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bigproblemsfunnylife · 12 hours ago

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Batfamily x GN! Damian’s twin Reader

Title: No longer just Weapons

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth.

Summary: You and Damian were born of the League, raised as weapons, trained to be heirs to a legacy soaked in blood. But everything changes when your mother sends you both to Gotham — to the father you’ve never known and the family he’s built in your absence.

CW: References to childhood trauma, abuse, violence, assassination training, mentions of blood and injury, emotional manipulation, themes of grief, references to death (general), mild language, light angst, hurt/comfort.

Words count: ~ 1.4k words

You don’t remember the first time you saw Gotham’s skyline, but you remember the weight in your chest — the smell of rain-soaked stone, the iron tang of the air, the way the clouds always seemed too heavy for the sky to hold. It felt, in a way, like coming home. Though you’d never seen home before.

You and Damian are ten when Mother sends you to Father. You’d trained together since birth, lived in the cold stone corridors of the League, learned the same strikes, the same lessons: pain is a teacher, loyalty is survival, love is weakness. You’d whispered to each other under your blankets on nights where the wind moaned through the fortress, telling each other stories that didn’t sound like the League — stories with softness in them, or jokes, or dreams you never dared speak aloud to anyone else.

But still, Damian had always been… himself. Sharp edges, righteous fury, the rightful heir. And you? You’d learned to watch, to listen, to patch the gaps in his armor when he wouldn’t let anyone else near. A unit, Talia had called you both. Her prized twins. A matched set of blades.

Gotham is not the League, though.

At first, you hate the Manor. The ceilings are too high, the halls echo strangely, and Alfred hovers with gentle, polite offers of tea or warm meals you don’t trust. Damian bristles at everything — Father’s quiet authority, the older brothers who treat you both like children, the notion of school, of ‘family dinners’ — but you watch more carefully. You notice how Dick’s bright grin never falters, no matter how many times Damian tries to snarl him away. How Alfred’s voice softens when he speaks to you, asking if you’re sleeping alright, if you need anything. How Father — Bruce — moves through rooms like a ghost, his grief so obvious it’s almost tangible, but how he always hesitates in doorways to watch the two of you train.

You share a room at first, both of you unwilling to let go of the only constant in your life. Damian snarls at the suggestion of separating you, and you just cling to him, unsure of this place, these people, this whole strange notion of a family that’s bigger than two.

Your first weeks are filled with fights. Tim makes an offhand remark about the League and Damian nearly takes his head off with a batarang. You step between them. Jason provokes you both into sparring matches because he claims it’s funny, and you walk away with bruised knuckles and a grudging respect for his strength. Dick hovers, bright and easy, trying to coax you into talking, smiling, being something softer than the sharp dagger you’ve had to be all your life.

At night, Damian sleeps curled into your side, tense even in dreams, muttering about how Father doesn’t understand, how they’re weak, how the League would never let anyone speak to him this way. You listen, your own fears unspoken — fears that you might never belong, that you might never understand this place that calls itself home.

Slowly, the cracks form.

The first time you laugh — really laugh — is when Dick drops an entire stack of pancakes on himself at breakfast. It’s so absurd, so unlike anything you’d seen in the League, you burst out cackling. Everyone stares at you in shock, then Dick starts laughing too, brushing syrup out of his hair, and something inside you unwinds.

Damian is furious, of course. “You look like fools,” he hisses. But you see the way his eyes dart to you, watching the way your shoulders relax, the way you smile. That night, he grumbles about how ridiculous Grayson is, but you catch him smirking behind his hand.

Tim becomes a puzzle. He’s clever, observant — you catch him watching you as much as you watch him. You learn his tells, the way his eyes flick when he lies, the way his shoulders curl inward when he’s tired. Slowly, you realize he’s not your enemy, though Damian insists otherwise. Eventually, you start working with him on patrol — stealth and reconnaissance, your old skills slipping into new shape. He never says it, but you think he trusts you before he trusts Damian. That makes things tense.

Jason is… complicated. Loud, brash, sometimes cruel, but there’s something broken in him you recognize in yourself. You fight, you snap, you insult each other — but he never treats you like you’re fragile, never looks at you like you’re the little one to protect. You appreciate that. You think maybe he understands what it’s like to be remade, to claw your way out of your own grave and build yourself again.

Alfred is patient. So patient it makes you nervous. The first time he brings you soup because you’re sick, you nearly refuse it on instinct — in the League, weakness was unacceptable. But he just pats your shoulder, says, “Even warriors need rest.” You’re so startled you take the spoon from him and eat. It’s the first time you remember feeling safe while vulnerable.

Bruce… is the hardest. You don’t understand him. He watches you like he’s memorizing the edges of your face, like he’s waiting for you to vanish. You resent it, at first — you’re no one’s ghost, you’re not your mother’s tool anymore. But then you see him in the cave, staring at the Robin suits, the grief carved into his shoulders so deep it looks permanent, and you wonder if maybe he’s just afraid. You understand fear. You find yourself softening, though you’d never say it aloud.

Patrol is the first place you feel whole. Gotham is chaos, yes, but it makes sense in a way the Manor never did — rules, patterns, movement, threat. You and Damian work as a unit, your communication silent, instinctive. At first, Bruce insists you stay in sight of another brother — especially Jason or Dick. Damian resents it, but you don’t mind. Watching them move, learning the way they fight, you begin to understand why Father trusts them.

School is… weird. Damian hates it with every fiber of his being, refuses to follow the rules, picks fights daily. You watch. You play along. You learn to navigate the halls, learn which teachers are patient, which students are cruel. You keep Damian out of detention when you can, or sit beside him in detention when you can’t. You’re the calmer one, the mediator.

You find yourself drawn to the library — so many books you’ve never seen, stories of worlds you’d never imagined. You read everything you can, filling the quiet hours with other people’s words. It’s Dick who notices first, who starts leaving you books he thinks you’ll like on your nightstand. Damian calls them ‘trash’ but you see him peeking over your shoulder anyway.

As the months turn into a year, the Manor changes shape around you. The halls aren’t empty anymore — they’re full of laughter, of arguments, of Dick’s terrible singing drifting from the shower, of Alfred scolding Jason for leaving guns on the kitchen counter, of Bruce’s low voice murmuring tactical plans in the Cave.

You and Damian still cling to each other, but the edges soften. You take your own room eventually, though your doors are always open between you. You find yourself trusting the others — enough that you let Dick hug you without flinching, enough that you snap at Tim with playful barbs instead of knives, enough that you join Jason on the range just to show him up.

You still dream of the League, of blood and blades and your mother’s cool voice praising you for your precision. But you wake up with Alfred’s gentle knock on your door, with the scent of coffee and warm bread, with Damian grumbling about the day’s training schedule. And you think maybe, just maybe, you’re building something new here.

You’re still learning what family means. You’re still learning how to be soft and strong, how to be vulnerable without being weak, how to forgive yourself for the things you did in the name of Mother and the League.

But Gotham is your home now. The Manor is your home. The Batfamily is yours, as messy and chaotic and infuriating as they are.

And you and Damian — you’re not just weapons anymore. You’re kids. You’re siblings. You’re learning how to be human, together.

You think, maybe, that’s worth fighting for.

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bigproblemsfunnylife · 14 hours ago

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MAIN 6 x GN! MC: First kisses

Title: Headcanons

Characters: Asra Alnazar, Nadia Satrinava, Julian Devorak, Muriel, Portia Devorak, Lucio.

CW: Can contain uncertainty, nervousness, or hesitation. Fluff and consensual.

ASRA:

You never expect anything with Asra to follow a traditional path—not a conversation, not a spell, and certainly not a kiss.

The day it happens, the world smells like saltwater and incense. You’ve both spent hours by the sea, your feet dangling off the old wooden dock as the sun dips lower. The sky’s a painting of indigos and orange flames, and Asra’s beside you, one hand lazily drawing arcane sigils in the air with a fingertip glowing faintly violet. They’ve told you before that magic responds to emotion, but you didn’t realize how intimately until today—when every time they glance your way, the glyphs pulse brighter.

You’re talking about silly things, the kind of drifting conversations that start nowhere and end up deep in emotion before you even realize it. There’s laughter in your voice and a secret in your heart. You’ve been holding it there—your affection for Asra—nurturing it like a flame. But you don’t know if they feel it too. With Asra, you never quite know. They are equal parts close and distant, a mystery written in watercolor.

But then—

“Can I tell you a secret?” they ask, head tilted, eyes alight like they’re catching stars.

You nod.

“I’ve been thinking about kissing you for… a while now. But I didn’t want to rush something beautiful.”

Your breath catches in your throat. They’re so close. That violet glow illuminates their curls, softens their features, outlines their lips.

Asra leans in slowly, giving you time, space, room to back away—though their eyes betray a hunger that’s anything but patient.

You don’t back away.

Their lips brush yours like a spell cast in reverence. Featherlight. Testing. Curious. Then, again—deeper this time, more sure. You feel magic rise in the air around you like a heartbeat, charged and full of wonder.

Asra pulls back just enough to rest their forehead against yours. Their voice is the softest sigh:

“You feel like home.”

JULIAN:

Julian talks. A lot. It’s part of his charm and also part of what drives you mad. You love it, mostly. The dramatic flair, the endless tangents, the wild stories with half-truths and three-quarter winks. But tonight, he’s quiet.

You’re both walking home through the rain—typical Vesuvia, dramatic as ever. Julian had insisted on giving you his coat, which you’d stubbornly declined, but he draped it around you anyway. His long legs take big strides, but he’s slowed his pace so you can walk together, shoulders brushing.

There’s something electric in the air that’s not thunder.

He hasn’t looked at you in a few minutes. Which is rare. Usually he can’t stop sneaking glances. You wonder if he’s nervous. Or maybe you are.

Finally, outside your door, the rain pattering gently against stone, you turn to him. He stands awkwardly in front of you, hat soaked, hair curling with dampness, looking like a disheveled poet who forgot what sonnet he was reciting

You say, “Ilya?”

He breathes a sharp laugh, shaky and fast. “You’re going to think I’m being ridiculous. Again.”

“I already think that daily,” you tease, stepping closer.

Julian’s grin wavers. “Then this won’t surprise you—I’ve been rehearsing how to kiss you for a week straight. But now that I’m here, I—my gods, I can’t remember a single one of the lines.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You wrote lines?”

“Of course I did! It was supposed to be romantic.”

“It still is,” you whisper. And then, because he’s still hesitating, you tilt up and press your lips to his.

Julian freezes for half a second—then melts like sugar in the rain. His hands find your waist. His mouth is warm, a little unsure, but honest. It’s not perfect—your noses bump a little, and he almost laughs into it—but it’s real.

He pulls back with a dazed smile, brushing a wet curl out of your face. “So much for rehearsals.”

You kiss him again before he can start monologuing.

NADIA:

The ballroom is empty—save for the soft glow of lanterns casting long shadows on polished marble floors. Most guests have retired to their chambers, leaving the grandeur of the palace wrapped in a hushed, almost reverent silence.

You find yourself here with Nadia, who usually wears her composure like armor, but this evening, something in her eyes is different—warmer, more open, vulnerable.

She takes your hand, delicate and sure, and guides you to the center of the room. “Dance with me?” she asks, voice low, almost shy.

Your heart skips. You nod.

As you move together in the slow rhythm of a waltz, you notice how her eyes never leave yours. Each step, each turn, feels like an unspoken conversation—words exchanged in the language of glances and subtle touches.

The music fades into the background; all you feel is her hand resting lightly on your waist, the way her fingers curl gently into your palm.

When the dance ends, she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she stays close, the space between you charged with a tension that’s both exciting and terrifying.

“Nadia…” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper.

She lifts her chin, searching your face as if asking for permission.

Without another word, she leans in, her lips meeting yours with a softness that takes your breath away.

It’s a kiss filled with all the restraint she’s held back until now—careful, deliberate, yet bursting with the emotions she’s struggled to contain.

Your hands cup her face, encouraging her, deepening the kiss until it’s no longer tentative but full of promise.

When you finally break apart, her cheeks are flushed, and she smiles—a genuine, radiant smile that lights up the entire room.

MURIEL:

You’re in the woods. Of course you are. It’s quiet except for the wind in the trees and the occasional call of a distant bird. Muriel is stacking firewood, his movements sure and practiced. You’re pretending to help, but mostly you’re just watching him.

He notices. Muriel always notices more than he admits.

Eventually, you both sit near the firepit. There’s a rabbit stew simmering slowly, and the smell is comforting. You talk about little things. How the wolves came closer this week. What mushrooms are safe. But every once in a while, your eyes meet and hold a little too long.

Muriel shifts beside you. Then again. Then, finally, he says it:

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

It’s not an apology, but it is a warning. You swallow thickly.

“I haven’t kissed you yet either,” you say gently.

His shoulders tense. You see the conflict in his eyes. The fear. Not of you—but of what this means. What it could change.

But still—he turns. Slowly. He looks at you like you’re some sacred thing he doesn’t want to break.

“If I… if I do, it’ll be because I want to. Not because you expect it.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I’d wait as long as you need.”

A long pause. Then—he leans forward. Barely. Tentatively. And stops.

“Can I?” he asks.

You nod.

His kiss is soft. Hesitant. But there’s strength in it too, like the way he holds things so gently despite his size. You kiss him back, and he shudders—like he’s just allowed himself to breathe for the first time in days.

When he pulls away, he looks like he might cry.

You rest your forehead against his and whisper, “You’re safe with me.”

PORTIA:

Portia kisses you like it’s a dare she’s finally decided to take.

The two of you are baking in her tiny kitchen, flour smudged on your cheeks, laughter echoing off the tile. The sun’s pouring through the window and turning everything golden.

You’re reaching over her for the cinnamon when she suddenly stops you with a hand on your chest.

“Wait,” she says, eyes locked on yours, her breath short.

You freeze.

“What is it?”

“I’m gonna do something,” she says, almost breathless, like she’s afraid she’ll back out if she doesn’t speak fast.

And then—without another word—she kisses you.

It’s impulsive, bright, quick like a matchstrike. Then another. And another. Her hands go to your face, flour-dusted fingers brushing your skin. She tastes like sugar and mischief.

When she finally stops (and you’re both laughing, giddy and stunned), she whispers:

“I’ve wanted to do that since you first made me laugh so hard I snorted.”

You kiss her again, and she hums happily against your mouth.

“You’re stuck with me now, cinnamon roll.”

LUCIO:

Lucio is a tempest wrapped in silk and smoke. He’s the kind of man who fills a room with his presence the second he steps in, and you’ve always been drawn to that reckless fire in his eyes. But tonight—tonight is different.

You meet in the grand library of the castle. The chandeliers cast flickering shadows on shelves that climb to the ceiling, heavy with books. Lucio is perched on the edge of a chaise lounge, a rare softness behind his usual devilish mirk. His golden eyes find yours and hold you captive.

“I never thought I’d want to get lost in someone’s eyes,” he murmurs, not cheeky — for once his voice was low and rough like velvet.

You blink, heart thudding like a wild drum. “Is that your way of saying you like me?”

He chuckles darkly. “Something like that.”

The air thickens between you as he slowly rises, the silk of his shirt whispering with his movements. He closes the space, hands trailing over the spine of a nearby book before resting on your waist, steady and sure.

Lucio leans in, his breath warm against your cheek, and you catch the faint scent of tobacco and wildflowers. You think your heart might stop.

Then—his lips brush yours.

It’s not a kiss that demands or commands; it’s an exploration, soft and questioning, like a thief testing the locks on a treasure chest. Your fingers find his shirt, clutching lightly as the kiss deepens, heat blooming through you.

Lucio’s hands move, tracing your back as if memorizing every curve, every line. His kiss grows bolder—less a question and more a declaration.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, eyes closed in rare vulnerability.

You smile, breathless, and kiss him again—this time on your terms.

#the arcana #the arcana game #dorian games #the arcana headcanons #asra alnazar #asra the arcana #asra the magician #julian devorak #ilya devorak #julian the arcana #nadia satrinava #nadia the arcana #muriel #muriel the arcana #portia devorak #portia the arcana #count lucio #lucio the arcana #the arcana x MC

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bigproblemsfunnylife · 1 day ago

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Sirius Black would sometimes fall silent in the Gryffindor common room while James and Remus laughed over pranks or homework mishaps, staring into the fire with haunted eyes. In those moments, the others could sense the weight of Grimmauld Place pressing on him — the echo of his mother’s voice calling him “blood traitor,” the endless portraits sneering at his existence.

At night, Sirius would lie awake in the dormitory, hearing Walburga’s shrill condemnations in his dreams, wondering if he was doomed to become like them — cruel, cold, devoted to a pure-blood mania he despised. Some days, he’d pick fights with James just to bleed out the bitterness inside him, hurling insults that he regretted before the echoes faded.

He never told the Marauders about the scars on his back from hexes his parents had used when he talked back — but sometimes Remus noticed the way Sirius flinched when someone raised their wand too quickly.

Yet amid all this, Hogwarts — and the Marauders — were the only place Sirius felt like he could breathe, like he wasn’t defined by the Black name. And that was exactly why he clung to them so fiercely, terrified that one day he’d poison even this chosen family the way the Blacks had poisoned everything else.

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bigproblemsfunnylife · 1 day ago

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The Marauders were notorious not just for their pranks, but for their fierce loyalty to one another.

James would often cover for Remus during the full moon by sneaking him food and new books, pretending to the rest of Gryffindor that Remus had “caught a cold in the library.” Sirius was the first to suggest they become Animagi, both to help Remus and also because he loved the thrill of mastering forbidden magic.

Peter, though often anxious, was the best at finding hidden passages — his nervous habit of pacing the halls led him to discover shortcuts even the twins would later use.

During exam season, the four of them would sneak into unused classrooms at night to practice spells — though Sirius mostly used this as an excuse to transfigure James’s hair into increasingly ridiculous styles.

Despite their rule-breaking, they were fiercely protective of younger Gryffindors, sometimes hexing older Slytherins who bullied first-years — though Remus would always grumble disapprovingly while quietly handing James his wand.

And though they’d never admit it, all four of them were terrified of McGonagall’s disapproval — even Sirius, who’d wink and swagger out of detention only to rant to the others about how he hoped she’d secretly admired the prank.

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bigproblemsfunnylife · 1 day ago

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Remus was the quiet observer of the group, often appearing to be the voice of reason — but he secretly delighted in the Marauders pranks as much as James and Sirius did. Though he scolded them when things went too far, he’d often help them perfect the spells they used, ensuring they were safe (at least for their targets). Late at night in the Gryffindor common room, he’d sit with his legs tucked under him in front of the fire, scribbling out homework for the others to copy, while James and Sirius plotted their next mischief. Despite the guilt he carried about his lycanthropy, he felt truly at home only with them — the first people who didn’t look at him with pity or fear, but instead with loyalty and brotherhood. And sometimes, when the full moon approached and he grew quiet and withdrawn, they’d sit with him, no questions asked, just so he wouldn’t feel alone.

#remus lupin #sirius black #sirius orion black #james potter #the marauders #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #harry potter headcanon #remus lupin angst #hurt/comfort #marauders era #remus lupin centric #remus lupin young #the marauders era #marauders hp #the marauders fandom #marauders fandom

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bigproblemsfunnylife · 2 days ago

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DICK GRAYSON

Title: Between Blüdhaven and Home

Characters: Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth (mentioned Jason Todd, Tim Drake and Damian Wayne)

Summary: Dick sits alone in his Blüdhaven apartment, reflecting on his life, his failures, and the distance between him and his brothers.

CW: Light angst, self-doubt, loneliness, mention of emotional scars and strained family relationships. Ends with comfort/fluff.

Words count: ~ 630 words

Richard sat alone in his cramped flat in Blüdhaven, the faint hum of the city filtering through cracked windows, cold creeping beneath the doorframe. The shadows stretched long across the walls, but they couldn’t reach the darker corners inside his mind — the ones where the ghosts of family haunted him most. He stared down at his hands, the same hands that once flipped through circus rings and now gripped a chipped coffee mug like it was the last anchor he had left.

He thought about Jason. The way Jason was always fire and fury, like a storm waiting to explode, and yet beneath all that chaos was a kid who just wanted to be seen — really seen. Dick wondered if Jason still blamed him, if the silence between them was a chasm too wide to bridge, or if Jason just buried the pain like he buried everything else, under layers of anger and sarcasm. He hated how much he missed him.

Tim was next. The boy genius, the meticulous planner, always the voice of reason when Dick’s own world tilted too far off axis. Tim who never seemed to need anything except maybe some kind of approval he rarely voiced. Did Tim really think Dick believed in him? Did he feel like family or just a job? Dick wished he could be more for him — more than a big brother who sometimes showed up late or left too soon. He wished he could shield Tim from the weight of all the mistakes that felt like they piled up every day.

And then Damian — Damian, the thorn wrapped in royal armor. The kid who challenged him, pushed him to limits, but who also carried the sharpest, most fragile cracks beneath his defiant smirk. Sometimes Richard wondered if Damian knew how desperately he wanted to be the older brother Damian deserved, the one who could break through that wall without breaking him. He wondered if Damian saw the scars Dick hid beneath the mask — scars that never quite healed from the loss, from the failures, from the loneliness.

Dick’s chest tightened. He was tired — tired of being the guy everyone depended on but never saw the cracks in. The guy who had learned to hold his pain in silence, because family didn’t always have space for brokenness. But maybe, maybe he could be better. Maybe he could do better. Not just as Nightwing, or as the guy who saved Blüdhaven in a mask, but as the brother who showed up, who listened, who didn’t just fix everything with a quip or a fight.

He let out a slow breath, eyes tracing the dust motes drifting in the dim light. This flat wasn’t home. Not really. It was just a pause — a holding pattern between the chaos and the fight. He needed more. He needed them. Not just as allies or sidekicks or people to protect, but as family. Because for all the darkness in his past, and all the fights still ahead, that was what grounded him. That was what made the pain bearable.

His fingers hovered over his phone, hesitant. Then, with a steadying breath, he dialed a number that never failed to feel like a lifeline.

“Alfred,” he said quietly, voice rough. “I’m coming to the Manor. I need… I need to see the family.”

There was a pause, a soft chuckle on the other end, warm as a fire. “I’ll have everything ready, Master Richard. We’ve missed you.”

Dick smiled — a small, genuine smile — and for the first time in a long while, felt the weight inside him ease just a little. Because sometimes, even the strongest needed to come home.

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bigproblemsfunnylife · 2 days ago

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Batfamily x GN! Reader spouse

REST OF THE CHAPTERS (5/5) IN MY ACCOUNT

Title: Home is the place we build, CHAPTER 5

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Damian Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth.

Summary: You, the new spouse of Bruce Wayne, arrive at the Batfamily’s mansion full of hope but often overlooked and alone. Despite painful moments and misunderstandings, you forge deeper bonds with them all, transforming the cold mansion into a warm, chaotic family home where you finally belong.

CW: Angst, emotional hurt/comfort, references to past neglect and isolation, canon-typical references to violence and danger (briefly mentioned), despictions of low self-esteem and intrusive negative thoughts, discussions of strained familial relationships, alcohol use (in one scene), mild language, some comforts scenes.

Advertisement: The Reader is on vacation for a while in the story and has many hobbies, such as gardening and cooking… There is no mention of their job.

Words count: ~ 1.5k words

The announcement comes suddenly one afternoon: Bruce’s voice, calm but carrying that unmistakable command, echoes through the Manor’s halls.

“Family dinner, everyone. Tonight. Seven o’clock. Be there.”

It’s the first time in months that he’s called for a full gathering. The news stirs something unexpected in you — anticipation mixed with nerves. After all, getting everyone under one roof had always been a challenge, and tonight meant all of them.

As the evening approaches, you watch the Manor slowly come alive. Footsteps echo in the halls, doors open and close, and the scent of food — rich, hearty, familiar — drifts from the kitchen. Alfred is bustling more than usual, his eyes twinkling with a secret pride.

At exactly seven, you find yourself in the dining room, heart pounding in your chest. The long table, polished and shining, is set meticulously with fine china and sparkling glasses. The soft glow of candles flickers across familiar faces.

Jason is already there, looking a little uncomfortable but managing a crooked smile. Cass stands near him, arms crossed but clearly amused, while Stephanie leans casually against the wall, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

Dick walks in last, his presence filling the room like sunlight bursting through clouds. Tim is already seated, flipping through his notes with an intensity that doesn’t quite match the relaxed atmosphere. Damian arrives silently, eyes sharp but scanning the room like a sentinel. And Bruce — your husband — is there at the head of the table, his gaze warm as it settles on you.

For a moment, the air is thick with awkward tension — years of unspoken words and cautious distance pressing down on everyone. The silence feels heavy, like the calm before a storm.

But then Cassandra nudges Jason with an elbow, whispering something sharp and witty. You watch as his lips twitch, then burst into reluctant laughter, the sound surprisingly infectious. Stephanie joins in, teasing him with playful jabs and sly comments that catch even the serious Damian’s attention.

Dick, ever the peacemaker, starts a mock argument with Tim over who’s the better strategist — the friendly rivalry igniting smiles and spirited banter. Tim’s sharp retorts and Dick’s easy charm bounce back and forth across the table, and suddenly the room feels lighter, charged with a new energy.

Through it all, Damian moves with his usual stoic grace, but when he approaches you quietly and slides a plate of food in front of you — eyes meeting yours just long enough to convey something unspoken — you feel a warmth spread through your chest. He turns back to his own meal without a word, but that small act says everything.

As the evening unfolds, laughter and conversation weave through the room like a healing balm. The house feels full, alive, warm — exactly what you’d dreamed of when you first arrived.

You catch Bruce’s eye across the table, and his smile is soft, proud. He reaches across and takes your hand, squeezing it gently

“This,” he murmurs, “is family.”

The days after the family dinner blend into a gentle new rhythm, each one marked by small gestures that make the vast halls of Wayne Manor feel a little less hollow, a little more like home.

It starts with Stephanie. She bounces into the kitchen one morning, bright as sunshine, declaring, “We’re having a party’ night. You, me, and Cass. No excuses!” Before you can protest, she’s already texting Cassandra, who appears minutes later with an amused shrug and a soft nod. That evening, they drag you into the media room with snacks, nail polish, and a stack of old movies. Cass barely speaks, but her soft smile and the way she gently braids your hair say more than words ever could. Steph keeps the mood light, teasing you and Cass both until laughter spills free, bright and warm.

Tim starts showing up at odd hours, a quiet presence with careful eyes. He brings you coffee when you’re up late in the library, setting the cup down next to your pile of books without comment. Sometimes he stays, flipping through his own work, the two of you side by side in companionable silence. Other times, he offers a quick, tired smile and disappears into the shadows again, but the warmth of his small kindness lingers long after he’s gone.

Jason, too, surprises you. He starts appearing on the nights Bruce is out on patrol, dropping onto the couch beside you with a lopsided grin. “Got anything dumb to watch?” he grumbles, though his eyes soften when you pick the cheesiest rom-com you can find. He complains the whole time, but he never leaves — and more than once, you catch him smirking when the couple on-screen finally gets their happy ending.

Dick becomes a steady beam of light whenever he returns from Bludhaven. He sweeps in with hugs that lift you off your feet, teasing words that ease your lingering tension. He listens — really listens — when you talk, his blue eyes bright with curiosity and care. Each goodbye is punctuated by another hug, another promise to come back soon.

And Damian, in his own prickly way, finds reasons to hover near you. One afternoon, you’re tending the small garden patch out back when he stalks over, arms folded, eyes narrowed. “You’re burying the bulbs too deep,” he snaps, voice sharp with impatience. Before you can bristle, he kneels beside you and starts adjusting the soil, fingers deft and precise. “It’s inefficient. If you want them to survive, do it this way.” His cheeks flush slightly when you thank him, but he doesn’t pull away. From then on, he watches you work, offering grudging advice that grows softer, kinder with each passing day.

All of it builds into something fragile but beautiful. A new normal. A new family. You feel the walls of the Manor shift around you, the cold spaces filling with warmth, with laughter, with quiet gestures that speak volumes.

You still have moments of doubt, times when the old echoes return, whispering that you don’t belong. But then Steph calls, or Tim appears with coffee, or Jason sprawls beside you with popcorn and a mock scowl, or Damian grumbles over your gardening technique, or Dick sweeps you up into another hug — and in those moments, you believe.

You believe you’re here. You’re wanted. You’re loved.

It hits you in the quiet spaces, when the Manor feels too big and your thoughts too loud. Even with the family drawing closer, even with the little gestures and careful kindness, the old fear clings like cobwebs.

You’re in the library alone when the doubt creeps in again, icy fingers curling around your heart. You think of the way you were ignored when you first arrived, how some of their voices still echo in your memory — Jason’s cruel words, Damian’s biting dismissal, the nights you spent staring at empty hallways, wondering if you’d ever truly belong.

You try to shake it, to remind yourself of the warmth of the past weeks. But the ghosts are stubborn. They whisper that you’re still an outsider, that this happiness is fragile, temporary. That one day, they’ll all turn away again.

You don’t belong here. You’re just a warm body they tolerate. A placeholder. Nothing more.

You curl in on yourself in the big chair, eyes shut tight, willing the voices away. But they cling, digging into old wounds, making your chest tight with hurt you thought you’d buried.

That’s when you hear footsteps. Soft, measured. You look up to find Damian standing in the doorway, arms crossed, his usual scowl in place — but his eyes, dark and sharp, soften slightly when he sees you.

“What’s wrong?” he asks bluntly.

You try to smile, to wave it off, but he stalks forward, dropping into the chair beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just waits, patient in his quiet, steady way.

“I just… it’s stupid,” you murmur finally. “I know you’re all trying, but sometimes I still feel… like I don’t belong. Like you could all disappear and I’d just… go back to being alone again.”

Damian doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he grabs the remote from the table, flipping on the TV. He scrolls through until he finds an old black-and-white movie, something slow and soft that hums gently in the background. Then he shifts closer, pressing his shoulder to yours, his warmth anchoring you.

“Stop thinking so much,” he mutters, eyes on the screen. “You’re here. You’re part of this family. And you’re not alone.”

It’s as close to affection as he gets, but the words crack something open in your chest. Slowly, you lean into him, your head resting on his shoulder. He stiffens at first, but then he sighs and lets you stay, one hand drifting to rest lightly against your arm.

You watch the movie in silence, his steady breathing grounding you, the flicker of the screen casting soft light over the two of you. Outside, the Manor is quiet, but in here, you feel the warmth of something new, something… Lovely.

“Y-You’re like a parent, for me.” He murmurs.

The voices fade, replaced by the soft hum of the movie, the gentle beat of Damian’s heart beside yours. And for the first time in days, you let yourself believe — truly believe — that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

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bigproblemsfunnylife · 2 days ago

Text

Batfamily x GN! Reader spouse

REST OF THE CHAPTERS (5/5) IN MY ACCOUNT

Title: Home is the place we build, CHAPTER 4

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Damian Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth.

Advertisement: The Reader is on vacation for a while in the story and has many hobbies, such as gardening and cooking… There is no mention of their job.

Words count: ~ 1.6k words

The weight of the last few days sits heavy on your chest like a storm cloud refusing to break. You move through Wayne Manor like a ghost, your footsteps soft but your heart louder than ever in its aching silence. Damian’s words echo endlessly, cruel and sharp, carving wounds you didn’t know you had. Bruce’s fierce promises provide a flicker of comfort, but the cracks inside you seem wider now, deeper than before.

You find yourself wandering into the study late at night, needing the quiet, the solitude — somewhere to be alone with your thoughts that won’t tear you apart. The room is dimly lit by the soft glow of a single lamp, shadows pooling in every corner. You sit heavily in one of the leather chairs, your hands resting in your lap, fingers trembling just slightly.

The exhaustion has seeped into your bones. You haven’t slept well in weeks. The smiles you wear feel brittle, fake; the warmth you try to give the family has met coldness more often than not. You feel invisible again, trapped between wanting to belong and fearing you never will.

A sudden creak at the door startles you. You look up just as Jason Todd steps inside, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. The sight of him — unexpected and unsettling — sends a jolt through your heart.

You remember the last time you saw him. The harsh words he threw at you, the venom in his voice that left scars deeper than you could speak aloud. You weren’t sure if you were ready to face him again.

He stops a few feet away, the usual guarded edge softened by something almost… tentative.

“Can’t sleep either?” His voice is low, rough, but not hostile.

You shrug, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Not really.”

Jason studies you for a moment, eyes flicking over your tired face. Without another word, he reaches behind him and pulls a bottle of whiskey from the edge of the shelf. He uncaps it with a practiced flick and pours two glasses, handing one to you.

You blink, caught off guard.

“Thought you might want this,” he says gruffly, then sits down across from you, the chair scraping softly against the floor.

You take the glass, fingers brushing his for a brief, charged moment. The burn of the whiskey is sharp, but somehow grounding.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, voice low. “For what I said before. I didn’t know how to handle… well, anything. And I took it out on you.”

The walls you’d built around your heart tremble. It’s the first time he’s admitted fault — the first time he’s reached out instead of pushing away.

You nod slowly. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

Jason’s eyes flicker with something softer — regret, maybe hope. “I’m not good at this family stuff. But I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone here.”

A silence stretches between you, thick with everything unsaid. Then he lets out a short, bitter laugh.

“Guess we’re both a mess.”

You manage a tired smile. “Yeah. Maybe that’s why we keep ending up in the same room.”

For the first time since you arrived, the room feels less cold, less empty. The weight on your chest eases just a little, softened by the unexpected camaraderie.

You raise your glass, and Jason clinks his against yours.

“To surviving the madness,” he murmurs.

“To finding some light,” you reply softly.

The whiskey burns warmly as you sit across from Jason in the dim study, the weight of your exhaustion lifting just a fraction. The two of you share a silence that isn’t uncomfortable, filled instead with an unspoken understanding between two broken pieces trying to fit in.

Suddenly, the door creaks open again, and Cassandra slips in almost silently, as always. Her dark eyes scan the room, landing on you and Jason. For a moment, the air feels charged with tension — the stoic assassin and the rebellious rogue in the same space — but then she surprises you both.

“A whiskey drinker and a troublemaker,” she states flatly, a rare smirk tugging at her lips. “Not the usual company for you.”

Jason shoots her a sideways grin. “Hey, I’m making progress. From silent brooder to social butterfly, thanks to you, Cass.”

You laugh softly, the sound catching you off guard. Cassandra steps closer, her gaze softer as she looks at you.

“You seem… less tired than usual,” she comments. “That’s good.”

Jason winks. “That’s because we’ve officially started the ‘survive the madness’ club.”

You raise your glass to her. “Care to join?”

Cass hesitates just a moment before sitting beside you, the three of you forming an unlikely circle in the quiet of the Manor. For once, the night doesn’t feel heavy with shadows or pain. It feels like a small, flickering spark of something new — friendship, maybe even family.

Later, after the trio has dispersed and the Manor settles into its usual nighttime hush, you slip quietly to your bedroom. Your phone buzzes softly on the bedside table. You pick it up, surprised to see a message from Tim.

“Hey. Cass told me you’re having a rough time. Just wanted to check in — are you okay?”

Your throat tightens. The care in his message is unexpected but welcome. You quickly type back:

“Thanks, Tim. It’s been tough, but I’m hanging in there. I appreciate you checking on me.”

Almost immediately, a reply pops up.

“Good. You’re not alone, okay? We’re all here.”

You set the phone down with a soft smile, feeling a fragile warmth in your chest. Despite the hard days and colder nights, maybe this place — this family — isn’t as distant as it once seemed.

The week after that quiet night with Jason and Cassandra passes with a gentle rhythm, each day folding into the next like pages in a book you’re still learning to read. The Manor begins to feel less like a cavernous tomb and more like a living, breathing place — imperfect and bruised, but with room to grow.

You find comfort in the small rituals: mornings spent with Stephanie over too-sweet coffee, afternoons training silently with Cassandra, evenings curled up with Bruce as he lets his guard slip just enough to laugh with you. The boys still keep their distance, but you’re beginning to see subtle shifts — a glance held a second longer, a grunt that almost sounds like approval, a softening of eyes that used to be cold.

One rainy afternoon, the heavy patter of the storm outside blends with the sharp ring of the front doorbell. You’re in the kitchen, cleaning up after a late lunch, when Alfred’s calm voice calls from the foyer.

“Master Dick has returned. From Blüdhaven, no less.”

Your heart quickens, a mixture of excitement and nervousness swirling through your chest. You haven’t seen Dick in months — not since he left for that mission that pulled him away from the Manor and from you. You step toward the entrance, wiping your hands on a towel, anticipation bubbling beneath your skin.

The door swings open, and there he stands: tall, relaxed, with that familiar mischievous grin lighting up his face despite the gray clouds overhead. In his hands, a bouquet of wildflowers — bright splashes of color against the dullness of the rainy day.

“For you,” he says simply, extending the flowers as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath catches. You take the bouquet carefully, feeling the thorns and softness of the petals, the scent of fresh earth and rain. It’s a small gesture, but it feels like a bridge spanning the distance of months, a quiet promise that you haven’t been forgotten.

“Thank you, Dick,” you say softly, your voice catching with the sudden swell of emotion.

He steps inside, shaking off the wet from his jacket. “I thought you might like these,” he says with a wink. “And I’m sorry for being gone so long.”

You smile, warmth blooming inside you. “I’m glad you’re back.”

For the rest of the afternoon, you sit together by the fire, catching up on stories and laughter, the storm outside fading to a soft drizzle. It feels good — right — to have him here again.

Later that evening, as you move through the quiet halls of the Manor, you find a small envelope slipped under your door. Curiosity piqued, you pick it up and open it carefully.

Inside is a sketch — precise and sharp, unmistakably Damian’s handiwork. It’s a drawing of you, sitting quietly in the library, light spilling over your face like a halo. The lines are delicate but confident, capturing something more than just your appearance — a softness beneath your exhaustion, a resilience beneath the sadness.

There’s no note. No words.

You hold the paper close, heart pounding with a confusing mix of emotions. Has Damian been watching you more closely than you thought? Is this his way of reaching out, or to say sorry— silent?

Later, you catch Damian in the training room. He’s practicing with his sword, his expression unreadable. When you approach, he doesn’t look up but slides another sheet of paper toward you — another sketch, this one of a small sprouting seed breaking through cracked stone.

You meet his eyes then, and for the first time, they don’t look cold or dismissive. Instead, they’re almost… Tentative.

“Keep it,” he says quietly, voice rough. “It’s for you.”

You nod, clutching the sketch as if it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever received.

Over the next few days, these silent exchanges continue — sketches left on your pillow, images drawn with more care and vulnerability than Damian usually shows. You begin to understand: this is his way of communicating.

It’s fragile. It’s slow. But it’s real.

That night, you sit by the window, holding the sketches close, feeling a quiet hope threading through your tired heart.

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bigproblemsfunnylife · 2 days ago

Text

Batfamily x GN! Reader spouse

REST OF THE CHAPTERS (5/5) IN MY ACCOUNT

Title: Home is the place we build, CHAPTER 3

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Damian Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth.

Advertisement: The Reader is on vacation for a while in the story and has many hobbies, such as gardening and cooking… There is no mention of their job.

Words count: ~ 1.5k words

You’re in the kitchen again, busying your hands with dishes you don’t need to clean, when the Manor’s front doors crash open with a burst of laughter and chatter that feels almost foreign in this quiet house. You freeze, the sponge clutched tight in your hands as voices echo through the halls, accompanied by the unmistakable clatter of combat boots and the rustle of duffel bags hitting the floor.

You step into the hallway just in time to see Cassandra Cain slip through the doorway, silent as ever, her dark eyes catching yours for the briefest second. Behind her, Stephanie Brown tumbles in with a bright grin, chattering excitedly into her comm as she shrugs off her purple jacket.

“—No, Babs, I swear, if I never see another exploding clown doll again it’ll be too soon— Oh, hey!” Stephanie pauses mid-sentence, noticing you. She blinks, bright blue eyes going wide as she sizes you up, her grin returning almost immediately. “You must be the new spouse Bruce keeps disappearing to see! Oh my god, hi!”

You blink, startled by the warm enthusiasm that radiates off her like sunlight. She crosses the room before you can react, throwing her arms around you in a quick, exuberant hug that leaves you breathless.

“I’m Steph,” she announces, pulling back but keeping her hands on your shoulders. “Spoiler, Batgirl sometimes, caffeine addict always. Welcome to the circus!”

You smile, feeling warmth bubble up in your chest despite the weeks of cold shoulders and suspicious glares. “I’m… really glad to meet you.”

Cassandra lingers nearby, watching silently, but there’s no malice in her gaze. She inclines her head in greeting, and you offer a soft smile in return.

“You look like you need a rescue,” Stephanie says, lowering her voice conspiratorially as she eyes the empty kitchen. “These boys can be… you know. Broody as hell. But you seem cool, so we are gonna hang out, okay? Mandatory.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, the first real one in weeks. “I’d love that,” you whisper, feeling something in your chest crack open and let in a little light.

Stephanie beams, tugging you toward the hallway where Cassandra is already drifting toward the stairs. “Come on. Tell me everything. And then tomorrow, we’ll go shopping, and then maybe… I’ll teach you how to throw a batarang.”

You let her chatter wash over you, something warm and bright to cling to as the shadows of the Manor fade, just for a little while. Maybe, you think, clutching the edge of her jacket as she pulls you along, this could work.

The days after your first real night with Stephanie and Cassandra blur into something soft and bright. The Manor still echoes with its old ghosts, but now laughter occasionally drifts through the halls, like sunlight spilling across dusty floors that haven’t felt warmth in years.

Stephanie insists on dragging you into the city with her whenever she can, peppering you with questions about your favorite colors and foods, what you’d do if you had a grappling gun, whether you’d rather fight one giant Joker fish or fifty tiny Harley hyenas. She pulls you into shop windows to try on ridiculous hats, tugs you down alleys to introduce you to her favorite hole-in-the-wall cafes, and sends you memes at 3 AM when she knows you can’t sleep.

Cassandra never says much, but she watches you with a quiet intensity that makes you feel seen in a way you can’t quite explain. Sometimes she’ll simply appear beside you in the training room, placing a batarang in your hand with a slight tilt of her head — a silent invitation. She corrects your stance with the gentlest touch, smiling faintly whenever you manage to hit the target. And though she rarely speaks, you can feel her approval radiating through every careful nudge and subtle nod.

The boys notice the change in the air, though they pretend not to. Tim (who has come back) still drags himself through the kitchen at ungodly hours, but now he’ll pause just long enough to accept the tea you brew for him, murmuring a sleepy thank you. Damian scowls less viciously when he passes you in the hall, occasionally offering a brusque grunt of acknowledgment that makes your heart leap with cautious hope.

And Bruce… he smiles more. The tired lines around his eyes soften each night he returns to find you waiting, dinner kept warm in the oven, your arms open for him to fold himself into. Some evenings he pulls you into his lap on the couch, holding you so close you can feel the tension bleeding out of him as he presses his lips into your hair.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he murmurs one night, voice ragged with exhaustion but laced with something tender and raw.

You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. “Luckily, you won’t ever have to find out,” you whisper.

In those quiet moments, wrapped in his warmth with the murmur of distant footsteps overhead and the soft purr of Alfred’s old cat curled at your feet, the Manor doesn’t feel so cavernous anymore.

The night is heavy with rain, pounding against the Manor’s windows like fists. You stand in the hallway outside Bruce’s study, clutching a mug of tea that’s long since gone cold, when you hear raised voices on the other side of the door.

At first, you freeze, torn between retreating and listening. But the sharp crack of Damian’s voice — taut with anger, bitter and biting — pins you in place.

“—this is my home, Father! You have brought yet another stranger into it, pretending they belong here. They don’t.”

“Damian,” Bruce says, low and measured, the warning in his tone clear. “They’re not a stranger. They are my partner. That makes them part of this family.”

“Family?” Damian spits the word like poison. “You let them play house here, let them smile and clean and try to worm into our lives like they have any right — but they don’t. They are weak. And they will leave, or they will die, like all the others!”

Your breath hitches, the mug trembling in your hands. You knew Damian was cold, distant. But hearing the venom in his voice, hearing the utter hatred in his words… it feels like your ribs are splintering around your heart.

“They are not weak,” Bruce growls, his voice edged with steel. “And they are not going anywhere. I chose them. I love them. And you will respect that.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick and heavy, before Damian snaps back. “You’re blinded. You think you can build something normal out of this rotting place — but you can’t. We are not normal. We are not some happy family you can glue back together with sunshine and soft words. We’re killers and soldiers and broken things, and you dragging some naive fool into this will only end with blood.”

“Enough.” Bruce’s voice is a harsh bark now, final and furious. “You will treat them with respect in this house. Or you will leave it.”

You hear Damian’s breath catch, the air crackling with fury and pain. “You would choose them over me,” he snarls. “Your own son.”

“I am not choosing between you,” Bruce bites out, “but I will not let you tear them apart. I won’t let you destroy something good because you refuse to let yourself heal.”

A sharp thud follows — a fist slamming into wood — then footsteps, fast and furious. You duck into the shadows just in time to see Damian storm from the study, his face white with rage, eyes blazing. He doesn’t see you as he tears past, disappearing into the halls.

You sink to the floor, hands over your mouth, fighting back the sting of tears.

A moment later, Bruce steps out, running a hand through his hair. His eyes find you in the dark, softening instantly. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice ragged. “I didn’t want you to hear that.”

You shake your head, throat tight. “I… I knew he didn’t like me, but…”

Bruce crosses the space between you in two strides, pulling you into his arms. He holds you so tightly you can barely breathe, his heartbeat frantic against your cheek.

“He’s scared,” Bruce murmurs into your hair. “Of losing more family. Of letting anyone in. He doesn’t mean it the way it sounds.”

But you can’t help the crack in your voice as you whisper back, “What if he’s right? What if I don’t belong here?”

Bruce pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with desperate certainty. “You do,” he says fiercely. “You do. And I will spend every day proving it to you, no matter what Damian says.”

You nod weakly, clinging to him as the storm outside rages on, the shadows of the Manor pressing close. You know the road ahead will be rough, that Damian’s anger won’t vanish overnight.

But in Bruce’s arms, you find just enough strength to whisper, “Okay. I’ll stay.”

And in that fragile moment, with the thunder shaking the walls and your heart still raw, you swear you hear Bruce breathe a single, aching prayer into your hair.

“Thank you.”

27 notes · View notes

bigproblemsfunnylife · 2 days ago

Text

Batfamily x GN! Reader spouse

REST OF THE CHAPTERS (5/5) IN MY ACCOUNT

Title: Home is the place we build, CHAPTER 2

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Damian Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth.

Advertisement: The Reader is on vacation for a while in the story and has many hobbies, such as gardening and cooking… There is no mention of their job.

Words count: ~ 1.5k words

Days bleed into nights, and the loneliness in Wayne Manor begins to settle into your bones like a cold draft. You spend your hours moving through the vast halls, tending to the house and waiting for someone — anyone — to reach out. But the Batfamily remains distant, wrapped in their own worlds, their own shadows.

Then one evening, just as the sun is beginning to dip behind the horizon, you hear the front door open. A familiar, lighter step follows — less heavy than Bruce’s, less guarded than Jason’s. You glance up from the living room where you’ve been reading, heart lifting when you see Dick Grayson step inside.

His smile is tired but genuine, eyes softening the moment they meet yours.

“Hey,” he says, voice warm yet cautious. “I didn’t think I’d be back so soon.”

You stand, brushing your hands on your pants. “I’m glad you are.”

Dick hesitates, as if unsure how to cross the invisible line that’s kept you apart from the rest of the family. You take a breath and decide to break the ice.

“Would you like some tea? I made chamomile. It’s supposed to be good for long nights.”

He nods, grateful. You guide him to the kitchen, where the soft clink of cups and the rich aroma of brewing tea fill the air. The awkwardness thaws bit by bit, like ice cracking under the sun.

As he sips, Dick tells you about Blüdhaven — the endless patrols, the city’s tired scars, the weight of responsibility. You listen, offering gentle smiles, asking quiet questions that show you care.

When the conversation turns to the Manor, his voice lowers. “It’s been different since… you arrived. I guess I wasn’t sure how to act around you.”

You nod, understanding all too well. “I feel the same. Sometimes it’s like I’m here but invisible.”

He chuckles softly. “Yeah, it’s a big family — and a complicated one. We’ve all got our walls.”

You meet his gaze, seeing something honest and kind in his eyes. “Maybe we could help each other lower them.”

Dick’s smile grows warmer. “I’d like that.”

In that moment, for the first time since you arrived, the Manor feels a little less empty — a little more like home.

The Manor’s silence weighs heavily as midnight seeps through the cracks of the grand windows. You’ve long since put away your daytime tasks, but sleep still eludes you. There’s a faint hum from the kitchen — a sound not quite at rest, not quite still.

Curious, you rise and pad quietly down the marble stairs, wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders. The soft glow of the kitchen lights casts gentle shadows, and there you find him — Tim Drake, hunched over the counter, eyes bloodshot, fingers trembling slightly as he nurses a steaming mug of coffee.

He doesn’t notice you at first, lost in the glow of a screen filled with scrolling lines of code and city maps. His brow furrows deeply, exhaustion etched across his face. The weight of his responsibilities as Red Robin presses down on him like a physical force, and even here, in the sanctuary of Wayne Manor, he cannot find reprieve.

You clear your throat softly, and he startles, blinking rapidly to focus. For a moment, the lines of worry on his face soften as he sees you.

“You shouldn’t be up,” you whisper, moving closer. “You look exhausted.”

Tim shrugs, swallowing a sip of coffee. “This city never sleeps. Neither can I.”

You smile gently, setting a small plate of sandwiches down beside him — something simple, homemade. “Here. You need to eat.”

He looks surprised, then grateful, as if no one has thought to care for him in weeks. Slowly, he takes a sandwich, his fingers brushing yours briefly. The contact is fleeting, but it sparks warmth that ripples through your chest.

“You don’t have to carry it all alone, you know,” you say quietly.

Tim’s gaze meets yours, vulnerability flickering there. “Sometimes it feels like I do.”

You settle onto a stool nearby, careful not to crowd him, but close enough to offer silent support. The hum of the city outside fades beneath the quiet companionship you share.

As the night stretches on, Tim talks — about his doubts, his fears, the pressure to live up to expectations both his own and those of the family. You listen without judgment, your presence a balm to the storm inside him.

By the time the first light of dawn slips through the windows, the tension in Tim’s shoulders has eased just a little. He offers a tired but genuine smile.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

You squeeze his hand gently. “Anytime.”

Sadly, the two boys gone soon in another mission or patrol, quickly letting behind you and your little talks.

You’ve been at Wayne Manor long enough to learn where each creaking floorboard lives, which window rattles in the wind, which hallway drafts cold air at night. But you still haven’t found a way past Damian Wayne’s walls.

He avoids you with meticulous precision, slipping through doorways the moment you enter, his eyes narrowing if you so much as linger in the same room. His disdain is not subtle; it drips from his tone in the few clipped words he spares you, oozes from every look cast in your direction — as if you’re an interloper in the castle he has guarded all his life.

One morning, you find him in the training room, the air thick with the sharp tang of sweat and effort. He moves like a blade — fluid, lethal, precise — the practice staff spinning in his hands as he strikes phantom enemies with brutal, rhythmic force. You watch for a moment from the doorway, struck by how young he looks despite the deadly focus etched on his face.

“Good morning,” you venture softly, stepping forward with a careful smile. “I brought you water.”

He stops mid-strike, head snapping toward you with such sudden intensity you almost flinch. His eyes narrow, his lip curling faintly.

“I do not need you,” he spits, voice a low snarl. “This family does not need you.”

You freeze, the bottle clutched between trembling fingers. “I’m just trying to—”

“You are nothing,” he hisses, stepping closer, eyes glinting like cold steel. “Father brings home strays, parades them through my house, but they always leave. Or die. You will be no different.”

Your breath catches. The words slice deep — a bitter reminder that in this place built of grief and ghosts, you’re still an outsider. Still unwanted.

“Damian—” you try, voice trembling. But he cuts you off with a sharp gesture, turning away as if you’re beneath his notice.

“I don’t care what smile you plaster on your face,” he mutters, picking up the staff again, dismissing you with a flick of his wrist. “You are weak. You do not belong here.”

The crack in your heart splits wider. You set the water down on a bench and step back, swallowing the burn of tears. The air feels colder now, the vast manor halls more cavernous than before.

Later that night, you curl up in the library, your fingers tracing the spine of an old book without seeing the words. Bruce finds you there, his brow creasing when he sees the tremor in your hands, the hollow look in your eyes.

“Talk to me,” he says gently, kneeling beside you.

You shake your head, voice small. “I don’t think Damian will ever accept me.”

Bruce sighs, pressing his forehead against yours, his hands warm on your cheeks. “He’s been hurt so many times… He doesn’t know how to trust, how to let anyone in.”

Your throat tightens. “What if he never does?”

Bruce doesn’t answer immediately. His silence is a wound in itself, echoing your own fear — that no matter how brightly you shine, there are some shadows too deep to chase away.

“I can’t force him,” Bruce murmurs finally. “But I promise… I see you. I love you. That won’t change.”

You lean into him, burying your face in the soft fabric of his shirt, fighting the tremble of your shoulders. And in the dark quiet of the library, the only comfort you find is his steady heartbeat, the one anchor in a house that still doesn’t feel like yours.

The days that follow are colder. Damian avoids you even more, his glares sharp enough to cut. The others drift in and out of the Manor, tangled in their own battles, leaving you alone with the endless echo of your doubts. Sometimes, you catch your reflection in the polished glass of the windows and wonder if maybe you really are a ghost here — bright, but fading, destined to disappear.

You remind yourself, again and again, to hold on. That maybe, in time, the cracks in the walls will let in your light. But for now, the shadows feel so thick you can barely breathe.

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bigproblemsfunnylife · 2 days ago

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Batfamily x GN! Reader spouse

REST OF THE CHAPTERS (5/5) IN MY ACCOUNT

Title: Home is the place we build, CHAPTER 1

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Damian Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth.

Advertisement: The Reader is on vacation for a while in the story and has many hobbies, such as gardening and cooking… There is no mention of their job.

Words count: ~ 1.9k words

The first morning you wake up in Wayne Manor, the sun filters in through gauzy curtains, soft and golden, casting delicate patterns across the cavernous bedroom. Beside you, the bed is empty. Bruce left hours ago, the lingering warmth of his presence already fading from the sheets. A note sits on the nightstand in his careful script: Patrol ran late. I’ll be home soon. Coffee’s fresh. I love you.

You smile at the words, running your thumb over the edge of the paper. It’s a small kindness, a sign of thoughtfulness he tries so hard to hold onto despite the weight of Gotham and the darkness that clings to his cape like a second skin. You tuck the note in your bedside drawer, adding it to the small, growing stack of similar slips. Little reminders that beneath the cowl and the armor, he is just a man trying to keep something warm and real alive.

You pad through the halls barefoot, your footsteps echoing faintly against marble floors. The Manor is so massive it feels like it could swallow you whole. Ornate portraits stare down from the walls, reminders of the generations that came before. Their painted eyes watch you as you move, silently judging the bright, hopeful stranger who has stepped into the space that was, for so long, ruled by ghosts and shadows.

You find Alfred in the kitchen, dressed immaculately as always, rolling dough on the marble countertop. He greets you with a warm, if weary, smile.

“Good morning,” you say softly, moving to pour yourself coffee. The pot is hot, steam curling into the air in fragrant tendrils. “Did Bruce come home alright?”

“He did,” Alfred nods, pressing the dough flat with expert care. “I believe Master Bruce is sleeping in the Cave’s med bay. He insisted he had a few files to update before resting.”

You wince, but you’re not surprised. Bruce never stops. Even when his bones ache and his scars reopen, he refuses to pause — terrified, you think, of what might slip through the cracks in the seconds he dares to breathe.

You sip your coffee, staring out the window at the sunlit lawn stretching out beyond the French doors. Birds flutter among the hedges. Flowers you planted last week nod gently in the breeze. It’s so peaceful, so normal, it almost feels like a different world from the city Bruce protects at night.

But as you stand there, mug warm between your palms, the emptiness of the Manor presses in. It swallows the faint hum of life, the soft ticking of clocks, the chirping of birds outside. For a moment, it feels like the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting for something to shatter the fragile stillness.

You try to fill the silence. That day, you wander room to room, adjusting picture frames, dusting bookshelves, watering the sprawling plants Alfred set around the house in a quiet attempt to make the space less sterile. After all, you are vacation, so you have a lot of free time. You hum to yourself — half-nervous, half-hopeful — willing some warmth into the cold corners.

But there is no one to hear you.

Tim left before dawn, a note scribbled on a napkin: Out with the Titans, back in a few days. Damian vanished into the Cave early, ignoring you completely when you called a hesitant good morning. Dick is still in Blüdhaven, Jason — well, you don’t know where Jason is. Alfred says little, though he watches you sometimes with sad, sympathetic eyes.

You try to push the loneliness aside. You bake a tray of muffins, leaving them on the counter in case someone comes home hungry. You sweep the back garden, tug a few weeds from the garden. But every task echoes in the emptiness, every soft footstep swallowed by the endless halls.

You’ve only been here a few weeks, and already you understand the cavernous ache Bruce must have felt for years. A house this big, built to hold laughter and life, feels like a mausoleum when it stands empty. You tell yourself it will get better, that the others will come around. But sometimes, in the quietest moments, you feel the edges of doubt creeping in like ivy through cracked stone.

That evening, Bruce returns. He finds you curled up in the library, a blanket over your shoulders, a book unopened on your lap. He looks exhausted, his cowl tucked under one arm, cape trailing behind him. But his eyes soften when he sees you, and he moves to press a kiss to your hair.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, sinking into the couch beside you. “Long night.”

You reach for his hand, your fingers brushing over the faint tremor in his. “It’s okay,” you say softly. “I’m just glad you’re home.”

He nods, eyes closing for a brief, stolen second. But there’s tension in his shoulders, the endless vigilance that never quite fades. You know he wants to ask how your day was, to show he cares — but you can see the exhaustion dragging him under, and so you just squeeze his hand and let him rest.

Outside the window, the last of the sunlight fades, giving way to the deep blue of Gotham night. The Manor grows quiet again, the ghosts settling back into their corners. You glance around the empty room, your heart tightening, but you bury the ache and focus on the warmth of Bruce’s presence beside you.

You don’t know when the others will let you in, or if they’ll ever truly accept you. But you remind yourself — you made a promise to Bruce, and to yourself, to be a light in the darkness. Even if no one else notices right now, you’ll keep shining.

Because this place, as cold and lonely as it feels, is your home now. And you’ll do everything you can to fill it with warmth, no matter how long it takes.

The second week in Wayne Manor feels much like the first: quiet, sprawling days, punctuated only by the occasional soft clatter of Alfred in the kitchen and the distant echo of doors opening and closing, someone coming or going without a word.

You try not to let it get to you. Bruce leaves early, returning late, each time looking just a little more battered than the night before. He apologizes, sometimes, brushing a hand over your shoulder, kissing your forehead as he passes. But he never stays long. The city calls him, drags him back into the night no matter how much you wish he’d let himself rest.

You pour yourself into small things. Muffins in the morning, fresh flowers in the hall. You spend hours tending the greenhouse, though you don’t really know what you’re doing — your hands dirt-streaked and trembling by evening, shoulders sore from hauling watering cans and pruning thorny bushes. But it helps. Gives you something to do. Gives you something to leave behind, something bright and living that you hope the others might notice.

They don’t.

The few times you cross paths with them, it’s fleeting and tense. Damian brushes past you on the stairs, eyes narrowing, his small frame taut with coiled irritation. He mutters something under his breath in another language, refusing to look at you. You call a hesitant good morning after him, but he doesn’t respond.

Tim drifts through the kitchen like a ghost at 2 AM, eyes bloodshot, fingers trembling slightly as he downs mug after mug of coffee. You offer to make him something to eat, but he doesn’t seem to hear you, lost in whatever frantic swirl of data and half-formed plans is buzzing in his head.

Sometimes you hear Jason — the slam of the front door, the heavy thud of combat boots, the angry creak of floorboards overhead as he stalks to whatever corner of the Manor he claims when he deigns to be here at all. He never lingers. You try to catch his eye once, offering a careful smile, but he ignores you completely, his jaw tight with something bitter and raw.

And Cassandra, Stephanie… you haven’t seen them at all. They are still in a long mission as the good heroic girls they are. And Dick is still in Blüdhaven, you’re told. The first Robin, the golden son, busy tending his own city, his own broken corners of the world.

It’s hard not to feel invisible.

One evening, you linger in the kitchen long after Alfred has gone to bed, cleaning up the last crumbs from a failed batch of cookies you hoped someone might notice. You’re scrubbing the counter absentmindedly when you hear footsteps in the hall. Heavy, deliberate — different from Bruce’s soft, predatory tread.

You glance up as Jason appears in the doorway, helmet tucked under one arm, his other hand clutching a bloodied rag pressed to his side. He freezes when he sees you, eyes flickering, jaw tightening.

“Oh,” you say softly, startled. “You’re hurt. Let me get—”

“Don’t,” he growls, stepping back. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I’m not— I just want to help,” you say gently, moving toward the cabinet where Alfred keeps the medical supplies. “I can grab the antiseptic—”

“Back off,” Jason snaps, voice sharp enough to slice the air between you. “You’re not part of this family, no matter what he told you. Don’t pretend you care.”

The words hit you like a slap. You stop in your tracks, eyes wide, your breath caught in your throat.

Jason watches you, chest heaving, knuckles white around the rag clutched at his side. His lip curls as if he might say more — something uglier — but then he turns on his heel, storming out of the kitchen. You hear him stomp down the hallway, hear the library door slam shut so hard the windows rattle.

You stand there for a long time, staring at the empty doorway, your hands trembling.

Later that night, you find the bloodied rag crumpled in the trash. The antiseptic is untouched in the cabinet. You consider knocking on the library door, offering help again. But you remember the venom in Jason’s voice, the contempt etched into every syllable, and you retreat instead, curling into bed alone.

When Bruce returns, hours later, he finds you awake, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, crawling into bed beside you, pulling you into his arms. He smells like smoke and rain, the tang of blood faint on his gloves. “Another long night.”

You rest your head against his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat, steady and strong. You want to tell him what Jason said, how small and unwanted you felt, how you’re terrified you might never fit into this family he’s built around himself like armor. But he’s already drifting toward sleep, exhaustion pulling him under. And you can’t bring yourself to add more weight to the burden he carries.

So you lie there in silence, clutching the frayed edges of your heart, telling yourself it will be okay. That maybe tomorrow will be better. That maybe, somehow, you can find a way to prove yourself, to show them you’re not an intruder, not just some bright-eyed stranger fumbling around their carefully guarded darkness.

You close your eyes. And in the hush of the cavernous room, you try to imagine the day they might look at you and finally see you as more than a stranger — as family.

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bigproblemsfunnylife · 2 days ago

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Damian to Jason in a random mission:

“Honestly, Todd, watching you try to form a coherent plan is like observing a caffeinated gorilla attempting brain surgery with a sledgehammer—painful, loud, and inevitably catastrophic.”

#damian wayne headcanon #damian al ghul #jason todd headcanon #jason todd #dc characters #dc batfam #dc fanon #brotherly bonding #maybe #dc universe #batkids

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bigproblemsfunnylife · 2 days ago

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Batfamily x GN! Insecure Reader

Title: Haunted by the Night

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne.

Summary: After a failed mission where you froze on the field, you overhear the Batfamily arguing about you — especially Damian, who calls you weak and claims you don’t belong. Haunted by nightmares of failure and betrayal, you push yourself past your breaking point to prove your worth.

CW: Emotional abuse/verbal abuse (Damian’s harsh words), nightmares, mentions of self-doubt, anxiety/panic, insomnia and sleep issues, comfort at the end.

Words count: ~ 2.1k words

You’ve been in the manor for barely three months when it happens.

It’s late, the manor quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator as you linger in the kitchen. You’re supposed to be asleep — the rule was clear: no patrol tonight, you’re grounded until further notice. The last mission ended with you freezing on a rooftop, your breathing ragged, heart thudding so loud you swore everyone else could hear it through the comms. You’d tried to get moving again, tried to find your footing, but by the time you did, Jason had already cleaned up your target and radioed Bruce with a tight, clipped, “Rookie choked.”

So now you hover by the fridge, unable to sleep, needing water or maybe just an excuse to stay out of your room where the walls feel too close. That’s when you hear voices drifting in from the dining room — low, tense. You recognize Bruce instantly, and Dick’s softer tone, followed by the unmistakable harshness of Damian’s.

You know you shouldn’t listen. But your feet won’t move.

“…not ready,” Bruce says. His voice is calm, careful. “It was a mistake sending them on that route alone. That one’s on me.”

“They’re just scared,” Dick counters quickly. “We all were, at first. You remember the first time I almost fell off a roof? It’s part of learning.”

“They froze,” Damian spits. “On the field. Do you understand what that means, Father? They could’ve gotten Jason killed. They’re weak, pathetic. I don’t care what sob story you swallowed when you brought them here — they don’t belong with us.”

“Damian,” Dick warns.

But Damian barrels on. “I’ve worked too hard for this team to watch some charity case get one of us killed.”

You grip the edge of the counter so hard your fingers ache.

“They’re family,” Dick says firmly, almost desperately. “You don’t say that about family.”

“Family,” Damian scoffs. “We all know how that ends in this house.”

You can’t breathe. You back away from the doorway like a ghost, your chest hollow, stomach churning. They were arguing about you. About whether you deserved to be here. Whether you were just a liability.

You think maybe you are.

You’re quieter after that. You say little at breakfast, eat quickly, disappear to the gym or the library, bury yourself in training logs and manuals. When Bruce corrects your form on the mats, you nod without complaint. When Jason teases you about being jumpy, you try to laugh. You try to stay out of Damian’s way entirely.

But it’s never enough.

One night, after a long patrol where you tripped on your landing and nearly took Damian with you, he corners you in the cave while you’re peeling off your gloves, his face twisted in disdain.

“You really are worthless,” he hisses, voice low so only you can hear. “All this training, all Father’s resources wasted on you, and you still can’t land without making a fool of yourself.”

You swallow, words caught in your throat.

“Pathetic,” he says, turning on his heel. “I don’t know why they even bother pretending you’re one of us.”

He’s gone before you can blink, his cape snapping behind him like a blade.

You feel something in your chest crack open and bleed.

After that, the nightmares start. They’re not of Damian’s words, not exactly — they’re worse.

You’re standing on a rooftop, frozen again, legs locked in place. You watch Jason fall in slow motion, blood splattering on the concrete below. You see Bruce’s eyes as he turns from Jason’s broken body to you, filled with cold disappointment.

You try to scream. Nothing comes out.

Another night, you dream of Damian standing over you, sword raised, sneering that you never should’ve worn the mask. You try to run but your boots are stuck to the rooftop, and the sword arcs down —

You wake up gasping, sweat-soaked, the sheets tangled around your legs. You lie there staring at the ceiling, praying the nightmares will stop, but knowing deep down they won’t.

Because you’re still weak. You’re still not enough. And worst of all, maybe they’re right.

Maybe you really don’t belong here.

You try to avoid Damian after that night, but the manor is a cage you can’t escape. Every day you cross paths in the halls or the cave, every day you feel his sharp eyes on you, waiting for you to fail again.

He doesn’t bother hiding his contempt. He sighs when you enter the training room. He rolls his eyes at your questions. He scoffs under his breath when Bruce assigns you simple recon work, muttering that they should send a drone instead — at least it wouldn’t screw things up.

It gets under your skin. You start double-checking every gadget, memorizing every building layout until the lines blur on the page, pushing yourself to exhaustion on the mats and in the cave. Dick notices first, asking if you’re sleeping. You lie. Of course you lie.

Then one evening you’re running drills in the cave long past midnight, hands blistered and arms trembling, when Damian shows up behind you, silent as a shadow.

“You’re wasting your time,” he says coolly. “You can’t fix weakness by practicing longer. Either you have it or you don’t.”

You whirl on him, voice rough with anger you didn’t know was there. “Why do you even care? Go train somewhere else.”

He smirks, tilting his head. “Because you’re an embarrassment to this family. I won’t stand by while you tarnish our name.”

Something in you snaps. “You think I want to be here? You think I asked for any of this?”

“You’re here,” he says, stepping closer, “and every time you stumble, every time you choke, you prove me right: you’re not cut out for this. Father made a mistake saving you.”

You shove past him before he can see your eyes fill with tears.

You think about quitting. You think about running. You think about what Bruce said that night — how bringing you in was a mistake.

But something in you refuses to let go, even as the nightmares get worse. Even as Damian’s words echo in your head.

Because maybe if you stay, if you fight hard enough, one day you’ll prove him wrong.

Or maybe you’ll die trying.

Either way, at least then the voice in your head — the one that sounds like Damian, like your own fear — will finally shut up.

The nightmares come like clockwork — uninvited visitors that drag you back into the darkest moments of your mind. You wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding like a drum, the echoes of Damian’s voice slicing through the silence of your room.

One night, after a particularly brutal dream where you watched Jason fall again and Bruce turned away from you in disappointment, you don’t bother trying to fall back asleep. Instead, you curl up on the floor beside your bed, trembling and unable to quiet the storm inside your chest.

You don’t even notice when a shadow slips through the doorway until a soft voice breaks the silence.

“You okay?”

You blink up to see Dick, his eyes gentle and concerned. Without waiting for an answer, he kneels down beside you, wrapping you in an arm so warm and steady it feels like a lifeline.

“I heard you moving around. Thought you might need someone.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, voice barely a whisper. “It won’t stop. The nightmares…”

Dick nods knowingly, squeezing your shoulder. “I know. I’ve been there.”

He pulls you into a tight hug, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself break — tears spilling over as the weight of everything crashes down.

“You’re not alone,” he murmurs. “None of us are. And no matter what Damian says… no matter what you think, you do belong here. We all believe in you.”

His words don’t erase the fear, but they plant a small seed of hope.

Weeks drag on, and the pressure inside you builds like a storm ready to break. Every failure feels heavier, every glance from Damian sharper. You push yourself harder, but it never seems to be enough.

One evening, where you had another grueling patrol where you barely kept up, you slam the door to your room and collapse against it, breath ragged. Your hands tremble as you pull your knees to your chest, and the walls close in tighter than ever.

The weight of everything — the doubt, the fear, Damian’s words, the nightmares — crashes down all at once. You’re drowning, and there’s no one to throw you a lifeline.

The phone buzzes beside you. It’s a message from Tim: “Hey. You good? Heard about the patrol. Talk if you want.”

You stare at the screen, fingers shaking, before you tap out a reply: “Not really.”

A soft knock on your door follows moments later. Tim slips inside without waiting for an invitation, settling on the edge of your bed.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says quietly. “I know what it’s like to feel like you’re not enough.”

You bite your lip, voice cracking. “I’m so tired, Tim. I’m scared I’m going to mess up and… and they’ll all regret bringing me here.”

He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Nobody regrets it. Least of all me.”

Tim has always been the one who hides his own pain behind a mask of logic and control. Growing up as the Red Robin, he’s carried the weight of responsibility on his shoulders longer than most — constantly feeling the pressure to prove himself, to be perfect, to never slip up. He knows what it’s like to feel like a failure, to fear disappointing the people you care about, to struggle with the fear that you don’t belong.

So when he sees you, someone newer, struggling so openly, overwhelmed by doubt and exhaustion, something inside him resonates. He sees himself reflected in your fear — the same self-doubt, the same heavy burden of “not being enough.” And it hurts him to watch you suffer alone, especially when all you need is a little reassurance.

Tim’s words come from a place of empathy and hard-earned wisdom. He knows firsthand that no one is perfect, that everyone stumbles, and that admitting weakness doesn’t mean you’re broken.

And knowing that, you let yourself lean into that small comfort, the steady presence beside you.

The days that follow are quieter. You still struggle, but the weight feels a little less suffocating now. Tim checks in often, his steady presence a balm for your raw nerves. Dick’s kindness lingers in your mind, and slowly, the nights don’t feel quite as lonely.

After a particularly tough training session, you find yourself wandering the cave alone, trying to steady your breathing. Damian is there — as usual, cold and distant — but this time, something in his eyes makes you pause.

Damian grew up in a world of harsh expectations and relentless training. For him, strength isn’t just physical—it’s survival. Weakness means vulnerability, and vulnerability means death. When you first arrived, all he saw was uncertainty and fear mirrored in your eyes—traits he equated with weakness because that’s what he was taught to believe.

He hated the idea of someone who might slow the family down, someone who might put the team at risk. So his words were sharp, meant to push you away before you could disappoint him—or worse, become a liability in the field.

But as he watched you struggle, fall, and then get back up again, Damian began to see something else. Not perfection, not flawless skill, but something far more stubborn and real: resilience. You didn’t give up, no matter how hard it was. You fought through your fears and your mistakes.

That resilience challenged everything Damian believed about strength. It unsettled him—because if weakness was defined by fear and failure, then maybe strength was defined by how you responded to those things.

He doesn’t know how to say it outright—he’s never been good with words like comfort or encouragement. But admitting that you belong here means admitting that he misjudged you. And that’s a hard truth for someone like Damian.

“I was wrong,” he says abruptly, voice low.

You blink, caught off guard.

“I thought you were weak. I thought you’d just be another burden.”

You don’t say anything, unsure if you heard correctly.

“But I see now… you fight harder than any of us,” he continues, voice almost hesitant. “And maybe… maybe that means you belong here, after all.”

It’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve heard from him, and your heart twists painfully.

“Don’t expect me to say it again,” he mutters, stepping past you with a faint nod.

You watch him go, a strange mix of hope and pain swirling inside you. Maybe belonging isn’t about being perfect. Maybe it’s about fighting through the cracks, and sometimes, that’s enough.

And for the first time, you think… maybe you’re home.

#batfamily x gn reader #batfamily x reader #batfamily angst #dc batfam #bruce wayne #richard grayson #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #angst #angst with a happy ending #tw nightmares #self insert #insomnies #batfamily headcanons #damian al ghul

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bigproblemsfunnylife · 2 days ago

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Batfamily x GN! Reader

Title: Popcorn war in a Movie Night

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Damián Wayne

Summary: A cozy movie night turns into chaos when the Batfamily argues over your movie choice, leading to a popcorn fight, teasing, and laughter.

CW: Only fluff, no angst.

Words count: ~ 620 words

You’re sitting cross-legged on the massive living room floor of Wayne Manor, a bowl of popcorn in your lap, trying your best not to spill as the whole Batfamily crowds around. Tonight’s the very first official movie night since you were adopted — a tradition you’re excited to start, though the chaos is almost instantly overwhelming.

Dick’s sprawled on the couch with his usual easy smile, arms crossed behind his head. Jason’s leaning against the armrest, smirking like he knows exactly how this night will go. Tim’s over by the bookshelf, meticulously scanning through the DVD collection. Damian’s sitting stiffly on the armchair, arms folded and brow furrowed in clear disdain. Bruce stands quietly nearby, arms crossed but with a faint, almost imperceptible smile that you catch out of the corner of your eye.

You clear your throat, trying to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, guys. I thought we could do something simple and fun tonight — a feel-good movie. Something light and cozy.”

Tim immediately looks up, adjusting his glasses with his typical serious expression. “Feel-good? Are you sure that’s the best idea? Statistically, the Batfamily prefers films with a high action quotient or psychological complexity.”

Jason snorts. “Yeah, and I’m betting there’s gonna be some kind of cheesy romantic subplot in your pick.”

Damian scoffs, looking at you like you just suggested watching cartoons for babies. “I hope it’s not some fluff nonsense that wastes time. We should be watching something with tactical value.”

Dick waves his hand with a grin. “Relax, Damian. Let the new kid pick something for once. It’s their first night here. Let’s make it special.”

Bruce finally speaks, voice calm but firm. “I trust your judgment. Let’s hear the suggestion.”

You take a deep breath and press the remote’s power button, then pick a classic feel-good movie you loved growing up. The screen lights up with bright colors, and the soft opening music fills the room. You’re trying to keep your excitement steady but inside, you’re buzzing.

Damian immediately groans. “Why are we watching this? It’s predictable and frivolous.”

Jason snickers, “Yeah, like it’s gonna save Gotham or anything.”

Tim is already pulling up a statistics chart on his tablet, apparently analyzing the plot’s likelihood of success based on the screenplay.

Dick just shakes his head, chuckling. “You guys are impossible.”

As the movie rolls on, you settle into the couch, watching the characters on screen and occasionally glancing at your new family. The popcorn bowl is quickly disappearing, and everyone is starting to relax.

But then comes the first challenge: the popcorn fight.

Jason, with a mischievous grin, flicks a popcorn kernel at Damian, who instantly snaps back with a scowl and tosses one right at Jason’s face. Dick dives for cover but catches one between his teeth and laughs. Tim, reluctantly pulled in by peer pressure, flicks a kernel at you, who barely ducks. Bruce sighs but can’t help the small smile tugging his lips.

You laugh and grab a handful of popcorn to retaliate. Soon the room is a flurry of popcorn, giggles, and playful banter.

Halfway through the movie, Damian finally lets his guard down and even cracks a tiny smile, which makes you feel like you just won some huge victory.

Dick drapes an arm over your shoulder. “See? Movie nights aren’t so bad, right?”

You nod, smiling warmly. “Yeah. I’m really glad you all let me be part of this.”

Jason nudges your side with a mock pout. “Don’t get all sappy on us now.”

As the credits roll, you glance around at the messy, popcorn-strewn living room, the laughing, teasing, sometimes grumpy but always loving faces of your new family — and you know, for the first time, you truly belong.

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bigproblemsfunnylife · 3 days ago

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Batfamily x GN! Insecure Reader

Title: Under the Bat’s Wing

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth.

Summary: GN! Reader is adopted by Bruce. They believe they aren’t truly loved, but slowly, the Batfamily begins to show them otherwise.

CW: Light angst, comfort.

Word count: ~ 1.6k words

You came to the manor young — older than Damian by barely a year, but still just a kid yourself. Bruce had taken you in early, almost as if he’d seen something in your haunted eyes that mirrored his own, and while Damian had raged at the intrusion — at the idea of another stray, another mouth, another fragile thing trying to share the place that was supposed to be his — you simply kept to yourself.

You were polite. Quiet. Eager to help, but never eager to be seen. Alfred noticed it first: the way you cleaned up cups left behind by Tim’s late-night coffee runs, the way you remembered how Dick liked his tea sweet, the way you gave Damian wide space when he was bristling and angry, and how you would listen, small and patient, when he ranted about the world’s idiocies, never flinching at his harsh words.

You never assumed you were wanted in the room — you always waited at the threshold, until someone waved you in. You never interrupted the chaos of family arguments, instead lingering just far enough away to be forgotten.

But Damian, for all his sharpness, couldn’t ignore you forever. He noticed, with the simmering resentment of a boy desperate for control, that you were always there. Watching his training with an unreadable face. Slipping books back into the library that he’d left strewn on the table. Bringing bandages when his knuckles split from punching too hard, setting them on the counter with trembling hands, as if unsure he’d accept the offering at all.

At first, he spat venom. Told you that you were weak. That you had no place here. That you were pathetic, lingering on the edges like a ghost.

You nodded. Agreed. Apologized for existing, with your eyes cast low. Damian hated the way it made his chest twist.

Dick was softer — of course he was. He always invited you along: to movies, to patrol briefings, to pizza nights in the cave. Jason teased you just enough to watch you flush and stammer, the way he did with anyone he liked. Tim sometimes forgot you existed, but when he did remember, he treated you like a puzzle — handing you bits of data to help sort through, checking your answers, praising you absentmindedly when you got something right.

Little by little, without realizing it, you threaded yourself into the fabric of the house. It happened in quiet ways — a blanket draped over Jason when he dozed off on the couch, a cup of tea pressed into Bruce’s hand when he returned from patrol looking world-weary, a gentle pat to Alfred’s shoulder when he worked too long in the kitchen.

The family began to notice, in their own ways. Damian grumbled less, letting you sit beside him in the library while he read. Dick started leaving little notes on your door: “Join us in the cave later! Got something cool to show you.” Jason began bringing you back small things from runs — a keychain, a bar of chocolate, a knife with a handle he thought you’d like.

And yet, you never really believed you belonged. Even as your laugh began to ring in the halls more often, even as Alfred started scolding you like any of the others, even as you fell asleep on the couch with Damian’s feet propped on your lap — you told yourself it wasn’t real. That you were tolerated, maybe even useful, but not loved.

You stayed up late, staring at the ceiling, turning over every moment of warmth in your mind like it was something borrowed, bound to be taken away. You flinched when Bruce’s voice rose, apologizing for things that weren’t your fault. You tried to slip out of rooms if you thought you were in the way. You never asked for anything.

It drove Damian insane. Because he could see it — the desperate hunger in your eyes, the way you tried to hide the hope when Dick smiled at you, the way you looked away quickly whenever someone offered praise, as if you didn’t deserve to hear it. He hated the way it mirrored something in himself, hated how familiar that gnawing emptiness felt.

It was a slow war he waged: snapping at you to stop apologizing, pushing you to speak up, scowling when you tried to hide in corners. He threw you into sparring sessions, ignoring your protests, told you to fight back when you flinched. Sometimes you cried, and he sneered at you for it, but then slipped you tissues and didn’t comment when you gripped his sleeve like a lifeline.

The others did it in their ways, too. Dick praised you often, so often you began to almost believe he meant it. Jason took you on runs through the city, letting you sit behind him on the bike, telling you stories about Gotham’s back alleys. Tim started asking for your help so regularly that you began to feel needed, maybe even trusted.

And slowly, something in your eyes began to change. You laughed more. You argued back, tentatively at first, then with real fire. You started leaving notes of your own on Dick’s door, bringing Jason coffee without being asked, correcting Tim’s code with a grin. You even dared to tease Damian, once, about the way he scowled at everything — and he had glared, but secretly, in the dark, he had smiled.

Still, you didn’t quite believe it. Not completely. Not yet. But the Batfamily was patient. They had learned how to rebuild broken things, how to stitch together a home out of shadows and grief. And piece by piece, they were determined to prove — not just say, but prove — that you weren’t a ghost in the walls. That you were needed. That you were loved.

And one day, when you stumbled into the kitchen after a nightmare, shaking and pale, Bruce was there. He didn’t say anything, just wrapped you in an embrace so tight it made you cry. And the others came, one by one, surrounding you with warmth and fierce, silent protection.

And maybe that night, with the whole family holding you close, you began to believe — just a little — that you weren’t alone anymore. That maybe you were wanted. That maybe you were loved.

And maybe that was enough, for now.

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