crxwn-06

[crxwn-06]

ASHES AND ECHOES

“ home has become wherever he sleeps safely ”

Damian runs away: Jon is not his, he is not a Wayne, he is not an Al Ghul. In the hope of finding himself in the destruction of the League, he finds instead the latest experiment, the latest innovation: his and Jon’ son. He flees. With the baby. He dies. (Does he?) While his family mourns him, he learns to live again.

or, Damian haunting the narrative for everyone while being a very much alive single father in his lil beach house

4. THE PRODIGAL SON

masterlist;; « prev || next »

It was snowing heavily outside. The kind of snow that swallowed the world in quiet.

Damian sat cross-legged on the floor of the study, a heavy wool sweater swallowing his small frame, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He had a sketchbook open in front of him and a pencil tucked behind one ear, tongue poking out slightly as he tried to draw the curve of a horse’s flank from memory.

Bruce sat at the desk across the room, reading over a case file, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

It was quiet. The kind of silence that, at first, made Damian twitchy. The League had taught him silence was a weapon, but this silence was… soft. Unthreatening. Full.

At one point, his pencil broke. The sound startled him.

Before he could snap at himself or grab another, Bruce looked up.

«Problem?» he asked.

Damian hesitated, then mumbled, «Pencil broke.»

Bruce rose from the desk and crossed the room. Damian tensed slightly but didn’t flinch when Bruce knelt beside him and gently took the broken pencil from his hand.

From his back pocket, Bruce pulled a small hand sharpener — the old kind, silver, slightly worn.

He held it out. «You ever use one of these before?»

Damian eyed it. «We used blades at the League.»

Bruce huffed softly, then offered the sharpener again. «This is safer. Try and use it»

Damian took it without a word and sharpened the pencil carefully, eyes narrowed in concentration. He handed it back once finished, but Bruce shook his head.

«Keep it. You’ll need it.»

There was a long pause. Then, quietly, Damian said: «I was going to draw you next.»

Bruce blinked, caught off guard. «Me?»

Damian nodded once, face heating. «Only if you sit still.»

A flicker of a smile touched Bruce’s lips — real, quiet, rare. He sat down in the armchair near the fire.

«Alright then. But only if I get a copy.»

Damian ducked his head to hide the small smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

The corridor was no longer safe.

He could feel it in the stillness — the kind of silence that only came before the storm.

A faint vibration echoed through the floor. Voices. Shouts. The alarm hadn’t been triggered — not yet — but someone had seen the fire.

Someone had gone to the lab.

Damian didn’t wait.

He pulled the bag from beneath the cot in his room — pre-packed, as always, with the essentials. Emergency rations, fake IDs, currency from six different countries. His old League exit plan. Irony burned in the back of his throat.

This wasn’t an exit. This was a heist. A kidnapping. A rescue.

Thomas squirmed as he was wrapped in fresh layers. Damian tucked him into the sling across his chest, heart hammering against the weight of the child now pressed protectively to him.

He looked over his shoulder once.

The silks. The incense smoke. The dagger on the pillow.

He would not miss it.

The destruction was absolute.

Sparks flickered from blackened steel. The containment tanks were shattered. The console was burned down to slag.

The data was gone. All of it.

«Who did this?» hissed a voice from the shadows, sliding into the smoke-choked room.

Another figure entered behind them, breathing shallowly. «The files—every last copy has been scrubbed. He knew what he was doing.»

A low hum of fury built in the first speaker’s throat.

Then a flash of realization.

«The child.»

There was a pause.

«Gone.»

The servant hallway was narrow and rarely used. Damian slipped through it like smoke, hugging the wall as he pressed a concealed panel open with one hand.

His grip tightened on the cloth around Thomas, who had begun to stir faintly.

«Not yet» Damian muttered, low and urgent, eyes scanning the shadows.

He could hear them now — running feet. Doors opening. Orders shouted.

Too late.

Someone had noticed. And they knew who.

«Find him,» Talia’s voice said, calm but low with fury. «No alarms. Quietly. Bring back the child intact. Damian—»

She paused.

Her expression was unreadable. «Bring him back alive. If possible. If not, do what you must do»

He needed to find Father.

The words repeated in his mind like a mantra. A breathless rhythm between each thud of his boots on the cool temple floor, each shift of Thomas’s weight against his chest.

Father. He would know what to do.

He gritted his teeth, ducking beneath a hanging curtain as the hallway twisted into another staircase. His shoulder slammed into the wall as he rounded a sharp corner, the scent of incense and old steel thick in the air.

Father. He’d help. He had to help.

The baby stirred slightly, tiny fingers gripping the edge of Damian’s tunic with unknowing, complete trust. Damian adjusted his hold automatically, pulling the infant closer, cradling the fragile head against his collarbone with the same instinct he used to steady a blade in a fight.

He hadn’t stopped running. Not even when his legs began to burn. Not when the alarms first sounded. Not even when the sound of footsteps echoed behind him — searching, fast, furious.

«Shhh» he whispered low against Thomas’s hair, kissing the top of his head as he ducked into the shadows of a stone archway. «We’re almost out.»

He didn’t know if that was true. Didn’t care.

All he knew was that his heart was pounding in a way it never had before — not even in battle. Not even when dying.

He had to get Thomas out.

He had to reach Gotham.

To reach him.

Father. Dad. Please…

Damian’s throat tightened.

This wasn’t betrayal. This wasn’t desertion. He hadn’t come here to join the League. He’d come to sever the thread that still held him in its chokehold. To prove to his father — to himself — that he wasn’t his mother’s weapon anymore.

But now?

Now he was running with a child — a child who shared his eyes, his ears, his blood. A child born from secrets and deception, locked away in a dark room like an experiment.

And he wasn’t just running from the League anymore.

He was fleeing with a reason to live.

He skidded to a stop at a rusted metal door. There. That led to the rear tunnel — the same escape route he’d mapped out days earlier. A backup plan. In case the League turned on him.

He set Thomas gently down on the stone floor beside the door, wrapped tightly in his cloak, as he pried the security panel open and rewired it with trembling fingers.

His mind was screaming.

He’ll think I betrayed him. Bruce. He’ll think I went back.

But he didn’t. He hadn’t.

And this — Thomas — was proof of it.

Proof that he was no longer a blade. That he had chosen life.

The door creaked open. Cold mountain air swept in, biting and sharp. Thomas whimpered at the chill, and Damian gathered him up again, shielding his small body with his own warmth.

«I’ll show him» he whispered, half to himself, half to Thomas. «I’ll show him I’m not the League’s weapon anymore. Then, we’ll be fine. Happy.»

He pulled the hood low over his head. Tightened the straps of his bag. Checked for shadows, heat signatures, drones — anything.

And then he ran into the night.

The wind howled. The moon bled through the clouds.

Behind him, the League’s walls burned with secrets.

Ahead, the world waited. His future waited.

Father… please see me. Please understand.

And in the warmth of his arms, the baby cooed softly.

The only thing that mattered now.

The only thing that ever would.

He reached the stable.

The League kept horses still — for terrain planes couldn’t cross.

One responded to his whistle. An old grey, eyes dark and sharp. He saddled it in record time.

Another shout echoed behind him.

They were close now.

«I’m sorry» he murmured to Thomas, cradling the baby to his chest as he mounted.

He gripped the reins with one hand, pressed a hidden detonator into the far wall with the other — a failsafe charge he’d placed days ago.

The corridor behind him burst into flame.

He didn’t look back.

The dusk wind swept across the rocks, sharp and dry as a blade.

Damian’s boots touched down softly as he dismounted, Thomas strapped securely against his chest, bundled in layers of cloth. The baby stirred faintly but didn’t wake — not even as Damian adjusted his stance, eyes locked on the cloaked figure blocking the mountain path.

Hashim.

He stood relaxed, blade in hand, one eyebrow lifted with a maddening calm.

«Running away, my prince?» the assassin asked smoothly, voice like velvet over steel.

Damian didn’t answer.

He stepped to the side, shifting his center of gravity. The slope to the canyon pass was just beyond the bend — if he could get there, they’d lose him.

Hashim noticed. And smiled.

«You could have had command of the League, you know,» he continued, drawing closer in slow, deliberate steps. «Instead, here you are. One hand holding a child. The other barely steady on your sword. Tell me, is this rebellion or desperation?»

Damian moved first.

The clash was brief — blinding fast.

Steel scraped against steel, but Damian was sharper. Quieter. He ducked a wide slash, pivoted his weight, and landed a bone-rattling kick to Hashim’s ribs. He kept Thomas steady with every movement, eyes never leaving the man in front of him.

Hashim stumbled back, breath knocked out of him.

And then — laughter.

He wiped blood from his lip with his thumb and grinned.

«You really are extraordinary.» His eyes lit up with something more than amusement — something dangerous. «No wonder they fear you. No wonder she built the child from you.»

Damian’s grip tightened on his sword.

«The League was never meant to contain you. But I see you now. Clearly.» Hashim stepped closer, lowering his weapon, opening his hands — as if Damian might welcome him. «Let me serve you. Let me follow you. Let me protect—»

Crack.

It was fast. A blur of movement.

Damian headbutted him. Full force.

Hashim reeled — eyes wide in startled disbelief — and Damian’s elbow followed, catching him right at the temple. The man crumpled soundlessly into the sand, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Damian didn’t waste a breath.

He dragged Hashim off the trail, kicked sand over their tracks, and leapt onto his horse in a clean motion, clutching Thomas close once more.

The baby stirred.

Damian exhaled through his nose, brushing a finger over his son’s tiny cheek.

«We’re almost safe,» he murmured, pressing his heels into the horse’s sides.

And they vanished into the night — gone before the League could find them.

He’s a baby he just wants to go home to his dad and hug him it was a teenager tantrum okay. Also Hashim and Damian’s dynamic cracks me up because this boy just knocked out cold the man with a head butt and this mf is like “🤭my prince🤭” and still will be

Taglist: @sparrows4bats @lobdw20 @sleepynagii @linoalwaysknows @mamamoble @blue22roses @srta-saori @remosdeerica @touchofhemlocktea @ashshadows001 @famouscrusadeluminary @shifttoksucks @safia-bachamissimi @broccoliiiiiiii @angieng2432

[crxwn-06]

ASHES AND ECHOES

“ home has become wherever he sleeps safely ”

Damian runs away: Jon is not his, he is not a Wayne, he is not an Al Ghul. In the hope of finding himself in the destruction of the League, he finds instead the latest experiment, the latest innovation: his and Jon’ son. He flees. With the baby. He dies. (Does he?) While his family mourns him, he learns to live again.

or, Damian haunting the narrative for everyone while being a very much alive single father in his lil beach house

3. FEAR NOT, SWEET CHILD OF MINE

masterlist;; « prev || next »

The crackle of static was the only sound in the Batcave.

Tim’s fingers flew across the keyboard, eyes bloodshot and fixed on the streams of distorted footage and data fragments. Camera feeds. Satellite sweeps. Traffic surveillance. Airport logs. Every trace of digital dust Damian Wayne might’ve left behind.

Nothing. Again.

The cursor blinked. Mocking.

«Come on, come on,» he muttered, scrubbing backwards on the security loop of a Gotham bus terminal. Third time that hour. Same result. No Dami. No trace. Nothing.

Behind him, the argument continued to spiral.

«You pushed him too hard!» Dick’s voice cracked across the stone. «You always do this, Bruce. You expect him to be a soldier, and when he acts like one, you act surprised.»

«He is a soldier.» Bruce’s tone was steel. Tired steel. «And he knows better than to vanish without protocol. No word. No trace. He didn’t even—»

His voice caught. Just for a breath.

«He didn’t even say goodbye,» Dick said softly. The words landed like a wound. «Do you know how messed up that is?»

Jason didn’t speak. He leaned against the cave’s rock wall, arms crossed, mouth tight. Not his usual smirk, not a clever quip waiting. Just silence. Heavy and tight and aching.

He had been the first to notice something off. The way Damian hadn’t responded in their shared patrol channel. How his tracker had gone dark.

But he’d stayed quiet then.

And now?

He didn’t have words.

Not for the way Alfred had closed the boy’s door too gently. Not for the extra plate still getting set at dinner. Not for the ache he knew Bruce was trying to bury under orders and blame.

«He’s not some… kid with a tantrum, Bruce. He doesn’t run» Dick continued, louder now. «And he doesn’t leave without a reason. So what the hell happened? What did you say to him?»

That landed.

Bruce turned, jaw tight. «You think I don’t blame myself? You think I haven’t played every conversation we’ve had the last month on loop in my head? You think I—»

He didn’t finish. He looked away.

The screen Tim was staring at buzzed with new static.

Jason exhaled through his nose and finally muttered, «We don’t even know if he’s—»

He stopped. Didn’t say dead.

He didn’t have to.

Tim flinched at the word that hadn’t been spoken.

Dick ran a hand through his hair, pacing, jaw locked in frustration and helpless fury.

Bruce stood still in the middle of it all. The eye of the storm. A statue carved out of grief and guilt, trying not to feel any of it.

But the cave felt it. Every wall. Every shadow.

It felt the hole Damian had left.

And no one — not even the great Batman — knew how to fill it.

«I spoke with Jon» Dick said, voice tight.

The words made Bruce look up sharply, as if yanked from some unspoken spiral.

«He was worried» Dick continued. «He couldn’t find Dami. Said that he saw him after your fight, and that Dami had said—some worrying things.»

Tim stopped typing. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

«What kind of things?» Jason asked, finally breaking his silence. His voice was low. Dry. Too calm to be safe.

Dick ran a hand through his hair, glancing between all of them before settling his eyes back on Bruce. «About the League.»

The silence hit like a cold snap.

Tim turned in his chair. «Wait, you mean like… going back?»

«I don’t know» Dick admitted. «But Jon said Damian looked—broken. Like he was trying to prove something. That he wanted to ‘show Bruce he wasn’t a weapon anymore.’»

Bruce’s face didn’t change. But something in him did.

«He said» Dick added, voice quieter now, «that Dami looked like he was saying goodbye.»

Jason stepped forward. «So you’re telling me he had a fight with you» he looked at Bruce, «said cryptic League-flavored shit to his ex-boyfriend or something» he nodded at Dick, «and then vanished off the face of the Earth, and we’re only putting it together now?»

«He’s not a runaway» Tim said, tense. «He planned this. It’s surgical. Everything’s wiped.»

Jason turned to Bruce, fire behind his stare. «What did you say to him, Bruce? Because if he walked straight into the League’s arms, you pushed him there.»

Bruce looked down at the floor for a moment—then turned toward the Batcomputer, the light of the screen painting his face with something cold and harsh. Then he confessed.

«I told him he was acting like one of them.»

No one breathed.

«And when he asked me if that’s what I thought he was made to be…» Bruce exhaled through his teeth, voice clipped. «I didn’t answer fast enough.»

«Oh my God» Tim muttered.

The Batcave felt like it had grown colder.

Bruce’s jaw clenched. His voice, when it came, was low and almost hesitant.

«And if—» he said, after a long moment, «if he joins back the League?»

The question hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread.

Tim didn’t even look up from the screen this time. «Wouldn’t be surprised.»

The silence after that was immediate and sharp.

Bruce turned toward him, something dark flickering behind his eyes. «Tim.»

That was all it took. A single name. Sharper than a batarang.

Tim blinked, but didn’t back down. «What? I’m just being honest. He’s been trained his whole life to go back to them. Maybe he never stopped being one of them. Maybe he just—»

«That’s enough» Dick cut in, hard.

Tim fell silent, lips pressed into a thin, bitter line.

Jason pushed off the wall. «Whether or not he’s going back to the League isn’t the point. The point is, he didn’t tell any of us. That means he didn’t trust us. Not even you, Bruce.»

Bruce didn’t answer.

«Which makes me think,» Jason added, a little quieter now, «he doesn’t think we’d come for him.»

«He should know better» Dick muttered.

«He doesn’t» Tim said, quietly.

They all turned to look at him.

Tim stared at the screen, guilt smoldering in the shadows under his eyes. «He really doesn’t.»

The corridor was darker than the others.

A servant had pointed him toward the older storage wings for some peace, claiming few patrolled that side of the mountain at night. Damian had followed out of habit more than trust. But it wasn’t peace that greeted him now.

It was the faint, raw sound of a cry.

It was soft, wavering—unsteady. Young.

Damian froze mid-step, hand on the hilt at his side. The League had been known to keep prisoners, but this wasn’t a sound he associated with interrogation cells.

This was… a child.

He moved carefully. His boots didn’t make a sound. The faint flickering torches along the hall cast long, trembling shadows. He paused outside the door the sound came from, pressing a hand against the cold wood.

«Tt.»

A quiet, annoyed breath. He could feel his heartbeat in his palm against the door. One last glance around the hallway. Empty.

Damian shifted his weight, gripped the handle, and pushed the door open slowly.

The hinges creaked softly, dust shaking loose with the motion.

Inside, the room was dim. The light of a monitor screen cast a pale glow over the far side of the space — where a small cradle, surrounded by high-tech machinery, stood like something forgotten.

The cry paused.

Then, a giggle.

The baby — a few months old at max — blinked up at him. Big blue-green eyes glistened in the glow, and a little hand reached upward. A toy lay discarded beside him. His legs kicked slightly under the light blanket.

Damian stepped inside, slowly. Disbelief settled over him like dust on glass.

His mouth opened. No words came.

The baby giggled again, louder now, bubbly and warm. He reached both arms up this time, as if recognizing something familiar. Or maybe someone.

Damian took a cautious step closer.

«Who left you here…?» he whispered, voice so soft it barely existed.

He knelt, arms staying by his sides. The child wriggled in response, still watching him. That same, toothless smile didn’t leave his face.

Something twisted in Damian’s chest.

His eyes flicked to the sides of the room.

He stood slowly, sharp gaze surveying the space. In the corner, by the machinery, a terminal still flickered — the interface ancient, but still active. Files, half-loaded scans, genetics data. A few hard drives were stacked messily beneath the desk.

Damian moved to the terminal. His fingers hovered over the keys.

He didn’t want to look.

But he had to.

Wayne. Kent. Subject 001. Viable.

He stared.

«No…» he breathed. His eyes narrowed, darting across the file headers. “Gene stabilization. Clone cycle 3. Blood samples. Viability spike in dual-strand merging…”

He turned slowly back to the baby. «No no no…»

The child squealed in delight, kicking his feet, his tiny hands stretching toward the ceiling like he was trying to touch the stars.

A red thread of silk — tied loosely around one wrist — caught the light.

Damian knelt again, slower this time. He stared at the baby’s face, at the shape of his nose, the softness of his skin, the slight curl of his dark hair.

Then his own hands lifted.

Without really deciding to, he reached forward.

The baby didn’t cry. Didn’t pull away. He leaned into the arms that finally scooped him up, resting against Damian’s chest with a pleased, sleepy sound.

Damian looked down at him.

For the first time since arriving, the armor didn’t feel like protection. It felt like weight.

His voice was just a whisper.

«What did they do to you, little one…?»

The baby rested in the crook of his arm now, head nestled under Damian’s chin — warm and trusting, utterly unaware.

He had wrapped him in the green scarf he wore under his armor, one of the few soft things he had on hand. It didn’t seem to bother the infant. In fact, he looked more content now than he had moments ago.

Damian adjusted his grip, then turned back to the monitor.

He pulled a flash drive from his utility belt — small, high-encryption, carried for emergencies — and slotted it into the terminal. The screen pulsed.

[TRANSFER INITIATED – FILE COUNT: 462]

He scanned the filenames as they zipped across the screen.

Subject_001.DNA_Sequence.fullmap

Cycle3_implantationProtocol.txt.

KentWayne_CompatibilityReport.pdf

T.A.G.L.. Memo: Viability Confirmed

BrainWiring_AggressionControl_Alpha7.log

Thomas.WK.V3.HeartStabilizer.reading.

Thomas.

That was his name.

Damian’s jaw tightened as a slow, cold realization settled over him.

They had named him.

They had built him.

He reached to open one of the audio files. A recording played — his mother’s voice, eerily calm. «We’ve refined the base structure. Using Jonathan’s alien genome as a stabilizer, and Damian’s as the foundation. It will be my perfect heir. One that will not question its purpose.»

The baby cooed lightly.

Damian stood frozen.

«He will be loyal,» Talia’s voice continued. «He will be strong. And he will be mine.»

Damian yanked the drive free.

The screen blinked once.

He reached down, reset the OS manually, and began typing.

> DELETE ALL FILES? Y/N

«Yes» he said out loud. Pressed the key.

> DELETE CONFIRMED

Then, he turned to the machine — the cradle of this twisted project. Transparent pods. Wires like veins. The heart of what they made.

He laid Thomas down gently on a soft blanket in the corner, made from old silks stacked for experiments. The baby squirmed, but stayed quiet, watching him with curious eyes.

Damian drew his katana.

«You will never be someone’s weapon,» he said to the child, before turning to the machine.

The blade sliced through wires, tubing, support beams. Sparks burst and glass shattered. The power core cracked with a hiss, releasing a noxious smoke. Flames licked at the circuits. The lab flooded with heat and the scent of burned metal.

The baby didn’t cry.

Damian pulled him back into his arms.

Behind them, the machine collapsed in a final burst of sparks, flickering in the shadows of the League’s stronghold.

The flames reflected in Damian’s eyes as he turned away.

He wasn’t a prince.

Not anymore.

He was a father.

And he was getting them out.

Damian sat with his back against the damp wall, the baby in his arms again. The firelight behind them had long dimmed into flickering shadows, and Thomas had drifted into sleep — one tiny fist still curled in the scarf now wrapped around them both.

The silence roared in his ears.

He couldn’t move. Not yet.

His hands — steady in battle, unwavering in precision — trembled now, barely noticeable. The baby’s head rested against his chest, his breathing slow, rhythmic, innocent.

«Thomas.»

He said the name out loud. Quietly.

It didn’t feel like a title anymore. It felt like something real.

He leaned his head back against the stone. Let the cold seep in. He couldn’t think too fast, or it would break him.

They made him — from him. From Jonathan. A genetic template. An heir to the League.

Damian’s mouth curled bitterly.

He knew what they wanted: a perfect soldier with a heart designed only to obey.

But the boy in his arms — warm, squirmy, alive — was not a weapon. He was a person. Already full of his own sounds and moods and spark. Already something more.

Damian looked down at him, watching the tiny mouth twitch as he dreamed. A bit of drool clung to his chin.

«You’re not what they wanted you to be,» he whispered.

He said it to the baby, but also to himself.

And then, after a moment — a thought slipped through like a whisper in the fog.

You’re mine.

Not in the possessive way his mother might mean. Not as property. But as something… fragile and fierce. Like a part of himself he had never planned for but could no longer ignore.

«I’m a father now.»

He didn’t realize he had spoken until the words echoed back to him in the stone corridor.

It felt unreal. Stupid. Impossible.

But the warmth in his arms was not.

Damian let out a quiet breath. His hand moved gently over the back of Thomas’s head, smoothing down fine, curling hair. He was so small. Smaller than he remembered babies being.

«You have no idea what you’ve been born into,» he murmured. His voice shook just slightly. «But I’ll make sure you’ll never feel it.»

He closed his eyes.

«No labs. No chains. No blades in your future.»

Then, quieter still: «No League. No Al Ghuls. Just… us.»

Thomas shifted slightly, murmured in his sleep. Damian stilled, arms tightening instinctively, every nerve on alert — then relaxed again when the baby simply sighed and curled closer.

Damian lowered his head, forehead brushing against the baby’s soft crown.

His whisper was almost reverent.

«You’re not my legacy. You’re my beginning.»

He’s going through a lot guys from now on he’s really in full desperation okay. Also shorter chapter because I wrote too much and I had to split (which is why you’re getting two chapters, just need to review chap 4)

Taglist: @sparrows4bats @lobdw20 @sleepynagii @linoalwaysknows @mamamoble @blue22roses @srta-saori @remosdeerica @touchofhemlocktea @ashshadows001 @famouscrusadeluminary @shifttoksucks @safia-bachamissimi @broccoliiiiiiii @angieng2432

[crxwn-06]

Nostalgia chapter 3 coming tomorrow, but if I don’t get too tired tonight you get double Ashes and Echoes chapter

[crxwn-06]

ASHES AND ECHOES

“ home has become wherever he sleeps safely ”

Damian runs away: Jon is not his, he is not a Wayne, he is not an Al Ghul. In the hope of finding himself in the destruction of the League, he finds instead the latest experiment, the latest innovation: his and Jon’ son. He flees. With the baby. He dies. (Does he?) While his family mourns him, he learns to live again.

or, Damian haunting the narrative for everyone while being a very much alive single father in his lil beach house

2. NIGHTS OF SUGAR

masterlist ;; « prev || next »

To move unnoticed in Gotham was an art.

To move unnoticed while being Damian Wayne — Robin, heir, target — was a near-impossible feat, especially under the surveillance net Barbara and Tim had woven over the city’s veins. Every corner held a camera, every rooftop a listening ear, and every shadow might as well have whispered we see you.

But Damian had trained for ghosts.

His face — sharp with the symmetry of Talia’s bone structure, heavy-lidded with the weight of Bruce’s tired eyes, and marked by a skin tone just dark enough to draw lingering stares from Gotham’s largely pale palette — was hidden beneath a dark hoodie, a low baseball cap, and a black surgical mask.

He’d caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked bus window — barely a silhouette, but even that made him flinch. The cap was old, familiar. He didn’t want to remember where it came from.

He didn’t want to remember Jon’s laugh the day he’d shoved it on Damian’s head after a training match in Metropolis, calling it a “civilian uniform.”

He tugged it lower. Tighter.

It didn’t matter now.

Damian sat at the very back of the bus, knees drawn in, his bag clutched to his chest like a lifeline. Inside were essentials — old forged IDs, his knife, his trusted sword, ration tabs, some cash, a burner phone with no contacts.

No tracker. No signal. No line home.

The city passed by in blurs of orange streetlight and smeared neon. Everything looked washed out by the rain, bleached of color — as if Gotham knew he was leaving, and had already begun to forget him.

He leaned his head against the cold glass, closing his eyes for a moment.

The road to Nanda Parbat was long, yes — but not unknown.

Most would say it took two days at best, cutting across cities and borders with planned routes and clean passports. But Damian wasn’t most. He couldn’t afford clean. He couldn’t afford trails.

So he moved like a rumor. Vanishing from bus terminals just before arrival. Boarding freight trains in the dark. Walking border crossings at night, past old contacts who owed him favors. Changing his name more often than his clothes.

Every step closer to the League felt like moving backwards in time — shedding years, regressing into a version of himself he thought he’d outgrown.

But the silence that surrounded him now was too loud in Gotham.

And in it, he could still hear Bruce’s voice: You’re acting like a League soldier again.

Damian’s hand tightened around the bag strap.

Good, he thought.

Let him believe that. Let him fear it.

Let him understand what it meant to be shaped in blood and steel — and still choose something else.

Because that was the point, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t going back to join.

He was going back to finish it.

To burn it from the inside, if he had to.

And when he returned—if he returned—his father would see. Would have no choice but to see.

He wasn’t running back to the League.

He was walking in as the son of both Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul.

And for once in his life, he would decide which name to carry.

But first—

First, he had to disappear.

No great parade or feasts were there to greet him.

No open arms. No warm embraces. Only silence, heavy and stretched across the stone corridors like a shroud. The only sound was the soft echo of his boots against the marble — sharp, deliberate, unhurried.

As Damian passed beneath the vaulted gates of the League’s hidden compound, the ancient doors shut behind him with a low groan, like the jaws of some beast snapping closed.

Still, he walked tall.

His head held high, eyes sharp and cold — the color of winter rivers, steel-gray and merciless. There was no flicker of softness left in them now. The warmth that surfaced around his family — that rare, quiet light that bloomed in Jon’s presence — was buried. Replaced by something harder.

There were whispers behind the columns.

Ghosts in black and crimson, slinking between shadows.

The prince had returned.

He wore his pride like armor — but it was the weight of control that cloaked his shoulders.

Up above, on the second-floor balcony, a figure leaned into the shadows. Cloaked in black, face half-covered, he observed with idle interest — eyes following Damian’s every movement like a predator memorizing the rhythm of prey.

His gaze lingered on the precise movements, the way Damian’s fingers twitched near his belt, the subtle drag of exhaustion behind the perfect posture. He was studying. Measuring. Almost smiling.

A quiet voice reached into the gloom behind him.

«The prince has arrived, Master.»

A placid smile curled his lips.

«Indeed a shame, they let him grow teeth. Makes the game more entertaining.»

He leaned on the railing, shadows dancing across his cheekbones like smoke.

He had a new, interesting toy.

At the top of the stone staircase, bathed in low golden lamplight and a cloud of incense, stood Talia al Ghul.

Her smile had always been a thing of beauty. And fear. And now, as she looked down upon her only son — a man in form, still a child in her eyes — it softened. Slightly.

«My beloved Damian,» she greeted, descending with slow, regal grace. «Welcome home.»

Damian didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

But his jaw was tight.

He was led to his old quarters, though they had been altered — modernized, refreshed, as if someone had anticipated his return.

Servants came wordlessly. They brought him garments of green silk, finely cut and embroidered with the sigils of the Demon’s Head. Over this, he donned his trusted black and gold armor, newly polished.

He was bathed, dried, perfumed — the rituals of his childhood repeated in chilling silence.

Gone was the scent of smoke, of Gotham rain, of fried food and Jon’s shampoo lingering on his hoodie.

Now he smelled of foreign incense. Of sacred oils.

Of belonging.

He sat before the mirror, shirtless, while a servant bound golden cuffs around his wrists. Another tucked a ceremonial blade into the sash at his waist.

Damian didn’t look at his reflection. He didn’t need to.

He already knew what they were dressing him as.

A prince.

A weapon.

A legacy in the making.

But not a son.

Not really.

The breeze off the mountains was thin and sharp — colder than he remembered, colder than the last time he’d stood here.

Damian stepped out onto the private balcony of his chamber, now stripped of its Gotham clutter and filled with the ceremonial exactness of League culture. Gold and green drapes shifted gently behind him, perfumed incense trailing from within.

The cold air touched his skin, slid over his collarbone and through the thin silk of his underrobe, cooling the warmth of the oil still resting on his neck and chest.

He breathed in — finally alone.

Or so he thought.

Because the moment he stepped to the carved stone railing, his instincts flared.

A gaze.

Trained. Focused.

His eyes flicked left — fast, subtle.

Across the narrow interior courtyard, above the training square, stood another balcony. Perched in its shadows leaned a figure in League black, one foot propped on the railing, arms crossed casually.

Watching.

Damian didn’t move. Neither did the man.

Their eyes locked — and in that moment, something shifted, quiet and precise as the click of a loaded chamber.

The man straightened, stepping fully into the moonlight.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Not older by much, but carrying the kind of stillness that only came from years of quiet killing. His jaw was marked by a fading scar. His hair was cut short, dark, pulled back loosely — and his eyes, oddly, were not cold.

Not fully.

More curious.

Amused.

He inclined his head slowly in greeting, almost like a mockery of nobility.

Hashim stood on the stone balcony above the training yard, wrapped in the shadowed folds of night, one foot resting on the ledge, arms loosely crossed. Below, the fortress slumbered beneath the incense-stained wind. His eyes, however, did not.

They were locked.

Fixed across the square.

The door to the opposite balcony had opened moments ago — silent, but not to him. And there he was.

Damian.

Hashim didn’t breathe for a moment.

The prince of the League. The prodigal son. The boy no one expected to return.

He stepped forward, almost in slow motion, bathed in silver light — the moon catching in the soft silk of his inner robe, casting pale gleam against darker skin and the sharp definition of his collarbone. His hair was damp, pushed back carelessly from his face, still heavy from ceremonial oil.

But it was his face that held Hashim still.

It was sharp. Unforgiving in its geometry. The cut of cheekbone and jaw like something sculpted rather than born — too precise for softness, but not without beauty. The kind that bruised.

His mouth — firm and unsmiling — looked carved for silence. His eyes, heavy-lidded but focused, carried a disarming stillness, like he was always waiting to strike. Or flee.

And yet—

Hashim couldn’t look away.

So this was him.

This was the boy the stories were about.

The one who bled kings and defied his birthright. Who vanished and survived and chose to return.

He had expected arrogance. Sharpness. Maybe even a boy pretending at control.

What he hadn’t expected… was elegance.

Not the fragile kind — no. Damian Wayne was elegance forged from fire and pressure, from a lifetime of being watched and tested and shaped. The elegance of someone who carried his body like a blade sheathed in silk.

Hashim tilted his head, gaze trailing without shame. He studied the line of Damian’s exposed throat, the faint movement of breath, the long lashes that shadowed his cheeks when he blinked.

Beautiful, he thought.

But more than that — unreachable.

A thing locked in glass. Unaware that he was art.

When Damian turned and met his gaze — sharp, alert, already assessing — it was like being hit with a current.

Hashim straightened, letting his body shift into casual stance, but there was heat rising behind his ribs. Amusement curled at the corners of his mouth before he could stop it.

He offered a single nod, mock-genteel.

«Enjoying the mountain air, my prince?»

Damian’s reply came flat, poised. «You’ve been watching me since I arrived.»

Truth. No flinch.

Gods, even his voice was something — low and clear, trained not to betray. But it did, just slightly — a grain of fatigue buried beneath the control. A thread of loneliness Hashim hadn’t expected to hear.

«You tend to draw eyes,» he said honestly. «Not many legends walk through the gate unguarded.»

Damian didn’t blink. «I don’t need guards.»

Hashim’s smirk deepened. «Clearly. But even statues get stolen, sometimes.»

A flicker — subtle — passed through Damian’s expression.

Not offense. Not reaction. Just… restraint.

Hashim liked that.

Liked the way Damian didn’t give him anything.

Because it meant earning his attention might matter.

«Do you always loiter in the dark corners of League property?» Damian asked, tone cool as the night.

«Only when something interesting walks back in.»

That earned him a sharper look — not quite anger. Not quite intrigue either.

When the prince finally turned away with a cool remark — «If you’re expecting me to be flattered, I’m not» — and disappeared behind his silk curtains, Hashim let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He chuckled under it. A whisper of a sound.

So. That was him.

Not a soldier. Not a prince. Not even a weapon.

A storm wrapped in silk and gold, walking on bare feet across a cliff’s edge.

And Hashim, he realized, had just been struck by lightning.

The breeze was gone.

So was the gaze.

Damian let the silk curtains fall back in place as he stepped away from the balcony, locking the door with quiet precision. His room smelled like cedar, myrrh, and something fainter — the oils they had used in his bath. The soft rustle of fabric beneath his armor made him feel like a ghost in someone else’s skin.

He hated this place.

No—he hated how easily it still fit. The rhythm, the customs, the cold respect. His body remembered every step. Every ritual. Every formality.

He hadn’t come here to slip back into old habits. He had come to end them.

He unhooked the necklace they’d made him wear — some ceremonial nonsense — and placed it on the table with too much force. His fingers itched for his Gotham clothes. For something real. Something that smelled like sweat and metal and streetlights, not incense and silk.

“I just want him to see I’m not the League’s weapon anymore.”

The thought returned like a heartbeat. Dull. Relentless.

Bruce hadn’t listened. Hadn’t looked at him and seen the difference. Maybe he never had. Maybe Damian had always just been the extension of a sword to him — sharp, useful, dangerous.

Not a son. Never a son.

His jaw clenched. He began pacing, silent on the tile. His mind ran angles, possible next moves. Speak to Talia again. Push harder. Demand to see what project they were hiding — he knew his mother too well. Something had changed here. Something deep in the bones of the League.

I’ll find it. I’ll destroy it. Then I’ll go home.

But even the word home felt… untethered.

Damian stilled.

A sound.

Faint. Echoing.

He turned.

There it was again.

A cry.

—A baby.

Not loud. But unmistakable. Broken. Short.

He was already moving before logic caught up.

The halls were dark. These inner corridors weren’t used by servants or initiates — they ran beneath the old wing of the temple, where the archives and storage were. He didn’t need light. His feet knew the way.

Every step sharpened his focus.

What would a child be doing here? No child but him had ever been raised in this place — and not even he had cried here, not openly. Not safely.

The sound echoed again. Clearer now. Closer.

A breath hitched — not his.

A coo, then a whimper.

Damian’s steps slowed. He pressed himself to the wall, scanning, ears tuned to every heartbeat in the stone.

And then, ahead — down a half-collapsed corridor shrouded in black velvet and dust — he saw it.

A faint glimmer of movement behind a cracked wooden door.

The sound came again.

Closer. Desperate.

A baby. Real.

Alive.

He reached for the hidden dagger at his hip and stepped forward.

Heart thundering. Mouth dry.

Because whatever lay behind that door… wasn’t part of the plan.

And yet—

Something pulled.

A strange, aching gravity in his chest that made no sense, made everything worse.

A baby in the heart of the League.

We’re finally moving in ehehehhe

Taglist: @sparrows4bats @lobdw20 @sleepynagii @linoalwaysknows @mamamoble @blue22roses @srta-saori @remosdeerica @touchofhemlocktea @ashshadows001 @famouscrusadeluminary @shifttoksucks @safia-bachamissimi

[crxwn-06]

ASHES AND ECHOES

“ home has become wherever he sleeps safely ”

Damian runs away: Jon is not his, he is not a Wayne, he is not an Al Ghul. In the hope of finding himself in the destruction of the League, he finds instead the latest experiment, the latest innovation: his and Jon’ son. He flees. With the baby. He dies. (Does he?) While his family mourns him, he learns to live again.

or, Damian haunting the narrative for everyone while being a very much alive single father in his lil beach house

1. ALL THAT’S LEFT

masterlist ;; « prev || next »

six months earlier.

The night in Gotham clung close to the skin — thick with humidity and city rot, cut only by the occasional gust of wind off the rooftops. The skyline stretched ahead like a line of broken teeth, jagged and restless.

Damian stood on the edge of a gargoyle’s wing, arms crossed, cape still. Gotham pulsed beneath him — home, battlefield, cage. The static in the comm line buzzed faintly in his ear before a familiar voice broke through.

«It’s been a while, Dami.»

The name hit like a half-remembered melody. Warm, sharp, undeserved.

It was Jonathan Kent’s voice. Clear. Calm. A little deeper now — older in ways Damian could hear before he ever turned to look.

Not that he turned.

He didn’t need to.

He could already see it in his mind: the too-tall posture, the hopeful frown, the way he hovered just enough off the ground to feel like he didn’t belong anywhere anymore.

Jonathan Kent.

Once his best friend.

Now? Just a familiar figure slipping from his fingers into someone else’s future — one that Damian wasn’t a part of.

They hadn’t fought. Not exactly.

They just stopped fitting.

Ever since Jon came back — taller, older, six years ahead and impossibly kind despite it all — they’d been drifting. One beat at a time. One missed call. One awkward patrol. One moment where Jon laughed too loud at something Damian no longer found funny.

They didn’t get to grow up together.

That thought alone made something bitter and feral scrape at the back of his throat.

They were supposed to be partners. Idiots together. Side by side.

But now—

Now Jon looked at him like he didn’t know where to stand.

Damian didn’t answer. The silence stretched long between them, weighted and heavy.

«You seem well» Jon offered again, softer this time. Cautious.

It was a lie. Or worse, a kindness.

Damian wasn’t well.

He was angry. And tired. And always just two steps from breaking something that cared about him.

He looked like a ghost in his own home. A soldier without a war.

His father watched him like he was trying to find someone else beneath his skin. Alfred sighed more these days. Grayson tried too hard not to look worried.

He didn’t feel “well.” He felt hollow.

Still, Damian only replied with a faint scoff — wordless, dismissive, careful not to look at Jon.

Because if he looked, he might remember the sound of them laughing side by side in the Fortress.

Might remember how it felt when he had someone who never flinched at the shadows around him.

But that boy was gone.

And this man — too good, too bright — wasn’t his.

Not anymore.

«I’ve got to go now» Jon says gently, the kindness in his voice soft but not patronizing. It’s that same tone he’s used ever since he came back older — like he’s afraid of speaking too loudly and breaking something that’s barely holding together.

He doesn’t move right away.

Instead, he steps just close enough to reach out and place a hand on Damian’s shoulder — light, steady, familiar.

The touch is warm. Real. It doesn’t linger long, maybe only a second or two, but Damian feels it down to his spine. The weight of it is nothing and everything.

Jon smiles — hopeful and a little unsure. «Let’s meet somewhere these days, okay? I miss our burgers post patrol.»

The laugh he gives after is small, forced, casual. Like he’s trying not to sound like he means it too much.

Damian doesn’t respond at first. He stares straight ahead, jaw tense, every instinct screaming to say something cold — to cut it off before it reaches him.

But instead…

He nods. Once.

A tiny, rigid motion. Almost mechanical. But it costs more than he’ll ever admit.

Jon’s smile flickers — not quite happy, not quite sad. He gives his shoulder a last squeeze, then rises slowly into the air.

«Take care, Damian» he says.

And then he’s gone. Up into the night sky, cape billowing like a comet’s tail behind him.

Damian doesn’t watch him leave. Not directly. He waits until the wind settles again, the warmth fades from his shoulder, and the rooftop feels just a little colder than it did before.

Then he exhales, slow and silent.

The truth is, he does remember the burgers. And the bickering. And the too-long milkshake arguments. He remembers everything.

But he doesn’t know how to reach for it anymore.

Not when the time they lost still hangs between them like a locked door neither of them knows how to break.

The sounds in the Cave had settled into routine: clicking keys, the occasional flicker of electricity, the distant whine of a Batcycle cooling in the corner.

Bruce stood behind Damian again. Watching him, maybe too long. The tension built in quiet increments. Neither of them spoke.

Damian could feel it pressing at his back — that familiar weight of his father’s silence, always demanding, never explaining.

«If you have something to say» Damian snapped without turning, «just say it.»

Bruce didn’t flinch. «You’ve been reckless lately.»

That did it.

Damian turned from the console, sharp and fast. «Reckless? I neutralized four armed hostiles before your sensors even picked them up.»

«You engaged alone, without backup.»

«Because no one backs me up!» Damian shot back, voice rising. «You’ve made it clear I’m a liability the second I make you uncomfortable.»

Bruce’s jaw tensed, but his voice remained low. Controlled. «You’ve been unpredictable. Emotional. Distracted. I can’t risk—»

«You can’t risk me? Or you can’t risk seeing me fail again?»

The silence after that was different — colder. Deeper.

Damian stepped forward, fists clenched, armor still streaked with dried blood. «Ever since Kent came back, you’ve treated me like a child again. Like I’m the one who didn’t grow up fast enough. Like I’m still waiting for some version of the son you wanted to return.»

Bruce’s eyes flashed, but his voice stayed level — too level. «This isn’t about Jon.»

«It’s always about Jon!» Damian shouted, voice cracking. «He gets to come back. Older. Better. The golden son of two worlds. And I’m just… the one who stayed. Who stayed and bled and broke and watched everything fall apart.»

Bruce stared at him. Unmoving. But his expression had shifted.

There was something raw in his eyes now. Something close to hurt.

«You think I don’t see you?» Bruce said, quietly. «You think I don’t notice how hard you’re trying to fall apart right now? You know why I worry about you going out alone?» he finally said, voice tight. «Because the last time you disappeared without a word, you ended up with the League. You came back colder. Sharper. And barely fifteen.»

Damian didn’t turn. His voice was flat.

«I came back alive.»

«You came back broken.»

That landed. Hard.

Damian’s shoulders jerked before he could stop it. But his eyes snapped back, venom-laced and defensive.

The cave was humming with cold tension. Neither of them had backed down, though the conversation had long left reason behind.

«You’ve been reckless. Short-sighted. Your patrols are unfocused—»

«They’re efficient,» Damian cut in sharply. «Unlike your lectures.»

«Efficient doesn’t mean controlled» Bruce shot back. «You go in like you’re looking for a fight. Not to protect anyone.»

Damian’s voice lowered into a bite. «Maybe I’m not protecting people for you anymore.»

Something behind Bruce’s eyes hardened. His voice turned sharp.

«You’re acting like a League soldier again.»

The silence that followed was immediate. A snap of stillness.

Damian froze. Just for a second. Then blinked — slow and deliberate.

He scoffed. Low and bitter. Tried to play it off.

«If that’s what I was made to be.»

Bruce’s expression shifted instantly. «No—Dami, wait. I didn’t mean—»

«We both know what you meant, yeah?» Damian said, smile curling tight and cruel at the edge. He turned away, picking up his gloves, re-strapping them with slow, deliberate movements. «Thanks for the reminder.»

Bruce stepped forward. «You are not—»

«What, a weapon? A mistake?» Damian’s eyes flashed as he looked back. «You think I don’t already hear that in every order you give me? In the way you flinch when I go too far?»

«You’re my son, Damian.»

«You didn’t say that until I was already bleeding for you.»

That landed like a punch.

Bruce’s mouth opened — then closed. His expression fractured. He reached for words that wouldn’t come.

Damian beat him to it. Quiet. Cold. «You only love me when I’m trying not to be who I am.»

He moved past Bruce, cape brushing against his side as he headed for the Zeta tube.

Bruce turned after him, voice hoarse. «Where are you going?»

«Out.»

«You’re not on duty tonight.»

Damian glanced over his shoulder — eyes sharp, smile bitter. «Exactly.»

And then he was gone. The sound of the heavy doors cutting through the silence.

Bruce stood alone in the blue glow, jaw tight, hands clenched.

The words he wanted to say were useless now. He knew that look in Damian’s eyes.

It was the same one he used to see in the mirror.

Right before he ran away, too.

The rain dripped down from the corners of the cracked rooftop, hissing softly against the gutters. It had soaked their shoulders despite the small metal awning above, pooling around their boots, and turning the air heavy with city steam.

Damian paced in tight, tense circles. His cape was plastered to his back, boots kicking against a loose pebble that scattered across the concrete. He looked restless — not in his usual sharp, efficient way, but in the way someone did when they were unraveling at the seams.

Jon watched him from the edge of the roof, half-sitting on a broken AC unit, a crumpled fast food bag in one hand.

The blues of his eyes followed every twitch and snap of movement. He didn’t need to hear the sharpness of Damian’s words — he could feel it, thrumming off him in waves. And beneath it all, steady but shaken, he could hear the boy’s heartbeat faltering. Not in strength — but in rhythm.

Uneven.

Like it had been ever since Damian started pulling away from everyone but him.

Jon shifted, his voice low, trying to coax him down from wherever his mind was.

«I’m sure he’s just scared, Dames. He worries that something bad might happen to you if you keep jumping in first and alone.»

Damian didn’t stop moving. Didn’t meet his eyes.

«He’s not scared of something happening to me» he snapped. «He’s scared I’ll go back. That I’ll retreat to the League the moment he stops looking.»

Jon bit the inside of his cheek. He knew better than to argue when Damian’s voice took on that edge. But he also knew the look in his eyes — the way he kept searching the skyline, like there was something out there he was trying to outrun.

He stood. Took a step forward.

Damian finally paused. Just a breath.

«I just want him to see» he muttered, barely above the rain, «that I’m not the League’s weapon anymore. That I’m a good Robin»

His jaw clenched.

«I’ll show him.»

Jon’s heart ached. He could feel the sadness in those words — buried under all the pride and fury and need. He took another slow step forward, voice gentle. «You don’t have to prove that to anyone. You already left them, Damian. You’re here.»

Damian shook his head once, sharply. «It doesn’t count unless he sees it.»

«Why not?»

«Because I was made to be one thing. And every time I mess up, every time I lose control—he thinks they were right to make me that way.»

His voice cracked at the edge, like it almost wasn’t meant to be said out loud.

Jon moved closer, slow, careful.

«You think this is about him thinking you’re a weapon» he said softly. «But I think you’re trying to believe it too. And you’re scared that if you don’t prove it, it’s going to swallow you whole again.»

Damian didn’t answer.

The rain got heavier. Thunder rolled low in the distance.

«Dames» Jon tried again, quieter now, «you’re not alone in this. Just wait. Just come back here. It’s still raining»

Damian turned his head, voice brittle but still sharp: «I’m not made out of sugar, Jonathan.»

Taglist: @sparrows4bats @lobdw20 @sleepynagii @linoalwaysknows @mamamoble @blue22roses @srta-saori @remosdeerica @touchofhemlocktea @ashshadows001 @famouscrusadeluminary

If you wish to be added to the taglist, leave a comment!!🩷

Also Nostalgia chap 3 coming soon let me cook

[crxwn-06]

YOU!! YES, YOU!! GO WRITE THAT FANFIC YOU THINK NOBODY BUT YOU WILL READ!!

[crxwn-06]

”Gay ass” I say as i willingly read a gay fanfiction.

[crxwn-06]

Jon/Injustice!Damian brainrot is real 😮‍💨

[crxwn-06]

Reminder batfam canonical is pro LGBTQ+, Pro immigrant, and anti racism for those of you who forgot somehow.

[crxwn-06]

nobody has been there for me like the ‘x reader’ tag has been there for me

[crxwn-06]

ASHES AND ECHOES

“ home has become wherever he sleeps safely ”

IN WHICH: Damian runs away: Jon is not his, and he is not a Wayne, he is not an Al Ghul. In the hope of finding himself in the destruction of the League, he finds instead the latest experiment, the latest innovation: his and Jon’ son. He flees. With the baby. He dies. (Does he?). While his family mourns him, he learns to live again.

or, Damian haunting the narrative for everyone while being a very much alive single father in his lil beach house

0. HAPPY BIRTHDAY

masterlist;; next »

19th December. 20:22

He had always been a good runner. Silent. Efficient. Precise.

It wasn’t instinct — it was training. Taught into bone, pressed into muscle. Run to survive. Run to outmaneuver. Run to disappear.

Tonight, he was all three.

The trees blurred past him in the dark, wet branches slapping his coat. His boots made no sound, not even on gravel. The cold air scraped at his lungs, but he kept moving — always two steps ahead of the people who wanted to take Thomas back. Or worse.

Thomas stirred in his arms, letting out a soft, sighing whimper before settling again. Damian shifted his hold, tucking the baby closer to his chest. He adjusted the blanket up over his son’s small ear, shielding him from the wind.

He was eight months old. Heavy now, warm and sleeping against him like the world wasn’t chasing them.

Damian hoped it never would. Not for him.

19th December. 23:35

It was stupid. Reckless. Childish, even.

Damian knew better than to linger. And yet — here he was. A near-empty gas station, humming beneath flickering halogen lights, smelling like fried oil and forgotten cigarettes. The only things on the counter were a packet of long wooden matchsticks and a plush crab with button eyes, currently being gnawed on by a stubborn baby.

The cashier looked between the two of them. Then blinked. «Only these?»

Damian nodded once, sharply. He didn’t speak. His voice had been rough all week — brittle at the edges from cold and disuse. From grief he refused to name. Thomas wiggled in his hold and lifted the crab up triumphantly, as if daring the man to try and take it back. A bit of fuzz stuck to his lip .Damian didn’t dare smile.

The cashier rang him up without comment. People never asked questions when you looked like you hadn’t slept in days and might stab them.

19th December. 23:59

He sat on the steps behind the station, cold concrete under him, wind clawing at the edge of his coat.

Thomas was in his lap, still holding the crab. He gnawed on one claw absentmindedly, eyes bright and half-lidded with sleep. He looked up at Damian with that odd mixture of complete trust and absolute chaos only a baby could have.

He lit the match slowly, carefully, away from the wind.

The flame bloomed in his hand. Bright. Orange. Alive.

Thomas made a high, delighted sound in his chest — half giggle, half war cry — and reached toward it with sticky fingers.

«No, habibi,» Damian murmured, pulling his hand away. «Hot»

The baby frowned. A betrayal. But then buried his face against Damian’s coat, cooing sleepily.

The cathedral bells tolled in the distance. Twelve long, haunting strikes that echoed against the stone of the cliffs.

20th december. 00:00

Damian stared into the flame for a moment longer. Let it soak into his vision, its warmth nothing more than imagined.

Then he whispered to the quiet.

«Happy eighteenth birthday, Damian.» The match burned lower. He let it. Let it threaten to bite his fingers. «You’re your own problem now.»

He blew it out, soft and slow. The smoke curled upward, like breath in the cold.

Thomas shifted. Muttered something that could’ve been nonsense, or a name. A noise full of trust. The wind picked up again. He babbled something in his own language, and dropped the plushie on Damian’s boot.

«Excellent» Damian muttered. «Now you’re a critic.»

The boy blinked up at him. Then smiled — wide and toothless, with a giggle that cracked something deep in Damian’s chest.

He didn’t smile back. But he did lean down and kiss the top of Thomas’s head.

20th December. 02:12

They found a motel. Cheap. Anonymous. Paid in cash. No ID. The woman at the desk had heavy eyeliner and dead eyes and didn’t even blink at the sight of him.

The bed was too small. The heater rattled. The air smelled like mildew.

But it was warm. And the locks worked.

Thomas fell asleep curled against him, one tiny hand buried in Damian’s shirt like he was anchoring them both to the world.

He kept the crab plushie clutched in the other.

Damian didn’t sleep. Not really.

He lay on his side, watching the door, ears tuned to every creak of the hallway. His body ached. There was a stitch in his side that hadn’t eased in days. But he didn’t let himself relax. The sound of the baby’s breaths were lulling, as if telling that Damian could have himself be comforted.

He couldn’t.

20th December. 18:23

It was almost dusk. The ocean wasn’t far now. He could smell salt and sand in the air as he walked down the edge of a cliffside road, Thomas secured in the carrier across his chest, mumbling to himself.

For the first time in days, there was no immediate threat behind him.

It felt wrong.

He stopped to check the map — a torn paper one from a gas station rack, ink faded and creased. His fingers were numb.

The voice came from behind him. Low. Smooth. Sharp like a knife under velvet.

Damian didn’t flinch. He turned slowly, eyes narrowing.

The man standing by the tree line wore black and silver, hood lowered, face unreadable — but eyes alert. A curved blade was sheathed over his back. His stance was reverent. Dangerous.

«You sure are a difficult person to find, Damian al Ghul.»

Short, very paced prologue: I feel like this is really setting the tone for the whole story, or at least the first arcs. WORRY NOT: I’m a certified yapper™️, next chapters will be much much longer.

Taglist: @sparrows4bats @lobdw20 @sleepynagii @linoalwaysknows @mamamoble @blue22roses

[crxwn-06]

ASHES AND ECHOES MASTERLIST

“ home has become wherever he sleeps safely ”

Damian doesn’t belong: it’s an hard, harsh truth that will haunt him to the end of his days. Not enough a Wayne, not anymore an Al Ghul.

« it’s just you and me, Trouble. Baba will make everything right »

After a brutal falling out with Bruce, he fled to end the League of Assassins — a desperate, misguided attempt to prove his loyalty once and for all. But what he found instead was a secret project built from his DNA… and Jon Kent’s.

« he has your eyes. I’m glad »

The perfect soldier. The perfect son.

Damian destroyed the machine. He took the infant — Thomas — and ran. Then disappeared.

Presumed dead by both Talia and Bruce, the truth was never that simple.

« I got put in time out by a baby » « yeah, he does that »

To the world, Damian is gone.

To his son, he is Baba.

To Jon Kent, he is the love he lost without goodbye.

« because I LOVE YOU, DAMN IT »

Featuring: Damian Wayne is done, Jon “I’m the Baby Daddy” Kent, a chaotic toddler, an assassin nanny, Bruce “I’m a grandfather now” Wayne, JonDami SLOWBURN, angst hidden behind comic relief

« how much sorrow can i take? »

00. # HAPPY BIRTHDAY

01. # ALL THAT’S LEFT

02. # NIGHTS OF SUGAR

03. # FEAR NOT, SWEET CHILD OF MINE

04. # THE PRODIGAL SON

PLAYLIST:

The Last Great American Dynasty, Taylor Swift

Isimo, Bleachers

Mystery of Love, Sufjan Stevens

Matilda, Harry Stiles

Chihiro, Billie Eilish

Would that I, Hozier

Peter, Taylor Swift

Deslocado, NAPA

Let Down, Radiohead

Taglist: @sparrows4bats @lobdw20 @sleepynagii @linoalwaysknows

the devil works fast but I work faster

[crxwn-06]

[crxwn-06]

No because hear me out

JonDami baby AU: Jon did age and move on while Damian stayed Robin till idk 17. INSERT: big fight with Bruce and Damian that results in him running away to the LOA to officially desert them and show his father loyalty (with a BIG BIG miscommunication on his part). Finds that Talia was elaborating the perfect soldier with him and Jon’s genes, goes mad, kidnaps the baby and destroys the machine.

While going back he get ambushed and injured badly by the LOA, forced to hide and that convinces Talia and Ra’s that he’s dead. BUT since he’s no contact no one knows about any of this. Months later Talia goes to Bruce and they go “Here to gloat that Damian chose you?” “Bruce, Damian is dead””what?” “Him and the baby” “WHAT BABY??”. Insert sad Alfred. Desperate Dick.

CRAZY, crazy Batfam. They had their issues, but their baby is now dead??? HELL NAHHH… they get called delusional because he CAN’T be, okay (they lowkey right). In these months of not knowing and mourning Damian is now a single dad in a safe house somewhere and has some nice paying job and lots of animals, he’s living the life okay. Jonathan? Absolutely wrecked. Desperate. Still tries to hear his heartbeat.

Till something happens and they meet again (cue to Jon “I’m the baby daddy” Kent in every second of jealousy)

Or: Damian be haunting the narrative for everyone while being a single father in his lil beach house

HEAR ME OUT

Song: the last great American dynasty

NOW HERE

[crxwn-06]

NOSTALGIA

Yandere!Platonic!batfam x f!Hawkeye!reader: your life is all good, in the end. You have a loving father, awesome siblings, excellent grades, a good group of friends and a talent for archery, enough to almost convince your father to let you start being a vigilante. But when your mother tries to get back into said life you start to realise that, maybe, you were just living in a pretty cage.

# chapter 2: drivin’ (me) crazy

prologue, chapter 1, chapter 2, …

IF YOU WISH TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST, LEAVE A COMMENT <3!

Tw: yandere tendencies, mention of blood, violence

Morning comes slow and golden, seeping through the tall windows of Wayne Manor like honey. The sunlight creeps across polished floors and old wood, brushing against picture frames and casting long, gentle shadows along the halls. Outside your window, birdsong hums through the still air, layered over the rustle of leaves stirred by the lightest morning breeze.

Inside, the manor breathes with a rare kind of quiet—a suspended stillness, like even the ghosts have decided to sleep in. No alarms. No hurried footsteps. No comms buzzing from the Cave.

For just this morning, the world feels soft.

You wander into the kitchen still half-asleep, hair slightly tousled from sleep, collar askew, tie slung around your neck like an afterthought. The uniform is on—barely. You’ve buttoned what’s essential, but it’s clear your body got ahead of your mind.

«Morning» you murmur through a stifled yawn, the word thick with sleep. Alfred, already waiting by the stove, turns with perfect timing and hands you a warm mug without a word. You accept it gratefully. It’s tea, not coffee—coffee makes your hands shake, makes your thoughts race. Tea calms. Alfred always remembers.

You lean against the kitchen counter, cradling the mug between your palms, breathing in the faint steam and sighing. The warmth bleeds into your fingers and pushes some of the sleep away—but not enough.

«Duke! Damian!» you suddenly call toward the hall, your voice louder than necessary, echoing slightly off the tile and high ceiling. «If you don’t hurry, I’m leaving you behind!»

Nothing but the sound of two sets of distinct footsteps stomping somewhere above you.

You sigh again, this time into your mug. It’s far too early for wrangling teenagers who act like they’re elite spies but can’t be bothered to find clean socks.

A quiet chuckle draws your attention, and you glance up.

«Tim» you say, blinking in surprise.

He’s standing in the doorway, already dressed in his school uniform—properly dressed, tie done, blazer neat, hair combed. He looks too polished for 7:00 a.m., which is suspicious in and of itself.

«When was the last time you came to school?» you ask, eyes narrowing in mock scrutiny as you sip your tea.

Tim shrugs, amused. «I haven’t graduated yet, technically. Apparently I have to exist on campus every now and then.»

You raise an eyebrow. «You coming with us today?»

«Just for the show» he replies, stepping forward and casually tugging the undone tie at your neck. «Too many absences. B got a call from the board. Had to prove I’m still alive.»

«Thank you» you say, as he finishes knotting it—fast, but perfectly.

«Anytime, Princess» he says with a small smirk, using the nickname he knows irritates you just enough to count as affection.

You nudge his arm gently with your elbow, a wordless don’t start that he accepts with a grin.

Outside the kitchen door, heavy footsteps—Damian’s, most likely—thunder down the stairs, Duke calling something behind him. The house begins to stir again, the spell of morning broken by the rush of the day ahead.

But for a moment, just before the rush swallows everything, there’s a quiet stillness between you and Tim. The kind that says you’re siblings—no matter how different you all are, no matter how strange this life gets, this kitchen, this morning, this absurd normalcy… is yours.

«I’ll drive» you declare confidently the moment Damian and Duke finally stumble into the kitchen, mid-argument and barely dressed for school.

Both boys freeze.

A beat of silence.

Then, a collective groan erupts like clockwork.

«Oh, come on» Duke mutters, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s just aged five years in ten seconds. «Bruce letting you have a license has to be one of his top five worst decisions. Right up there with letting Damian have internet access unsupervised.»

«It was perfectly earned» you reply, lifting your chin with mock pride as you grab your bag from the counter. «I passed all the tests. Legally. And I didn’t even bribe anyone.»

«You almost ran over a squirrel on the practice run» Damian points out sharply, tugging on his blazer, his mouth set in a flat line. «It was a reckless and irrational maneuver.»

«The squirrel survived» you say, sipping your tea again with faux calm. «Probably became stronger because of it. You’re welcome, nature.»

Tim chuckles behind his mug, clearly enjoying himself. «Well, at least we’ll get to school fast.»

«Or we die in a blaze of glory» Duke adds, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and giving you a pointed look. «Either way, it’ll be memorable.»

«That’s the spirit» you reply cheerfully, already halfway out the kitchen, your keys jingling like a war cry. «Come on, gentlemen. Shotgun goes to whoever insults my driving the least.»

Tim just grins behind you and follows, while Damian sighs dramatically and mutters something in Arabic that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for protection.

As you all head out into the morning light, the manor stands behind you, tall and timeless, watching the chaos it raised with something like quiet amusement.

«It’s Gotham!» you protest more as the four of you head down toward the garage, Duke suggesting that Dick or Alfred could drive you to school, your voice echoing just slightly against the stone walls and polished floors. The early light slants through the manor windows, catching in your hair, casting golden shapes across your uniform as you casually spin your keys around one finger. «People expect a little chaos. Respecting every traffic law is what gets you pulled over around here.»

Tim walks beside you, quiet as always—but not distant. Never distant. He doesn’t laugh like Duke, doesn’t scoff like Damian. He just watches you, tracking every movement with a kind of focus he doesn’t extend to most people. Like he’s storing each second for later, in a corner of his mind only you occupy.

«Yeah» Duke groans, tugging on his bag. «And people also expect not to die on the way to school.»

«You say that like I’ve ever crashed.»

«You say that like that makes us feel better» Damian mutters, arms crossed, jaw tight as he keeps pace beside you. «Your turns defy physics.»

You shrug with a grin. «Physics is just a suggestion. I aced that last test with my own logic.»

You spin your keys around your fingers like a dare, the casual flick of your wrist just dramatic enough to make Duke groan out loud.

«That logic is exactly why none of us trust you behind the wheel» he mutters, already bracing himself for what’s to come.

«Speak for yourself» you shoot back. «I’m the only one who actually knows how to make a left turn in the Crime Alley without getting mugged or hit by a stolen car.»

«You drive like a criminal fleeing a scene» Damian comments coolly, folding his arms. «It’s deeply undisciplined.»

«I drive like someone from here» you say, flashing a grin over your shoulder. «You know, someone who understands that stop signs are suggestions, not commandments.»

Tim, walking a step behind you, doesn’t laugh. But he’s watching you—closely. He always is.

His gaze flicks over your shoulder, tracking the sway of your bag, the cadence of your footsteps, the barely restrained energy in your stride. He’s quiet, but not disinterested. Never disinterested.

He knows exactly how often you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re thinking. How you tap your thumb against your leg in rhythm with your thoughts. How you drive like you fight—instinct first, reason second.

And he knows every route you’ve ever taken. Not because he’s keeping tabs. Not officially. But because every time you leave the Manor, some part of him tenses until he knows you’ve come back.

«Where are you right now, Drake?» you ask, slowing just a step to catch his eye.

He blinks once, a little too slow. Then clears his throat. «Just thinking about how many civilians you’ve traumatized behind the wheel.»

«Only the ones who deserved it» you reply, tossing him the keys like it’s a test he’ll pass without trying. «But go ahead—take the car if you’re that scared.»

He catches the keys in one hand, doesn’t even look at them. Your aim is that good.

Then calmly tosses them back. You get them with two fingers, not taking your eyes away from his.

«No thanks. I’ll take the emotional damage.»

You laugh, already slipping into the driver’s seat. The engine hums to life like a warning, the low growl of barely-contained chaos.

Tim slides into the passenger seat—of course he does—and doesn’t say another word. But his fingers hover near the emergency brake for a second too long before he folds them in his lap.

He tells himself it’s just a precaution.

But deep down, he knows the truth: He doesn’t want to stop you. He just wants to be there when you go.

By the time Duke and Damian catch up, still bickering over the front seat, you’re already sliding behind the wheel, Tim next to you. Duke groans again.

«Why are we letting her drive?» he asks the universe. «I feel like this is one of those moments that gets mentioned in therapy.»

You rev the engine, just enough to make Duke flinch. «Buckle up, gentlemen» you say, smirking as you throw the car into reverse with far too much flair.

Tim watches you in the mirror the whole way out of the garage, a faint smile tugging at his lips—like he’s watching something precious and dangerous all at once.

While laughter echoes faintly from the garage—your voice mingling with Duke’s exasperated sarcasm, Tim’s good-natured teasing, and Damian’s cutting insistence that he always gets the front seat—another, quieter storm is brewing below, in the vast steel heart of the Batcave.

Dick stands across from Bruce, arms folded, the cowl off, hair damp from training. His tone is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it. One Bruce recognizes. The Grayson edge. It always shows up when emotion breaks through logic. When the heart refuses to stay quiet.

«Let her come with us on patrol.»

Bruce doesn’t look up from the screen in front of him. «Dick.»

«She’s ready.»

Bruce exhales slowly, not with impatience, but with weight. «She’s not.»

«She’s restless» Dick presses, stepping forward. «You see it too. The way she watches us come and go like a shadow at the door. If we keep shutting her out, Bruce, she’ll find her own way in.»

«I’m preventing that» Bruce says, voice low but firm.

«No» Dick corrects, «I am. By giving her structure. Supervision. Boundaries she’ll actually respect—because we gave her a place instead of pretending she doesn’t belong in the field.»

«She doesn’t belong in the field» Bruce snaps, the edge finally cutting through. «Not yet.»

Dick doesn’t flinch. He just looks at him—calm, steady, unrelenting. «You saw her shot last week. You know her aim better than I do. It’s clean. Reliable. And she’s not like you. She doesn’t lose control. She calculates. She listens.»

Bruce’s eyes narrow. «She’s my daughter, Dick.»

«And that’s exactly why you’re blind to this» Dick fires back, stepping closer now. «You’re afraid. You see her out there and think of everything that could go wrong. Everything you’ve already lost. I get that. But you can’t put her in a glass case and call it protection. She’s not fragile. She’s a Wayne.»

Silence stretches between them—heavy, unresolved.

«She’s stubborn, Bruce» Dick adds, quieter this «You know she is. Just like you. Just like Damian. And if you try to keep her from doing what’s in her blood, you won’t be keeping her safe. You’ll be pushing her away.»

Bruce’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

«Don’t pretend I don’t know what that’s like» Dick continues, voice low now, almost bitter. «I feel it too. Every time she gets on that bike. Every time she tests a new arrow or says she wants to train harder, I feel like my lungs stop working. I know what it would do to me if something happened to her.»

He pauses. His eyes go distant, haunted. «Because she’s not just your daughter, Bruce. She’s mine, too. Not by blood. Not by law. But I helped raise her. I was there before she could even walk. I know her tells. Her tics. I’ve studied the way she breathes. She was mine before she even knew who Robin was.»

Bruce finally speaks. «You think I haven’t studied her too? Watched her train when she didn’t know I was there? Counted every bruise she’s hidden, every fake smile she gives when she wants to convince us she’s fine?»

«She’s not fine» Dick says, sharper now. «She’s restless. Like you were. Like I was. The kind of restless that gets dangerous if it isn’t given purpose.»

«She’s not ready for what’s out there» Bruce says, but there’s a tremor in it now—not uncertainty, but something more vulnerable. «You don’t know what it’s like to lose a child, Dick.»

And just like that, the Bat slips for a moment. The father is left behind.

Dick’s breath hitches. «Don’t talk to me like I haven’t lost people. Like I haven’t had nightmares about her bleeding out in an alley before I could reach her.»

The silence that follows is thick—choking.

«This isn’t about Gotham» Dick says eventually. «Not really. It’s about control. About keeping her where you can see her. Just like you did with me, and with the others. But it’s worse with her, Bruce. You’ve wrapped her in so many layers of protection, she’s going to break just trying to breathe.»

Bruce finally looks up. And for a moment, the weight of being both a father and a general flickers across his face. Conflict. Regret. Fear.

Then, after a long pause:

«…Paired only. No direct combat. Observation and support only.»

Dick exhales—not victory, not relief. Just permission. A small door opening. Just enough to let her in without losing her entirely.

«Good call» he says. «She won’t let you down.»

Bruce doesn’t respond.

But deep down, he knows that wasn’t the question.

«(Name)!»

The call rings out the moment you pull into the school parking lot, the engine barely off before the familiar chorus of your friends’ voices floats across the pavement. You glance through the windshield, and sure enough—there they are. A small group of girls by the school steps, already waving excitedly, backpacks slung carelessly over shoulders, faces lit up at the sight of you.

You smile. Warm, easy, reflexive.

The car doors open. Tim is already reaching into the back to grab your bag, holding it out to you with that usual effortless motion, like it’s second nature to anticipate your needs. His fingers brush yours briefly as you take it, but he says nothing—just watches.

«Bye boys, see you later» you chirp as you step out, your voice light.

You ruffle Damian’s hair on your way past, your hand fond and quick before he can dodge it. «Don’t» he grumbles, glaring up at you as he bats your hand away—but there’s no real anger in it. Just his usual indignation, poorly masking how closely he watches you go.

Tim and Damian stand beside the car, watching as you skip across the lot. Duke, still inside, leans forward between the seats to peer after you, while Tim narrows his eyes, tracking the sway of your ponytail and the bounce in your step.

You’re already halfway to your group, falling into their conversation like you never left—your laughter blending easily with theirs, your face bright in a way that none of them see when you’re home. That freedom, that joy, the way the world seems to open for you here.

Damian scowls, arms folded. «They’re too loud.»

«She fits in with them» Duke offers from inside.

Tim doesn’t respond. He keeps his gaze trained on you, jaw tense, eyes unreadable behind the faint reflection in his lenses.

Damian glances up at him.

«She shouldn’t have to» the younger mutters eventually, almost too quietly to hear.

But Tim does. And he doesn’t disagree.

The first half of the day rolls by with quiet ease. Classes pass in a comfortable rhythm, teachers drone, notes are taken, and the scent of cheap paper and school-issued hand sanitizer hangs in the air.

By the time lunch arrives, the courtyard is already humming with energy. You find yourself sitting at a round table crowded with even more friends than usual, laughter coming in waves as trays are shuffled around and conversations overlap.

You glance across the yard, spotting Duke surrounded by a small group of classmates. He’s already in a heated discussion about something—likely physics, judging by the wild hand gestures—and you wave when he catches your eye. He tips his chin up in acknowledgment, grinning briefly before diving back into the debate.

Your phone buzzes. You check the screen. Just a brief message from Alfred, confirming that Damian’s lunch was delivered to the middle school wing. You text him a quick “Eat your fruit. Yes, all of it.” before slipping the phone back into your bag.

«C’mon» Zana’s voice whines suddenly from across the table, dragging your attention back to the present.

You groan the second you hear the tone. Not this again.

«You’d be amazing as a cheerleader» she says, tossing a grape into her mouth and leaning forward with intent. «You’re a dancer and a great gymnast. Like, why are you not already on the squad?»

«She’s too cool for pom-poms» another girl teases.

«She’s not too cool for Brian from chemistry» Maggie snickers, leaning into your shoulder. You give her a deadpan look and slap your hand gently over her face, pushing her back. The entire table erupts in laughter, Maggie swatting at your wrist half-heartedly.

«I do not care about Brian from chemistry» you say, muffled by your own amusement. «You guys really need new material.»

«Just accept it» Zana sings. «You’d be our secret weapon.»

It’s then that another voice joins the conversation—smooth, low, and unmistakably dry.

«Oh hi, Drake» Zana perks up, suddenly shifting in her seat as Tim approaches the table, his hands in his pockets and his expression as unreadable as ever. Some of the girls go quiet—not because he’s intimidating, but because Tim Drake walking across the quad is rare, and his presence has a weight to it.

«Didn’t know you were tagging along today» one of the girls adds with a grin.

Tim nods politely, eyes only flicking toward them for a second before landing squarely on you. «She said she needed her chem notes at lunch» he says mildly, holding out your notebook.

«Oh my god, I forgot—thank you.» You take it with a grateful smile, but Tim doesn’t move away.

Instead, Zana leans toward him with a teasing grin. «So, any chance you can convince your sister to become a cheerleader?»

Tim’s gaze slides to you first. Not to Zana. Not to the others. Just you.

You’re still laughing a little, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you elbow him gently. «Don’t listen to her.»

But he doesn’t smile back. Instead, he lifts one brow slowly.

«You, cheering for a soccer team?» he says, voice laced with faint, pointed amusement. «That’s a horrifying mental image.»

You blink, mildly offended. «Wow. Rude.»

Zana tilts her head. «So that’s a no?»

«That’s a hell no» he says, eyes still on you.

«Mmhm» Maggie hums, amused. «Right. Sure.»

Zana leans closer to him. «You know, you’re actually kinda cute when you show up at school»

Tim’s eyes don’t leave yours.

«I’m always cute» he replies coolly. «People just don’t pay attention.»

You snort, trying not to choke on your water. «Modest too.»

Tim’s smirk widens, but even as the girls around you start to joke and tease again, you feel it—the way his presence lingers too long, his focus too fixed. Not on them.

Only on you.

«…Is that normal? He always that protective?»

You take a sip of your tea and shrug with a half-smile.

«No» you murmur. «He’s usually worse.»

As Tim finally stands—after a few more pointed comments and one overly long glance at Brian across the quad—he murmurs a quiet, «Don’t forget your bag» and gives your shoulder the briefest tap before walking off, his hands tucked in his pockets again, his posture still a little too stiff to be casual.

You watch him go for half a second too long, then turn back to your table, where Zana raises an eyebrow with a grin.

«What was that about?» she teases.

You exhale through a laugh, shaking your head and picking at your sandwich. «That’s the life with four brothers» you say with a half-smile.

«Five, technically» Maggie reminds, nudging you with her elbow. «Isn’t Duke one too?»

«Yeah. But Duke’s actually chill» you reply, snorting. «The rest of them? Like a walking, talking security team with abandonment issues.»

That earns a round of laughter from the table, but your gaze lingers across the courtyard—where Tim has already met up with Damian, who immediately starts talking animatedly, probably criticizing your social choices from a safe distance.

You turn back to your friends, putting the thought away.

«Duke has extra classes, and Damian’s staying behind in the art room» you say as you step out onto the school steps, spotting Tim perched on the stone railing, phone in hand.

He doesn’t look up immediately, but you see the way his thumb stills on the screen for half a second—like he’d been waiting for your voice. He finally glances up, blinking as the daylight hits his lenses.

You move to sit beside him, your shoulder brushing his as you settle in.

«Just the two of us, then» you add, glancing at the parking lot. «They’ll go back with Alfred later.»

Tim pockets his phone, and for a moment, the silence stretches between you—not uncomfortable, just familiar. You kick your heels lightly against the stone, backpack still slung over one shoulder.

«Want to grab a smoothie?» you offer, turning slightly toward him. «There’s that new place on Sixth. You’ve been over-caffeinated for like three weeks. Maybe fruit could save you.»

Tim huffs a breath—something between a scoff and a laugh—but nods. «Yeah. Sure. Smoothies sound good.»

You smile, pulling him by the sleeve as you hop down onto the pavement. The sun’s still out, casting long shadows and a soft warmth across the sidewalks. Tim walks quietly beside you, hands in his pockets, and every now and then his gaze flickers toward you—but he always looks away before you can meet it.

At the smoothie place, you order something bright and citrusy. He gets something green, predictably. You tease him for it. He tells you it’s for “longevity.” You reply that it’s for “eternal bitterness.” You both laugh.

It’s easy, for a moment. Simple.

When the two of you walk back to the car, drinks in hand, there’s a small stretch of quiet where the only sound is Gotham’s usual low hum: passing cars, distant horns, the occasional shout. But here, on the edges of downtown, it feels softer.

«You really want this?» Tim asks suddenly, not looking at you. «The patrols. The danger.»

You take a sip of your drink. «Yeah» you answer, no hesitation. «I do.»

He nods once, slowly, like he’s known the answer all along—but still needed to hear it from you.

And maybe, he thinks, maybe that’s what scares him most. That you mean it.

The sun starts dipping behind Gotham’s skyline by the time you reach the car. The city doesn’t sleep, not really—not in this family. The shadows always wait, and the night always calls.

But for now, there’s warmth on your skin, a smoothie in your hand, and a boy beside you who can’t quite put into words the way he’s terrified of losing you… but walks beside you anyway.

You glance toward Tim. He’s staring ahead, quiet.

You don’t say anything either.

But somehow, it feels like something has changed. Or maybe just settled into place.

(It hasn’t.)

Literally the last tranquil moment of MC, now we just go downhil- /jk jk, there’s still some happiness

Taglist: @mazixxss @tenshi444 @cynnie @trashlanternfish360 @jsprien213

[crxwn-06]

NOSTALGIA

Yandere!Platonic!batfam x f!Hawkeye!reader: your life is all good, in the end. You have a loving father, awesome siblings, excellent grades, a good group of friends and a talent for archery, enough to almost convince your father to let you start being a vigilante. But when your mother tries to get back into said life you start to realise that, maybe, you were just living in a pretty cage.

Chapter 1: another fortnight lost in America

prologue , chapter one, chapter two, …

IF YOU WISH TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST, LEAVE A COMMENT <3!

Tw: yandere tendencies, mention of blood, violence

The walk back to the mansion is slow and unhurried, the kind of pace that only comes when you don’t feel the need to fill the silence—though, as always with Dick, silence never really lasts long. He falls into step beside you naturally, like he never left, like he’s always been just a few inches away. The two of you meander along the stone path, the soft crunch of gravel under your boots barely audible beneath the quiet rhythm of your conversation.

You talk—about training, about the latest Robin mishap, about Alfred scolding Duke for leaving his cape on the banister again—and Dick chimes in with the easy rhythm of someone who knows the players, knows the stakes, and, more importantly, knows you. His jokes are perfectly timed, his insights sharp but never overwhelming. He listens like it matters. He laughs like he’s missed this.

There’s something calming about it. This is what you’ve always loved most about him—how he makes even the smallest things feel like shared secrets.

«I need to fix these arrows» you mutter after a while, shifting the worn bundle you’ve been carrying under your arm. «I’ll have to order some new pins. These are getting too old.»

Dick looks over, raising an eyebrow. «Why don’t you just get new ones completely? Wouldn’t that be, y’know… easier?»

You scoff, as if he’s just suggested you throw away a family heirloom. «Pfft. Please. Every archer who’s worth something builds their own arrows. Besides, when I build them myself, I can modify them exactly how I want. Adjust the weight, change the fletching, switch out the heads depending on what kind of job it is. Off-the-rack stuff is for amateurs.»

Dick hums in approval, clearly impressed. «Well, excuse me, Miss Artisan. Didn’t realize you were out here custom-crafting your own arsenal.»

You shrug, but there’s pride in it. «Dad always says: your tools should feel like an extension of your body. If something’s off by even a centimeter, it could cost you.»

Dick’s smile dims just slightly, the corners softening with something closer to reverence. He doesn’t say it out loud, but you can see it in his expression: He’s proud. Proud of your skill. Proud of your focus. And maybe just a little shaken by how much you’ve grown into this life.

«How long have you been working on your own arrows?» he asks, and it’s not small talk anymore—it’s genuine interest. The kind of question someone asks when they want to memorize the answer.

You grin, gaze drifting upward toward the fading light pouring through the manor’s tall windows. «Since I was fourteen. I started sneaking into the forge when everyone was asleep. Tim caught me once and bribed me for two weeks to keep it quiet.»

Dick chuckles. «Sounds about right.»

By the time you reach the doors, the sky behind you has begun to blush with dusk, and the manor glows golden from within. He opens the door for you, hand lingering at the frame as he watches you step inside. You don’t notice how his eyes stay on you just a second too long. How his jaw tightens slightly, protectiveness flickering just behind the warmth.

To you, it’s just another conversation. Another easy walk back inside. To him, it’s another reminder that you’re growing sharper. Stronger. Braver.

And further from the version of you he used to carry on his back.

He dislikes it.

You and Dick are still laughing as you step into the manor, the hallway glowing with the last warmth of the afternoon sun streaming in through tall windows. There’s a rare ease between you—a rhythm you fall into whenever he’s around, as if no time has passed at all. He’s halfway through teasing you about your arrow modifications when a clipped voice cuts through the air like a throwing blade.

«TT. Don’t you have your own home, Grayson?»

You stop mid-step, instantly recognizing the tone. Damian, standing halfway down the staircase, arms crossed over his chest, looking down at the two of you like a judge delivering sentence. His glare is directed solely at Dick, sharp and cold, even though you can sense what lies underneath it: irritation. Something fiercely territorial.

Before either of them can escalate, you chuckle and step toward him. «Dami» you sigh fondly, reaching up to ruffle his hair. He glares at your hand, but doesn’t move away. Instead, he steps into your side and wraps his arms around your waist—firm, possessive, unrelenting.

His message is silent, but clear: mine.

As he leans into you, he throws a pointed, smug look toward Dick. It’s the kind of expression that says, she stays here. With me. Not with you. Not out there where it’s dangerous.

«C’mon, Dami» you tease gently, running your fingers through the hair he still pretends not to like being touched. «Be nice.»

«I am nice» he huffs, tilting his head up at you. «You’re just excessively so. It’s inefficient.»

Dick snorts from behind you. «Having manners is inefficient» he mutters.

But there’s something beneath Dick’s voice too—something quieter, sharper. He’s smiling, yes, but his eyes never leave Damian’s arms around your waist. And not in jealousy. In worry. In calculation. The kind that never really turns off in his mind.

Because he knows. He knows how attached Damian is. How he watches you like a hawk when you move through the manor, how he shadows your steps during training, how he always seems to position himself between you and any potential threat—including, sometimes, him. And Dick doesn’t doubt that, if it came to it, Damian would go through anyone who endangered you. Even their own family.

But what Damian doesn’t understand is that Dick sees the other danger—the one no one talks about. Not villains or missions or rooftop ambushes. No, the real danger is you changing. Growing up. Moving past the version of you that needed carrying home from scrapes. Past the time when you’d run into his arms without hesitation. The more capable you become, the more you want to join them in the field, the less control he has—and that terrifies him in a way he doesn’t know how to admit.

So his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he steps a little closer. «I was just keeping her company, Damian. You know, in case one of those wild training arrows found a new target.»

Damian doesn’t blink. «I can protect her.»

«I know» Dick says, and it’s almost gentle. Too gentle.

But what he doesn’t say out loud is I don’t trust anyone else to.

You’re caught between them now—one arm wrapped around your waist, the other standing just close enough to shield you from something invisible. Two different kinds of protectiveness.

Damian’s is sharp, immediate, and openly possessive. A warning growl before a bite.

Dick’s is quieter, colder. Not a growl—but a net. Spread wide. Carefully constructed. A constant calculation of every possible threat, including what happens if he lets go.

They both love you.

They both need you close, for entirely different reasons.

And as you herd them both down the hall toward dinner, sighing in mock exasperation, you can feel it in the way they walk on either side of you—like twin shadows.

Neither of them say it aloud, but they’re both thinking the same thing: She’s safest with me.

Damian Wayne has always known—knows—that the connection between you and him runs deeper than the ones you share with the others. It’s not a matter of jealousy, not really. It’s something else. Something innate. Undeniable.

He prides himself on it, as he does with most things that matter. You and he are not just siblings. You are connected by blood—Father’s blood. The only two children born directly of Bruce Wayne’s lineage, forged by legacy and legacy alone. What bond could be stronger than that?

To him, it’s obvious. Natural. You are his.

His sweet older sister—gentle in your gaze, sharp in your mind, and warm in a way no one else has ever truly been to him. You didn’t speak down to him when he arrived at the manor, bristling with arrogance and centuries of League indoctrination. You didn’t flinch from him when he tried to assert dominance, the way most people did.

No—you laughed.

He remembers that day vividly. The day he first saw you. You moved through the manor like you had nothing to prove and nothing to fear, and he—young, prideful, still drowning in his own armor—made the mistake of testing you. A surprise attack, a strike from the shadows—swift, precise, and perfectly aimed.

You dodged.

Effortlessly. Smoothly. As if you had expected it (had father warned you?). As if you’d been watching him longer than he realized.

And then, some hours later, without so much as glancing over the balcony, you flicked a coin down from three floors above. It struck him square in the forehead.

He’d blinked in shock, hand rising to his head, not entirely believing it had happened. And you—unbothered, still walking—had simply called back, telling him to calm down.

He didn’t. Not right away. But that was the moment it began.

That tiny, humiliating flash of defeat curdled into respect. And that respect—over time—hardened into something much deeper.

Now, years later, he no longer sees you as someone above him in the hierarchy. You are not just an older sister, not just another Wayne under the manor roof. You are his person. The one who understands the weight of expectation. The one who speaks to him without flinching. The one who never tried to fix him—because you never saw him as broken in the first place.

He told himself it was strategic at first. Tactical. You were the strongest ally in the manor. The only one he wouldn’t truly outpace or outwit. But deep down, even then, he knew that wasn’t why he gravitated to your side during training. Why he sought you out at night under the guise of patrolling the manor. Why your praise meant more than Father’s—more than anyone’s.

Because no matter how often Dick smirks at him or Tim acts like he’s a puzzle to solve, or Jason throws barbed jokes that mask something softer—you’ve always been constant. Protective, yes. But never patronizing. Stern when needed, kind when undeserved.

In his world of conditional affection, you were unconditional. And that is something Damian Wayne does not take lightly.

He knows the others love you, in their own flawed, fractured ways. But to him, you are blood. The thread of his lineage. The only person who has ever made him feel like he was more than the weapon he was built to be.

And if he has to glare, growl, and stand too close to remind everyone—especially Grayson—of that fact?

So be it.

Because while the others orbit your world, Damian? He lives in it.

Dinner unfolds with the kind of rare ease that doesn’t come often in the Wayne household—everyone gathered, warm food shared, the sound of forks clinking and laughter echoing softly through the manor’s vast dining room.

Bruce sits at the head of the table, silent but present, his watchful eyes moving from face to face. He doesn’t speak much, but his silence tonight is gentler than usual, his gaze lingering just a few seconds longer on you.

To his right, Dick leans back in his chair, teasing Tim about something he did during training, hands flying with exaggerated gestures. You sit at Bruce’s left, calmly sipping your water, smiling at the chaos as Damian—seated protectively at your side—glares daggers at anyone who interrupts your meal or your space. Across from him, Tim rolls his eyes every time Damian opens his mouth, while Duke, somewhere at the far end, tries to keep things from devolving into a full-blown philosophical debate about whose suit color is the most tactical.

It feels normal. Almost domestic.

For a moment, it’s easy to pretend there’s no darkness outside. No masks waiting in the Cave. No weight pressing silently on your father’s shoulders.

When the plates are cleared and the evening winds down, you make your rounds—like you always do. Hugs are exchanged with a grin and a tired “good night,” your arms thrown around Dick with practiced ease, brushing a hand across Duke’s shoulder, dodging Tim’s half-hearted attempt to escape affection, and tugging Damian toward you with a knowing look until he begrudgingly lets himself be hugged—only to hold on half a second longer than he means to.

You turn to Bruce last. He doesn’t stand, but he nods, the barest flicker of something warm crossing his face. «Sleep well» he says quietly.

«You too» you reply, already halfway toward the stairs.

You disappear into your room, the hall closing behind you, and the house exhales.

It’s late when Bruce comes.

The manor is dark, the moonlight stretching long across the hardwood floors. He doesn’t announce himself, doesn’t knock. He doesn’t need to.

He opens your door with the same quiet control he uses on rooftops and crime scenes—calculated, careful. You’re fast asleep, the blanket pulled high, one arm half-draped across your pillow, breathing steady and soft.

For a moment, he simply watches.

There’s something raw in his eyes. A mixture of pride and fear, quiet and ever-burning. The kind that doesn’t show in daylight.

He steps closer. He brushes a hand over your head—just once. His glove is off, fingers gentle. He lingers there, eyes scanning your face as if memorizing it all over again. Your peace. Your stillness. The proof that—for tonight at least—you’re safe.

He doesn’t speak. But his presence says it all.

Stay like this.

Let me keep you like this.

Just a little longer.

Then, without a sound, he pulls away. Leaves the way he came. Silent as the shadows that made him.

Was gonna write more, but then I realized I was yapping SO MUCH. It’s a problem guys it really is…

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE LOVE SHOWED ON THE PROLOGUE 💜💜

Taglist: @mazixxss @tenshi444 @cynnie @trashlanternfish360

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[crxwn-06]

NOSTALGIA

Yandere!Platonic!batfam x f!Hawkeye!reader: your life is all good, in the end. You have a loving father, awesome siblings, excellent grades, a good group of friends and a talent for archery, enough to almost convince your father to let you start being a vigilante. But when your mother tries to get back into said life you start to realise that, maybe, you were just living in a pretty cage.

Prologue: if you hesitate, the gettin’ is gone

prologue, chapter one, chapter two, …

IF YOU WISH TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST, LEAVE A COMMENT <3!

Tw: yandere tendencies, mention of blood, violence

There exists a very peculiar photograph of you and Bruce Wayne, one that seems almost out of place in the context of his carefully curated life. In it, he appears to be in his early twenties, the sharpness of youth still clinging to his features, though his eyes already carry the weight of responsibility far beyond his years. He’s seated casually on a sleek, minimalist chair—one foot crossed over the other, his heels resting comfortably on the modest coffee table before him.

And there you are, a newborn—no more than ten days old—propped tenderly against his legs, your tiny body curled into the crook of his knees, utterly unaware of the world, safe in its quietest moment.

What’s most striking isn’t the unusual composition or the contrast between your size and his or, one would argue, the relatively small age gap between the two of you.—it’s his expression. He gazes down at you with a softness so genuine, so unguarded, it’s almost startling. It is the sort of look one wouldn’t expect from Gotham’s most elusive figure: its number-one vigilante, its most eligible and emotionally inscrutable bachelor.

Yet in this stolen frame of time, that myth falls away. What remains is something profoundly human, even delicate—a man wholly undone by the presence of someone so small, and so utterly his.

This photograph does not hang in the public eye. It isn’t framed on the grand corridors of Wayne Manor, nor is it positioned among the more polished family portraits in the drawing room. No—this particular image sits on his desk, quietly set apart from the others, half-concealed beneath a folder or nestled near the corner lamp. As if it were meant only for him. As if it held something sacred, something private—too vulnerable for the world to see, yet too meaningful to keep hidden away entirely.

It is, without question, a portrait of love. But not just any love. The strong, unwavering kind. The kind that surprises even a legend, that bends even his ideals.

The kind that changed him, the moment you arrived.

You draw in a slow breath, steadying your grip on the bow. The weight in your hands, the pull of the string—it’s all muscle memory now. Back straight. Focus sharpened. One heartbeat. Two.

Then you let go.

The arrow cuts through the air with a whisper and lands dead center.

«Bullseye»

The voice behind you calls it before your own eyes confirm it, confident and casual—too casual. It isn’t praise. It’s expectation. As if anything less would’ve surprised him. As if he never even considered you missing.

You turn, already knowing who it is, and sure enough: «Dick!» you laugh, the joy in your voice genuine, unguarded, as you throw yourself into his arms. He catches you instantly—like he’s been waiting to—and holds you a second too long. Just long enough that you notice. His arms wrap around you tightly, anchoring you against him as if letting go might allow something—someone—to slip away.

Richard “Dick” Grayson. First Robin, now Nightwing. The eldest of the Wayne brood. He doesn’t live at the Manor anymore, not officially. But you’ve never really believed that meant much. He’s always around. Dropping by for a visit. Showing up unannounced. Checking in.

Watching.

He grins at you now, that same easy grin he’s used since you were little. The one that makes him seem like the carefree older brother, effortlessly charming, always teasing. He likes to claim he’s your favorite—loudly, obnoxiously, and often. You always deny it. You’re supposed to. It’s part of the game.

But deep down, you both know it’s not entirely a joke, for him. You’ve spent the most time with him. You’ve always been his.

You pull away slightly, but his hands linger on your back, thumbs brushing a slow, absent pattern over your shoulder blades. Like he’s memorizing the feel of you. Or checking you’re still there.

«What are you doing here?» you ask, half-laughing, trying not to read into the way his gaze sticks to you like a second shadow. «Are you staying for dinner?»

«Can’t a man visit his darling sister?» His grin shifts, softens slightly. «Was hoping to» he says, brushing a bit of wind-tousled hair from your forehead like he used to when you were smaller. «Wouldn’t miss Alfred’s cooking—or you—for the world.»

You roll your eyes playfully, but your heart’s full. It’s just another evening at the Manor—but with Dick around, it always feels a little brighter.

He doesn’t ask what you’ve been up to. He already knows. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He’s been watching long enough to see every crack, every change. There’s something unspoken in the air between you. A promise. A warning. A need.

He might not say it outright. He doesn’t need to.

He’s here because you’re here.

And as far as he’s concerned, that’s where he belongs. You’re his, after all, far more than you are of the others.

He stands just a few paces back, hands in his pockets, watching as you move across the training field. You don’t hurry. You never do. With quiet care, you begin pulling your arrows from the target one by one, humming to yourself—a small, wordless melody that drifts on the warm evening air. It’s the kind of sound that makes everything feel normal. Peaceful.

Maybe that’s why Dick doesn’t say anything right away. Maybe he just wants to keep watching you like this—content, unaware, and safe.

But then, as if the silence starts to stretch too far, he speaks. «You’ve been getting better.» His tone is light, casual—but deliberately placed. He’s not really offering a compliment. Not exactly. He just wants your attention back on him.

And it works. You glance over your shoulder with a mischievous spark in your eyes, the kind he’s seen since you could first talk back. «Enough to convince Dad to let me come on patrol with you?»

The shift is subtle—barely there—but he stiffens. Just a little.

«(Name).» he says, and your name alone is a warning. Gentle, but firm.

«Aww, come on!» you groan dramatically, spinning around to face him fully. «You let Dami come with you! And I’m almost three years older than him.»

«He’s trained» Dick replies, too quickly.

«I am too!» you shoot back, crossing your arms. «You know I am. You’ve trained me more than anyone. I tackled Duke yesterday»

He doesn’t argue that point. He can’t. It’s true. Every hour on the mats, every marksmanship session, every lesson on pressure points, urban navigation, code-switching mid-patrol—most of it came from him. You learned by watching the best. By watching him.

And he remembers it all—your first punch, your first fall, the first time you bled and didn’t cry. He remembers the way you kept looking at him for approval, for reassurance. And maybe that’s the problem. Because it was never just about teaching you to fight. He’s known for a long time that if it were up to him, he’d keep you out of the field forever.

You don’t see the quiet desperation in the way he looks at you now, but it’s there—tucked behind the crooked grin he offers you, trying to play it off. «I know you’re good» he says finally. «I just don’t think it’s time yet.»

You narrow your eyes, suspicious. «You mean Dad doesn’t think it’s time, or you don’t?»

He hesitates, and that hesitation says everything.

The truth is, your father probably would have allowed it by now. Batman believes in preparation, not emotion. But Dick—he doesn’t separate the two where you’re concerned. Not easily. Not well. And it’s not just protectiveness. It’s deeper than that, something heavier and tangled up in every part of him.

You’re not just family. You’re his. His person. His center of gravity.

And the idea of you out there—his little sister, his shadow—facing the same dangers he does every night? Covered in blood like he had been?

But Dick knows something else too—something that’s haunted him more than once: You are, without question, incredibly stubborn.

If he says no outright, if he tries to keep you grounded, away, untouched by the dangers he knows all too well… you will find your own way in. You always do. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not this week. But eventually, you’ll slip out. You’ll track a comm line or tail them from the rooftops, no mask, no backup, just your fists and that relentless fire in your chest that says, I belong out there, too. And when—not if—something goes wrong, he knows it’ll be worse. Not just for you. For him.

If you’re with him, under his wing, he can keep an eye on you. Control the exposure. Offer structure. Protection. Some version of safety, however flawed.

So he breathes in. Thinks it through. Feels that deep pull of conflict—love as a weight, not just a tether. You’re watching him closely, reading him in the way only someone who’s grown up beneath his shadow could. And just when you start to open your mouth to argue again, he cuts in, voice lower now, less performative.

«Say what» he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. Then louder, more deliberate: «I talk to B. You come. You stay on the sidelines. Strictly. No direct engagement. Offer cover. Zone control. Eyes on exits. But no direct contact with villains.»

You blink. «Wait. Seriously?». He sighs, already regretting how easily he’s caved—but it’s not weakness. It’s calculation. Compromise. «Seriously.»

Your face lights up instantly. «You are THE BEST!» you nearly shout, and before he can brace for it, you’ve thrown your arms around his neck again, squeezing tight. He laughs softly into your shoulder, but there’s no lightness in his eyes. Just a quiet storm of thoughts he’ll never say out loud.

You think you’ve won. But he’s still planning. Still calculating. Because if you’re coming into the field—even from the sidelines—then you’re not just his kid sister anymore. You’re a moving piece in the chaos.

And God help anyone who underestimates that.

Or worse—hurts you.

«Let’s go! Maybe we’ll find something to snack before dinner!»

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Heheh, new story that as been on my mind for SO LONG, like, I’m genuinely fixated on this

My first time ever posting on tumblr,, let’s hope all goes well <33

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