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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

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It all kind of happens in slow motion.

One second, Emma hears the crack of the bat and the requisite roar of the crowd, and the next her eyes have widened to a size most scientists would likely advise against. Because, standing at home plate, that same home plate multiple baseball players are sprinting toward, is her kid. More or less waiting to be run over. That is, of course, until Killian Jones.

———

Word Count: 4.1K Rating: Flufffy fluff fluff of the fluffiest variety AN: Writing has been something of a legitimate challenge for me in the last few weeks, but earlier this week @ohmightydevviepuu sent a link to this tweet, tagged me, and said what I basically took as an unspoken prompt. Like, you’re going to send me video of a bat boy getting scooped up at home by a player in the middle of the game and then think I won’t write about it? Not possible. Even with the aforementioned writing challenges. Nothing stands a chance against my love of baseball. Here’s hoping the Yankees turn it around in the second half. Neither Aaron Judge or I deserve the season we’ve had so far.

———

Biologically speaking, Emma Swan is perfectly aware that the current positioning of her heart is more or less impossible.

Stuck somewhere between the back of her throat and the pit of her stomach, it makes her all too aware of the now-empty chasm in her chest, stretching out toward her arms and threatening the structural integrity of her lungs, neither of which appear all that intent on working properly. Oxygen is a luxury not currently afforded to her capillaries. Instead, nerves mix with anxiety and the telltale flush of adrenaline that probably also makes her look relatively crazy because her pupils are definitely dilated and she does not know nearly enough about science to be making any of these claims.

Whatever, really.

It feels like that ooze from that movie. FernGully, Emma thinks. With the fairies. She thinks they were fairies. She’s not entirely certain they were fairies.

And the ooze was definitely oil, obviously. There was a message involved in that movie. Not one that she appreciated when she was seven and Tim Curry’s animated-oil voice sort of freaked her out. But, like, she gets it now. The environment, and everything. With or without fairies. With Robin Williams, though.

She’s positive about that, at least.

Robin Williams was definitely in that movie.

Less positive about the ability of her heart to actually split itself in half, as it seems wont to do at the moment. So, as to make it easier when it inevitably soars out of her mouth and falls onto the scuffed-up clubhouse floor beneath her feet. Naturally, this will happen simultaneously. For maximum effect.

Much like the fireworks currently exploding over the left-field bleachers.

She’s not sure if fireworks do explode, actually. That seems dangerous. Likely to lead to injuries and sounds that don’t resemble the oohs and ahhs a ballpark generally inspires. Explode probably isn’t the right word. Maybe something more like…detonate.

No, that’s worse. Way worse. She’s got to learn more words. Find a thesaurus or a dictionary or—a fireworks expert would be ideal, honestly.

Someone who could give her a detailed description of the inner-workings of a Yankee Stadium pyrotechnics display on a Tuesday in July, enough words that Emma’s mind would still for a few moments, allowing her to catch her breath and reestablish a consistent heart rate, and both of those problems could also likely be solved by sitting down, but the chair to her left looks a little wobbly, and her legs appear to have minds of their own because science is rather quickly becoming a lie and—

“Is he alright?” She spins. Nearly falls over. Her knees are also awfully wobbly, that’s why.

Despite all of that, and the overall circumference of her pupils, the voice doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t even flinch. Shows absolutely no signs of imminent stumbling. And that’s probably because the voice is a man, one who is in possession of world-class instinctual reactions, and his hair is still damp from his post-game shower and it absolutely makes her something of an atrocious mother to acknowledge that last thing as quickly as she does.

His shirt sleeves are noticeably sticking to his biceps, so that helps too.

Opening her mouth, Emma is going to say words that are both vaguely intelligent and passably accurate, absolving this Major League Baseball player of any of the guilt he so obviously feels. Which is just patently stupid, really. None of this was his fault. None of it was anyone’s fault, really.

Except maybe the idiot who left his bat at that particular angle across home plate, but Emma’s an adrenaline expert these days and walk-offs are understandably exciting. First walk-offs more so.

She’s happy for Scarlet, really.

They won the game.

Everything is fine. Great, even. She nearly jumps twenty-six feet in the air at the next boom of fireworks.

The pinch between the Major League Baseball player’s eyebrows gets—

Pinchier.

The little roll of skin draws Emma’s attention, effectively robbing her of the ability to respond like an almost-sane person, but she’s also still trying to rationalize why she can remember the words to several FernGully songs while also being unable to recall what flavor PopTart she had for breakfast earlier this week and she figures watching her kid nearly get run over by professional athletes approximately forty-two minutes before gives her a fairly reasonable excuse.

For opening and closing her mouth no less than eight consecutive times.

Like a goddamn fish. There were no fish in FernGully. Least not so far as she remembers.

It’s entirely possible she squeaks on attempt number five.

The Major League Baseball player’s eyebrows do not move. It’s equal parts frustrating and incredible to behold.

“I should probably thank you, right?” Emma asks, not quite regretting the words immediately, but it’s awfully close. That gets her some movement. Of the eyebrow variety. One eyebrow, specifically. Arching up, it somehow still manages to pull her attention directly toward eyes that should be the star of their own marketing campaign. Not quite Yankee blue, but distractingly blue, and it takes everything in her not to huff as dramatically as she wants to. Once the athletic trainer is done with Henry, Emma is going to make him examine her lungs. Rationality rules the day.

Major League Baseball player shakes his head. It’s dumb to call him that. She knows his name. Knows at least some of his history. Is still staring obnoxiously at his freakishly attractive face.

Freakishly is kind of mean, too. As far as descriptions go.

“Unnecessary,” he says, an undercurrent of worry still clear in the letters. Ducking his head, he takes a cautious step forward, almost as if he’s wary of what Emma will do, and she supposes that’s fair. What with the impressive vertical she’s in possession of these days. “Anyone would do that.” “I’m not sure they could, actually.”

At some point in this otherwise shitty experience of a night, Emma is vaguely confident something will go the way she wants it to. Aside from winning. She’s glad they won. Seriously.

“No?” “No,” she echoes, and it’s not like she can feel him. A few feet of space separates them, so whatever heat appears to be wafting off the Major League Baseball player in front of her, with his damp hair, and stupid, stupid, stupid eyes is as impossible as any of the various impossibilities currently taking place within her person.

And yet.

He sticks his hand out.

It’s disarmingly earnest.

“Killian Jones,” he says, confidence replacing the nerves, and Emma begins to see why there are so many stories. And Twitter threads. Regarding his face and the potential for that face to date a variety of other attractive faces across at least four of the five boroughs. Somehow Emma doesn’t think Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, is schlepping out to Staten Island for a date.

Nor does she believe that Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, has ever once let the word schlep pass through his conscious mind.

She takes his hand.

It is—

Surprisingly warm. And...not quite soft, that’d be impossible with the job he performs almost nightly. But the calluses on the pads of his fingers aren’t as rough as Emma expects, which also suggests she’s managed to ponder the overall texture of Killian Jones’s fingers in the last twelve point six seconds, and that’s not entirely true. What is true is that Ruby thinks Killian Jones is real good-looking and has determined that the phrase quite a catch is the pinnacle of humor, so, sure, Emma has possibly considered the possibility of paths crossing and intersecting, and her hand looks minuscule wrapped up in his. So, that’s something to think about later.

Their arms move. Bob up and down as society dictates they should, and he’s smiling at her, and she’s trying not to look like a serial killer, straining to hear the voices behind the door, and it does not work.

“Why do you think people are so consistently fascinated by fireworks?” If he’s surprised by her absolutely inane question, he doesn’t show it. That’s points. For what, Emma hasn’t totally decided yet, but it’s something, and it’s probably good, and they’re going to play that clip on loop for weeks. Longer, probably.

Every goddamn day if the Yankees make the postseason.

When the Yankees make the postseason.

Her dad wouldn’t appreciate the buffer. Leaves room for loss, and that is not the Nolan way. Not when there are championships to win, and this was supposed to be the best possible time. Smack dab in the middle of the season, with the All-Star break looming, Henry would get to suit up as batboy for one game that didn’t mean much and wouldn’t draw too strong of a spotlight, no murmurs about nepotism by internet trolls who couldn’t possibly define the word with any sort of accuracy, but also like to shout about canceling and culture with an almost alarming sense of self-righteousness, so, of course, the whole thing was now blowing up in their face.

Much like the goddamn fireworks.

It wasn’t Will Scarlet’s fault.

Wasn’t Henry’s fault, either.

His job was to get the bats out of the field of play. Doing it while the field of play was still active was a mistake any kid could have made. Just so happens that it’s Emma’s kid, and the grandkid of the Yankees’ hitting coach, and that means something to the New York media and the New York fans, and if Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman with an arm that can make cross-field throws with ease, wasn’t also so quick-thinking and sure-footed, scooping Henry up as he crossed home plate and avoiding the ensuing swarm of players at home plate, all intent on celebrating Will Scarlet’s first-ever career walk-off, Emma can only imagine what would have happened.

Trampled. Stepped on. Broken bones. Concussions.

They’re checking Henry for a concussion now. He absolutely does not have a concussion. He was laughing while he was carried off the field. Like he hit the walk-off.

Front office is absolutely petrified she’s going to sue them.

The thought hadn’t even once crossed Emma’s mind. Plus, she’s sort of busy. Holding Killian Jones’s hand. His stupid, warm hand.

“Bright colors,” he says, responding to a question Emma’s nearly forgotten about. Jumping is more challenging when his fingers tighten ever so slightly. “Flash, boom. Taps into baser instincts, I think.” “You think people’s base instinct is to enjoy explosions.” “Phrasing that as a statement makes me think you don’t agree with me.” “You didn’t want me to thank you,” Emma points out.

“Well, no,” he says, and the precise way his eyes drop does something specific to all of her instincts. Leaves her flush with a heat that reminds her of Fourth of July sparklers rather than any sort of massive explosion, and that’s not bad, per se, although it’s admittedly a little surprising. As is the slight uptick of precisely one side of his mouth. It takes her a moment to realize he’s smirking at her. And another for her subconscious to admit that it’s working as intended. Her shoulders drop half an inch. While Emma pulls her hand back to her side. “Thanking me suggests I did anything to warrant the thanks.” “Big words.” “For a dumb athlete, you mean.” “That wasn’t a question, either.” “No,” Killian repeats, “it wasn’t.” “I’d really like to thank you. I—Dad told him when to come out of the dugout, so he definitely knew the rules, but I think he was super worried about you tripping over the bat.”

The smirk becomes a full-blown smile. Which is no less than forty-seven thousand times more powerful. Equivalent to staring directly into a solar eclipse or gazing upon the dark side of the moon, and Emma should at least do some research before coming up with these internal examples. Basic Google searches would provide her with the necessary information.

“That’s more or less what he told me, yeah.” Emma’s nose creases. “Talked your ear off after your daring rescue, huh?” “Keep complimenting me like this, and my ego won’t know what to do with it.”

She hopes she’s not blushing as much as it feels like she is. The state of Killian’s eyebrows and the precise curl of his lips make that seem unlikely. “Your reflexes are unparalleled.” “Something about big bucks and why I get paid them.” “Oh,” Emma laughs, unable to stop herself, and she doesn’t remember deciding to stop pacing, only that her knees appreciate it once she has, “you think you’re real funny, don’t you?” “I think I’m moderately funny, not the hero you’re suggesting I am—” “Oh, I never used the word hero.” “—And you never actually told me your name.”

“Because you don’t know who I am.” It’s not a question, either. Neither one of them mention that.

“I do,” Killian concedes, “Henry was also fairly quick to mention exactly who he was and where his mother was sitting.” Emma’s nose is going to freeze in this position. “But I gave you my name, which makes it only fair that we’re all square and whatnot.” “Whatnot, huh?” “Yup.” He pops his lips on the letter. Which is also unfair. In, like, the grand scheme of the world. The black ooze that is not actually oil when used in this particular metaphor recedes. Leaves Emma with a chest cavity that is partially full of butterfly wings and the growing sense of anticipation that isn’t quite as nerve-wracking as it should be. Like she’s about to step into the batter’s box with two outs and runners in scoring position. She’s totally going to hit against the shift. Fluttering her fingers at her side, Emma doesn’t lift her hand. It doesn’t matter.

Killian’s eyes drop. To the movement. And her. And part of her shies away from that because part of her has spent a lifetime tucked into a shadow that didn’t belong to her and doesn’t belong to Henry, but now there’s some joke about Peter Pan to be made because they live in an internet-age and Killian Jones has a very good face. So. Viral video, enter stage right. Starring Henry Swan, Killian Jones, and the inevitably uneven pitter-patter of Emma’s traitorous heart.

“Emma Swan.” “I think you should sit down.”

“Why is that, exactly?” “I’m worried about your legs.”

Whatever noise she makes can’t quite be classified as a scoff. It hurts her throat too much. And it’s not a laugh, either. Even as the butterflies threaten to rise up in mutiny of Emma’s more rational feelings, and she gets the distinct impression that Killian is reading her mind. Trying very hard, at least.

“Sounds like a line.” “Might be a line,” he admits, which draws another wholly inhuman sound out of Emma’s barely-functioning lungs.

“Did he kick you on the lift?” Killian hums. “You’d kick too if you were just hauled off your feet, so I understand the reaction. What I’m more worried about is the inevitable bruise on my foot from the bat landing there.” “Ah shit, really?” “I’ve had worse.” “But not in 4K video that people will play on loop for the rest of the news cycle. If not longer.” Narrowing his eyes, Killian doesn’t immediately respond. Mind reading requires a modicum of focus, Emma assumes. Instead, he rests a hand on her shoulder, directing her toward the chair and ignoring the soft crack her left knee as it bends. “That’s what you’re worried about.” “Stop sounding so confident.” “I can only sound how I am, Swan.” “Oh, I’m not sure we’ve reached nickname status yet,” she mumbles, pushing down the soft rush of metaphorical insects doing their beset to soar out of her barely-parted lips. “But, yeah, I—I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was totally terrified in the moment.”

“Understandable. Grown men barrelling down the third-base line at your kid are a lot to take in.” She snorts. It’s not cute. Not dignified. Killian smirks. “Should you be concerned that the Scarlet was making such solid headway behind you? Are you exceedingly slow?” “I am league average.” “How fast can you get out of the box to first?” “I’ve never timed it.” “Liar, liar.” “Please don’t make a crack about my pants,” Killian says, “I won’t be able to cope.”

“Oh God, you think you’re charming, too.” “I’ve had no complaints.” “To your face, at least.”

Throwing his head back, the laugh that erupts out of him is not of volcano proportions. Of which there was also one in FernGully if Emma’s memory is to be trusted. An arm circles his middle, stretching muscle and ensuring that Emma notices just how corded that same muscle is, the slight bend of his wrist leaving her off-kilter. When he meets her gaze, she swears his eyes are brighter. “Yeah, yeah, that’s true,” Killian concedes, “no one has flat out told me I was lacking charm to my face.” “This thanking you thing is going great.” “And I continue to not need thanks. Why are you worried about the video getting out there? Filmed in 4K like you suggest, at least we’ll all look great. Sharp pixels and whatnot.” “What do you know about pixels?” “You basically heard the extent just now.”

She’s getting better at laughing. The ooze has almost all but disappeared, Emma twirling a strand of hair around fingers that are intent on moving, and it’s an old habit. One Killian’s gaze catches on. Immediately. Quickly. Seriously, Emma needs a thesaurus. “Baseball’s always been my dad,” she says. “And that’s—well, we’ve lived this game, me and my mom, weekend series and West Coast swings, waiting up for him to get home because the flight got delayed, but Henry’s just a kid, getting thrown into this world because of his last name and who his family is? That sucks. Nothing was supposed to happen tonight.” “Nothing did happen.” “Because of you.” “I’d like to believe Scarlet, ridiculously fast as he might be, would not run over a small child,” Killian says. “And, uh, for the record and all that, I got a bad jump off first because I didn’t know if they were going to catch it in left. No one wants to get caught on the base paths.” “Yeah, that’d be embarrassing.”

He must hear the hitch in her voice because the next thing Emma realizes, her fingers are twisted back up in Killian’s, and she’s warm and falling and flying, and it’s good and weird, and the door swings open.

They both jump.

So, that’s something.

Rushing out quickly enough that he nearly trips over his own feet, Henry’s head leads the way and finds Emma’s stomach, a tangle of limbs, and overly-excited words, all of which rival the now-finished fireworks display in volume.

It takes Henry about five and a half run-on sentences to notice Killian standing there.

His eyes widen. His mouth drops. Killian grins. Emma tries very hard not to die. It only sort of works.

She blames the faulty body parts she’s in possession of.

“Killian,” Henry exclaims, clamoring back to his feet and nearly falling again in the process. Hands that belong to both Emma and Killian dart out, steadying Henry while their eyes meet over the top of his head. Killian winks. He tries. It’s more like a blink than anything. “Hi, hi! You did so good tonight! And we won, and I got to go on the field and—and, it was so,” Henry heaves a deep breath, “we were so good.”

Collective pronouns do something to Emma’s entire state of being.

Flips it on an axis she hadn’t been aware previously existed until it almost feels as if this was the path they’d been directing themselves toward from the start. Her eyes flit toward Killian. Who is already watching her.

“We did,” he nods, “maybe next time, though, you wait one extra second to grab Scarlet’s bat, ok?” Seeing her own nose scrunch reflected back on her kid is not the worst thing that’s ever happened to Emma. The vibrating phone in her back pocket, might be.

It’s one-hundred percent, Ruby.

“That’s what grandpa said too,” Henry grumbles, digging a toe of the cleats Emma’s mother bought him last week into the ground, “but I wanted to make sure you didn’t fall.”

Definitely dying, then. A systematic shut down of all necessary internal organs. It’s not as bad as Emma would have expected.

Neither one of Killian’s knees crack when he bends. That seems heavy-handed.

“And I don’t want you to fall either,” he says, “so we agree, right here, right now, not to let the other one fall, huh?” Emma holds her breath. Ignores the pinch in her lungs and the clearly unstable nature of both her mind and her heart, digging her nails into her palms. To ensure she isn’t tempted to haul Henry back toward her. Or push that one strand of hair away from Killian’s forehead.

Henry nods. “Deal.”

They hook their pinkies together.

It’s adorable and as endearingly charming as everything else Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, has done since he walked into that hallway. Less so when her dad emerges from the office, the athletic trainer on his heels to not-so-quietly inform Killian that he can’t just blow off post-game like that, and the second wink is as bad as the first.

She does her very best to memorize the movement.

And the joy on Henry’s face the next morning when a box arrives on their doorstep, a genuine, game-worn Killian Jones jersey inside. She doesn’t notice the note at first, tucked between the cardboard and the tissue paper someone must have bought for him. He can’t have bought that tissue paper himself. He just—it’s unfathomable.

Emma knows he bought the tissue paper himself.

As clearly as she knows that those numbers in that particular order will lead to Killian Jones answering his phone and that her voice likely won’t shake when she replies to the question written in surprisingly loopy script. Which is why, Emma will argue, she does reply. In the affirmative. To several questions over the course of the remaining season, and they don’t star in any more viral videos, but there are a few pictures once they clinch the division.

Drops of champagne cling to the tips of Emma’s eyelashes and the ends of Killian’s hair, hands on her waist that blaze a quick path up her back and around her middle, and she has to tilt her head up to get the right angles. Of lips. While they kiss in the middle of the clubhouse, the hat someone forced onto Emma’s head falling and it’s impossible to hear over the sound of celebratory fireworks, but she can somehow still hear Henry’s laugh ringing out from the general area near Scarlet’s locker, and his jersey collection is growing at an impressive rate.

No one can withstand the overall cuteness of him.

Emma included. Emma, especially.

Sometimes she worries she’s so happy she’ll burst, unable to contain the sort of emotion her body is still acclimating itself to. But then she realizes just how dumb that is and happiness cannot possibly be quantified, and her head is buzzing enough from champagne that she nearly misses Killian when he says, “people love the bright spots, Swan.” It’s not the most romantic thing he’s told her. Doesn’t crack the top five, quite frankly. She swoons all the same. With her kid laughing and her team winning and that’s about all the sentiment she’s willing to acknowledge before her tongue is in Killian’s mouth. He groans. She grins.

And he’d been right about the video. It wasn’t the embarrassment Emma worried it could be. Was mostly relegated to the corners of the internet set aside for formerly popular content as soon as the season ended, spoken about only in fond recollection as the other seasons went on and the wins kept coming and all three of them stand on a parade float with the World Series trophy a few dozen feet away, several Novembers after that first game.

It’s a Thursday afternoon, then.

And yet Emma never entirely forgets. What the video meant and what it did and she’s not remotely surprised when it finds its way back to the forefront of the sports zeitgeist on a Wednesday in July. Most mentions come with similar taglines and messages. Something about feeling our age and wanna feel old because that bot boy, David Nolan’s grandson, Killian Jones’s stepson, he’s getting drafted now.

Got drafted, technically.

Third round, video of the soon-to-be third baseman for the San Diego Padres makes the internet circuits and garners plenty of interest. It’s not the most exciting video, though. Henry just hugs his family. Who hug tightly back.

What is more exciting is the box that arrives on Emma and Killian’s doorstep. With a note that eventually earns a frame next to the last one and a wholly official, game-worn jersey that has a noticeable streak of dirt across the left sleeve. From sliding head-first into home plate.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #do not ask me why this is so full of ferngully references #i do not have an answer for you #the google doc title for this was: BaseballCuresWritersBlock #thanks baseball

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liquid-luck-00 · 4 years

Text

Habits

Bio!Dad Bruce

Day 4: Habits

@biodad-bruce-month

First ~~~ Previous ~~~ Next

~~~~~~~~~~

The bat boys went out of their way to make Marinette feel included into the family. However she seemed to always get lost in the manor. Little did they know that she was using the horse miraculous to travel to and from Paris and still hasn't had enough practice with Kaalki.

Yet when they do happen to find her she seems to always be lost in thought while sketching or designing.

They had noticed early on that they could still hold a conversation with her and she would respond and remember the conversation.

---

Marinette hadn't been at the manor for two days when the first incident occurred.

It was Jason who first caught her completely focused and to say it was a shock was an understatement. He had walked into the living room, trying to find her and Tim to play Mecha strike, so when he saw she was designing and Tim was sitting on the other couch reading.

"Hey Replacement, Bluebell who wants to play UMS III?" Jason asked the room.

"I'll play," Tim responded looking up from his book. Both boys then looked at Mari, who seemingly didn't hear them. Tim got up and walked over to her along with him. While

Marinette seemed to be hyper focused on her design that she didn't respond when Jason asked her again. So Jason decided it would be smart to tap her on the shoulder to get her attention. That was a bad idea. . He had snapped her out of her thoughts, but as he did she glared at them.

"Holy Fuck" Jason screamed as he backed away from her.

"What is wrong with you. You break my concentration and then scream. Like seriously Jason." She was holding her head covering her ears while glaring at him.

That was when Tim seemed to find his voice again. "Well if genetics hadn't proved you were Bruce's daughter, you giving Jason his signature glare would prove it."

"Well I guess that explains a few thing now" she hummed.

"That is all you get out of this?" Jason asks.

"What else was to get out of this?" she asked tilting her head, "so what did you guys want anyways?" she went back to her sunny personality.

---

The second incident occurred later that same day but with only Dick. He had gone to find her for dinner, so he went to her room. He had heard from both Jason and Tim that she could pull out the Bruce 'Batman' Glare so he did the smart choice of first knocking on the door.

"Come in" was her only response.

She was sitting at the desk staring at one of her sketchbooks. Her chin was resting on her arm her nose was scrunched and eyebrows furrowed concentrating on the image in front of her.

It wasn't the Batman Glare but she looked just like Bruce when he was in deep concentration.

"Dinner is almost ready" he answered after entering the room.

"Dick thank goodness" She snapped her head up and looked at him with her full attention. "I can’t decide on a color for this blazer. It would look nice in an emerald or in a sapphire blue. I know I want to use gold as an accent around the main part that is black stitched with holographic music notes but I don't know maybe"

"Mari" he interrupted her. God she even over thinks like Bruce, that was why he had stopped her. "Breathe please. Now is this for a certain person or no one in particular?" He asked breaking her slight panic.

"It is for a commission so a certain person." she answered calming down.

"So would the person's hair or eyes clash with those colors" Thank god Barbara always dragged him shopping and complains how certain colors clashed with her hair.

"Neither would clash necessarily, but the sapphire blue would complement his hair and skin tone better" she finished writing something in on the page.

"Okay now that, that is settled why don't we go down for dinner Little B" Dick gave her a smile.

"Little B?"

"Little Bruce" be elaborated, really be meant little bat, but she doesn't know that yet so he improvised.

"Why?"

"The way you scrunch your nose and eyebrows when concentrating is just like him. That and completely overthinking and over analyzing things is just like him"

"It's a habit I've been trying to break" she answers sheepishly.

"Don't, just ask yourself questions to not get sided tracked, it is one of the best qualities a person can have" he answered honestly. "God only knows Bruce wouldn't come up with half of what makes up WE if he didn't overanalyze every little thing" she seemed to cheer up a bit at this and he is glad he could help his little sister.

---

The third incident happened with Tim to say he was surprised when he saw her awake in the kitchen at 3 in the morning as he came back from patrol was shocking.

Honestly the only people awake at that hour were either the Bats, criminals, or him well him or even Bruce who would still be working. But here she is completely awake making, wait is that.

"Is that coffee?" He ended up asking out loud.

She turned to face him "Yes. Want some?"

"Please!!" he practically begged.

"Fair warning this is my special blend, I haven't found anyone else who could handle it" she warned him, but he took it as a challenge.

"Try me" and she did, she set a cup down in front of him and also poured herself one. After the first sip he realized it was strong, much stronger than his usual, and that usually had an entire cup of espresso. "That is good. You are making this again if you don't give me the recipe" she giggled.

"Let's see if you can handle a cup and make it to breakfast." she countered and she left to her room.

When morning came he was still wired in fact he was practically bouncing in his seat while having breakfast and everyone was staring at him. Granted he was usually a zombie in the morning so this was new, actually functioning properly that is.

"You okay there Timmy" Dick asked him, and that was confusing.

"Yes, why wouldn't I be?" Tim asked.

"Now your beginning to scare us. Wait did you actually sleep, Replacement?" Jason asked him.

"I don't think he did Jason" everyone turned and stared at Marinette. "Half a cup" she said staring at him.

"Care to explain Bluebell."

"So turns out I'm not the only one awake late. Someone" she stared at Tim, "caught me making coffee last night, drank a single cup and still seems to be wired" she shrugged "so half a cup next time Tim"

"Wait, he is the most awake he has ever been in the, almost six years I've known him, and he hasn't slept." Damian stated bored. "what did you put in the coffee?"

"Nothing much, but if you know how to roast the beans right anything is possible" she rose the mug she was holding. That was when they all noticed the mug in her hand.

Out of concern, he is guessing, Dick and Jason moved to take the mug from her. They turned around to face each other with a smirk and they saw that they were both holding identical mugs to the one in, wait Marinette still has a mug.

"Enjoy the cocoa" she smiled as she took a sip from her cup.

"You really are Bruce's daughter if you can pull that with little to no sleep." Tim replied. Her only response was a head tilt. "I swear not sleeping and still being able to function absurdly well is genetic. You, Damian, and Bruce are alike in that."

---

The fourth incident happened and was witnessed by Damian. He was sure that he would be able to have the gym to himself as everyone was out on patrol but he was mistaken.

There was Marinette a headset on, with her hands wrapped moving between punching a bag and a sequence of movements. He watched her until she seemed to finish her set. She looked up and when she noticed him he walked towards her. She wasn't being her usual bubbly self, in fact it looked to him that she was upset.

"I didn't think anyone else would be in here" he stated."

"Oh, really" she answered lowering her headset ”I won't be a bother and did you want to take the punching bag." she said a slight frown on her lips. Okay he may not be the best at dealing with emotions, but he was extremely good at perceiving them on others.

"Something is bothering you, isn't it?" he was blunt sure but he wasn't expecting her to freeze and look around before taking a breath and schooling her features.

"No, everything is fine"

"It. As if I would believe that"

"Really now why don't..."

"Either you talk or we spar" he cut her off. He was expecting her to speak not take off her headset completely, set it down, and take a stance. The two began to spar and after almost two hours they were both lying on the mat exhausted.

"Thanks Damian, I needed a good spar"

"Any time you need, ask" he got up and began walking back to his room.

If he didn't already know she was a Wayne then that would prove it. Only a Wayne would rather not face their emotions and would rather fight.

His sister was his and he would be damned if he didn't at least help her. Albeit it he wasn't the most mushy of the family but she already was the most bearable of his sibling. Maybe he'll teach her to sword fight, then maybe someone would be an actual challenge for him.

~~~~~~~~~~

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ellana-ravenwood · 4 years

Text

“I wish I knew how to help you” - Batsis x Batfamily

Synopsis : Everyone has tough times at some point in their lives. Bruce Wayne most definitely knows that. But when his own daughter is going through a really rough patch, he finds himself not really knowing how to fix things...

This particular subject has been requested so many times (the earliest request dating from August 2018....mmmm..), so watch me butcher it with bad writing. I thought, given how I feel lately, it was the perfect time to finally write it. I hope you will like it (runs away to hide) :

TW : Anxiety, depression, mention of suicide.

My Masterlist : @ella-ravenwood-archives.

__________________________________________________

There hasn’t been a lot of time in his life where Bruce Wayne felt so completely lost. Of course, he would be lying if he was saying he never got confused, or if sometimes, he wasn’t quite sure what to do, what to say...

But if there was one thing he was great at, it was problem solving.

Even in desperate situations, he could always trust his analytical and collected mind to help him out.

In fact, Bruce Wayne could count on the fingers of one hand the amount of times he felt utterly lost, defenseless, and couldn't figure out a solution to his troubles. Not even a questionable one, like bottling up all of his feelings and pretending he doesn’t care while he’s screaming and dying inside.

He recollected exactly five times of such an event occurring in his life :

The day his parents died.

The day he realized he couldn’t save everyone.

The day Dick came to live at the Manor, and Bruce realized he had no idea how to raise a child.

The day Jason died.

The day he saw Damian kill.

And now, spilling onto another hand :

...The day he realized he had no idea how to help his daughter, you, with her mental health struggles.

Each time he had been completely lost, there was someone to help him.

For his parents’ death, it was Alfred.

For the day he realized even as Batman he would never be able to save everyone ? It was Commissioner Gordon, and his years of being a cop in a city like Gotham.

Dick himself, and Alfred of course, quickly helped Bruce to understand what it meant to be a father.

Tim’s arrival helped him grieve Jason.

And all his children, from Dick to Cass, and the experience he acquired trying to raise them helped him manage Damian’s problems. It was a plus for sure, that the boy wanted to be helped.

But with you...Any attempt of his trying to breach the subject would result in you brushing his concerns off, getting frustrated, or sighing “I’m fine” and leaving to isolate yourself in your room.

Sometimes, it felt like you really wanted to talk to him. Like you wanted to vent, and tell him what was wrong. But you always seemed to decide against it, maybe in fear of bothering him ?

Most of the time, it felt like you were living with your anxiety in peace. Like you greeted it like a good friend. Bruce had always known you were a rather stressed individual, but you always held yourself up so well ?

Most of the time, it felt like you were perfectly fine. How could he have known ? How could he have known you weren’t ? Ah...but maybe the signs were all there all along...

And Bruce just didn’t know how to help, when even you, didn’t seem to want the help...But maybe that was the trick ? To keep trying no matter what ?

At first, it didn’t seem to him like this would be an issue that could render him absolutely lost like this. And he hated the fact that he thought that.

Because it stemmed from one pervasive thought that made him despise himself : “Her fight with her own mind aren’t as bad as Damian’s, Cass’s, or Jason’s trauma. Aren’t like what Dick went through. It will be easier to fix.” And maybe you felt that, maybe that’s why you wouldn’t let him help ?

Why would it be easier anyway ?

Because you had a calmer childhood. Of course, being Batman’s daughter meant you definitely went through things most children will never experience. But compared to your siblings, you had a somewhat normal childhood.

The biggest trauma of it being the fact your mother, Selina Kyle (author’s note : I’m not particularly talking biological child here by the way, just to make sure y’all can all identify to this. Thought I’d mention it), decided to leave you in your dad’s care and had a very little part in your upbringing up until you turned 12 or so, which is the time she came back. You never seemed to even be mad about this. It always felt like you knew your mom had her own battles to win, that she wasn’t quite ready to have a child, and you forgave her as soon as she came back into your life.

But maybe that was the problem ? The fact Bruce always thought you were strong enough to handle things ? You always seemed to hold your own. You’d always been fiercely independent. Like you never needed help.

When Dick had fits of anger, you’d just stay quiet and withhold it.

When Jason was sometimes overzealous, you’d just stay calm and collected.

When Tim had massive freak outs at times because he felt he wasn’t enough, you’d just reassure him and stay grounded.

When Cass would have nightmare at night and be so scared she couldn’t find her voice again, you’d stay up with her and make sure to soothe her back to sleep, even if it meant not sleeping yourself.

When Damian would realize how much he missed out in life, in his childhood, and how little he knew about the real world...You’d be there, holding his hand while explaining in details why he felt the way he felt.

Even Duke, who arguably was the “sanest” of them all, had times where things were too much for him, and you’d magically appear by his side to help him through it.

You always seemed to be the one everyone relied on.

The one that has it all figured out, that has it together. The one most like Bruce, able to control her emotions. But the one even better than him, because you could also help others understand how they felt.

And that was why Bruce never really noticed your every day struggles.

Come to think of it, the fact you were always so on point and great in your explanations as to why someone felt the way they did, probably meant you felt like them before...

Oh god. God, Bruce hated this. Hated himself, even.

Hated the fact that he thought your fights with your own mind weren’t as bad as what Damian or Dick went through, as bad as Cass or Jason’s traumas. As bad as Duke witnessing what happened to his parents, because you...Well you still had both of them. And they were on good terms, now.

He hated the fact that it took you almost dying for him to realize you had a real problem too. For him to realize your apparent “I can handle my own” attitude was all a fragile facade that could break any time.

He hated the fact that he had to witness you almost letting yourself die, to realize this...The scene kept replaying in his mind.

A night out as vigilantes. Part of a building collapsing. You pushing a woman out of its way, but then just staring up at the crumbling wall that would crush you, not moving. And the state of daze you were in, when you found yourself in your father’s arms as he saved you in extremis from a certain death that you were clearly letting happen.

You later said it was a mistake. It was a simple mistake.

But Bruce, from that point and on, knew better. There had been a time, not long after his parents’ death, where he wondered what even was the point in living anymore. Where he found himself in a similar situation too, where he could save himself and yet stayed in front of the death threat. Alfred saved him at the time, gave him a good scolding which Bruce didn’t even register.

He recognize that look in your eyes.

Because he had the same one, many years ago, before he had a chance at having a family again. Before you, Dick, Jason, Cass, Tim, Damian...It was a look that meant : “What if I just let it happen, what if I end the pain by ending it all ?”.

And Bruce hated the fact that it took him witnessing this look in your eyes for him to finally realize you needed help. It tore his heart apart.

He hated the fact it took him so long to finally act upon it, to finally do something for you. No matter how lost he was as to where to even begin.

And so here he was, on a calm night in Gotham, sitting on a roof and researching on the internet what can be done to help people riddled with anxiety and such. He knew you enough to know you’d never accept to go see a therapist. But maybe...maybe he could help just as good ?

He knew how he got rid of his own anxiety.

The same way he got rid of many other things...He submitted himself to a strict training allowing him to control all of his emotions, shutting some away when needed.

But he couldn’t even imagine making you go through the things he made himself do. Not his daughter. Not any of his children.

There was a reason, the training he gave all of you wasn’t even 10% of what he used to do. Because he had nothing to live for except becoming strong enough to bring back justice to Gotham. Because he had nothing to look forward to except the fact that he was going to make sure no kid in that god forsaken city would go through what he went through ever again...

He gave himself the ability to turn into a machine. To shun all feelings away. Because he had a mission.

He would never, ever want any of his children to feel like this. Even if he managed to, in appearance, make himself feel nothing...It would always cause him tremendous pain. He knew how this felt, to force yourself to control everything.

No. His method was most definitely not fit for his daughter. He did not want her to become like him. And so, scrolling through forums, websites and blogs, he tried to find the best way he could to help his kiddo. It seems like there was almost like a “list” of things every person suffering from anxiety went through every day...

Wondering if your loved ones are upset with you.

“Are you mad at me ?”

Is the text you send to your oldest brother, Dick, immediately regretting it.

Because now, you were sure he’d find you annoying, pushy or anything of the like. Of course, Dick would never. But your mind was telling you he would.

He hadn’t responded to your text in a day, while he would usually be very reactive, and you didn’t need more to think he hated you, now.

Knowing there is no reason for you to feel that way.

Knowing for Dick to be “mad” at his little siblings, it would take a lot (you weren’t even sure you’ve ever seem him mad at any of you, except maybe the times you put yourselves in danger while he’s your team leader, but then it’s more a problem of being mad at himself than really at you.

Yet you cannot control it. You cannot. You are sure now, that he hates you.

Your father doesn’t understand why you’re so morose that day, and why you snap at everyone. He doesn’t understand, and you don’t tell him. And Bruce just ends up thinking you’re in a bad mood and leave you alone, while you desperately want to talk.

You want to tell him that you think Dick hates you. You want to hear him reassure you, even if technically, there is no need for reassurance. Of course your brother doesn’t hate you, he’s probably just busy, he just started his new job in Bludhaven, and moved in a new apartment and...Yes.

Rationally, of course you knew your brother, who has always been there and never shied away from saying he cared about you and love you, doesn’t hate you.

Yet you cannot help but think you did something wrong. You cannot help but think maybe he does. And you want to tell your dad, and have him reassure you, even if you don’t need to.

But instead, you snap at him. Instead, you push him away. Because you couldn’t handle your dad too thinking your annoying. Of course, he would think you’re annoying, a nuisance, if you told him you think Dick hates you...because obviously he doesn’t.

It was a vicious circle. So instead of possibly-but-probably-not-but-still-maybe be hurt, you pushed the one person you wanted close away, snapping at him and isolating yourself in your room.

TING ! Your phone, it’s ringing ! Oh please god, please be Dick !

It is your brother. He answered !

“Of course not ! Why would you think that ?”

You analyze every single word, and how he didn’t use an emoji, while he always does ! And the way he said “why would you think that ?”...he’s for sure mad at you now, and he thinks you’re the most obnoxious little sister that ever walked this Earth.

But you answer :

“Oh no reason lol. Hey wanna binge watch Gilmore Girls with me this week end ? Only you understand how a true masterpiece this show is.”

He doesn’t reply that day, and you think about it the entire night. He doesn’t come at the patrol of course, as again, he just settled in Bludhaven. And it starts. The spiraling of overwhelming feelings, the impossibility to let go of something.

You cannot think of anything else but sending another text to ask if he’s really not mad at you. You decide against it, because you don’t want him to think you’re annoying. Because you understand he has his own life now. Now that he moved from the Manor.

You understand he must be busy. That he has to settle in. That he doesn’t have to be available whenever you want, and that the fact he had always been up until now proved he was the best big brother anyone could ask for.

But you can’t help it. You think it must be you. That he’s not answering because it’s you.

And all of a sudden, you question every relationship you have. What if none of your siblings love you, and are just polite ? What if they’re lying because you’re really the only sibling out of all of you they don’t like and they’re just too nice to...Oh god. Your dad must hate you too.

Because you keep needing him to reassure you about stuffs. Ah yes, today you shunned him away, but sometimes, you guilt trip him so he says he cares about you. Or so he tells you nice things.

And suddenly, one of your biggest fear, the one where you ask for too much out of the people you love is back. And you cry. You cry all night. Because you have too many mood swings. You isolate yourself too much. But you don’t know, you don’t know how to make them see your fear of not being cared for...

And so you cry. Wondering over and over again “why am I like this ????” as you think all of your loved one are upset with you, and will never want to talk to you again.

Later in the day, Dick answers that he would love to watch GG with you, and there’s an emoji this time. Ah. So maybe he doesn’t hate you...

So many people wouldn’t even think this was a big deal, but for you...for you, it was...

Every small decision feels like it has life or death consequences.

You want to tell them. You want to tell them that’s why you couldn't choose what you wanted at the drive through fast enough. Why you stumbled on your words, and ended up blurting out : “Whatever Jason took !” because your taste in food was the closest to his.

You want to tell them, that even such a small issue, in your head, took a huge place. That you rehearsed what you were going to say when it would be your turn to speak to the waiter. That you got all tangled up, and didn’t ask what you actually wanted.

You want to tell them that sometimes, even the smallest “yes or no” question haunts you for days. That “what ifs” won’t let you alone.

You want to tell them, but instead you take the meal you didn’t really want, and eat it in silence, listening to everyone talking and enjoying this family moment. You stay quiet, your mind focus on how clumsy, dumb and useless you are.

Just because you couldn’t order something at the drive through.

You stay quiet, but your mind is racing about how much you suck. How you should get out of everyone’s way. Because you can’t even order food properly.

You feel guilty, because this is one rare family moment when you’re all together, and your siblings all have fun teasing each others, laughing and talking, while you just nod sometimes, smile, and die inside.

Just because you couldn’t order something at the drive through.

You think you’re absolutely insane. That you should be checked in in Arkham. You-

Bruce notices you’re quieter than usual. He notices you didn’t take your favorite burger. He wonders why, because he knows you really REALLY like that burger. Sometimes, he goes out of his way to go get you guys’ favorite food, and he knows that this burger is one of yours...

But he doesn’t dwell on it. Maybe you just wanted to change for once (which wasn’t much like you but oh well). And the fact you’re quiet ? Maybe you’re just lost in your own thoughts and day dreaming. After all, you do like to have some quiet and alone time, and this family dinner is happening on this time.

So Bruce doesn’t say anything, even if his guts tell him something is wrong.

Overthinking. Fearing something could go wrong.

You are in constant fear of what's going to happen if and when something happens to your dad ! Or your siblings ! What if you become homeless for some reasons ? What if you have no friends or family to return to ? What if what if what if what if what if what if what if what if what if what if what if...

Intrusive thoughts, they call them. And they don’t want to leave for sure. They’re persistant. They stay up until you overthink them to the point nothing makes sense anymore. To the dissociation.

And it makes your every day life a living nightmare.

Bruce, as he reads this part of an article on the internet, about how people suffering from anxiety are in a constant state of worry, feels his heart tighten at the mere idea you are going through this.

He knows you are. And he hates the fact it took him so long to realize because...

Not being able to control what's happening now or in the future.

Bruce could recollect so many times where, even as a child, you’d ask him questions like : “What happens after you die ?”, “What will happen to me when I get old ?” etc etc.

At the time, of course, he dismissed it as questions every kid asks. Wondering about the world around them. He never saw how much those questions would haunt you, how much sometimes, you couldn’t let go of things you perfectly knew you had no control over...

The signs were all there though.

You weren’t lost in day dreams, you were lost in nightmarish scenarios about what could possibly happen in the near future.

You were, every minute of every day, worrying about something that was currently happening, something that happened recently, or something that might happen in the next few moment, later the same day or in the future.

It was something you had to live with, and it never been just a child curiosity. As you grow up you stopped asking those questions out loud, didn’t mean they weren’t haunting you...

Making a mistake that will result in someone judging you.

You always had to be irreproachable.

You were a perfectionist.

A lot of time, people passed it as : “like father, like daughter.”

And Bruce should’ve known better...Why was he like this ? This part of him certainly didn’t stem from anything good. Yet he ignored the fact you acted exactly like him. The fact you were turning into him, on that front...

My brain is a TV and someone else has the remote.

... ... ... ...

************

Bruce had enough. He knew. He knew how you felt, and why you acted the way you did sometimes. And it was time. It was time to finally take action.

But he couldn’t do it alone. And he wouldn’t. In fact, they’d all be so mad, if he executed this plan on his own...

Because you. You were their precious sister.

They loved you, so much. And it would kill them, if they knew you really meant it, when you asked if they were mad at you. If they hated you. If they...

They always think you’re joking, or that you’re tired or something. That you have “mood swings”.

You don’t.

For you, all those issues are very real. But they don’t understand, because you’re always there to catch them, and they never expected you needed to be caught.

So when their father expose to them what he thinks is going on with them, and when they realize he’s right...

They feel crushed.

How ? How could they not notice their beloved sister was suffering so much ?

And so that day, they all swear that they are going to do everything in their power to help you. No matter what.

They will never give up on you.

No matter what..

************

“Why am I like this ? Why am I like this ? Why am I like this ?” You repeat to yourself, over and over again, as you feel your heart beat like crazy while it has no reason to.

While your chest hurt, and you feel the weight of anxiety on your shoulder, without even knowing why.

You keep telling yourself you suck, you keep being too harsh on yourself, and oh, oh if you only knew that your entire family right now, was plotting to help you feel better.

Unfortunately...

************

Dick’s antics soothe you for a bit, but as soon as he’s gone your heart goes wild again, refusing to stop, and your mind repeats bad thoughts to you.

The next day, Dick planned the PERFECT sister/brother day. Planning things to spend time with you, just like when you were little and it was just you and him.

It’s a perfect day indeed. Everything makes you forget your anxiety. You smile, for the first time in months since this weird extreme anxious state started.

Dick always knew how to make you laugh, and how to tease you just enough so that you wanted to show him what you were made of !

But once you’re home...

And Dick can try, try and try again, but no matter his effort, he can only relieve your pain when he’s around, and unfortunately, he isn’t always around.

************

Jason is patient, with you.

He listens, he empathizes and does not patronizes.

He’s there when you need him. He celebrates every small victory from you (like finally being able to order the burger you want). He encourages you, gives you all the hope he can. And it means a lot, coming from him.

Because Jason suffered a lot. He went through a lot. His death, and his traumatic return...

He tries to keep you hopeful. He is patient. Available. But he does things too well. You’re afraid he spends too much time with you, and forgets his own mental health. You know he loves to meditate, but haven’t seen him do it in ages.

Because he’s also keeping an eye on you. Your father probably told him the crumbling building debacle...And now he makes sure you’re ok.

But to the detriment of his own mental well being ?

You feel like you’re weighting him down. And slowly, he notices you’re avoiding him. And he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t want to push you, or force you to do anything...

************

It has always been easy, to talk to Tim.

Your brother is the only one in the family that did not become a Robin for personal reasons. Sure, he was struck with tragedy later in life (or he would never be your brother now...), but at the core of it...He was just a kid who wanted to help.

He was a fan of Batman, who really REALLY wanted to make himself useful. He became Robin, not because of any personal motivation but because he was just that selfless.

And so, it has always been easy to talk to Tim.

Which is why he’s surprised, when he realizes you’ve never told him about your anxiety. About your depressed thoughts. You vent a lot to him, but about small things. About things you can both laugh about.

It has always been easy to talk to Tim, and the fact you cannot address your anxiety problems tells him all the extent of it.

Tells him you’re truly suffering, and that he needs to get better.

To become an even better listener, for you. And as you witness him, just like Jason, sort of forgetting about his own well being, you cannot help but feel even worst...

They mean well. They mean so well. But you cannot stand them putting their own health on the line just for you. After all, you’re just a loser who doesn’t deserve any of those wonderful brothers and sister...

************

Duke tries to help you “temper your thoughts”.

His mom used to do that to him, as a child. He was always rather active, suffering from ADHD and such. In a lot of ways, his trouble resembled the ones you had with anxiety.

And he thought that maybe, helping you tempering your thoughts would be the best.

What does that even mean ? Well. Whenever he felt like you were anxious about something, scared or stressed, he would ask you if you were alright up until you’d finally tell him what was making you anxious.

And then he’d ask you the series of question his mom asked : “What’s the worst that can happen ? What’s the best that can happen ? What’s most realistic, or likely ?”...At first you didn’t really understand the point.

But soon enough, you got it. This was helping you turning your intrusive thoughts against themselves. Helping you see the good sides of things.

Unfortunately, just like with Dick’s technique of making you laugh and such, when Duke wasn’t around to remind you to consider the best, worst and most likely option...you forgot that trick.

************

"Let’s go to a quieter place, or go for a walk.”

Cassandra tells you, whenever she sees you get overwhelmed by something. And it works. It does.

You two just walk in silence, hand in hand.

Your sister’s presence reassuring, and warm. Her care for you sipping out of her very being, from her hand to yours.

“Let’s go to a quieter place, or for a walk.”

You go outside, and you don’t speak. She’s just here for you.

But she can’t always be around, can she ? She can’t always just magically appear next to you in moments of need, and say :

“Let’s go to a quieter place, or for a walk.”

But when she can. She does.

She knows when you get overwhelmed by sounds, by smells, by anything. And she brings you to places that makes you feel at peace.

Cassandra was never one to speak a lot, but she always understood.

************

Damian can’t help but feel sad that he, and the rest of the family, aren’t enough for you to feel better. That they can’t win against your depression and anxiety, no matter how hard they try.

And Damian. Oh Damian tries.

He makes sure you have everything you need. He makes sure to be there when it feels like you’re not feeling well, he follows you like a shadow and...

You both get more and more frustrated.

Damian puts a lot of effort into making you feel better, and you keep snapping at him, or pushing him away.

It’s because YOU’RE the big sister. YOU’RE the one who’s supposed to take care of him. But it seems like lately, Damian is obsessed with your well being, and he doesn’t even let you tuck him in anymore...He’s the one that comes tuck you in.

And deep down, you feel like it’s exactly what you need. You want to let your baby brother take care of you. And his worries are so sweet, and makes you feel all warm inside by how adorable this kid can be. How far he came back from.

Deep down.

But you’re not ready to admit you need help. Especially not from your 11 years old brother. No. He’s the one that needs the cuddles and the reassuring words. He’s the one that had it way tougher than you. And him taking care of you, although it feels nice, doesn’t feel right.

And it hurts, to see your little brother get sad because he can’t help you like he wants to. Because he thinks he’s not enough for you, and that’s why you’re feeling the way you are...

************

Nothing goes how they think it was going to go.

You do not get better right away. It doesn’t even feel like you’re getting better at all. On the contrary.

It feels like you push them away even more, that you become even more irritable, that...that...that you go further and further away from them.

And they don’t understand.

Even you, don’t understand.

Why do you feel so bad ? So Sad ? So anxious all the time ?

You don’t know. You don’t know. You don’t know.

“Why am I like this ? Why am I like this ? Why am I like this ?!”

You repeat this to yourself every day, without being able to find an answer.

And Bruce...Oh, your father came to the conclusion that the last and only option is that you need to go to therapy, you need professional help.

************

“What ? Why ? I’m fine dad !”

You say, anger pointing in your voice, as he tells you that.

“No you’re not, (Y/N). We can all see it. And there’s so much we can do we...I...”

There’s a silence. A heavy one. And it breaks Bruce’s heart, to see tears welling up at the corner of your eyes :

“It’s fine. I get it. I’m too much, aren’t I ? That’s why right ? I ruin you guys’ life ? You know, I noticed a shift not long ago. I know you’re trying to make me feel better, and I know you all get frustrated because you can’t. I swear I try dad. I swear I try to not get those bad thoughts. To not think you don’t love me, for whatever reason. To not think like I’m a burden. I swear I try to not be anxious. I try to not worry, about every little thing. I try so hard ok ?! But it doesn’t work ! And I know it’s wearing all of you down. I know it. But...I’m...It’ll be fine ! IT’LL BE FINE !!”

You scream those last few words, and a silence installs itself between you and your father.

Bruce just looks at you, and you cannot stand the pained look in his eyes. You never wanted your burden to transfer on your family like that...why ? Why did you get worst and made them notice you weren’t ok ? Why ?

Maybe it would’ve been better, if your dad didn’t see you about to get crush by this building, and hadn’t saved you. They’d have a-

“I won’t stop trying.”

Your father’s voice cuts your terrible thought, and you look up at him. He walked slowly to you, carefully, as if afraid to scare you. As if afraid you’re gonna “tt” him, and run to lock yourself in your room.

But for some reason, you don’t move. And you let him come close.

He brushes a few fingers on your cheek, as he used to when you were a child and unable to sleep. Him softly humming to you and brushing your cheeks slowly always made you fall right asleep...

“Until you feel better. And I will tell you over and over again that I love you and that I am here for you, if it’s what you need. I am your dad. I am here for you.”

And he understands your pain oh too well. It’s not because he managed to be able to shut his own mental health problems out, that he never feels them.

You are your father’s daughter. Unfortunately in that case.

Oh. Oh he wishes he could take on your pain. He could take on his shoulders your entire burden. He wishes it was only him, that felt that way. That you would never, ever feel anxiety, or depression again.

He knows it is not that easy. He understands.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Something breaks inside you. Something that was on the verge of shattering for years, but snapped only now.

“I just...I just wish I could help you. I just wish I knew how. I am trying too, (Y/N). And I won’t give up on you. No matter what you think. I will never give up on you.”

Those words. Those were so simple. Yet what you needed to hear for so long.

Because no matter your siblings’ effort, or Alfred’s, or your dad’s. Your friends at the Young Justice. Anyone you ever cared for...You always were afraid that one day, you’d be too much for them.

That one day, all your mood swings, pushing them away, venting and complaining often...would be too much. And that they’d leave you.

Alone forever.

“I’m not giving up on you.”

Coming from your dad. You knew he said the truth. You knew.

There’s a short silence. You look at your father, and even Queen Anxiety couldn’t make you think he wasn’t being genuine.

“You...That’s...I...”

Getting chocked up, you weren’t able to say anything, but he understood.

And he was there to catch you. You went right into his arms, and he held you tight, trying to convey to you all the unconditional love he has and will always have for you, no matter what.

No matter how much you push him away, how broken you get, how much you hate yourself and think you don’t deserve any kind of love...he’d always, ALWAYS love you. And would never give up.

“I’m here. I’m here. I will always be here.”

His voice was soothing. It has always been soothing. And he was there.

He was there.

“Thank you...”

You manage to whimper out, as he holds you against his heart.

And, finding it hard to reign his own emotions in (his children have always been the only ones who could cross all his walls and find the vulnerable Bruce who feels everything), Bruce repeated as much as you needed to hear that he was here.

He would always be here for you.

Always..

And the path to your recovery was now open.

__________________________________________________

Here we are. I am sorry if this is sort of...bluargh. Or not what you wanted. But I do hope you liked it. Haha I feel like this story is so ridiculous...I guess this feeling is in the theme eh..........Maybe it’s also because as usual, I wrote very late into the night, and sleep deprivation always make me feel like I do stupid things. Write terrible stuffs.

Reblogs and feedbacks are always welcomed ?

Haha. Convincing.

See you soon with another story, much lighter than this one for sure haha...

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persephones-deadly-nightshade · 3 years

Text

Beauty and The Beast

ft. familial relationships

A platonic JasonXSteph pre-romantic TimSteph

Background:

The batfamily are loyal protectors. A mix between knights a vigilantes. Jason dies. Jason gets resurrected via the pit. Jason comes back pissed. He returns home though, doesn’t go on a killing spree, slowly incorporates back into the family.

Jason still dislikes Tim, (Replacement) and Damian (Demon Brat). He is still bitter at Bruce, (B stands for bitch) and resenting Dick(Golden boy/perfect child). He loves Cass (hard not to.)

Anyways something happens, maybe he’s benched Demon Spawns not, pit rage occurs, a guest pops by the door.

Guest is treated rudely and prepares to curse entire family.

Alfred and Bruce welcome her in.

She doesn’t curse yet.

Hears Jason wish he didn’t have family. Family sucks.

Curses him into a beast, transforms his servants into furniture, telling him if he doesn’t feel brotherly love and learn to appreciate family, they’ll stick. The family (Ohana Bitches) intervene to give him a shot to fix this.

They sacrifice their voices/bodies for time. Each person earns Jason an extra 20 years. (100 total) His family members are like ghosts, unable to communicate with Jason besides occasional impressions. They’ll be back if he ever breaks the curse.

Jason is horrified at himself and sinks deep into depression. The pit madness rages more often than not. Time is passing all to quickly...

Start of Story:

Meet Steph. She is a pretty girl, but all to smart and spirited for her village. She loves her mother, another smart woman, an nurse from the city who moved from the country at the behest of her controlling husband.

Meet the controlling husband, Arthur Brown, aka the “Gaston” of the story.

He is not a good person, or father, but the town loves him.

He wants a “perfect” daughter. Timid, reserved, demure. Steph is resisting, but soon she won’t be able to put him off.

Her mother goes into the city for special herbs, needed as the village healer. She ends up seeking refuge in the beast’s castle.

Alfred, who previously disconnected from the Waynes, becoming more butler than grandpa to keep Jason company, takes care of her.

Jason flashes back to the last woman whom they invited in and pit madness overtakes him. He throws her in the dungeons.

Steph comes looking for her mother, running towards the terrifying castle because without her mom, Arthur Brown would bend her quickly to his will.

Steph and Jason’s first meeting was... A disaster.

Think Steph screaming, think Jason screaming back. Think Alfred pushing her into the guest bedroom as the Waynes try to calm Jason the fuck down so he can use the girl to break the curse.

They are in an awkward limbo for days.

Alfred, fed up, escorts Mrs. Brown out in exchange for Stephanie, after explaining what the very aro/ace Jason will need from Steph. (Basically reassurance that Steph would be trapped, but zero chance of getting raped or seduced.)

Because she must not think of him a brother purely for the curse, Steph doesn’t get the full story.

The first week and a half is Jason avoiding the fuck out of Stephanie and being annoyed at Alfred’s deal.

Steph is terrified. She rashly agreed to this deal including spending time with a giant strong monster, Alfred is kind, but she hasn’t seen the silver candlestick since he broke the rules. She is fearing for his safety.

Alfred’s fine, just giving Jason an I’m so disappointed in you silence.”

Eventually, Steph starts poking around.

To preserve his brother’s privacy, he stops her before she can go into the family wing, and has Alfred show her the library. Steph is bored.

She pokes around more. Jason bodily stands in her way.

She persistently pokes him into spending time together. Listen, She is really fucking bored out of her mind.

Alfred refuses to show her the training room, so Jason has to do it.

Less than a month later, he caves. (Steph is annoying persistent)

Her eyes light up at the sight of punching bags and Cass’ equipment, that girls were allowed to fight maybe she could.

She doesn’t ask for permission.

He catches her throwing a fucking terrible punch.

He can’t let that stand.

The fam watches in glee, as the blonde pokes every single one of his buttons, and accidentally/unknowingly manipulates him into spending time with her. (Tim might just be falling in love)

(She out of his league, like a lot)

Invisible family thinks it’s adorable.

Alfred tells her the history of the manor, and about the Batfam spirits. They comfort her when she gets scared, an impression of warmth and safety.

She learns to differentiate. She notices Tim spending a lot of time, doesn’t know it’s Tim. Alfred Knows. Alfred knows all.

Eventually Jason begins liking teaching, and instead of just a harsh taskmaster, he becomes more of a mentor.

Coins her Spoiler after hearing about how she resists her shitty dad.

Winter comes. He teaches her siege warfare and silent moving through snowball fights and games.

He teachers her piano. How the fuck is his voice that nice?

He teachers her to cook and they have ingredient fights. If she can get him in a good mood, he’ll tell silly stories about his family, going all wistful.

Good things come to an end. She gets word that her father is beating Mrs. Brown because she managed to escape. It’s her fault, her mother is getting hurt.

A worried Jason bans her from going home.

Steph runs away anyways, with a purple cloak streaming behind her.

Wolves attack. She can’t hold them all off.

The Red Hood makes an appearance, saving her life.

The Pit rage comes back, he almost couldn’t protect her. Suddenly her broken body gets replaced with, little Timbo’s, babybat’s, his dad’s, Big Wing’s, and Cass’. All gone because he couldn’t control himself. The depression returns full force.

He barricades himself in his room.

Steph punches the punching bag, often. She knows she fucked up. She misses her mentor. Things deteriorate.

The orange rose petals are almost out.

Jason, unable to stand the sight of Steph after associating her with his family, sends a carriage for her to take home, gives her weapons to stand up for herself easier.

Steph, split worried between her mother and Jason, takes the opportunity to go home, as Jason will have Alfred, but her mom has nobody.

She gets home to try to protect her mother, and her father captures her and puts her in a shock color that is programmed to send a jolt of electricity each time he presses the button. (Aka when she disobeys)

Arthur Brown, annoyed that she had been protected from him for that long, and dismayed that she had learned to fight, (That punch to his face was beautiful Steph, the whole Batfam is proud.) Decides to storm Wayne castle.

Mrs. Brown (’cause I still don’t know her name) notices Steph looking troubled and tells her to escape and send a warning to her new family.

Steph denies the family part twice before her mom shuts her up with a look and pretty much said, “Steph, he’s like, your perfect older brother. You guys even have nicknames.”

Steph realizes she’s right.

Steph disables collar and runs toward the manor, taking the conveniently located, super secret passage.

(She didn’t take it home initially because she didn’t know, then Alfred told her after the wolf attack, but it wasn’t an emergency because Jason prepped a carriage.)

So Steph arrives as her father does, he is still the better fighter, so Jason goes up against Arthur Brown as Steph and the furniture/servants take out the mob.

As they are fighting, it is, of course, the perfect time for a heart-to-heart.

“Why did you come back?/Why did you avoid me?”

“I can’t lose my brother!/I can’t stand seeing my family hurting!”

“What?!?/What!?!

“Cool/Sup.”

Arthur Brown gets a lucky hit in when the two are dramatically confessing their new familial bonds.

Jason falls.

Arthur gloats.

Steph knocks him the fuck out. (Heartwarming)

Steph then bear hugs Jason, Jason pecks her forehead.

Swirl of magic...

The servants turn human, the Waynes resolidify. There is a beautiful reunion. Oh, Jason also rebecomes human. (Meh)

Bonus-

As Tim is reforming, Dick shoves him towards Steph. All the bats think a blushing Tim would be hilarious.

He ends up a little to close.

Steph seeing a person she does not know directly in her personal space. Promptly bends down and yeets the brick she is holding. (Mwahahaha)

It was the start of a beautiful romance for the ages.

#platonic jaysteph #batfamily #batfam #batbros #timsteph #dcu #disney #beauty and the beast #batfamily au #familial love #DisneyXBatfam Headcannons

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littlemissinvisible101 · 3 years

Text

From Replacement to the Original pt.1

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Fandom: Batman - All Media Types

Relationships: Tim Drake & Selina Kyle, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne

Characters: Tim Drake, Janet Drake, Selina Kyle, Original Male Character(s)

Additional Tags: Tim Drake-centric, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Good Parent Selina Kyle, Somewhat good parent Janet Drake, Bruce Wayne is Tim Drake's Biological Parent, Selina Kyle is Tim Drake's Biological Parent, Selina Kyle is Catwoman, Past Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Child Neglect, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake Has Issues, Tim Drake Was Robin, Protective Selina Kyle, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe

Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne had just woken up on his once-a-month mandatory rest day when he saw that the Drake Family Lawyer contacted him about a contingency letter left by his mother. Apparently, word of mouth travelled fast that he had come back from his supposed soul-searching trip around his parent’s favorite dig sites.

Mr. Fletcher had asked him when he was free to come get the letter his mother had left for him. Tim had wanted to get out of Gotham as soon as he could so he set up an appointment for that afternoon.

Tim had whipped together a quick breakfast and taken his antibiotics before he spent the rest of the morning finalizing his 2 weeks’ notice since Bruce had been able get back into Wayne Enterprises for the week. It had just been a little over a month since Tim had brought Bruce home from the Time Stream and while Tim had expected things to change, he had hoped it would be for the better.

Bruce hadn’t even blinked at the sight of Damian wearing the Robin suit. Hell, he had congratulated Dick for the way he had managed to keep Gotham and everything in line. Bruce had even found the time to fix up his relationship with Jason before he talked to Tim.

He didn’t even bother to thank Tim for saving his life and for taking over his family business. Instead, they talked business and acted as if nothing was wrong in front of the WE employees. If it wasn’t in business suits, then it was in the other suits when he called in Red Robin to help with a case. Tim hasn’t stepped foot inside the Manor in months.

If this was Bruce’s way of saying he didn’t need Tim anymore, he got the message loud and clear. After all, he was just the replacement, right? The pretender who forced his way into their lives and refused to go peacefully so he had to be kicked out. Well, here he was, bowing out silently out of their lives.

Tim had planned meticulously for how he would be able to leave without them noticing. In a week, he would submit his 2 weeks’ notice to Lucius Fox before heading on business trip to Japan to finalize a deal. He would be spending the next week there before heading to Austria for another week for another business deal. After, he would simply go wherever he wanted to go.

He preprogrammed a message to be sent to each of the Bats, as a farewell of sorts because even if they didn’t think of him as family, he still loved them as if they were his family. He had even prepared a message for the Titans in case they would ever need him again. They were the only ones Tim trusted enough to keep in contact with. Everyone else, even Alfred would have to be left behind.

Tim viciously pushed these thoughts to the side as he decided to enjoy a quick lunch before he made his way to talk to Mr. Fletcher. As he mindlessly prepped ingredients for a simple salad (because his immunity was shot so he needed all the help he could get), he wondered what would be in the letter.

His mother was not the touchy-feely type. She wouldn’t put something about them loving him. Most likely, it would be business instructions to ensure that Drake Industries would still be the empire that it had been under his mom’s command. Unfortunately for his mom, his dad had been the one to wreck the empire.

Tim had thought about reviving Drake Industries but had ultimately decided it wasn’t worth it. The amount of time that went into running a business wasn’t conducive to being a teenage vigilante and Tim wanted to be free to pursue the things he wanted in life. He had more than enough money to live off on and he had invested his money wisely so it had been turning a profit since he had left Gotham the first time.

Even if he continued his vigilantism, he had more than enough money to support himself. He didn’t need their help anymore, just like they don’t need him anymore. As he started cooking his breakfast, he marveled at how he had gotten to this point of independence from the Bats.

Ever since he came back with Bruce in tow, the rest of the Bats didn’t even bother to contact him unless it was for patrol or for a case. Oracle only kept in contact for business. Dick basically ignored their issues and tried to pretend they didn’t exist. Damian liked to act as if he didn’t exist. Jason was, oddly enough, the only one he could stand even if they did only work together for cases. Cass was still in Hong Kong.

If he was being honest with himself, Tim desperately missed being home at the Manor but after everything happened, it was clear that the Manor was no longer his home. Home used to be with the Bats and occasionally, with the Titans. Now, Tim would have to find a new home for himself, hopefully away from Gotham and the Bats.

Tim ate his salad mindlessly while he let his mind wander on his active cases. He would need to tie up his loose ends before he left without the bats taking notice. He popped his next dose of antibiotics into his mouth after and finally decided that he’s wasted enough time to start getting ready for the appointment.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, Timothy Drake-Wayne was ready and presentable to the public again. Tim debated bringing his motorcycle but the address of the office was only a couple of blocks from his apartment and he could use the walk to clear his head and get some fresh air.

As he left his penthouse, Tim’s mind debated again about what his mother could have possibly written about. His inheritance had already been secured since he was born so it couldn’t be that. The business had already sunken and drowned under the guidance of his father. It didn’t make any sense for Janet Drake to write a contingency letter and yet, here it was.

Tim didn’t know why but every step felt like it was weighed down with lead and his stomach dropped as he got closer and closer. By the time he was at the office, Tim’s mind was buzzing about theories as to what could have been so important for him to know that his mother, famed Iron Dragon of Gotham wrote a letter just in case she died.

Mr. Fletcher must have been eagerly awaiting him by the looks of it since Tim had scarcely knocked on the office doors before it was opened. It’s been a while since Tim had seen Mr. Fletcher given that he had retired before the Drakes passed.

“Timothy, you’re early!”

“Mother taught me that it was better to be early than to waste other’s time. It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Fletcher.”

“That does sound like something Janet would preach. I wished we’d met again under more ideal circumstances but you’ve grown into a fine young man. Your parents would be proud.”

“Thank you. Your email mentioned a letter from Mother?”

“Ah yes! As you know, ever since my son took over my position at the firm, I had relinquished all of my active duties to him but this was more of a request made by your mother to me as a confidant and friend. Jacob, my son had been cleaning out my office a few days ago when he found the envelope. He contacted me immediately about it and I remembered what it was about. I made the trip out here because I had to give it to you before I forgot again. I owe your mother that much.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Fletcher?”

“I think it’s best for you to read it, Timothy. I already know what it contains but I’m here to answer any of your additional questions.”

This suddenly seemed like a much bigger deal than Tim originally thought it would be, especially since Mr. Fletcher had left his retirement in Metropolis to give this to him in person. With bated breath, Tim opened the sealed envelope and began to read.

~~~

Dearest Timothy,

If you are reading this, then there are two possible options. Either I have passed on before your 18th birthday or I was too much of a coward to talk to you about this in person and I gave you this letter instead. As I write this, your father is asleep, holding you after a nightmare from today’s ordeal at the circus. I have tried to sleep but my mind will not be quieted about the possibility of that happening to us before I could tell you the truth so I decided to make this contingency letter just in case. By the time

you’re reading this, you will have grown into an intelligent young man who I know is capable of so much more than Jack and I could have ever dreamed of, partially because you are more than Jack and I could ever produce.

Timothy, you are not our biological son. I had gotten pregnant but the child I had borne was stillborn. Jackson Timothy Drake hadn’t been able to take his first breath before it was taken away. Luckily for me, your father was out of town on business and I rushed to Gotham General against my earlier wishes and they had stuck me in a room with another woman who had given birth to a beautiful and healthy baby boy, you.

You were both born on the same day, in the same room, with different fates. Your mother was a young woman from the seedier side of Gotham and your father was out of the picture, or so she said. She was planning to give you up for adoption anyway and so I made the only impulsive decision I have ever made since marrying Jack and I told her to give you to me. I told her I would give you the life of luxury you deserved and that you would never want for anything if she gave you to me. She agreed on one condition: I tell you the truth about your parentage on your 18th birthday so that she could have the opportunity to get to know you too.

She didn’t even let me pay for her hospital bills because she didn’t want to be indebt to me even though I was forever indebted to her for giving me you. I had John rush over to Gotham General and make a contract for both of us because I could not allow Jack and the rest of Gotham High Society to find out about this. The only ones who knew about you being adopted were me, John, your mother and the medical staff who helped us. Since Gotham General was severely underfunded prior to my intervention, it was easy to get them to change the records to make Timothy Jackson Drake be born and for Jackson Timothy Drake to disappear. I had gotten the staff involved to sign NDAs and to make sure that none of this got out.

As I write this, I have seen you grow into this absolutely marvelous and intelligent child, talented in ways I could have never expected. It is bittersweet for me because as I see you grow, I cannot help but think of what my biological son could have been had he survived. Would he be as smart and as capable as you? Would he be different compared to you? Would I have taken you in had he survived? I have never regretted my decision to adopt you but I could not stand to watch you grow when I know my biological son never will. I know I will most likely grow to be distant from you and I already regret it but I cannot stop myself from seeing my dead son in you.

However, I can already tell you will be stronger than I ever could be. You take to your lessons like a duck to water and you see a magic in the world that I could never see. I want you to know that even if you are not mine biologically, I still love you even if I cannot show it. I love you even if you cannot feel it. I love you but I also love the son that I lost and I cannot help but mourn for him while I watch you grow. Your father does not know so his love is genuine and pure for you.

I want you to know this, Timothy. I took you in on an impulsive decision but I have never regretted it. Sure, I wish with all of my heart and mind that my son had survived but I was able to have you and you more than made up for it. I know that this does not excuse my future actions, my possible neglect of you but I hope you understand why I cannot bear to be close to you. I love you even if I do not show it. I love you even if you cannot see it. I love you and I hope you can forgive me for not telling you sooner.

Love,

Mother

~~~

Of all of the possibilities Tim had considered, this was not one of them. This explained so much but also left so many questions but the only thought passing through his head was the fact that, even at birth, he was a replacement.

“I assume you have questions?”

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, to be honest. You’ve known the entire time?”

“Yes. I was the one who made the contract for your mother and she swore me to secrecy.”

“So, let me get this straight. I was just a replacement for her son who died?”

“No! Of course not. Timothy, I know it must not have seemed like it but your mother and father truly did love you as if you were their own. Your mother has some leftover problems from her childhood that negatively impacted her ability to show her love even if she does. She would have never bothered to put in the effort otherwise.”

“I’m trying to believe that but my recollection of Mother is not that different from the Iron Dragon of Gotham.”

“That’s because she fought to give you the best education and care possible which she knew was not her own. That’s why she constantly changed your nannies and tutors because as soon as she felt they inadequate for you, she was searching for the next best thing for you. Janet didn’t really care in the normal ways, Timothy. I know it’s hard to see but she really did love you and take care of you in her own way.”

“I just. I never expected this.”

“I knew this day would come but I was honestly hoping your mother would be here to explain her side of the story before she told you who your birth mother was.”

“Do-do you know who my birth mother is?”

“It’s not written in the letter?” Mr. Fletcher seemed genuinely surprised at this.

“No. Mother didn’t include her name, just a vague description of her. Can you tell me who my mother is?”

“I guess by the time Janet wrote it, she had forgotten the name. I think I have the contract hidden here. Let me look for it.”

What followed was the tensest five minutes of Tim’s life. He didn’t even know if his biological mother was still alive but he wanted to find out. After all, his birth mother had wanted to reconnect when he was older. Maybe, she wanted to have him in her life, just like Mo-Janet had apparently wanted him in her life.

Maybe, she would be there with welcoming arms. Maybe, she was one of the many civilian casualties of their nighttime escapades. Maybe, she had gotten lost in the seedier side of Gotham and she had never been able to make it out. There were so many maybes that Tim wanted to figure out what was true and what wasn’t.

“Aha! Here it is. According to this, your birth mother is Selina Kyle.”

Holy shit. His mother was fucking Catwoman.

#tim drake #bruce wayne #selina kyle #tim drake angst #ao3 fanfic

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cryinginthebackseat · 4 years

Text

initials t.c.

Fandom: Open Heart

Pairing: Tobias Carrick x MC

Words: 7.299 (I’M SO SORRY)

Summary: Tobias Carrick makes Claire an offer she can’t refuse.

Warnings: 50% plot, 50% smut, swear-a-thon, blasphemy

Author’s Note: when the book first introduced us to tobias carrick, the first thing that hit my mind was “okay, but that dude is like the carbon copy of jesse williams and that’s hot” but then, once it reveals who he is and what’s his role in the book i went “interestinggggggg” cause you know, i’m a sucker for morally grey characters and all, and i’m not even ashamed to admit it. also, carrick is shaping up to be such an interesting character with each chapter and maybe one day- okay, maybe this sounds like a pipe dream- but one day, i hope he can be a li (let a girl dream plz) lmao

also if anyone’s interested, i made a PLAYLIST to accompany reading the fic.

the title is inspired by serge gainsbourg’s initials bb

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Cast down off heaven Cast down on my knees I’ve lain with the devil Cursed god above Forsaken heaven

To Bring You My Love - PJ Harvey

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Whenever Claire thinks about Tobias Carrick, admittedly, unfortunately, tragically, she always thinks about his eyes first before remembering what a colossal pain in the ass he is.

It always comes in that order. Like the number 3 always comes before 4, like the seawater dragging back from the shoreline before a tsunami occurs, like pouring milk before the cereal (she honestly didn’t get what the fuss is about until one day Elijah cried ‘oh, hell no you don’t, satan!‘ one morning and proceeded to give her bullet points why pouring the milk before the cereal is considered a sin and more of an abomination than Nephilims’ existence and that there’s a higher probability that she’s a psycho for being a ‘milk first’ kind of person). So apparently, Claire’s a psycho now which explains so many aspects- but she digresses and the point is, the reaction is uncontrollable and she high-key hates how she can’t control her goddamn mind most of the time.

The point is, she needs to stop thinking about him to begin with.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Claire Castelnuovo was born in the summer, under the sign of Gemini. Marilyn Monroe once said that stands for intellect, being a Gemini, but she was too blissfully unaware of this guerdon that she devoted her adolescent years to being outdoors instead. Too many days she spent trampling along the cornfields with her cousins until the skies faded out with brilliant purple-tinged amber and she was carrying a piece of the sun in her skin and smelled like one, stuffing wildflowers inside her boots as she walked around the neighborhood with her dad’s old stethoscope, napping in a hammock with Oasis’ All Around the World on repeat. By the time she hit 15, her black strands had turned brown from repeated sun exposure. She loved it.

But it was a different time, a different place. Somewhere that only exists on the margins of her memories, lost and hidden.

Now, Claire prefers the night.

It’s 9:30 pm when she arrives at a hotel bar in downtown Boston. A newly christened establishment which has somehow become a regular spot for Hemingway’s enthusiasts once the Boston Globe wrote an article about their Hemingway Daiquiri and how, as they wrote it, ‘probably the only place that’s brave and crazy enough to adhere to the 1930s original recipe’ and bourgeois party birds at wee hours during the weekend.

Her eyes are gritty, dry and strange. Her mind’s much worse for the wear- she feels like shit, like in the middle of watching that scene from The Green Mile shit when all is hopeless and you feel like walking out of the theater, but you’ve spent your last savings just to buy the ticket, so you decide to stick through it.

Claire makes a beeline for the bar, tries to flag down the bartender. She orders an Old Fashioned, making sure to specify to double it because she’s not a regular here and he’s not Reggie and that’s how she’s been taking her drink for years.

She knows well deep in her bones that she should be somewhere else. Somewhere more familiar, somewhere where Tim Mcgraw often plays from the subpar speakers, and the rustic wooden bar countertop is gouging and discoloring from the cheap household cleaners and alcohol stains, and her friends are cramming together in the same booth in the back, reveling and laughing until they close the bar down and make a mess all over. Perhaps it’s a mistake coming here, where no one’s a familiar face and the drinks are a tad overpriced for her budget.

But then, perhaps this is exactly what she needs; the unfamiliarity, the visceral feeling knowing that she doesn’t belong here, where no one knows her name and the huge deal of weight she’s currently carrying on her shoulders. Perhaps, she can’t face her friends after what happened, after what Esme has done. Shit, how could any of this happen? Claire knows this all on Esme’s, but her guilt has grown hopelessly tangled with her anxiety. She’s her intern, for fuck’s sake, Claire’s supposed to prevent this from happening in the first place.

Man, where’s Declan Nash when she feels like punching someone in the face?

Claire makes the mistake of drinking her drink too quickly, because it hasn’t been ten minutes and she’s drained half of the content. Then she reaches for her phone in her bag, fiddles with it, absent-minded, equal parts bored before then settles on watching the band performing Art Pepper’s You Go To My Head and immediately thinks of that time she accidentally dropped her brother’s saxophone in a moment of her rather graceless, wine-soaked self with the whole family present.

Someone plops down on the empty stool next to her. Claire’s now scrolling through her phone- again, bored. Sienna commented on the post Elijah shared to the group chat with a few unnecessary-yet-totally-necessary emojis to the already convoluted series of texts and Claire only reads them in silence, not only because her friends’ texting behaviors are too chaotic for her to follow sometimes but she’s not really feeling like talking to anyone right now.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Famous last words.

Claire freezes in her seat. Her phone’s still glowing in her hand, alighting her features. She recognizes that voice- too well, that is and it’s enough to set off her flight-or-fight response.

She glances up from her phone, preparing for the worst.

Well, what’s presented before her is literally the worst.

“Of all the gin joints…” she says once her eyes find Tobias Carrick sitting next to her, still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled-up, a few buttons undone, reeking of smoke, soap and antiseptic with a shit-eating grin plastered over his face.

She should have gone to Donahue’s instead.

“Evening to you too, Castelnuovo. Drinking your dinner tonight, I see?”

“What, this? No, this is breakfast. 100% daily value of alcohol and pretty much nothing else. I mean, it’s not the weekend without a bad case of hangover and an aspirin snowglobe in the morning, am I right? You know, like a glass of aspirin? Not a literal snowglobe?” she blabbers, realizing just so by the time she hears him snort. Claire chokes down another sip to shut her mouth up. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m about to commit first-degree murder and burn this whole place to the ground,” he drawls, the ever goddamn sarcastic. “What do you think? I’m trying to get dru-”

“No, I mean what are you doing here, of all places? Can’t you get drunk somewhere else?” she interrupts, her midwest accent does funny things to the vowels and consonants- something that only happens whenever she’s in distress, or at least according to Jackie.

“Last time I heard, this joint’s still owned by the Hilton, not a certain junior member of the Diagnostics Team at Edenbrook hospital.”

“Dude, what do you think of the H in Claire H. Castelnuovo stands for?” Deadpan, trying to keep up with the rolling sarcasm, she retorts. He smirks.

“Horatio?”

“Get the fuck out of here,” she mutters, mid-eye-roll, mid-snickering.

He chuckles, his voice rich and smoky amidst the late-night swing and distant chatters. Carrick doesn’t leave, of course, typically him- if those anecdotes Ethan told her has taught her anything about his character, that is- defying everything, scheming his way to the top, the embodiment of ‘those devilish boys with their heavenly eyes’ type your mother warns you about.

Not that the latter is relevant.

“Or what?” His mouth twitches but there’s a hard, challenging light in his eyes that she knows too well by now.

“Or I’m leaving.“ She shoots him a glare. He’s testing her patience- again, like it’s his finesse. Some things never change, it seems.

“Come on, Castelnuovo, don’t be a sourpuss. The night is young and I can promise you, the last thing I am is a horrible drinking buddy.”

With a touch of irony, she replies: “I’m sure. I bet you asked your friends to fill out a questionnaire every time you went out with them, did you?”

Carrick hums.

“You’re funny.” But he says it in the same tone that someone might say Jesus fuck, you’re probably one of the most frustrating creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on. Also, because the next thing he says is: “A little rough around the edges, but funny nonetheless.”

“That makes one of us then.”

Carrick frowns, which is kind of a surprise because she’s half expected him to flash her that signature cheeky grin of his.

“Listen, I’m just trying to make a friendly conversation here. I know we haven’t really seen eye-to-eye with each othe-”

Claire snorts and crosses her arms over her chest. “That, doctor, is an understatement of the fucking century.”

“Okay so, we’re like Tom and Jerry but sans the background music and a naive little duckling running around calling one of us his momma, but I feel like now’s the time to call out a temporary truce between us.” A beat, then: “I heard about what happened with the intern.”

Something flashes across her face- and Carrick must have noticed it, because his face does this odd thing- it softens, even for a moment. She hates it. He’s not supposed to be looking at her like that, not supposed to see her at her weakest state or saved her ass- And Jesus, why does she have to be indebted to Tobias Carrick, of all people- But god forbid, the last thing she’ll ever do is crying in front of him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mutters, barely audible, trying to temper her fluctuated emotions.

“Then don’t. We can talk about anything else or fall into some sort of endless, meaningless platitudes. Whichever will work.” As if sensing Claire’s lingering hesitation, he adds. “Tell you what, to sweeten the offer, your next drinks are on me.”

She assesses him for a long minute, eyes narrowing. She’s shaking her head, but her mouth, as if against her will, instead says: “Careful, Carrick, there’s a chance I’ll be abusing that offer and run you dry.”

"Hey, if you want to butcher your liver so bad, don’t stop on my account,” he says. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll make sure to save your ass again this time around. Pro bono.”

Claire looks as if she’s just swallowed a dead rat. “Thanks, but no thanks. Death seems more like an appealing choice.”

“Well, I stopped death from interfering then, I’ll stop it again.” Carrick winks, she pretends to gag again yet remains still in her seat, so Carrick waves at the bartender for their order- she orders for a refill and he, a martini and Claire is this close from asking 'shaken or stirred?’ but then remembers who he is and immediately washes the question down with her drink.

“You know, if anyone told me weeks ago that I’d be having a drink with you tonight, I probably would have socked them.“

Carrick is in the middle of lighting his cigarette, but laughs instead. “The Times They Are a-Changin’, as Bob Dylan said.” A puff of smoke escapes his mouth, curling around his fingers. Claire instinctively looks away. “Which reminds me of that one time your mentor sang Ballad of A Thin Man on the fucking subway when we were 20.”

She swivels her head to his direction, on the verge of choking on her drink. “Hold on, hold on, Ethan Jonah Ramsey sings?”

“Give him a dare he couldn’t refuse and a few shots of whiskey, and I promise you he’ll sing like Sinatra on crack.” He grins, his eyes are all crinkled and bright; she thinks that means he’s genuinely amused. “Ah, good times. We were like- wait, who was it he’d like to say we’re like again?”

A small smile pulls at her lips. “Bert and Ernie.”

“Jesus, he really fucking compares us to some Sesame Street characters, huh?” She laughs at that, loud and bright. He does the same. “Personally, I’d always say we were like Butch and Sundance back then- rebels with a cause, a band of misfits, trying to leave our marks on the world. You know those types. We were young, we wanted so much- I still do. I mean, let’s be real, whoever’s wanted to be defeated at their own game?”

A crease forms between her eyebrows, not quite a frown.

“Nobody,” Claire concurs, hating herself for it. “But was it worth it? Betraying the closest thing you had to a brother or a lover…” Carrick coughs on his smoke from the latter. “or whatever in the process just to get what you wanted?” Claire was obviously aiming for that brash, hard-hitting jab, but it lands gloriously too soft.

The bartender finally places their ordered drinks down on the bar. Carrick reaches for it, taking a careful swig, then sets his glass down. He takes a deep breath.

"It’s nothing personal. It never was. I never considered him as my rival.”

“Yeah, but by doing whatever you did, you’ve made an enemy out of him,” she counters. “Look, Carrick, I know we live in a dog-eat-dog world and I know being good sometimes doesn’t get the job done. Perhaps Machiavelli was right. Perhaps, when necessary, you have to be ruthless, dissembling and manoeuvring- what did he say again? ‘The end justifies the means’? But if any worthwhile end can justify the means to attain it, if everyone outright surrenders to their darker side, then what’s left of our humanity?”

For an interminable moment, there is only silence. He simply stares at her, as if she’s a walking, talking Rubik’s cube he can’t solve or a book that he has opened and now he’s got to know so much more and she feels pinned under those warm irises, uneasy.

Suddenly, his mouth begins to take shape; the corners hike up, stretch and then he does the unexpected.

The bastard fucking laughs.

“Excuse me?!” she spits, white-hot anger lacing each word. Carrick laughs harder- the audacity- despite Claire’s growing razor’s edge stare. “Did you just laugh at me? I was being fucking seriou-”

“Sorry, sorry.” Wiping an imaginary tear from his left eye. “I was just remembering Harper’s words. She’s right, you really are on the side of the angels, aren’t you?”

She points at him with her glass, snarling. “And you, mister, are the devil himself with a medical degree and an egg head- and I don’t mean the slang for a highly academic person.”

“Ouch,” Carrick says out loud, still kind of laughing, borderline frowning. “Okay, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Damn straight. Though you have a lot to apologize for.”

He groans. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about that one patient I stole under your nose?”

“The North remembers, ser,” she says, mean-spirited.

“Then does the North remembers that I saved her life?”

“Oh, so you’re discrediting the efforts of the other doctors that helped you make the cure?”

“Alright, alright. You win.” Carrick holds up his hands, the universal gesture of defeat and takes one final drag of his cigarette. He stubs it out, all the while keeping his gaze on her.

“So, how exactly can I make it up to you?“

Claire blinks- once, twice, thrice, realizing his intent. His voice drops an octave and he’s leaning in, close enough for her to notice the constellations of freckles splaying across his face and the way his brown eyes glinted like two shots of whiskey under a stream of light, intense and all-consuming. She feels her mind races, her brains feel as if they underwent a short-circuit and get caught on fire, and the fact that her mind’s on the precipice of exploring the idea is not helping.

A burst of laughter erupts from her throat, not that it’s funny- there’s nothing funny about the situation, but someone ought to diffuse this shift of tension between them, or that was her aim, at least.

“What, you wanna pay me back?” she asks, trying to keep her voice from cracking but failing miserably. Fingers trembling against her glass as she chugs nearly a quarter of her drink in one go.

He notices that.

"A Lannister always pays his debts, does he? If you think that I owe you one, then I’ll gladly pay.” His eyes flick back to her face, searing into her. The air crackles between them. The band is playing a different song now, a sound that only exists on the margin of her attention. If they’re in, say a mid 2000s rom-com movie, someone would probably interrupt this moment and save her from this. But this isn’t a movie.

Claire licks her lips, a candid reaction which encourages him to inch closer- or is it her? She can’t tell anymore. Tracing odd patterns on the palm of her hand with his finger and oh god, this is Carrick, the bane of her fucking existence, she’d shoot him first before she kisses him. But something about the prospect of fucking this bastard twists her insides deliciously into a confused mess.

“How? By fucking me?” she inquires, feigning scandalized- all that Catholic guilt bullshit.

He grins, all-teeth and wolfish and shrugs as if they’re talking about his life insurance policy or shit. “Well, that’s the idea.”

“But you don’t even like me.” It should come out as I don’t even like you, but even she knows that’ll be just another lie she tells.

“On the contrary, I enjoy our rivalry far more than I should, Castelnuovo,” he purrs and places a hand on her knee. Her throat bobs. She’s wearing a skirt, it didn’t seem important then, but now his hand feels warm against her skin, dangling on the edge of impropriety. Like gravity, all it takes is a little push for him to cross that line.

“I should be disliking the way you talk to me, challenging me and putting me on the back foot every goddamn time. I should be focusing on taking you down a peg, but the more I see you, the more I realize you have an attractive kind of power. And I’m just one man. And if there’s anything I learned, the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

But then his movement suddenly ceases. Claire almost asks why.

"However…”

“What?” she stares up at him, eyes wide, breath hitching.

“However if you only accept alcohol as the currency for transactions, then I’ll tell the bartender to get us another round instead,“ he tells her, offering her one last chance to back out from this, from making this mistake with him.

Claire stares into her drink, actually mulling this over. Her mind tells her no, but the other part- the alcohol-infused part of her mind- whispers otherwise. She imagines if Ethan or any of her friends are here, they would probably grab her shoulder and shake the living hell out of her for even reconsidering his offer.

But then again, intelligence, alcohol and desperation have always had a bad history of getting along together.

“What about June?” Claire asks against her better judgement, after a long, considerable pause. Carrick raises a confused brow.

“What about her?”

“I thought you guys…” she trails off, makes a face, feeling all-kind of flustered and aroused and wow, she’s really doing this, huh? “I mean, I don’t know- I don’t wanna get in between you guys.”

“Nah. It was only a three time thing, but there’s never been anything between us.” He chuckles at Claire’s askance look. “If you don’t believe me, you can fact-check it with the woman herself,” Carrick adds, looking at her dead-on with his eyes like he wants to get the message across.

She regards him silently for a long second, and maybe she’s a touch drunk now, maybe the bartender put something in her drink, or maybe she just needs to blow off some steam after what’s been happening in these past few weeks and Carrick happens to be a decent warm body for the occasion, but Claire finds herself shifting closer.

"Then I want you to pay me back.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” she answers, more sure this time, more determined.

Her nose bumps his, his breath fanning across her face all the while Carrick’s slightly pushing her skirt up, letting his fingertips travel higher. His eyes keep darting back and forth from her eyes and lips, checking for her reaction. There is no inhibition here, not anymore. People might be watching- heck, they could be already watching and it terrifies her that she doesn’t give a damn about it.

“But if you tell anyone about this, I swear to god… ” she warns and a shadow of mirth passes across his eyes, making her almost regretting this. Almost.

“Claire, darling.” It’s the first time he’s ever said her name and her stomach does a tango. “Your secret is safe with me.“ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He gets them a room in the hotel, it’s on the twentieth floor. Carrick handles the accommodation- he can afford it, apparently, which is not really surprising and the nuisating check-in procedure while Claire only waits in the lobby like a beautiful, agitated china doll amidst the turbulent sea the whole time until he comes back, flashes the room key at her and beckons her to follow.

She goes ahead of him, but he catches up. His body heat sends her anxiety rocketing sky-high through the roof as they walk next to each other, hands briefly brushing against one another but she ignores that (or at least she tries).

They are silent in the elevator, they are silent even once they reach the designated floor and walk down the hall to their room where the dim and shadowed lights follow their steps like vultures.

Carrick holds open the door for her and she enters, taking in the windows and the striking view of Boston skyline peeking behind the curtains, the TV and the queen-sized bed. The latter does nothing to assuage the anticipation that’s bubbling in the pit of her stomach, by the way.

Claire hears him shut the door, locking both bolts. She peers at him over her shoulder, half-turned, one eye on him. Their eyes meet, neither speaks. He’s taking off his black peacoat, back against the door, he’s looking at her as if wanting her is his full-time occupation and the realizations comes in like a mule kick, how that tiny voice inside her head, the one that tells her that this is a bad idea and she’s better off leaving never comes.

The room is not considerably huge (with $110 per night, you would have expected you’d get a bigger room), he could easily have her in six large steps, yet he stands there. Sizing her up, smirking rather devilishly, handsomely as if challenging her to make the first move. It’s another fucking game with him. A display of power, waiting who would fall first.

Claire finally turns around to face him. With a renowned determination, she removes her coat, letting it fall unceremoniously onto the carpeted floor. Her blouse follows next and her skirt, which she tugs it oh so slowly down her legs.

Carrick’s eyes widen, if she doesn’t know better, she thinks he’s speechless. He takes a deep breath, his gaze religiously following every movement as she twirls around once more to unhook her bra. His jaw clenches and unclenches. He’s having a hard time keeping himself in check which she takes an immense pleasure in. Claire just wants to see the man squirm for a change, even if she has to shed every article of clothing she wears.

By the time she slips off of her underwear, she is breathing raggedly. He hasn’t yet approached her so she crawls onto the bed, lying on her back with one elbow props her up, legs crossed. She kicks off her heels, rolls down her stockings with a bit of that noir come-hither, Lauren Bacall-esque heavy bedroom eyes.

Finally, Carrick steps closer until he’s only a hair’s breadth away, like a target, filling her line of sight. The tension in the room is hot enough to send the thermometer reaching its maximum limit and she’s burning, burning, burning right through the core.

Claire cranes her head up to meet his gaze, noticing the way he’s drinking in her body like a pirate ogling a bottle of rum. High-strung, tense, Carrick lowers his head to her, his fingers carding through her long hair. Dimness consumes him raw, his silhouette is starting to find its place amongst the shadows except for his eyes. Never does the fire in his eyes falter, merely alight.

They are already nose-to-nose when Claire suddenly raises her hand over his lips. He withdraws from her, looking confused and hot and bothered.

“Take a seat over there, will you?” She motions to the settee near the bed, her tone leaving no room for argument.

He smirks, but she can see his bravado if faltering. “Ordering me around in the bed now, are we?”

“Didn’t you say tonight is about you making it up to me?”

“Touche, touche.” Carrick straightens his posture and makes his way to the settee across from her, shifting uncomfortably in his seat given the growing issue in his pants.

With eyes still trained to his, Claire cups her own breast, fingers pinching her pebbled nipple before the same hand travels lower down her stomach, her thighs. Carrick leans forward in his seat, obviously liking where this is going before Claire slowly and teasingly part her legs for him to see.

A surprised groan escapes him.

“Jesus, Claire,” Carrick hisses. “Fuck, I didn’t know you’re a goddamn tease.”

She doesn’t bother replying to him, but a winning grin finds its way across her face as she lays on her back, her shame and modesty are distant, knees pulled up so he can have a clear view of her. With two fingers, she runs them along her folds, dragging them slowly up to her clit. Claire imagines they are his fingers- which once upon a time would have horrified her, but tonight, as she repeats the motion over and over, knowing that he’s sitting there, watching her without being able to get his hands on her, she decides to submit to this newfound fantasy.

A rustle pulls her back to reality. He’s undoing his own pants, palming his cock, runs his fingers over the leaking head.

A low moan catches in her throat at that, her gaze snapping up from his erection to his face where his irises have darkened and pupils dilated. He wants to show her, that’s he’s as depraved as her when it comes to wanting, that he fucking wants her and in spades and she fails to think like a normal human being anymore.

Claire uses that image to work on herself harder, faster, feeling the intense pressure beginning to build beneath her fingers. She’s so wet now, despite him being able to see that, she wants him to hear it as well as she uses her idle hand to tap against herself. Carrick growls, his pace matching the rhythm she’s setting.

She slips her fingers inside her, drops her head back against the mattress and bites a loud moan that threatens to escape her lips. Flushing scarlet all over her abdomen, her breasts and up to her neck. Her blood thumping louder than bombs in her ears, her breaths begin to come in gasps.

Another fast and hard thrust from fingers, and Claire finds herself sighing his name.

“Tobias…”

And every last bit of his self-restraint snaps.

In just a blink of an eye, Carrick is already on his feet, grabs her waist, harshly, and tugs her down onto the edge of the bed where he’s now kneeling before her. He doesn’t bother with the teasings or soft kisses or caresses, and even before Claire has the time to register what’s happening, he crushes his face between her parted legs and eats her out.

She gasps, high and fleeting, twisting the bed sheet between her fists while his tongue flicks over her, moving back up, back down, lapping along her folds in the same motions she showed him with her hand, how she likes it. Claire forgets how to breathe. It just occurs to her just how arousing the sight of him on his knees like this, sending her mind hitchhiking into outer space.

“Oh, fuck.” She breathes, back arching on the bed with a drawn-out moan. “Fuck, Tobias!” Her hips gyrate over his mouth and she presses her heels against his shoulder blades. She’s so close. All she needs is a little push to send her careening into oblivion and it seems that Carrick can sense it because he brings two digits to her entrance and slides easily inside her, setting a ruthless pace.

With her hands reaching out to the back of his head, Claire cries out his name and trembles violently. Encouraged, Carrick curves his fingers inside her, hitting that exact spot that finally undoes her as she comes, long and hard, around his mouth and fingers- the kind of orgasm that you can feel deep in your bones- and watches as fireworks dance behind her lids.

When she finally comes down from her high, everything is hazy. It’s like waking up from a deep slumber after a decadent soak in a scented bath and she loses all orientation, until she feels him nipping the inside of her thighs. She hisses, glances down, heavy-lidded eyes finding Carrick is leaving bruises after bruises all over her skin like some kind of a lewd memento of his work, like he wants her to remember this the next time she wakes up in her own bed and he’s not there.

"Are you trying to turn me into a Na'vi, doctor?” She asks, still kinda breathless, feeling surprisingly conversational despite having just experienced, if not, one of the best orgasms in her life. He smiles against her thigh and withdraws from her, only after her thighs are sufficiently bruised enough, licks his fingers clean and stands up at the end of the bed.

“Maybe. You’d make a cute blue extraterrestrial creature, though,” he replies cheekily, then undoes the button of his shirt, showcasing his naked torso.

Claire feels her cheeks heating up again, but forces herself to stare; eyes following his pectoral muscles, down to the toned lines of his abdomen while he slides off of his pants. The man is one fine specimen, alright, and he knows- smug bastard- and she thinks it’s such a shame that Carrick is… well, Carrick. If the man learns how to shut up for one minute or avoid trying to sabotage everyone’s career at Edenbrook altogether, maybe, just maybe, she’d consider him.

“But honestly, I just wanted to hear you say my name again,” Carrick continues, crawling his way up to her, pulling her out of her musings. He settles between her thighs. His lips finding her ear and nibbling at the lobe while his fingers pinching and pulling at her nipple. Claire shivers. Nails scraping along his skin, raising angry marks that would certainly be there tomorrow.

When they kiss, it’s so good that she can’t help but curl her toes. He kisses her like he’s trying to steal her breath or her name. She can taste herself in his mouth, which sparks so many feelings inside her. Her mind’s foggy, sweat pooling on her forehead. Carrick is but shoves his tongue into her mouth, lapping at her, biting, sucking and she leans hard into the kiss, retaliates by scraping her teeth against his bottom lip. It spurs him on. Making his cock twitch against her thigh and Claire decides she can’t wait anymore.

Claire rolls her hips at him. He takes the hint and rolls over to grab a condom from his pants. Then he’s back on top of her, his weight and heat crushing her most deliciously and brings her body further up the bed with him; she drapes her legs around his hips, hands gripping his arms. Her lust and anticipation collaborate to the point of near madness.

Carrick nips the taut line of her jaw and drives himself into her.

They both groan in unison.

“Oh, fuck.” Carrick mumbles between shaky breaths, his face pressed against her throat. “Fucking hell, Claire, you feel so warm.”

Claire, on the other hand, goes rigid under him. Her mouth hangs open and her world narrows down to the feeling of his cock inside her and the pleasure that builds up again in her abdomen.

This is happening, she thinks, he’s inside her and it feels so amazing. She might as well be crazy for agreeing to do this with him in the first place, but the promise of the thrill beats the doubts.

He starts slow, just the smallest fraction of hips, gently thrusting back and forth in shallow motions. She whines, frustrated and impatient, raising her own hips to meet his, but Carrick’s weight pins her onto the mattress and she can’t fucking move.

“F-faster,” Claire stammers, her molars grinding like toothache.

The bastard smirks, like he’s been anticipating the word coming out of her mouth.

“Beg for it.” His words are punctuated with every unhurried stroke he’s giving her, teasing her and if she’s not in the middle of being fucked right now, she would have kicked him in the balls.

Growling, she swallows her plea by pulling Carrick down for another kiss. This time, she’s the one who does the biting and the sucking, making sure he’s distracted enough and then just like with all the things she does in her life, she takes the matter into her own hands.

With all her strength, she scrambles up, pushes him off of her and knocks him onto his back flat on the bed. When she swings her legs to straddle him, his eyes pop.

“Holy shit, you are feisty.”

“Only cause I’m angry and horny,” she bites off. Angling herself above him and with one hand, guides his shaft back to her opening. “And you- you weren’t doing a proper job fucking me.”

He smirks. “I was trying to wind you up.”

“Fuck you.”

She lowers herself and sinks back onto his cock, relishing in his moans and growls.

“Baby, you’re doing it.” His hands curling around her waist, his head falls back onto the bed, exposing his throat and Claire is so hard-pressed not to bite him there.

Claire ignores his smartassness, naturally, and lifts herself, drops back down. Slamming her hips into his until she’s bouncing on him. Nails clawing at his chest. Finally be able to set a pace she desperately craves for, finally wiping that smirk off of his face.

Under her, Carrick is biting his lip in an effort to not to lose control. His hands are everywhere now; her stomach, her breasts, her neck, her cheeks. Leaving fire on its wake. She might still hate him after this is strange, little arrangement is over but at this juncture, he’s exactly the remedy she needs after everything.

Then Carrick wraps his arms around her and picks up the pace, thrusting into her hard and fast. Claire shakes. She can’t catch her breath, her forehead pressed on his shoulder, her teeth latching onto his skin. Breathing a string of 'fuckfuckfuck’ while he squeezes her ass and continues to fuck her with careless abandon.

"Tobias.” Her moans amplify. She’s close to climaxing again, her legs quivering. Eyes wide shut. “Please, please.” So much for not begging.

He pulls her to him so their foreheads meet. Their lips brush against each other, but they aren’t kissing, merely trading breaths. A hand touches her cheek and her lids flutter open, finding his eyes- those depthless, amber eyes that pretty much lead her to this point, are watching her, pulling her in.

“Say it again,” he encourages darkly, face twists in pleasure. “My name. Say it again.”

She does it again, it comes out as a groaned whisper, repeating it over and over again like a sacred mantra.

Her second orgasm sweeps through her, making her spine arches, it tears a winded moan from her throat and it’s more than enough to trigger Carrick’s own release; fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, groaning gutturally.

Panting, sore but sated, Claire collapses on top of his chest, his arm still drapes around her. The rise and fall of his breath lull her to sleep. Before she knows it, he gently rolls her to his side, pulling the covers for them and kisses her on the shoulder, which comes out as… odd for her.

The bed moves and she feels him leaving.

He’s leaving.

She doesn’t know why it stings, but it does. But also Claire opts not to pay no mind to it and forces her mind to surrender to sleep that once again tries to take hold.

Claire wishes she doesn’t dream of him that night, but she does.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It’s way past midnight when she wakes up. The room is dark. The curtains are closed. She’s still naked and sore under the covers, mind reeling in from what has just transpired.

One might ask in which universe does Claire Castelnuovo agree to sleep with Tobias Carrick? Well, apparently they did it in this one and oddly still, she doesn’t regret it. Though she’s still low-key sad that he left her straight after sex, but hey, what can she do about it? This arrangement itself is nothing but a means to an end, anyway, a perverse alternative for him to pay back what he allegedly owes her, she shouldn’t be surprised if he left after the ‘debt’ is paid.

Feeling her mood somehow takes an unexpected dip, she gets us from the bed and gathers her clothes on the floor.

She’s in the middle of zipping up her skirt when the bedside lamp flickers and comes on.

Claire turns around. Carrick, rousing from sleep, looks at her, rubbing his eyes and stifles a yawn. His lips still tinged from her kisses and bites.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, voice still raspy from sleep and Claire thinks her mouth is hanging open, standing rooted to the spot like a spider on an icicle; frozen in time.

For a moment, she does nothing but stares at him, being rendered speechless. For many times, Tobias Carrick never fails to surprise her. Just when she thinks she has him all figured out, he comes sneaking in through her windows like a thief in the night and it just strikes her, how he really is an uncharted territory for her. Despite her having him pinned under her, exploring the hard planes of his body under the touches just a few hours ago.

The man is like a fucking myth, at this point. She knows him only from stories and her limited time around him, but who is exactly Tobias Carrick? Is he the competitive doctor at Mass Kenmore, the Machiavellian asshole that severed his friendship/relationship with Ethan for the sake of his greed and ambition? Or is he, Tobias Carrick, the man who saves her life, makes her laugh and kisses her shoulder in the afterglow?

She’ll probably never know.

“Yeah, my roommates will probably deploy a search party if I don’t come home tonight,” she replies, distracted, finally finding her own voice back. He nods, feigning disappointment- or is he not? She clears her throat and continues putting on her clothes. “I thought you left.”

He chuckles at the absurdity of her deduction. “And without saying goodbye?” Carrick rolls off of the bed and rises to his feet. He’s already wearing his pants- thank fuck for that- and approaches her. “I may be an asshole, Castelnuovo, but just so you know, my mother raised me better than that.”

So they’re back to their usual last name basis perimeter. That’s good, right? After all of this, she thinks a little familiarity would be nice for her sanity.

“Good to know, then.”

Silence encompasses the room. It’s awkward and overwhelming and it throws her a little off-balance. At the bar, they seemed to know exactly what to say to each other- especially him; but now, even she can sense the hesitation in his gait, at the way he’s looking at her and a faint alarm is trilling her head. Because if he’s making this awkward, she can do a whole lot of worse.

"Oh, before you ask, that makes up for pretty much everything, yeah. I mean, it’s alright.” You fucking dumbass, she thinks to herself, averting his gaze while a smile blooms on his face.

“Good to know, then.” He parrots her words and she huffs a laugh, freely and sweetly, like she’s currently not knee-deep in her problems or she’s just fucked the most incorrigible man that ever exists. He does too, but his gaze lands on her mouth before going back to her eyes.

Another silence passes. It’s time to go.

“I have to go now.”

He nods mutely and moves away so Claire can step past him.

She wears her coat. In the mirror, she still looks thoroughly fucked; her hair’s dishevelled, she smells like him now, but she really needs to go. She promises herself that this will be a one time thing because, Jesus fuck, she’s supposed to be smarter than this. She’s not fifteen anymore, and this is not the summer where she can watch the sunset from the cornfields with her cousins even though his eyes possess the same color.

Yet she walks toward the door in a daze, like she’s forgetting something but can’t pinpoint what it is.

“Can I-”

“Hey, do you-”

She stops, mid-turning, and closes her mouth. She doesn’t realize she’s interrupting him.

“Oh, sorry,” Claire says, embarrassed. “You go first, it’s alright.”

“Can I have your number?” he asks, uncharacteristically hesitant.

She thinks he’s joking or maybe he’s just feigning interest, but one look at his eyes and she can tell that this isn’t smoke and mirrors.

The eyes, chico. They never lie. It’s dumb, but that line from Scarface is the first thing that comes to her mind. That’s why when she hands him her phone, her hand is shaking slightly. She has to bite her lip to stop herself from grinning like a maniac.

Claire takes a cursory glance at her phone once he returns it. He saved his number solely as t.c. with the water drop, the syringe, the ghost, the eggplant, the firework emoji and she chuckles endearingly, questioning the universe how he can easily get both a rise and a laugh out of her.

“I’ll text you?” Carrick asks again and she nods a little too enthusiastically at it, but what the hell?

“Sure.”

“Alright.” He takes one look at her, steps closer and for a moment, she thinks he might be going to kiss her.

“Goodnight, Claire,” Carrick says instead and she nods, admitting the fact that he’s not going to do it.

“Goodnight to you too, Tobias.” Then pauses at the doorway, feeling surprisingly bold. “I gotta give it to you, though, for someone who’s become the bane of my existence for months, you’re a damn good lay.”

He barks out a laugh, obviously, that Claire can hear all the way down the hall. And she thinks she can get used to the sound.

fin.

Tag list: @villain-fuckarooni @beckaroo @arfeiniel @this-person-is-busy @colossalpainintheass @drethanramslay @hatescapsicum @theeccentricbibliophile

#playchoices #open heart #tobias carrick #tobias carrick x mc #open heart mc #oh mc #pixelberry #choices stories you play

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anothertimdrakestan · 4 years

Text

Light Of My Life Pt.2 Jason Todd x Reader

Words: 2.5k

Requested? Yes! From a lovely returning anon!

“I’m the anon who requested the avenger reader and ......... *chefs kiss* *chefs kiss* *chefs kiss* It’s so good! i love the readers powers and how they get sparky when they’re happy! I always thought that captain America and tony stark and Natasha and everyone else would be protective of the reader so I wonder what would happen if she introduced Jason to the avengers? Do you think they’d find out that he was red hood? (And they’d keep it a secret but maybe then they’d be REALLY protective)”

LINK TO PROMPTS -> REQUESTS ARE STILL OPEN!

HI AGAIN IM SO GLAD YOU’RE BACK LOVE!!! We been knew I love me a good protective family and Jason sooooo my beautiful anon you did it again! Chef’s kisses right back at you angel <333 Because you liked the happy sparks let me show you what happens when all the emotions come out to play.... mwahahahaha CHECK OUT PT 1 HERE!

“Fuck no.”

You rolled your eyes at your boyfriend as he pouted. “Hey I met your family you have to meet mine!” you chided, Jason had been reluctant to meet the other Avengers. The last time he’d ever met one besides you was as Robin pre-death when Stark came to visit Bruce Wayne and Iron Man visited Batman. The two never really got along and since Jason idolized Bruce he hadn’t been the kindest to Stark.

You’d only recently learned this when you told the other Avengers why you always wanted to be in Gotham. Cap was happy you’d found a friend, he understood the necessity of having a person you can talk to and rely on, and he missed his person so he wished you the best. To say Stark was pissed was an understatement. Not only was he secretly rooting for you and Spidey to get together but he always got a bad taste in his mouth thinking about the Wayne family. “No” was his only reply and you had to give him the “even though you’re my father figure and my boss you don’t control my personal life” speech which ended in a hug and some cursing under his breath. To your surprise Peter was equally upset and said next time you went to Gotham he needed to meet this elusive, powerless, gun wielding, Jason.

And just like that here you were in Gotham, wrapping in your boyfriend’s arms, trying to convince him to come meet the “A-list” as he called them. “You’re going Jay. Maybe you can bring Tim he loves the Avengers he’d die to meet them!” you cooed, knowing Jason would agree because he never wanted to tell you no. Jason knew how excited you were, he could feel the light shocks that danced on your skin as he held you. Begrudgingly he agreed. You had decided it would be better to meet as your human personas rather than stir up the media with an Avengers visit to Gotham.

“Hey gorgeous” Jason grinned as you gave him a spin in one of your favorite outfits, beyond excited to introduce him to the people who were your family you rushed over to him. As you toyed with his t-shirt collar you admired his appearance, Jason was fashionable in the lowkey, vibey kind of fashion, it was perfect, and undeniably attractive. You could tell he was trying to hide his nerves, he gripped your hand tighter than normal and fidgeted slightly, he knew these people were your home and you could tell he wanted to make a good impression even if he wouldn’t admit it.

You’d invited them to your now shared apartment with Jason. The two of you had spent a while cleaning and prepping for guests and the apartment was spotless. Getting the text from Stark that him, Peter, and Natasha were headed up and you saw the three of them cloaked in jackets and hats entering the main lobby. Giving Jason’s hand a squeeze you gave him a quick peck on the cheek and a reassuring looking. Jason leaning into your embrace whispered “it’ll go fine” and you couldn’t tell if he was saying it to himself or you. Almost on cue there was a loud knock and before you could get to the door Tony burst in with Natasha and Peter following. “WHERE IS HE!” Tony yelled and you rushed over grinning. “Shut up Stark behave yourself!” he brought you into a quick hug before looking at Jason. “Hello Todd” he said, Jason looked a little shocked that Tony had either remembered from those years ago or had done his research. Jason stuck out a hand feigning confidence and Tony took it strongly.

Inviting everyone in you all sat cooly around the living room. As you talked with Natasha about recent events and living in Gotham you noticed that Jason looked afraid to touch you, sitting rigid next to you. Glancing over you saw him getting death stares from Peter and Tony anytime he moved a muscle. “The two of you stop it!” you chided, grabbing Jason’s hand and realizing it was slightly shaking. “I expect it from Mr. Father Figure but really Parker?” you quipped as he shrugged in agreement.

You could feel your aura radiate with annoyance and Peter and Tony looked taken aback. “Hey Sparky- Y/N it’s fine” Jason looked embarrassed at his use of one of his many nicknames. “Dude you use electric puns too!” Peter looked excited as he told Jason about some of his favorites. As the two bonded you groaned when Peter said “DUDE LIGHTNING MCQUEEN IS SUCH A GOOD ONE!” and went in for a high five over your embarrassment. Tony broke the bro-moment, “So Jason Todd, second Robin, heard you died. Haven’t seen you in a bit do you prefer Todd or Hood?” Jason gulped, straightening up as he squeezed your hand. “Um, Todd is fine, yeah I did and it was really hard but I have Y/N and she’s really been amazing and also yes I was Robin when I saw you a long time ago and you totally already know that but yeah” he took in a deep breath as Tony processed his answers. Turning to you he asked “and he’s nice to you? Good friend? Good lover? No ring yet right? I learned the hard way waiting too long isn’t great but you better not rush this kid” you rolled your eyes hearing the same line of questioning as always. “Tony shut the hell up” Natasha interrupted. “Look, Jason’s whole body is angled to Y/N, he’s holding her hand through the sparks and probably shocks, he hasn’t gotten angry at your dumb overprotective dad moments, and everytime one of them looks at the other they calm down a little more. They’re in love Tony leave them be.” Tony starred in silence before standing up, drawing in a breath you could feel Jason tense. “Alright then I approve. Let’s get this party started! You guys got booze?”

A couple drinks in an everyone was best friends with everyone. You and Peter weren’t of age yet so you both skipped but Tony was definitely nicer a couple drinks in, and Jason was a lot less tense even though he wasn’t drinking, determined to stay sober to answer any questions he was asked. Peter still looked like he didn’t trust Jason but you couldn’t help but grin as you watched the only father figure you’d ever had bond with your boyfriend. You finally felt like you had a family, it was perfect.

Perfect until Peter Parker got attacked.

As you frantically zapped through light posts you heard Jason on his bike behind you. Tony and Natasha didn’t want to alert the press with two of the most prominent Avengers being seen in Gotham and after a couple drinks they decided to let you and Jason take the lead. So as Red Hood and Y/H/N took to the Gotham streets after Clayface who had engulfed a terrified Peter Parker, Black Widow and Iron Man watched from above.

You zapped in front of Clayface, your skin practically sizzling. “you!” ZAP “are!” ZAP “interrupting!” ZAP “my!” ZAP “DAY!!!” you screeched, letting out all the anger and stress pent up from the day. Unfortunately, your electricity didn’t have much effect on a giant piece of dirt, so you went for keeping it’s attention while Jason fiddled with some explosives.

You zapped around the scene, being careful not to let Clayface get a hand on you for fear of him trying to engulf you too. You could barely hear Jason, cursing yourself for leaving you comm somewhere in the apartment but you could make out “Y/H/N it’s ready but Peter’s in there!” from Jason. “Shit alright I’m going in I guess!” you called, unsure if your powers would even work inside of Clayface. With a deep breath you ran straight ahead, preparing for whatever came next when a figure shoved you out of the way. Instinctively you shot into a lamp post for safety when you saw Red Hood press the button for the explosives and dive into Clayface. Once you realized he just sacrificed his life for yours appeared on the pavement screaming for Jason. Lightning cracked above you as you cried out amid the explosion. At the peak of the explosion everything you felt was too much, needing to know if Jason was okay and it Peter was still alive you felt stuck to the ground. Letting out a guttural scream you gave up trying to hold everything in. The lightning dissipated as you felt your energy connect to every current in Gotham. As the smoke cleared you saw a pile of Clay and no Red Hood and your heart snapped in half. Sinking to your knees you felt the power of every light in Gotham and it was too much. As your tears poured you needed the pain to stop, it had to stop, you’d lost everything.

And then it did. No more sparks, no more current, no more emotion, no more pain.

Your eyes fell out of focus as you stared ahead. You didn’t see two figures emerged from behind the corner of a building. Your eyes were blurry and you felt numb, unable to recognize the voice of Jason as he called out for you. Everything was quiet and muted, no buzzing from the streetlights or vibrations from cell towers, you felt disconnected, lost. Slowly blinking, thoughts of your past boyfriend jolted through you so quickly you couldn’t comprehend the fact that he was right in front of you. His voice sounded like a faint whisper calling for you. A different reality almost. You felt yourself get lifted into the air, off the ground and into someone’s embrace.

This embrace carried you home. Home. That was your apartment. With Jason. But he was gone and someone had brought you home, setting you softly on the couch.

“What the fuck happened to Y/N” Jason pleaded Tony who looked just as confused. “I think she’s in shock, maybe she didn’t have her comm in and didn’t hear the plan for rescuing Peter then dealing with Clayface?” Tony whispered as he looked at you as you stared at a wall, tears slowly cascading down your cheeks. Natasha squatted next to you, waving a hand in front of your face. “She’s in shock but we need to shock her out of it, anyone got a spark?” Tony quickly reprogrammed part of his suit to deliver a fair amount of voltage into your body. Taking a deep breath Jason just wanted to hold your hand but he knew that was not going to be safe until you woke up. As everyone stood back Tony counted down “One, Two - ”

Suddenly you felt the connection again, it jolted through you and danced on your skin, you felt the humming of the fan in your apartment. Your apartment, you were home. Home. Home is with Jason, and you could feel him next to you. Jason, was, home. Safe.

“JASON YOU IDIOT WHAT WERE YOU THINKING YOU FUCKING DIED AGAIN!” you bolted up and began wailing on his chest, shocking everyone around you at your burst of, well, energy. Without thinking Jason just pulled you into his chest, swaying slightly back and forth you melted into his grip. “Y/N baby Stark thought your comm was on like mine and we thought you knew the plan, you were making a good diversion and everything” Jason explained. “Then Parker and I come out after the big boom and you’re like completely zoned out. Like even the sky was clear, and your eyes didn’t have the little sparkle they always have, we thought you’d lost it or something” he rambled as you finally put the pieces together. Glancing up at him you whispered “so you’re okay?” and he nodded, giving you a reassuring smile. “You can’t get rid of me that easily Sparky” you found comfort in the nickname that was slowly growing on you.

After a cup of tea and some relaxation you were feeling a lot better. Peter was impressed at how quickly Jason thought on his feet and that he’d put himself in danger to save him and was a lot happier with your relationship. You’d told him about Tim and how well the two nerds would get along so he tagged along with Stark who was out meeting Bruce and trying to explain why there had been an explosion and Avenger sighting in his city, and Natasha used her expertise to know it was time for you and Jason to have some alone time, so she headed out as well.

Now you were resting in Jason’s arms as he toyed with your hair. Breaking the silence you admitted “I think I severed my powers when I thought you died” and Jason looked up, his face asking you for more. Delving into some of your own truths you admitted “I always knew my powers were emotion driven. Like our kiss that one night. And I knew there was a reason that I have to keep some energy inside and reign it in, but now I know that releasing it all doesn’t explode, it makes me implode on myself. Like the energy I use is raw emotion and when I thought you were gone it hurt too much and I cut it off” you sighed, enjoying the feeling of letting it off your chest. You could’ve sworn Jason slyly wiped a tear away before pulling you in close as he too sighed. “I think you’re right Y/N but that means your powers are more interesting than we ever knew. And I know what it feels like to lose everything, and I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing for ever being the reason you felt the loss. It kills me to think of you in such pain you couldn’t feel it anymore. Because you are the strongest person I know and I know how painful it must’ve been. I’m so sorry. And I love you”

The big eight letters. They felt right. Raising your head to his you took his lips in yours, trying to convey the same words right back at him. In the moment of pure love you felt warmth envelop your entire body, unable to contain the joy. Mid-kiss you let a grin slip onto your face and you pulled away. “Jason Todd I love YOU!” you moved to throw your arms around him and as you outstretched your fingers you released some of your love into the air and suddenly everything in the room when black.

“Y/N you just shorted out the apartment building. But I love you too” You were kind of glad the lights were now off because Jason couldn’t see the furious blush that developed on your cheeks. Flopping down on to him you mused “Too many emotions for one day, I feel pretty shorted out too” and Jason hummed in agreement. As the two of your drifted off into sleep you heard him mumble:

“You better get control of these emotions I can’t be telling you I love you then having you break my toaster. I need my waffles you know” and you groaned.

“I’ll put that on the list of things to worry about. Right beneath the end of the world so pretty high up there”

“Thanks I appreciate it. Good night my lovely bolt of lightning”

“Goodnight you sappy fuck”

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cloveroctobers · 3 years

Text

GENEVIEVE ALIU —

IG info/bio: @/genevealiu1 | 19k followers | currently on a journey as a junior doctor living in 🇦🇺🤎 | blm.card.co🖤 | sk💛

26 years of age

Born and raised in Glastonbury, England

Pisces sun? + libra moon?

Mother is Guyanese and works for a non-profit organization

Her father is Nigerian and works in property management

has one older brother who is a Prosthetist and resides in Nigeria with his pregnant fiancée

She can’t wait to be a auntie!!!

And a younger sister who is a medical laboratory technician

To say the least, their parents were happy that their children fell into the medical field. Based on their cultures it was a honor to have their children in these professions

Vieve grew up with a sassy demeanor and her parents have old videos on their camcorders to prove it lol, it never fails that the pair brings out the embarrassing vids during the holidays but vieve genuinely appreciates them

Although thanksgiving is a RACIST American thing, vieve never misses the opportunity to share what she’s thankful for in life and counts all of it as blessings! But it’s still fuck the pilgrims

Has held a friendsgiving before, loves any moment where she can host gatherings or attend them! either is quite fine. She loves being around people

the only time she likes to look back on the past is to see how she and her family carried themselves then and how the evolved into who they are now, it’s interesting to see

Loves “how it started vs how it’s going” posts and might have participated in a few

Always knew from a young age that she wanted to help people in some way, she was always doing something to help around the house and especially her aging/sickly grandparents

Felt offended that many people around school that she thought were her friends would stab her in the back labeling her as this “fake saint” since she rather spend her time volunteering instead of going to house parties in hs

Don’t get it twisted, she still went to those too & had her fun but definitely felt like it was the same routine and nothing ever felt fulfilling at these functions after awhile

Well known with all the cliques around school but had her own group of friends that fit into many of those cliques but she never felt obligated to stick to one social group. If you were nice and cool with her, she was the same to you, if you weren’t? Depending on her mood, she’d ignore you/say things under her breath or be “fake nice” as a form of being the bigger person

Has a curly hair routine that she consistently follows (after struggling to find the right products to make them flourish) and gets annoyed with if her curls don’t turn out the way she knows they can, it’s always frustrating when things don’t turn out the way you want them to but isn’t afraid to at least try

Three times is the charm! Is one of her mottos

loves bright colors, flowy attire, big hats, brimmed hats, bucket hats, berets, etc...

Has faced racism/prejudices and bullying growing up in public spaces—mostly school/uni & some of those same hatred actions online now that she’s dating seb

Because of that there were times where she felt insecure but deff grew to forgive, heal, and rise above the hate, she knows her worth

Has never been happier in a relationship than she is with seb, he’s her “moody long-haired, soft-hearted bby”

they’re both complete fools for each other and vieve is more vocal about her being in love/finding her soulmate whereas seb doesn’t mind showing it rather than speaking it—even tho he’s on a podcast but we mind our business okay?!

Seb is thinking of moving to Australia with vieve, he’s ready to risk it all for this woman, HIS woman 🤩

canon: gives more than she should/taken advantage of/not reciprocating in relationships... ex) how she dated a guy that she did everything for! especially financially and also struggled to find her worth but once she did? Her aura shined brighter than before— Ik chill out there Rocco

Also believes in loving yourself first to attract what you need in this world and found that in her career and seb. I hope they’re endgame! Since they’re the only couple I rooted for this season? Except for tai & ciaran maybe? They’re probably not endgame but whatever

They still get nervous/shy around each other even tho they’ve been together for months now + are in a long distance relationship which is too cute! I think since they’re in this for the long game they can look back on moments and still feel the way they felt in that moment. You know if you get the chance or have already heard elderly people talk about their relationships and how they get all starry eyed? That’s vieve & seb, that shit gets me right in my feels ew

Vieve’s love language is quality time, it’s what she shows and likes along with acts of service from her partner

Makes the best jollof rice & her fav dish is Metemgee

Trying to be on a plant-based diet only but will have her cheat days on occasion—mostly when she’s drunk and forgets her diet plan lmao that’s me getting double cheeseburgers or anything with dairy drunk af

now living in Australia, she tried to like vegemite but...the it’s a no for her, respectfully ofc! She never wants to disrespect anyone

besides the food, the atmosphere is much nicer since she feels like she’s on a holiday almost everyday and that there’s much more to see and do when she has the time

Loves the beaches and is thinking about surfing lessons

yes she enjoys those doctor shows and can agree that most scenarios are not the same as rl ofc but great question!

Since she’s a junior doctor now, and on her way to graduation! She feels so accomplished and having this chance to complete what she’s wanted her whole life in a different place, makes her super emotional

All those stressful all-nighters will be worth it. She mostly did it on her own but is nothing but humble and Is thankful to those that have helped her along the way, what kind of person would she be if she didn’t mention them?

and when COVID hit, she was one of many already on the frontlines. Her studies became altered but this wouldn’t stop her for her mission on this earth, this was her purpose and she knew we would conquer it all—but definitely has empathy and gets angry with how it’s being handled from time to time

She’s been exposed to it first hand which aboustely worries her parents, seb, her friends, and friends from the villa

Keeps up to date when all medical news, has a whole app dedicated to health

Learning French with some of her free time and is doing well at it

It was only natural for her to become closer to elladine since their men are homies and have a podcast together

They’ve hung out a few times on a double dates before the boat vacation & once just as girls before vieve left to Australia

Vieve is always offering advice but knows that every relationship is different and what works for her and seb won’t work for elladine and Nicky, she loves them together and knows everyone has bumps in the road

feels there’s some sort of tension between her and Harry now? Which she found a little off putting since they were supposed to be friends but she realizes that Harry has a condition but it’s also not an excuse for him to treat her shitty sometimes which he does and feels like it comes out of nowhere most times but he always apologizes yet vieve is slowly getting tired of this unhealthy habits

So they’re talking less these days, which he notices!

She wants Harry to find his happiness too! If he hasn’t found it in mc first that is

has met Tim— he’s a great laugh and seems like a nice guy—they follow each other, talia and jake in person when she was out with seb—they were also super nice and congratulated them on their win, she went up to miles once on a night out—he’s still a arsehole, priya reached out to her via dm about her new boutique that she wanted her to model in someday, Hope was just as stunning in person along with Siobhan, Chelsea & mc s2 were also kind, and a couple of the guys also wished her and seb well

She’s also noticed some of the shit talking coming from Elisa, Allegra, Lucy, and mc s1 (subtle shade from mc, basically about how vieve reacted if mc decided to give Harry a go but that was only brought to her attention thru fans) online but again, vieve peeped it and felt majority of it didn’t require a response. She was too happy in life rn and she had a man and they don’t

Plans to get a komondor, thinks they’re super cute! — seb does not “if you love me, you’ll love our child.” “It’s a bloody mop dog! And I’m a cat dad, you know that!” “Don’t talk about him like that, he’s got feelings just like your cat babies!”

I feel like she’s a matcha & Frappuccino lover, tries to keep her drinks simple and feels guilty when she has to make adjustments but the heart wants what it wants

Mini Countryman owner, she also drives like a “granny” better safe than sorry! She hates fast drivers, there’s absolutely no need for it!

Minimal makeup: eyeshadow, moisturizer, & a nude lip and she’s good to go

Secretly obsessed with among us, second life, and SIMS!!!

Celeb crushes? Heath ledger, Tyler posey, KENDRICK SAMPSON, Jordan fisher, Algee smith, Donald Glover, Mack Wilds, Khleo Thomas, Robert Ri’chard, Tahj Mowry, & Hasan Minhaj

Listens to: DaniLeigh, ABIR, Mary J. Blige, TORI KELLY, Us the duo, 11:11, Jacob Latimore, fifth harmony, joya mooi, & Greentea Peng, etc...

Anthem: The Cheetah Girls — Cinderella

#litg #litg3 #litg s3 #litg genevieve #litg moodboard #litg headcanons #litg headcanon #litg seb #litg Harry #litg mc #litg oc #litg elladine #litg Nicky #idk if I did her justice but my apologies to her and y’all if not lol #litg Tim #litg talia #litg jake #litg priya #litg hope

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sparkle9510 · 4 years

Text

Baby Robins and Tiny Ladybugs Ch. 2

Hey guys! Happy holidays! I’m so terribly sorry this is so late! Honestly, I got lazy, wanting to do other things (making presents and drawing stuff), but writers block kept getting to me. I wasn’t satisfied where this was going, so I decided to let inspiration hit me and I am so glad I waited cause indeed it did, and I am much more satisfied with this chapter than my previous idea. With that said, let’s move on with the show!

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Masterlist

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It was a beautiful day at the city of Paris, France. It was peaceful and quiet. All until laughter filled the air near the Tom & Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie.

“Grayson did what?” Marinette giggled. “I can’t believe he burnt the pancakes.”

“Grayson was always inept in cooking. Though everyone in the family is. You should see father burning the water,” Damian rolled his eyes. “We’re lucky to have Pennyworth with us.”

Marinette chuckled, understanding that Damian was actually showing that he cares for his family. It has been 2 years since they had first met and exchanged numbers. They had exchanged emails very frequently, and emails then turned to phone calls before it turned into video calls. All that time spent talking to each other helped them both know each other’s quirks. At least, she hoped so.

“I’m glad your father’s back safe and sound,” Marinette smiled.

Damian had informed her that his father, who was missing or most likely dead, had been found. He was injured and needed time to heal, but overall, was relatively safe and sound. She was so happy to hear that, especially since his mother figure was not a part of his life anymore so he said.

“I am too, although,” Damian frowned. “now that he’s back, things will be different.” Will I be accepted? He seemed to radiate, from what Marinette can tell.

“Damian,” Marinette decided to interrupt his thoughts. “you are amazing, and from what I hear, your dad will love you.”

“Angel, thank you,” Damian gave her a small grateful smile.

Marinette grinned, opening her mouth to respond when her mom called her.

“Dami, I got to go,” She frowned. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Giving their goodbyes, she ended the call before heading downstairs. Down in the kitchen, her dad was kneading some dough and her mom was nearby, a phone in hand.

“Maman?” Marinette called. “What did you need?”

“Marinette, we just got a huge order of catering, though the location is pretty far.”

“Where Maman?”

“Gotham.”

———-

Damian sighed, hands in the pockets of his jackets. He observed his father looking over the decorations and progress of the setup. His father had decided to hold a gala in honor of his return. He had understood his father had to show he wasn’t fazed and pick his playboy facade back up, but Damian so did not like these meaningless social interactions.

“Why the sigh, Lil’ D?” Dick asked. “You’ve been doing it more often.”

“Probably cause he hasn’t done his weekly thing,” Tim yawned, typing away on his laptop. “Whatever that is.”

Damian scowled and looked away. He couldn’t be bothered with Drake at the moment. It’s been around 2 weeks since he had last called Marinette. She hadn’t shown up and picked up the call the last two times he called, the most recent being yesterday. She had said she was busy and went awol. O-of course he wasn’t really worried, he told himself. She could just be really busy.

“Ooh, you may be right, Replacement,” Jason smirked, leaning onto Dick. “The demon spawn hasn’t stayed his room for hours. I wonder, maybe he’s hasn’t been-”

Before he could continue, Dick elbowed Jason in the ribs, earning a yelp from the latter. Jason glared at his older brother, only to receive an annoyed look that said, ‘Are you serious?’ In return, he stuck his tongue playfully.

“You don’t know what you’re saying Todd,” Damian scoffed, narrowing his eyes when he felt someone ruffle his hair. “Cease that, Grayson.”

“Dami, you know what you need?” Dick grinned. “Sugar. And you know what? they have some desserts at the cater table and I’ll bet they’ll let you have something sweet.”

“You know I don’t care for sweets.”

“Just have something, Lil’ D. If anything, you can check on the food,”

“Very well.”

And with that, Damian begun heading over to the food, but not without hearing Jason whispering to Dick.

“Dickie Bird, you’re up to something. Spill,” Jason interrogated Dick.

“Just being a good big brother,” Dick cheerily replied.

A good brother? Very unlikely. Damian rolled his eyes. When he got to the area, he saw a large man and a woman setting up the food. It smelled good, and somewhat…familiar? There was one place he thought up, but how could it be here when it was at-

“Maman, Papa! Here are the rest of the order!” a girl, carrying multiple boxes tried to rush past him.

However, she didn’t notice him and bumped into him, sending her almost tumbling down. That is, until Damian helped steady her.

“I’m sorry,” the girl replied. “I’m so clumsy. I-”

Damian’s eyes widen. He knew that voice anywhere. Adding the clumsiness, that could only mean…

“Angel?”

———

Marinette’s eyes widen, realizing who it was that stopped her. She figured there was a good chance of seeing him, but she thought it would be more of her telling him than running into him.

“…We’ve got to stop running into each other,” she smiled, slightly embarrassed she had yet again, ran into him.

“I don’t mind,” Damian chuckled. “Let me help you.”

Grabbing two-third of the boxes, he begun to walk to the table. Marinette immediately followed, still stuck in a dazed state.

“Oh! Thank you, sir,” Sabine quickly relieved Damian’s load. “I hope our daughter didn’t cause you any trouble.”

“It’s no problem, Mlle.” Damian smiled. “It’s an honor to finally meet Marinette’s parents. She told me so much about you during our chats.”

“Chats?” Tom questioned. “Oh! You must be that boy she calls frequently. She mentioned how-”

“Papa!” Marinette called. “Don’t you need to finish setting these up or something?”

Her dad chuckled before going back to his work. Marinette sighed, feeling the heat still on her face. Damian didn’t need to hear what she said about him.

“Marinette,” her mother called, catching her attention. “We’re almost done here. If you want, you can go spend some time with your friend.”

“Really?! Thanks Maman!” Marinette kissed her parent’s cheeks before grabbing Damian’s hand. “Let’s go!”

———-

“So that’s the Wayne Memorial Clock Tower, that’s the Wayne Animal Sanctuary, and here we are at the Gotham City Central Park.” Damian pointed out to Marinette.

“The park’s beautiful Damian!” Marinette grinned.

The plants looked really taken care of. The flowers planted were blooming and bright and beautiful. But before she could say anymore, she felt her stomach rumble, and it wasn’t quiet at all.

“…I’m feeling a bit famished.” Damian looked away. “Do you want to accompany me?”

“S-sure!”

“I know the perfect place.”

———-

“Welcome to the Wayne Manor,” Damian smirked and gave a playful bow.

“Damian, a-are you sure?” Marinette seemed unsure. “It’s a bit sudden and what if your family doesn’t like me?”

“It’ll be alright. They're probably still handling the arrangements for the gala anyways,” Damian assured her. “Nevertheless, they will like you, I’m sure.”

After all, Damian inwardly, this was all set up by at least Dick.

“Welcome home, Master Damian,” Alfred greeted them. “And I see you brought a guest. I hope he has been well behaved?”

Marinette giggled and stuck her hand out.

“He’s been quite the gentleman,” she replied. “Though I’m guessing that might not be normal? I’m Marinette Dupain Cheng. Is it safe to guess you’re the all knowing Pennyworth?”

“How right you are Mrs. Dupain Cheng,” Alfred confirmed, reaching out and shaking her hand. “Just Alfred is fine. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m glad Damian made a friend. As you may guess, he has some difficulty getting along with many of his age.”

“He has his quirks,” Marinette admitted. “But he’s a sweet guy once you get underneath the tough layer.”

“Pennyworth,” Damian interrupted. “I would like to request a meal prepared for both of us.”

Alfred nodded. “Very well, young Master. While I do that, you may keep yourself occupied in the living room.”

Damian took that time to do a quick tour of the house. Of course, he avoided the areas that could reveal the family’s nighttime occupation. They may have made it hard for visitors to figure it out, but Marinette wasn’t normal. Of that, he knew. She probably will figure it out within the day if he wasn’t careful enough.

He did show her a quick view of his room. It was the place where they chatted anyways, so Marinette was somewhat familiar with it. She complimented many of his drawings hanging on the wall (No, he was not blushing. It was just kinda hot in the room), and was curious about his weapons in the room. Not long after, they decided to hang in the living room, where they quietly conversed.

“Alfie!” Dick’s voice rang out. “We’re home~ We got hungry and thought we might as well have some of your wonderful cooking.”

Oh no. This is going to get troublesome pretty quickly.

“Hey, look who the demon spawn brought in,” Jason’s voice rang from the door entrance of the living room. “Looks like the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Close your mouth before you sprout even more ridiculous ideas, Todd,” Damian spat. “What are you doing here.”

“We got hungry,” Tim replied, walking into the room while typing on his laptop. “We didn’t want to go out and eat.”

Damian scoffed. “Nice cover up. Did Grayson tell you to say that?”

“Chill, Lil’ D,” Dick appeared right behind him. “Let’s not have our usual fights while your friend is here. Speaking of which, introductions are due. Hello miss, I’m-”

“Grayson,” Marinette interrupted. “And you’re probably Drake, and that’s Todd. A-ah! I’m sorry I interrupted! I’m Marinette Dupain Cheng.”

“It’s all good cupcake,” Jason grinned, “but call me Jason. Jason Todd’s my full name.”

“Tim Drake’s mine.”

“Richard Grayson, but call me Dick.”

“D-dick? But isn’t that…?” Marinette questioned, but decided to drop it, deciding to turn to Damian. “Wait, I thought- Damian, you didn’t tell me that those were their last name.”

“It wasn’t important,” Damian shrugged. “They’re not of importance.”

He looked at Marinette to see her eyebrow raised. A silent scolding clear on her face that made him feel a twinge of guilt.

“Ignore him,” Marinette turned back to the group. “He doesn’t say it often, but he does care about each of you.”

“Marinette,” Damian glared at her, but unfortunately it didn’t seem to faze her.

“So, the Demon Spawn actually cares for us,” Jason grinned, earning Damian’s death glare, “How sweet~ The devil has a soft side.”

“Todd,” Damian began before he was interrupted.

“Demon Spawn?” Marinette asked. “Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

“It’s a bit of an inside joke,” Tim explained. “Though he does acts like one sometimes.”

“It’s a term of endearment,” Dick whispered to her.

Marinette nodded, “Ah. Wait, Dami, is that also why you call me Angel now and then? You know, Demons and Angels are...?”

Damian winced. Maybe it was a mistake bringing her to the manor. He wasn’t going to escape with his dignity intact.

“He calls you Angel?” Jason’s eyes bulged in glee. “Ah, this is good blackmail.”

“Don’t you dare,” Marinette warned. “You’re not gonna use this as blackmail.”

“And what are you going to do about it, munchkin?” Jason smirked. “You can’t stop me.”

“Can too,” Marinette stuck out her tongue. “Bet this tiny girl can beat your butt.”

With that, they decided to have a match after lunch. Damian knew she could take care of herself. Hell, that was a part of why he quickly was taken in. But Jason was older and had more experience, he was sure. Plus, his violent tendencies might take over, and he didn’t want her to get too hurt.

———-

Marinette was in awe when she got into their workout room. It was huge, with many equipment that she had not seen used as a workout as well. But luckily, there was a large empty area, with mats she assumes is the area where they spar. Damian had told her they do that to practice their self defense.

“Ten bucks that Marinette is going to beat Jason,” Tim grinned, looking over to Dick.

“Fine,” Dick agreed. “She’s a firecracker, but don’t think it’s enough to beat Jason just yet.”

“Tt,” Damian scoffed. “Imbeciles. Betting over things like this?”

“Dami, it’s alright,” Marinette grinned, feeling a bit mischievous. “It’s nice that Tim believes in me. And if anything, it’ll be fun to rub the fact I wiped the floor with Jason to both him and Dick right?”

“No mercy,” Damian smirked.

Marinette shared his smirk, taking position on the mat.

“I’ll go easy on you,” Jason announced.

“Big mistake,” she chuckled.

With that, they began. She sent a big punch followed by a side sweep, predicting where he would move next. He was good, dodging and landing his own hits, but she also was able to land her own. After a few minutes, she did see a certain pattern. He tended to reply on his fists more than his feet and left his side open. It wasn’t a big blind spot from what she could tell, but a blind spot, nonetheless. It was obvious that he spent some training making sure his weaknesses were minimal.

Looking for the right opening, she noticed he still had his leather jacket on. Maybe she could… She looked at her surroundings. Okay, nothing else to work with but she could still do something.

Dodging a right punch, she spun behind him. Before he could react, she grabbed onto the back of his leather jacket, and flipped over him, letting the jacket go over his head. She yanked on it so that it started to come off, but before it completely came off the sleeves, she dived under him before using that sudden weight and pull to keep him pretty subdued as she dragged them both on the floor, her being on top of him.

“Owned by a pixie,” Dick teased.

“Fuck you,” Jason replied. “though he’s right. You got me. Nice job kiddo. Clever idea. Though… hm, I think there might be a slight rip now.”

“Ah! Sorry,” Marinette apologized. “I tend to use my environment to help me, and your jacket was the only thing…”

“It’s alright,” Jason waved off. “I can get Alfred to fix this.”

“No, wait, lemme fix it since I caused it.” She insisted.

Relenting, Jason handed over the jacket. Quickly, she grabbed her sewing kit that she carried everywhere with her. Taking out the necessary items, she quickly went to work. It took 10 minutes, she fixed up the jacket. It was just the stitching that came undone.

“Good as new,” she cheered, handing it back to him.

“Thanks Tinkerbell,” he grinned.

“Tinkerbell?” Tim raised his eyebrow.

“Yeah, she can find things and make something new out of it, assuming she can, and she can fix things,” Jason shrugged. “Plus, she’s as small as a pixie.”

Marinette rolled her eyes at his jab at her height. Damian walked next to her and gave his hand.

“Good job Angel,” he praised. “Knew you could do it.”

“Thanks Damian,” Marinette smiled.

“Dick, you lost the bet, so pay up,” Tim cackled.

“So you were betting instead of getting ready for the gala?”

Everyone turned and standing at the doorway was a man in a suit. Tim and Dick had quickly walked over to him and informed him of what was going on, from what Marinette was hearing.

“Welcome to the manor,” the man smiled, sticking his hand out. “I’m Bruce Wayne. Thank you for taking my son down a peg or two.”

“A pleasure,” she replied. “wait, Wayne, then does that mean?”

She swiveled to Damian, who only smirked and nodded. Oh dear. Ooooh dear. She was with the Waynes. The rich billionaire family, and she just beat one of them.

“Wait,” Dick was laughing when he realized. “Marinette, you didn’t realize we were Waynes?”

“I-I just thought,” Marinette sputtered, rambling off a bit. “the W-waynes were pretty common. I didn’t think you guys were the Waynes. Though I guess the manor and butler should've tipped it off.....”

“… I like her,” Jason grinned. “Can we keep her?”

Marinette still felt a bit embarrassed, though Damian gave her a small pat.

“She’s not a pet,” Bruce joked back. “Marinette, I know your parents will be catering during the Gala, but how would you like to accompany my sons and keep them entertained during that time? They tend to find trouble when bored.”

And that was how Marinette got swept up into more of the Wayne’s shenanigans (with her parents’ permission of course). They gave her a beautiful dress to wear (where did they get it so quickly?). And at night, they came to the gala by limo.

“Ready, Angel?” Damian offered his arm as Marinette came out of the limo.

“It’s now or never,” Marinette took it, letting him lead into the building.

The night was fun. She danced with all of the members of the Wayne family. Jason, pulling her into a very energetic tango. But she danced with Damian the most. Though like Bruce had predicted, she had to stop the boys from starting bits of trouble here and there, especially when they would try to do it behind her back. Jason did take a picture and suspiciously began typing on his phone, but she did not give it any thoughts. Before they knew it, the night was over, and they dropped her off to the Gotham Royal Hotel.

“I had a great time,” Marinette chuckled. “Thank you, guys! I had a great time!”

“No prob, Tinkerbell,” Jason grinned. “We’ll keep in touch.”

“We’ll come visit,” Dick winked.

Waving them off, Marinette stood by the doors for a few seconds. She then felt the vibration from her phone. Pulling it out, she saw she had a new message, from Damian. It was a link followed by a, ‘Todd is an imbecile’.”

She pressed it, noticing it took her to the social platform, Tweeter.

@JayTodd

Welcoming Tinkerbell as an honorary member of the Wayne family. Don’t let looks fool you. This pixie can beat your ass.

The picture earlier! She realized. At least, he didn’t actually show her face, not completely where people can identify her. But this tweet he sent was already at 1.3K and counting.

“JASON!”

———-

And after that, they did meet up more often. Sometimes Damian and his family would visit her, and sometimes they flew her over. She felt bad and didn’t want to keep having them fly her over, but they insisted.

After the first social media fiasco, Marinette did appear more frequently on their social media, though hidden. She ended up making an account for it though, but everyone didn’t know who she was, only knowing her as Tinkerbell.

It was a fun time, and she was really happy. She had another family that cared for her, who she cared for. And she wouldn’t change it any other way.She hummed softly, sewing her newest idea when her phone rang.

“Hello? Jason?” Marinette greeted, a bit curious.

The other line was silent for a while, making her worry.

“Jason what-”

“He’s gone.”

“What?” Marinette’s eyes widen with worry. “Who are you talking about? Who’s gone?”

“Damian, Marinette,” Jason replied, his tone dead. “There was an accident and…”

“He’s gone.”

First Prev Next

Masterlist

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ANNNNND THERE WE HAVE IT! THE NEXT CHAPTER FINISHED. AND THIS WAS TOTALLY LONGER THAN THE LAST ONE AS A TREAT. (Ahhh I wrote a lot of interruptions haha ^^;)I hope you guys liked it!! Any questions, then let me know here or in my ask, whatever’s fine! Btw him disappearing is during the time he died from Heretic. So, he’s gonna be dead for a bit 0w0.

Taglist (let me know if I forgot anyone):

@mooshoon @bluerosette23 @zestyzealot @luciferge @gingerdaile @crazylittlemunchkin @queenmj10 @hypnosharkrebeldreamer @razzledazzle247 @dorkus-minimus @this-is-vander

#Baby Robins and Tiny Ladybugs #my fanfic #daminette #maribat #maridami #marinette dupain cheng #ml #miraculous ladybug #mlb

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vintage-brass-tc · 3 years

Text

4/5/2021

What a Monday this was! As always, W was as beautiful and lively as ever. I’ll elaborate on the highlights of the day below!

||||||||||||||||||||||||

When I first walked into class, I looked at W and we locked eyes almost immediately. I noticed that his head followed me as I walked for a bit. I felt myself begin to smile at him awkwardly, shooting my head left and right a couple times in confusion. When I was a few steps away from my seat, he finally looked away. I was so giddy, haha, I didn’t know what the heck was going on.

While I walked towards my case to get my instrument, I noticed he inched himself closer to the area and lingered. I told myself that this may just be a chance to say a simple little hello. Instead, though, he walked up to me, leaned forward slightly, and told me that A (one of the other directors) wanted to see me. I stuttered in a surprised, anxiety-induced response and took a short trek to the office.

I volunteered to get some others that A wanted to see as well, then walked out of the room. I looked up to see W turned the other direction, so I decided to just ask someone in the section where one of their members were. Right before I did this, though, a red hue filled the corner of my left eye. I looked up to see W and his eye-piercingly red shirt strolling towards me.

Of course, I abandoned my first thought and remained in my spot in front of him until he slowly brought his movement to a close. He nervously glanced down to the student next to him with eyes clouded in thought. The kid was turned away and doing their own thing in a chair pretty far from W, so I believe that he was just waiting for me to move and didn’t know what to do. That, or he was thought I was going to pass by, and wanted to pretend that he was doing something else to avoid uncomfortable eye contact.

I leaned forward slightly as he did earlier despite the action of him turning his head. Didn’t want him to actually end up talking to someone. “Um,” I started, pretty quietly. He stood there hesitant and continued to ponder. “Excuse me,,?” He jolted upwards and jumped back into reality, quickly turning his head towards me with huge eyes.

“Did you get to see your meeting with A..?” He asked me timidly. “Yes,” I nodded and spoke quietly, even though the little powwow hasn’t started yet. “Do you know where [this student] is?” I mustered the kindest tone I could for him, y’know, just in case he was actually busy doing something in his mind palace, and I interrupted him. “Oh, yeah,” his voice returned to 3/4 of its normal volume and he looked right again. “They’re right there.” “Oh!” I followed his gaze and hoped that I was looking at the correct person. “Thanks!” I looked back at him and then down to the floor, trying to locate the best way to head the kid’s way with W blocking the space in front of me. I unconsciously shifted my feet while I did this.

I think he noticed this and spoke. “I’ll get them.” I paused in my spot and moved my head back up to look at him. “Oh..” (Loved saying ‘oh’ this time around I guess. 😆) “..thank you!!” He already began maneuvering slowly around the seats towards them. “Sure!” He chirped. I took a moment to observe the scene in front of me before turning back to head in the office again. To make a long story short, there’s an opportunity to help the band out, and I was invited to take part in it!! I may give out more info when I’m fully aware of the plans for the event. I regardless of the info, it means I can get to spend more time with some band kids, A, and W! (I think A even said M may be there too?? Probably just wishful thinking. We’ll just have to see!) ~~

Other than this, not much happened, besides the fact there was a load of focus on my section today, and W wouldn’t stop cracking snarky comments.

At one point, one of the percussionists had to drag their mallets on their so-called “tim-tim” (gong), and it went like this.

(TW - MURDER IMAGERY ↓↓)

The kid dragged the two mallets in a quick, clockwise motion on each side of the instrument.

W took a step closer to the student, who was coincidentally right behind me, so we were pretty close. Intimidating if you ask me.

“It has to be a slow twist, like you’re slowly and painfully twisting a knife into someone!”

I laughed out loud at his dark use of a simile. He didn’t react to me, he just held strong eye contact with who he was talking to for added effect....or something. It didn’t help that he had a slight grin on his face. I could tell, even with the mask. (TW DOESN’T APPLY HERE ANYMORE ↓↓)

“Have you ever wanted to try killing someone before?” He took more steps towards the percussionist and leaned in to look at them even better. “No.” “Oh.” His face blanked and his voice got a bit quieter, like he was slightly disappointed. Probably because they didn’t keep the joke going.

He then went back to explaining the correct method while A stepped out and demonstrated the movement flawlessly. This made W shake and exert excited sounds in response, for lack of a better term. Haha, it was cute.

A few other things worth mentioning are that, one, there were a couple of moments where W chuckled after a statement because I chuckled, which was absolutely adorable. He even shot a little glance at me while doing it one of those times.

Two, he made a stupid band joke while talking, then stopped and giggled. He looked at me with a chipper smile on his face, followed by a “get it?” What a dad. I responded, smiling, with a sarcastic “ha-ha, funny,” while the class sat in silence, not amused in the slightest.

Three, HE LITERALLY SCREAMED. HE WAS DEMONSTRATING HOW ONE OF THE PERCUSSIONISTS SHOULD SOUND CRESCENDOING AND HE JUST SCREAMED. IT WAS SO AGGRESSIVE AND REAL— EVERYONE LAUGHED SO MUCH. ||||||||||||||||||||||||

That’s all I need to share! Thank you all for your interest. 😳

Hope everyone has a great day/night/evening! I’ll catch you all later.

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iselsis · 3 years

Text

Unholy Matrimony 3

Trigger Warning: attempted sexual assault.

Tim briefly hoped that Oliver Queen had less moral character than Bruce Wayne and would agree to marry a reluctantly submitting thirteen-year-old, but the thought soured in his gut. They say that meeting your heroes is disappointing, how much worse would it be to marry one? He knew that adults mating with kids was bad, but Luthor was bad, and bad people doing bad things was nothing new. Heroes, though…

Tim didn’t want to live in a world where a hero would want a child as a wife. That was just wrong, and heroes weren’t allowed to be wrong like that.

He decided just to start compiling evidence of Mr. Luthor’s more egregious crimes – the dead business rivals, inconvenient employees, and private detectives, along with the swindling and stilted business deals. Those were the things that might actually convince them not to deal with Luthor. Not the fact that he was an extremely horrible person and a credibly accused serial rapist.

He stayed at his laptop for hours, assembling his evidence, and once he felt that he had enough, he finally closed his laptop and looked up.

The first light of dawn was starting to peek in through the gap in his curtains and he groaned. He was definitely going to regret pulling an all nighter later, especially while he was still in heat. At least he’d already been planning on avoiding his parents all day.

As an awareness dawned on him that time and his physical body were both things that, surprisingly, still existed even if he ignored both things indefinitely, he realized that he was hungry.

Tim tapped a nervous pattern with his fingers on the plastic casing of his laptop, weighing his options. He was pretty sure that he had at least half a granola bar stuffed in one of his backpacks, but he was hungrier than that. He wanted real food, which meant going down to the kitchen and running the risk of bumping into his parents. He’d had enough verbal beatdowns over the past days to last him the rest of his life, but they were probably still sleeping at…

Tim glanced at his alarm clock. 6:23. They were probably still asleep.

His stomach growled angrily at him, making the decision. It was a chance he’d have to take. Worse came to worse, he’d get to be told how worthless omegas are and how disappointed they were in him again, as if it were fresh news the hundred thirty-seventh time.

Tim quietly tiptoed across his room and turned the knob. The door swung open without a sound, courtesy of the well-oiled hinges he’d found were a staple of any kid who liked to sneak in and out of his house without getting caught. He could technically climb up the rugged brick exterior of their home, and he could even be doing that now, but it wasn’t a climb he liked to make in the dark, or when he was physically compromised, as he was in heat.

There was no light coming from under his parents’ bedroom, so Tim sneaked silently down the hall to the stairs. He stayed quiet, though less cautiously, as he got farther away.

Two flights of stairs and a hall later, Tim had reached the kitchen. He flipped on the light and made a move for the pantry, only to freeze when he noticed his father glaring at him.

“What are you doing up?” Jack asked brusquely.

Tim blinked twice, recalibrating quickly. “I just like getting up early. Wh-what are you doing up?”

Jack grunted. “Tashkent is nine hours ahead of Gotham. It takes some time to adjust. Of course, having to deal with the fallout of our only heir being an omega hasn’t helped our sleep schedule much.”

Tim wasn’t really sure how he was supposed to respond to that, so he just nodded and tried to look docile and submissive. Jack turned back to the bagel he’d been eating at the window, watching the sunrise, and Tim took that as his chance to sneak into the pantry.

He’d been hoping to be able to sneak a bunch of food back up to his bedroom so that he wouldn’t have to leave for the rest of the day, but with his dad right there, that plan was dashed. Tim stuffed some packaged food into the pockets of his pajama pants, then grabbed a box of cereal and took it to the counter.

He tried not to look directly at his dad while he made himself a giant bowl of cereal. It was more than he’d normally eat, but if he ate it all, and what was in his pockets, he might be able to hole up in his room, at least until his parents went to bed. If they were getting up early, they’d be sleeping early too.

He did have to present his “please don’t make me marry this terrible person, not because you care in anyway for my well being or anything, but because it’ll probably turn out badly for you too” plan, though, and he’d have to do it before anything with Luthor was finalized. He couldn’t hide all day, unless he got it over with now.

Tim sat down at the island and took a few bites, trying to come up with a natural sounding conversation starter that wouldn’t get him berated, but he gave up quickly.

“Dad?” Tim tried.

Jack’s nose wrinkled in disgust, and Tim remembered all the “you’re not our son” stuff.

Tim lowered his head and tried again, trying to keep the hurt out of his tone and scent. “Sir.”

“What?”

Tim poked at his cereal with a waning appetite. “H-Have you decided who I’m going to marry?”

Tim chanced a quick glance to Jack, who seemed annoyed, but not violent as he had been before. Not yet, at least.

“You’ll marry who I tell you to marry, bitch,” Jack snarled.

Tim nodded obediently, then started tapping nervously on the counter.

“Cut that out,” Jack warned, and Tim stopped immediately.

“It’s just-” Tim took a deep breath and raised his head to meet his father’s eyes. “You know that Luthor is suspected of several murders, and of defrauding his business partners, right?”

Jack’s expression briefly flickered to surprise before the glower was back. “If you think that making up things is going to get you out of this-”

“It’s not that!” Tim rushed, and nearly panicked when he realized that he had just interrupted his dad, which would have landed him in a heap of trouble even before he had presented. He had less than five seconds before his dad exploded, though, and then he’d never get a word in edgewise, so Tim just went for it. “I have a lot of evidence on my computer. I’ll show it to you. I’m fine with anyone else, but I don’t think that Luthor is a-”

Jack stood with enough force to send his chair crashing to the floor, and he stormed toward Tim. Tim scrambled off his barstool and backed toward the door, watching his father with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, sir, I just-”

Jack grabbed Tim by the throat and slammed him against the doorframe, hard. Tim cried out in pain, a second cry choked off when his dad tightened his grip. Tim could barely breathe, and tears of pain and fear sprang unbidden to his eyes. He can’t hurt me permanently, he wants that money, he can’t hurt me, he can’t hurt me.

That didn’t make it hurt any less as the hard wooden corners jabbed into his back and his father’s fingers dug deep into the flesh of his neck.

“You’ll marry who I tell you to marry, whether you like it or not,” Jack snarled, leaning in close to Tim’s face. Jack stopped, then closed his eyes and put his nose against Tim’s collarbone, right on the scent gland, and took a deep breath. “This, right here, is all you have anymore. This scent and this…” Jack’s free hand came up and rested on Tim’s chest, then began to trail, slowly and uncomfortably, down the front of Tim’s body.

“Dad?” Tim whimpered. Jack’s hand hit the waistband of Tim’s pajama pants and started to toy with it. “Dad?!”

Jack pulled back to look at Tim’s face, a lecherous gleam to his eye to match his vicious grin. His scent was shifting too, becoming muskier and stronger.

His dad was going into rut.

Jack’s hand started to tug Tim’s waistband lower and lower on his hips. “If you’re so scared of what Luthor’s going to do to you, maybe I should give you a preview.”

Tim grabbed his pants and tried to pull them up, but his dad growled at him and tugged more insistently.

“Dad, please don’t do this! Please!” Tim choked out.

Jack pressed his body against Tim’s, pinning him to the doorframe more effectively. His hand slid away from Tim’s throat, and he started sloppily mouthing Tim’s neck. “We wouldn’t want you to be scared when your new husband stakes his claim, would we?”

“Dad, please!” Tim’s protest and struggles were ineffectual. Both of his father’s hands lustily gripped the dips of his waist, the fingers tight enough to bruise, then slowly felt their way down Tim’s sides. He wasn’t going to stop. There was no way to stop him, no way to-

“MOM!” Tim screamed. Jack growled in annoyance and tried to cover Tim’s mouth, but Tim turned in time to scream once more before his dad clapped his hand across Tim’s face.

“Do you think she’s going to help you, Timmy? She might decide to join me in breaking you in,” Jack snapped.

But she wouldn’t, because his mom was a beta and not in rut, and she was smart enough to know that he was worth a lot more as a virgin. It was a big house, but if she had heard him, he might stand a prayer of not getting knotted by his dad. Jack knew that too, or he wouldn’t have covered Tim’s mouth.

Before Jack could resume his groping, Janet Drake rushed into the kitchen from another door. She took one look at Jack, then at Tim, and huffed in frustration.

“Jack, what in the world are you doing?” she snapped, storming over and pulling Jack off of Tim.

Tim’s knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor. He raised his trembling hands to cover his face and the silent tears of fear and relief that he couldn’t stop.

Janet dragged Jack a few paces away, keeping her body between the rutting alpha and the heat-stricken omega. “We offered Luthor a virgin omega. You know as well as I do what happens when people cheat Lex Luthor. If you could keep your instincts in check so that we don’t get ourselves killed, that would be quite satisfactory, dear.”

Jack growled, but it seemed a token protest. He clearly knew that his wife was right.

“I’m sure a little…practice, for the boy, wouldn’t hurt, don’t you think? Just touching,” Jack promised.

The trembling in Tim’s hands spread to the rest of his body and he nearly threw up.

“I’m your son!” Tim cried, unable to stop himself. Didn’t that count for anything?

Jack growled at him, but Janet silenced them both with a disapproving glower.

“Honestly, Timothy, you should have known better than to be around an alpha alone in your state. Why do you think I’ve stayed close to you during your heat? It certainly wasn’t the quality of the company,” Janet scoffed. “Omegas are a temptation to alphas in the best of conditions. In heat, they are nearly irresistible. Add to that the stress your father has been under, and of course he would be in an unfit state of mind. If you didn’t want to be assaulted, then you should have stayed in your room.”

Tim stared at her in horror. “B-but-”

“Go upstairs, Timothy,” Janet sighed.

Janet took Jack by the arm and led him away, leaving Tim a shaking, terrified mess. He had to make three attempts at standing before his ankles and knees agreed to hold him up, and even then, it was only long enough for him to stumble to the sink and vomit up everything he’d eaten.

They knew.

He leaned back, supporting himself with a white knuckled grip on the rim of the sink.

They knew that Luthor was dangerous for them, they had to know that he was also a danger to Tim, and they’d chosen to force him to marry Luthor anyway. There was no way out.

His sides tingled as phantom versions of his father’s hands grabbed his sides slid down to his hips. His stomach churned violently, and he barely leaned forward in time for the bile to land in the sink. He swiped the cuff of his sleeve across his mouth, but caught the scents of fear and rut that lingered where his sleeve had hit his father’s wrist scent gland, and he threw up again.

Finally, when there was truly nothing left in his stomach, Tim stood up. He didn’t rinse out the sink. It was a small, meaningless victory, but one of them would have to do it.

Walking up the stairs felt like climbing a mountain, even though it was only two flights. He couldn’t escape the sensation of his father’s hands sneaking up on him and grabbing him. He couldn’t stop the tears blurring his vision, either.

When he reached the third floor, he took a deep, shuddering breath, rubbing his hands up and down his sides to cover the feeling of hands. It helped, but the phantom fingers went deeper than his hands could hope to.

He practically ran into his bedroom, locked the door, and shoved his desk up against it. With that secure, he rushed into his bedroom and started pulling off his clothes, which he hated because now he was uncovered and even more vulnerable than before, but those clothes smelled unescapably like his father. He shoved them into the trash can, then stuffed a towel over them to stop it up.

Tim turned the water on as hot as it could go, then jumped into the spray and viciously scrubbed everywhere his father had touched, not even stopping when his skin was red and raw. He just wanted it to go away, but he could still feel him.

The tears that had been so quiet and manageable caught in Tim’s throat and he choked on a sob. If he couldn’t even trust his own father not to do this to him, and if he couldn’t trust his mother to save him for anything other than her own benefit, then who could he trust?

The sobs kept coming, wracking his whole body. He wanted to stop, so he could get out and get dressed and hide and not be so vulnerable, but he couldn’t do anything more than huddle miserably on the floor of the shower and cry, even as the burning hot water ran out and turned frigid.

He left his room once the rest of the day. He briefly napped, hidden under his bed, but it was a restless sleep and plagued by nightmares. He didn’t eat, either, but he dumped all the packaged food he’d stolen from the kitchen into his backpack, along with several pairs of dark clothes that would cover almost his whole body, a toothbrush, a sleeping bag, and all of his money.

He waited until he hear his parents in the kitchen for an early dinner, then sneaked into their room, found their wallets. About half of it was in foreign currency that he couldn’t use, but he got nearly three hundred American dollars between the two wallets. He considered taking the cards, too, but decided against it. If he got caught, that was a crime they could prove. They wouldn’t actually be able to prove that the cash he’d taken was theirs and not his allowance. He also found a box of scent blocking patches that his parents wore in business meetings, and took those too.

He quickly went back to his room, locked and barricaded the door, then waited. It was another hour or two before they made their way up to their bedroom. He gave it another hour, until it was nearly dark and he was sure that they were asleep.

Opening the window and swinging out onto the brick footholds for the last time should have felt awful. He should have had second thoughts, and then third and fourth thoughts, until he realized that his parents were not as bad as he thought, and climbed back inside and then never speak of his aborted runaway attempt again.

But it didn’t.

Gotham was a dangerous city, especially for packless children and omegas, but it was far more home than his house was. Gotham, for all its faults, would hide him from his parents, and his marriage. He could do odd jobs, maybe forge some papers and pretend to be older than he was to get hired some place, or even just steal. It didn’t even matter anymore, but he was never letting an alpha touch him again.

#batman #bruce wayne is a good dad #Bruce Wayne #Tim Drake #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #Alpha Bruce Wayne #Omega Tim Drake #fake marriage au

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dented-nado · 4 years

Text

We’ll Always Have Each Other

I’M BACK! AND I WROTE A THING [Have an angsty fic with the aftermath of Bruce nearly dying - and also me trying to write Damian for the first time... ... ever] Warning for MC death although it’s brief and a slight existential crisis - but this fic is mostly about family bonding and how Bruce really isn’t a loner. (some swb mentions if you squint) ---- ---

It happened so fast… so sharp he both felt it and wasn’t sure he felt anything. Ears feeling like they were stuffed with cotton.

He stared at the sharp bit of metal that he had been stabbed with that was sticking out of his torso, not knowing what to think of it… or maybe now unable to think about it at all.

As Bruce felt his vision go black, he heard a laugh… what sounded like Dick yelling…

Was Damian screaming? Damian didn’t have large outbursts, so that couldn’t be right. Someone cradled his head, and he heard what sounded like Tim crying as he whispered.

“no no… no .. please don’t go…”

And that was it… nothing more. Not a thought not a sound. Except maybe a light… or many lights… or even just two, he wasn’t sure.

He heard whispering above him, his body felt… numb, mind blurry… there were several people around him, he knew that.

“Bruce?” Clark called for him, his voice sounded distant, but it was there.

Light began seeping back into his eyes as he slowly opened them, he winced slightly at the sudden brightness in the room around him. There were many faces staring down at him…he subconsciously took stock as the parent of many kids often did.

Dick… Tim… Stephanie… Duke… Cass… Barbara… Alfred… Clark… Diana… J’onn…

All of them looked like they had been crying, all held mixed expressions of distress and relief.

“Did I die?” Bruce thought.

It was an odd thought, and he realized if he had been dead he didn’t really remember what it was like, only that it had happened.

Then he remembered hearing a scream.

“Where…?” He winced, feeling an ache in his abdomen

Where was Damian?

“Don’t try to talk a lot yet B… you have to not move a lot for a while.” Clark hushed.

“You were impaled, but you were lucky that the metal you were pierced with managed to miss your vital organs and major blood vessels.” J’onn explained calmly, knowing that would inevitably be Bruce’s next question.

Bruce looked around blearily. They had to have him on some powerful pain killers, especially since they likely had to take Bruce’s tendency to muscle through pain with his own brand of concentrated pain killers into account.

He must have passed out when he tried to blink, because when he opened his eyes again, he just saw Dick sitting in a chair next to him reading a book. He seemed to notice Bruce stirring and looked over with a small smile.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Bruce wheezed. His voice was weak but the aching pain wasn’t as bad.

“How long…”

“About a week.” Dick answered. “You’ve stirred and started mumbling a few times, but you kind of had to stay put so you could be treated and heal and all that jazz. We’ve all been visiting and hanging out with you, even if you’re a loner and all.”

The corners of Bruce’s lips quirked up. He slowly began trying to see if he could sit up , but he decided not to push it. He sighed, not looking forward to the recovery time of trying to move around again.

“Where’s Damian?” Bruce was finally able to ask.

Dick took a deep breath. Setting his book down. “He demanded he be put in one of the watchtower cells. He’s insisting on “turning himself in.”

Bruce almost shot up before remembering he couldn’t really move fast right now. “What?? Why?”

“Well… when we all thought … you know… you were dead, the kid kind of lost it, not that I blame him, I kinda… did too… and he, you know… did his miniature assassin thing and uh… The Joker is dead. And ‘cause he killed, he thinks you’d be disappointed or mad at him. So he’s uh… insisting he be “punished”.” Dick confessed.

Bruce’s heart sank.

“Clark tried to talk to him, I tried to talk to him, Tim left him alone… His eyes lit up when he heard your okay but he said and I quote “Please inform father that I fully intend to pay for disobeying him.” “

Bruce groaned. Wishing he could leap up right that second and tell Damian he wasn’t mad… not even slightly… but apparently this was another one of those moments where him and Damian were more stubbornly similar than they were different.

“Do you think you could convince him to come see me?” Bruce asked.

Dick shrugged. “I can sure try.”

“Thanks chum.”

Dick smiled and patted his dad on the shoulder as he stood up in response and went off to try and get his youngest brother to face Bruce now that he was up and more coherent.

Bruce breathed deeply. Wondering briefly, if death had really been nothingness or he just couldn’t, or was physically unable to remember whatever it was he encountered. That was an existential crisis he’d put off for another day.

When Damian came in, Dick right behind him, the boy was hanging his head. He saw Damian nervously take a glance up to him. He saw his son’s eyes were red… and he was trying to hide it.

“Damian…” He tried to begin.

“Father… I…” Damian interrupted, hanging his head. “I have killed, even though it was against your wishes. I have disobeyed you, and I will accept any punishment you have for me.”

Damian was obviously trying to speak in a slightly disconnected tone, but Bruce could see his hands trembling.

“Damian, I’m not mad. I’m worried about you.” Bruce replied softly.

Damian’s head shot up, and now Bruce could officially see now that the boy’s eyes were wet. “But-!” He protested.

“Shh. Come here.” Bruce beckoned, holding his arm out weakly.

Damian hesitated, glancing up at Dick who nodded at him before slowly moving over to his father’s side. Bruce trapped him in a sideways hug that made Damian jump slightly.

“When Jason ‘died’, the first thing I did was grab a gun.” Bruce confessed slowly.

Both Dick and Damian looked at him shocked. He had never opened up about this, but he supposed now was the time. Dick sat back down in his chair quietly to listen.

“I was going to shoot that clown right in the head, maybe torture him a bit before doing it for taking my child away from me. But you know who stopped me?”

“Who?” Damian asked.

“Clark did.”

“The alien??”

Bruce gave him a slightly disapproving look.

Damian shifted slightly looking guilty and corrected himself. “Yes, Clark, Superman… why did he stop you?”

“Because he knew I’d regret it, not because Joker shouldn’t die or should serve justice for what he’s done… but because he knew revenge wouldn’t make it hurt any less… and that I’d regret it because I’d have to live with the fact that the Joker finally got to me, and the trauma from taking a life might do me in for good.” Bruce confessed. “Especially since picking up a gun was something I never ever wanted to do.”

Damian looked down, leaning into Bruce slightly. “When… When I destroyed him, I thought that avenging your death would make it better. But it didn’t. Because you were still gone, and I had broken my promise to you.” He mumbled quietly. “I failed to be strong like you… and resist the temptation.”

Bruce hugged him tighter. “No, you didn’t fail. I’m not disappointed, or mad. I understand. You had a normal… human… reaction.”

“He’s right Dami, in that moment… when that happened, if it hadn’t been you… it would have been me, or Tim, or any of us really. You saw the way Superman looked even when he came. You were just the fastest.”

“It’s not your fault that a very sick person got a high out of getting reactions out of people by killing or harming those they care about.” Bruce comforted. “As I’ve learned… Valuing life… and family, is not weakness.”

Damian was trembling again, obviously still trying to hide anything he was feeling. “But father… you said it yourself, because he got me to react… he won.”

Bruce shook his head. “No, he hasn’t won. Not yet. We can heal from the scars he left behind, on us, on our family, on Gotham, and eventually, we can make sure he’ll be forgotten, we won’t let him have a lasting effect on us, not anymore. We won’t give him that satisfaction, because we’ll still have each other. Okay?”

Damian looked at Bruce with wide eyes and slowly nodded. Bruce pulled his son up so he could hug him tight with both arms.

“I love you, and I’m proud of you, I’m so proud of all of you, you all mean a lot to me, and I’m never going to leave you or my family like that again.”

This seemed to be what finally caused Damian to break, for all the floodgates that were being held back to burst open. He buried his face in his dad’s chest, clinging to him as all the stress, guilt, grief, and fear came flooding out, no longer caring enough about pride to hide that he was crying.

Bruce felt Dick wrap his arms around both of them, ruffling Damian’s hair just as he did.

Then, like a stampede, the door burst open causing the three of them to jump as they were piled on with a group hug as the batkids, Alfred, Clark, Diana, and several members of the league ran in excitedly at seeing Bruce up, being just careful enough to make sure they didn’t re-hurt Bruce as they piled onto the group hug.

Bruce smiled as he heard a small but rare laugh from Damian, and maybe understood now why Clark and Diana seemed to light up when Bruce himself smiled or laughed. He now only hoped that any sounds of laughter they heard from now on would be from each other and out of happiness and joy.

#batman #batfam #batfamilly #dc fanfic #dc comics #clark kent #superman #bruce wayne #diana prince #j'onn j'onzz #dick grayson #tim drake #dc let bruce be a good dad and a batfam that works together to heal

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malcyon · 4 years

Text

Leap, Fall, Fly

Summary: He tries to use his voice, “You have one of my shirts?”

Tim looks at him, amused.“Dude, I have, like, four.”

*****

Kon figures some stuff out. Tim helps.

Read on AO3

___________________________________________

Kon kinda wishes he hadn’t come to Gotham tonight.

The pavement below shines with reflected street light thanks to the freezing rain, because the weather in this city sucks. And there’s this creepy chill in the air that's unique only to Gotham that’s been making him shiver for the past hour. But Tim had called, asking if he wanted to patrol, and there was no way in hell Kon was turning that down or leaving halfway through the night.

Even if he can’t feel his feet anymore.

He runs a hand through his hair, ignoring the cold water that runs down his neck, and tries very hard not to look over at where his best friend is crouching on the edge of the building they’re staking out on. He seems to be trying to not look at Tim a lot these days. Trying to focus on anything else.

A few blocks away, a lady is yelling at her cat for knocking over a houseplant.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Tim roll his shoulders back smoothly.

Kon huffs out a frustrated puff of air and examines a trash can in the alley below. Part of him feels like he should say something, but he doesn't know what. He doesn't know what to say to Tim most of the time these days.

Despite that, he’s been stealing moments with the other boy outside of the team whenever he could since he’d gotten back from being dead, or comatose, or whatever it was he had been. What Kon hadn’t been, was there to see the results of his death (and Stephanie's, and Bart's, and Bruce's, and Tim's dad's, and so, so many more) on his best friend. Hadn’t been there to see Tim fall apart and then forge himself into something stronger than what he’d been as Robin.

A rat skitters over the garbage lid. He watches it blankly.

He knows that Tim had shattered while he was dead, had put himself back together piece by piece until he was almost whole again. And even now he acts fine, enough so that no one gets too close to see where he's falling apart at the edges.

But sometimes Kon will catch Tim staring at him like he’s about to disappear. Will catch the too fast, scared heartbeat of his best friend.

And it makes Kon want to scream or punch something, blame someone for not helping—It makes him want to hold onto Tim and tell him he’s not going away ever, ever again; because who else is gonna stay up with him to binge-watch Wendy movies and eat junk food until two in the morning? Hell, they don’t even have to do that; Kon would be down with anything that would get rid of the sad look in Tim’s eyes.

And this isn’t even counting all the bullshit with the assassins and Bruce dying and coming back and how strained things still are between Tim and Dick and how there’s a new Robin along with a new Superboy and—

Kon glares at the brick wall across the alley. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t care that Jon had donned the costume. Yeah, his little brother has done more than earned it, but it hurts knowing that he’d missed that too.

Plus now he has to come up with a new hero name.

He shivers again and scuffs his foot against the ground. Carefully, he glances over at Tim, whose masked eyes are still examining the dark corners below their building. Kon sorta hopes that something happens so he could at least move around a bit.

He wonders if that’s unethical then decides that he’s too cold to do any further introspection about himself.

Kon whines instead, “Hey, Red Robin.”

There’s no answer from the other boy—not even a twitch.

“Red. Robbie. Rob. R—”

Tim lets out a long sigh and Kon grins at him. “What?”

“I’m bored.”

“And?”

“And I’m cold.”

“And?”

“And I’m hungry, dude. I want some of Agent A’s cookies.”

Tim looks over at him, and Kon floats a few inches off the ground, giving his best puppy-dog eyes. He’s pretty sure Tim raises an eyebrow under the mask, but Kon tilts his head anyway, mimicking the face Jon gives Lois when he has to go to bed but the movie will be done in ten minutes, come on, pleeeeease.

Tim sighs again, in either amusement or exasperation Kon’s not sure. But he does stand up, so Kon gives himself a mental high five.

“Not like anything’s going on anyway.”

Kon doesn’t even bother to hide his beaming smile as he asks, “Fly back?”

Tim shrugs in agreement and jumps down from his brooding perch, steps light on the rooftop. Kon lowers himself to the ground, carefully picks up the other boy, and is suddenly very much aware of how Tim smells like rain and some sort of really nice body wash. He probably takes off a little too quickly, but he blames it on wanting to get out of the cold.

Tim makes a startled noise and throws an arm around Kon’s shoulders, and Kon curses at himself briefly before wrapping Tim up in his TTK, stabilizing him. The other boy relaxes but doesn’t seem to find it necessary to remove his grip, and Kon decides that focusing on flying is a really great idea. At the very least, it’s better than running into a street lamp.

He’s been in Gotham enough now to know how to get to the Manor from anywhere in the city, and the lights blur together as he goes faster and faster, raindrops splashing against his face.

To be honest, Kon has no idea if he's even allowed to be in the Bat's territory; he certainly wasn't given an invitation. But Tim's been dragging him here more and more lately, and since he hasn't been stabbed with a kryptonite batarang yet, Kon's not going to ask any questions. Maybe Tim had just worn Bruce down, or maybe Dick had changed the man's mind. Whatever it was, Kon got to hang out more with Tim and that’s what mattered.

Tim's laugh draws him out of his head, the sound vibrating through Kon’s chest and he lets out a whoop as they dodge buildings all the way to the Manor.

The rain has thoroughly soaked both of them by the time they enter the tunneled entrance to the Cave, but Kon can’t find it in him to care as he lands, still snickering, on the floor. Tim is grinning wildly as he steps out of Kon’s arms and takes off the Red Robin mask, his wet hair dripping down into his face until he runs a gauntleted hand through it. It sticks up in a bunch of spikes and Kon bursts into laughter.

Tim scowls at him and shakes his head, water droplets flying everywhere and making it even worse.

Kon bites his lip, barely toning down his sniggers, and steps forward. “Dude, stop; that’s not helping.” Tim glares. Kon rolls his eyes and, before he lets himself think about it too much, drags his hands through Tim’s hair, managing to calm it down enough to look presentable.

Tim’s skin is warmer than he thought it’d be, and his hair is thick with water and getting long. Kon likes it; his friend looks older, different in a way that makes Kon wanna stare at him. He wonders if anyone else notices like Kon does. Girls on the street certainly do whenever they go out as civilians, their stares catching on Tim's form, his sharp eyes. The thought makes his stomach sour.

Tim blinks, surprised with the contact maybe, but only gives Kon a quiet grin and doesn’t say anything.

Kon wants to beat his forehead against a wall.

The other boy unexpectedly takes a step back and surveys him with narrowed eyes. “You’re soaked.”

“So are you,” he points out, but Tim waves the observation aside.

“Yeah, but I’m taking this off—” Part of Kon’s brain is suddenly filled with some very exciting images—“and changing into something else. But you don’t really have any extra clothes.”

Kon tries to ignore the pictures in his head, but the tips of his ears still feel hot when he manages, “Am I staying the night?”

The atmosphere changes and Kon suddenly feels like he’s blundering through something that should be handled by someone who understands their own feelings. Tim opens his mouth, then pauses before continuing, “You don’t have to, I mean, if you have things you need to do then you should go, but the storm is gonna get really bad so—”

“No!” Kon definitely did not yelp. He clears his throat. “No, I’ll call Ma, but I should be in the clear. It’s a Friday so, you know, I can do the important chores later this weekend.”

Tim slowly nods. “Yeah, yeah, tell her I said hi. I’m going to get out of this suit; I’ll be right back.”

Kon isn't sure if he imagines the sudden stiffness to Tim’s shoulders as he walks away to some other part of the cave to change or not. He watches for a second, wanting to say something else even if he doesn't know what. But he only pulls out his burner phone and taps out Ma’s number, pointedly ignoring the unexpected awkwardness in the air. She picks up by the second ring.

“Hello?” There’s the sound of crickets and Krypto’s barking behind her voice, and Kon smiles a little bit for no particular reason.

“Hey, Ma. There’s a storm passing through Gotham, so it’s cool if I stay the night at the Manor, right?”

“Of course, Conner. I’m guessing that you’re with Tim?”

“Yeah, he says ‘Hi’ by the way. I promise I’ll try to go to sleep at a decent time tonight.”

She hums at him over the phone, amused. “I’m sure you will.” Kon hears her take in a breath, then hesitate.

“Ma?”

“How . . . are things with Tim?”

He straightens up even though she can’t see him.

“I—What?”

“How is he?”

“Uh, he’s okay. Busy. I think he’s running himself a little ragged.”

“I’m not surprised. You'll need to bring him over for dinner.”

“For dinner?” Kon's pretty sure he's missing something that should be obvious.

“The last time he came over feels like ages ago, and things between you two have seemed rather . . . tense.”

“What—How?”

She hesitates again. “It just feels like you both have something to say to each other.”

His heart stumbles, breath catching in his throat.

"I don't—"

"I've seen the way you look at him, dear."

His brain scratches to a stop.

She continues thoughtfully, "You're always talking about him, you did even while you were dating that Cassie girl. And I know how much time you've been spending with him lately, with the team and all." She's quiet for a moment. "You're sweet on him, aren't you?"

The question hangs in the air, and Kon struggles to breathe.

"I . . . “ He swallows weakly. “Maybe. Just a little. You know.”

”Really? I was so sure you two—"

"We're not together!" The words come out strangled as his ears burn from the teasing in her tone. Ma sighs over the phone.

"Well, I know that. If you were you'd have brought him over for dinner."

Oh.

He licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. "You think I should . . . "

"Talk to him? Yes, I think you should."

"But what if he doesn't—"

"He does. Trust me, dear, he does." Kon opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He thinks of the way Tim’s hair felt against his hands and the haunted look in his eyes that sometimes appears when nobody is paying attention. Ma continues softly, “He’s a good boy and I know what he means to you, Conner. Talk to him.”

He nods at the ground. “Yeah . . . Yeah, I will. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, and tell Alfred I want him to send me his recipe for snickerdoodles, and in return, I’ll finally give him my instructions for blueberry pie.”

A weak laugh comes out of his chest. “Okay, Ma.”

“Don’t stay up all night,” she chuckles and then says gently, "I love you."

"Love you, too."

She hangs up.

He puts his phone away and stares at the chittering bats on the ceiling high above.

Kon knows that he and Tim have been dancing around having a real talk for months. And it's weird because they used to be able to say anything to each other. But now it’s like they’re walking on a tightrope, carefully balancing so they don’t fall into a chasm of complicated feelings beneath them.

The truth is that Tim and Kon don’t click the way they had before. Like some piece of their puzzle has been flipped, and an entirely new picture created. And Kon has no idea what to do about it. 'Cause they’ve always been close. Before Kon had died, they’d been the best of friends, trusted one another with their secrets, their goddamn lives. Tim had covered his back and he had covered Tim’s. Even when the team was together, they were the ones who had stuck to each other’s sides like glue.

But then Kon had gone and gotten himself killed.

He knows that after he died the team had lost it. Cassie had joined a cult, Bart had died, and Tim had—

Kon’s throat suddenly feels way too tight.

He looks down at the ground.

But then Kon came back. And, yeah, they’re still best friends, but now there’s something else there. Something that both of them have been dutifully ignoring for months now and that Kon isn’t too keen on bringing up, messing with their delicate balance.

Though if Ma had noticed the tension between them . . . They really had to talk.

“Just to let you know, the house is gonna be basically empty tonight, it’s only us, Alfred, and Damian.” Tim’s voice comes from behind him, and Kon nearly jumps. He spins around to see his friend in some old work out clothes, rubbing his head on a towel.

Kon stares at him in disbelief.

“You’re telling me that your entire family all had things to do tonight except for the Bat Brat?” Tim grins at him from underneath the towel and something in Kon’s chest grows warm.

“Yeah, Dick’s in Bludhaven, Jason’s blowing some buildings up, the girls decided to go on a weekend trip to Japan, and Bruce is in Italy for sudden business stuff.”

“And the reason Damian hasn’t included himself in any of these activities is?”

“He’s sick.”

Kon nearly snickers.

“You’re shitting me. There’s no way he’d let getting sick stop him from doing any of that.”

Tim laughs and shakes his head. “Both Bruce and Dick threatened him with being benched if he went anywhere this weekend.”

Kon whistles. Direct orders from the Bat weren’t to be taken lightly. “I’m guessing that went well.”

Tim shrugs and puts the towel around his neck. “Not as bad as you would think. I mean, he was definitely in a pissy mood, but I think Jon is rubbing off on him. There wasn’t as much yelling as there could have been. But he was also totally out of it, so I’m giving credit to his cold and not development of character.” Tim throws the towel on a nearby table and starts walking up the stairs to go into the house, Kon floating after him.

Tim leads him through several hallways filled with family pictures that Kon knows his friend probably took when none of his said family was paying attention. One snags his eye and he pauses to get a better look. It's of Tim and Cassandra throwing pillows at each other inside one of the Manor’s many guest rooms. Whoever took the photo had good timing; they had caught Tim mid-laugh, eyes bright as they watched Cass bring a pillow down on his head.

Kon examines it for a second longer before the sound of Tim’s footsteps brings him back to the present.

He doesn’t look at any more pictures.

The kitchen is one of Kon’s favorite places in the house; it’s cozy despite its size, painted with pale yellows and creamy whites, and usually contains some kind of treat Alfred's whipped up. He hovers in the doorway, breathing in the warmth as Tim opens up one of the many cupboards and grabs a tin of what Kon hopes has cookies in it. He resists the urge to do a mid-air flip when he’s proven correct and Tim hands him the container while he starts to make tea.

The awkwardness from earlier has transformed into something comfortable and familiar, and Kon floats cross-legged and watches as Tim pours water into a pot and sets it to boil.

He takes a sweet from the tin and bites into it, the cookie melting on his tongue. He moans quietly because food and glances back up at his friend. Tim is facing the stove, shoulders suddenly rigid and Kon's eyes snag on the bright pink color his ears are turning.

Then he notices that Tim didn’t manage to dry his hair all the way, and Kon watches as a drop of water rolls down the back of his neck.

He swallows his cookie.

“Hey, so, I—I need some advice.” Kon isn't sure what to do with his hands, and he ends up lightly tapping the box with his fingers. Tim turns around, his brow furrowed in slight concern, the pink quickly fading from his ears.

“With what?”

Kon stares at the granite island below where he’s floating. He brings himself down until he sits on it with his legs hanging over the side, towards Tim but not quite looking him in the eyes. “I need to come up with a new hero identity.”

Tim’s gaze widens a tiny bit with realization before a smirk spreads on his face. “Does this mean a new outfit? Because you need a new outfit.”

Kon drops his mouth open, only to shut it and scowl. “What’s wrong with this?” He gestures to his damp t-shirt and jeans.

Tim gives him a look.

“Do you know how many shirts you go through?”

“They’re easily replaceable!”

“So many. I can’t begin to tell you how many shirts I’ve seen you lose on missions. And in the tower. And on the farm. And—why do you even wear them at this point?”

Kon huffs and glares at him. “At least help me come up with a new name.”

There’s the sound of dog nails on wood and a subdued sneeze, and Tim’s gaze locks on something behind him. Kon twists around and Damian meets his stare coolly, even though Kon can see the circles under the kid’s eyes and his raw nose. Shit.

“A new name for exactly what, clone?”

Tim sighs and goes to grab another mug as Titus weaves around his legs. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Damian scrunches his nose with distaste. “I’ve been in bed all day, Drake.”

“The more you rest up, the sooner you get back to patrolling with Superboy,” Kon points out and Damian shoots him a half-hearted glower. Since becoming friends with Jon and more tolerant of Tim, Damian had grown used to Kon’s presence and quips. Kon's pretty sure that Damian isn't pleased about this at all.

“Is that what you’re doing? Finally moving on from Superboy and creating a new identity?” Damian plops down on one of the counter’s stools and sniffles. Kon offers him the tin of sweets. The kid sighs and takes it without a snarky comment.

No wonder Bruce had made him stay home.

“Yeah, trying to at least.”

Tim hums in thought, “You going to keep ‘Super’ in the name, or not?”

“It would be moronic if you didn’t,” Damian states, but doesn’t look up from where he’s feeding Titus a cookie. Kon cocks his head and resists the urge to swing his legs back and forth like a kid deciding what kind of ice cream he wants.

“It’d be weird if I don’t, but considering how both Superman and Superboy are taken, well . . .”

Tim considers him for a moment. “Superdude.”

“No.”

“Superguy?”

“I don’t care how bad that storm is out there; I will fly home if I have to.”

“Superlad.”

“Drake, I will set Titus on you.”

“Eat your cookie, Demon Brat.”

Damian ignores the order and glances at Kon like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how to make the words come out the right way. He nibbles on his lip before speaking, “Jon’s been thinking about your predicament.” He rubs Titus’s head gently. “I . . . believe he feels guilty about taking the Superboy mantle away from you.”

Kon sits up straighter, about to do what, he doesn’t know; but then a hand on his shoulder makes him stop and glance up. Tim is looking at Damian, focused, eyes intent. It takes Kon a moment to go back at the kid, who’s frowning at the cookie in his hand. He thinks for a second.

“He shouldn’t; he’s doing a great job, better than I ever did, really.” Damian glances up, still chewing on his lip, and Kon continues, “But I’ll talk to him about it.” He grins. “Thanks.”

The kid blinks and nods slowly. Tim squeezes his shoulder gently, and if Kon leans into it a bit, Tim doesn’t say anything. Damian, despite the haze of the cold in his eyes, picks up on it though and gives Kon a miniscule eyebrow raise when Tim turns around to shut off the boiling water.

Kon goes very still as Damian’s gaze flickers between him and Tim, his brain coming up with all sorts of images that involve kryptonite and swords and he's already died once, he doesn't feel like doing it again, thanks. Damian gives him a narrow-eyed appraising look, and Kon gets a hollowing feeling that a pros and cons list is forming about his existence and all he can do is watch as it's debated over.

Then Damian dips his head the tiniest bit and goes back to feeding Titus his cookie.

His chest relaxes. Damian looks up at him again, the sharp, calculating stare gone, replaced with something almost contemplative.

“Jon also came up with a few names you could use.”

Oh, Kon is going to absolutely smother his little brother with hugs the next time he sees him.

Damian gives Kon a thoughtful glance before continuing, “Though he did have a favorite.”

Tim sets down two mugs of tea in front of them, and leans forward on the counter with his forearms, hands clasped around his own cup. Kon can see the outline of his shoulder blades through his threadbare shirt. “What is it?”

Damian reaches for his mug. “I believe it was called ‘Supernova.’”

Huh.

Tim looks up at Kon with a smile and a shrug. “I mean, I’m personally still a fan of Superdude, but that’s pretty good too, I guess.”

Kon snorts into his drink and Titus whines for another treat. Damian scoffs and hops down from the stool, cookie and tea in hand, and starts walking back to the hallway. Tim rolls his eyes and picks up the cookie tin to put it away. When his back is turned, Damian shoots Kon a puzzled look and glances between him and Tim again before muttering something in Arabic and turning out of the room.

“Go to sleep.” Tim calls after him, and Kon hears a disgruntled ‘tt’ and a sneeze as Titus follows the boy into the hall. Tim leans back on the counter next to the stove and takes a sip of his tea. “That went much better than I expected.”

Kon grins at him and lets his head drop back. The mug is cooling in his hands, and he wouldn’t mind taking a nap right now.

“I’m still calling you Superdude.” Kon’s not sure if he’d rather kick his best friend out the door or fly through the nearest window. Tim laughs at whatever expression is on Kon’s face. “Seriously though, you need a new outfit. Or at least one that’s waterproof.”

Right. 'Cause Kon’s still in his damp costume that smells like Gotham’s streets which is not the greatest thing ever, and warm clothes sound like a really nice idea. Tim takes Kon’s mug and puts the cups in the dishwasher. “Come on, I think I might have something that you can wear after all.”

Kon slides off the island and follows Tim out of the warm kitchen and up the huge flight of stairs that lead to the second floor and Tim’s bedroom.

He tries not to examine the pictures on the walls, but as they walk his gaze flickers to them anyway. The photos are authentic; bright moments captured by Tim’s camera and hung in the open halls of the Manor with pride.

Kon doesn’t know a lot about photography, but he does know that Tim is good. Really good. Able to snap little snippets of life and set them in frames in a way that's real. He could probably go professional if he wanted to, instead of the current CEO thing. Though Tim seems more than gleefull in torturing greasy businessmen, including Lex which still makes Kon nearly cackle, in the boardroom.

Then he spots several photos that contain other people than just the Waynes.

There’s one of Clark, Diana, and Bruce in a city park, though Bruce’s smile seems a little strained since the other two had basically forced him into a hug. Another that shows Wally graduating from Stanford, arms wrapped around Dick’s and Donna’s shoulders, laughing at some inside joke. Roy dozing on a couch in the library with Jason on the floor next to him, nose buried in a book.

There’s even one with Krypto, the dog nearly buried under Titus with Alfred the cat snoozing at his paws.

He can’t help but stare at that picture and wonder how the hell Tim managed to creep up on the superdog without waking him. Maybe Krypto had heard him but hadn’t been concerned. Besides, the dog likes Tim.

Kon’s eyes glance over the photos again, before looking at where Tim is walking up ahead. He pauses for a second.

Are there any pictures of him?

He shakes his head slightly and goes down the hall.

Tim opens his door and Kon can’t help but let out a little breath of air like he always does when he sees Tim’s room. It’s big, and Tim has his own bathroom, den, living area, balcony, and, most importantly, a giant flat-screen TV to play video games on. But Tim ignores all that and goes over to a dresser, Kon in tow, and begins rifling through the drawers, looking for something. Kon floats a bit, hands in his pockets.

Then Tim holds up an article of clothing triumphantly and Kon’s brain stops working.

“Told you that you lose your shirts.” Tim grins at him, but Kon only manages a blink in return.

Because that is a Superboy shirt. One of his Superboy shirts. Tim has one of his shirts. Tim could have been wearing his shirt. Kon barely manages to catch the reason for his inner meltdown when Tim tosses the stupid thing at him.

He tries to use his voice, “You have one of my shirts?” Tim looks at him, amused.

“Dude, I have, like, four.”

Kon is fucked. He is so irrevocably fucked.

“How did I not notice—”

“So many shirts, Kon. You go through. So. Many. Shirts.”

“But how did you even get them?”

Tim shrugs almost sheepishly. “I don’t know. They just kinda appeared in my closet.” Kon nods dazedly and Tim frowns. “Don’t have any pants that will fit you though.”

“I’ll wear my boxers.”

Tim looks at him for a moment and stands up, stretching lazily. “So, whatcha wanna do?”

Kon stares at him and Tim grins and walks over to the TV console. Kon kicks off his shoes and begins to unbuckle his belt as Tim looks over his collection of games.

It kinda feels like they’re replaying a memory from before Kon died. Putting in a disc, hands wrapping around a controller; he’s pretty sure the night will play out with the same old bickering and arguments. Just like they’re sixteen again and everyone they care about is alive and only a phone call away.

But now there’s the tension from earlier creeping back into the air. Also, Kon is taking off his pants.

He snickers to himself.

Tim is calling out game suggestions, and Kon is really only half paying attention to the names. He pulls off his damp t-shirt and folds his clothes before putting them on the dresser because Ma’s tidiness habits seem to be wearing off on him.

He wonders if there’ll be pancakes by the time he’s up. Hopefully, there will be because Alfred’s cooking is to die for. Healthier than Ma’s, sure, and not quite as hearty, but still mouthwatering.

It takes him a second to realize that Tim is no longer talking.

Kon glances up and freezes.

Tim is staring at him, eyes roaming over his body with an expression that Kon can’t quite place and hasn’t ever seen before on the other boy. His gaze dips over Kon’s collar bone and down to the muscles on his chest and stomach, lingering. He meets Kon’s stare, and Kon can barely breathe because Tim’s eyes are sorta dark and intense and they’re pinning him to the ground.

He holds Kon's gaze evenly, and though Kon's aware of the fact that he shouldn’t be listening, Tim’s heartbeat fills his ears, fast and steady.

Tim looks down at his hands, and Kon knows he’s not imagining the slight flush on Tim’s face as he lifts up one particular game they haven’t played in years.

“MarioKart?”

Kon’s mouth is dry.

“Sure.”

He pulls on the Superboy shirt; it’s old and tight around his chest and shoulders. He ignores it and makes his way to sit down next to Tim.

They don’t say anything as Tim slides in the disc and the intro music begins to play. Kon fiddles with his controller as they select their usual characters. The colored light flashes across Tim’s face, highlighting his cheekbones and pooling shadow at the column of his throat. He has a freckle under his left ear.

Kon keeps wrecking on the screen in front of them, but Tim doesn’t seem to care too much because it’s not brought up.

Tim shoves him off of Rainbow Road, and this is the part where Kon is supposed to attack the other boy with a pillow in retaliation, but he only spawns again and keeps playing. Tim doesn’t look at him.

It’s too quiet to be anything like when they were sixteen.

He can almost feel the tightrope they’ve been balancing on straining.

Eventually, Kon stretches his neck back and closes his eyes. There’s the sound of a car crash in the game and he knows it isn't his. Cautiously, Kon peeks one of his eyelids open and sees Tim staring at the ceiling like it owes him an explanation for why his life is going the way it is.

Kon hits the pause button and lies onto his back. He takes an unsteady breath. Another. Ma’s words bounce around in his head.

“We need to talk.”

Tim lies down next to him but doesn’t glance over. “Yeah.” His voice is very quiet.

Kon rolls over on his side to look at him. Tim’s eyes are determinedly fixed upwards and Kon lets out a small sigh. “Hey, look at me, please.”

Slowly, Tim’s gaze moves to him. His eyes are steely blue with grey around the pupils, and they look a little lost. There are faded smudges of purple beneath them and Kon wonders how he didn’t notice that earlier. His lips twitch down.

“When was the last time you slept?” Tim opens his mouth and Kon restates his question, “I mean really slept, Tim.”

Tim closes his mouth slowly and stares at the rug underneath them. “Not for a while.”

“Why not?”

A bitter laugh leaves the other boy’s throat, “Nightmares.”

Something cold squeezes Kon’s insides. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Their tightrope sways and Kon breathes and braces himself in case it snaps.

“What are they about?”

Tim’s breathing hitches and his steel eyes close tightly. “People I care about dying. You dying. What . . . What I did after.”

After. Because before and after Kon’s death is all that seems to exist these days. And what happened after had not been pretty. Not at all.

“Tim—”

Tim jumps to his feet, hands running through his slightly damp hair and eyes looking at anything other than him. Kon sits up and watches his friend walk frantically back and forth in front of the TV.

“Look, you don’t have to do this, Kon. You don’t—I’m—I’m fucked up. And I know I’m back with the team and we’ve been working together, but you don’t have to do this—” Tim gestures at the space between them vaguely—“if it freaks you out. If I freak you out. I did some messed up shit, Kon, you don’t have to stay.”

Tim doesn’t stop pacing as Kon slowly stands, the thick rug soft under his feet.

“And I get it. Really, I get it. I went—I went crazy without you. I mean, I fucking tried to clone you and now—” Tim's eyes are a little red, and he shakes his head at the ceiling—“It’s like we’re playing pretend, like everything is okay when it’s not. It’s not. I’m not. And you know that so why are you even still here?” Tim whirls around, hands splayed to the room.

Kon takes a small step towards him, palms open, like he's approaching a scared animal. The tightrope wobbles. “Because you’ve always been there for me; because you’re my friend.”

Another step and Tim’s staring at him almost in pain. “I’m not the same person I was, Kon. I—” Tim looks away, closes his eyes hard—“I can’t be the same kind of friend that you want.”

And that makes Kon pause because there could be something to unpack with that.

Tim’s cheekbones might be flushing, it’s hard to tell with the only light coming from their abandoned game, and Kon hopes they are. He really fucking hopes Tim’s implying what he thinks he’s implying. Carefully, he murmurs, “Do you think I’m the same too? Do you really think that after all the shit I’ve been through, I’d even want to be the same?” He moves closer. “That I’d want us to be the same?”

Tim goes very still like he’s never thought of this before. The tightrope swings dangerously above the chasm of complicated feelings and Kon feels like it’s rushing up to meet them with all the grace and speed of a runaway train.

The multicolored lights from the game play across Tim’s face. He watches them for a moment.

“Tim, listen, I’m still here whether you think I should be or not. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, okay? You haven’t scared me away, Rob. You’re not getting rid of me. I’m not leaving—not again.” Tim’s eyes are wide and Kon takes another tiny step towards him.

Tim is giving him a look, like what Kon’s saying makes a bit of sense before he sighs and shuts his eyes. “How are you so . . . ”

They’re really close now, and Kon can see the flickering of Tim’s eyelashes. His gaze drops down a little bit to Tim’s parted lips. “So?” Tim’s eyes open and he shakes his head slightly and doesn’t continue. He’s staring at Kon’s mouth, and Kon sees his tongue flash across his bottom lip, making it wet.

Fuck it, Kon thinks, and he leaps off the tightrope.

Tim tastes like peppermint tea, and he doesn’t move when Kon threads one of his hands through his hair and kisses him fiercely.

And Kon sorta hates himself a little bit, because there’s no way they’d still be able to be best friends after this if he misread everything. Sure, they could try, but Kon knows that it’ll all be forced and even more awkward than this entire evening has been, and one of the greatest friendships in his life is now lying possibly ruined on Tim’s bedroom floor.

He pulls away, a billion apologies already thundering through his head but they all stick in his throat, and he looks at the ground. Tim stares at him, eyes round.

“Shit, I’m so—”

Tim hauls him forward by his too-tight shirt and kisses him.

Oh.

Kon’s hands seem to understand what’s going on much faster than his brain because they’re quickly sliding back into Tim’s hair and along Tim’s neck and are tracing his jaw, and Tim is groaning, or maybe that’s Kon, it’s kinda hard to tell. Tim’s fingers grasp the Superboy logo at his chest, and his other hand presses against the side of Kon’s face. His thumb brushes Kon’s cheekbone and Kon makes another noise.

One of Kon’s hands slides down to grip Tim’s waist, pulling him closer until Tim is fully up against him; his muscles truly relaxed for the first time since God knows how long. Tim nips at Kon’s bottom lip then Kon’s mouth parts open and Tim’s tongue is in his mouth, and somebody taught Tim how to kiss because he’s really good at it.

Kon sends that somebody a silent thank you as the other boy’s lips suddenly escape Kon’s and move to his throat. Leaving him to pant against Tim's ear, more than slightly disoriented.

He's never wanted like this before, not with Cassie, not with Tana. Never wanted to touch and feel and know like he wants right now. Maybe it's because of all the built-up tension, but there's something so amazingly right about this. About the way Tim’s tongue traces down his neck, ending the trail with a small bite that Kon is sure would bruise if he was human, but only makes him drop his head back and groan.

He feels Tim grin against neck and Kon drags a palm up Tim’s back, under his shirt. Tim shivers, and now Kon’s the one who’s grinning as he brings his head back down to nip at Tim’s ear. He’s granted another shudder when he soothes the sting with his tongue, and Kon files away that interesting information for later.

Tim’s back is littered with scars, and even though Kon has seen them in the showers, he’s never gotten to touch them, and his fingers begin to map out where old battle wounds have healed over. He plays with the hem of Tim’s shirt, tugging lightly, and wonders if Tim’s even okay with going that far. Cause Kon’s totally fine with what they’re doing right now if Tim isn’t cool with losing clothes yet—

Tim takes a step back and for a second Kon’s about to apologize, but Tim only rips off his t-shirt, gaze hot blue steel and completely fixed on him.

Jesus.

The sound that leaves Kon’s throat might be a whimper as the other boy immediately goes back to kissing his nape. And there’s bare skin now, and Tim’s rolling his hips, and Kon wouldn’t mind moving to a horizontal surface. Or a wall.

Honestly, he’s pretty sure he could pull off something in the air if he wanted to.

He’s also definitely hard now. Definitely.

Their mouths meet and Tim is laughing into him before pulling back just enough so that Kon can look at his eyes. They’re amused and full of something that Kon can’t put into the right words at the moment.

Tim laughs again before murmuring against his jaw, “You’re floating.”

Kon blinks.

He looks at his feet and, yeah, he’s an inch or two off the ground, hovering from excitement. He lowers himself down, and his ears feel hot, but Tim’s still grinning at him so he’s not too embarrassed.

Kon kisses him again and then one of Tim’s hands interlocks with his and tugs him in the direction of the bedroom.

They end up falling against a wall just outside of the doorway, Kon’s shoulders pressing into the drywall while Tim’s hands play with the edge of his boxers. Tim pulls away suddenly, brows making a little crease as he brings them together.

“Is this okay?”

Kon bobs his head up and down, breathless and giddy. “This is very much okay. Trust me, I am so, so okay with this.”

Tim grins, and it’s so goddamn real, and hauls him into his room.

He barely notices the paper-covered desk on one side and the big skylights on the ceiling. There’s only Tim, smiling warmly in the dark with the pitter-patter of the rain above as they stumble their way to the bed.

Kon’s back hits the mattress, Tim’s knees on either side of his waist, and he’s pressing Kon into the sheets, mouth hot and wet. One of Kon’s hand drops to Tim’s ass and tugs the other boy down so that the space between them disappears, and fuck Tim’s just as hard as he is and a startled moan comes out of one of them.

The kiss breaks when Tim leans back, and all of his weight is right on Kon’s dick, and Kon couldn’t keep his hips from bucking up even if he wanted to. Tim’s reaching for the bottom of his Superboy shirt, pulling it off so it lands on the floor and thank God for Kon’s TTK; because when Tim leans up on his knees, Kon’s able to slip his shorts off without having to move his hands from Tim’s hair.

For a second, all Kon can do is stare.

Tim is skin and scars above him, and there’s a slash of healing red on his thigh, like he’d been cut there at some recent point. His cock is slender and long and flushed a darker pink than the blush on his cheeks. Kon distantly wonders what it might taste like.

Tim raises an eyebrow and snaps the elastic of Kon’s boxers.

Kon shivers and then laughs when he flips them over and Tim yelps as he hits the bed.

It barely takes a second for Tim to recover and scowl up at Kon who grins in response. Then Tim’s hands are dragging down Kon’s ass, taking his underwear with them. Kon kicks the clothes off the bed and turns back to see Tim’s eyes moving over his body until they meet Kon’s gaze.

The hunger from earlier fades a bit.

He stares at Tim for a second, at the small smile on his face, and feels warmth spread all the way down to his fingertips.

Slowly, Tim lifts his head and presses his lips against Kon’s, still tasting like tea. One of his hands reaches up to Kon’s hair, tugging it gently, and Kon lowers himself until their bodies are lined up and he can feel the slide of Tim’s cock against his own. A shaky moan falls from Tim’s open mouth, and Kon shudders against him. He forces his thoughts to line up coherently.

"Lube?" He manages, and Tim is nodding against his neck before arching back to rummage through the nightstand next to the bed. The motion gives both of them some more amazing friction and Kon's grip tightens as Tim's hips jerk against him. The other boy mutters something, too low for Kon to clearly make out as he half grabs the lube and half continues to grind up in these little, smooth movements that are going to drive Kon insane.

Finally, Tim is pressing the bottle into his hand, and Kon focuses on uncapping the stupid thing while Tim snickers at his clumsiness beneath him. And Kon would be embarrassed, except this is Tim so he's laughing too; and he moves his hand from his friend’s jaw, down to the open bottle, and then further to take Tim in his now wet palm.

“Fuck.” There’s a groan against his neck, and Tim knots his hands further into Kon’s hair.

Tim is pulsing in his hand, heavy and solid, and Kon drops the lube because he’s so caught up in the feeling. Kon lets his thumb circle the tip of the other boy’s leaking cock before beginning to stroke up and down the length of it. Tim trembles.

“We should do this again,” Kon says conversationally, and Tim lightly slaps the back of his head. Kon twists his fist in retaliation and that makes Tim’s hips stutter and his back arch again.

“Yeah, sure, why not?” Tim’s voice is wrecked, gasping out the words, and he really wouldn’t mind making Tim sound like this more often.

His hand moves faster, and Tim is pushing back, thrusting up against Kon’s fist, heels digging into the bedsheets. He brings his mouth to where Tim’s neck meets his shoulder, licking before biting down. Tim cries out, and Kon’s dick twitches in response because holy shit that’s hot.

He uncurls his grasp and runs his fingers up the underside of Tim’s cock. A string of curses streams out of Tim’s mouth, along with what Kon’s pretty sure is his name. He repeats the motion, watching the way Tim's pants are becoming more and more ragged. Kon moves his head lower, lips trailing to one nipple, and he breathes over it wetly before flicking his tongue out and tasting skin.

Tim’s hands clutch at his hair as Kon marks his way across his chest, and Kon knows he’s close, can feel the way Tim is shaking and gripping on to him harder than before. He brushes his fingers against Tim's cock again, too gentle to really grant any relief.

“Damnit, Kon, please!” And how could he say no to that?

It takes three hard strokes to make Tim gasp and come, white spilling into Kon’s hand and onto their stomachs.

Tim slumps into the mattress, eyes closed, sprawled open, chest rising and falling with deep breaths. Kon presses his thumb over the slit of Tim’s dick and the other boy whines shakily and gives a little roll of his hips, face glazing with pleasure.

Then, Tim blinks up at him, still completely blissed out, and Kon sears that sight into his memory. Without looking away, Kon passes his fingers through the mess on his stomach and brings them to his mouth. His tongue curls around one fingertip and Tim’s eyes flicker with the motion. It doesn’t taste that bad. A bit bitter and salty, maybe, but the narrowing of Tim’s stare is totally worth it.

The ache between his legs throbs.

Tim smirks up at him.

Kon is flipped onto his back, Tim doing some crazy Bat-move to get him there, and he blinks up at the skylights, Tim nowhere in sight. Then he feels strong hands on his thighs and a breath over his hip and oh.

That’s where he went.

Tim’s mouth is hot and wet and fucking amazing, and Kon has never been so thankful that Damian’s room is nowhere near Tim’s and that the house is nearly empty. His moan is loud enough that there’s no way someone wouldn’t hear him. He manages to lift his neck to look down at where Tim’s tongue is wrapping around the head of his cock and meets Tim’s smooth gaze. There’s a smug glint in his eyes, and now Tim’s mouth is going lower, taking in more, and Kon nearly sobs.

One of his hands reaches down, palming dark hair and rubbing Tim’s head with his fingers. Tim hums, and the vibrations from that one single sound make Kon’s hips jerk and his dick slide into Tim’s throat a little further. And this is definitely something they need to do again, because it's so good and Kon wants.

He wants and fuck, fuck how is Tim fucking Drake somehow a goddamn wet dream in bed? How?

Kon’s other hand scrabbles at the pillows above him, trying to anchor himself, but that’s hard to do when Tim is doing something with his tongue that makes Kon nearly start begging when he pulls away. He looks back down where Tim's lips have left his dick and been replaced with his hand, since Tim is now biting the insides of his thighs. A small part of Kon curses at his skin's stupid invulnerability because the thought of being covered in bruises left from Tim's mouth is ridiculously hot.

Suddenly he feels intense heat in the back of his eyes, his vision turning red at the edges, and Kon screws his stare shut. He does not want to set Tim on fire during the middle of a blow job. That would be so uncool.

He hears Tim laugh at him from between his legs, so he lightly shoves at his friend's side with his foot. Tim's mouth goes back to his cock and Kon groans.

His fingers tangle in the other boy’s hair. “Tim—”

Tim only sucks harder.

Kon arches and comes with a loud curse. Distantly he feels Tim swallow, and that causes him to shiver, grind his hips up into Tim’s mouth just a bit. He rubs his eyes, the heat vision already fading away. His body feels loose, good.

Tim pulls off of his cock and sits up, wiping at the corner of his mouth, and Kon blinks at him, dazed.

His hair is messy from Kon’s hands and damp with sweat, sticking to the corners of his face. His nape, chest, and shoulders are littered with several marks that are definitely gonna bruise, and that makes Kon feel oddly pleased with himself.

Tim is watching him, rubbing his thumb in little circles over Kon’s hipbone, lips twitched upwards. Kon doesn't really want to move, so he tugs at Tim’s hand gently until the other boy leans down, grabs his shorts off the bed, and cleans up the mess on their skin. This isn’t quite what Kon wants, and he makes a dissatisfied noise and tugs again. Tim rolls his eyes and throws the clothing to a corner of the room before lying on top of Kon, muttering, “Like you’d want to be covered with that while you’re sleeping.”

Kon doesn’t bother answering, and only buries his face into Tim’s shoulder, grinning. Tim still smells a bit like rain and body wash, but now there’s a linger of sex over that, and Kon runs his hands up and down Tim’s warm back, breathing him in.

Tim exhales against his neck and plays with the slightly curly strands of hair at the base of Kon’s head.

Kon practically melts into the pillows.

Tim goes stiff in his arms.

“This—” Tim sits up, legs entangled with Kon’s, and puts a hand on Kon's bare chest—“This isn’t a one-time thing, right?” Tim’s voice is a guilty whisper, scared almost, as if Kon is already regretting what just happened. “You’re not going to leave?”

Kon stares at him for a second, disbelief and hurt curling around his heart.

Then he remembers all the funerals that Tim’s had to go to in the past year. He remembers the one time he went to Tim’s house, back when his parents were both still alive, and how empty it was. He remembers asking Tim where his folks were, and how Tim had gotten very quiet before shrugging and muttering that he didn’t know.

Slowly, Kon sits up, Tim still in his lap, and examines the other boy’s face.

“Hey, I’m not gonna go anywhere.”

Tim sags against him, like the weight of the world has slid right off his shoulders. “That was a stupid question.”

“It wasn’t.” Kon brushes back a piece of hair that fell in front of Tim’s forehead. He kisses him softly. “I get it. It wasn’t.”

He doesn’t move until Tim nods in agreement.

Kon pulls him back down and uses his TTK to slide the thick covers over them. Tim shifts around so they can meet each other’s gaze. Something snags in the back of Kon’s mind.

“Ma wants you to come over for dinner, by the way.”

Tim laughs, the sound soft in the dark.

“Sure.”

Kon reaches over and smooths his thumb across Tim’s cheek, still flushed from earlier, before kissing him again. Tim makes a pleased noise and returns the action, his hand going to Kon’s waist to tug him closer.

They break apart, dropping back onto the pillows, Kon’s fingers tracing over the scars on Tim’s arm. Tim blinks sleepily at him but raises a brow. “So, are you going with that name Jon made up?” He brushes back several strands of Kon’s hair. “Supernova?”

Kon closes his eyes and leans into Tim’s palm. “Has a nice ring to it.”

Tim nods, tapping his fingertips against Kon’s temple thoughtfully.

“Whatever you say, Superdude.”

Kon whacks him with a pillow.

*****

When he opens his eyes, he can’t speak.

He can’t speak because there are tubes in his throat, up his nose, pumping him with oxygen. The steady humming of droning machines fills his ears. He stares.

Everything’s green, but not like the green of Ma’s spring flowers, this green is sick and presses down on him from all sides. And he’s surrounded by something wet and slimy, little bubbles rising past his face like he's in a fish tank. He tries to shake his head, but everything feels heavy even though he's only suspended in the liquid around him. Blurry figures walk towards him, muffled voices fading in and out.

There’s the sound of thudded tapping on the glass. He starts to focus, but still isn’t able to blink the wet stuff out of his eyes.

He sees white coats, Cadmus printed on the pocket.

Fuck, fuck.

“Kon?”

There’s a beam of light shining in his face, causing the green to glow, almost like kryptonite but so much worse. It makes him want to throw up. Want to run.

“Kon.”

There's something else too, moving in on him from the corners of his eyes. Something creeping and peaceful, heavy and familiar in the worst way.

He remembers it, how it settled down on him as he lay surrounded by crushed metal and begging friends, his bones broken, lungs gasping with final breaths. It had been dark and calm and he hadn't wanted to go, but it had closed in on him anyway. And he can't go back, he can't.

There's a fist pounding in front of him, and the voices don't match the furious knocking, too cold and clean.

He tries to thrash away from the glass, tries to get away. But he can’t move, weighed down, and even though there’s air in his lungs, he can’t breathe.

“Conner!”

Kon's back hits the mattress and he shoots up, gulping down mouthfuls of oxygen. There are hands running over his back, his shoulders, a worried voice somewhere behind him. His eyes flit around his surroundings. No green, no waiting darkness. He can breathe. Raindrops are hitting the glass above him. Tim’s room. Safe.

This is safe.

He runs a sweaty hand through his hair, shaking. His arm brushes his cheek and he realizes that his face is wet. He hasn’t had one of those dreams in a long time; he’d forgotten what they were like.

“Hey.” Kon looks behind him. Tim is rubbing a spot between his shoulder blades, eyes alert, biting his lip. The sheets are pooled around his waist haphazardly.

Kon twists the patterned covers in his hands.

“What happened?”

He looks up through the dark. Tim’s fingers go over his shoulder. “Nightmare.” He wants to forget it. Forget the labs, and the endless experiments, and all the goddamn green. “Cadmus.”

Tim doesn’t make any sounds, but Kon can almost hear his brain whirring at full speed.

His breathing is too loud in the quiet.

“What do you need?” Tim’s voice is patient.

He fists the cloth in his grip. Opens his mouth, shuts it. Tries again. “Just—Keep doing that.” Tim’s hands run down his skin, grounding and warm, and Kon begins to relax into them.

“Does touch help?” Tim is near his ear, and Kon feels lips press lightly across his neck. He nods.

“Yeah, it—It helps me feel . . . “ He shuts his eyes. “Human. It helps me feel human.”

Tim places a kiss at the corner of his jaw. “Okay.” He presses his back against Tim’s scarred chest, and the other boy leans backward so they’re lying down again. Kon rests his head over where Tim’s heart is beating steadily. He listens to the familiar sound, to the rain, to Tim's breathing; ignores the distant honks of traffic and chattering crowds of Gotham.

He exhales slowly, lets his shoulders loosen under Tim's hands. He closes his eyes.

“Thanks.”

Fingers run through his hair.

“You’re welcome.”

Kon doesn’t move for a long time. Neither does Tim.

*****

It’s still raining when Kon wakes up the second time, but there’s a bit of grey sunlight coming through the skylights; enough for him to drowsily blink at the ceiling. He groans and rolls over, towards the warmth by his side.

Warmth.

Tim.

He’s completely awake now, lifting himself up onto his forearms. Curiously, Kon examines the boy next to him. Tim’s still asleep, heartbeat slow and calm, his back facing Kon though their legs are tangled together. The covers had slipped a bit during the night and Kon can see the pale scars his mouth had mapped out hours ago.

He touches a jagged one, curved like someone had carved it in, and smooths his fingertip down it. He moves to the next. Distantly, Kon wonders if he’d get to go over all of them, even if that could take a while because Tim has so many. He doesn’t mind. His fingers trace across an old bullet wound.

Saturday mornings can last a while.

Tim shifts, back leaving Kon’s touch, shoulders rolling into a stretch. He watches the muscles under Tim’s skin bunch together and move apart. His friend flops over to look at him.

Tim's eyelids are drooping as he yawns into his pillow. “What time is it?”

Kon lifts himself up and glances at the digital clock on the nightstand. “Eightish." Before he lies back down, his eyes catch on a little picture frame next to the clock.

It's a recent photo, he can tell from the haircut he has in it, and he can easily place the day when it was taken.

Bart had insisted on dragging them with him to go shopping for dorm furniture, which Kon didn't understand considering the extremely tiny size of Bart's room at Keystone University, but whatever. They had stopped for ice cream, sat outside and watched people stroll by.

He doesn't remember the exact moment from the picture itself, maybe Bart had said something funny or maybe one of Tim's dry quips had sent them all into laughter. Either way, it ended with a photo that Cassie must have taken; with Bart leaning inside the frame with a huge grin on his face, him with his head thrown back, smiling, and Tim laughing at both of them.

He stares at it, feels a dopey smile stretch across his face.

Tim hums, watching Kon lazily. “I forgot that you sleepfloat.”

His eyes flick back to Tim.

“I what?”

“Sleepfloat.” Tim lifts the one brow that’s not burrowed into his pillow and gestures vaguely with his hand. “You know, you’ll start hovering sometimes, usually when you’re dreaming?” He frowns. “That’s one of the reasons I knew you were having a nightmare; you were almost half a foot off the bed. Usually, you only go up, like, barely an inch.”

Kon continues staring at him because what?

“Since when do I sleepfloat?”

Tim blinks. “Uh, since forever. It doesn't happen a lot, I thought you knew?”

He shakes his head. Tim laughs lightly, the sound muffled by fabric, and Kon sorta wants to kiss him. He also sorta wants breakfast. “Do you guys have some kind of scheduled eating time on the weekends?”

Tim ducks further under the covers. “Not really, I can ask Alfred to make something. Or we can raid the pantries.”

Kon thinks for a moment. He doesn’t know what time Alfred wakes up, but for some reason, he wants to avoid asking for anything. Wants to stay in this bubble where it’s only Tim and him for a little bit longer.

“What if we make pancakes?”

Tim’s cheeks suddenly turn red and he mumbles under his breath. Kon pokes him in the shoulder, silently asking for a repeat of the comment. The other boy sighs.

“I’m . . . currently banned from using the kitchen.”

Kon tilts his head. “We were in there last night. You made tea.”

It had been good tea. It had been especially good when he’d gotten to taste it off of Tim’s mouth.

Tim grumbles, “Fine. I’m currently banned from using the oven, stove, grill, and microwave for anything other than boiling water.”

Kon's eyes narrow. “What did you do?”

Tim hesitates. “I may have created several small, controlled explosions.”

“You what?”

“They were small.”

“Oh my God, that’s not the point.” Kon’s kinda snickering now, and Tim is too, and Kon really wants to kiss him again. So he does.

Tim’s smiling when he pulls away, and Kon presses their foreheads together. “How about I make us food, yeah?” Their noses brush and Tim’s arms wrap around his neck. His lips move against Kon’s when he nods in agreement.

“Yeah.”

Their legs intertwine even more, and the next kiss is heated, Tim’s hands dragging across Kon’s skin in a way that reminds him of last night. He resists the urge to push their hips completely together. When they break for air, Tim’s cheekbones are lightly flushed, and he’s smirking in a way that makes Kon remember the grin bad guys see right before Red Robin turns all their careful plans to shit.

Tim pushes Kon over onto his back, lips suddenly much more demanding, and straddles his waist. Kon kisses him back just as fervently, mouth following Tim’s a bit when the other boy suddenly pulls away.

Tim’s eyes are catching the cool morning light in all the right ways and Kon’s heart trips over its feet.

Then Tim isn't on his lap, sliding off the bed and walking away. And okay, that’s a bit rude, but Kon gets to stare at Tim’s ass, so he’s not going to complain just yet. But then Tim tosses him a grin over his shoulder, meeting Kon’s gaze smugly before reaching down and grabbing something off the floor. He comes back up, pulling on the piece of clothing smoothly.

Kon’s mouth drops open.

Tim gives him an amused glance, seemingly unconcerned with the Superboy logo stretching across his chest. Because apparently, Tim has filled out enough that he can now wear Kon’s old shirts without drowning in fabric. When that happened, Kon has no idea, but he certainly doesn’t mind.

Tim cocks an eyebrow. “Pancakes? You coming or not?”

Kon tries to make words leave his throat, but only manages a strangled, “Hngh.” Tim nods, like this is an answer, pivots on his foot, and leaves the room. Kon stares after him. He buries his burning face in his hands.

It’s too early for Tim to do things like this to him.

With a sigh of resignation, he gets off the bed and, after some searching, puts on his boxers. When he walks out of the doorway, he’s hit in the face with a large Gotham Knights sweatshirt and his jeans. He shoots Tim a displeased grunt and tugs the sweatshirt over his head. Tim’s wearing some flannel pajama pants now, which is rather disappointing, but the Superboy shirt is still on so Kon takes pleasure from that.

After pulling on his no-longer-wet jeans, he floats to where Tim is leaning against the wall and kisses him in a way that would make old ladies scandalized. Tim’s face has dropped its smugness when they break apart, and he seems slightly dazed.

Kon pecks his jaw for good measure. “Food?”

He gets a slow nod in return. Kon grins and walks out of Tim’s room with a little bounce in his step. He hears Tim mutter a curse and scramble after him, and he laughs.

The light filling the Manor’s halls is weak, but it’s enough to create streaking shadows on the walls as Kon runs down the corridor with Tim hot on his heels. Their feet pound down the stairs and Kon might use a tiny bit of superspeed to get to the kitchen first.

Tim enters seconds after him and slumps against the kitchen island even though he’s barely out of breath. He points an accusing finger at Kon. “Cheater.”

Kon grins and starts opening up random cabinets, hoping to find a mixing bowl. “Maybe.” He spies one and sets it on the island. “Where’s the flour?” The other boy gestures to the pantry and then lifts himself to sit on the counter.

Kon can feel Tim’s eyes on him as he moves around the room, finding and taking the ingredients he needs. Every once in a while, their gazes meet and little smiles appear.

If he's honest with himself, Kon has no idea what this new thing between them is exactly. But he thinks it’s good. Tim glances at him again as he begins to mix the batter, eyes lighter than they’ve been in a while.

It’s pretty good.

Tim slips off his perch and pads up behind him, resting his chin on Kon’s shoulder. “Last time I watched you make pancakes was at the farm. You almost caught the house on fire.” Kon shrugs.

“Ma’s made it her personal mission that I know how to move around a kitchen. She’s had me baking and cooking a lot since I came back from—” He stops himself. Memories from the nightmare surface, cool darkness waiting for him to fall. He shivers, looks down at the pancake batter, suddenly feeling like he's going to be sick. He forces himself to take a deep breath.

Tim is stiff behind him, hands fisting into his sweatshirt, and Kon could punch himself in the face. He really could.

“Dude?”

Tim unfreezes, leans his forehead against the back of Kon’s neck. Kon can feel his fingers clenching and unclenching the fabric.

They’re quiet for several beats.

“You get it, right? That I’m not okay? Not entirely?” Tim sounds so tired like this is the kind of thing he tells himself every night, and it makes Kon’s stomach twist. He turns around, strokes his thumb over Tim’s cheekbone, makes sure that Tim is looking him in the eyes.

“Yeah, man, I understand.” He thinks of the chemical green and the even darker things that crawl into his mind during the bad nights. He shudders. “I’m not either.” He tilts his head, brow furrowing. “Is that okay with you?”

Tim examines him for a long moment; his eyes probably seeing more of Kon than Kon could see in himself. And whatever Tim sees makes him lean in a bit closer.

“Yeah, it is. And this,” he taps Kon’s chest, right above his heart, “us?”

Kon brushes back several strands of Tim’s hair, thinking carefully.

“Whatever you want. I’m good with just staying friends, though, you know, the sex could be pretty awesome.” Tim snorts. “But I wouldn’t mind taking this somewhere,” he says and laces their hands together. “I really wouldn’t mind.”

Tim smiles. “Yeah?”

Kon smiles back.

“Yeah.”

Lips press against his and Kon’s hand threads through Tim’s hair, his back pushing into the counter as Tim steps closer.

Tim laughs, his fingers going around the spoon in Kon’s drooping grasp, probably to keep pancake batter from going everywhere. There’s the clatter of wood hitting ceramic as Tim drops the spoon into the bowl, and Kon distantly wonders if they’ll ever actually get around to eating breakfast.

But Tim’s mouth is lazy and open and a hell of a lot better than pancakes.

He drapes his arms around Tim's neck as the other boy's palms smooth around his waist, drawing him closer.

So much better than pancakes.

“It seems that I will be tasked to make my own breakfast since you two seem quite intent on being occupied.”

Kon’s lips leave Tim's and his head whips to where Damian is standing in the doorway, arms crossed and mouth an unimpressed line.

Shit.

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He desperately looks back at Tim, who seems just as surprised since he only manages a weak, “Um.”

Damian sniffles and Alfred the cat waltzes into the room and rubs around the boy’s legs. Damian leans down and picks the cat up, managing to keep his narrowed eyes on them the whole time. Tim’s hands still haven’t moved from where they’d just begun playing with the hair at Kon’s nape, his fingers rubbing at the base of Kon’s neck. It’s a little distracting. Kon tries to think of something to say and clears his throat awkwardly.

“Uh, you want pancakes?”

Damian raises an eyebrow and pets the top of Alfred’s head. “Later, perhaps. Both of you appear . . . busy. Besides, I need to tell Pennyworth that he won our bet from last night, considering how I thought it’d take you two another week to figure yourselves out.”

Kon blinks. “You . . . made a bet on us?”

The kid nods almost regretfully. “Which I have unfortunately lost.” His sharp eyes stare at the batter pointedly. “Though you could make up for it with food. I prefer chocolate chips in my pancakes, don’t forget.”

Slowly, Kon bobs his head up and down. “Yeah, sure.”

Damian flashes him what might be a tiny smile, but then he turns on his heel and walks out of the room, footsteps and Alfred’s purrs echoing down the hall.

Tim’s gaze clears, and Kon can see his brain rebooting. Then Tim shoots him a disgruntled look. “Aren’t Supers supposed to have super hearing?”

Kon shrugs. “I was distracted.”

Tim shakes his head at the ceiling while his hands run through Kon’s hair. Kon places a kiss on his neck.

Tim swats the back of his head. “New rule: No making out when siblings or parents could be lurking behind corners.”

Kon grumbles, “You have too many siblings for that to be realistic.”

“That’s true.” His lips press against Tim’s throat again, and he feels Tim breathe in a shaky laugh. “I take it back. The new rule is not to get caught making out when siblings or parents could be lurking behind corners.”

“You may wish to add butlers to that as well, Master Timothy.”

They leap apart.

Kon’s eyes dart to where Alfred is standing by the entrance to the dining room, not looking very impressed. He can feel his face quickly growing hot under the man’s unreadable stare, and he folds his hands behind his back like a six-year-old who had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Tim mutters something under his breath as his hand rubs the back of his neck, and the old man’s brow lifts.

“Would you care to repeat that, Master Timothy?”

Tim straightens up, and Kon can see the tips of ears are bright red. “No?”

“That’s what I thought.” He turns to Kon calmly. “And how are you, Mr. Kent?” Kon’s eyes flicker to where Tim is looking like he wants to jump off a cliff in mortification. His lips twitch upwards just a little, he hears an impatient cough. He glances back to Alfred nervously.

When did the old butler get so scary?

“Pretty good, um,” he distantly remembers something from last night, “Ma wants to ask for your snickerdoodle recipe.” He resists the urge to smooth out the sweatshirt he’s wearing as Alfred studies him. He gives a weak smile. “She’s offered to give you her instructions for blueberry pie as an incentive.”

Alfred considers him for a moment.

“Well, then I suppose I shall have to talk to her then.” He gives them both a knowing side-eye. “And do remember that the kitchen is for food and that there are plenty of private rooms in this house for more . . . lascivious activities.”

Kon wishes he could sink into the floor.

Tim drops his face in his hands. “Thanks, Alfred,” he mumbles.

Alfred brushes an invisible speck of dust off of his sleeve. “Now, excuse me, I do believe I have a wager to collect from Master Damian.” He begins to walk out of the room but stops and gives Kon a smart glance. “And please make sure that Master Timothy doesn’t start any more fires in this kitchen than he already has, Mr. Kent.”

Tim’s head shoots up with a look of betrayal and Kon has to bite his lip to keep from sniggering.

“Yes, sir.”

Alfred’s steps are unruffled as he continues into the hall. “Considering how I’m sure you’ll be around this house much more often, you may as well as call me Alfred.”

Kon’s face grows warmer.

“Um, sure thing, Alfred.”

The butler dips his head in approval and leaves. Kon can hear him begin to whistle a cheerful tune a couple of rooms away.

It takes both of them several seconds to be able to look at each other. Tim’s cheeks puff out as he exhales slowly, his ears are still pink. Kon rubs the hardwood floor with his toe. “So, uh . . . Huh.”

“We need to work on your multitasking. Things like using your super hearing while you’re . . . being distracted.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Shut it, Superdude, and make our food.”

“That rhymed.”

“I don’t know why I like you.”

“I’ll remind you exactly why later tonight.”

Tim smacks him with a dish towel, and Kon laughs before kissing him again.

#timkon #tim drake #conner kent #kon el #tim drake x conner kent #red robin x superboy #red robin #superboy #batfam #dc comics #young justice #teen titans #damian wayne #alfred pennyworth #martha kent #ma kent #my fic

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