you understand each other.

Not fully. Not yet.

But enough.

You both know what it is to be young and already trained for violence. You both know what it is to have adults look at your hands and see future blood. You both know that being called dangerous feels better than being called helpless.

At thirteen, you are bloodthirsty in a way that frightens the others.

You do not understand why Batman pulls his punches. You do not understand why criminals get to keep breathing after hurting people. You do not understand mercy as anything but a tactical delay.

Damian understands that. 

That is why he hates you at first. Because looking at you is like looking at a version of himself no one has polished yet.

Raw. Hungry. Certain.

When you say, “Killing him would be easier,” Damian does not flinch.

He says, “Obviously.”

Bruce’s head turns.

Damian continues, scowling, “But Father becomes intolerable when we suggest efficient solutions.”

Bruce closes his eyes.

You decide Damian is the only sane human in the Cave.

This is concerning for everyone.

Bruce works hard with you. So does Alfred. Quietly, gently, with warm food and soft towels and no sudden movements. Duke is kind first. Dick is friendly first. Tim is curious and then apologetic. Jason calls you Bug within forty-eight hours and gets hissed at for his trouble.

But Damian is the one who grows beside you.

Not above you. Not around you.

Beside.

You are both thirteen when Bruce starts building Gotham into something like a home for you.

He cannot send you back to your planet. No signal. No safe route. No surviving contact he can verify. Nothing. You are alone in a city that thinks you are something from a nightmare.

So Bruce does what Bruce does. He makes systems.

A room in the Manor with dim lights because bright ones hurt your eyes. Custom clothing with space for all your arms. Filters for your spiracles because Gotham air is basically soup with crime in it. Training routines to help you control your strength.

Strict patrol rules.

No killing. No maiming unless absolutely necessary. No eating evidence.

That one has to be added after an incident. Damian laughs about it for weeks.

You throw a pillow at him with enough force to dent the wall.

Alfred bans both of you from “unstructured cushion warfare.”

You grow up in the Manor like some strange, sharp shadow.

At first, you do not believe it can be home.mHome is not stone halls and ancient portraits and a butler who somehow knows your preferred food temperature. Home is not Batman watching you through training footage and pretending it is not worry. Home is not Damian sitting beside you in silence after you nearly kill someone during patrol and saying, without looking at you:

“You stopped.”

You glare at your hands. “I wanted not to.”

“I know.”

“It felt weak.”

Damian is quiet.

Then he says, “It is not weakness to deny what trained you.”

You look at him.

He looks furious, like tenderness has personally insulted his bloodline. But he means it.

That is when friendship begins for real.

Not loud. Not named.

It creeps in like ivy through stone.

Damian starts saving you a seat in the Cave. You start taking the patrol route closest to his, even when no one assigns you there. He learns how your antennae move when you are overwhelmed. You learn that Damian’s silence has different textures: angry silence, thinking silence, injured silence, sad silence.

He teaches you blade forms. You teach him how to fight someone with more than four possible attack angles.

He mocks your footwork. You mock his height. He tells you humans do not moult, and you stop asking, reluctantly.

You tell him your people view attachment as a liability, a psychological weakness, because love makes warriors hesitate.

Damian looks away. “The League believed similarly.”

“Were they correct?”

He is quiet for a long time. Then he says, “They were afraid.”

You remember that.

Years pass. Not smoothly.

Nothing with either of you is ever smooth.

At fourteen, you nearly kill a trafficker who threatens a child. Damian is the one who stops you, stepping between you and the man with his sword lowered, not raised.

“You will regret this,” he says.

“I will not.”

“You will.”

“I am not you.”

His face shutters.

“No,” he says. “You are not. So learn from me and spare yourself the humiliation.”

You hate him for that for three days.

Then you sit beside him in the library without speaking.

He slides half his snack toward you. You eat it.

Forgiveness, apparently.

At fifteen, Damian loses control during a spar and cuts too deep.

You do not flinch from the blood.

He does.

His hands shake afterward.

You cover the wound with one of your palms and say, “It is shallow.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you afraid?”

He snaps, “I am not afraid.”

You stare. Your antennae tilt. “You are lying.”

He storms out.

Later that night, you find him in the animal enclosure with Titus curled against his legs.

You sit nearby.

Do not touch him. Do not demand words.

Eventually, Damian says, “I do not want to become what I was made to be.”

You think of your own hands around a criminal’s throat. Your own pulse singing for blood. “Neither do I.”

He looks at you then.

Something between you settles.

At sixteen, Gotham stops calling you a monster as often.

Not because Gotham becomes kind. Gotham is still Gotham. It would hiss at a sunrise if it looked too cheerful.

But people start recognising you.

The many-armed figure who lifts cars off trapped civilians. The dark-eyed alien who carries children out of burning buildings. The terrifying thing in the alley that only hurts people who hurt others first.

You still scare them. But sometimes they say thank you.

The first time a little girl gives you a sticker after you save her from a collapsed fire escape, you stare at it like it is a holy object.

Damian sees.

He says, “It is crooked.”

You almost hit him.

But later, when the sticker starts peeling off your armour, he seals it in a protective case without telling you.

You find out anyway.

You always do.

At seventeen, you and Damian are inseparable in a way everyone notices, and no one is brave enough to comment on without protective gear.

Dick calls you “the murder twins.”

Bruce says, “Do not call them that.”

Jason says, “No, no, let him cook.”

You and Damian, in perfect unison, say, “Do not.”

The Cave goes silent.

Steph whispers, “Oh my god, they’re synced.”

Damian turns red at the ears.

You have no idea why that matters. Yet.

Because for you, Damian has always just been Damian.

Your first friend. Your fiercest rival.

The person who knows what your silence means. The person who will stand close when strangers stare, not in front of you like you are weak, but beside you like the world is simply wrong.

The person who has watched you become less bloodthirsty and somehow never made you feel less strong for it.

You do not realise when friendship starts changing.

Damian does. Of course he does. He notices everything he wishes he would not.

It happens slowly, which he finds humiliating.

At eighteen, he starts noticing the way your antennae tilt toward his voice. The way you relax when he enters a room. The way your extra hands, so dangerous in combat, are absurdly careful when adjusting a bandage on his wrist.

The way you say his name differently than anyone else.

Not “Wayne.” Not “Robin.” Not “Damian” like a challenge.

Damian like home.

It is unbearable.

He tries ignoring it. This fails immediately.

He tries training more. Also fails, because you train with him.

He tries being colder. You notice within six hours and corner him in the greenhouse.

“You are displeased with me.”

“No.”

“You are lying.”

“I am busy.”

“You have sharpened the same blade for twenty-seven minutes.”

Damian looks down. The blade is, admittedly, very sharp.

You step closer, antennae angled with concern. “Did I do something wrong?”

And that is what destroys him.

Not your strength. Not your face. Not the frightening beauty of you under the greenhouse glass, all alien angles and midnight eyes and too many hands held uncertainly near your chest.

Your concern.

The fact that you, who once attacked Batman in an alley because the world taught you everything was a threat, now worry that you might have hurt him.

Damian looks at you and thinks I love you.

The thought is so clear that he nearly drops the sword.

He does not tell you. Obviously.

Damian Wayne is many things, but emotionally straightforward is not one of them. He treats feelings like assassination contracts: privately researched, extensively planned, and preferably executed with no witnesses.

So he plans. For months.

He writes and rewrites what he will say. Not in public, never that. Somewhere private. Somewhere meaningful. The old rooftop where you both first patrolled alone together. Or the library where you sat after your first real fight. Or the greenhouse, maybe, because it is warm there and you like warmth even though you pretend not to.

He thinks about telling you everything. That when you arrived in Gotham, he saw a beast because he was still too much a blade to recognise another child.

That growing up beside you taught him there was no honour in becoming what others designed.

That every time you chose not to kill, it made him believe he could keep choosing too.

That you are not his weakness. You are the proof that tenderness did not ruin him.

He wants to tell you that. He wants to say it perfectly.

Which is stupid, because you have never needed perfection from him. You have only ever needed true.

Still, he plans.

He writes one version that is too formal. One that is too short. One that sounds like a military commendation and makes him briefly consider throwing himself into the harbour.

He asks Dick, indirectly, hypothetically, how one might confess romantic feelings to a long-standing companion without “creating unnecessary emotional spectacle.”

Dick cries.

Damian leaves immediately.

He asks Bruce nothing, because he would rather die.

He almost asks Alfred, but Alfred looks at him once over tea and says, “Perhaps sincerity may accomplish what strategy cannot, Master Damian.”

Damian realises with horror that Alfred already knows.

So does everyone, probably. Including Titus.

Humiliating.

Meanwhile, you remain oblivious in the most devastating way possible.

You spar with him. Sit beside him. Steal food from his plate. Ask him to fix the clasp on your armour because your lower right hand cannot reach it at the proper angle. Fall asleep in the library chair beside his while pretending you were “resting your eyes for tactical reasons.”

Damian watches you sleep sometimes.

Not in a creepy way. In the way a person watches something precious and remembers the world is not gentle.

Your antennae twitch faintly in dreams. Your spiracles flutter slow and even. Your arms, once always ready to strike, rest loose around you.

He wants to touch your hand. He does not.

Not yet.

He will tell you first. He will do this properly.

Then the transmission comes.

It is late. The Cave is blue and quiet. Rain taps against the stone above. Bruce is at the computer. Tim is half-asleep over a tablet. Damian is reviewing mission footage beside you, pretending not to be distracted by the way your shoulder brushes his.

An alert cuts through the Cave. Unknown extraterrestrial frequency.

Your antennae snap upright.

Every head turns.

Bruce stiffens. Tim is suddenly fully awake.

The message comes through broken at first. Static. Distortion. A language you have not heard in years.

Then a face appears.

Not human. Not familiar to the others. But familiar enough to make you stop breathing through every spiracle at once.

A relative. Alive. Older than you remember. Worn by distance and war and time.

They say your name.

Not the way humans say it.

The real shape of it. The one Gotham never learned.

Damian feels the air leave his lungs.

Your relative speaks of routes reopened. Of conflict settled enough for passage. Of survivors. Of home.

Home.

The word lands in the Cave like a blade.

They say you can return. Not immediately, perhaps. Not without arrangements. But soon. Safely. Finally.

You can come home.

Everyone looks at you.

Damian does not. He cannot.

Because devastation is already moving through him, cold and precise, before you even make a decision.

That is the humiliating part.

You have not said yes. You have not said anything.

And Damian is already grieving.

It is irrational. He knows this.

You deserve the choice. You deserve answers. You deserve your planet, your people, your history. You were taken from it too young and dropped into Gotham’s teeth. Of course you should want to know. Of course you should want to go.

Damian knows all of that. Knowing does nothing.

His planned confession turns to ash in his chest. Every sentence he had built, every careful word, every memory he wanted to lay before you like proof—gone. Useless. Selfish.

How can he tell you now? How can he say stay when no one should ever have had to make Gotham home because the universe gave them no other option? How can he ask to be chosen over a world you thought you lost?

He cannot.

So he says nothing.

The transmission ends with promises of further contact.

The Cave stays silent.

You are still staring at the blank screen. Your antennae are trembling.

Damian sees that and hates himself for thinking of his own heart first.

Bruce speaks gently. “We’ll verify everything before any decisions are made.”

You nod once, but you look far away. Farther than Damian can follow.

He leaves before anyone can look at him.

You find him in the greenhouse.

Of course you do. You always find him.

He is standing among the plants, hands clasped behind his back so tightly his knuckles ache. The air is warm and damp. You like it here because it is easier on your breathing. He likes it because you do.

You step inside quietly for someone with your strength. “Damian.”

He closes his eyes.

There it is. Home and wound in one word.

“You should be in the Cave,” he says.

“So should you.”

“I am not the one receiving life-altering transmissions.”

“No,” you say. “You are the one fleeing after them.”

His jaw tightens. “I do not flee.”

“You strategically retreated emotionally.”

He hates that you learned humour from his siblings. He hates more that it almost makes him smile.

Almost.

You move closer. “Are you angry?”

“No.”

“Do not lie to me.”

He turns then, sharper than he intends. “What would you have me say?”

You still.

He regrets the tone immediately.

But the wound is open now.

Damian looks at you—at the person who came to Gotham with blood on your hands and fear in your teeth, who grew beside him, who learned mercy with him, who became woven so deeply into his life that he does not know where friendship ends and breathing begins.

His voice drops. “You have been given back something you thought impossible. I would not insult you by being angry.”

Your antennae lower. “That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one I can give.”

“Why?”

Because I love you. Because I have loved you for longer than I knew what to call it.

Because I planned to tell you. Because I was a coward and wanted the words to be perfect.

Because now anything I say might sound like a chain.

Because if you leave, I do not know what Gotham looks like without you in it.

Because if you stay only for me, I will never forgive myself.

Damian says none of that.

He says, “Because this is your choice.”

You look at him for a long moment.

Your face is still difficult for most people to read.

Not for Damian. Never for Damian.

“You are upset before I have chosen,” you say quietly.

His silence betrays him.

Your spiracles flutter. “You think I will leave.”

“I think,” Damian says carefully, “that you have the right to.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“No.”

“You think I will leave,” you repeat.

Damian looks away. “Yes.”

There. A small, ugly truth.

You absorb it like a blow.

“I have lived here for seven years.”

“I know.”

“You are here.”

“I know.”

“Bruce is here. Alfred. The others. Gotham.”

“I know.”

Your antennae tremble, anger or hurt or both. “Then why do you assume I would choose elsewhere?”

Damian’s composure cracks. “Because it was stolen from you!”

The words hit the glass walls and come back softer.

He breathes once.

Then again.

“You were a child,” he says, quieter. “Alone. Hunted through alleys by people who called you monster. Father did what he could, but Gotham was never supposed to be your cage.”

You stare at him.

He continues because stopping now would be worse. “I will not make myself another reason you feel obligated to stay.”

Your whole body stills.

Something changes in your eyes.

“Is that what you think you are?”

Damian says nothing.

You step closer. All your arms are loose at your sides. No threat. No defense.

Just you.

“An obligation?”

His voice turns rough. “I do not know what I am to you anymore.”

The confession is not the one he planned.

It is not elegant. Not dignified. It has no structure, no carefully chosen memories, no perfect transition from childhood to now.

It is just the truth, bleeding through his teeth.

You look at him as if he has finally spoken a language you understand. “Damian.”

He cannot bear how soft your voice is.

“I had a plan,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“A confession.”

Your antennae lift.

He looks mortified, but there is no retreat now.

“I planned it for months. It was going to be…” He scowls. “Better than this.”

You stare.

Then, very softly, “A confession of what?”

He gives you an incredulous look despite the fact that he is actively dying.

“Do not make me say it badly.”

“I want you to say it honestly.”

That shuts him up.

Because of course.

Of course that is what you would ask.

Not perfect.

True.

Damian looks at you. Really looks. At the huge dark eyes Gotham once feared. The antennae he has learned like punctuation. The extra arms that once reached first for violence and now reach for him when nightmares come. The person who grew beside him, not away. The person who knows every ugly part of his history and stayed.

“I love you,” he says.

Simple. Severe.

Terrifying.

Your spiracles stop.

Damian’s heart beats once. Twice.

Then your antennae curl inward, overwhelmed.

Oh.

He knows that response. He has known it for years.

Hope hurts worse than dread.

“I did not want to tell you like this,” he adds quickly, because panic apparently makes him verbose. “I did not want it to influence your decision. I still do not. If you choose to return, I will not stop you. I will not ask you to stay out of guilt or sentiment or—”

You kiss him.

It is not graceful. You have too many arms and he is standing too rigidly and one of your antennae bumps his cheek and Damian makes a sound so startled it would get him mocked for the next decade if anyone heard it.

But then he kisses you back.

And all the years between you seem to fold inward.

Every sparring match. Every insult. Every rooftop silence. Every time one of you chose not to kill because the other was watching. Every moment of growing away from blood together.

Your hands come up slowly, carefully. One at his shoulder. One at his jaw. One at his waist. Others hovering like you are afraid to hold too much.

Damian catches one of them and presses it against his chest.

His heart is beating fast. You can feel it.

He lets you.

When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, careful of your antennae.

“You are terrible at timing,” you whisper.

His laugh is almost soundless. “Yes.”

“I was not going to leave without you knowing.”

His eyes close. Pain and relief move across his face, too quick for anyone else.

Not for you.

“You still might leave,” he says.

“I might visit.”

His eyes open.

You tilt your head.

“I might need to see where I came from.”

“You should.”

“I might need answers.”

“Yes.”

“I might need to know whether any part of me still belongs there.”

Damian’s throat works. “And if it does?”

You look at him like he is being particularly foolish. “Then I will have more than one home.”

He goes still.

You touch his face with two careful hands.

“Damian. Gotham became my home because Bruce gave me shelter. Because Alfred fed me. Because the others tolerated me.”

“Tolerated is generous.”

“Yes,” you say. “But you became home because you grew with me.”

His expression breaks. Just slightly.

Enough.

“You were there when I was monstrous,” you say.

“You were a child.”

“I wanted blood.”

“So did I.”

“We became different.”

“Yes.”

“Together.”

Damian cannot speak.

So he kisses you instead.

This one is better.

Still trembling. Still raw.

But better. Like a promise made by two people who had to unlearn violence one choice at a time.

After that, nothing is magically solved.

The relative contacts again. Bruce verifies.

Tim researches possible travel routes and contingency plans until his eyes look haunted. Dick tries to be supportive and only cries twice.

Jason says, “If they give you trouble on your home planet, call me. I’ll start an interstellar incident.”

Steph designs a “space trip but make it fashion” packing list.

Cass hugs you silently for a long time. Duke tells you that having more than one home does not make either one less real.

And Damian?

Damian stays close.

Not clinging. Never that.

But close.

He helps you prepare questions for your relative. He researches customs he can find, even the sparse ones. He trains with you when you are restless. He sits beside you when you are quiet.

Sometimes he still looks devastated.

You call him on it.

“You are grieving me while I am standing here.”

He looks annoyed. “I am preparing.”

“For what?”

“Every possibility.”

You take his hand in yours.

Then another.

Then another.

“You cannot prepare for all of them.”

“I can try.”

“You can stay with me while I decide.”

His fingers close around yours.

“That,” he says quietly, “I can do.”

And maybe that is what love becomes for both of you.

Not a cage. Not a chain. Not the weakness your people warned you about. Not the sentimentality the League tried to carve out of him.

Love is not what keeps you from choosing.

Love is what makes choice possible.

You may go to your planet. You may come back.

You may learn that home is stranger than memory. You may learn that Gotham, ugly and rain-soaked and impossible, has sunk too deep into you to ever fully leave.

But Damian will not ask you to stay. He will only stand beside you, jaw tight, heart open in the only way he knows how, and trust that the years between you matter.

That he matters. That what you built together is not so fragile it can be undone by distance.

And when you tell him, one night under the greenhouse glass, “I love you too,” he looks away like the words are too bright.

“You should have said that sooner,” he mutters.

“You confessed during an emotional crisis.”

“I had a better version planned.”

“I liked this one.”

“It was undignified.”

“It was honest.”

He sighs.

You lean closer, antennae brushing his cheek. “Also, you made a small noise when I kissed you.”

His face goes scarlet. “I did not.”

“You did.”

“You are mistaken.”

“I have excellent hearing.”

“I will deny it under interrogation.”

You smile. It is still not a human expression.

Damian finds it beautiful anyway.

Then he takes your face in his hands, careful and certain, and kisses you like he is not asking you to stay. Like he is telling you that wherever you go, whatever you find, whatever name your first world calls you by—

You have already been loved here.

Not as a monster. Not as a weapon. Not as a lost thing Gotham claimed because it was too stubborn to let go.

As you.

His oldest rival. His closest friend.

but here’s the thing—

when he realises why it’s happening? that it’s love? that it’s unreturned love?

something in him goes very, very still.

he doesn’t ask right away. he won’t corner you. won’t make you confess under pressure. but he starts watching you differently.

closer. carefully.

and if—if—there’s even a chance it’s him? he spirals in the quietest way possible.

because bruce wayne has built his entire life around control… and now your life is slipping through his fingers over something he’s afraid to name.

when he finally does speak i’s low. steady. too controlled.

“you don’t have to protect me from the truth.” except what he means is tell me it’s me so i can fix it. tell me it’s not so i can still save you.

either way—he will not let this take you. even if it means breaking every rule he’s ever made for himself.

clark kent

clark knows before you even finish coughing.

not because he’s guessing, because his senses don’t miss things like this.

he hears the shift in your lungs—the wet, uneven catch of breath that doesn’t belong. he hears the obstruction before it surfaces, something soft and wrong where air should be clean. he smells it too—the faint, impossible sweetness of petals where there should be nothing but oxygen.

by the time the flower actually falls into your hand? clark has already gone still.

focused. the kind of stillness that means every part of him is paying attention to you.

“hey,” he says softly, already there, already close. “easy—easy, i've got you.”

his hand is warm at your back, steadying. not restraining. never that. just there, grounding you like gravity decided to be kind for once.

he doesn’t panic out loud. that’s the thing about clark—he feels everything, but he filters it through gentleness. you don’t see the fear spike in his chest, don’t hear the way his heartbeat stutters for half a second when he realises what this is.

because he knows what this is. of course he does. he’s seen it before. heard it in other people’s lungs. seen what it does when it’s left too long.

and now it’s you.

he swallows that fear down so fast it almost looks like nothing happened.

“breathe with me, okay?” he murmurs, voice low and calm, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “slow. wou’re alright.”

he helps you through it like it’s routine. like he’s done this a hundred times. careful, patient, never making you feel fragile—just held.

hnd here’s the part that hurts: he doesn’t assume. not even for a second.

because in clark’s mind, the idea that you—you, who he sees as bright and good and endlessly deserving—would be suffering like this over him? it doesn’t even cross his mind as the first option.

instead, his concern turns outward.

who did this to you?

who made you love them so deeply it’s carving flowers into your lungs—and then didn’t love you back enough to stop it?

clark is soft, but he is not passive. the next time it happens, he’s already prepared.

water. a place to sit. his hand at your shoulder, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles like he’s trying to anchor you to the moment. and somehow that makes it worse, how caring he is, how attentive he can be. it makes your feelings all the more stronger, all the more painful.

“hey,” he says again, quieter this time. “you don’t have to hide it from me.”

and when you don’t answer—when you look away, like the truth is something heavy—you see it.

just for a second. something sharper beneath the softness.

“…do they know?” he asks.

clark doesn't center himself in your pain. won’t make it about him, even if some small, quiet part of him is… hoping. wondering.

but his jaw tightens just slightly. because if someone out there knows you feel like this—knows it’s hurting you—and still hasn’t stepped forward?

that’s not something he can ignore.

“you deserve better than that,” he says, and there’s steel under the warmth now. not anger at you—never—but at the idea of someone taking your heart and treating it like it’s optional.

he exhales slowly, like he’s choosing his next words carefully.

“…if you want,” he adds, softer again, “i could talk to them.”

it’s almost hesitant. careful.lLike he doesn’t want to overstep—but he will, if it means helping you.

“i won’t… push. or anything like that,” he says quickly, because the last thing he wants is for you to think he’d force someone’s feelings. “but i could make sure they understand.”

and there it is. clark kent, the strongest man alive, offering to have a stern, polite conversation with the person unknowingly breaking your heart.

because in his world, maybe—just maybe—it’s a misunderstanding. maybe they don’t realise how much you’re hurting. maybe if someone just explains it properly, it’ll fix everything.

(it’s such a clark solution it almost hurts.)

he looks at you like this is solvable. like love isn’t something that slips through your fingers—it’s something you can reach if you try hard enough.

and still—he doesn’t consider that it might be him. not really.

because that would mean you’re looking at him with all that quiet feeling, all that softness, and clark has spent his whole life being careful not to take things like that unless they’re freely given.

so he waits. stays close. every time you cough, he’s there before you can call for him. every time your breathing stutters, his hand is already steady at your back, grounding, reassuring, gentle in a way that makes it impossible to panic.

and when you finally tell him?

when the truth slips out—soft, hesitant, terrifying—that it’s him?

clark doesn’t move at first. mot because he’s rejecting you. because he’s processing.

“you… me?” he says quietly, like the words don’t quite fit in his mouth yet.

there’s no disbelief in a cruel way—no “how could you?”—just a kind of stunned softness, like the world tilted and he didn’t expect it to.

because clark doesn’t think of himself as someone people fall for like this.

not you. not in a way that hurts you.

and then it hits him. all at once.

rvery look you’ve given him. rvery moment he brushed off as coincidence. rvery time you stayed close, every time you said his name like it meant something more.

and underneath that?

guilt.

“i didn’t realise,” he breathes, and it’s the quietest thing you’ve ever heard from him. “i’m so sorry—i would’ve—”

he cuts himself off, because there’s no version of this where he lets it keep hurting you.

his hands come up—not grabbing, not overwhelming—just gently framing your face, like he needs to be sure you’re real, that you’re here, that he hasn’t lost you already.

“you should’ve told me,” he says, but it’s not a reprimand. it’s soft. almost aching. “you don’t have to carry something like that alone.”

and then—finally—clark kent stops holding himself back. in the quiet, certain way he does everything that matters.

“i do,” he says, simple and steady. “care about you. a lot more than i let myself say.”

and it’s not rushed. not panicked.

it’s real. like sunlight breaking through something heavy

and when your breathing finally evens out—when the petals stop—clark stays right there, forehead resting gently against yours, like he’s grounding himself just as much as you.

“next time,” he murmurs softly, a hint of warmth returning, “you tell me first, okay?”

because if there’s one thing clark kent refuses to let happen, it’s you suffering in silence.

not when he’s right here.

dick grayson

dick doesn’t clock it immediately. not because he can’t—but because the moment is so normal it feels impossible for something to go wrong.

you’re laughing. he’s mid-story, hands moving, grin easy and bright—and then you choke on your breath.

he’s still smiling when he reaches out automatically, instinctively—“whoa, easy—”—but then you cough again.

and something soft hits your palm.

the smile drops. not fades—drops. like a switch flipped.

“…hey.” it’s quieter now. careful.

dick steps in close, one hand already at your back, the other hovering like he doesn’t want to startle you. he doesn’t touch your hand yet—doesn’t look at the petal right away.

he looks at you.

“breathe,” he says gently. “slow. Iive got you.”

now, dick's good in a crisis. not just physically but emotionally as well. he knows how to make things feel lighter, safer, even when they’re not.

so he softens everything. his touch is warm, steady. his voice low, grounding. he angles himself just enough to block you from anyone else noticing, instinctively protective.

only when you’ve caught your breath does he glance down.

at the petal. at the pattern.

and then—

Oh.

Oh.

dick knows what this is. he’s seen it before. heard stories. maybe even helped someone through it once or twice.

but it’s different when it’s you.

you can feel the shift in him—not away from you, never that—but deeper. focused. like every part of him just recalibrated around keeping you okay.

he doesn’t say it out loud yet. doesn’t want to scare you.

instead, he keeps things light—just enough.

“…okay,” he says, exhaling a quiet breath, like he’s steadying himself. “so. that’s… not ideal.”

there’s a tiny smile there. not a joke, just familiarity. like he’s trying to meet you where you are.

he walks you somewhere quieter and sits you down. brings you water. stays close, closer than usual, like distance suddenly feels wrong.

and he watches. not in a creepy way—just attentive. careful. like he’s cataloguing every little sign your body gives him.

you cough again later. another petal.

and this time he doesn’t look away.

“…hey,” he says softly, crouching in front of you now so you can’t avoid his gaze. “uou wanna tell me what’s going on?”

there’s no pressure in it.

just concern. real, open, honest concern.

if you deflect? he lets you. at first.

because dick understands space. he won’t corner you. won’t force you to say something you’re not ready to.

but he doesn’t drop it.

he checks in more. texts you random things just to keep you talking. shows up more often, under the excuse of “just passing by.” keeps you laughing when he can, keeps you grounded when he can’t.

and slowly, he pieces it together.

dick grayson notices everything that matters.

the way your eyes linger on someone. or don’t.

the way your voice shifts when certain names come up.

the way you go quiet when he asks just the wrong question.

and eventually, he asks it.

“…do i know them?”

it’s not accusatory. it's not even filled with any hate.

it’s careful. because dick is already preparing himself for both answers.

if it’s someone else? he swallows whatever weird, twisting feeling hits his chest and immediately pivots to support mode.

“okay,” he says, nodding once, steady. “alright. we can work with that.”

and he means it. he’ll help you figure it out. talk it through. even—if it comes to it—help you approach them. because your happiness matters more to him than anything he’s feeling.

but there’s a flicker in his eyes. just a flicker.

because part of him… wants it to be him.

he doesn’t let himself sit in that thought long. because what if it’s not?

he won’t make this harder for you.

but if it is him? if you hesitate just a little too long—if your eyes flick to his and then away—

dick goes still.

quiet.

“oh,” he breathes.

and it’s not shock, exactly.

It’s… realization.

everything clicking into place all at once. every moment. every glance. every time you stayed a little closer than necessary, every time your hand lingered in his.

and suddenly, he feels a little stupid.

for not seeing it sooner. for not asking sooner.

“hey,” he says again, softer now, stepping closer, hands coming up like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t anchor you somehow. “why didn’t you tell me?”

there’s no anger in it. just a kind of aching confusion.

because in dick’s world, love is something you share. something you say out loud, something you don’t let sit in silence until it hurts you.

“i’ve been right here,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

and then—because he’s dick, because he doesn’t wait once he understands— he closes the distance.

“i care about you,” he says, voice steady now, grounded in something real. “More than i’ve probably been letting on.”

his forehead presses lightly to yours, a soft, grounding touch.

“you don’t have to do this alone, okay?” he adds quietly. “not with me.”

and the thing about dick grayson?

he doesn’t just fix the problem.

he stays.

through the recovery. through the awkwardness. through the shift from almost to something real.

he keeps you laughing, even when your chest still aches. leeps you close, like he’s making up for every moment you spent hurting in silence.

and every time you breathe a little easier?

you can feel it; the quiet promise in the way he holds you now.

He’s not going anywhere.

jason todd

jason notices too late and that’s what destroys him.

at first, it’s background noise. you coughing. turning away. brushing something off your sleeve like it’s nothing. he clocks it—but not as important. not as urgent. not as this.

necause if it were serious, you’d tell him… right?

(that’s the lie he tells himself.)

then one night, you don’t turn away fast enough.

a petal hits the ground. not soft and pretty like in stories.

crushed. streaked with red.

jason freezes. actually freezes.

“…what the hell.”

it comes out low. dangerous. not loud—never loud—but the kind of quiet that means something’s about to break.

you try to brush it off. say it’s nothing. say you’re fine.

and jason—jason snaps.

“don’t.” his voice cuts sharp. “don’t you dare say you’re fine when you’re coughing up—” he gestures, frustrated, furious, “—that.”

he steps in close, too close, like he’s trying to physically block whatever’s hurting you.

his hands hover—he wants to grab your shoulders, check you over, make sure you’re real—but he stops himself at the last second, jaw tight.

“who is it?" there’s no hesitation. no softness in it. just anger, raw and immediate and protective. “who’s got you like this?”

because in jason's head, this is simple: someone made you fall for them hard enough that it’s killing you. and they’re not here fixing it.

that’s a problem. a him problem.

you don’t answer. or you deflect. or you say it doesn’t matter.

and jason's temper spikes.

“doesn’t matter?” he echoes, incredulous, pacing now like a caged animal. “you’re coughing up bloody flowers and you’re telling me it doesn’t matter?”

his hands drag through his hair, breathing sharp.

“give me a name,” he says again, voice dropping—dangerous now. “i just wanna talk.”

(he absolutely does not just wanna talk.)

and here’s where it gets worse.

because jason doesn’t think it’s him. not even a little. not even on the list of possible people.

because in his mind? you are—

good. bright. soft in ways the world didn’t ruin.

and he is—

not.

so no, it’s not him. it’s some idiot out there who doesn’t know what they have.

and jason is already planning how to fix that.

he gets worse about it. more protective. more present. shows up unannounced. walks you home. stays too long, leaves too late. watches you like if he blinks you’ll disappear.

and every time you cough? every time another petal shows up?

it eats at him.

because you’re getting worse.

and whoever it is, isn’t doing anything about it.

“unbelievable,” he mutters one night, after you nearly choke on another bloom. “uou’re— you’re this—” he gestures at you, frustrated, like he can’t even put it into words, “—and they’re just letting you—”

he cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

“they don’t deserve you.”

it comes out sharp. immediate. certain.

because that part, at least, he believes.

and then, it begins to click.

not all at once. not clean. just… wrong.

you don’t talk about this person. you don’t mention them. don’t get defensive the way people do when they’re protecting someone else.

instead, you go quiet around him. you hesitate when he gets too close. your breathing stutters when he says your name too softly.

and jason—

jason starts to feel something cold settle in his chest.

“…no,” he mutters to himself once, pacing, running the pieces over and over. “no, that’s not—”

because it doesn’t make sense. it can’t make sense.

until it does.

you’re mid-cough again. worse this time.

there’s blood. more than before. petals sticking to your lips, your fingers shaking as you try to hide it.

and jason is right there—too close, too fast, panic bleeding through the anger now.

“hey—hey, breathe—” his voice cracks, hands finally grabbing your shoulders, grounding, real.

your eyes meet his.

and there’s something there. something he’s been ignoring. something he’s been too stupid to see.

“…it’s you.”

it’s barely a whisper. you don’t even mean to say it out loud.

but jason goes still.

not angry. not explosive.

gone, for a second.

“…what?”

it’s quiet. too quiet. like all the sound in the world has turned into a dull buzz, blocking out everything but this moment.

you don’t repeat it.

you don’t have to.

because now he sees it. all of it.

every look. every hesitation. every time you stayed just a little too close and he didn’t question it.

every time you coughed and he didn’t understand.

“…no,” he breathes, shaking his head like that alone can undo it. “no, that doesn’t—”

because how? how does someone like you look at someone like him and feel anything worth dying for?

“you’re telling me—” his voice breaks, rough, disbelieving, “—you’re like this because of me?”

and suddenly all that anger he had? it turns inward.

violent. sharp. relentless.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face, pacing again but it’s different now—frantic, unsteady. “i’ve been right here. i’ve been right here and you’re—”

his voice catches. he looks at you—really looks at you—and sees how bad it’s gotten.

the blood. the shaking. the way you’re trying to downplay it. and something in him just—

shatters.

“i let you get this bad,” he says, low, horrified. “i let you—” he gestures helplessly, like he can’t even process it, “—you got to this point and i didn’t— i didn’t see it?”

he laughs once. bitter. self-destructive.

“great job, todd. real observant.”

and then he’s back in front of you again, hands gentler now—careful, like you’re something fragile he might break if he’s not paying attention.

“why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, softer, but it’s not blame—it’s hurt. “why didn’t you say something before it got—”

this bad.

before it got to blood.

but he already knows the answer.

because he wouldn’t have believed it. would’ve brushed it off. made a joke. pushed you away “for your own good.”

and now? now you’re paying for it.

“…i'm an idiot,” he mutters under his breath.

not fishing. not dramatic. just… true.

he exhales, shaky, then looks at you again—really looks. and this time, there’s no confusion. no denial. just something raw. real.

terrified.

“you’re not—” he starts, stops, tries again. “you don’t get to— to feel like this and just— not tell me.”

his voice is rough, but there’s something else under it now.

desperation.

“could’ve fixed this,” he says, quieter. “could’ve— i don’t know— figured it out, done something, anything before you started coughing up blood—”

his hands tighten slightly on your arms, not hurting—just grounding himself.

and then, finally, jason todd does the one thing he’s been avoiding this entire time.

he doesn’t push you away. he doesn’t make it a joke. he doesn’t run.

he stays.

close. solid. real.

“…you’re not dying over me,” he says, voice low, firm in a way that leaves no room for argument. “not happening.”

and it’s not a threat. not to you.

to the situation. to himself.

to the universe that let this happen in the first place.

because yeah, jason will still threaten the idea of the person who hurt you.

still hates them. still wants to fight them.

but now he knows it was him. and somehow?

that’s worse.

because now it’s not about fixing someone else. it’s about fixing himself.

fast enough to make sure you’re still here to see it.

tim drake

it doesn’t start dramatic. no sudden petals. no cinematic collapse.

just… time.

because loving tim drake is a slow burn.

it’s late nights in the cave, both of you half-awake over glowing screens. it’s coffee going cold because he forgot to drink it—and you quietly swapping it out for a fresh one. it’s him saying your name absentmindedly, like it’s part of the background noise he relies on to function.

and you? you fall somewhere in the middle of all that. softly. quietly.

like it doesn’t matter. like it won’t hurt.

except it does.

because tim always chooses the mission.

not intentionally. not cruelly.

just… inevitably.

you see it in the way he leans toward the comms instead of you. the way his focus sharpens when gotham needs him—and blurs everything else out.

including you.

the first petal shows up on a random tuesday.

you’re alone, wwhich feels fitting.

you stare at it for a long time before you even react.

“…right,” you murmur, like this is just another thing to deal with. like your heart quietly trying to kill you is just… inconvenient.

you don’t tell him. of course you don’t. tim already has too much on his plate. you’ve seen what happens when he overloads—how he stops sleeping, stops eating, stops being anything but the mission.

you’re not adding yourself to that list.

but tim notices.

not immediately. mot cleanly. but he does. because he knows you, better than anyone.

it’s small things at first. you’re quieter. slower to respond. you cough and brush it off too quickly. you miss a message—then two—then you apologise like it matters more than it should.

tim files it away. observes. waits.

until one night, you don’t brush it off fast enough. a petal slips from your hand and lands on the keyboard between you.

tim freezes. “…what is that?”

it’s not fear, not yet. just confusion—sharp, focused, already analysing.

you try to laugh it off, which you know is a bad move. even if tim's always focused on the mission, he is a detective and he knows you better than anyone.

tim leans forward immediately, eyes narrowing—not at you, but at the problem.

“how long has this been happening?” his voice is calm, too calm. the kind of calm that means his brain is already running ten steps ahead.

you hesitate.

and that’s all he needs.

“okay,” he exhales, running a hand through his hair, already shifting into problem-solving mode. “okay, we can fix this. we just need to—”

he cuts himself off.

because he knows what this is.

“…hanahaki,” he mutters.

and now there is something else in his voice. not panic.

but something close.

“what stage?” he asks immediately. “how frequent? any blood?”

you answer reluctantly, and with every word, his expression tightens just a little more.

but here’s the thing: tim doesn’t ask who. not at first.

because in his mind, that’s not the priority. fixing it is.

he throws himself into research. sleepless nights. files open. medical contacts pinged. he builds timelines, probabilities, outcomes.

he treats it like a case. like if he just thinks hard enough, he can outsmart it.

and you watch him. you watch him choose this—choose solving you—over actually seeing you.

and it hurts in a way the flowers can’t even compete with.

eventually, you say it. quiet. careful. “i'm thinking about the surgery.”

tim doesn’t look up at first.

“mm,” he hums distractedly. “that could work. it’s—uh—high success rate, minimal physical complications—”

“i’d forget them.”

that makes him stop.

“…what?”

you swallow.

“the person i love,” you clarify. “it erases the feelings. completely.”

tim stares at you now, really stares. and for the first time, he asks.

“…do i know them?”

you don’t answer. but something in your expression—something quiet and resigned—makes his chest tighten.

“…is that what you want?” he asks slowly. and it’s not clinical anymore. not detached. “to forget them?” he presses, softer now. “just like that?”

you look away.

“…it’d stop hurting.”

and that, that hits him wrong.

because tim drake understands pain, but choosing to erase something that matters?

that doesn’t sit right with him.

“they must be important,” he says carefully. “if it got this far.”

you let out a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “they are.”

tim hesitates.

something in him pulls—some instinct he can’t quite name—but he pushes it down.

because it doesn’t make sense. because it couldn’t be—

“…you should be sure,” he says finally. “before you make a decision like that.”

it sounds logical. reasonable.

it breaks your heart.

because what you hear is he’s not stopping you.

so you nod.

and you make the appointment.

tim doesn’t realise what’s happening until it’s too late. not really.

he notices you’re quieter. that you stop lingering. that your messages get shorter.

he tells himself it’s fine. that you’re handling it. that the surgery is a solution. until someone—dick, jason, maybe both—looks at him like he’s the dumbest man alive.

“you seriously don’t get it?” they say.

tim frowns. “get what?”

and then they tell him. not gently. not kindly.

“it’s you.”

everything stops.

“…what?"

“they’re in love with you, idiot.”

and suddenly, everything clicks.

the way you look at him. the way you hesitate. the way you stay, even when he doesn’t. and the surgery—

“…when?” he asks, already moving.

“they left.”

that’s all it takes.

tim is gone.

no suit. no plan.

just fast. urgent. wrong in a way that doesn’t matter anymore.

because for once, the mission isn’t gotham.

it’s you.

he finds you just in time. of course he does.

he always does.

“wait—!”

his voice echoes down the hallway, breathless in a way you’ve never heard before.

you turn, surprised.

and tim—he looks wrecked. hair a mess. jacket half on. breathing like he ran the entire way.

“you can’t—” he starts, then stops, trying to catch up with himself. “don’t do it. not yet.”

you blink. “…tim—”

“i didn’t know,” he says quickly, like if he doesn’t get it out now, he won’t at all. “i didn’t— i should’ve— i just thought—” he cuts himself off, frustrated. “you don’t get to just erase something like that,” he says, softer now. “not if it matters. not if they matter.”

you look at him. careful.

“…they do,” you say quietly.

tim swallows. “…yeah,” he says. “i know.”

and for once, tim drake doesn’t calculate. doesn’t plan. doesn’t wait for certainty.

he just steps closer.

“they should’ve told you,” he says, voice steadier now. “that you weren’t alone in it.”

your breath catches. “…tim—”

“i’m saying it now,” he interrupts, softer. “before you forget. before you decide you don’t want to remember.”

and then, finally—“it’s me.”

not a question. no confusion.

“i didn’t realise,” he admits, quieter. “but i— i don’t want you to lose that. not because i was too slow to catch up.” he exhales shakily. “so don’t go through with it,” he says. “not yet. not when this isn’t one-sided anymore.”

and maybe it’s messy. maybe it’s late. maybe it should’ve happened sooner.

but Tim drake is here now.

and for once, he chose you first.

damian wayne

damian never thought about love. not romantically. not softly. not in the way stories describe it.

love, to him, was duty. loyalty. obligation sharpened into something unbreakable. It was earned, weaponised, withheld.

he did not need it.

he certainly did not expect it.

and then there was you.

gotham academy—years ago now. you, loud in ways he found inefficient. annoying, at first. persistent. unafraid of him in a way that felt… incorrect.

you talked to him like he was normal.

he didn’t like that.

(he stayed anyway.)

it started small.

sitting beside each other because no one else would. trading insults that slowly lost their bite. you stealing his sketchbook once and discovering page after page of—

you.

he took it back immediately. scolded you. told you it was practice.

you believed him.

he told himself that was enough.

you became… constant.

not dramatic. not overwhelming.

just there. walking beside him. talking when he did not. sitting in silence when he needed it. challenging him in ways no one else dared.

damian did not name it. he did not have to.

you were his.

not in possession—but in certainty. in permanence.

and you?

you fell. slowly. inevitably.

doomed from the start.

because how could you not? yhe way he noticed everything about you—the smallest shifts in your mood, the way your voice dipped when you were tired. yhe way he cared—not loudly, not gently—but in precise, deliberate actions:

a book left on your desk because you mentioned it once. a corrected paper you never asked him to look at. a quiet, “you should rest,” when you pushed too far.

he never said he cared.

he never had to.

and that was the problem.

because damian wayne did not think about love. not like this. not something soft. not something shared.

so you never let yourself hope.

when the first petal came, you understood immediately.

you didn’t cry. you didn’t panic.

you just… sat there, holding it, staring at something beautiful that would eventually kill you.

“…of course,” you murmured.

you didn’t tell him. you never would.

because this—this love—was never meant to be returned. it wasn’t something you wanted to burden him with.

damian had never been given love freely, you wouldn’t make yours a weight he had to carry.

so you chose something else.

you chose to love him quietly. completely.

until the end.

you stayed by his side, same as always. laughing. arguing. walking beside him like nothing had changed.

even as your lungs filled with petals.

even as breathing became harder.

even as the blood started.

and damian noticed. of course he did.

“you are weaker,” he said bluntly one afternoon, eyes sharp as they tracked your movements. “your endurance has declined.”

you laughed it off. “i’m fine.”

he didn’t believe you.

it escalated quickly. coughs. hesitation. the way you’d turn away just slightly too late.

and then, he saw it.

a petal.

damian froze.

not visibly, but internally, something shifted.

“…explain.” his voice was sharp. controlled.

you didn’t.

that was your first mistake.

damian investigated. aggressively.

he cornered people. threatened them. interrogated anyone who had looked at you too long.

“who is responsible?” he demanded, tone lethal. “tou will answer me.”

because in his mind, this was simple; someone had done this to you. someone had made you weak. someone had made you suffer.

and he would destroy them.

but no one fit. no one made sense. no one matched the way you looked—

not at them.

at him.

it took too long. far too long. by then—

you were fading.

your laughter softer. your steps slower. your breaths… shorter. and still—

you smiled at him.

like nothing was wrong. like this was enough.

that smile would haunt him.

one night, you coughed. harder than before.

blood. petals. too many.

damian caught you before you hit the ground.

“idiot—” his voice broke, just slightly, hands tightening around you as if he could force you to stay. “why did you not inform me sooner?”

you smiled.

“it’s okay,” you whispered.

it was not okay.

“who is it,” he demanded again, quieter now. desperate in a way he did not understand. “tell me. i will fix this.”

you looked at him. soft. tired.

certain.

and that’s when—finally—it clicked.

not because you said it.

because you didn’t.

because of the way you looked at him.

like he was everything. like he had always been everything.

damian went still. “…no.”

the word came out fractured. wrong.

“it is… me?”

you didn’t answer; you didn’t have to.

and suddenly, everything made sense.

the way you stayed. the way you smiled. the way you never asked for anything in return.

you had been dying—

for him.

“…impossible,” he breathed, shaking his head like he could undo it. “you—you are… you deserve—”

not him.

“i did not—” his voice broke again, sharper this time, angry now—at himself. “i did not see it.”

you were slipping. right there in his arms.

and damian—damian, who had been raised without softness, without gentleness, without love—felt something inside him crack open.

“Iidespise this,” he said, voice trembling with something dangerously close to grief. “i despise that something so weak could—could—”

kill you. take you from him.

too late.

far too late.

"i will not allow this,” he snapped, like sheer will could rewrite reality.

but it was already happening.

your breathing faltered. your body going slack.

still smiling. for him.

and damian finally understood love. not as theory. not as obligation.

but as something real.

something yours.

something he had never been given—

and yet, you had offered it freely.

without expectation. without demand.

“…beloved,” he whispered.

the word unfamiliar. fragile.

his hand came up to your face—gentle, for once, like you might break.

“i am… unworthy of this,” he said, voice unsteady. “of you.”

your eyes fluttered. fading.

damian refused.

"no,” he said, sharper now, desperate. “you will not leave. not now. not when i—”

he stopped.

because the truth was there.

clear. undeniable.

“i love you.”

the words felt foreign. heavy.

too late.

but he said them anyway.

and then, he kissed you.

not perfectly. not gently.

desperately, like he was trying to give something back that you had been giving him all along.

for a moment, nothing happened. and then—

you gasped. air rushing back into your lungs like you’d been drowning.

the petals—gone.

the weight—lifting.

your eyes opened.

damian stared. frozen. disbelieving.

“…you remain.”

his voice was quiet. reverent.

and, something in him settled.

not calm. not peace.

something stronger.

a vow.

his forehead pressed to yours, breath still uneven.

"you will not be rid of me,” he said softly. “i will not allow it.”

possessive. certain.

unyielding.

"i am yours,” he continued, like it was the most natural truth in the world. “as you have always been mine.”

and this time, it wasn’t unspoken.