#in that this was the first time bruce called a child *his* child

[cece693]

Batman's Code of Ethics

pairing: bruce wayne x gender neutral reader tags: batman's code of ethics, sad ending for the batman, divorce, relationship conflict, vengeance

You first met Bruce Wayne at a fundraiser in downtown Gotham—one of those glamorous events where champagne sparkled and conversations danced on the knife’s edge of philanthropy and pretense. But it was the little moments that made you fall in love with him: how he paused to listen intently when you spoke, the gentle way he rested his hand against yours, the subtle but steadfast warmth in his gaze.

That warmth was what drew you in. It was what bound the two of you together in a promise—one that, in time, grew to include your son, Jason Todd. From the outside, you were Gotham’s picture-perfect family. But beneath the veneer of limousines and charity balls was the knowledge that every night Bruce put on the cowl, he wrestled with the darkness that consumed his city. It didn't bother you in the beginning—you knew Batman and Bruce were one; you couldn't ask him to leave the suit behind in favor for your family. But when that call came through—saying that Jason had gone missing, changed everything

Your heart has never felt heavier, not in the far corners of childhood loneliness nor in the quiet heartbreak of the many nights Bruce spent alone on the streets. You never knew grief could taste this bitter—tainted by the helpless anger now threading through your every breath. The walls of Wayne Manor seem to loom around you, suffocating and full of shadows. The place once felt like home; now feels like a mausoleum.

Outside, rain spatters the windows, each drop a dull percussion to the cacophony in your head. You’re standing near the fireplace, hands balled into fists, knuckles white with tension. Across the room, Bruce stares at you. His posture is rigid, arms stiff at his sides. The family painting you had commissioned is hung on the far wall, and seeing it cause fresh tears to fall. Jason, your son—dead.

“I can’t believe this, Bruce,” you say, voice shaking with rage. “He was our son. Our boy. And you’re telling me there’s nothing you can do?”

He closes his eyes briefly, as though trying to steady himself. “You know I want justice,” he says, voice low and rough. “But I have—Batman has—rules.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood. That single phrase, Batman has rules, ignites something in you, the memory of your son’s laughter mixing with the image of his lifeless body. “Do you think I care about Batman’s rules right now?” The words rip from your throat. “Don’t you dare throw your precious code at me! This isn’t about your crusade—this is about avenging the murder of our child.”

Bruce’s jaw tightens. His hands clench, the only outward sign he’s losing his carefully placed composure. “Gotham can’t fall into anarchy. I made a vow never to cross that line—”

“I can’t believe you’re more concerned about crossing lines than ending the one monster who took him from us!” you shout, voice echoing in the large room. “That clown…that monster is roaming free—he’ll do it again, Bruce. He will. And you won’t do anything?”

Lightning flashes outside, illuminating the tension. The fireplace flickers, and for an instant, you see every etched line on Bruce’s face—the strain, the sorrow, and the anger. He steps closer, each footfall echoing in the hush.

“You think I’m not doing anything?” he hisses, voice tremoring with a swirl of agony and indignation. “Every night, I go out there, I chase him, I stop him from harming someone else. But I don’t kill. Because if I do it once—just once—there’s no going back. The city will have lost its symbol of hope. I will have lost myself.”

You hurl the words at him, your voice trembling, “Symbols don’t matter more than life! More than Jason’s life! Don’t you want the Joker to suffer? Don’t you want to see him punished for what he did?”

“He’ll be punished by the law,” Bruce insists, though the confidence he’s trying to project is thin. “He’s going to Arkham—”

“Arkham?” you bark a laugh that feels like it tears you open from the inside. “He’ll escape again. He always does. You know it. I know it. And the cycle goes on, more people die, more children are orphaned, more families are broken. How many more Jasons? How many more nights do we have to grieve?”

He breathes hard through his nose, turning away as if to gather the scattered fragments of composure. “It’s not that simple—”

“Maybe it is that simple,” you say quietly, your initial anger collapsing into sorrow. “Maybe I just have to accept that what you wear at night means more to you than the life we built…than the son we raised together.”

You see the pain slice through him like a physical wound. He’s trembling, fists in tight knots at his sides, face set in grim lines. “Don’t do that,” he warns in a near whisper. “Don’t question how much I loved him. Don’t say this is about not caring. God, you know I cared. I love him. But I refuse to become the very thing I despise.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” you ask, voice breaking. “Just stand by and let the system fail us again? Let the Joker walk free in six months, only to put someone else in a grave? I…I can’t do this. I can’t keep standing by.”

He takes a step closer, the space between you so thick with tension it’s almost tangible. Then he hesitates, gaze flicking over your features, and you see it clearly—a snap of anger flaring in him.

“You don’t understand me,” he spits in frustration. “You never did. You fell in love with the man behind the mask, but you never understood why the mask exists in the first place.” His voice is a tremulous roar in the hush. “You claim to know me, to love me, but you’d see me become a murderer?”

Every word that leaves his mouth strikes with precision, forcing your eyes to sting with tears you fight to keep at bay. “I’m not asking you to become anything,” you manage, voice raw. “I’m asking you to do what any father—any husband—would do. I’m asking you to show the Joker that he can’t take everything we have without real consequences.”

Your pleas dangle in the silence. You wait, though your heart already feels like it’s shattering. Bruce’s lips part, but no words come. You see the torment running through his mind, the moral lines he’s drawn over and over again since he first became the Batman. And you see the part of him that wants to agree with you, that wants to break the Joker and end the nightmare. But that war rages behind his eyes, and you realize he will not cross that line, no matter how deep the wound.

The hush that ensues is deafening. Finally, Bruce tears his gaze from yours. In that final, wordless moment, you understand each other too well. His morality—his vow—stands as an unbreakable wall between you, between him and vengeance, between your love and the path that would bring you both finality.

You brush past him, feeling the heat radiate off his body even as the chill of his rigid stance sets in. The only sound is your ragged breathing and the patter of the rain outside.

Days turn into weeks, and you sleep in separate bedrooms. Though you both wander the Manor’s halls like ghosts, you barely speak. And when you do, conversations are clipped and tinged with bitterness. Alfred’s gentle attempts at bridging the gap only highlight the chasm.

Gotham’s nights still see Batman swooping through the city, chasing down criminals, returning them to Arkham. It’s all the same routine that took your son away, all the same cycle that left Jason’s place at the dinner table forever empty.

The day of Jason’s funeral arrives. You stand in front of his headstone—Jason Todd Wayne, beloved son. Bruce stands next to you, silent as a statue. The city’s skyline is stark behind you both. The weight of finality sinks in: he is truly gone. And the man you love, whose eyes reflect unspeakable pain, remains as resolute as ever in the vow that distances him from you.

In that moment, sorrow merges with conviction; you realize you can’t be with him like this. You can’t reconcile yourself to it. You can’t keep watching him throw criminals back into Arkham only for them to escape. You can’t watch him refuse the final step, the step you desperately believe in, to save another family from this torment.

You quietly take off the ring Bruce gave you—polished titanium, etched with your initials. You slip it into his hand, fingers closing over his palm, and brush away the tears that fall freely now.

“Bruce,” you whisper, voice thick with grief, “I can’t stand at your side after this. What you’re doing, how you’re not ending it. Maybe it’s noble. Maybe it makes you a hero. But I can’t live with it. Not after Jason.”

He looks at the ring, the bright metal in his gloved hand. He doesn’t speak, his throat too tight with emotion. You think for a moment he’ll protest—that he’ll reach for you, try to fix what’s broken—but he doesn’t. Perhaps he knows, deep inside, that his unyielding lines will never coincide with yours now.

Months later, in a quiet lawyer's office, the finalization of your divorce is as cold and pragmatic as signing any legal form. The media never gets wind of it—the Wayne name shields such intimate heartbreak behind well-guarded gates. You walk away from the building's room with finality. Nothing left to say.

You remember Bruce once whispering, We do what we must for Gotham, for justice. But for you, the definition of justice had changed irrevocably the day you lost Jason. There is no bridging the distance between your brand of justice and Batman’s unwavering line.

In the hush of your new apartment, boxes half-unpacked, you find a small photo of you, Bruce, and Jason on a rare sunny day by the Manor gardens. Jason’s grin is broad, unstoppable—the future once felt so boundless. You press the photo to your chest, letting the wave of grief pass over you like a slow tide, your tears falling onto a cardboard box top.

[alchemistdoctor]

Tim starts off stiff, assuming he's just been kidnapped, but these two are chatting with him like they know him, and not in the Harley Quinn "I talk to everyone like this" way.

And then there is a giant. Fucking. Werewolf.

"Uh, nice to, um. Meet. See? You?" he tries, flustered and stuttering more than usual because he is being sniffed. Being sniffed is weird. Especially when done this intently.

"Ĉi tiu ne Danny," the wolf growls, and the boy beside Tim stiffens. Tim sighs, holding both his hands up.

"Jen kio mi prov dir al ili!"

Danny searches the whole alley before yelping when a shadow drops down behind him. He knows who it is - no ghost sense plus bat shaped shadow, in Gotham?

He rounds on the shadow, fists clenched. "What did you do to my friends?!"

Batman seems surprised at this. And oddly - hm. Danny thinks he may have died before, but in like, a distant way. Alternate time-line, maybe. It's enough for Danny to sense the lack of aggression, anyway, the way the intent-to-fight had immediately lessened upon seeing his face. "I did nothing. Your friends took another child with them. I was asked to find out what had happened and retrieve them."

Danny tastes desperation and love and family on the edges of his senses, and takes a really deep breath, lets it out slow. "Okay, I am gonna ask just one question. Please tell me I'm wrong, but." He straightens, meets Batman's mask. "Do I look like Robin?"

The emotions flickering through the alley make him groan. "Oh god. My friends stole Robin thinking he was me. Fuck. How does this happen?!" He throws his hands up in the air. "How the hell is my life the sort of life where my friends steal Robin on accident?!"

Batman radiates amused and indignant and an edge of panic, and Danny sighs, deflating. "Don't worry. My friends can keep a secret. So can I. And I'll help get him back, but first-" he holds up a finger. "You gotta take care of the anti-ecto acts. He won't be safe otherwise. He's been to the Infinite Realms, he's definitely exposed enough to be liminal at the least."

"Oh," says Batman, and Danny is confused at the tone before Batman's cowl makes some funny chittering sounds, and Danny realizes it's an initial. He panics for a moment, but the sounds are too high pitched to be a man on the comms. He can't help being tense, though.

The chittering goes on for a while. Danny waits as Batman radiates a series of faint emotions: impatience, horror, rage, determination. Finally he nods once. "Make a report to the League. I want Wonder Woman on this right away. Set up a meeting on the Watchtower."

Danny's eyes flash green with sudden excitement. "CAN I COME?" The question wasn't voluntary, it just happened. He squeaks and tries to explain, "I mean, I can answer questions? And I really really like space, like so much-"

Batman grunts and walks toward the alley entrance. Danny skitters after, excited.

Two minutes later, a portal tears open in the alley. A giant wolf-man steps through with three children. The goth girl shouts loudly, "DANNY!! DANNY!!"

The kid with a coffee steps forward, looking at something stuck to the alley wall, and slumps. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

[Bruce left a scratched sigil, just a calling card in case Tim came back, when he jumped from the roof. Tim is exasperated that everyone panicked this quickly- he was gone for FIFTEEN MINUTES, CALM DOWN, HE CAN HANDLE HIMSELF. Oracle is neck deep in AEA stuff so has not noticed their return. Wulf is sniffing. He can scent Danny. And someone who smells like angst and exhaustion.]

Mistakes Were Made

It's always Danny getting mistaken for a Wayne, and ends up getting dragged into the bats' lives. What if instead of that though Tim gets mistaken for Danny, and now has to deal with ghost stuff.

Danny, Sam, and Tucker are in Gotham because Clockwork needs them to get something, talk to Lady Gotham, or whatever reason you want. While there though the three of them end up spilt up with plans to meet up in the alley behind a coffee shop nearby in a couple hours.

Coincidentally, that is the same time Tim likes to go and get himself some coffee from that very shop.

Sam and Tucker by this time have already arrived, and are just waiting on Danny when they see Tim walking past; whom they assume is Danny. The fact that Danny is seemingly wearing different clothes from when they last saw them doesn't even concern them at all. Their friend must have just needed a disguise for something. Obviously!

Tim takes a mental note when he hears people talking in the alley, but when a voice happily calls out to someone named "Danny" he doesn't pay it anymore mind. He has a coffee that's not going to order itself after all.

The voice calls out to this Danny person once more, and the voice is much closer to him this time. Curiosity getting the better of him he stops and looks back only for a teen around his age wearing a red hat to grab his arm. The stranger is talking at him a mile a minute as he drags them back into the alley where a goth girl is waiting. A small glowing marble sits in her hand.

To help Sam, Tucker, and Danny get back to Infinite Realms, Clockwork gave them something that would open a portal wherever they are. All they need to do is throw it onto a large surface, and a portal will appear for a few seconds; enough time for all of them to enter it.

"It's about time you show up, Danny!" The girl says while looking directly at him.

Tim doesn't even have any time to react before she is throwing the glowing marble at the brick wall, and a bright green, Lazarus green, portal opens up and he is being pushed inside of it.

Just as the portal disappears behind the three of them Danny comes rushing into the alley only to see no one there, and that immediately worries him because while Tucker might have been late as well; Sam wouldn't have been.

Meanwhile, Barbara is panicking because every single tracker and electrical device on Tim has simultaneously disconnected. She knows Tim likes to frequent a certain coffee shop at this time, and pulls up all the security cameras with the building in view.

She doesn’t like what she finds, and she assumes the blurry figure that enters and exits the alley soon after will have some more concrete answers for what happened to Tim.

[hopefullyyoursmcg]

Routine!Reader Relationship with the Batfamily:

Bruce Wayne:

The relationship between Routine!reader and Bruce is similar to most of the neglected reader fiction you would read.

You were taken in just a few months after the death of Jason. So Bruces couldn’t emotionally take care of the reader. He did provide for them as they grew. He would have dinner with them. He would give them his card if they asked for it. But that was about it. He just provided financially and had meals with the reader.

As time went on, though, and the family grew, the reader began to stop attending the dinners and, more or less, just stayed on their side of the manor. They learned how to cook themselves through YouTube and TV shows.

Due to the reader's emotionless and stern mind, during those dinners where rountine! reader was forced to attend, the reader doesn’t feel much to Bruce. She just sat and ate, and then she would leave to go and plan her week.

The routine reader doesn’t call Bruce, dad or father, as she doesn’t view him as anything but the man who took her in. That was it.

When she left, Bruce only realized until the next family dinner, as you weren’t seated at your usual spot at the end of the table.

Dick Greyson:

Dick was going through the loss of Jason and was going through all sorts of things at the time, not to mention he was already living in Bloodhaven so Dick didn’t interact with reader a lot in the first place.

Dick didn’t acknowledge Routine reader during the first few years she lived at the manor.

However, as the family grew and he began to visit more often, there were times during the few dinners that the reader was forced to attend by Alfred when Dick would try to talk to them, try to get them to be a part of the family dinner. But the reader would just give him only a few hums and short answers.

The reader reminded Dick a lot about Bruce, as she carried a sort of mysterious and quiet aura. Dick is trying to be a good brother now, he tries his best to be better and be around everyone, but with you, it's like you don’t even see him.

After the reader started Uni, there were times when reader would see dick, walking around campus looking for something, but you just ignored him and quietly walked to class.

Little did you know he was looking for you.

But when you graduated, you were missing from the manor . It was like you disappeared.

“where are you dove?”

Jason Todd

 As I said you were brought in when he was dead.

But after being alive, and coming back for vengeance, you were safe due to the fact of your neglect, as Jason didn’t see you around Bruce and the media did not pay attention to you.

After the vengeance arc, the first time you and Jason are in the library. You were doing your homework.

When I say this was your first meeting, it was more like Jason watching you for the first time. When you heard someone walk through the doors of the library, you didn’t even look up, as you were focused on what you had to do for school so you had time to go and cook your lunch.

Jason was neutral about you at first. Alfred had informed him that Bruce had taken in a biological child of his and was raising them and it wasn't like he went to the manor and stayed for long.

What got him hooked was your cooking.

During one of his occasional fridge raids in the manor, he found you cooking some pork chops.

After some silence, you asked if he wanted any or if he was just going to stand there like an idiot.

After that, whenever he enters the manor, he looks for you and tries to get you to cook for him.

Most of the time you ignored him or just leave the room when he enters.

After he found out that you left, Jason was wandering why. University? Nope. He found out through one of your friends Instagram post that you had graduated months ago.

If that’s the case, why did you leave?

Tim Drake:

Tim is one of the greatest detectives in Gotham if not the world.

Yet for some reason, he can't get any information about you.

(This is because you don’t use social media at all, but that doesn’t mean you don’t appear on it.)

When Tim first became Robin at 13 and living with Bruce after gaining custody, you were 12. Due to his stalking research on Batman, he already knew that Bruce had a biological child, but he was too busy carrying the title of Robin that he didn’t have time to address you.

After a while, the two of you would eventually meet face-to-face. You were in the kitchen making coffee when Tim walked in. You noticed him eyeing your coffee so you moved out of the way to let him grabb the freshly made coffee pot.

Your first interaction with each other wasn't anything worthwhile, you just ignored him after that.

But to Tim, this was the start of something new. When seeing you for the very first time, he wanted to know more about you. Why did you act the way you did, why you didn’t seem to care about simple matters or big matters, why you didn’t react to the world around you? Why, why why, why.

As you grew up, Tim would gradually try to learn things about you, after failing to find you on social media because you don’t have any, he found your friends and saw that in all of them, you had the same face, same body posture, and no reaction. Nothing seemed to change. Why?

Were you abused before coming into the manor? No. Past reports indicate no abuse of any kind and that you were raised by hard-working mom who didn’t seem to cause any problems.

As he began to observe you more as the both of you grew older, the more of an obsession he had of you. Every day he would try to learn something new about you, and when he was able to find the rare detail, it was like a fucking rush of dopamine.

When you leave without a trace.

Now he wonders, where did you go? What are you hiding now?

Damion Wayne

Many people say that Damion would attack a neglected reader to show dominance as the better heir and blood child.

This does happen. When they first meet each other.

Routine! reader would be 16 when she meets the 10-year-old assassin for the very first time.

Bruce introduces Rountie! reader to Damion after a few days of him living in the manor. The meeting is placed in one of the living rooms where both Bruce and Alfred are present.

The routine reader does raise an eyebrow when she hears that the little goblin that’s glaring at her is her new little biological brother, but besides that, she just nods her head. Damion on the other hand decides to fight for dominance as the better-blood sibling and immediately attacks with a dagger.

Thankfully due to Alfred training the reader in self-defense, she was able to keep Damion from attacking her until Alfred and Bruce stepped in.

After that it was agreed on, for now, Damion and Routine!reader would be kept separated from each other until further notice.

After that, it was rare for the two siblings to be seen next to each other, and if they did happen to be in the same room. Routine!reader would pretty much treat him like everyone else, ignore him. Damion on the other hand would stare at you with a glare.

Due to this kind of relationship, the two of you didn’t know anything about each other.

All Damion saw was a pathetic excuse of a human, an unworthy successor.

And all Routine!reader saw was a green eyed goblin.

When Rountine!reader finally left, Damion didn’t really care that much.

He was confused when everyone started freaking out about you disappearing. So what?

That was until a child was discovered in your arms.

Cassandra Cain and Stephine Brown:

Honestly, these two both admire you.

The way you speak, the way you carry yourself. The way you dress.

Cassandra especially likes you as both of you struggle with expressing emotions. Whenever there's a family dinner or an event where both of you are attending, she tries to talk to you by sign language or through body language.

Despite you like being left alone and not seeing the family as a family, you did see that Cassandra wanted to just talk and to be with you.

The two of you would speak in sign language until the event or dinner was over and you would excuse yourself and leave for the day.

Overall, I think despite wanting to be left alone, Routine reader doesn’t mind Cassandra's presence as she doesn’t bother her with stupid questions or stares. They just sit there and talk with their hands and body language.

Stephine on the other hand, being the loud and head-first spirit she is, wants to talk to you about everything. Where did you get the shoes, clothes, and everything else you have? Do you like to shop? Tries to get you to shop with her. using Bruce's card.

On a deeper level, Stephine likes how elegant and quiet you are I think she had a type,  you don’t let people talk down to you, and come up with the coolest backhanded comments. Legit makes her laugh whenever she sees you put high-end ladies in their place.

When you suddenly disappear, Stephine is freaking out while Cassandra is trying to calm her down. They want to know where you are. Did they do something, why aren’t you in your usual place?

Please don’t leave them.

[thesunwillshineonusagain757]

I have an AU that I though up and it makes me squeal every time I think about it. What if Clark found Conner, but instead of being a teenager, he was a newborn?

Naturally, Clark would panic — he's never dealt with anything like this before. Him having been a child at one point being his extent of experience with children. His first instinct is to call his parents, but this isn’t just a Clark Kent problem —it’s a Superman problem.

So, in a moment of desperation, he turns to the only person he thinks might be able to see the bigger picture: in comes Batman.

It results in Bruce comes back to the Batcave after a long night of fighting the Riddler. He’s tired, maybe even a little annoyed, and what does he find? Superman sitting on the floor of the cave, cradling a crying infant, pleading softly, “Please don’t cry, because if you do, I will too.”

Bruce doesn’t know what to do at first — he’s completely out of his element crying Kryptonian and all — but he can’t exactly say no when a baby is involved, especially a half-Kryptonian one.

Safe to say, Dick is immediately obsessed with the baby and spends all his free time playing with him. Meanwhile, Bruce and Clark’s relationship takes a surprising turn. Because if there’s two things Bruce Wayne is known for, it’s his baby fever and his obsession with Kryptonians.

[duskdog]

Wondering, vaguely, if Steph's age had any influence on how Bruce viewed/interacted with her.

She was 15 when he met her, and would have been 16-extremely-close-to-17 (I am personally a "Steph was 17" truther because the timeline doesn't actually work otherwise; I would call the 16 an error, but it's what's stated in canon, so...) when she became Robin and died. That's significantly different than Dick and Damian, who came to Bruce quite young, and even Tim and Jason, who were a little older but still not as old as Steph when they first came under Bruce's wing. (I think it's important to remember that, until adulthood, even just a couple of years can make an enormous difference in development and how a child views/interacts with adults. 16 can potentially be very different than 13.)

I imagine there must be a difference between working with a Robin who is literally a child, and one who's very nearly an adult. Particularly Steph, who had been parentified from a fairly young age and very likely felt much older than her actual years at times.

Honestly, we'll probably never know for sure because their time together as Batman and Robin was so short... and because of the other, bigger factors that influenced their relationship: namely the fact that she was disposable to him as Robin (not as in "he was okay with her dying", but as in "he was only using her as Robin to achieve a goal and wasn't at all concerned with her feelings or well-being in that respect"). And of course, her gender, because that would also have influenced how they interacted, regardless of whether either of them wanted it to or not.

More interestingly, though, is the method by which Steph became Robin. She and Tim were the only "proactive" Robins -- the ones who came to Bruce with knowledge/intent, rather than being children he chose to take in and eventually mentor (and Damian, who was raised for the mantle, but from Bruce's perspective just sort of got dropped on his doorstep). And Steph is the only Robin who had any experience operating as a vigilante prior to her time as Robin. Even before she became Spoiler, she already had knowledge and understanding of the world of masks and capes thanks to her father's shenanigans.

We know that Bruce is very stubborn and often single-minded, himself. Love him or hate him, I don't think many people would deny that he very much always expects to be the smartest and most capable person in the room. (After all, he often is.) He frequently clashes with his peers, and often refuses outside help, particularly when it comes to his own "territory".

The Robins have historically been different, because they're his. He inherently has a position of power over them due to their ages and his position as guardian/mentor/teacher. (Please note that I don't intend "position of power" to be negative in this case -- I intend it the same way that I'd say any parent or teacher is in a position of power over a child under their care.) He's the one in charge. He's the one doing the training. He's the one supplying the gear. And they're young. Psychologically, this is a very different dynamic than Batman interacting with, say, Green Arrow (using them as parallels because they are both normal human "just trained our bodies and minds to do amazing shit" heroes).

But Steph comes into this mantle as very-nearly a grown woman -- someone who has cared for her mother like a parent at times, someone who has taken responsibility for her father's crimes onto herself, someone who has had an actual literal baby and had to make the extremely adult choice about what would be best for that baby and for herself. She has never depended on Bruce Wayne for food or shelter or affection. She has never depended on him for training (he did train her for a while, and she was happy about it, but remember -- he approached her -- and when he ghosted her, she actively sought out training elsewhere, so she knows he's clearly not the only game in town). She started as Spoiler with nothing but her own homemade costume and gear she cobbled together, and she continued as Spoiler on her own in defiance of him. He definitely had power over her in a way -- that is, influencing how other Gotham vigilantes thought of her and treated her, to the point of trying to directly forbid Cass from interacting with her -- but not in the way of a father over a daughter, or an adult over a child, or even a hero over a sidekick (until she became Robin). Steph made Spoiler all by herself. And she stayed Spoiler mostly by herself, without much support (what support she did get was shaky and/or didn't last). And she came to Bruce and put herself forward as Robin, as a nearly-17-year-old who was already psychologically an adult in at least some ways.

That has to have a real impact on how they would interact. Steph is frequently described as stubborn and defiant as Robin, but she's operating as sort-of an adult with her own independence and agency in a way that the other Robins were not when they first became Robin. Meanwhile, Bruce is used to dealing with new Robins as children/fledglings. The initial Batman-and-Robin-as-partners growing pains for each of the other three Robins up until that point would have had a very, very different tone than that same growing pains period for Bruce and Steph.

Which is sort of a shame, because I think they would have eventually realized that they have a lot in common. And that even some of their differences could have actually been good for their partnership. (For instance, when Steph realized she had been chattering in his ear all night back during her first mentorship and was mortified, and Bruce basically told her it's fine, keep talking, he sort of liked it? I think he actually meant that.)

[need-a-name-101]

Started the Lego Batman movie. I am watching it for the first time and can I just say it is not what I expected it to be like what the fuck. Spoilers if you are like me and haven’t watched this movie which came out in 2017.

• the movie opens with batman narrating a black screen and the music and the logos

• he calls himself superman’s kryptonite in the first minute

• the text reading.

“If you want to make the world a better place take a look at your self and make a change Hoo” - Batman

•The I am batman song

• the entire speech to the joker about how there is no “us” like bro what is this your homoerotic relationship

• The pilot looking at the joker and thinking he made up a lot of the villains names.

• the whole batman as the mayor thing I can’t-

• ‘Puter seriously this man is so extra

• the mirowave scene

• one of his passwords is Iron Man sucks

• the No no no meme

• Alfred the butler with two t’s

• batman hiss is at the sun( he’s a vampire confirmed)

• Adopts a kid aka Dick Grayson because he is checking out Babs. Like talk about accidental child accusation

• the fact that they were able to call Richard Dick without losing the Pg rating. I swear what the hell.

• the costume changes. Like bro what the fuck.

• I forgot that fact that in the I am batman song a line is I am totally not Bruce Wayne like how is you ID still a secret.

• Joker doing yoga in prison what the fuck.

• Batman says his thoughts out loud like his super mind

• he just hates superman

• Alfred ligit read a parenting book to take care of a grown adult man

• the call back to the old batman media

• Bruce ‘Gotham’s most eligible bachelor for the past 90 years’ Wayne

• he lives on an island

• this grown man but the word bat in front of every thing he owns

• Batman lives in Bruce Wayne’s basement no Bruce Wayne lives in batman’s attic bruh

• “me and Bruno share custody of you” and Dick being like I had no dad then one dad now two dads (Bruce Wayne is dating Batman confirmed)

• dick tears of the suits pants and Bruce being like I can’t look at you right now

• Dick called batman Dad , Bat-dad, Padre and Papa I can’t what the fuck

•Batman is a outcast from the league that’s so sad Alexa play despasito

• Emo-batman

•I can’t get over the fact how he says Vigilante

•joker and batman wtfff

•what in the cross over is this I love it

[reubyanne]

Dick just discover that his cool funny uncle supes is single, and his single since birth dad is getting cranky day by day. if the grown up won't do anything, then the kid is in action.

with the help of his friends that in relationships, and some little advice talk with Dinah, he decide to stepped in his dad's love life.

step one, get the cool uncle attention!

Kon: uh, are you sure about this dick? i mean, this is a 77 story building..

Dick: I've never been so sure in my whole life, kon! push me!

Kon: okay, here goes nothing.

Superman comes and save Dick, he flies him to the rooftop and meet Kon there.

Superman: okay, Superboy is here, and why you don't use your grappling, boy wonder? this is a 77 story building!

Yes, Dick get his attention. and yes, he and Kon get an hour long lecture.

step two, make his hopeless dad and the cool uncle to meet.

Dick bring Kon to the batcave, it's not his first time in there, heck, Kon is dating Tim. Dick basically his in law. and maybe that's why he allowed himself to get dragged here and there with Dick.

but, it's Kon's first time near the monitor. and by intel from agent A, Batman just arrived at the Manor.

Dick: quick! press this!

Kon: what will happen if i press that?! I don't want to get more lecture!

Dick: just believe me! do you want my blessing or not?!

Kon: right.

As soon as Kon pressed the emergency button that right directed to Superman, the batcave lift open. And Superman is already flying in a hurry and worry on his face.

Superman: Br-Batman! are you alright?! it's not like you to push emergency! are you bleeding? dying?

Batman: well, it its not me though.

he pointed to Dick and Kon that trying to running away.

Batman: Grayson, Kent.

Dick knew he fucked up when Batman call his real last name, and Kon feel it too.

Superman: oh it's you two again..

Batman: again? what do they did?

Superman: well, little bird right here trying to fly, from a 77 story building with no grappling, in Metropolis.

Batman: Grayson-Wayne, speak.

Okay, Batman is mixed his last name, it mean he doesn't that mad anymore.

Dick: well, i just.. want to get supes attention! and maybe, maaaybe.. i could.. help you two.. you know.. like Kon and Tim.

Kon: dude, stop dragged me in..!

Batman sigh, maybe this is the time.

Batman: Dick, me and clark.. already in a relationship.

not only Dick, Kon is also surprised.

Dick: w-what do you mean B? i.. I mean..!

Batman: Dick, I'm not a child, either is clark. and I'm not kind of person to do PDA and clark respect it.

Superman: i personally want to tell you boys in private but seems like i already got your approval huh, Dick?

Dick: but didn't you just got single?! did you dip that easy?!

Superman: wow, hold on there, chum.. me and Bruce has been best friend for years and years.. amd when my relationship is not working out, the only person i could think of as a home is.. Bruce.

Dick: that didn't explain anything but great to know! well, me and Kon have to go now, bye dads!

Batman: wait.

just before Dick and Kon could run away from the cave, Batman cold voice cutting their legs.

Batman: let's get back to the ".. like Tim and Kon" sentence.. are you dating my Robin, Kent?

Kon: *whisper* please tell Tim that i love him!

Dick: chill, my other dad is your brother, remember!!

Superman: *shielding them* wait there, B. what's wrong with Tim and Kon dating?

Batman: there's nothing wrong with it.

Superman: so why did you mad?

Batman: I'm not mad.

Dick: i see you sulking, B.

Kon: wow, you're not helping, dude!

Batman frowned,

Batman: you two better wash the batmobile, don't leave any crumbs or dust and wax it two layers. now.

Dick n Kon: aye aye!!

as Dick and Kon run for their life, Superman just chuckles.

Superman: i see you sulking, B. is that because you discover your kid in a relationship this way?

Batman: no.

Superman: i see you're calling Tim right now, B.

Batman: ... i have mission for his team.

Superman just laughed.

Superman: sure, sure.. wanna grab a dinner together later? in Metropolis, i pay.

Batman: ... ... ... as long as the place is clean and the food is good, i can dine in no fancy restaurant.

Superman: well, you should because I can't take your princess ass to eat caviar with my reporter salary. is 7 p.m doable for the Gotham's knight?

Batman: accepted.

Superman: what about your patrol?

Batman: *point to Dick and Kon that wiping batmobile shiny.* they can do.

[navree]

i wanted what any father wants for his son ... hope. happiness. a future of never wanting or regretting something he could never have again ...

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 138

Danny squints up at the blurry form cradling him, brain trying to catch up with his situation. He can feel the pulse of his siblings’ cores nearby, gently pulsing contentedly despite the chaos of his last memories. His limbs feel too small and pudgy, too-small fingers gripping onto something as his vision started to clear. 

There was a man, holding him? Cradling his too-small form like he was an infant- was he an infant? He was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to be, he had been older but now he wasn’t. He squinted up at the stranger, green eyes meeting green. Huh. They kind of looked like he could be their dad or something. 

[littlefankingdom]

The Batman fandom infantilizing a near 30 years old white man taking in a child, saying he was a brother more than a father as if he wasn't a full grown adult taking in a child he could have birthed, but parentifying a brown young adult taking in his brother pre-teen for less than a year, saying he was a father more than a brother (only a year is barely enough but ok), or saying he was more a father to his other brothers than Bruce, when he met them when he was 18 and 21 is making me uncomfortable, ngl.

Like, Bruce is a "kid" when he became Dick's guardian when he canonically was over 25 (he started being Batman at 25), and a brother to him when he raised him for 10 years (and Dick probably has not many memories from before Bruce now), but Dick is a "father" to Damian he only had as his charge for less than a year, half of which they were fighting each others??? Make it make sense???

[autisticrosewilson]

So do you guys actually think that Jason's entire story, relationship to the others, and philosophy amounts to him being a rebellious teen who wants his dad's attention? Like are you 100% serious? I thought you were joking about that but too many of you are saying it with your whole chest.

And what the fuck is this "Bruce antagonizing Jason is fanon!" Shit I've been seeing? You guys are aware that a parent can love their kid and still be a shit parent right? I know you guys don't want to fathom the thought that maybe your blorbo might also occasionally have to face responsibility for consistently endangering children but let's not start being delusional now.

Bruce does love his kids, that doesn't mean that he hasn't hurt them. And I'd also argue that for the most part he feels in the right for it, and he's said multiple times that he believes it's for their own good, so you can't even argue that he's sorry about it. It's okay for you guys to admit that your PERSONAL INTERPRETATION of the character wouldn't do that but don't sit here and pretend that it's not a facet of the source.

[hijinxinprogress]

Coffee addict Never sleeps Tim drake ❌ 

Solving cases in his sleep off 87 energy drinks Tim Drake ✅

The coffee addict never sleeps perpetually tired Tim Drake thing is a widely accepted headcanon however that was elementary school tim but after he stayed up for a week straight subsisting entirely on coffee to decipher the bat weekly patrol schedule and how it aligns with rogue attacks/Arkham breakouts, he crashed then when he woke up it was fucking wednesday so he missed his chance to commemorate his discovery with pictures of Robin and he decided that shit would never happen again and made himself an ‘efficient’ sleep schedule so he could run around doing fuck shit, add to his robin shrine, and stay on honor roll bc he was even more pissed to see the gotham gazette had pictures of Robin with an on site interview credited to Vicki Vale (listen bowl cut tim had a one sided beef with vicki vale that included tim judging who gets better pics of the bats but she isn’t even aware that she’s competing with a whole ass child 😭 he’s sitting at the table with a mug of orange juice and looks at the newspaper snorts and goes ‘fucking amateur I could do better’) 

Regularly unsupervised tiny businessman in training Tim ‘Ten hours of uninterrupted sleep?? That’s so inefficient not to mention fucking stupid’ Drake is so pissed he missed getting shots of Robin dropkicking a rogue from 6 six stories up (for absolutely no reason dick just thinks it’s fun) that he just takes at least 3 hour naps every eight hours 😭 he refuses to spend almost half a day sleeping ‘for no reason when he could be doing something productive’ 

And he still does this as a bat but it’s just easier to tell if he didn’t take his nap bc he has less than zero impulse control and he’s just fucking done with everything like the gcpd is terrified bc tim’s saying shit like ‘This guys a fucking moron, I could’ve done this in half the time without killing anyone fucking loser doesn’t he know if you keep them alive you can prolong the torture?’ and ‘you’re like all hysterical and for what 🤨 ‘you blew up 83% of Bristol waah’ stfu and fucking rebuild it?? It’s only rich mfs that live there, it’s just a matter of them opening their fucking wallets’ once a new recruit made the mistake of asking if robin had adult supervision regularly and Tim responded with ‘well if you’re gonna snitch to cps like a little bitch then yeah’ and that cop did snitch so tim fucking doxxed him

Yj has just accepted that sometimes they will find tim in an air vent, on the roof, in one of their closets, or something just fucking knocked out then an alarm will go off and he’ll just get up like nothing happened but for the first couple of months they were probably concerned bc ‘I’ve never seen you sleep?? wtf are you on man’ and Tim’s confused bc ‘I slept next to you this morning wdym??’ and that’s how yj discovers tim sleeps with his eyes open

But one of the worst things about Tim’s ‘time efficient sleep schedule’ nonsense is that it fucking works he’s one of the most well rested and coherent bats even after back to back Arkham breakouts however the absolute worst thing about his sleep schedule is the likelihood of going into the cave and seeing tim staring in a daze but wide eyed yet somehow never blinking at the batcomputer with 57 tabs open on top of being unresponsive and thinking he has a fucking concussion or he’s been replaced but he’s just doing case work while muttering nonsense in his fucking sleep for some reason

[martyrbat]

batman and superman vs vampires and werewolves #2

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

Are you guys telling me that in one of the more modern comics explaining backstories Bruce just. Literally kidnaps Jason. Has him tied up in the batcave and gives him sandwiches. Is this real. Guys. Guys is this real. For realzies?

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Broke: everyone fights over whose Batman’s favorite

Woke: everyone fights over whose Dicks favorite bc Dick isn’t an emotionally stunted loser (I shit talk Bruce so much but I love him, he’s just also a loser) and trying to get in the bats favor is like trying to catch sand in a sieve

————

Damian: obviously I’m Graysons favorite I was his Robin

Tim: dude I was the first Robin he trained and we still talk every day I am 100% the favorite

Steph: fuck you! You disappeared off the the face of the earth when he was Batman I was actually here I’m 100% the favorite everyone knows Wing loves me.

Jason: Dick willingly went to Gotham to spend time with me even when he was mad at Bruce. Has Dick ever been in Gotham when he was mad at Bruce for you guys? No? Didn’t think so?

Damian: ….

Steph:…

Tim: that’s because you sucked so much he thought you’d get blown up trying to have to bludhaven.

Jason: oi! Low blow, you can’t use a man’s death against him

Damian: shut up we’ve all died before

Steph: you literally said you were allowed to break Tim’s laptop bc you died b4

Jason: yeah it’s MY DEATH I can use it how I want

Tim: we really gonna call your 14yr old 4’7 self a man?

Cass: he helped me train when B rejected me I’m the favorite

Tim: you can’t be Dicks favorite you’re already Bab’s favorite those are the only 2 likable older members of the family. (They’ve decided Alfred doesn’t count since he’s legally not allowed to have favorites)

Dick: Duke is my favorite

Damian: what?

Tim: how?

Jason: this shit is rigged

Steph: What?? You barely spend time with him?

Duke who has been eating popcorn quietly this whole time:???

Dick: he doesnt steal my suit and murder people

Jason: …

Dick: or tell his friends I threatened to send him to Arkham when I told him to get therapy

Tim:…

Dick: or break into my apartment at 3am because he can’t communicate with his father

Damian:…

Dick: or make me believe he flatlined on the operating table

Steph: …

Dick: or tell me he can’t meet up for a bust because he’s too busy fighting Wonder Woman a hero we work with over text with no context and then go AWOL for 5 days

Cass:…

Dick: or overload his plate with 50 million things I will have to come in and help with

Everyone:

Steph: he started a cult tho??

Dick: was it before or after he was fostered bc if it was before it’s. Not. My. Problem.

Duke: I’m the favorite???

Dick: also I feel like if I died you’re the most likely to take over my duties and not go on a quest for vengeance or try to clone me or put me in the Lazarus pit.

Jason: ID NEVER PUT you in the Lazarus pit…. No comment on the rest tho.

Tim: ditto

Damian: meh you are superior to Todd and he’s relatively functional post the pit I don’t see the issue here.

Steph raising hand: I wouldn’t-

Dick: or help TIM do it

Steph lowering hand:

Dick: plus you have a parent so I don’t have to do 80% of the child rearing while giving Bruce credit

Duke still a little star stuck bc that’s nightwing: IM THE FAVORITE.

[acid-ixx]

ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

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