#batbro reader

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✦*̥˚ Alfred ˚*̥✦

He was unimpressed when Bruce brought a baby home, scoffed at him but- come on, it's a poor little baby with no one to care for them... and the bat-mobile was already filled with pretty much everything from what used to be your room so... two years later, you were walking, talking, and holding onto his legs while he tried to work around the house.

Asking questions about anything and everything he was doing; and he answered, because why wouldn't he? In his eyes, you're just trying to get his attention, and what's so bad about it? Even if he sighs when you jump around, even if he has to clean crayon off the walls, he thinks you're endearing.

If you want actual cuddles or hugs from grandpa, you'll have to wait until his break. He loves you, but he needs to get things done, and you need to be patient.

"Dear, would you let go of my leg? I need to-" You shook your head, he sighed.

"Alfie, what is that?" You pointed at the same fluffy thing for the third time that week.

"A duster, dear..."

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✦*̥˚ Bruce ˚*̥✦

The moment your little head plopped on his chest and you fell asleep as quickly as if you had never woken up, his mind drifted to adoption papers. Commissioner Gordon, of course, helped Batman make sure every loose end was tied up before letting him pack your entire room into the bat-mobile.

You had no papers, not even a birth certificate, but you were healthy. And two years later, you were growing up too fast.

Your first word was "bat", your first steps were filmed, and the video is saved on the bat-computer in a folder were deleting files is impossible. He loves you; you are the apple of his eye, his baby bat.

The first time the Justice League met you, and they saw Batman smile and coo and giggle, was a day everyone silently agreed to forget. The kids were freaked out too. Bruce had his affectionate moments for sure, but this was crazy.

And you were just as clingy! If your dad had you in his arms, you expected to be there for a while. If anyone tried to get him to put you down or wanted to hold you too, they were met with a perfectly synchronized noise of dissatisfaction that earned you the nickname Batbaby.

"You wanna help dad with a case, sweetie?"

"I'M BATMAN"

"You are still a baby! I'm Batman."

The case was tiresome. You needed a nap after, but you did it, Batbaby! You found the cookie-thieving dog!

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✦*̥˚ Dick ˚*̥✦

Was a bit apprehensive about a baby in the house at first, but he came around after a few days of you grabbing his finger and not letting go. Two years since then, and you still hold his hand all day.

He loves you so much! He throws you up in the air and catches you to make you laugh, he shows you acrobatics (you're not allowed to do them yet, Dick says your trapeze bones haven't developed), He gives you piggy-back rides, plays hide and seek with you and tells you that you're the best at it (he lets you win), he lets you nap on his chest and he even lets you play with Haley!

You'll always have a space in his apartment in Blüdhaven, even if you almost never leave Bruce's side, you'll always have Dick to nap on and hold your hand if your dad will be gone for a while.

He has given you the most nicknames out of anyone. At this point, you answer more to his tone than the words he calls you, it's easier for your baby brain to recognize the cooing than to learn every single nickname or petname he uses to get your attention.

"Where's my little star? Where's my darling little sibling..?" His voice, to you, sounds like genuine confusion. Though, everyone else in the manor can see that you're giggling under the table, and Dick just wants to see you smile when you win.

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✦*̥˚ Cass ˚*̥✦

Baby staring contests become a thing in the manor. She stares, you stare back. Best way to calm you down when cuddles don't work is to have her hold you and stare into your soul... it works, somehow.

She's a quiet person, and you become a very chatty two year old. You yap about everything and nothing, and she listens. She enjoys it; it's her baby sibling time, and she just wants to hang out with you.

You help each other with difficult words; it's nice to have someone who understands not understanding everything yet.

She reminds you of Bruce, so you're also often found trailing behind her like a duckling. She likes to pick you up and press her forehead to yours. It's her way of saying she loves you, and the optical illusion that makes her look like a cyclops makes you laugh too.

But the rare times when you're also feeling quiet, she's the best to watch movies with.

"Cassie, movie?" You rub your eye with one tiny hand and hold the TV remote in the other, arm stretched out to her as an offer.

"Hm." She nods and smiles softly at you, taking the remote and holding your hand to go to the living room.

You fall asleep in her arms watching your favorite movie. "...Baby sibling."

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✦*̥˚ Jason ˚*̥✦

He didn't know about you until a month after you were adopted. Immediately recoiled when Bruce tried to introduce you to him. Probably the one who took the longest to warm up to you. Not because he didn't like you or babies in general, but because he was scared of hurting you.

He's the one who looks the most like Bruce (other than Cass), and it really confused you. You'd be in dad's arms, and suddenly, dad was on the couch? So you looked at who was holding you, and it was dad! Then you looked at the man on the couch, and... it was also dad? How? You need to investigate this other dad...

With time, he started playing with you, tried to keep the contact minimal so he couldn't accidentally hurt you, but it was hard when you were a little cuddle monster. So he just- laid on his back and let you hug him, keeping you steady with a single hand on your back. Still, he didn't want to actually hold you, so he didn't. But you were relentless.

By the time you were two years old, you could recognize who Jay was. Jay was the one with the wild, black and white hair and scuffed shoes. Dad was the one with the perfectly smooth clothes. At that point, Jason felt more secure about holding you, and you were having the best time with your brother now that he's not scared of hurting you as much as before.

He loves you too much for his anxiety to completely fade though, so he still mainly just cuddles you while sitting down or puts you in a baby carrier strapped to his chest. But your favorite thing is when you're strapped to him and he zips up his jacket over you because he always uses his theater kid skills to make you laugh.

"Ugh! Move it, Dick! Can't you see I'm with child? A real kicker, this one..." Jason sits down in the spot Dick moved from when he saw how much Jason's jacket was laughing at the act.

"Go bring me some ice cream, would you?" Dick wanted to object, but your little cheer could have made anyone crumble.

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✦*̥˚ Tim ˚*̥✦

Did NOT know what to do with you. Made a binder on your feeding and sleeping schedules, wrote down food you like and food you threw off your plate with a pout, investigated your birth family, everything... However, he was too nervous to hold you for longer than a minute. It wasn't a fear like Jason; Tim just genuinely didn't like babies. He likes you, you're cool, you're his little sibling... but you're still a baby, and he gets uncomfortable with babies.

But now that you're two, he's happy hugging you as much as you like. Mostly when he's working, you just sleep on his lap, and he tucks you in bed when he's done.

However, Tim comes with a big plus for you; Bernard.

Bernard adores you, and Tim loves seeing you get carried around like a doll, win-win!

"Timtim!" He hums, prompting you to continue, "is Bernie coming today?"

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✦*̥˚ Damian ˚*̥✦

Probably the worst reaction of the bunch, being the youngest, he's not used to Bruce's impulsive adoptions. Also, he's the blood son, got it, child?

It took him the longest to warm up to you, but gradually, he decided he liked you. It was a mix of working on his childhood trauma and Bruce swearing you would be forever forbidden from being Robin. (And the look of awe you gave him when he picked you up for the first time, but he'll never admit that.)

Damian is a bit surprised you can't even hold a sword now that you're two; he knew it wasn't really a thing outside of the league to train babies on fighting, but he had assumed a toddler would be able to at least balance their weight when holding a kata—

"Damian! Stop giving weapons to your little sibling!" Damian just scoffed at Bruce's screech but took it away anyway.

A recap for those who need it: he met you when he was three years old. He didn't really like you, but he didn't hate you. His baby brain was just put off by a new, random man suddenly constantly being around him.

"Who is this... hobo holding me?" - his inner thought.

type shi

He probably did cry out in terror the first time you held him for too long. He wanted his mom, not this homeless man!!!

If you knew that he thought like this, you would've actually considered the rope.

( ↑ Guess where he got that dramatic-esque side of him from... )

After that first time, Damian just kind of... tolerated you. He just kept side-eyeing you every time you held him. It honestly reminds you of Bruce when he side-eyes you when you try to suggest something dangerously close to terminating the enemies permanently.

Ouh... The memories... (you sound like an old man)

Takes a lot of Talia telling her baby that you're his brother, even if not by blood, and that you're not homeless.

Why is this a running gag? You are not homeless!!!!

Insert Y/N rocking back and forth in a white padded room inside his head.

For like three months, things kind of stay the same. Damian continued his training—mind you, he is three years old and y/n is threatening to burn the League to the ground because of it—while still primarily being taken care of by Talia, but he doesn't mind occasionally spending time with you as well. You're... chill, he guessed.

It was really around after the initial three months that Damian started getting attached to you.

You were really the only solace in his childhood when it came to making him feel like a kid. Even his mother, whom you're aware loved him so much, wasn't allowed to be soft with him. And you're aware she was already wrestling with this idea since he was in her womb.

So it is up to you, someone who defies the League as an outsider with the power and ability to back it up, to give Damian a taste of what it's like to be a kid.

The amount of toys and snacks you bought him is crazy.

And of course, when it comes to toys, you primarily bought ones that resemble weapons and animals. His favourite is a giant(giant according to his size, at least) ant plushie. He was clutching that shit sooo tight, you worried he was going to tear it apart in a few days.

And you babied him like how parents do with their kids. It's hard for Damian not to like you.

So after a few weeks, Damian came to the conclusion that you're worth being brothers with.

Translate: he loves you so much.

After that, he constantly babbles for you.

His vocabulary is pretty damn good even when he was young, being taught by the League, but the moment he catches sight of you, all those complicated words are thrown out the window and into the sea as he yelled out "brother!" or any other variations of the title.

When he was younger, he genuinely couldn't control his body when he saw you and would immediately sprint towards you. Whatever he was doing? Forgotten.

This ceases as he grows, but his excitement never diminishes by any means. Now, it's rather like waving candy treats in front of a police dog when you visit him.

He tries to be stoic, greeting you with a polite "brother" and a serious face, but your eagle eyes never fail to notice how Damian is always basically vibrating in his place and trying to hold himself back from jumping onto you.

Not his fault, okay? You only visit him once a week! Or more if he's lucky.

Talking about visits, when you had to leave when he was attached to you like Velcro as a baby, he wailed when you walked out of the room and didn't returned in the next 5 minutes.

Talia had bags under her eyes from how tired she was during that time because Damian wouldn't stop crying for big brother to come "home".

Talia forced you back, of course, and Damian immediately stopped like he had never cried once in his life.

This gets better as he grows, but that doesn't mean he doesn't get sad on lonely nights after a tiring day, and his big brother isn't there to comfort him.

He has definitely sat near the window in his room, looking out into the night, hoping you'd magically appear and spend time with him, and it has happened more times than he would've liked it to.

Talking about comfort, you're definitely the first one he searched for the first time he was thrown into the Lazarus Pit after nearly dying.

It was a terrifying experience even for a kid like him.

You have to admit, you didn't like the way his eyes shone that bright shade of green after that. Your baby brother shouldn't have been through this, but what can you do?

And it happened again, and again, and again. Each time, he comes curling up to you like you'd be able to heal everything (and to him, you can). Each time, his eyes kept turning a brighter and brighter shade of green—until they blocked out the original soft brown colour entirely.

↑ serious things aside, when you weren't so upset by it anymore, you loved saying his eye's colour is "spotify green", which he retaliates with calling your eye's colour by its worsest, ugliest, most unappealing shade ever and that did so much psych damage.

With the League's teaching drilled into him, it is inevitable that Damian will become a bit of a brat as he presents himself to be arrogant and cocky to others, with the way he acts and talks.

To you, though, he was anything but that.

To you, suddenly, he's all good and perfect, and he's always smug as hell when you praise him. Even with just a single word.

In truth, Damian Wayne is one socially awkward boy who's most comfortable being with you. Growing up being taught only how to fight and intimidate was detrimental to his outside social life.

It was fine with him, mostly. He didn't like making friends... Although you've said once that you wanted him to live a normal life and have friends that he could trust, so he still wanted to try.

And that's the thing, you love him (in your own weird ways), you care for him, you wish the best for your baby brother. It's easy for you to be the first father figure he has had in his life.

The first time he changed from calling you "brother" to calling you "father" instead, your eyes almost bulged out of their sockets.

FATHER???

And he didn't stop even if you asked him to. You care for him, you love him, and you teach him things the League thought were useless to him that he actually cherished.

You're such an unintentionally strong father figure to him; it just makes sense.

He knows you and his mother are different in age, and that you don't love each other that way, but he doesn't care. You're his father, to him.

Moving into Wayne Manor was so, so stressful for him. He doesn't mind a new environment—but.. New Jersey..? Really?—but what was the final nail in the coffin for him is when he learned that on top of having to deal with new people with completely new rules that negate everything he's ever been taught, you don't live here.

Low-key actually considered packing his bags and moving to your apartment. He doesn't care if it's much smaller than Bruce's manor; you are there. He's much more comfortable living with you. Surely, his mother wouldn't mind? She trusted you enough to let him around you, after all.

With enough arguments and post-argument talks with Bruce and coaxing from your end when you found out what was going on, he didn't do so. But every time someone in the manor pisses him off, he just considers leaving for your place and never coming back.

Which happens like. Every day.

Talking about Bruce, he admires his father still. They didn't see eye-to-eye at first, but he came to accept him and even care for his biological father.

But it took a long time for Damian to call him father, because initially, whenever the title of "father" fell out of Damian's mouth, he meant you and only you.

Which... caused a bit of confusion in the family.

Dick: Hey, little D. Wanna go grab snacks with me at the cafe downtown? Heard you wanted to get out of the manor! Damian: Oh, my Father has brought me there once. The pastries were... adequate. Tim, side-eyeing: ..Bruce? You still have yet to go out anywhere with Bruce. Damian: ??? No, I mean... Jason, also side-eyeing from the kitchen: ...You mean? Damian: ...Y/N. "WHAT???"

Damian cringed when he said your name because it had been years since he had said them. He's repulsed by the idea of not calling you his big brother or father.

Everyone thought Bruce had lied to them and that their eldest brother was actually the father of their youngest brother. Tim almost made a full red string theory board, but was stopped when you came out and properly explained what happened.

They went "oohh....", went quiet, then Tim's eyes almost fell out with how wide they went as he screamed, "YOU'VE BEEN VISITING THE LEAGUE OF ASSASSINS ON THE WEEKLY???"

Tim Drake crashing out constantly because of Bruce and Y/N low-key.

Damian eventually started calling Bruce his father, but that title for you will never be replaced, either.

He has this specific speech pattern where if he simply says "Father," then he means Bruce, but if he says "my Father," it means you specifically.

"Father is in the Batcave"? Bruce is in the Batcave.

"My Father will come pick me up."? Expect to see the Eldest Bat pretty damn soon, then.

And yes, "Eldest Bat" is a nickname coined by all your siblings. It's pretty cool, so you're chill with it.

When it comes to vigilante duty, he prefers patrolling with you if you're in town. Fuck it, he prefers being with you all the time. If he has to be separated from you during a mission, he's going to be cranky and petty about it.

Admired you as a fighter because you are a monster when it comes to fighting. Ra's admitted you to be a terrifying opponent, Tim stressed over contingency plans he has for you and is constantly fixing them, and you can build a house with how many bricks Bruce is shitting whenever he feels like he doesn't have a tight-enough leash around your throat to keep you from doing fucked up shits that would bring you places even Bruce himself wouldn't go with a gun—which is, like, constantly.

He kept asking for you to train him, and each time you complied and taught him tips and tricks—most of which terrify him because 90% of those are possible only because it's you. Because your body keeps being able to do impossible things even he wouldn't dare try.

Overall, being Damian Wayne's favourite means he prefers being with you 24/7. He's your baby, and he makes it obvious in the way he'd pout and frown and act like an emotionally constipated old cat whenever he can't be with you all the time. And the fastest way to cheer him up is to call his big brother over and let him cling to you for five hours minimum.

precognition!reader who feels like the grim reaper: a walking visionary who can see people's deaths. After many repeated attempts, they just learn to shut up and walk past; what good does warning people do if none of it works?

Yet it all happened so quickly: a new vision. New people, people who they barely recognized. The Flying Graysons. A circus accident, flying in the air like Icarus flying too close to the sun. An orphan, the sole survivor of the family.

In the corner of precognition!reader's eye, they could spot Bruce Wayne—the billionaire of Gotham. Watching, waiting, as if considering something. They don't know what happened in them; the spark that suddenly jolted their hand in writing the letter. Maybe it was the pity they felt for the small child, but they asked—begged Bruce to adopt the poor boy. They didn't mention his name specifically, keeping it as broad as possible.

When Bruce first received the letter, he categorized it as fan mail, brow raised as his eyes skimmed through precognition!reader's pleas. Another delusional fan letter he threw away, nothing new.

Yet when the events that precognition!reader predicted played out right before his eyes, his heart stopped beating for just a moment. A sudden harsh wind of déjà vu hitting him as he remembers precognition!reader's warning.

So, he did as he was told and adopted the boy.

Does he regret it? No. But he waits, waits for another letter—perhaps explaining the sudden urgency and why precognition!reader wrote to him, or perhaps, who this mysterious letter was from. In his mind, he doubted it; maybe it was just a coincidence? Yet the events they predicted seemed to line up too well, even if a little vague.

precognition!reader who gets visions before Batman and Robin patrol, knowing how the whole fight sequence would play out before the two even started moving.

precognition!reader who knows that Bruce Wayne is Batman, and the child they convinced Bruce to adopt, Dick Grayson, is Robin. They watch Dick Grayson grow up, under the new alias Nightwing, and they watch as he starts to inch away from Bruce, growing distant.

precognition!reader who gets another vision: a boy stealing a car tire from the Batmobile. Another poor boy who was doing all he can just to get by.

precognition!reader who decides to write another letter: "Adopt him."

Two words. Two words were all it took for Bruce to start getting suspicious: just who are they? Why were they sending him these letters? The paranoia creeps into his mind.

He needs to investigate.

As he's about to get into the Batmobile, he sees him: Jason Todd.

And once more, he does as he's told. He doesn't know why. How did they know? Why were they doing this?

precognition!reader hearing articles about Bruce's new kid. A new Robin with Batman—they weren't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

precognition!reader who gets a terrifying vision: there lies Robin bleeding as the Joker holds a crowbar in his hand, torturing the poor boy. Precognition!reader heart quickens as they watch Bruce cradle Jason, dead in his arms, blood running across his whole body.

precognition!reader who knows they're unable to prevent it, but can hopefully lessen the pain Bruce would go through.

As Bruce checks the new letter, five letters haunt him to his very core:

"It's not your fault, Bruce."

And as he cradles a dying Jason Todd in his hands, his mind repeats those very same words like a broken record player: It's not your fault, Bruce. It's not your fault, Bruce. It's not your fault, Bruce. It's not your fault, Bruce.

He spirals into madness reading the letter over and over again, spending his time analyzing every single detail. The handwriting, the parchment of paper used, the pen that was used.

precognition!reader who was smart enough to use gloves, unable to be tracked for now.

Bruce searched the return address. A random location for every single letter, no correlation whatsoever.

When Bruce first found Tim, he initially thought he was the one who wrote the letters, based on the way he accurately predicted Bruce's alter ego.

Though, he soon found out his intuition was wrong when he received the next letter:

"He's not me."

He felt as if he was going mad. He didn't show it, but he was frustrated.

precognition!reader who weaseled through Bruce's fingers like falling sand for so many years—who seemed to have omniscient knowledge based on the letters he was being sent.

Working with his new Robin, he tried to figure out the identity of the mysterious writer.

precognition!reader who stops writing to Bruce.

Bruce starts to gets paranoid. Tim is also intrigued by precognition!reader, and Dick has heard tidbits of them from the small amount of times he would visit.

Even when Jason gets resurrected, precognition!reader refrains from sending a letter, deciding to shake the family off their tail.

For a while, precognition!reader stayed low, up until Bruce and the rest of the family forgot about their existence. They focused on themselves despite the many visions they seemed to get every day—for some reason, it was all centered around Bruce again.

precognition!reader who gets a vision of a random child. Black hair, what seemed to be Arabic roots. They had no idea who this random child was. He didn't seem to be in any innate danger, only training intensively for something they weren't able to make out, so they ignored the vision, thinking nothing of it.

precognition!reader who soon places the puzzle pieces together. The child they were watching was the child of Bruce Wayne.

precognition!reader who decides to write one final letter—their fatal mistake:

"Take care of him."

And just like Bruce expected, he adopted a new son, Damian Wayne. Yet, unlike all the other adoptions, this one was different: he was now dead set on finding who precognition!reader was, the rest of the family involved.

They each scouted their own little sections, Damian scouting with Bruce. They all wanted to meet precognition!reader—the mysterious letter writer who predicted their whole lives before it even happened. They all felt some sort of connection with them despite barely even knowing them.

precognition!reader who goes MIA, much to the dismay of Bruce, and it seemed permanent this time.

Tim who analyzes precognition!reader's final letter very carefully. He analyzed the letters; it was written with a fountain pen. He traced the handwriting carefully with his index finger before scrolling through a database of people in Gotham with similar handwritings.

The way precognition!reader would write a specific letter, or how the words slightly tilted down as they wrote without the red guideline commonly on red notebook sheets. He spent countless nights comparing, reading, testing.

precognition!reader who receives a chilling new vision:

precognition!reader, tied up in the Wayne Manor's kitchen, with Bruce affectionately petting their head, whispering "Welcome home."

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

outshining!reader who doesn’t have a single bad photo of him on the internet

outshining!reader who always spots and smiles at any paparazzi he manages to spot when out of the manor

outshining!reader who genuinely makes his very attractive brothers and sisters look less than average next to him

outshining!reader who is unironically used in “looksmaxxing” intros and edits

outshining!reader who is also unaware of these edits or even any term that has to do with “looksmaxxing” with how offline he is

outshining!reader who when once asked in an interview what he does to look like that he responded “like what?” making more swoon for him

outshining!reader who unintentionally always becomes the center focus of every photo he is in

outshining!reader who seems to always be glowing

The family who has tried to take a photo of outshining!reader sleeping to post, just to discover he looked perfect even in his sleep

outshining!reader who has been offered more modeling opportunities than there are rooms in the manor

outshining!reader who makes fans pass out when he so much as likes their posts

outshining!reader who is so chronically offline he posts every once in a blue moon, but each time he posts the date is treasured

outshining!reader who holds the most liked tiktok even if it’s just a photo of him awkwardly smiling

outshining!reader who skyrockets the likes on anything his brothers post if he is so much in the background

The family who wants to be pissed off at outshining!reader for how much attention he gets but physically can’t when they see him

.

.

.

You weren't born human. Not entirely, anyway.

Half of your blood runs darker—thicker—tainted by something ancient, something that makes even the shadows flinch. A lineage no mortal should've touched.

Your mother had been foolish enough to believe that love could bridge the gap between worlds. Between light and hellfire. Between her and him.

The result was you.

Your father wasn't one of those lowly fiends summoned by greedy men in basements. He wasn't a trickster demon or a spirit of vengeance whispering into human ears. No—he was a Demon Lord. One of the highest, one whose name burned through realms, whose voice bent legions. The kind of being that even other monsters bowed to.

And somehow, your mother lived long enough to tell the tale. She used to say your eyes were like his—crimson-red like blood and like the first wound of dawn, like something that promised ruin. You liked to think she said it fondly, though it was hard to tell. Fear and love often blurred together when it came to her.

She tried to raise you. Gods, she tried. But mortals aren't meant to nurture storms. By the time you were four, she had seen too much—walls cracking when you cried, shadows crawling when you laughed, your tiny hands leaving scorch marks where they touched. You hadn't meant to hurt anyone. You never did. But meaning meant nothing when power bled from your bones.

The night she left, she kissed your forehead and whispered that she loved you. After that, she was... gone.

You waited for her to come back. Days passed. Weeks. Seasons. But no one came.

The years after that blurred into one long, cold haze. You wandered between places, learning how to hide what you were. But it was impossible to stay unnoticed forever. Sometimes your control slipped. A flare of temper, a moment of fear—and people died. You lost count of how many.

By the time you turned ten, you'd stopped pretending you were anything but cursed.

Then, the League found you.

They came at night, as assassins do—silent, efficient, blades glinting. You sensed them before you saw them, the air itself turning taut, afraid. You could've killed them all. And you did.

But one voice broke through the tension.

"Enough."

A woman stepped forward, calm as the grave.

Talia al Ghul.

Her beauty was sharp, calculated. Her eyes held no fear, only curiosity—as if she were looking at a weapon forged in fire, one she intended to claim.

"You're wasting potential," She said, unbothered by the corpses of her men at your feet. "Come with me. I'll give you a purpose."

You didn't trust her. Yet she spoke like someone who knew power. Someone who understood. So you went. You had nothing to lose, after all.

That night, Talia brought you to the League's mountain stronghold. You walked through corridors lit by flickering torches, past assassins who stared as if they'd seen a ghost. And she had introduced you as her son. The words felt strange, but you said nothing. The League whispered behind her back, of course.

"The woman has taken in a demon boy. A curse wrapped in flesh."

Let them whisper. You had nothing to prove to them.

But you weren't prepared for him.

He was three years old.

Tiny, scowling, with a head of black hair that refused to stay down and a pair of sharp eyes that already looked like they judged the world. He was perched on a training mat, trying to mimic one of the League's warriors. His movements were sloppy, but determined—an echo of his mother's discipline.

You remember thinking he looked... small. Fragile, even. Not something the League would value. And then he glared at you.

That was your first meeting with Damian Wayne al Ghul.

When you reached out to lift him, he squirmed violently, small hands pushing against you like you were diseased. His expression was priceless—somewhere between confusion and royal disgust.

"Who is this... hobo holding me?" His eyes seemed to say.

You could feel the judgment radiating off him. He cried soon after, loud and indignant. You froze, awkwardly holding a wailing child who wanted nothing to do with you. If you'd known what he was thinking, you might've actually considered the rope. (Yes, he got that flair for dramatics from you. Congratulations.)

After that, he tolerated you at best. Talia tried to explain, patient but firm: "He's your brother now," She told him. "Not by blood, but by bond."

He blinked at her, unconvinced.

It took months before he stopped glaring every time you entered a room. You didn't try to force anything; you'd learned long ago that affection couldn't be demanded. Instead, you stayed nearby. Helped him when he fell during training. Guarded him from a distance.

Talia noticed. So did the League.

You became the quiet constant in his days—the only person who didn't treat him like a soldier-in-training.

You hated the way they pushed him. The boy was three. Three. And already he was sparring with daggers and memorizing kill points. You'd threatened more than once to burn the entire compound to the ground if they didn't let him rest. The assassins didn't take you seriously. Oh, they should have.

Talia intervened before anything exploded—literally—and told you to channel that protective instinct 'constructively.'

So you did.

You took Damian into nearby villages, disguised in plain clothes, so he could see life outside the League's walls. You bought him toys—things Talia didn't approve of, but never forbade—and snacks that left his fingers sticky with sugar. He tried to act like he didn't care. He always did. But the moment you weren't looking, he'd reach for your hand, or hide the candy wrappers under his shirt.

His favorite toy was a plush giraffe, nearly half his height. The day you brought it to him, he stared at it like it was a puzzle, then hugged it so tight you worried the seams might tear. From then on, it rarely left his side. You'd find it everywhere: next to his bed, on the training mat, even in the library where he pretended to meditate.

You teased him for it, and he glared at you so fiercely for that.

You didn't expect him to grow attached. But he did. Slowly, subtly.

At first, he'd hover near you in silence while you meditated. Then he began following you openly, pestering you with endless questions.

"Why do you read those books?"

"Why does the air change when you get angry?"

"Why does Mother say you're dangerous?"

You gave half-answers, mostly to keep him from worrying. But sometimes, when he pressed hard enough, you let him glimpse pieces of your truth.

"The world's built on power, little one," You hummed, your voice softer than usual. "Some people worship it. Others fear it. The trick is not letting it decide what you are."

He didn't understand fully then. Yet you saw how the words settled somewhere deep.

In time, he began to see you not just as a strange presence—but as something steady. When Talia's lessons grew too harsh, he'd retreat to your quarters. When nightmares woke him, he'd pad barefoot through the halls until he found you, and curl up beside you without a word. You never questioned it. You simply shifted enough to make room on the bed.

Sometimes, when he slept, you'd study his face. So much of Talia in his sharpness, but something gentler underneath. Something uncorrupted.

You wondered if that softness would survive the League. And you swore you'd protect it.

Because in that small boy, you saw something you never had: proof that not everything powerful had to destroy.

Years would blur, of course. But that first year together—the year Damian learned to smile without permission—stayed carved into your memory like scripture.

You remember his first real laugh.

It happened when you accidentally tripped over his sword and nearly swore yourself into another dimension. The sound that came from him startled both of you—a clear, bright laugh that made your chest ache.

"Oh, so you can sound human," You'd teased.

He scowled, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

You remember the first time he called your name, too—not as a demand, not as a complaint, but as something else. Something... fond.

"Y/n," He called out quietly, tugging your sleeve. "Will you read to me again?"

He'd fallen asleep halfway through the story.

One night, months later, you woke to find him sitting beside you, clutching that same giraffe plush.

"Couldn't sleep?" You murmured sleepily.

He shook his head. "Grandfather says sleep is for the weak."

"Your Grandfather's wrong," You patted the spot beside you. "Even demons sleep."

He hesitated. Then climbed into your lap, resting his head against your chest. His small heartbeat thudded against your ribs. And after a while, he mumbled something so faint you almost missed it. "...Brother."

You froze. The word shouldn't have hurt, but it did—softly, sweetly.

He fell asleep soon after. You sat there in silence, your arms around him, staring into the dark. Because for the first time in your cursed existence, you realized something.