Cleanup On Aisle 4

Bruce Wayne | Batman X Reader

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ You’re Weird ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

masterlist

Check it, Bruce sees you’re drowning and wants to make sure you’re ok. Gotham gazette has a few other ideas.

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ Your fingers curled around the warm ceramic mug, the heat soothing your skin. “It’s weird,” you mused, glancing around at the clean streets, the laughter of children in a nearby park, the general lack of sirens. “Being here makes Gotham feel like a fever dream. Like I blinked and woke up in a world that doesn’t smell like wet concrete and cigarette smoke.”

The scent of freshly ground coffee beans swirled in the crisp Metropolis air, rich and inviting. You sat across from Bruce Wayne at a quiet café tucked on the corner of Hyperion Avenue, the kind of place that prided itself on being “low key millennial vibe,” though the exposed brick walls and imported furniture suggested otherwise. Still, it was a breath of fresh air from Gotham’s perpetual gloom.

Bruce smiled over the rim of his espresso, the smallest curve of his lips. “I told you Metropolis would be good for you. A different pace. Safer.”

“Definitely safer,” you nodded, chuckling softly. “Though a little… unnerving? Like it’s too perfect. No edge.”

“You miss the unnerving…ness?”

“I feel like Gotham just might have more personality?” You grinned, teasing. “Besides, there’s no challenge in writing about Metropolis. They treat their criminals like punchlines.”

Bruce looked at you then. That quiet intensity in his eyes, the one you always caught glimpses of in rare, unguarded moments. “You like the challenge. That’s what makes you different.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Different?”

“Just different, you don’t have to think too hard on it”

You looked down, the compliment sinking into your chest a little deeper than you were prepared for. “ahhhh okok whatever mister cryptic. What are we doing in metropolis anyways? you havent even done any work while here”

A pause.

“thats true,” Bruce said softly. “Maybe I wanted to see what it’d be like. Sharing coffee somewhere bright for once.”

Your heart did a little pirouette in your chest. It was nothing nothing, right? Just a moment. A shared breath.

But before you could say anything, a familiar voice called out from the sidewalk.

“Bruce! Well, I’ll be damned!”

Bruce’s smile flattened like someone had stepped on it. You turned in your chair to see a tall man in glasses and a warm beige trench coat strolling up, the sun glinting off his dark hair. Clark Kent. You’d seen him in bylines, youre pretty sure youve seen him carrying a camera around. Mild mannered, curious, somehow always in the right place at the right time. And right now, he looked delighted.

“Clark,” Bruce greeted, standing only because etiquette demanded it. His handshake was brief. You noticed the way his jaw ticked as Clark’s gaze immediately shifted to you.

“And you must be the [Y/N] [L/N],” Clark said, eyes lighting up. “I’m a huge fan of your work.”

You blinked. “You… are?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely. That piece you did on Clayface? Incredible. All your stories go into so much depth and extremely captivating.”

You felt yourself flush. “That means a lot. It’s mice to meet you.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, his cup suddenly very uninteresting as he picked it up for a sip he didn’t take.

Clark pulled out the empty chair beside you and sat before you could protest. “Oh! Im Clark by the way! I’ve always believed there’s more to every story than just the ‘bad guy’ angle. But the way you frame it, like… you make people care. You make them wonder if these villains could’ve been something else in a different world.”

You smiled, glowing under the praise. “That’s exactly what I try to do. Gotham’s complicated. Everyone wants to point fingers, but no one wants to understand the systems that failed them.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Clark nodded. “You ever think of working in Metropolis?”

Bruce’s cup hit the table a little harder than necessary.

“I like Gotham,” you said, glancing at Bruce. “It’s home. And having a indepth understanding makes for good copy.”

Clark laughed. “Fair enough. Still, if you ever need a second pair of eyes or someone to bounce drafts off, I’d be happy to.”

Bruce cleared his throat.

You turned to see him leaning back in his chair, expression unreadable, but his fingers were drumming a silent rhythm on the armrest.

“So, Clark,” Bruce said coolly, “I’m sure the Daily Planet is keeping you busy.”

“Oh, always,” Clark chuckled. “But it’s not every day I bump into old friends… and get to meet such impressive company.”

You smiled politely, but you couldn’t miss the faint twitch in Bruce’s brow. For the first time since you’d met him, he looked rattled. It was almost adorable.

“So, Bruce,” you teased, turning your gaze back to him, “you were telling me about that time you nearly got arrested in Paris for what was it again?”

Bruce straightened. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Clark’s eyebrows rose, amused. “Arrested? Now this sounds like a story.”

“No,” Bruce said flatly.

You laughed and shook your head, the tension easing around the edges. But beneath the surface, you could feel it. Something had shifted. Bruce had invited you to Metropolis under the guise of research, but his eyes said more than that. His gaze lingered when Clark made you laugh, and his mouth set into a thin line every time you and Clark found common ground. You weren’t sure what to do with that yet. But you knew one thing for certain… You kind of liked it.

And Bruce? He looked like he was very much not enjoying sharing the spotlight not when it came to you. Especially not with someone like Clark Kent.

The conversation had drifted into the realm of old journalism war stories. Clark was on his third anecdote about chasing down Luthor’s motorcade on foot in attempt to get an interview completely glossing over how that was physically possible and you were laughing, your eyes crinkled with amusement.

Bruce, meanwhile, was over it.

He had tried. Really, he had. Tried to play nice, tried to keep the conversation moving without outright snarling, tried not to look like a man seconds away from flipping the café table over. But watching you laugh, that genuine, radiant smile that he didn’t get nearly enough of not when you were in Gotham, buried in crime reports and late night stakeouts and watching Clark soak it in like it was sunshine?

It was starting to itch beneath his skin. So, Bruce did what he did best. He weaponized polite.

“You know, Clark,” Bruce said, smoothly interrupting whatever story he was about to launch into next, “as fascinating as your insight is, I’m sure the Daily Planet is wondering where their star reporter has wandered off to.”

Clark blinked. “Oh I’ve got the rest of the day off. Lois has it covered.”

“Of course,” Bruce replied, tone light but laced with something sharper. “But I imagine someone like you never really stops working. Especially with… so many rooftops to jump between.”

There was a beat. Clark’s smile faltered for just a second, and you blinked, confused at the oddly specific phrasing.

Bruce leaned forward, resting an arm casually on the table, expression carved from cool stone. “Besides, I’m sure [Y/N] wouldn’t want to be distracted from the purpose of her visit. Research, remember?”

Clark chuckled, though this time it came out tight. “Right. I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

You arched a brow. Something was going on between them something that felt like more than old friends catching up. A subtle chess game you weren’t meant to notice. But you did notice. Especially when Clark stood with an exaggerated sigh and adjusted his coat.

“Well,” he said, flashing you another warm smile, “it really was a pleasure meeting you, [Y/N]. Let’s chat sometime professional to professional.”

“Definitely,” you said, nodding.

He gave Bruce a weird glance. “Always a pleasure, Bruce.”

“Likewise,” Bruce said, not even pretending to mean it.

Once Clark was gone, Bruce leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly like the air was finally breathable again. His jaw relaxed. His shoulders dropped an inch. He reached for his espresso and finally took the sip he’d been pretending to take all afternoon.

You watched him with an amused smirk.

“Well, well,” you said, folding your arms over the table. “I wasn’t expecting Gotham’s golden boy to be so antsy.”

Bruce didn’t look at you right away, choosing instead to swirl the contents of his cup. “I’m not antsy.”

“You absolutely are,” you said, grinning now. “Clark was lovely, by the way. Very sweet. You could learn something from him.”

“I’d rather not,” Bruce said flatly.

You laughed, tilting your head at him. “rich boy your spoiledness is coming out.”

He finally met your eyes. There it was again that quiet, smoldering honesty buried beneath the billionaire’s mask.

“I just don’t like sharing good coffee,” he said coolly. “Especially when I invited you here.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was electric.

You leaned in just a little, your voice softer now. “Then maybe you shouldn’t hide behind excuses like ‘research.’ Maybe next time, just say you want my attention.”

Bruce’s lips curved ever so slightly. Not a smirk, not quite a smile something just for you.

“ill hold you too it”

And this time, it was your heart doing pirouettes.

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

Wayne Tower loomed as it always did, cold steel and glass slicing through Gotham’s ashen sky like a blade. Rain tapped against the windows in soft percussion, blurring the gray city below, but Bruce barely registered it. He sat alone in his office, the lights low, his chair turned just slightly away from the sprawling skyline.

He hadn’t moved in the last ten minutes. Not since that morning paper landed on his desk.

The Gotham Gazette, bold font screaming at him like a damn siren:

“WAYNE WINES AND DINES MYSTERY REPORTER IN METROPOLIS”

Right beneath the headline was a photo of you laughing at something Clark said, sunlight catching in your hair, your posture turned comfortably toward Bruce. Another photo showed the two of you walking side by side, your elbow lightly brushing against his as you reached for your coffee. And, of course, the pièce de résistance: a wide shot of the table, Bruce leaning forward, looking at you like you were the only person in the world.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Goddammit,” he muttered.

It wasn’t the paparazzi he was used to them, expected them. It was Metropolis that caught him off guard. He thought, stupidly, that the clean air and cheerful streets made people less nosy. Less likely to shove a camera lens into his business.

Clearly, he had underestimated how rabid Gotham media could be. Even there, even with you.

And you.

You hadn’t brought it up. Hadn’t mentioned the paper or the photos or the wild headlines speculating you were Gotham’s newest It Girl, or that the elusive Bruce Wayne had finally found someone to tame him.

That was what was killing him. Not the photos. Not the gossip. Not even the implication that the two of you were something more. It was the not knowing how you felt about it.

Bruce rose from his desk, the chair scraping quietly behind him. He paced the room like a caged animal, the newspaper still clutched in one hand, wrinkled from how tightly he’d been gripping it.

He read the headline again and immediately hated himself for how warm it made him feel. Wayne Wines and Dines. He could hear your voice in his head, laughing. God, Bruce, that sounds like a sleazy rom com title.

He wanted you.

He wanted you in the most undignified, unbillionaire like way possible. Wanted to kiss you until the words stopped working in his brain. Wanted to sit next to you again in some sunshine drenched café and actually enjoy your laugh instead of being consumed by it.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing faster now. He hated this. Hated that he was in a thousand meetings a week with CEOs and board members and city officials, but the second you walked into a room or in this case, a newspaper he felt like a goddamn teenage girl.

What if you didn’t want people thinking you were involved with him?

That’s what haunted him. Not the story. Not the photos. You. Would you hate it? Would you laugh it off? Would you roll your eyes and say, “God, Bruce, you’re so dramatic”?

Or worse would you tell him it was all a misunderstanding, that you didn’t see him that way? The thought made him pause mid step, one hand on the window frame, staring at his own reflection in the glass. His jaw was tense. His eyes darker than usual.

He hadn’t felt this unsure of himself in years. Batman never hesitated. But Bruce Wayne? He was a mess. He looked back at the paper. Back at you.

Back at the way you looked when you laughed, when your eyes crinkled, when you let your guard down just enough for him to wonder what it’d be like to really have you.

He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass.

“Get it together.”

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

it started out very simple. He became fascinated with you. It had been one of those Gotham nights long, bone tired, the kind of quiet that was never actually silent. Just… tired. The flicker of neon through you ur tiny apartment windows painted the walls in restless color, but inside, it was dim, peaceful.

You were curled up on the couch, oversized hoodie swallowing your form, mug of something warm and sweet nestled in your hands. Bruce sat across from you in an armchair, undone just enough to tell you he wasn’t working anymore tie loosened, cuffs rolled. He was watching you. He always watched you. Not in a creepy way but in fascination.

“You ever get that feeling like everything’s just… pressing in all at once?” you asked, voice quieter than usual.

Bruce blinked. “All the time.”

You gave him a weak smile. “Right. Stupid question.”

“It’s not stupid,” he said immediately. “You’ve been burning the candle at both ends. I’ve noticed.”

You looked away, exhaling through your nose. “Yeah, well. Work’s getting heavy. Not just deadlines or research like, the stories themselves. I think its hard knowing so much about someone’s hurt. Its addicting I cant stop. I know I’m good at telling those stories. I know it matters. But lately, I feel like I’m drowning in it.”

Bruce didn’t respond right away. You weren’t sure you wanted him to not with solutions. You pressed the edge of your mug to your lips, then lowered it without drinking. “And Gotham never stops, you know? Never lets you breathe. I love it. But sometimes, I think it’s eating me alive.”

The silence between you stretched. Then Bruce leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, voice gentle.

“I’m going on a trip.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Business,” he clarified. “Metropolis. Just a few days. Meetings, some board schmoozing. Normally I wouldn’t bring anyone but” He paused, almost like it hurt to admit. “I don’t want to go alone. And I think you need a break.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “You… want me to come with you?”

He nodded once, deliberately. “You need sunlight. Coffee that isn’t brewed by a street vendor in the Narrows. Air that doesn’t taste like exhaust. And I think…” He hesitated again, then met your eyes. “I think it’d be good for both of us.”

You stared at him. “You’re sure this is a work trip?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Mostly.”

You snorted softly, your lips twitching upward. “What, you trying to whisk me away like some overworked intern in a workplace romance?”

“Do you want to be whisked?” he asked, and you knew he was being dry, but the way his eyes softened made it an excellent argument.

You set your mug down, heart thudding a little faster than you were ready for. “Okay.”

He tilted his head.

“I’ll go,” you said, quieter now. “To Metropolis. Maybe a change of pace will help.”

His gaze lingered. “Good.”

You nodded, your smile ghosting. “Good.”

the city outside could rage and howl all it wanted but inside your apartment it was quiet.

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

There was no such thing as privacy in the Gotham Gazette bullpen. Not when your desk was sandwiched between the copy editor who played music a little too loud and the sports columnist who smelled like energy drinks and cheap cologne. Not when cubicles had walls barely higher than your shoulders. And definitely not when you’d just come back from a suspiciously timed “business trip” with Gotham’s most eligible bachelor.

You hadn’t even set your bag down before the vultures descended.

“So?” came a voice before you even logged into your computer.

You blinked. “So… what?”

“Oh, come on,” groaned Jamie from Features, leaning over your cubicle wall like a hungry hyena. “You and Bruce Wayne disappear to Metropolis for a weekend, and you come back looking relaxed. In Gotham. What did he do, buy you a new nervous system?”

You rolled your eyes. “It was a work trip. You know those things some of us actually do?”

“Honey, you haven’t even opened your email,” Jamie said. “I opened your email. You’re in the email. You’re trending.”

You stopped, staring at him. “What?”

“You haven’t seen the photos?” asked Liz from Editorial, practically hopping in place as she slid around the corner, tablet in hand. “You two at the hotel. At the gala. At the rooftop bar. Looking suspiciously cozy. Very hands on.”

Your blood ran cold. “There were photographers?”

“Babe, there are always photographers. Bruce Wayne doesn’t sneeze without a hundred flashbulbs going off,” Liz said, flipping the tablet around so you could see the image in question.

And there it was.

You and Bruce, laughing at something you couldn’t remember now. His hand was on the small of your back. Yours lingered on his arm like it belonged there. The skyline glittered behind you like it was painted in.

It looked… intimate. Too intimate.

“Great,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s just great.”

“You’re front page gossip,” Jamie sang. “You made Page Six, babe! That’s legacy status!”

You slumped into your chair, praying for spontaneous combustion.

But the hits kept coming.

“Did he fly you out first class or private?”

“Is he as brooding behind closed doors as he is on TV?”

“Do you think he’s going to propose?”

“Oh my God, please shut up!” you snapped.

That earned a few snickers, but also a hush. You didn’t snap often. You never snapped. Which was why every nosy reporter in hearing range immediately began whispering twice as loud.

You opened your inbox to find a stack of notifications you didn’t want: tabloid alerts, social media mentions, subject lines like BRUCE WAYNE: WHO’S THE GIRL? and MYSTERY WRITER GETS WAYNE’S ATTENTION.

Someone even sent a meme of the two of you photoshopped in wedding attire. Wedding attire.

You nearly threw your monitor out the window.

And to make matters worse someone literally just took a picture of you. You turned so fast your chair creaked.

“Did you just?”

“Noooo,” muttered one of the interns, tucking their phone away and walking very quickly in the opposite direction.

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “This is a nightmare.”

Liz leaned closer. “Okay, but like… is anything happening?”

You peeked at her through your fingers. “Do you really think Bruce Wayne would date someone whose cubicle doesn’t even have walls?”

Liz paused. “You make a fair point. Still. You’d be the first tabloid rumor I’d actually root for.”

You sighed. It was hard to tell if that made you feel better or worse.

The truth? You didn’t know what was happening between you and Bruce. Not really. There had been stolen glances. Quiet words. An almost moment by the elevator that hadn’t turned into a kiss only because you’d chickened out.

And now this circus.

You opened a blank document, willing yourself to work.

But your mind wasn’t on the story. It was on Bruce on how quiet he’d gone since the trip. On how he hadn’t returned your last message.

You were halfway through typing a sentence that didn’t make sense when the crowd got worse.

“I swear, if another person breathes in my direction”

“Hey, superstar!”

You winced.

It was this random guy from Politics loud, nosy, and the worst kind of gossip. He strutted into the bullpen like he owned it, carrying a mug that read ‘World’s Best Journalist’ (he bought it for himself, no one doubted it). Behind him trailed two junior reporters and someone from the digital team, all of them making a beeline for your desk.

“I’m not doing this,” you muttered under your breath.

“Come on, just a few words!” Mark leaned against the edge of your cubicle, grinning like the devil himself. “You know the public’s eating it up Wayne’s mystery date turns out to be a journalist?”

“I didn’t agree to be anyone’s date.”

“That’s not what the pictures say,” someone behind him chimed in.

“I hate the pictures,” you snapped. “And I hate this office.”

“You say that every Monday,” Liz said, now openly eating popcorn like this was her entertainment for the day.

Mark held up a recorder. “I’m just saying, give me the exclusive before the others twist your words. I can paint you as the brilliant writer who stole Gotham’s most eligible bachelor.”

“I didn’t steal anything.”

“Fine, borrowed.”

You stared at him. “Mark, put that recorder down or I’ll throw it in your coffee.”

“I’ll fish it out,” he said without hesitation.

“Oh my God”

Before you could finish, two interns popped up on either side of you like synchronized jack in the boxes.

“Do you like him?”

“What was he like off camera?”

“Did he smell rich?”

“Can you get him to donate to our fundraiser?”

“I’m stopping all of you right there” you said, spinning in your chair and standing, your hands up in surrender. “I’m not answering questions. I’m not giving an exclusive. And I’m not I repeat, not dating Bruce Wayne.”

“But you went with him to Metropolis”

“And it was work! Professional! Boring!”

Liz muttered, “You don’t look like someone who had a boring weekend.”

You grabbed your half finished coffee and nearly spilled it as you tried to retreat.

Mark followed. “Look, I get it, privacy and all, but you’re sitting on a gold mine. Just one quote. Something classy. Like ‘He’s not what I expected’ or ‘Billionaires they’re just like us.’”

You whipped around so fast Mark almost tripped over himself.

“If I give you a quote, will you leave me alone?”

He perked up instantly. “Depends on the quote.”

You leaned in, voice low.

“Here it is: ‘I’d rather be trapped in Arkham with the Joker than give you an interview.’ Print that, Mark.”

The entire bullpen howled. Even Liz nearly choked on her popcorn. Mark gave a dramatic sigh. “Fine. No quote. But if he shows up at the office, I’m interviewing him.”

You sat back down, muttering to yourself. “Not unless I strangle him first.”

And then, as if on cue because the universe had a sense of humor you did not appreciate your phone buzzed.

One name. One message.

Bruce Wayne: “Are you free for lunch?”

You groaned. Loudly.

Liz leaned over again, peeking at your screen. “So…nothing happened eh?”

Your phone buzzed again before you could finish your dramatic groan.

Bruce Wayne: “Already here. Back entrance.”

Your heart did a little flip.

You looked up. Mark was still hovering. Liz was now showing your photo to someone from the tech team, pointing directly at your face and whispering like you were a zoo animal. Someone in the far corner had definitely just snapped another picture of you, and the interns were forming a human wall.

You slid your phone into your pocket, stood up quietly, grabbed your jacket, and turned to Liz. “Tell them I died.”

Liz blinked. “Wait, wha”

You were already moving. Fast. Ducking behind cubicles, practically army crawling past the coffee station, then booking it down the hallway like a fugitive. when you finally slipped out the back entrance of the Gotham Gazette into the cool alley behind the building, there he was.

Bruce Wayne.

Leaning against a sleek black car, sleeves rolled up, looking wildly out of place in the grime of downtown Gotham. He looked up the moment the door opened, concern flickering across his features the second he saw your expression.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You crossed your arms. “You didn’t have to come all the way here. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he said gently. “You looked like you are going to strangle someone.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was just Mark.”

“Should I be worried about Mark?”

“Only if you want to see a grown man cry because I didn’t give him a quote about your cologne.”

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh and opened the passenger door for you. You hesitated.

“This isn’t a ‘kidnap the journalist’ situation, right?”

“Not unless you want it to be,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching.

You shot him a look, but the tension eased just a bit. You slid into the seat.

He climbed in next to you. The car was quiet. Luxuriously quiet, compared to the zoo you’d just escaped. It smelled like leather and some subtle, expensive cologne that did make you want to punch Mark for being right.

Bruce glanced over at you. “I really just wanted to check in. I didn’t mean to… make your day worse.”

“You didn’t,” you said, voice softer than expected. “It’s not you. It’s them. People. Eyes. Phones. I feel like I can’t move without being… watched.”

“I know the feeling.”

You turned slightly to look at him. There was something in his tone that made you pause like he meant it more than most.

“You get used to it,” he added. “Eventually.”

You didn’t respond right away. The silence wasn’t awkward, though. It was still, almost warm.

“I didn’t expect you to actually check in,” you admitted after a moment. “Most people would’ve just texted a thumbs up and disappeared.”

He looked at you then, eyes searching. “I’m not most people.”

You were about to respond, something snarky on your tongue to break the intensity but then it happened.

Click.

It was faint, but unmistakable. A camera shutter. Right outside the alley.

Your head fell back against the seat with a loud groan.

Bruce sighed. “is it ok for you to be out of work?.”

“I told Liz to say I died,” you muttered.

“Not sure that’s going to help now.”

You closed your eyes. “God, I’m going to be on some gossip site by noon.”

He hesitated, then reached over and gently touched your hand where it rested on your knee. Just a soft brush of fingers.

“You want me to drive around for a bit?” he asked. “No press. No phones. Just quiet.”

You looked down at where his hand had been, the ghost of the touch lingering.

“…Yeah,” you said quietly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

And with no more words, he pulled the car out of the alley, away from the flashing camera, and into a city that for once felt just a little quieter.

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

The city passed in a blur of gray and gold as Bruce drove. He didn’t put on music. He didn’t speak. He just let the silence stretch, calm and easy, giving you room to breathe. The engine was barely a hum beneath your feet, and the windows were tinted enough that no one could see you inside. For once, you weren’t on display.

You leaned back against the seat, letting your eyes drift toward the city you loved and cursed in equal measure.

“I used to think about leaving,” you said finally, your voice barely above the sound of tires on pavement. “When I was younger. Before I really understood Gotham. Before I knew I couldn’t.”

Bruce glanced over at you. “Why couldn’t you?”

You smiled faintly. “Because people like us don’t get to run. Not when we know how broken the system is. Not when we can do something about it. We stay. We try.”

He didn’t answer right away. You saw his grip tighten slightly on the steering wheel, like he understood more than you knew.

Then, casually almost too casually he said, “And what if you weren’t trying alone?”

You blinked, turning your head toward him. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I mean… all of well… this. The gossip. The whispers. The headlines. What if it didn’t have to be something to run from? What if it wasn’t such a bad idea?”

You blinked again.

It took you a second to process what he was saying. Then your heart stuttered. Oh.

“Bruce,” you said slowly, cautiously, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

He faltered. You didn’t need to see his face to feel it. The way his jaw tightened just a fraction. The way the next turn came a little too fast.

And maybe that was what made you soften.

“I would,” you added quietly. “God, I would. I would love it. So much.”

You felt him glance your way again.

“But my whole life… I believed I needed to tell people’s stories. I thought I was supposed to keep myself out of them. Be the one behind the scenes. Not the subject.”

You looked down at your hands in your lap. “I don’t know if I’m ready to be in the public eye like that. I don’t know how to be that kind of person.”

Another beat of silence.

Then his voice, low and steady: “I can be quiet.”

You looked up.

He kept his eyes on the road, but his voice stayed soft, sincere. “I don’t need headlines. I don’t need public. I just need you. However you’ll let me have you.”

It was a crazy thing, the way your heart reacted. Quick and eager and warm. You swallowed down the lump in your throat, caught between laughing and crying.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said.

The car slowed to a red light. He finally turned to look at you, and the honesty in his gaze hit you like a punch to the ribs. There was no pressure. No expectations. Just him, offering.

“I can wait,” he said. “I’ve waited longer for less.”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you reached out and put your hand over his on the gearshift, quiet and certain.

“I’ll get there,” you said.

You watched his profile as the light turned green again. Something about him had shifted softer now, more open. You’d never seen Bruce Wayne so weird. The suit was stripped away, even if the one he wore now was more expensive than your rent.

And then, slowly, a grin curled at the edge of your lips as a realization hit.

“Oh my god,” you said, trying not to laugh. “You were jealous.”

His brows lifted, but he didn’t deny it.

You let out a small laugh, more delighted than you expected. “Clark. That’s what that was about, wasn’t it? You were so sulky that I was talking to him”

Bruce didn’t answer.

“You’re such a child,” you said, but it was affectionate. “Sulking in your tower, giving moody interviews, and then crashing the Gotham Gazette like a bat out of hell…. wait a second…”

You turned in your seat, narrowing your eyes at him. “You’re weird. You vanish without notice. And God you could be Batman with how weird you are.”

Silence.

Your laugh trailed off. You stared at him.

“…Wait.”

Bruce didn’t look at you.

He didn’t say anything.

“Bruce?” Your voice dropped into something halfway between suspicion and awe. “You aren’t Batman. Right?”

Still nothing.

You squinted. “Oh my god.”

“Let’s not do this here,” he said finally, quietly.

You opened your mouth to fire off something a question, a scream, anything but he cut in, almost abruptly.

“Why don’t you write about heroes?”

You blinked at the sudden change in tone. “What?”

“In your pieces,” he clarified. “You always follow the criminals. The corruption. Why not write about the ones stopping it?”

You leaned back in your seat, chewing on the thought. “Because that’s not my job.”

“That sounds like a choice.”

“It is,” you said honestly. “Heroes don’t need a microphone. It feels like they feed off it. They’re already being celebrated, idolized, plastered across news stations and cereal boxes. But the ones slipping between the cracks the ones getting hurt, the ones no one’s looking at they need a voice. The ones who don’t make it out. The ones who get silenced.”

You paused, watching the streets pass.

“The heroes are doing the saving. I’m doing the remembering.”

He didn’t interrupt. So you kept going.

“And besides,” you added, your voice softening, “most of the heroes I’ve met… they don’t feel real. They feel like gods pretending to be human. Or humans pretending to be something else.”

Another beat passed.

“But Batman…” you murmured.

Bruce’s hand flexed on the steering wheel.

“I don’t know. He feels different. Gritty. Angry. Sad. The city chews him up and spits him out just like the rest of us, but he stays. Every night, he stays. I think…” you trailed off, trying to find the words.

“I think Batman might be the only hero I really like.”

You looked over at him.

“He feels the most human.”

And that’s when Bruce Wayne flawless billionaire, effortless playboy, Gotham’s golden son turned his head just slightly. The streetlights hit his jaw, shadowing his eyes. And in the flicker of the red glow, he looked haunted.

Bruce turned down a quiet side street, one that wound along Gotham’s upper overlook, where the city glittered like it belonged to someone else. He didn’t say a word as he parked the car.

The engine cut off. The silence wrapped around you like a heavy coat.

You turned to him, half expecting a denial. A smirk. Something to backpedal the idea that he might actually be.

“I’m not going to deny it,” he said quietly. “Not to you.”

Your breath caught.

He looked over at you, eyes tired but so present not a billionaire mask, not a cowl, just a man. And you could see it now, clear as the sky wasn’t: the bruised silence, the late nights, the way he disappeared.

“I meant what I said,” he added, voice low. “I love the way you… make a difference.”

Your brows rose, skeptical. “By being a little shit to the richest man in Gotham?”

He let out a breath of a laugh. “Yeah. Exactly that.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he kept going.

“The way you dig in, ask the questions no one wants to answer. The way you walk into a room like you don’t care if you don’t belong like you’re going to own it anyway. You’re stubborn.”

You raised a brow. “You’re doing a terrible job at complimenting me.”

Bruce half smiled, glancing down, then back up. There was a flush of pink at his neck, almost like embarrassment.

“And since that gala,” he continued, “when you showed up in a dress that didnt match you at all and tried to sneak out after five minutes…” He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know. I saw you and… I felt it.”

“Felt what?” you asked quietly.

“That pull. That connection.” He stumbled a little, like the word sat wrong in his mouth. “I’m not good at… this.”

“No shit.”

“I mean it,” he said, tone a little sharper. “I don’t talk about things. I work. I disappear. I do what I have to. And maybe it’s selfish, but I just”

His jaw tensed. You could see him trying to make the words work.

“I want to,” he said finally. “I want to try. With you.”

You sat there, frozen, heart thudding like thunder against your ribs. The man next to you was Batman. And somehow, more terrifyingly, he was Bruce. Vulnerable. Honest. Looking at you like you were the only person in the city worth telling the truth to.

The silence stretched long between you. The kind that didn’t beg to be filled.

You stared ahead for a while, letting the lights of Gotham blur at the edges of your vision. Your heart hadn’t calmed down since the moment he parked the car, and now it was beating so loud you were almost sure he could hear it.

Finally, you tilted your head toward him, the corner of your mouth tugging up.

“So… as much as you basically just called me a little shit…” you murmured, trying to ease the tension with a smirk. “I’ll try. With you.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, something soft blooming there.

You added, quieter now, “But it has to be secret. Just let me keep some part of me mine.”

There was no hesitation.

Bruce reached out slowly, his hand closing gently over yours like he was afraid you’d pull away. And then, without a word, he brought your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

It was soft. Earnest. You swallowed thickly, eyes locked on his. Something warm and unfamiliar settled in your chest.

“…You really are weird, you know that?” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t let go. And he didn’t disagree.

You: “Bruce, you’re emotionally constipated.”

Bruce: “That is absolutely not true.”

You: “Then say one feeling.”

Bruce: ”…Vengeance.”

You: ”…Try again, but like, a normal human.”

Bruce: ”…Mild affection…?”

You: ”…You’re lucky you’re rich and weirdly hot.”

no one:

me: reading my own fic over and over again

Dick Grayson | Nightwing X Reader

ᨒ ོ ☼ Voice on the Line ᨒ ོ ☼

I feel hes a munch. I feel hes a woman lover. He loves women. Him when women. Also did i think about Garcia and Morgan when writing this? yeah…. and what about it?

masterlist

You’re the newest addition to the Batsquad. Cant help if you’re basically forced to talk to eye candy all night. Though what if the eye candy wants you back.

ᨒ ོ ☼ The hum of servers filled the air like a lullaby, soft and steady behind the clack of your manicured fingers dancing across the keyboard. Multiple monitors cast a warm glow against your skin as codes flickered by, surveillance cams blinked into motion, and the Gotham skyline lit up under your careful watch. You chewed on a pink pen cap thoughtfully, then leaned into the mic on your headset.

“Alright, Bat Team, eyes up. Cameras just caught movement on the east perimeter. Looks like our guy’s not late to his own robbery party.” Static.

“Copy that,” came a deep voice laced with just enough sarcasm to make your lips twitch. “And here I was hoping for a quiet night.”

The soft glow of neon lights from Gotham’s skyline bled into the Watchtower’s tech room, giving everything a purple blue hue. The glow reflected off your screens, lighting up your face as your fingers flew across the keyboard. Surveillance cams, thermal feeds, encrypted audio all of it filtered through your custom built comms system. You leaned back in your chair, twirling said pink pen through your fingers. Your voice came through sweet as sugar, laced with a barely hidden smirk.

“Watch yourself Nightwing, I hope you’re wearing something cute under all that kevlar. You’re live on all my cams tonight.”

A low chuckle filtered through your headset, rough around the edges in the way that always made your stomach flip.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite guardian angel,” Nightwing drawled, voice dipped in charm he wore like a second skin. “What would I do without your voice whispering sweet nothings into my ear?”

“You’d probably walk into a wall,” you said sweetly. “Or into that very large man standing behind the dumpster on 5th and Main.”

There was a beat of silence, then a soft thwack through the mic.

“You mean that wasn’t a trash can?” he teased, slightly breathless. “How dare you underestimate my night vision, sugar.”

You grinned, propping your cheek in your palm as you tracked his movement across the rooftops. “Sugar now, huh? Is that your new nickname for me?”

“Unless you prefer ‘Sweetheart.’ Or ‘Hot Stuff.’ I’m flexible.”

You let out a melodic laugh, not even trying to hide it. “Wow, your flirting game is tragic tonight. You okay out there, Nightwing? Hit your head on a chimney?”

“I’m just warming up,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Wait ‘til I meet you in person. Then I’m turning the charm up to eleven.”

You opened your mouth to volley back but Barbara’s voice cut in like a whip.

“Alright, you two cut it.”

You both froze.

“Lock in,” Barbara said, her voice firm and dry as dust. “This isn’t a late night radio show. We’ve got multiple armed targets on the ground and a hostage situation developing five blocks south. Thermal (your hero name), patch the thermal overlay to Nightwing’s HUD.”

You straightened in your chair, fingers flying. “Yes, ma’am. Thermal incoming.”

“Nightwing,” Barbara added with the tone of a fed up older sister, “try keeping your tongue in your mouth for five minutes. You’re on mission, not a date.”

“Harsh, Babs,” he muttered.

“I’m just saying,” she continued, “if I had a dollar for every time I had to listen to the two of you flirt in the middle of a crisis, I could afford a better coffee maker.”

You bit your lip to hold back a laugh, then cleared your throat. “Aww, c’mon, Babs. Can’t a girl multitask? I can route power to Nightwings grappling line and boost morale at the same time.”

“I don’t need morale,” Nightwing interjected. “I need a distraction. Preferably wearing those glasses you mentioned last week.”

“You remember that?” you teased.

“I remember everything you say, Sweetheart.”

Barbara groaned audibly. “I’m leaving this room before I’m forced to bleach my ears.”

“I mean,” you added sweetly, “he’s just mad he can’t picture me behind this desk, legs crossed, looking very professional while saving his butt.”

Nightwing whistled. “If I didn’t have to stop a robbery, I’d be scaling that tower right now.”

Barbara’s voice snapped back over the channel like a rubber band. “Focus, both of you.”

“Copy that,” you said, suddenly all business again as you leaned forward and zoomed in on the warehouse entrance. “Three guards posted up. One pacing, one smoking, one with a submachine gun. Interior layout uploaded to your HUD. Entry through the southeast vent is clear. You’re greenlit, Nightwing.”

“See? She flirts, but she gets it done,” he muttered fondly.

You grinned. “I always stand on business, baby.”

“Then I better bring my A game. Wouldn’t want to disappoint my favorite tech goddess.”

You laughed quietly, adjusting your headset as you pulled up the emergency response grid. “Just don’t get shot, Nightwing.”

Barbara let out one final sigh before muttering, “I swear, I should’ve let Batman take this shift.”

But despite her grumbling, you swore you saw a smile tug at the corners of her lips as she turned away.

He grunted, and you could tell it was the kind of laugh he didn’t want you to hear.

“Let’s make a deal,” he said suddenly. “You keep me alive tonight, and I’ll finally let you buy me a coffee.”

You blinked. That was new. “You mean you buy me a coffee? Bold of you to assume you’re that charming.”

“You do call me every night.”

“Because it’s my job, Nightwing.”

Your own heart beat just a little faster as Nightwing’s icon approached the rendezvous point. It was almost always like this. Take the next day where you were thrown completely out of your own loop You were sprawled comfortably in the comms chair, pink converse kicked up on the desk, a bag of sour candy at your side, and at least three drinks within reach because hydration and caffeination were essential for optimal management.

Tonight’s mission? Barely a blip on the Bat Radar. A stakeout near the docks. Zero hostiles so far. Minimal risk. Maximal boredom.

“Nightwing,” you poured into your mic, stretching dramatically, “how’s the air up there on your boring little rooftop? You see anything exciting? UFOs? Pirates? A raccoon that looks like Bruce?”

“Negative on the Bruce raccoon,” Nightwing said through the comms, voice thick with amusement. “But thanks for the nightmare fuel, Sweetheart.”

“I try,” you chirped, popping another piece of candy into your mouth. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”

“You keep me somewhere, alright,” he murmured, just low enough to think you wouldn’t catch it.

You did. You always did. Before you could respond with another flirty jab, a new voice crackled in gruffer, sharper. Dry as sandpaper and twice as moody.

“Are you always like this?” Jason Todd’s voice cut in like a knife through silk. “I’ve been listening for ten minutes and I already want to uninstall my ears.”

You beamed, leaning closer to the mic like he could see your grin. “Red Hood! My favorite grump. Took you long enough to say hi.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he deadpanned.

“Oh, please. You love it,” you teased, swiveling in your chair like it helped transmit your energy. “I’m your emotional support chatterbox. You’d cry without me.”

“Unlikely.”

“Then why are you still listening?” you asked sweetly, tapping into his drone cam and watching as he crouched in the shadows near an old shipping container. “I see you didn’t even mute me. That’s gotta mean something.”

Jason sighed. The tiniest sigh. A truce in breath form.

“…You’re ridiculous.”

“And adorable, don’t forget that part.”

“Why does she talk to you like that?” Nightwing asked suddenly, cutting in with playful suspicion. “She doesn’t call me ‘adorable.’”

“I like to flirt with people who pretend to hate it,” you replied easily. “Keeps ‘em humble.”

Jason made a quiet scoffing noise. “You think I’m humble?”

“No,” you said, smirking. “But I do think you blush when I call you sweetheart.”

There was a long pause.

“…I’m turning off my comm.”

“You won’t,” you sang.

Before Jason could craft a dry comeback or fake a signal cut out, Nightwing returned this time with a tone that could only be described as smug older brother meets possessive flirt.

“Alright, alright,” Dick said, and you could hear his smirk. “Let’s not get carried away, Sweetheart. You do have a date coming up. With me, remember?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh yeah,” he continued smoothly, “you promised me coffee after our last op. Pretty sure that counts.”

“That was a tactical bribe to keep you alive,” you said quickly, cheeks burning despite your best effort. “Totally not binding.”

Jason actually chuckled at that chuckled. A small miracle.

“Well,” Dick said, clearly enjoying himself, “binding or not, I’ll be at that new café on 7th tomorrow at ten. You’re welcome to back out, but I do know where your candy stash is hidden in the Watchtower fridge.”

Your jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You absolute menace.”

“See you then, Sweetheart.”

Jason exhaled like he was regretting all of his life choices.

“God, you’re both exhausting.”

You smiled, sweet and unbothered. “Don’t be jealous, Jay. I can pencil you in for brunch on Sunday.”

He groaned but didn’t mute you. Which, in your book, meant you weren’t the loser here .

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

The room was quiet now.

The static from the comms had faded, the mics had all gone cold, and the buzz of conversation that had filled the Watchtower’s tech room just minutes ago had slipped into silence. You were alone, save for the hum of machines and the low, rhythmic click of a monitor blinking back to standby.

You leaned back in your chair slowly, arms folding over your chest as you stared blankly at the screens. Your bubbly persona so easy to slip into when surrounded by voices, teasing banter, and fast flying intel started to crack beneath the weight of the quiet.

It always did, when the room emptied.

He wanted coffee. Dick Grayson wanted to meet you. A date.

The thought hit you again, more real now than when he first said it in that casual, cocky tone of his. You’d brushed it off, played along, tossed flirtation back like you always did but now? Sitting alone, no distraction, no one listening?

You felt it. That creeping, slow turning anxiety curling in your stomach.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about what he looked like before. Sure, you’d heard his voice, shared late night chatter across missions, and even made him laugh more than once. But imagining him? That was easy. Everyone in the Bat Family was objectively hot. Like, annoyingly so.

And you? You swallowed hard, curling your knees up into your chair and hugging them gently.

You weren’t anything like them. Not tall or sleek or scarred from combat. Not graceful in a catsuit or strong enough to throw a punch through a wall. You weren’t stick thin, but you weren’t curvy in a dramatic way either. You existed somewhere in the middle comfortable in hoodies, always in glasses, a bit awkward when the spotlight came too close. Your brain was your strongest muscle, and it sometimes felt like that was all you had.

Would he be disappointed?

You let out a slow breath, eyes flicking to your reflection in the dark screen across from you. No makeup, hair pulled back, sweater two sizes too big. You looked like someone who blended into a crowd. Like someone no one would stop for a second glance. What if you showed up and he just… didn’t see you the way he did over comms? What if the mystery was the only thing that made you interesting?

Your hand reached out instinctively, pressing your fingers to the edge of the console like you were grounding yourself.

You wanted to meet him. Of course you did. He was charming, and kind beneath all the jokes, and smart in the ways only someone who’d been through hell could be. But a date? That felt like something other people did. People who didn’t feel the need to hide behind tech and sarcasm to feel confident.

You sat there in silence, chewing your lip, wondering if he even knew what he was asking when he said, “see you then.”

Maybe it wasn’t a real date. Maybe he didn’t think of it like that.

But deep down, you knew you wanted it to be. You wanted to be seen. And you were scared of what would happen if you really were.

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

Dick Grayson stood in front of the mirror of his Blüdhaven apartment, tugging at the hem of his sweatshirt like it was a tux. Casual. Chill. Low key. That was the goal.

So why the hell did he feel like he was prepping for a mission?

He ran a hand through his hair, tousling it for the third no, fourth time. Dark jeans, clean white sneakers, a navy hoodie that fit just right not too fitted, not too loose. He changed shirts three times before this one finally felt like the right one. He hadn’t been this particular about his outfit since prom.

“It’s not a date,” he told his reflection. “It’s just coffee.”

A pause.

“…With the girl who knows all your safe houses, your secret patrol routes, and who once talked you through stitching your own shoulder at 3 a.m. without flinching.”

Okay. Maybe a little more than just coffee.

He reached for his phone on the counter. One unread text waited at the top of the screen.

Comms girl <3: You sure about this?

Comms girl <3:You don’t have to meet me.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he typed back quickly.

bluebird: I’m very sure. You owe me that coffee, remember? I risked my life for that latte.

Your reply came within seconds.

Comms girl <3: You were five feet from the guy. I stalled him with a fake 911 ping. YOU’RE WELCOME.

He chuckled, thumbs flying across the screen.

blurbird : Still counts. Heroics were involved. You agreed to a reward. No backing out now.

Comms girl <3: Still time to change your mind. Could just keep this mystery thing going. It’s fun. Less risky.

He stared at that message a moment longer than he wanted to admit. There was a strange comfort in the way things were. The comms. The banter. The way your voice softened when his breathing grew strained after a tough fight. How you’d scold him for reckless moves and then follow up with, “But also… that flip you did? Sick as hell.”

You were part of the job no, more than that. You were part of him. But only in fragments.

He’d seen the pieces you gave: your voice, your wit, your ridiculous caffeine addiction, the hum of music sometimes playing faintly in the background when you were on shift. But he’d never seen you.

Meanwhile, you’d seen everything.

bluebird: You’ve seen my file, haven’t you?

he typed.

bluebird: I know what color your eyes are. I haven’t even seen yours.

Comms girl <3: Don’t worry. They’re not laser eyes or anything.

Comms girl <3: Still time to run. I won’t be mad.

Dick stared at the screen, thumb resting over the keyboard again. A few moments passed. Then he typed back:

bluebird: I don’t want to run. I want to meet you. For real.

Read. But no reply. He locked his phone, shoved it into the pocket of his hoodie, and grabbed his keys and helmet. Outside, the early evening had begun to spill across the Blüdhaven skyline. Fading light. Long shadows.

For once, he wasn’t slipping into the shadows himself. He was stepping into the sun.

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

The café on 7th was a small, tucked away place with mismatched chairs and the smell of cinnamon and roasted espresso clinging to every wooden beam. A warm corner of the city where life slowed down just a little. He arrived ten minutes early. Too early.

The bell above the door jingled, and instinct kicked in. He scanned. Two older women by the window, a guy with earbuds tapping at a laptop, a bored barista pulling espresso shots with dead eyes. No sign of you.

He ordered her drink extra sweet, extra foamy, “liquid sunshine,” you once called it and a black coffee for himself. Settled into a table by the window. Full view of the door. He texted you again.

bluebird: I’m here. No pressure. But I brought your order. It’s waiting patiently.

Nothing.

He flicked the lid of the cup. Checked the time. Tapped his knee beneath the table. Every chime of the bell had him sitting up straighter, breath held in quiet anticipation.

Not her.Not yet.

And that was the thing he didn’t even know what she looked like. No name. No face. Just a voice in his ear, a rhythm in his nights, a lifeline during the chaos. But even without a face, even without a name, he knew you.

He leaned back and watched the doorway like it held all the answers. Maybe it did.

His phone buzzed again.

Comms girl <3: I’m close. Just… taking a second.

He stared at that message. His heart did a quiet, hopeful jump.

bluebird: You nervous?l

Comms Girl: Maybe. You?

He smiled.

bluebird: I’ve fought Killer Croc, Deathstroke, and Jason with a crowbar. This is worse.

You didn’t text back right away. He waited. Sipped his coffee. Looked at your untouched drink and wondered if you’d ever actually take a sip from it. Maybe you’d just show up, apologize, and walk away. Maybe you’d turn around before even walking through the door.

You were already on the sidewalk. One breath away from stepping inside. He turned his eyes to the window, scanning every person who passed. Wondering if one of them might look in, catch his eye, smile.

Waiting. he hoped that mask off, no gadgets, no grappling hooks, no safety net that was enough. So he waited. For you.

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

The drink was starting to sweat on the table.

Dick’s thumb spun slow, lazy circles around the lid of the cup you still hadn’t claimed. The café wasn’t busy only a few people trickled in here and there. His eyes lifted every time the door jingled, hopeful… and then dropped just as quickly.

He wasn’t used to feeling this unsteady. With the mask on, he could take a punch. Leap off a roof. Throw himself into chaos without blinking. But right now, sitting at a table with a slowly cooling cup of coffee for someone he’d never even seen before?

He was sweating more than the damn drink. The bell above the door jingled again.

And he looked.

She stepped in like she was trying not to be noticed shoulders drawn slightly inward, a quick glance around the room before her eyes dropped to the floor. She didn’t look out of place, not really. She looked… normal.

Pink Converse. Faded denim jorts hugging her hips. A plain black tank top tucked in just right to show her figure, casual and effortless. Hair pulled back loosely like she’d tried to fix it three times before giving up.

Dick’s eyes lingered…. respectfully. He wasn’t a jerk. But he was a man. And the way she looked, with nervous energy practically rolling off her in waves, had his chest tightening just a little.

Cute. Definitely cute. Attractive, sure. She was cute. Soft around the edges. Eyes wide like she wasn’t used to being looked at too long.

Dick’s gaze flicked down, then back up not lingering too long. A polite once over. Curious. Gentle. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked away.

He didn’t know what to expect. For all the times he’d imagined this moment, all the late night banter and daydreams of what she might look like, he’d never settled on a face.

Still watching her from the corner of his eye, Dick slowly reached for his phone and typed out a message.

bluebird: “I’m by the window. Got your sugar bomb of a drink already. You close?”

The girl the maybe you girl jumped slightly when her phone buzzed. Fumbled it out of her pocket. She smiled. Just a little.

Her hand went to her phone. Dick’s screen lit up.

Comms girl <3: Already here. Just… not sure where to go.

His heart stopped. Slowly, his gaze lifted again this time with full awareness. He watched as she read his message, fingers still hovering near the screen.

Like she was laughing at herself and suddenly, everything clicked.

Dick’s breath caught for a beat. His lips tugged upward in a crooked smile as he texted again. Dick forgot how to breathe.

bluebird: Black tank. Pink shoes. You really do own those Converse.

You didn’t even look up from your phone. You were already typing.

Comms girl <3: Ok stalker, stop checking me out

He huffed a quiet laugh.

bluebird: Respectfully. Thoroughly. Definitely.

You lifted your head then, eyes meeting his across the room. Nervous. Hopeful. Your lips curved into something soft and self deprecating.

He stood before he could overthink it, heart thudding as he crossed the short space between your hesitant stillness and his table.

“You’re late,” he said, voice light, teasing.

“Fashionably,” you replied, walking with him as he guided you toward the window seat. “Also, very nearly didn’t come in. I walked past the window twice. You didn’t notice.”

“I noticed,” he said, pulling your chair out like the gentleman he rarely remembered to be. “I just didn’t know it was you. But then you looked at your phone like it offended you.”

You sat, cheeks flushed with something caught between embarrassment and amusement. “That was me realizing I sent three different versions of ‘I’m almost there’ and still sat in my car for ten minutes.”

Dick slid your coffee toward you. “Well i guess in a way you were.”

You took the cup, curling your fingers around it like it might steady you. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I still might run.”

“Do I need to stop you? I’ve got grappling hooks.”

That made you laugh. Really laugh. He liked that sound more than he expected. It wasn’t tinny over the comm. It was full, alive, right in front of him.

“God,” you groaned, lowering your head for a second. “This is so weird.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But good weird.”

You peeked up at him. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Better or worse?”

You grinned, shy but cheeky. “You’re taller than I thought. That’s not fair. I have no defense against tall and charming.”

“Charming, huh?” He took a sip of his coffee, raising a brow over the lid. “You haven’t even heard my best lines yet.”

You rolled your eyes, the way you always did when he flirted too hard through the mic. But now it was real. Now, he could see the way you bit back a smile, the flush that crept to your ears.

“I’m not used to being looked at,” you admitted after a quiet beat. “I’m used to watching. Behind the screens. Behind the noise. I’ve seen your face a hundred times. This is… lopsided.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze steady and warm.

“Then let’s even it out.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Let me learn you,” he said, voice low, honest. “No comms. No mission. No static. Just… you.”

You looked away, biting your lip, your fingers tracing the lid of your cup now like he had earlier. “You’re a lot more intense in person.”

“I’m a lot of things in person,” he said, smiling. “Most of them good. Some of them bad. All of them me.”

A silence passed. Not awkward contemplative. Like both of you were quietly adjusting to the weight of seeing each other. Really seeing each other.

“I always see you in your outfit, this feels a little weird” you murmured eventually.

He grinned. “You’ll be happy to know I left the spandex at home.”

“Tragic.”

Another moment of quiet, then

“I’m glad you showed up,” he said.

You smiled down into your drink. “Yeah. Me too.”

Outside, the city moved in its usual rhythm cars, footsteps, noise. But here, at this little table by the window, something new was starting. Not a mission. Not an assignment. Just Dick and you.

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

The coffee was long gone, but neither of them had made a move to go their separate ways.

Instead, they strolled the streets of Blüdhaven, their pace slow, like time had bent around them just for a little while. The sun had started to dip behind the buildings, casting soft golden light on the sidewalks, and the breeze stirred the trees enough to make the leaves flutter like lazy applause.

You walked beside him with your now empty cup in hand, straw still between your lips despite it having been dry for the last ten minutes. Nerves still clung to your skin, thin but persistent. You had no idea where to put your hands or how to keep your voice steady. You weren’t usually like this. Over comms, you were bold, loud, sarcastic, and playful.

But out here, in the open, without a headset and with Nightwing walking beside you in casual clothes that hugged him way too well for your nerves to take? It was different. He was real. And you were suddenly aware of every flaw you’d been trying not to think about since this morning.

“You know,” you said with a light chuckle, trying to keep your voice in that easy, familiar tone, “I honestly expected you to cancel last minute. Or like, show up but wear the mask the whole time and pretend to be mysterious.”

Dick looked over at you, one brow raised, and a smile playing at his lips. “You really thought I’d ghost you after all our late night flirting?”

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but your eyes darted away. “I mean… I dunno. Maybe.”

“You ruined that for you because i would never,” he said dramatically, then bumped his shoulder gently against yours. “I told you I was coming. I meant it.”

His voice was warm, not teasing this time. Just honest. He watched you as you gave a small smile, eyes still scanning the sidewalk like you were searching for something to say. He saw the way you carried yourself. Not shy, exactly just… cautious. Though he saw you and wanted too. All of you.

Not just the confident voice in his ear or the tech genius who could break into encrypted systems like they were open windows. He saw the little things: the nervous hand fidgeting with your cup sleeve, the way you pulled at the hem of your shorts when you thought he wasn’t looking, the practiced jokes you used to deflect any compliments.

So he gave you more of them.

“I like your shoes,” he said casually, glancing down at the worn pink Converse. “its a very you thing, reflective of your personality”

You laughed an actual laugh, not a polite one. “I don’t know if footwear can tell you my life story?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, nodding with mock seriousness. “Pink shoes? Total power move. I love when women.”

You shook your head, trying to hide your grin. “you love when women?”

“And the shorts?” he added. “Perfect length. Shows off those legs that have been sitting behind a computer for, what? Ninety percent of your adult life?”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, covering your face with your free hand. “You’re a menace.”

“I’ve been told worse,” he said with a wink.

You both fell into a comfortable rhythm after that. Step for step, laugh for laugh. The tension slowly ebbed away the longer he stayed near you like he was peeling back the nervous layers without ever drawing attention to them.

After a few quiet moments, you nudged him lightly with your elbow. “Okay, so serious question.”

“Hit me.”

“How the hell does this team work? I started hacking stuff and suddenly im here? ”

He laughed, raising both brows. “You tell me. You’ve got this adorable, good vibe going for you, but I’ve read some of those logs. You were wrecking firewalls like they owed you money.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” you defended with a smirk. “Okay, maybe the satellite thing was a little over the line.”

He turned to face you mid step. “Wait. What satellite thing?”

You winced, cheeks flushing. “I… might’ve accidentally hacked into a WayneTech orbital system when I thought it was an old NASA server.”

He stared at you, stunned. “You hacked WayneTech?”

“Allegedly,” you said, grinning now. “And two days later, Babs showed up in my basement. No warning, no badge, just… bam, red hair and righteous fury.”

“She must’ve been so mad.”

“She told me I was wasting potential and recruited me on the spot.”

Dick laughed again, and this time, it was full bodied, the kind that lit up his whole face. “Classic Babs.”

“Honestly? She’s the first person who ever looked at me and didn’t just see a mouthy hacker. She actually saw… me.”

His smile softened. “She does that. Did the same for me once.”

You glanced at him curiously. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket. “Back when I was still figuring things out after leaving Bruce. I needed distance from the Bat stuff needed to figure out who I was when I wasn’t under the cape. Babs helped me get there. Helped me want to be more than just Robin.”

“I think you’re doing alright,” you said, bumping his shoulder this time.

“I’m trying,” he said with a shrug. “Still check in on the family though. Bruce, my brothers, Grandpa.”

You blinked. “Grandpa?”

“Alfred,” he clarified with a mischievous grin. “I started calling him that just to piss him off, but I know he secretly loves it.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “That’s so weirdly wholesome. ‘Nightwing has emotional depth and a soft spot for butlers,’ coming to theaters this fall.”

“Hey, he’s not just a butler. He’s the butler.”

“I stand corrected.”

The sky was blushing now, soft shades of purple and orange painting the horizon. The city buzzed around you, but for once, it didn’t feel overwhelming. It felt like a quiet pocket of something special.

Dick glanced sideways at you, the wind tugging gently at your hair, and felt that same flicker in his chest again. The one that started when your voice used to crackle in his earpiece during midnight stakeouts. The one that grew stronger every time you made him laugh, or saved his ass from another security lockdown, or stayed on the line with him just so he wouldn’t be alone.

“I’m really glad we did this,” he said softly.

You looked at him, caught a sincerity in his eyes that left no room for doubt.

“Yeah,” you said, voice just as soft. “Me too.”

The air had taken on that evening crispness the kind that whispered promises of something new. The two of you were still walking, slowly now, like neither wanted to reach wherever the sidewalk might end.

Dick glanced at you again, longer this time. Not just quick, playful side glances, but a longing look. One that lingered as the fading sun touched your skin. He could see the way your lashes caught the light, the slight smile tugging at your lips as you sipped from your empty straw out of habit. The way your eyes moved when you were thinking.

You caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, arching a brow.

He shrugged with an easy, boyish grin. “Nothing. Just… you’ve got a good laugh.”

You blinked. “What, like a ‘haha’ laugh or a ‘joker is getting off’ laugh?”

He chuckled. “The kind that’s been in my ear for months, but somehow sounds better in person.”

Your stomach fluttered. You covered it with a sarcastic smile. “Are you flirting with me again, Grayson?”

“Only mildly,” he teased, then glanced ahead. “I mean, I’ve gotta pace myself. You’re kind of… addictive.”

You didn’t answer for a moment. You didn’t know how. And honestly, you were worried your voice would betray how warm your chest suddenly felt.

He didn’t press it. Just kept walking with you in step. But then he said, a little more softly:

“I never really thought about it before… how different things feel when you’re not just a voice in my ear.”

You looked over at him, curious. “Better or worse?”

He gave you a look, deadpan. “What kind of question is that?”

You tried to laugh, to brush it off, but he turned toward you fully now, walking backward a few steps so he could face you as you moved.

“You have this… energy. When we’re on comms, it’s like… controlled chaos in the best way. Keeps me grounded, keeps me alert. But now? Seeing you like, actually seeing you your expressions, your body language, your weird obsession with pink…”

“I do not!”

He smirked. “You do. It’s very cute.”

You shoved his arm lightly, heat rushing to your face. But the smile was genuine now. You were relaxing, piece by piece.

“I guess I just didn’t realize how much I’d been missing until now,” he added, turning back around to walk forward again. “Hearing you’s great. But… seeing you talk? Watching your eyes move when you go on your little tech rants or when you start teasing me? It hits different.”

Your heart thudded hard.

He wasn’t saying “I want to see your face more.” But he was.

You swallowed around the growing smile and said, “Well… good thing I’m not going anywhere.”

He shot you a glance then, something soft and full of unspoken words.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That is a good thing.”

"stop calling him babygirl, that is a grown man" TELL THE ARTISTS THAT, THEN

Astarion X Reader

✨Reader is Horn✨

masterlist

funnily enough, there is no sex in this fic. Just a short drabble of communication.

The campfire crackled under the dim twilight, casting long shadows across scattered bedrolls and worn boots. The air was still thick with the scent of the last skirmish blood, sweat, and a hint of singed hair. Everyone was winding down. You sat cross legged near the fire, arms resting on your knees, deep in thought. Astarion lounged nearby, wine cup in hand, eyes glittering in the firelight. He watched you closely, as he often did, as though trying to read your every thought like a well worn book.

Then, with all the casual weight of commenting on the weather, you announced. “I think I’m going to have sex.”

Silence. Even Lae’zel paused mid sharpen, casting you a side glance. Astarion straightened slightly, eyebrows lifting in both amusement and interest.

“Are we now?” he drawled, setting down his cup. “Well, I’m flattered. Not surprised, of course but flattered.”

You blinked. “What?”

Astarion leaned forward, lips curling. “Darling, there’s no need for coyness. If you need someone to… satisfy your sudden urges, I’d be happy to oblige. Gods know I’ve been waiting for you to finally admit it.”

You stared at him for a beat, then snorted. “Oh. No. I wasn’t talking about you.”

The silence that followed was somehow louder than the last one. Astarion’s smile twitched, just a little. “I beg your pardon?”

You shrugged, nonchalant. “I was thinking… probably Gale.”

Astarion looked like you’d just slapped him with a wet sock.

“Gale?” he repeated, aghast. “You’re choosing the walking arcane lecture over me? That man has more monologues than passion, and his idea of foreplay is a history lesson.”

“He’s sweet,” you said simply, pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders. “I don’t know. I just feel like I need to get it out of my system. Nothing deep. Just… need to do something irrational for once.”

“Gale,” Astarion muttered again, then let out a sound between a scoff and a laugh. “This is some sort of fever dream. Or perhaps a punishment from the gods.”

You smiled. “Astarion, not everything is about you.”

He grinned back, sharp and wounded. “It should be.”

You stood up, stretching. “Anyway. I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll sleep on it.”

“Oh, by all means, take your time. I’ll just be here, knowing I was passed over for a man who talks more to his floating book than to actual people.”

You gave him a pat on the head like an annoyed cat and turned toward Gale’s tent.

Behind you, Astarion called out, “If he starts reciting poetry during the act, run.”

The fire had long since crackled into glowing embers, its warmth now a quiet hum in the cool night. The camp had settled into silence, the sounds of rustling blankets and steady breathing drifting in from the other tents. Astarion sat alone, still where you’d left him, wine cup now untouched.

He stared into the dark woods, eyes unfocused. He wasn’t thinking about monsters or traps. No. Something far more unsettling had taken root in his mind.

You. You and your ridiculous declaration. You and your infuriating unpredictability. You and… Gale. He scoffed aloud, quiet and bitter. Gale, with his grand words and glowing hands. Gale, who probably asked for consent like it was a spell component.

It doesn’t make sense, Astarion thought, fingers curling slightly at his side. You’re allowed to bed whoever you wish. You owe me nothing. I never claimed to He paused. Frowned.

“Gods,” he whispered into the dark, realization dawning like a slow, creeping horror. “I’m jealous.”

The word felt foreign on his tongue. He almost laughed him, jealous? It was laughable. He’d never needed anyone before. Never cared if someone wandered off after a flirtation, or if they found pleasure in another’s arms. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Pleasure without consequence. Desire without attachment. But tonight, watching you casually toss aside what he thought was a mutual spark no, knew was had stirred something ugly and unfamiliar in him.

“I don’t get jealous,” he said aloud to the night, trying the words again, firmer this time. “I don’t do jealousy. It’s beneath me.”

But the fire in his chest said otherwise. It wasn’t just bruised ego. That he could handle. He wanted you to choose him. Not out of convenience. Not out of need. But because you wanted him, just him. He leaned back against a log, running a hand through his hair with a low groan. “This is an absolute disaster.”

For the first time in centuries, Astarion wasn’t sure how to play the game. Worse, he wasn’t sure he wanted to play at all. He wanted to be with you. But how the hells did he even begin?

Morning crept into the camp slowly, light spilling over bedrolls and dewy grass. Birds chirped far too cheerfully for anyone’s liking especially Astarion’s. He sat on a rock near the fire pit, legs crossed elegantly, skin glowing like always, and of course he looked amazing. Until you walked out of your tent.

“Well, well,” he drawled without looking up. “If it isn’t the temptress of the Weave herself, back from a night of sonnets and magical satisfaction.”

You stopped mid stretch. “What?”

Astarion turned to you, faux innocence painted across his face. “Oh, don’t play coy. I’m just dying to know how our dear Gale fares in the bedroom. Did he conjure you a glowing review? Perhaps summoned a satisfaction score from the Weave?”

You blinked, then burst out laughing. “Calm down, loverboy. Nothing happened.”

His smirk faltered.

“…Nothing?” he repeated, cautious.

You dropped onto a log across from him, grin wide. “Nope. We talked for like ten minutes, then he got distracted explaining the theory behind dreamscapes and how the mind processes intimacy while unconscious.”

Astarion looked like he aged a century. “Of course he did.”

“I almost fell asleep standing up,” you added. “I think at some point he forgot I was there.”

Astarion made a strangled sound in his throat and tossed a twig into the fire. “Well. I’m sure that was incredibly titillating.”

You rested your chin in your hand, watching him with a glint in your eye. “What’s with the attitude? I said nothing happened. A girl’s allowed to have urges, you know.”

His eyes flicked to yours, fast and sharp. “…Urges?”

You shrugged, teasing. “Yeah. Just figured it was time to get it over with. Stress relief. You know health reasons.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes. “You were going to treat it like a medical appointment?”

“Exactly. Routine check up. The doctor was just… overbooked.”

The vampire groaned and threw his head back. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Mm, maybe I will, we will just have to wait and see unril you stop being jealous.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

You raised an eyebrow.

“I was… annoyed. That’s different.”

“Mhm. You sure you weren’t picturing Gale putting on a robe and lighting candles while reading me his dissertation on foreplay?”

“I hate how accurate that sounds.”

You chuckled again, leaning back on your hands, eyes on him now with something softer. “You’re cute when you’re bitter.”

Astarion’s gaze flicked toward you again, but this time there was something quieter in it. Something careful. “And you’re a devious minx when you laugh like that.”

“Oh?” you smirked. “Scared I’ll seduce you with my wit?”

He looked away, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“No,” he murmured. “Scared I already am.”

––––You sat cross legged on a blanket just outside the camp, your sketchbook resting against your knees. Gale was beside you, hunched over his own page with careful strokes, charcoal smudged on the side of his hand. It was quiet. You could hear the rustle of paper, the soft exhale of Gale’s breath as he concentrated. Every so often, he would glance at your work, but he never commented unless you did first.

“Is that the Underdark cave?” you asked after a while, tilting your head toward his page.

He smiled, barely lifting his gaze. “It is. Not as foreboding on paper, is it?”

You hummed. “I would say it is still very foreboding.”

“I like it too,” he said, voice quiet.

You looked at him then how the light caught in his curls, how the frown of focus softened his features. There was something incredibly human about Gale in moments like this. Something grounding. Then he set the charcoal aside with a gentle sigh and glanced your way.

“I’ve been meaning to bring something up,” he said carefully. “Last night… when you mentioned what you wanted from me.”

You tensed slightly, setting your pencil down. “Right.”

“I was flattered,” Gale said with a small smile. “Truly. You’re… lovely, and clever, and far more patient than this strange journey has any right to demand. But I want you to know it’s not about you.”

You blinked. “What isn’t?”

“I don’t exactly know my stance on physical intimacy without affection. Not for myself, at least.” His gaze dropped to his hands, fingers lightly dusted with black. “It would feel hollow. Transactional. And I’ve already been part of one dangerous entanglement with shallow roots.”

You were quiet for a moment, then nodded. “I understand. You deserve real love.”

Gale looked up at you again, softer now. “We all do.”

You bit your lip, nodding again. “I respect that. I hope it didn’t seem like I was pressuring you.”

“Dont worry your pretty little head about it. I know. You’re too considerate for that.” He paused. “Which makes it even more baffling how you endure him.”

You blinked. “Who?”

Gale looked toward the center of camp, where Astarion was perched on a fallen log, basking in the sun and pretending not to eavesdrop. “That creature,” Gale said, voice dry. “A walking vanity project, Honestly, it’s like camping with a predatory peacock.”

You snorted.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Gale continued, warming to the roast. “I’m sure he’s quite talented in the dark. centuries of seduction will hone one’s… muscle memory but I imagine it’s about as emotionally fulfilling as being serenaded by a harpsichord made of teeth.”

“Gale.”

“No, really. He pouted for twenty minutes this morning because his hair got flattened during trance. He looked like a drowned cat who couldn’t manipulate the mage hand spell to fix it.”

Astarion glanced over then, voice saccharine: “You’re talking about me again. I must be ravishing to live rent free in the brain of a man who hasn’t even kissed anyone this decade.”

Gale raised a brow. “I’d sooner kiss a gelatinous cube. At least it wouldn’t try to kill me afterward.”

You covered your mouth, barely muffling your laugh. Astarion scoffed but didn’t move. what? he was listening. he couldnt help it.

Gale’s voice softened slightly then, a lilt of sincerity slipping beneath the sarcasm. “But jokes aside… be careful.”

You blinked. “With Astarion?”

He nodded. “He’s clever. Charming. entirely capable of making himself whatever you want him to be until he’s not.”

Your gaze dropped back to your sketchbook, heart thudding.Then, as if to break the weight of it, he chuckled faintly. “Besides, if we’re talking about primal urges, I believe our resident vampire spawn has more than enough… enthusiasm to spare.”

You laughed, leaning your head back. “You think Astarion’s dying to jump my bones?”

“Oh, I know he is. He practically disintegrated when you told him nothing happened between us.”

“He did look like he’d swallowed a lemon.”

“He looked like he’d been given the feast of the century. Honestly before you said anything, I haven’t seen a man so heartbroken since… well, me.” You nudged him with your shoulder, smiling. “But,” Gale continued, quieter now, “just remember there might be someone else who wants that closeness with affection. Someone who might be afraid you’ll offer it to someone else first.”

You turned your head slowly, eyes meeting his. He didn’t say Astarion’s name again. He didn’t need to.for the first time in a while, your heart beat a little faster not from fear, but from the weight of someone else’s longing you hadn’t quite dared to name.

The sun had risen high enough to dry the grass and heat the stones, but the camp was still unusually quiet. Most of the others had wandered off some hunting, some meditating. You were by the water, splashing your fingers across the surface, letting your boots dangle in the current. Astarion’s shadow fell over you before his voice did.

“You know,” he began, casually enough, “I’ve been thinking.”

You looked up. He was standing just off to the side, arms crossed, expression unreadable but his eyes were trained only on you.

“is that new or did you want to share with the class,” you said

He huffed a laugh but didn’t banter back. He just stepped closer, his voice quiet. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

You blinked, confused for a moment. “What?”

He met your eyes now. “When you decided you needed… something. That night. Why didn’t you come to me?”

You turned your gaze back to the water, thoughtful. “Because I couldn’t.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “Couldn’t? Why?”

You were quiet for a long moment. Then, with a breath, you said, “Because I just wanted meaningless sex. Nothing more.” Astarion flinched not outwardly, but in the smallest corner of his expression, in the way his mouth parted like he’d just been stung. “And that’s not something I could ever have with you.”

You turned to face him now, fully. “Out of everyone in this camp… you’re my best friend. Like, yes, I care about the others. Gale’s a good man. I trust him, I do. But the bond I have with him it’s not like what I have with you.”

Astarion stood there, silent.

“With you,” you continued, voice softer now, “I can’t turn it off. I can’t just pretend it’s only physical. You’re not a passing urge. You’re the person I go to when I can’t sleep. You’re the one I want near me when things go wrong. You’re the one I trust when I don’t trust myself.” He blinked slowly, like the words didn’t quite register at first.

“And if we crossed that line,” you added gently, “I don’t think I could ever call it meaningless. Not with you. Not even if I tried.”

The air felt still around you, like the world was holding its breath. When Astarion finally spoke, his voice was rough around the edges. “I think you just ruined every one of my excuses for why I’m not already in love with you.”

You gave him a smile, wide eyed surprise. He sat down next to you without asking, his shoulder brushing yours. “I’m not saying I am,” he added quickly. “But if I were… that would’ve made it a lot worse.”

You laughed softly, leaning your head on his arm. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“…No, I’m not.”

Batfamily X Batmom! Reader

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ Someone Thought Of Meཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

I feel like Tim has very little love. So how does he feel in a family thats so weird?

masterlist

Timmy timothy tim likes to journal his problems

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ Journal entry- Shes always there. Written from the point of view of Tim Drake. In Tim Drakes Journal. Which Is my journal… Tim Drake… because it’s my journal?

When people think of Bruce Wayne, they think of Gotham’s crowned prince brooding, rich, charming in a suit. Maybe they even think of Batman if you’re one of the few people that actually know him, the knight in Kevlar, Gotham’s relentless protector. They forget, more often than not, that behind the cowl is just a guy made of jagged edges. The kind that can cut even the people he cares about most.

But her?

She was warmth. A reporter with fire in her blood and sharp questions at her lips. That’s how Bruce met her chasing down a story she didn’t know he was part of yet. She wasn’t intimidated by his name or the shadows that followed him. And when she found out he was Batman, she didn’t run. She pivoted. She didn’t want to be used by the Gotham Gazette to milk a headline about their relationship. So she left. Started something new. Told the stories of villains not to glorify them, but to show their truth. The people they used to be. The cracks that made them break. That was her power.

I didn’t meet her until later, of course. But I always knew of her. I still stayed with my parents at the time and since she stayed at the mansion i never really saw her. she was the one everyone talked about. Not just in passing, but with reverence. Even Bruce, in his own quiet way, would drop her name like it meant safety. And to Dick and Jason? She wasn’t just a stepmom, or “Bruce’s wife.” She was Mom.

Dick talks about her like she’s the sun. When he visits he always visits, at least once a week no matter where he is you can see it. How his whole face lights up just stepping into the manor and hearing her voice from the kitchen. You’d think he was back in the circus and just found his net again.

“She used to stay up for me, no matter what time patrol ended,” he told me once. “I’d come in through the balcony, boots muddy, bruised up, sometimes bleeding and she’d be in the kitchen heating soup. Always that look on her face like I’d just come back from war. Never lectured me like Bruce. Never told me to be more careful. Just… held me. Like that fixed everything.”

Dick never stopped calling her “Mom.” Not even during the rough years when Bruce pushed him too hard. Not when he moved out. Not when the Batcave felt colder than the Gotham River in winter. If anything, she was the reason he kept coming back.

When she got that small publishing deal to write about Harvey Dent’s past, Dick flew back from Blüdhaven just to take her out to dinner. No press, no big celebration. Just a booth by the window at her favorite Thai place and a bouquet that barely fit through the door. He said he owed her everything. “I don’t care if I’m not hers by blood,” he told me once. “That woman taught me how to hold on to who I am, even when everything else was falling apart.”

Then theres my other older brother. Jason’s love is different. It’s quieter.

Harder to see unless you’re looking close. He’s not good at the soft stuff. Not anymore. But with her, he tries. He never says “I love you.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard the words leave his mouth. But he’s always fixing stuff around her house. Not the manor her place, the little brownstone Bruce bought her because she hated the echo of the mansion. The place with the bookshelf she filled herself, the mismatched mugs, the heavy desk where she does her interviews. Jason comes by when she’s out running errands. Patches the leaky sink. Replaces the light in the hallway. Leaves a bag of her favorite tea on the counter. No note. No credit. But she always knows it’s him.

“She used to sit on the fire escape with me,” he told me once, when we were staking out some arms deal in the Narrows. “I’d be pissed off at Bruce, just raging. And she’d just sit there. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t talk me out of it. Just sat and sometimes smoked a cigarette. One time I cried. Don’t remember why. But she didn’t flinch. Just put her hand on my back. Stayed until I fell asleep.”

He’d die before saying it out loud, but I think in a way… he’s more hers than he ever was Bruce’s. And when he came back when he was the Red Hood and he was full of grief and rage and bullets she was the only one who hugged him. Everyone else flinched. Even Bruce. But she opened the door, saw what he’d become, and said, “You look like hell, baby. Come inside.” And he did.

I remember the first time I met her. Bruce had just taken me in. I was still flinching every time he walked into the room, still unsure if I belonged in this broken, stitched up family. And then she walked in breezy and fierce, like she’d just come off a battlefield with coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. “You must be Tim,” she said, giving me a once over like she could see right through to my spine. “You eat?”

I hadn’t. She fixed a plate, sat with me, asked me about everything except my parents. I had just lost them at the time and that’s when I got it. Why Dick lights up around her. Why Jason will move heaven and earth to fix her sink. She’s home. Not the kind with walls and Wi-Fi. The kind with presence. With knowing how to say just the right thing without ever saying too much. With safety, and warmth, and late night soup and hair ruffles and sitting on fire escapes even when the kid next to you’s got blood on his boots. I think that’s why even Bruce… softens around her. She’s the one person who makes him feel safe.

When she got her first daughter, you can tell something changed in her. Cass didn’t talk much. Not in the early days. She was quiet in the way shadows were quiet always there, always watching, always slipping through cracks without a sound. Most people assumed she just didn’t want to talk. Or couldn’t. But I saw it different.

Cass spoke just not with her mouth. She spoke with her hands, her eyes, the way she’d tense or soften when you entered a room. But with her? With Mom?

Cass bloomed.

She’d lean on her shoulder when they sat on the couch. She’d grab her hand subtle, small, but full of meaning and lead her to the garden out back just to sit in the sun. I watched Cass laugh once, like actually laugh, cheeks lifted and eyes crinkled. I didn’t even know she could laugh like that. But it was because Mom had made some dumb joke about a rogue penguin at the zoo stealing someone’s purse. Cas used to flinch at affection. Now, she hugged her. Without hesitation. Leaned into her side. Signed things with soft smiles and the rare, quiet “Love you,” if no one else was around. She didn’t even say that to Bruce. Not really. But Mom? Mom got everything.

She knew how to talk to her. Never pressed. Never coddled. Just existed beside her with a kind of understanding that didn’t require words. I think Cass clung to that someone who didn’t need her to be anything but herself. Someone who didn’t treat her like a porcelain weapon. I’d never seen Cass so… safe. So full.

Then there was Damian. God. When Bruce brought him to the manor, I thought maybe we’d finally seen the worst of it. Turns out a ten year old assassin with an ego the size of Arkham was the cherry on top.

From the minute Damian showed up, he was a walking migraine. Arrogant. Condescending. Entitled in the way only someone born and bred to believe they were superior could be. But the worst part? He was cruel to her.

Not in the loud, tantrum way kids can be cruel. No. Damian was sharp. Precise. Calculated. His insults were surgical targeted and clean like a blade to the gut. “I don’t see the point in you,” he said once, arms crossed in the foyer, looking her dead in the eye. “You’re not my mother. You’ll never be her. Father had real women in his life before you.”

It wasn’t the first time he said it. Wouldn’t be the last. she….God, she just took it. Not because she agreed. Not because she was weak. But because that’s who she is. She let him be angry. Let him lash out. Let him burn himself on her because she knew what was underneath it all. But I saw it. I saw the way her shoulders slumped when she turned away. The way she stirred her tea a little too long in the kitchen. The way she lingered in front of Bruce’s old pictures of Talia that he put up for Damien. didn’t touch them, didn’t say anything, but looked like someone standing in a war zone, wondering if the ruins were prettier than she’d ever be. She never said it aloud. Never asked if she measured up. But we all knew the weight she carried. Bruce’s past wasn’t just shadows it was legacies. Legacies she was never meant to compete with. And Damian made sure she felt that.

I don’t know when that started to change. Maybe when she helped patch him up after his first solo patrol and didn’t say a word about the busted ribs. Maybe when she sat in the library and helped him with his handwriting because even deadly assassins have messy cursive. Or maybe it was when she found his sketchbook. hid it from everyone else, never mentioned it, just left him new pencils on his desk with a quiet, “You’re very talented.”

He stopped being so sharp after that. Still rude. Still Damian. But less… venomous. Like the poison had burned itself out and he was left kind of confused by the fact that she was still there. Because she always was. For all of us.

And then there’s me. The extra. The late one. I was never brought in because Bruce wanted to be a father. I was brought in because I figured out his secrets and then wormed my way into the cave, into the suit, into the family. I don’t know if I was ever really meant to be here. Not the way the others were. Me? I had parents. Not great ones. But they were there… until they weren’t. I didn’t grow up in an alley, or a pit, or the League. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I feel so… replaceable. But she never made me feel that way. She saw me. She knew I overworked myself. Knew I never slept. Knew I spiraled when I wasn’t useful. And instead of pushing me to be better or telling me to slow down, she just… met me where I was. Once, I found a note in my backpack. Folded between mission plans.

“Youre the most amazing boy that i know, You my boy are going to do amazing things. I love you so much!!”

I never told her I found it. But I kept it. Still have it, tucked into my journal like armor.

I don’t know if any of us would’ve survived this family without her. Bruce taught us how to fight. How to fall and get back up. But she taught us how to rest. How to breathe. How to love without blood and history binding us. She fixed all of us. Bit by bit. Even when we didn’t know we were breaking. I don’t feel broken enough to deserve that kind of care. But she gave it anyway. Because that’s who she is. Because she was always there.

I heard her once, talking on the phone to someone. Maybe a friend. Maybe a source. “They’re not mine by blood,” she said. “But God help the world if they ever needed me. I’d burn down Gotham to protect any one of them.” That’s when I knew she meant me, too. if I had to tell this story about the Batfamily, about the ones who wear masks and hide pain and throw themselves into the fire night after night I’d start with her. Because Batman might have saved Gotham but she saved us.

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

Tim closes the journal with a soft thump, fingers lingering on the worn leather cover. His hand hovers just a second longer before pulling away. The room feels too quiet now like his thoughts are echoing louder without the scratch of his pen to distract him.

He pushes the chair back, the legs creaking on the old hardwood floors, and stands. His back cracks. How long had he been writing? Hours maybe. It’s dark out, the kind of heavy Gotham dark that presses against the windows like it wants in. The manor groans quietly in the silence, pipes murmuring and the wind brushing tree branches against the windows like fingers tapping to be let inside.

He walks out of his room, bare feet soft on the carpet as he pads through the hallway. The air feels heavier at night in the manor. Like all the ghosts that live in the walls are finally breathing.

I turned the corner after walking mindlessly and stared. There you were.

Back facing towards me, wearing one of those oversized, faded shirts Bruce always swore he didn’t miss. Standing in front of the stove, hair pulled up, humming something under your breath as you stirred with a wooden spoon like you were crafting alchemy and not just soup. And beside you, leaning against the counter, arms folded but eyes softer than I’d seen in weeks. Jason. He wasn’t wearing his jacket. Which was rare. His boots were off. Rarer. And he was smiling. Not the cocky half grin he used when he was about to pick a fight, but something quieter. Warmer. Something like a son sitting in the only place in the world where he felt safe.

You said something to him I couldn’t hear what but you reached up on your toes and smoothed his hair out of his eyes like he was five. He rolled his eyes, said something sarcastic, but didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into it. that was when Alfred walked by, hands behind his back, chin tilted slightly in amusement as he passed me. “You know the rule, Master Timothy,” he said, low enough not to disturb the moment in the kitchen. “She is the only one allowed in there. The rest of you have forfeited that right after the last… incident.”

I groaned.

“That was Damian’s fault,” I hissed back.

He raised a brow. “Was it Damian’s idea to flambé a Pop Tart?”

“Okay. Fine. That part might’ve been me.”

It was one of our dumbest ideas maybe not the dumbest, but it’s a crowded race. It started with a challenge. Damian, fresh off a smug streak and newly obsessed with culinary documentaries, claimed that my “American palate” had “eroded my taste and motor skills.” I told him I could cook circles around him. Neither of us could cook.

It escalated quickly. An Iron Chef style duel. Secret ingredient: eggs. Only, I dropped mine. Three times. Damian misread the baking powder as flour. Then I panicked and tried to “smoke” the scrambled eggs for flavor using a packet of incense from the guest room and a lighter.

Within ten minutes, the fire alarm was going off, Alfred had activated the emergency sprinklers, and the kitchen looked like something between a crime scene and a culinary apocalypse. Mom was the one to find us.

Standing soaked, flour covered, blinking through smoke. Damian holding a spatula like a sword. Me covered in what I hoped was yolk. You didn’t yell. That’s the worst part. You just… looked at us. Long and hard. Then let out a breath, pinched the bridge of your nose, and said, “Alfred, I assume this is why you told me to ban them from the kitchen.”

“Indeed, madam,” he replied grimly.

And that was that. Kitchen rights revoked. Except for you. Always you.

Now I stood there in the hallway, watching you and Jason from the doorway, unseen. He was telling you about something he saw on patrol a gang trying to smuggle rare books, of all things. You were laughing, that full body laugh that makes your shoulders shake and your eyes close, like the world could still be beautiful if you just tried hard enough. And Jason?

He was drinking it in. Like he’d been starved of this kind of love for years. Ever since he came back, you were different around him. Not overly careful like Bruce. Not tense like some of us had been. You just loved him. Loudly. Freely. kisses to the temple, touching his shoulders like you had to convince yourself he was still solid. Like you had to remind him that he was still wanted. Jason never said it but he melted under it. His edges dulled. His anger slipped. When you held him, when you gave him that smile that said “you’re home,” he softened. He belonged.

I swallowed hard. Stepped back, just a bit. Let the shadows take me. Because I’d never had that. Not in the same way. You loved me I knew that. But it wasn’t the same kind of fierce, smothering love. And maybe that was fair. I wasn’t broken in the way Jason was. Not born in blood like Damian. Not carved out of grief like Dick. Not silenced like Cass.

I was just… me. Smart. Quiet. Stable, mostly. I’d always felt like a thread sewn into someone else’s tapestry. Useful. Strong, even. But not the reason anyone stayed warm. in moments like this seeing Jason melt under your hands, seeing you pour every ounce of your soul into making him feel alive I couldn’t help but wonder if I was ever going to fit here. So I stepped away from the kitchen door.

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

The house was quiet again. The kind of quiet that only happens after everyone’s gone to bed or pretended to. I was curled up in the corner of the library, one leg slung over the arm of the chair, a thick old book cracked open across my lap. It wasn’t for patrol or mission planning. Just something to read. Something to fill the quiet so I didn’t have to think too much.

It was peaceful, until muffled voices filled the room. I blinked, tilting my head just enough to catch the low murmur threading in from the hallway. At first, I thought maybe Bruce had wandered into the Batcave again, but then I heard my moms voice. Whispering like someone trying not to wake a sleeping baby. Bruce responded, and you both laughed, low and secretive. I rolled my eyes and went back to my page.

I stopped caring about that kind of thing a long time ago. You and Bruce were always, in a word, gross about each other. Not the clingy, PDA gross… well yes the clingy PDA way but the kind where he’d brush your cheek mid conversation like it was instinct. Or the way you’d make him coffee without asking, and he’d pass you reports to look at because he trusted your opinion more than the board’s. It was… sincere. Intimate. Kind of annoying, honestly, when you were trying to eat cereal and Bruce kissed your temple like it was some kind of reflex.

But it was comforting too. Something solid. I was just starting to lose myself in the book again when

“Boo.”

“GAH!”

I launched the book about a foot into the air and nearly twisted my entire spine trying to figure out what demon had possessed the room. My heart rocketed into my throat as I whipped around, hand halfway to a batarang that wasn’t even on me. You stood there, grinning ear to ear.

“Tim,” you cooed, covering your mouth to stifle a laugh, “you should’ve seen your face oh my god, I think you levitated.”

“I almost hit you with Tolstoy!” I hissed, breath still catching up to my body. “Don’t sneak up on a guy in this house! I was ready to throw hands with a ghost.”

“Well,” you teased, “if it was a ghost, you’d be the only one I’d trust to outsmart it.”

I gave you a flat look, still massaging my neck. You sobered a little, stepping forward and tapping the top of my head gently. “Come on, kiddo. There’s something we want to show you. In the dining room.”

I blinked. “We?”

“I’m here too,” came Bruce’s voice from the hallway, in that terrible deep gravel whisper he clearly thought was somehow sneaky. You and I both turned to look at him as he peeked around the corner, trying very hard and failing to look inconspicuous.

I squinted at him. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he said too quickly.

You sighed and gently smacked his chest. “Why are you like this?”

“I’m building intrigue,” Bruce said with what I assumed was supposed to be a straight face. “It’s part of the plan”

“You’re ruining the surprise,” you whispered, dragging a hand down your face.

“There’s a surprise?” I asked slowly, eyes darting between the two of you.

Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but I could see the micro tension in his brow. He was lying. For the world’s greatest detective, the man couldn’t lie to his children to save his life. Every time he tried, he got this weird stiffness, like someone who’d never used human emotions before. You groaned again and took my wrist gently. “Come on. Just come to the dining room. Please?”

I stood up slowly, abandoning my book on the chair. “What’s going on?” I asked again, warier now. “Is this, like… an intervention? Did Damian break into the Tower again?”

“Nope.”

“Did Jason get arrested for vigilante loitering?”

“Not this week.”

“Are you going to make me touch grass?”

You snorted. “God, no.”

I sighed. “Alright. But if this is a trap, I want it on record that i died saying my parents were weird.”

Bruce just grunted. So I followed them. These two weird, overly affectionate, semi cryptic parents of mine one with crows’ feet from smiling too much and the other still pretending he didn’t smile at all. Down the hallway. Toward the dining room. Still completely, utterly confused.

The hallway to the dining room wasn’t long. It just felt long. Partially because Bruce was still trying to act like this wasn’t suspicious at all, and you kept elbowing him in the ribs every few steps. Partially because my nerves were starting to twitch under my skin. mostly because I could hear whisper yelling coming from the dining room.

“I said put the banner up, not strangle the chandelier with it!”

“That wasn’t me! It was Damian! He climbed up there!”

“I was fixing your poor attempt at symmetry, Grayson!”

“Why is the pie we made lopsided Jason what did you do to the pie?”

“It’s good. Shut up.”

“You burned it.”

“I call it caramelized flavor.”

“…It smells like regret.”

“Can someone…. Cass, what are you doing with the glitter glue?!”

“Decoration.”

I paused just outside the door and looked up at Bruce and you with raised eyebrows. You just smiled softly and gave a little shrug, while Bruce tried to maintain whatever shred of dignity he had left. It wasn’t working.

You both looked so stupidly in love standing like that his arm around your waist, yours looped casually around his. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this was normal. Like this whatever chaos was waiting behind the doors was ours.

Bruce leaned in toward the doorframe like he was assessing a mission room, and I swear I saw his eye twitch.

“I gave them very simple instructions,” he muttered.

You patted his chest. “Your children are as smart and emotionally constipated as their dad”

The door swung open before anyone could knock. Dick stood there with his usual too big grin and remnants of glitter on his cheek like war paint. “Timmy! You’re late to your own surprise party!”

“It’s not my birthday?”

“Not that kind of surprise party!” he said, reaching out to drag me in with too much enthusiasm. “It’s Appreciation Day!”

“That’s… not a real holiday.”

“Sure it is,” said Jason, appearing from behind a mess of mismatched plates and aluminum foil wrapped disasters. “We just made it real. Sit down, Nerd Boy.”

Cass waved from the head of the table with a little toothy smile. Damian was on a chair next to her, arms crossed, already pouting like he hadn’t been helping just ten minutes ago.

The table was atrocious like someone had thrown a home economics final exam and a kindergarten arts and crafts project into a blender. The centerpiece was a crooked sign that said “WE APPRECIATE YOU” in bold, messy handwriting (clearly Dick’s). There was glitter on everything. The cups didn’t match. The pie looked like it’d been in a fight. it was perfect. All of it.

Dishes were stacked, uneven and mismatched. Cookies were slightly burnt on one side. Jason’s so called “caramelized” pie was visibly cracked. Cass had made what looked like finger sandwiches shaped into little bats. Even Damian had contributed begrudgingly with a plate of sliced fruit that had been carved into vaguely threatening shapes.

And in the middle of it all was a small card in your handwriting.

Tim,

We know things have been hard.

We know it sometimes feels like you’re overlooked.

But you’re not. Not here.

You’re brilliant. You’re loved. You’re ours.

Love,

Your Family (a bunch of idiots, but yours)

I couldn’t speak. Not really. Because what was there to say? This… this wasn’t some big show. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. it was for me. I glanced down the table.

Dick was beaming and already scooting over to make room for me. Jason was pretending not to look at me too hard, but his expression was softer than usual. Cass gave me a small nod, the kind that said more than words. Damian looked away when our eyes met but I could see the tiniest hint of awkward approval in the way he pushed a napkin toward the empty seat beside him. I took it. Quietly. Still blinking a little too fast. I didn’t cry. I didn’t. But I felt it thick in my chest. That weight. That feeling. Because my biological parents had never done anything like this. They didn’t see me, not really. I was a project. A prodigy. An obligation. But you and Bruce, in his awkward gruff way you saw me. You made this happen. I looked up once more and saw you and Bruce still standing near the door. Arms still around each other. Watching. Bruce’s eyes met mine. He gave the smallest nod. You just smiled. I mattered here. not always loudly. not in the same way the others did. But I mattered. And this this was home.

Sunday HSR X Reader

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ SNOW DAY! ꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱

masterlist

part 1

its a little bit of a different format!! be warned because i know the first part was well loved

this is technically a part 2 though its a little more angsty but I tried to still hold the same dynamic. Sunday having some self doubt is a warning. You don’t need to read this part but you’d need to read the first part to make this make sense.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Something cold brushed your cheek. You stirred, barely, burying your face deeper into the couch cushion. The blanket someone had kindly placed over you was warm and smelled faintly of lavender. The lights in the Parlor Car had dimmed. The stars outside twinkled lazily, unmoving.

“HEY! HEY! WAKE UP!!”

“AAAHHH” Your body spasmed upright as your eyes flew open in a panic. You blinked wildly, sleep still clawing at the corners of your vision. Something someone was screaming directly into your ear, high pitched and furious and

“We’re about to make a jump! All passengers must be prepped and present! Did you think this was a nap train?! Come on, come on!”

“PomPom?” you croaked, eyes wide and dazed, hair in complete disarray. the tiny conductor screeched, arms flailing, foot tapping with enough force you swore you could feel it through the couch. “We jump in fifteen minutes! FIFTY FIVE SECONDS of that are already gone! Do you want to arrive half dreaming and in pajamas?!”

You blinked again, your heart now racing for a whole new reason. The blanket slid off your shoulders. Across the room, seated calmly with tea in hand, Welt Yang gave you an apologetic nod as if this sort of thing wasnt normal. Beside him, Himeko, already dressed in her usual beautiful self with not a single red strand out of place, smiled gently. “Good morning, sleepyhead. You should hurry. These jumps can be disorienting if you’re not prepared.”

“Right. Yes. Okay. Jump. We’re jumping.” You stood too fast. The blanket tripped you. Your leg knocked into the table, rattling Himeko’s teacup. “Sorry! Sorry. I!”

“Just go get dressed!” PomPom wailed. “You’re embarrassing me”

You scrambled out of the Parlor Car, heart pounding, brain trying to catch up to your body.The halls of the Astral Express were softly lit, calm in contrast to your internal panic. You stumbled into your room, kicked the door shut behind you, and launched into the most frantic wardrobe selection of your life. Pajamas off. Shirt on backwards. Fixed. Pants? Where were your pants? Oh god, you’d slept in one sock and now you were wearing mismatched ones but there wasn’t time to change. You brushed your hair with your fingers, tied it up…. was that a feather from last night still in there? You stopped. Looked in the mirror. Your cheeks were flushed. There were faint sleep lines on one side of your face. But your eyes were awake now alive with motion, with chaos. And as you adjusted your jacket and took one last breath, you had a glimpse of something else.

The navy blue blanket where you’d tossed it before rushing out.

Sunday.

You paused, just for a moment. The memory of his soft voice in your sleep though you hadn’t really heard the words lingered faintly, like a dream half remembered. Had he really just sat there and let you rest? You smiled without meaning to, but only for a moment. Pom Pom’s voice echoed from the hallway again.

“FIVE MINUTES! And not a second more!”

“Coming!” you yelled, grabbing your boots and stumbling out of the room like a storm with arms. You arrived at the boarding deck just as the others began gathering. Caelus was still tugging on his coat, March was fixing her scarf as if her entire existence depended on the perfect loop, and Dan Heng had been ready fifteen minutes ago and clearly didn’t understand why the rest of you looked like you’d been hit by a comet. Sunday was there too. Fully dressed. Elegant even in simplicity. His hair was slicked back, a calm expression on his face as he glanced your way and then, just for a second, something softened in his gaze when he saw you.

“Sleep well?” he asked quietly as you joined the group.

You nodded, tugging your jacket into place. “Yeah. Thanks for the blanket.”

He tilted his head. “Seemed like you had an adventurous night?”

You blinked at him. But his eyes sparkled, just a little. The floor beneath your feet gave a small rumble. Lights along the ceiling began to pulse with color. Pom Pom stood atop the central platform, now fully in Conductor Mode, voice echoing with more authority than their small frame should’ve ever allowed.

“Next stop,” Pom-Pom announced, “an old and well met planet, we are visiting Jarilo-VI again”

The ship jumped. You barely had time to brace, but this time, it didn’t feel so disorienting. Maybe because you were surrounded by them. Your crew. Your friends. Or the fact that next to you in the parlour car, Sunday is always taking in the works around him like he was just born. So much wonder made you feel so fortunate. You weren’t entirely sure when that started to feel comforting. But it did.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Jarilo-VI welcomed the Astral Express crew with its usual frosty greeting icy winds sweeping the platform, snow clinging to every rooftop and ledge, and that quiet stillness in the air that only came with winter.

You stepped off the train behind the others, watching your breath fog in front of your face. The city beyond still stood proud despite its scars. Belobog had changed since you were last here less tension, more movement. There was life in the people’s steps now. A subtle, growing hope.

March was already snapping pictures of Caelus helping a local child shovel snow off the street, her voice excited and dramatic. “Sometkme i look at him and wish I had that drive but he does stuff like he has daily tasks or commissions”

Caelus was half buried in a snowbank but gave a thumbs up. Dan Heng, coat already pristine and zipped, muttered something under his breath and walked ahead toward the Administrative District. He’d been assigned to assist with a few lingering logistics, as had Himeko and Welt. The grown ups, as March dubbed them. You? You had been told absolutely nothing.

No tasks. No missions. Not even a clipboard. Which was exactly why, once everyone else had scattered, you stayed behind. Your eyes trailed over the rooftops dusted with white, the distant roads sloping down into familiar territory. Serval’s workshop, maybe. Or even a chance run in with Bronya or Gepard. Heck, you’d even take a weird monologue from Sampo as long as you weren’t standing still in the cold. You adjusted your coat and turned to sneak off “You’re not going alone, are you?”

You flinched and turned around quickly. Sunday stood just behind you on the platform, arms folded loosely across his chest, eyes squinting slightly at the sun reflecting off the snow. Still in his usual attire, not a shred of weather appropriate attire in sight. He blinked slowly, then added, “I thought I might accompany you. If you don’t mind.”

You hesitated. He didn’t ask why you were going. Just wanted to tag along.

“Sure,” you said, smiling, “but not like that. You’ll die in five minutes.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve survived much worse.”

“Yeah, sure. luxury suits. Come on.”

You motioned for him to follow and dragged him back into the Express, heading straight for the storage closet where everyone’s winter gear was kept. You shoved open the door and started rummaging. He watched you with amused patience as you returned with armfuls of thick clothes. You tossed a jacket at him navy, heavy, with silver trim. He barely caught it before you were already looping a scarf around his neck, standing on tiptoe to reach properly. “Arms up,” you ordered, like he was a kindergartener and not a six foot tall enigma.

“You’re very particular about this,” he murmured as you tugged the sleeves over his arms and zipped the coat halfway up his chest.

“You probably haven’t even seen snow before,” you muttered, voice muffled as you fixed the scarf, “Pretty boy like you? I bet Penacony was all dream beaches and sun.” You tugged a beanie over his perfectly styled hair. “This would eat you alive.”

“I think I’m capable of”

“There.” You stepped back, satisfied, and grinned. “Now you look like a fashionable marshmallow.” Behind you, a suppressed snort cracked the silence. You didn’t even turn. “March, if you even think about saying anything, I’m throwing snow down your coat.” More giggling. Retreating footsteps. Sunday glanced in the direction of the sound and then looked back at you, blinking under the knit hat you’d shoved onto his head. “Am I… presentable?”

You pretended to examine him, chin in your hand like an artist judging a sculpture. “You’ll survive. If only just.”

His smile was subtle, but it reached his eyes. Together, you stepped off the train and began your slow descent into the city. Jarilo-VI was still beautiful in the way icy sunlight catching on rooftops, the clink of tools and laughter echoing from a few shops that had reopened. As you both walked, you explained what each building had been during the whole event when the astral crew were all there, and how things had changed. Sunday didn’t speak much, but he listened. Genuinely. His hands stayed in his pockets, but his eyes followed every movement children pulling sleds, old workers salting roads, steam curling from chimneys.

“It’s different here,” he said softly after a while.

You hummed. “Cold?”

“it feels like fresh air.” His breath fogged in the air. “I used to think eternity would be the only path to peace”

You turned to look at him. He shook his head. “Its so nice to see people out.” His gaze dropped to the footprints the two of you left behind in the snow. You smiled.

“Also,” he added lightly, “I haven’t felt my fingers in the past twenty minutes. So perhaps you were right.”

“Well no duh” you grinned, and bumped his shoulder gently. “Welcome to winter, dream boy.”

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Eventually, you ended up outside Serval’s workshop, laughter and music spilling from the inside. She was strumming her guitar for a cluster of teens, everyone bundled up with hot drinks and wool scarves. The moment Serval spotted you, her eyes sparkled with mischief and she called out, “Hey! You brought a date?”

You flushed immediately. “He’s not”

“I’m here by choice,” Sunday cut in smoothly, tugging his scarf down just enough to speak clearly. His voice was calm, a slight smirk on his lips. “Don’t let her flustered denial fool you.”

You shot him a look, but he only raised a brow in amusement.

One of the teens whispered, “Is that guy famous or something?” Another murmured, “He looks like he owns a whole company.”

You buried your face in your scarf.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Later, as the sun dipped and shadows grew long, the two of you sat at the edge of the city, the rooftops of Belobog glowing gold beneath a dusky sky. You handed Sunday the last bit of your hot drink without looking at him. He accepted it, hands brushing yours, and took a sip.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice more serious now. “For letting me come along.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” you muttered, gaze fixed ahead. “I just needed a tall coat rack.”

There was a pause, then a soft chuckle. “Then I hope I’m fulfilling my purpose admirably.”

When you didn’t reply, he added, quieter, “I don’t take your time for granted. I’m glad to be here with you.”

That made your heart skip. You looked away, flustered, and he didn’t push. The stillness wrapped around you both like a blanket, snowflakes drifting lazily in the air. You leaned back on the bench, exhaling slowly.

“Hey! Hey, there you are!”

You both turned to find Lynx bounding up the road, scarf trailing and cheeks pink from the cold. “There’s a frozen lake just outside the city! We cleared it for skating come join us! Serval’s already out there bullying Gepard, and I need backup.”

You stood, grinning. “Say no more. I’m in.” You glanced at Sunday. “C’mon.”

He blinked, surprised. “I’m sorry what exactly are we doing?”

“Skating.”

“…That’s like walking but more dangerous?”

“You’ll be fine.” You patted his shoulder. “You’ve survived worse.”

“I’m not convinced this counts as survival.”

You were already walking, but he didn’t hesitate long. He stood with a quiet sigh, resigned but not unwilling. “I assume you’ll mock me if I fall.”

You smiled over your shoulder. “Respectfully.” You smirked. “Come on. We’ll get you moving.” He hesitated but only for a second. Lynx clapped her hands and turned back toward the main street, clearly expecting you both to follow. You tossed Sunday a look, and he reluctantly stood with that soft little sigh of surrender he always gave around you. In retrospect the lake wasn’t far just past a ridge near the edge of Belobog’s perimeter. It was tucked away like a secret winter garden. A large sheet of glassy ice shimmered in the moonlight, surrounded by snowy banks and pine trees dusted in white.

A few lanterns had been strung up between wooden poles, casting golden halos onto the lake’s surface. Music played faintly from a small speaker on the snowbank, something upbeat and old school that you suspected came from Serval’s collection. And there they were: Serval, skating backwards with way too much confidence, trying to start a conga line with a group of teens nearby. Gepard, already red in the face as he stumbled along the ice, attempting to catch up to her. You were pulling on your skates before Sunday even had a chance to decline. Lynx offered to help him get into his pair, but you shooed her off.

You stood on the lake first, gliding across the surface like it was second nature, your balance steady and posture relaxed. Lynx clapped excitedly as you looped around her, grabbing her hands and pulling her onto the ice.

“Wait wait wait!” she squealed, trying not to fall as you twirled her.

You laughed freely, cheeks flushed and heart light.

“You’re weirdly good at this!” she cried.

“I have secret skills,” you said with mock seriousness.

“I literally live here, how are you like this.” Lynx replied. you winked. Gepard was the next target.

“Hey, Captain,” you called, skating up beside him with a wide grin, “Race you to that snowbank.”

He narrowed his eyes, the same competitive spark you remembered lighting up in them. “You’re on.” Two seconds later, you were both flying across the ice, skates slicing through it with sharp precision. Three seconds after that, you crashed spectacularly into the snowbank, laughing as you rolled over onto your back and blinked up at the stars.

“You okay?” Gepard asked, snow clinging to his uniform.

“I’ve been better,” you wheezed, still laughing. Serval skated over next and dropped onto her knees beside you. “You die?”

“Spiritually.”

The next ten minutes were a blur of white flurries and screaming as Serval roped you into a full scale ambush on the Landaus. Lynx betrayed you instantly. Gepard tried to remain neutral. It didn’t work. You laughed until your stomach hurt, until your hair was full of snow and your gloves were soaked and all the while, Sunday watched from the sidelines, sitting alone on the bench near the treeline. His winter coat bundled around him, scarf you wrapped earlier still snug around his neck.

His eyes followed your every move. Your joy was loud. Free. Untamed. He watched as you threw snow with both hands, collapsed in a heap of laughter, and got back up just to do it again. Your smile wasn’t measured. It wasn’t perfect. It reminded him of what should have been. Of what he never had. His own sister had never laughed like that. Robin had smiled, yes, but it was always rehearsed duty bound. Everything in Penacony was orchestrated. Everything was planned. Conditional. watching you here, he felt it again, that strange ache. That pull toward something… unconditional. It made his chest tight.

“You’re not gonna sit there all night, are you?” Serval’s voice cut through his thoughts. He turned slowly to see her smirking down at him, hands on her hips. “Why don’t you get out there? She’ll catch you if you fall.”

“…I have no experience skating.”

“Exactly why you should.” She leaned in slightly. “You two act like you’re not into each other, but you’ve got the tension of Bronya and Seele after seeing each other for too long” His eyes flicked up to her.

She winked. “Go on, dream boy.”

You were in the middle of trying to help Lynx build a snow cat when a shadow fell over you. You turned. Sunday stood awkwardly in borrowed skates, hands in his pockets.

“…I believe I require assistance.”

Your brows lifted. “You’re actually going to try?”

“I was… encouraged.”

You snorted and skated over. “Okay, come here.” You held out your hands, and he took them without hesitation.

“Bend your knees slightly,” you instructed, “and keep your core tight.”

“I feel like I’m being trained for battle.”

“well trying anything new kinda feels like that.”

His feet slipped, and he lunged slightly but you caught him. You laughed, and he stared at you. “I will admit,” he said quietly, “the company makes it tolerable.”

You felt your smile soften. You pulled him gently along the ice, step by slow step. He clung to your hands like they were lifelines. Lynx waved at you two from across the lake. Serval gave a not so subtle thumbs up. You pretended not to see them.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ warmth immediately spilled into your bones, melting away the bite of the Belobog chill still clinging to your coat. You stepped inside with Sunday beside you, arms still linked, boots dripping faint traces of snow onto the polished floor.

His scarf was still a little uneven where you’d adjusted it earlier, and his cheeks held the last blush of cold. His steps were careful, as they had been all night, but steadier now. You were guiding him more than anything. Not that he’d admit it.

You glanced at him as the doors closed behind you.

“You know,” you started, “I think you’ve set a record for the most times someone’s fallen in one walk.”

“I would prefer it not be the legacy I leave behind,” Sunday replied, smooth and quiet, a faint wryness in his voice. “Though you seem particularly fond of recounting each incident.”

“I’m preserving history,” you said, stifling a laugh. “Someone has to tell the tale of the Great Trip of Ten Feet Past the Bench.”

His gaze shifted down toward you, expression unreadable but fond. “If I recall, you were laughing too hard to be of any assistance.”

“I got there eventually,” you said innocently. “Besides, you falling over is weirdly elegant. Like watching a tree try to curtsy.”

That pulled a quiet breath from him, something like a laugh but more reserved. “It was… a good night.”

You smiled at that, more to yourself than anything. “Yeah. It was.”

The two of you walked a little slower now, letting the soft lights of the Express guide your path past the Parlor Car. Himeko’s voice murmured faintly from the direction of the tea table. Someone probably Dan Heng had left a book open on one of the lounge chairs.

You and Sunday paused in the corridor just before it branched off into your rooms. The moment hung there, gentle and still. He looked at you, his tone quieter now. “Thank you… for inviting me.”

You tilted your head, a little amused. “Pretty sure you invited yourself.”

“I did,” he admitted, “but you didn’t send me away.”

Your smile lingered, warm. “Wouldn’t have, even if you asked.”

He gave a small nod, the weight of the day still visible in the curve of his shoulders, but there was ease there too like something heavy had been left behind in the snow.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

You didn’t let go of his arm right away, but when you did, your hands brushed one last time. He turned with quiet steps and disappeared down the hallway toward his room, the soft rustle of his coat fading behind him.

You stood there for a moment longer, just listening. The train hummed, steady beneath your feet. The stars drifted lazily outside the windows. Eventually, you turned and wandered toward the main lounge where March was curled up on the couch with a blanket, swiping through pictures on her camera.

She looked up as you walked in and grinned. “Okay. You have to see this one Bronya mid fall. her arms are doing this dramatic flailing thing. I swear, it’s like ballet.”

You laughed and plopped down beside her, glancing over at the tiny screen. “She did try to defend her honor.”

“Yeah, and then immediately ate ice again,” March said, beaming. “And you and Sunday? how was that today… nothing out of the ordinary…”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for a throw pillow. “You’re imagining things.”

March wiggled her eyebrows. “Sure I am.”

You stayed a few minutes longer, sharing stories, teasing each other in the soft glow of the lounge, until your body finally reminded you how tired you were. After promising to join her again tomorrow for more photo reviews, you stood with a stretch and padded quietly down the hallway. The lights dimmed slightly as you reached your door, and in the stillness, you caught yourself thinking back on the day. The snow. The skating. The way Sunday had looked at you when he said he didn’t mind being useful if it was to you.

The crew slept quietly around you. The hum of its systems was softer in the middle of the night, like even the machine itself had tucked in. You hadn’t meant to stay up this late but after tossing and turning in bed, your sweet tooth had convinced you to sneak down to the kitchen car. Just something small. A cookie or two. Maybe something warm to hold for a while.

You were on your way back now, satisfied and relaxed, your steps light as you padded barefoot through the dim halls. Most of the lights had dimmed to a faint glow, golden enough to keep the shadows at bay but soft enough not to wake anyone. A few stars shimmered lazily beyond the train windows, the galaxy at peace. Everyone else had already turned in. You were on your way to do the same when a quiet sound halted your steps near the guest car a space meant for travelers passing through, those not quite crew but not strangers either. Sunday stayed there.

Your hand hovered over the handle to your room, ready to turn in at last until you heard it. A sound. It came from the guest car just around the bend. Your brows furrowed. Everyone else had already turned in. You were on your way to do the same when a quiet sound halted your steps near the guest car a space meant for travelers passing through, those not quite crew but not strangers either. Sunday stayed there.

You stayed still, holding your breath. There it was again. A stifled breath. The kind someone might mistake for a cough if they weren’t paying attention.

But you were paying attention. It was the sound of someone trying not to cry. Your first instinct was to leave him be let him have his space, his privacy. But the image of him skating with shaking knees and guarded pride, of the way his eyes had softened during the snowball fights, lingered too vividly. The fondness you felt for him wasn’t something you could ignore. You stepped away from your door and moved toward his.

The door to his room was slightly ajar. You didn’t call out. Probably should’ve knocked. You just stepped inside quietly, drawn by something you didn’t have the words for. The room was dim, lit only by the faint starlight filtering in through the window. Sunday sat upright on the edge of the bed, his coat shrugged off and draped over the chair. He hadn’t changed for sleep. His eyes were red, his shoulders trembling just slightly. He was turned away, both hands clasped as if trying to hold himself together.

You simply knelt in front of him, your knees pressing into the floor, eyes searching his face until he finally looked down. His breath hitched at the sight of you. His lips parted like he might try to speak, but nothing came. So you offered your hand. No words. No expectations. Just your hand, palm up, waiting. He stared at it for a moment. Then, slowly hesitantly he reached out and took it. His fingers were cold. His grip was light at first, like he didn’t quite trust himself to hold on. But then he exhaled, the breath catching at the end, and he interlocked his fingers with yours. He didn’t cry again, not right away. He just breathed. Slow. Shaky. Like the pain had found a safe place to settle.

Minutes passed. And then, quietly, he spoke. “…You looked so beautiful today,” he whispered. “With the others. With that girl… her laugh reminded me of Robin’s.”

Your thumb gently brushed over the back of his hand. “She always tried to laugh like that,” he said. “But it was always… restrained. Like it had to be measured. Beautiful, but… not direct.” His voice broke. “Not like yours.”

You stayed still, grounded, letting the silence hold space for him. “I kept thinking… if she had a life like yours… if I had” He stopped, trembling again. “Every time I look at you, I learn something else I never knew I needed to value. Every gesture, every laugh, every time you reach out for someone like it’s nothing…” He shook his head, a small, helpless sound. “It teaches me what I missed. What she missed.”

You lifted your other hand to rest gently against his knee. His grip on your fingers tightened, like he needed something to hold on to.

“I’m afraid,” he admitted. “That the more I see, the more I’ll realize how empty everything I had really was. And yet, I can’t look away.”

He looked down at you again then, and in that moment, he didn’t look composed or mysterious or sharp. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” you said softly. “Im sorry for barging in.”

He exhaled again, a little steadier now, and lowered his forehead to rest gently against yours. There was no need to say anything else just yet. You were here.

You stayed like that for a while his forehead resting lightly against yours, his hand warm and solid in your own. The silence wasn’t heavy anymore. Then, slowly, you shifted. Still kneeling, you leaned forward, resting your head gently on his legs. Your cheek pressed to the soft fabric of his trousers, and your fingers relaxed around his.

Sunday froze, just for a moment. His breath hitched again, but not from pain this time. Then his hand moved. Carefully. Tentatively. Fingers brushing through your hair. He stroked it once. Then again, slower.

The movement was gentle like he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch you this way, but needed to anyway. Like this moment was fragile, and he was terrified of breaking it. You let him comfort himself in the rhythm of it, in the quiet press of your presence. The train hummed softly beneath you both, as if it too understood the importance of silence right now.

His hand paused only once just to curl lightly at the ends of your hair, like he was memorizing the texture. Then, after a while, he shifted forward, leaning down just slightly.

His hand cupped your face, thumb grazing along your cheek with a reverence that felt almost sacred. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. He didn’t say anything after. He just stayed there, his hand still against your cheek, his other resting in your hair.

Eventually, he sighed, a sound almost reluctant to disturb the stillness.

“…If you stay like that much longer,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse from emotion, “your neck is going to ache terribly.”

You hummed softly, not moving just yet. Still, the smallest smile ghosted across your lips.

Touya Todoroki X Reader

✮⋆˙ I Am Here ✮⋆˙

‼️Genuine trigger warning. ‼️ If you have a hard time with people lashing out and if panic attacks trigger you, Do Not Read.

masterlist

Does Dabi get the chance to be happy and normal? It’s after the war and he was taken back in. He really doesn’t deserve it. or so he thinks.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The world was healing. Slowly but surely, people were rebuilding their lives, picking up the broken pieces, and shaping them into something better. The war had left scars on the land, on the people, on their souls but even scars could fade with time. Dabi, or how he’s been going by since he got back, Touya, wasn’t sure if his ever would.

He watched from a distance as his family talked and laughed together. It was strange. Foreign. A sight he never thought he’d see. Natsuo nudged Shoto, who rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. Rei placed a gentle hand on Endeavor’s arm, and even though he still looked guilty, even though he knows she shouldn’t even go near him, he let her. And then there was you.

You fit into the Todoroki family like you had always belonged. You stood beside Fuyumi, laughing at something she said, your eyes bright with warmth. You were always like that light, warmth, love. The things Touya had never believed in. The things he had never thought he deserved. Until you.

You had been his contradiction. A pro hero who should have seen him as nothing but a villain, yet you had looked at him like he was human. You had never made excuses for him, never pretended he hadn’t done terrible things, but you had seen him. And because of you, he had started to believe, just for a moment, that maybe he wasn’t beyond saving. That maybe he could be more than destruction.

But that was back then. Now, everyone was moving on. You were happy, smiling, growing. And yet, he wasn’t. He felt stuck, caught between his past and a future he wasn’t sure he had a place in. Watching you get along with his family should have made him feel… something. Hope, maybe. Comfort. Instead, all it did was remind him of how much he didn’t belong.

Years of resentment didn’t just disappear. The hatred, the anger, the loneliness. he had fed off of it for so long. Letting go of it felt like losing a part of himself. How was he supposed to just sit with them, talk with them, pretend like there weren’t decades of pain between them? And yet… he wanted to.

He wanted to be what you had been for him. A reason to believe in something better. He wanted to learn how to be a part of this family, to see if love could exist here the way it had existed with you. But it was terrifying. What if he wasn’t capable of it? What if, in the end, he was still the same broken, angry person who would never fit?

His hands clenched into fists. Maybe it was okay if he wasn’t moving on as fast as everyone else. Maybe it was okay if healing took time. Because at least now, he had a reason to try.

Touya wasn’t sure how long he stood there, watching from a distance. The laughter, the conversations, the warmth it all felt like something happening in another world, one he had no right to step into. But then you saw him. Your smile didn’t falter, didn’t hesitate. It was the same as it had always been steady, real. You said something to Fuyumi, and then, without a second thought, you started walking toward him.

Touya considered leaving. It wouldn’t have been hard. Just turn around, disappear before you could reach him. But his feet didn’t move. he was just tired of running. You stopped in front of him, tilting your head slightly, studying him the way you always did, like you were waiting for him to say something. But when he didn’t, you just sighed and reached out, grabbing his wrist with an easy familiarity.

“Come sit with us.” It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t a demand, either. It was just you, offering him a choice.

He scoffed, looking away. “not sure if i’m wanted”

The world was healing. Slowly but surely, people were rebuilding their lives, picking up the broken pieces, and shaping them into something better. The war had left scars on the land, on the people, on their souls but even scars could fade with time. Dabi, or how he’s been going by since he got back, Touya, wasn’t sure if his ever would.

He watched from a distance as his family talked and laughed together. It was strange. Foreign. A sight he never thought he’d see. Natsuo nudged Shoto, who rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. Rei placed a gentle hand on Endeavor’s arm, and even though he still looked guilty, even though he knows she shouldn’t even go near him, he let her. And then there was you.

You fit into the Todoroki family like you had always belonged. You stood beside Fuyumi, laughing at something she said, your eyes bright with warmth. You were always like that light, warmth, love. The things Touya had never believed in. The things he had never thought he deserved. Until you.

You had been his contradiction. A pro hero who should have seen him as nothing but a villain, yet you had looked at him like he was human. You had never made excuses for him, never pretended he hadn’t done terrible things, but you had seen him. And because of you, he had started to believe, just for a moment, that maybe he wasn’t beyond saving. That maybe he could be more than destruction.

But that was back then. Now, everyone was moving on. You were happy, smiling, growing. And yet, he wasn’t. He felt stuck, caught between his past and a future he wasn’t sure he had a place in. Watching you get along with his family should have made him feel… something. Hope, maybe. Comfort. Instead, all it did was remind him of how much he didn’t belong.

Years of resentment didn’t just disappear. The hatred, the anger, the loneliness. he had fed off of it for so long. Letting go of it felt like losing a part of himself. How was he supposed to just sit with them, talk with them, pretend like there weren’t decades of pain between them? And yet… he wanted to.

He wanted to be what you had been for him. A reason to believe in something better. He wanted to learn how to be a part of this family, to see if love could exist here the way it had existed with you. But it was terrifying. What if he wasn’t capable of it? What if, in the end, he was still the same broken, angry person who would never fit?

His hands clenched into fists. Maybe it was okay if he wasn’t moving on as fast as everyone else. Maybe it was okay if healing took time. Because at least now, he had a reason to try.

Touya had spent so many years convinced that warmth wasn’t meant for him. That love was something distant, a thing he could only witness from the outside but never hold. But there you were right in the middle of it, smiling, laughing, belonging. And it hurt. Because it should’ve been him.

He should’ve been the one sitting at that table, the one making his mother smile, the one who could joke with his siblings like they hadn’t spent years with an ocean of silence between them. But instead, it was you someone who hadn’t grown up in their house, who hadn’t carried their burdens.

And somehow, you made it look effortless. Touya thought he could handle it. Thought he could ignore the sharp ache twisting in his chest, the way his fingers curled into his sleeves like he could claw his way through the feeling. But then your eyes found him.

Even from across the yard, even with the voices and laughter around you, you saw him. And without hesitation, you excused yourself and walked toward him. He should’ve looked away. Should’ve turned and left before you could get too close. But you were always good at pulling him in.

“Hey,” you said, stopping in front of him. The way you looked at him was so unbearably soft, so tender, it made his throat tighten. He swallowed, glancing past you at the scene behind you. “…You’re doing good with them,” he muttered.

You tilted your head. “With who?”

He huffed out a dry laugh. “My family.”

You didn’t say anything right away, just watching him like you were waiting for him to say what was really on his mind. like always, he caved under your gaze. “They like you,” he said, voice quieter this time. “Better than me, probably.”

The words felt bitter, heavy. He hadn’t meant to say them, but once they were out, he couldn’t take them back. Your brows furrowed, and before he could pull away, your hand found his wrist. Your touch was warm, grounding, and he hated how much he leaned into it.

“Touya,” you said, voice gentle but firm. “That’s not true.”

He scoffed. “Isn’t it?” His gaze flickered toward the table, toward the people who had spent years without him. “I don’t even know if they want me here.”

Your grip tightened. “They do.”

He let out a slow breath, staring at you. “And how do you know that?”

You smiled, small but sure. “Because I do. And if I do, then I know they do, too.”

Something in his chest cracked. He didn’t know how you did that. how you always knew what to say, how you could make him believe in something better, even when everything inside him screamed that he shouldn’t.

“…You’re annoying,” he muttered.

You grinned. “And yet, here you are.”

He sighed, long and slow. The weight in his chest didn’t disappear, but it felt a little easier to carry with you standing there, holding onto him like he was worth something.

“Come sit with me,” you said, voice quieter now, more personal. A request just for him. And this time, he let you lead him forward. “I think you’d be surprised.” Your voice was soft, patient. You always had too much of that when it came to him. He wanted to argue, to push you away like he had done a thousand times before. But he didn’t. Maybe it was because he was tired. it was because, deep down, he knew you wouldn’t stop until he at least tried. it was because a part of him wanted to believe you were right. With a heavy sigh, he let you pull him forward. The conversation stilled slightly as the two of you approached. He could feel the weight of their eyes on him. his family, the people he had spent years hating, resenting, fighting. His shoulders tensed on instinct, waiting for something to go wrong. But nothing did.

Fuyumi was the first to speak, her voice light but careful. “Touya, do you want anything to eat? We made enough for everyone.”

He almost laughed at the absurdity of it. A dinner invitation, like this was normal. Like he was just some estranged brother finally coming home. He hesitated, glancing at you. Your fingers were still wrapped around his hand, a quiet anchor.

“…Yeah,” he muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Sure.”

Natsuo smirked slightly, but there was no malice in it. “Guess miracles do happen.”

Touya rolled his eyes but didn’t snap back. The tension in his chest eased just a little. You smiled at him, giving his wrist one last squeeze before letting go. The absence of your touch made something inside him twist, but he ignored it. This wasn’t easy. It wasn’t comfortable. But maybe it didn’t have to be.

————————————

days weren’t always easy, there’s always a breaking Point. You could feel it before it happened the way the tension in his body coiled too tight, his breathing coming in sharp, uneven pulls. It was like standing beside a storm, knowing the winds were about to tear through everything in their path. Touya had been unraveling all day.

It started with the small things. His hands shaking when he thought no one was looking. The way he flinched at casual touches, like his own body didn’t know how to exist in this space. How his words had grown quieter, like he was sinking further into himself. You had been here before. You knew the signs. So when night fell and the house was quiet, you didn’t leave him alone. You sat beside him in his room, letting the silence stretch between you. Not pushing, not forcing just being there.

But then his hands went to his head, fingers digging into his hair as his breathing hitched, and you knew it was starting. “Touya,” you murmured, reaching out slowly, carefully.

He let out a sharp, ragged breath, shaking his head. “I—I can’t—” His voice broke, and then it all came crashing down. He folded in on himself, arms wrapping around his body like he could hold himself together, but it wasn’t working. His shoulders trembled, his breath came too fast, too shallow.

“Hey, I’ve got you,” you whispered, placing your hands over his. “You’re okay. Just breathe with me, alright?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head violently. “I don’t— I don’t know how to do this,” he gasped. “I don’t know how to be here.” His voice cracked on the last word, and it hit you like a punch to the chest.

You moved closer, gently pulling his hands away from his hair before he could bruise himself. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” you said softly. “Just stay with me. Just for this moment.” His body shook, his breaths ragged and uneven. He looked lost. Broken. And it killed you.

And then the door creaked open.

“Touya—?”

Shoto.

Touya’s entire body went rigid. His breath hitched, and the raw vulnerability in his expression shattered into something unreadable. Panic. Shame. Fear. Shoto froze in the doorway, eyes wide with uncertainty. He hadn’t meant to intrude. He had probably just been checking in, but it was too late.

Touya ripped himself away from you so fast it nearly knocked you back. He stumbled to his feet, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his skin.

“Get out,” he rasped, voice wrecked.

Shoto didn’t move. His gaze flickered to you, then back to his brother. He took a hesitant step forward. “Touya, I—”

“Get out!” Touya roared, voice cracking under the weight of it. His breathing was harsh, erratic, like he was barely holding himself together. His entire body was trembling, and you could see it that look in his eyes. He was spiraling. You stood quickly, placing yourself between them before things could get worse. “Touya, look at me.”

He didn’t. He just stared past you, chest rising and falling too fast, hands shaking like he didn’t know whether to run or lash out.

“They don’t want me here,” he whispered, voice breaking apart. His gaze was unfocused, distant. “They never did. I should’ve just—” He cut himself off, but you knew what he was about to say. I should’ve just stayed gone.

Shoto’s expression twisted, something like hurt flashing across his face. “That’s not true.”

Touya let out a hollow, bitter laugh, but it sounded more like a sob. You turned back to him, slowly reaching for his hands. “You’re not alone in this,” you said softly. “I promise.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. His hands twitched, fingers curling slightly like he wanted to believe you. But the storm inside him was still raging, and you weren’t sure if he could hear you over the roar of it.

Shoto took another step forward. “Touya—”

“Stop saying my name like that! YOU have no rig by to be using my name like that” Touya’s voice cracked, and before you could stop him, he stumbled back, pressing his hands to his head. His breathing hitched, and then his knees buckled. You caught him before he could hit the ground.

“Touya, breathe,” you pleaded, holding onto him tightly. His body was shaking so badly it scared you. “Just stay with me. I’ve got you.”

His fingers clutched desperately at your arms, like he was trying to ground himself in something anything. And then, finally, finally, he let himself sink into you. You looked up at Shoto, who still stood frozen in the doorway, conflict and concern written all over his face.

“Give us a minute,” you murmured, your voice steady but gentle.

Shoto hesitated, then nodded, stepping back and quietly shutting the door behind him.

You turned your attention back to Touya, running a hand through his hair as he buried his face against your shoulder. His breath was uneven, but it was slowing, bit by bit.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, voice hoarse, exhausted.

“I know,” you murmured. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

He didn’t say anything, but the way he clung to you told you enough.

You held him tighter, whispering quiet reassurances into his hair.

Touya didn’t move for a long time. His breathing was still uneven, his body still trembling, but he didn’t pull away. He just stayed there, curled against you like he was afraid to let go.

You kept running your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, grounding him. “I’m here,” you murmured, voice soft. “I’ve got you.”

His grip on your shirt tightened. “I don’t—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face. His eyes were red rimmed, unfocused, still swimming with emotion. Still hurting. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now,” you said gently.

He exhaled shakily, looking past you. “I’m never gonna be what they want.”

Your heart twisted. “You don’t have to be anything for them. You just have to be here.”

He scoffed, but there wasn’t as much heat behind it. “Yeah? Shoto doesn’t even want me here.”

You sighed. “Shoto’s just awkward. You know he’s already bad at approaching people in general.”

Touya let out a breath, something that wasn’t quite a laugh, but not as bitter as before. “That’s not fair. He tries.”

You raised a brow. “So now you’re defending him?”

He frowned slightly, but you could see the shift. The way his hands weren’t shaking as much. How his breath wasn’t quite as ragged.

“He just, he’s got a lot of shit to figure out too, alright?” Touya muttered. “It’s not like this is easy for him either.”

You couldn’t help it you smiled. Because there it was. He cares. Touya caught the look on your face and immediately scowled. “What?”

You shook your head, amused. “Nothing.”

His frown deepened. “That was not a ‘nothing’ face.”

You just kept smiling, squeezing his hand. “I’m just glad you’re here.” His breath hitched, and for a moment, he looked like he was about to argue. But then he exhaled, letting himself lean into you again, just slightly.

“…Yeah,” he muttered. “Okay.”

He just sat there, pressed against you, his breath slow and uneven but gradually steadying. The weight of everything still hung heavy between you, but the worst of the storm had passed.

You didn’t rush him. You didn’t try to force him to talk or move before he was ready. You just stayed there, one hand resting in his hair, the other loosely intertwined with his fingers. Eventually, his grip tightened.

“…You always do this,” he muttered, voice quiet, hoarse from earlier.

You hummed. “Do what?”

“Stay.” His fingers twitched in yours, like he was trying to put more words to it but couldn’t.

You smiled softly, pressing your forehead against his temple. “Of course I do.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

His shoulders tensed. “You. This. Us.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, blue eyes searching yours, raw and unguarded. “I was a villain. I hurt people. I” He swallowed hard. “I hurt you.”

Your heart ached, but not for the reasons he probably thought. “Touya,” you murmured, cupping his face in your hands. He stiffened at the touch but didn’t pull away. You brushed your thumb along the rough, scarred skin of his cheek. “I know who you were. But I also know who you are.”

His breath hitched. His hands curled around your wrists, holding you there, like he was afraid you’d slip away.

“You love so much,” you whispered. “Even when you try not to. Even when you don’t realize it.”

He let out a shaky exhale, leaning into your touch despite himself. “I don’t know how to be what you deserve.”

You smiled, soft and certain. “You already are.”

His eyes widened, and for a second, something in them cracked open something vulnerable, something real. Then, slowly, carefully, he pressed his forehead against yours. His hands slid up to cup the sides of your face, fingers trembling slightly, like he was still afraid this wasn’t real.

“…I love you,” he murmured, the words barely more than a breath.

Your chest tightened. Not because you doubted it, but because you had always known. Even when he was fighting it. Even when he thought he wasn’t capable of love at all.

You smiled, tilting your head just enough to brush your nose against his. “I love you too.”

He let out a shaky breath, something between a sigh and a laugh. Then, without another word, he closed the space between you, pressing his lips to yours gentle, uncertain, but there.

And for the first time in a long time, Touya let himself believe in something good.

The Next Step

The morning was quiet.

The house had settled into a strange kind of peace—the kind that only comes after a storm. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fixed. But it was something.

You stood off to the side of the courtyard, watching as Touya—Dabi—approached Shoto. His movements were tense, like he was forcing himself forward before his instincts could tell him to run.

Shoto, for his part, had been lingering outside as well. He had been expecting this. You could tell by the way his posture straightened when he noticed Touya walking toward him.

You stayed back, letting them have their space.

Touya shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders stiff. “Look, I—” He sighed, tilting his head back like he hated every second of this. “I was a dick last night.”

Shoto blinked, clearly caught off guard by how fast that came out. “You were upset,” he said simply.

Touya huffed. “That’s not an excuse.” He kicked at the ground. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

Shoto studied him for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”

Touya’s eye twitched. “Okay?”

Shoto shrugged. “I accept your apology.”

Touya stared at him, as if waiting for something else—for Shoto to fight him on it, to dig into him like their father would have. But he didn’t.

And that was probably more jarring than anything.

You watched as the tension in Touya’s shoulders lessened, even if just slightly.

“…Alright then,” he muttered.

Shoto hesitated before glancing your way. “Did they put you up to this?”

You grinned, resting your chin on your hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Touya rolled his eyes, shoving past Shoto. “I’m going inside before this gets any more sentimental.”

You clapped your hands together, stepping forward before he could escape. “Actually, I was thinking we should go get ice cream.”

Both brothers froze. Shoto blinked at you, as if trying to process whether he heard you correctly. Touya turned back slowly, brow furrowing. “What?”

“Ice cream,” you repeated cheerfully. “You know, that sweet, frozen treat people eat when they need to cool off? I think we all deserve some after last night.”

Touya’s nose scrunched. “That’s what?” He glanced at Shoto, who looked equally at a loss. “girl i swear to god-”

You shrugged.

Shoto shifted awkwardly, clearly not opposed to the idea but also not sure how to respond. “…I like ice cream,” he said after a long pause.

Touya narrowed his eyes at him. “You would.”

Shoto frowned. “What does that mean?”

Touya just sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just go before you start making this worse.”

You beamed, throwing your arms around both of them before they could protest. “Great! My treat.”

Shoto stiffened slightly at the sudden contact, while Touya made a noise of protest, trying to wiggle out of your hold.

“…This is already worse,” he muttered.

You only grinned wider.

——

The three of you stood in front of the ice cream display, the cold air from the freezer fogging up the glass as you debated your choices. “This place has too many options,” Touya muttered, staring at the menu like it had personally offended him. “Why do people need this many flavors?”

Shoto, scanning the choices with an alarming level of concentration, replied, “Variety is good.”

“Not when it makes decisions harder.”

You hummed, tilting your head as you leaned into Touya’s shoulder just slightly. “What, having trouble picking? Want me to decide for you?”

Touya scoffed, but he didn’t move away. “Like hell I’d trust you with that.”

You smirked. “Come on, I’d pick something good.”

“You’d pick something ridiculous.”

You gasped in mock offense, nudging him with your hip. “I would not.”

He gave you a dry look. “I can literally see you considering the weirdest flavor here.” You grinned but said nothing, because he wasn’t wrong.

Shoto, still deep in thought, finally spoke. “Pistachio is good.”

Both you and Touya turned to look at him.

“That’s a weird choice,” Touya said bluntly.

Shoto frowned. “No, it isn’t.”

“Who even gets pistachio?”

“A lot of people.”

Touya made a face, crossing his arms. “Sounds fake.”

You laughed under your breath, barely stopping yourself from leaning into him again. He was still stiff in public, but the way his arm was just barely brushing yours told you he didn’t mind.

“Well, I think I’m getting cookies and cream,” you said, glancing back at the menu. “What about you, Touya?”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I dunno. Maybe vanilla.”

You gave him a look. “Vanilla?”

“What’s wrong with vanilla?”

“Nothing,” you said, clearly lying. “It’s just… safe.”

Touya rolled his eyes. “Not everything needs to be crazy like you”

“Boring,” you teased, bumping his arm lightly.

Shoto, seemingly ignoring the entire exchange, suddenly said, “We should have gone somewhere that serves soba.”

Both you and Touya turned to him again. Touya stared. “What?”

Shoto looked completely serious. “Soba is good.”

Touya let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “You’re a freak.”

Shoto didn’t even flinch. “You just ordered a boring flavour.”

“…Tch.” Touya clicked his tongue but had no argument.

You chuckled, stepping forward to finally place your order. “Alright, alright, let’s get our ice cream. And maybe next time, Shoto, we’ll take you to a soba shop instead.”

Shoto nodded, as if that was the best idea he had heard all day.

You and Hawks are both pro heroes and you approach him like:

You: “Did you hear that people have been shipping us?”

Hawks: “Really? That’s so weird.”

Hawks a week earlier, posting on a fake account: “HAS ANYONE EVER CONSIDERED HAWKS X Y/N?!”

Bruh one of my fav authors is a pedo

Why did you gotta talk to kids that way man...

a weee but revised. not by a ton because full time job means no time 😻

Bruce Wayne | Batman X Reader

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ Gotham Socialite ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

masterlist

I want to make some batman themed oneshots where it explores a relationship between you and him.

EDITED- changed a bit of dialogue and description because I want the reader to be super cool and amazing

High society, meet the reporter reader. Reporter reader, meet Bruce Wayne

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ Gotham’s elite are as gaudy as the chandeliers hanging above them. expensive, bright, and utterly useless. The grand ballroom of the Gotham City Opera House is filled with them, men and women draped in designer gowns and tailored suits, sipping champagne as if their wealth isn’t built on the backs of the people suffering outside these marble walls.

You move through the crowd like a ghost, unseen despite being one of the few people here actually worth listening to. They invited you because of your work because your name is attached to articles Gotham’s wealthy pretend not to read but secretly obsess over. You don’t write puff pieces about Gotham’s heroes; you write about its monsters. You dig into their minds, their motivations. Why does Edward Nygma need to prove he’s the smartest man in the room? Why does the Joker turn his suffering into a performance? What makes a villain tick? That’s what you care about.

Not this.

Not the empty smiles. Not the soulless small talk. Not the way these people clutch their designer purses like they contain anything of real value.

You exhale sharply through your nose, taking another sip of your drink just to give yourself something to do. It tastes expensive but meaningless, like everything else here.

As you turn to leave, you accidentally bump into someone a woman in a tight, sequined dress that probably costs more than you’ve made in the last six months.

“Oh, my God,” she snaps, stepping back as if you just assaulted her. “Are you serious?”

Your brows lift. “Oh, relax. You’ll live.”

Her expression twists in outrage, but before she can respond, a man approaches tall, broad shouldered, with a perfectly practiced smile. And just like that, she flips a switch.

“Oh my God, Bruce!” she gasps, laughing like she wasn’t just seconds away from throwing a fit. She rests a hand on his arm the same arm she previously flung up in disgust when you bumped into her. “I didn’t think you’d actually show up tonight! You never come to these things anymore.” You watch with mild disgust as she transforms in real time. It’s like watching an AI desperately try to mimic human emotion.

“Yeah,” you mutter, just loud enough to be heard. “hmmm I might see myself out”

Bruce Wayne glances at you then, his interest piqued. You don’t fawn over him. Don’t preen or attempt to charm your way into his good graces. No, you just look at him like you’re wholly unimpressed. Its not that he wasn’t appealing. Of course you found him attractive. Though finding him attractive felt a little like betraying the people you grew up around. Just because you escaped the extremely poor doesn’t mean you want to abide by it.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “for a guy whose while company is built on working with the community , you don’t seem to have much of a grip on reality.”

The woman beside him gasps in horror, clutching Bruce’s arm even tighter, but you’re not done.

“This whole act,” you gesture vaguely at him, “isn’t cute. I mean no disrespect though, go party and go crazy.” Your eyes lock onto his with something sharper than hatred indifference. “I don’t know how you stomach it. It’s honestly an insult to humans.” Silence settles over you like a fog. The woman looks scandalized, staring at you as if you just spit in her drink.

Bruce, on the other hand, just looks intrigued. His usual mask of carefree billionaire playboy falters just for a second. His blue eyes search yours, something thoughtful flickering behind them. Then, just as quickly as it had cracked, the mask slides back into place. He lets out a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck in feigned sheepishness. “Well,” he says, flashing that same easygoing smile he always wears in public, “can’t please everyone, I guess.”

The woman beside him giggles like an idiot, but you just roll your eyes. Bruce Wayne is a good actor, you’ll give him that and judging by the look in his eye, he looks a little off put.

You don’t give Bruce another glance as you turn on your heel, moving toward the exit with the same single minded determination as a prisoner inching toward an open cell door. You’ve had enough of this place enough of the fake smiles, the rehearsed laughter, the suffocating air of money and ego pressing in on you from all sides.

Bruce watches you go.

He should just let you leave. He should turn his attention back to whatever mindless conversation he was meant to be entertaining tonight. But he doesn’t. Instead, his gaze follows you, his interest snaring on something he hadn’t expected.

You very evidently don’t belong here. Not in the way these people do, with their polished exteriors and empty souls. He mentally jokes that press training might be on a to do list for your manager.

No, you move like someone who doesn’t care to belong. Which from his relationship woth selina, Its definitely evident that women from the narrows dont care. You weave through the room with an awkwardness that’s both endearing and painfully obvious dodging trays of champagne like they’re landmines, sidestepping small talk with barely concealed irritation. Your distaste is written all over you, from the way your fingers tighten around your glass to the way your shoulders hunch slightly, as if trying to make yourself smaller, less noticeable.

But that’s the thing. You are noticeable. More than anyone here. Bruce takes in the way you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the way you mutter something under your breath when a socialite nearly clips you with a careless turn. He watches as you catch your footing after bumping into a server, your apology quick and sincere so different from the sneering entitlement of the rest of the room.

A quiet chuckle leaves his mouth as he watches you finally get to a corner. Bruce’s lips press together, something flickering in his chest that he doesn’t have time to name.

He should let you go. Instead, he steps forward, slipping through the crowd with the kind of practiced ease that only someone used to wearing masks can manage. You don’t notice him until he’s beside you, his voice cutting through the noise of the room like a knife.

“You’re not very good at this,” he says, amusement lacing his words.

You glance up at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “At what?”

Bruce gestures vaguely to the room. “Blending in.”

A scoff leaves your lips as you finally reach the exit, one hand already pushing against the heavy door. “Yeah, well,” you say, sparing him one last glance, “I’m used to this kind of thing.” And then you’re gone.

Bruce watches the door swing shut behind you, his reflection staring back at him in the glass. For the first time all night, he finds himself smiling.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ Bruce barely makes it through the front doors of Wayne Manor before he’s pulling at his bow tie, loosening the suffocating knot that had been pressing against his throat all evening. The moment the silk slides free, he exhales, rolling his shoulders as if shedding the weight of the night along with it.

The grand doors swing shut behind him, the quiet of the manor swallowing the distant hum of Gotham’s high society. The transition is immediate, like stepping out of a suffocatingly bright stage and into the cool embrace of shadow. The mask the one made of careless grins and charmingly vague conversation falls away as effortlessly as the jacket he shrugs off, tossing it onto the nearest chair without care.

From the hall, Alfred watches the display with an arched brow, ever the picture of poised amusement. “Welcome home, Master Wayne. I see the evening was as eventful as anticipated.”

Bruce sighs, running a hand down his face. “That might be an understatement.”

Alfred steps forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “I assume you spent the night ok though master wayne?”

“Something like that.” Bruce rolls his neck, loosening the last remnants of his socialite persona. “A lot of people talking without actually saying anything. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

“The inevitable I hear,” Alfred muses, “you always seem equally miserable every time you return.”

Bruce lets out a humorless chuckle, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt. “That’s because it never gets any less exhausting.”

Alfred gives him a knowing look before stepping toward the chair where Bruce had carelessly discarded his jacket. He picks it up with practiced ease, shaking his head. “One of these days, you might consider hanging these properly.”

“I consider it every time,” Bruce remarks, already making his way toward the hidden entrance to the Batcave. “Just never quite get around to it.”

Alfred merely sighs, following him with a well worn patience. “Shall I prepare something for you to eat? Or will you be brooding on an empty stomach this evening?”

“Not brooding,” Bruce corrects as he reaches the hidden panel in the wall. The mechanism clicks, revealing the passage leading down into the cave. “Just… following a curiosity.”

Alfred hums, ever perceptive. “Would this curiosity have anything to do with the young woman who managed to offend half the room tonight?”

Bruce pauses mid step, glancing back at him. “You heard about that?”

Alfred gives him a pointed look. “Master Wayne, the moment someone dares to tell off a socialite at an event like that, it becomes the only thing worth discussing. I’d be surprised if her picture isn’t already pinned on some poor soul’s dartboard.”

Bruce huffs out a short laugh before shaking his head. “I’ll be in the cave.”

Alfred merely nods, already knowing there will be no convincing him otherwise.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ The Batcave hums softly with the sounds of running water and flickering monitors, a stark contrast to the suffocating luxury of the ballroom he had left behind. Here, Bruce is no longer Gotham’s golden boy. No longer the playboy billionaire.

Here, he is himself.

He settles into the chair before the Batcomputer, fingers swiftly typing as he pulls up a search. He hadn’t planned on looking you up. At least, that’s what he tells himself. But there was something about you something about the way you moved through that room, awkward yet unyielding. You didn’t belong there, and you didn’t care to. The way you had looked at him, unimpressed and disinterested, had been a rarity in a world where everyone was either too enamored by his wealth or too busy trying to figure out what game he was playing.

His fingers move with purpose, bringing up your name, your records. The first thing he finds is that, unlike many of the people who had surrounded you that night, your life had been anything but privileged.

You were born and raised in the Narrows Gotham’s forgotten underbelly. A place where opportunities were scarce, and survival was a skill honed from childhood. Your record is clean remarkably so, for someone who grew up in the part of Gotham where crime wasn’t a choice but a necessity. No arrests, no notable scandals. You had gone to school, worked through college, and carved out a place for yourself in a city that did everything it could to swallow people whole.

But what catches his attention the most are your writings. Articles. Interviews. Pieces dissecting the minds of Gotham’s most notorious criminals. Not in the sensationalized way tabloids did, but with an analytical depth that spoke of genuine understanding. You weren’t interested in painting them as mere villains or glorifying their crimes you wanted to understand them.

Your work focused not on the spectacle of their actions, but on the why. The motivations. The cracks in Gotham’s system that had allowed them to exist in the first place. You had interviewed ex gang members, street level criminals, and even those who had managed to escape Gotham’s cycle of violence. You wrote about the lives that high society ignored the people who lived in the shadows cast by the city’s towering skyscrapers.

You gave them voices.

Bruce leans back in his chair, studying the screen. You had lived a normal life at least, as normal as someone from the Narrows could. You had no connections to the criminal underworld beyond your work. No secret vendettas, no affiliations.

And yet, your writing showed a perspective that very few people in Gotham ever took the time to understand. You weren’t just observing Gotham’s worst. You were showing that they had stories worth telling.

Bruce’s eyes flicker over the last article on the screen, the words settling in his mind.

“Society has already decided who deserves redemption and who doesn’t. But if you never listen to someone’s story, how do you know they weren’t doomed from the start?”

His fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before he finally leans forward again, exiting the search.

Curiosity, he tells himself. That’s all this is and yet, as the screen fades back to black, he can’t shake the feeling that you might be someone worth paying attention to.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ If you wanted your stories to be heard, you had to be seen. That’s what your publicist told you. That’s what you repeated to yourself as you stepped through the towering entrance of yet another Gotham high society event, where old money mingled with new power, and influence dripped from every word spoken between sips of champagne.

You didn’t belong here. You never did. But belonging wasn’t the point.

This was the price of being heard. If you wanted your work to matter if you wanted people to actually read what you wrote, to listen to the stories Gotham’s forgotten had to tell you had to stand in rooms like this. Not because you cared about these people or their whispered scandals, but because they had the power to shape the city’s narrative, whether they deserved that power or not.

And so, despite the suffocating air of wealth and self importance, you showed up.

The ballroom was an exhibition of excess. A long, lavish table stretched the length of the room, set with gold rimmed plates, crystal glasses, and floral centerpieces so elaborate they could have easily funded an entire year’s worth of rent for a struggling Gotham family. Conversations bubbled up around you hollow laughter, polite murmurs, the occasional hushed gossip passed between sculpted lips.

You found your seat. And nearly laughed. Right beside Bruce Wayne. Of course.

You weren’t sure if this was some kind of twisted joke or if the hosts had simply thrown darts at a seating chart, but there it was your name card placed neatly next to Gotham’s most beloved. Maybe they thought you were more important than you actually were. Maybe they thought Bruce had the patience of a saint. Though you have a feeling after your last stunt, they were trying to see if another PR disaster would come from this. Maybe more publicity for them. Any publicity is good publicity you guess.

Either way, it was too late to change it now. Sighing, you pulled out your chair and sat down, reveling in the last few moments of solitude before the night officially began.

And then, the atmosphere shifted. Even before you turned your head, you knew. Gothams golden boy had arrived.

The energy in the room changed, as if the very air had been pulled toward him. Conversations faltered just slightly, eyes flickered in his direction, and there was a quiet ripple of interest that passed through the gathering like an unspoken current. It was always like this.

The city’s most eligible bachelor. The name that sent tabloids into a frenzy and made socialites tilt their heads just so, hoping to catch his attention. He was power wrapped in effortless charm, an untouchable figure who played the role of the careless heir so well that even the most cynical couldn’t help but watch him.

You risked a glance. Of course, he looked perfect. Dressed in a dark, tailored suit that cost more than your entire apartment’s worth of furniture, he moved through the crowd with the kind of casual grace that made it seem like he belonged everywhere. A relaxed smile curved his lips, and the people surrounding him whether they were whispering behind their glasses or outright gushing were captivated.

It was almost infuriating, how easy it was for him. Why can’t beautiful people feel more im reach?

When then he reached his seat and saw you. For the briefest moment, the mask slipped. Not much just a flicker of something sharp in his eyes before it smoothed over, replaced with something unreadable.

He barely acknowledged the lingering hands on his arm, the voices vying for just another second of his time. His attention had already shifted. To you. You on the other hand are practically clutching your pearls to remain calm. Your publicist told you to absolutely DO NOT fuck up again.

Bruce had been willing to chalk that first encounter up to chance. A passing curiosity. Now he was beginning to think fate had a sense of humor.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he murmured as he sank into his chair, his voice carrying the warmth of amusement.

You exhaled through your nose, already bracing yourself. “Yeah, well. maybe i won the lottery to be seated next to Gotham’s golden boy.”

His lips twitched. “I doubt im anything that special”

You gave him a dry look. “Didn’t take you for a masochist, Wayne.”

He chuckled, low and quiet. “Only selectively.”

You sighed, picking up your menu just to give yourself something to do. “I do want to apologize for last time, I swear im more civilized. I guess that I kinda got thrown off a bit?” Bruce leaned in slightly, his voice dipping just enough that only you could hear.

“Acting all fancy? Where’s the fun in that?”

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ If you had to endure one more second of this sanctimonious drivel, you were going to jam your fork into the back of your hand just to feel something.

The dinner had been dragging on for what felt like an eternity, and the conversation at the table was as unbearable as expected. The hosts, a couple who clearly thought themselves Gotham’s greatest benefactors, were speaking at length about their so called “generosity” and the many ways they had given back to the community. It was all so painfully rehearsed.

“We simply couldn’t sit idly by while Gotham suffered,” the woman declared, holding her glass delicately between her fingers. “Which is why we’ve dedicated ourselves to philanthropy.”

Her husband gave a solemn nod. “Yes. Our foundation has put millions into rehabilitating Gotham’s most… unfortunate areas.”

Unfortunate areas. You took a slow sip of your wine, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from blurting something you’d regret. They were talking about the Narrows. Where you had grown up. Where people still fought to survive every single day, no thanks to the people in this very room.

They spoke as if their generosity was some grand solution to the city’s suffering. As if they had single handedly saved Gotham. You exhaled through your nose, already feeling your patience fraying. It was then that you felt someone shift beside you.

“Did you hear that?”

The words were spoken so casually, so smoothly, that at first, you weren’t sure you had heard them at all. You turned your head slightly, finding Bruce Wayne sitting beside you, his face the perfect picture of polite interest. His voice was quiet, just low enough that only you could hear him.

“Hear what?” you muttered, confused.

He took a sip of his drink, his expression unreadable. “The sound of Gotham being saved.”

You blinked. “what?”

Bruce gestured subtly toward the hosts. “Between the Restoration Project and last week’s fundraiser, I think we can safely say Gotham’s problems have been solved.”

For a moment, you just stared at him. Then, before you could stop yourself, you let out a sharp, amused breath. “Oh, absolutely,” you whispered back. “Crime? Poverty? Completely eradicated. I bet even the Joker is rethinking his entire life’s work.”

Bruce tilted his head, considering it. “Maybe he’ll go into finance. Become a hedge fund manager.”

You snorted. “I’d pay to see that.”

Bruce hummed, pretending to ponder it. “Or accounting. Something low risk. Maybe he’d be great at tax fraud.”

You bit your lip, forcing yourself not to laugh.

“Honestly?” you whispered, leaning slightly closer. “A few more dinner parties and we might even get Two Face to start a nonprofit.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched. “And I hear Penguin’s investing in an animal conservation project.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, shaking your head. How had this happened?You had been so close to losing your mind just minutes ago, and now here you were, whispering snide remarks with Bruce Wayne of all people. The absurdity of it hit you all at once.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “This is ridiculous.”

Bruce arched a brow. “What is?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. “Didn’t think you were so much of a hater.”

Bruce leaned slightly closer, his voice amused. “Isnt that your job? you haven’t stopped being one.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smirk. “I think it’s a little more nuanced than that. Guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”

He chuckled, his blue eyes sharp with something unreadable. “Funny. Me too.”

Bruce wasn’t sure when it happened. When the night had gone from something exhausting to something… bearable. Enjoyable, even.

He had sat down at this table expecting the usual the same empty conversations, the same mindless flattery, the same performance he had perfected over the years.

You, who had spent the first half of the evening looking like you wanted to crawl out of your skin. You, who had made no attempt to charm him, who had barely acknowledged his presence at all until he had decided to push you just a little. when you had responded, it had been effortless. Natural.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he had felt that. Since he had been able to talk to someone like this without posturing, without pretending. It reminded him of something. Something old. Something familiar. A woman in a black catsuit, teasing him from the edge of a rooftop. Bruce’s fingers curled slightly against his knee.

Selina had been one of the first people to remind him what it felt like to be real. To be alive and now, somehow, you were doing the exact same thing and you didn’t even realize it.

Bruce glanced at you from the corner of his eye. You were still trying to suppress a smile, still glancing around the table like you couldn’t believe you were actually enjoying yourself. He found himself studying you really studying you. You didn’t belong here, that much was obvious. The way you sat stiffly in your chair, the way your fingers tapped lightly against your wine glass when you were irritated, the way you watched the room rather than participated in it.

You were observing. Just like him. Just like he had been doing since he was a boy, since he had first learned how to read a room, how to pick apart every detail, every lie. for all your sharp observations, you had completely missed the fact that you had captivated him.

Bruce Wayne was staring at you like you were a puzzle he needed to solve.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Your voice cut through the air softly, and Bruce blinked, pulled from his thoughts. You had caught him looking. For a brief moment, he considered deflecting, playing it off with a practiced joke. But he didn’t want to.

So instead, he simply shrugged. “I was just thinking,” he said, voice low, “that this might be the first time I’ve actually enjoyed one of these things.”

You frowned, clearly skeptical. “Bullshit. You go to these all the time.”

Bruce smirked. “Doesn’t mean I like them.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, still not quite believing him. “And I’m supposed to believe this dinner is different?”

His smirk deepened. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”

You blinked, and Bruce almost laughed at the way you processed his words, as if you weren’t quite sure what to do with them. But then, slowly, you shook your head, exhaling a quiet laugh.

“You’re so full of shit, Wayne.”

Bruce grinned. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”

For the first time that night, he didn’t feel like the billionaire playboy. Didn’t feel like Batman. He just felt like Bruce. Which wouldn’t that feel weird? He always believed that Batman was the real him. Right now feeling like a teenage boy meeting a girl.

&&&&

The second the speeches ended, you were on your feet. Not rudely just quickly. The second round of self congratulation had begun, and if you had to listen to one more person pat themselves on the back for “saving” Gotham, you were going to lose your mind.

You made your way toward one of the grand patios, slipping past gilded columns and chandeliers that cost more than your entire apartment complex. The doors were open, the cool night air seeping in just enough to make you crave the quiet outside. The moment you stepped onto the patio, you exhaled.

It was massive of course it was. Probably bigger than some of the city blocks you had grown up on. A perfect marble terrace with pristine railings, overlooking the twinkling skyline of Gotham. You leaned against the stone railing, closing your eyes for a moment. Peace. Finally. But, of course, peace never lasted long in Gotham.

“You know, for someone who doesn’t like high society events, you sure end up at a lot of them.”

You opened your eyes, lips already twitching into a smirk before you even turned around. Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking at you with that same insufferably amused expression. A short, incredulous laugh escaped you. “stalking me now rich boy?”

Bruce stepped further onto the patio, shaking his head. “Just wanted the air, cant blame me”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to the skyline. “Mhm. Right. Sure. Just a coincidence you keep popping up wherever I am.”

Bruce leaned against the railing beside you, his voice casual. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ll be sure to keep a three foot distance from now on.”

You smirked. “Six, just to be safe.”

“Ten, and I might start getting offended.”

You shook your head, biting back a grin. There was something so easy about talking to him. Too easy. The thought was unsettling. “I have to admit,” Bruce mused, tilting his head slightly. “I didn’t expect you to show up tonight.”

You sighed, toying with the rim of your glass. “Believe me, if I could have avoided it, I would have.”

“you can say that again”

You exhaled through your nose, staring out over the city. “Yeah, well. If I want my stories to actually matter, I have to be seen.”

Bruce was silent for a moment, watching you. Then, his voice softened. “Is that why you do it?”

You turned to him, brow furrowing. “Do what?”

“Write the stories you do.” His blue eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. “Why villains? Why not the heroes? You’d probably get a lot more recognition if you did.”

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “Because the heroes don’t need me.”

Bruce’s gaze didn’t waver. “And the villains do?”

Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass. “The people who get thrown into Arkham, who are labeled as ‘monsters’ and ‘freaks’ and just written off most of them have stories no one ever hears.” You exhaled. “I want people to understand them. Or at least see them. Even if they don’t deserve sympathy, they at least deserve to be known.”

Bruce didn’t say anything right away. He just stared at you. Not in an uncomfortable way, not in the way men at these events usually did. No, Bruce was really looking at you. And for some reason, it made you shift under his gaze.

“…What?” you muttered.

Bruce just smiled slightly, shaking his head. “Nothing. I just didn’t expect that answer.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, well. Sorry to disappoint. I know the usual arm candy around here doesn’t have thoughts.”

Bruce snorted. “You really think that’s all I see you as?”

You arched a brow. “What else would I be?”

His expression turned thoughtful. “I dont really know”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Well, if you’re looking for something interesting, you should probably set your sights somewhere else. I have no interest in being one of the people you “help” from the sidelines”

Bruce’s lips quirked. “help from the sidelines?”

You gestured vaguely. “I want to respect the people in there. the ones who have influence. Though when you’re on the other side of the spectrum its a little rough. The rich like to be seen and not heard.” You turned to him, meeting his gaze directly. “I have no intention of being a footnote in the pretend of gotham.”

Bruce watched you for a long moment, his smirk slowly fading into something softer. Then, finally, he spoke. “I have no intention of making you just a fling or to discard your work.”

The words were said so smoothly, so matter of factly, that they took a second to register. You blinked. Your mind blanked. Your entire brain shut down for a solid five seconds. Because what…what did he mean by that? You weren’t sure what part of the sentence flustered you more.

The fact that he wasn’t denying wanting you, or the fact that he had just so casually implied that you are going to be something more than a just a thought. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Bruce just smirked, watching you flounder. Then, slowly, he leaned in just a fraction.

“Speechless?” he murmured, voice low.

You snapped out of it, your pride kicking back in. “Please.” You scoffed, turning away. “You wish.”

Bruce chuckled, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

And as much as you hated to admit it… You kind of loved that he had caught you off guard.

The soft breeze ruffled your hair as you leaned back against the stone railing, trying to gather your thoughts. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had left you this disoriented. Bruce’s smirk only deepened as he studied your reaction, clearly enjoying the fact that he had thrown you off balance. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, and no amount of cool air could wipe the warmth from your face.

“So…” he began, his voice far too smooth for your liking. “I take it that wasn’t exactly the response you were expecting?”

You forced yourself to look at him, swallowing back the knot in your throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” His gaze darkened just a little, and for a moment, there was no teasing, just something more genuine. “I think you do.”

The way he said it made your stomach flutter uncomfortably. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to laugh or slap him so you did neither. Instead, you stepped back from the railing, trying to put some distance between you and the overwhelming presence that was Bruce Wayne.

“fucking rich people,” you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest as if to shield yourself from him.

Bruce didn’t move, his eyes still locked on yours, his lips slightly curled. “Is that a no?”

Your heart skipped a beat. You blinked at him, dumbfounded. “A no?” you echoed, unsure if you had heard him right.

Bruce gave you that damnable, knowing look again. “You know, you don’t have to act all tough. You’re not fooling anyone.”

“I’m not acting tough,” you shot back, despite your nerves. “I just I don’t even know what you’re asking me.”

Bruce tilted his head slightly. “I’m asking you if you’d like to go out with me.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait. What?”

He chuckled, clearly amused by your reaction. “Yes. That.”

You stared at him, utterly baffled, before glancing at the ground as if it might have the answers to everything you had just heard. You couldn’t tell if you were about to burst out laughing, slap him, or just walk away and pretend none of this happened.

“…You’re serious?” you managed to croak out after what felt like an eternity.

Bruce simply gave you a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Dead serious.”

For a long, torturous moment, all you could do was blink at him, trying to make sense of the situation. Bruce Wayne Gotham’s richest, most infamous playboy was asking you, the rebellious daughter of the shadows, on a date and you couldn’t even think of a single coherent response.

Finally, you let out a frustrated breath and turned your head away. “You’re insane.”

Bruce’s smirk softened into a more genuine smile. “I try.”

You shook your head, not knowing whether to feel mortified or weirdly elated. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Well, you could say yes,” Bruce offered casually, his voice now a little more sincere.

You looked back at him, your heart still racing from the unexpected turn of events. “…I’m going to need a lot more time to process this.”

Bruce raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough. I’ll give you time. But just so you know… I’m not going anywhere.”

The tension between you two was still there, thick in the air. But for some reason, it didn’t feel uncomfortable anymore. More like the beginning of something unexpected. Something that might change everything. And just like that, you were thrown back into the whirlwind that was Bruce Wayne.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ It was a quiet night as you walked home, the cool breeze against your face, your mind lost in thought. It had been a long day at work reporting, editing, and finalizing a piece about Gotham’s growing underbelly, a story that seemed to sink deeper with every layer you uncovered. You were used to it. You thrived on it. The truth was your domain, and you’d learned how to swim in the darkness long ago. It was something that made you feel connected to your roots, to the people you came from.

The streets of Gotham felt familiar, in a way. No matter how much money flowed into this city or how many pretty buildings sprang up in the skyline, you couldn’t forget the parts of it you grew up in. The darker corners, the alleys, the people who had nothing but each other to survive. They were your people, the ones you understood more than you ever could the high society types you’d been forced to mingle with.

You rounded the corner onto a familiar street, just a few more blocks before you were home. Then, without warning, the atmosphere shifted. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, and you slowed your pace. Gotham had a way of making you hyper aware, and tonight was no exception.

You felt it before you saw them. The footfalls behind you, too quiet, too steady. Your pulse quickened.

Before you could even react, two men emerged from the shadows, blocking your path. The dark shapes loomed over you, the threat in their eyes clear. One was holding a sharp looking knife, the other a crowbar. The older, taller man grinned, a twisted, unsettling look that made your stomach churn.

“Give us your bag, sweetheart,” he sneered, a rough, gravelly voice edging the threat. “We don’t want any trouble, but we will make it happen if you don’t cooperate.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t back down.

“Sorry, I don’t have time for this,” you muttered, trying to side step the bigger man, but he was quick, grabbing your arm with a vice like grip.

“Not so fast,” he growled. “You’re not going anywhere until we get what we want.”

You spun around quickly, your elbow connecting with his ribs in a sharp strike. He grunted, but it didn’t stop him from tightening his grip. The other man stepped forward, the crowbar raised as if to swing.

That was when you knew you were in trouble. But only for a second. You kicked back, slamming your foot into the first man’s knee, hearing the sickening crack as he stumbled backward. He swore, holding his leg in pain. You used the opening to break free, turning to face both men. The one with the crowbar swung at you wildly, but you ducked under his reach and used his momentum against him, redirecting his strike into the side of the nearby wall. Your movements were quick, practiced clean, precise. You didn’t need to fight dirty. You didn’t need to be anything other than efficient. All you needed was enough of an excuse to escape. Within seconds, the two men were on the ground, groaning in pain, incapacitated by your calculated strikes.

Breathing hard, you exhaled slowly, dusting yourself off. That was easy. But when you looked up to check for any more threats, the air around you grew heavy.

Batman was standing at the edge of the alley, his towering form almost blending with the shadows. His cape fluttered slightly in the wind, the symbol of the bat glaring on his chest, and those piercing eyes those damn eyes locked onto yours.

You froze. For a moment, it felt like time slowed down. It was him. Batman. The dark vigilante, the city’s protector, who had always hovered over Gotham’s criminal world like a myth, now staring at you with an unreadable expression.

His eyes narrowed. Recognition flashed across his face, though his expression remained carefully controlled.

You stared at him, blinking rapidly, confusion clouding your mind. You knew him. But how? But you hadn’t had you really? You were too caught up in your own world to truly pay attention to the rumors and gossip. He was, after all, just the Batman to you. That was all you cared about. But in that moment, you realized with an unsettling clarity: He knew who you were.

You laughed awkwardly, feeling a rush of heat to your face. “Oh great, just what I needed tonight,” you muttered under your breath. You quickly brushed a hand through your hair, trying to act like this wasn’t the most bizarre encounter you’d had in a while. “Listen, don’t worry about me. I appreciate what you do for the community though.”

Batman didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His posture remained rigid, intimidating, but his eyes… his eyes seemed to soften for a split second. There was something in them something that spoke volumes. You couldn’t place it, but it felt like something more than just the bat.

“No,” he said, his voice low, gravelly. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.” His words were firm, but there was a thread of concern beneath it. “Gotham isn’t safe.”

“Yeah, well, Gotham doesn’t care about safe,” you shot back, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “It’s just me out here. If I want to get home, I’ll get home.” You didn’t want to admit it, but there was something about the way he said that it made you feel smaller. But you didn’t let it show. You lifted your chin, defiant. “I can take care of myself. Just like I did with them.”

You gestured to the two men still groaning on the ground, the earlier tension dissipating into the night air. But Batman didn’t reply. His eyes swept over you in a way that sent a chill down your spine. His body language shifted just slightly, enough for you to notice, but before you could say anything more, he was moving.

“Get inside,” he said abruptly, his voice unwavering. “I’m not letting you walk home like this.”

There it was again. The command in his voice. You narrowed your eyes, a little defiant but feeling a strange pull toward the urgency in his tone. “It’s very courteous of you but please. I told you, I’ve got it. I’m fine.”

Batman didn’t even blink, his tone now sharpened. “Get inside, now.”

His words left no room for argument. You were tempted to push back tempted to keep up your independence. But there was something about the way he said it, the way his gaze hardened, that made you swallow your pride. With a small, frustrated sigh, you turned and started walking towards the street, heading home. You could feel his presence lingering behind you, watching, making sure you weren’t followed.

For a split second, you almost wanted to ask him more. But you stopped yourself. You didn’t need him. Not really. He was just Batman, after all. You shook your head. No need to think about it. Sometimes you want to find and interview him for why he punches first and asks later. Though the bias for your work might be interfering with those thoughts.

But somehow, you couldn’t ignore the tight knot in your chest. The tension in the air between you and him felt like more than just a confrontation. It felt like something else. And that something else… well, it lingered.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ Bruce Wayne stood in the Batcave, his back pressed against the cool stone wall, his fingers lightly grazing the edge of the Batcomputer. His cape hung loosely behind him, still damp from the rain soaked night. The adrenaline of his patrol had long since faded, but an odd unease lingered in the pit of his stomach, something he couldn’t quite shake.

He’d spent countless hours in this cave, fighting Gotham’s worst and dealing with the city’s many challenges. His mission had always been clear: protect the innocent, bring justice, and make Gotham a better place. But tonight, something was different. Something about the encounter with you had stayed with him in a way he hadn’t expected. He couldn’t stop thinking about how you had handled yourself, standing tall despite the danger.

He had seen countless people fight back, but there was something unique about the way you did it. You weren’t just trying to survive you were alive in the moment, every move deliberate, confident, and unapologetic. You weren’t waiting for someone to come save you; you were saving yourself. It was rare in Gotham, a city where people often needed help just to make it through the day.

And yet, there was a sadness to it all.

Bruce knew that the city had a way of wearing people down, turning them into something else something bitter or broken. People like you, who had grown up in the shadows, had learned to fend for themselves because Gotham didn’t make it easy. He couldn’t help but wish that you hadn’t had to be so strong. You shouldn’t have had to fight alone.

His thoughts wandered back to the moment he’d seen you in the slums. Despite your strength, despite the control you’d taken of the situation, Bruce felt a pang of sympathy. The city had failed you, just as it had failed so many others. Gotham had a way of demanding too much from its people, and it had never been kind to those who were already struggling.

It was clear you weren’t someone who needed saving. You had made your own way, fought for your own space in a world that hadn’t always welcomed you. Bruce couldn’t help but admire that. It was something he understood well carving out a place for yourself in a city that tried to break you. But it still frustrated him that Gotham had forced you into a corner like that.

He pushed away from the computer, rubbing his eyes as he tried to clear his thoughts. He had a duty to the city, a duty that didn’t leave room for distractions or feelings. Yet, something about the way you carried yourself, how you didn’t let Gotham’s grime get the best of you, lingered in his mind. You were a reminder of the resilience he’d always admired in this city, but also a stark reminder of how much still needed to be done.

Bruce had always seen Gotham as a city to fix, a place in desperate need of change. He’d dedicated himself to that cause, but seeing you, standing strong in the face of everything this city threw at you, made him think what if there were more people like you?

But you shouldn’t have to be like that. You shouldn’t have to fight for your survival in a city that was supposed to be your home. And yet, you had.

Bruce exhaled deeply, leaning back against the stone wall again. It was moments like these that reminded him of how complex Gotham truly was. People like you weren’t just victims or criminals. They were the heart of the city, the ones who kept going even when the world seemed determined to make them quit.

He didn’t have the answers, but seeing you hold your own, standing up to those men like it was just another day, reminded him why he kept doing this. Gotham wasn’t just about fighting crime it was about protecting the people who refused to be broken. People like you.

Bruce let out a slow breath, turning back toward the Batcomputer, but his thoughts were still on you. He wasn’t sure where this would lead, or if it would lead anywhere at all. But for the first time in a long while, he found himself hoping that, somehow, Gotham would be a little less lonely for you.

For all of them.

Alfred: So, how did the gala go, Master Wayne?

Bruce: I think it went well. There was a very pretty woman. She didn’t say no when I asked her out

Alfred: Fascinating. Like watching a car crash in slow motion and calling it a graceful landing.

Bruce: …I’m sensing sarcasm.

Alfred: No, no. I’m very impressed. You managed to express interest without brooding in a corner or vanishing mid conversation. Progress.

Bruce: I hate it when you bully me.

Alfred: And yet, I persist.