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

[raccoonrobyn-imagines]

Now, which Robin would be the funniest to have this happen to (and which era of which robin would be the best)? Cause like, in my mind? It's funniest if they sent Dick. The funniest answer to me though? Is if it's murderous Dick when he was joining Bats as a snarky and homicidal 9 year old.

Bruce hasnt been sacrificed before due to his overwhelming competence and the fear that he causes. The first Robin? While being known to be somewhat brutal with his quadruple front flips into enemies, he is still a small child.

And that means? Bruce is absolutely going nuts over the loss of his Robin. Maybe they got separated when they were trying to get the cult arrested, and Dick ran off to do recon, and he got captured and used as the sacrifice. Maybe Dick ran off ahead without telling Batman what he was doing and got sacrificed. Maybe the summoning was nearly complete and Dick was shoving the intended sacrifice out of the circle, only to be sacrificed instead. Who knows?

So Danny giving Dick a way to contact Bruce is a good thing, but since it would take a bit of time, I love the idea that Bruce called up any magic user he knew, and asked them to help him either summon Robin back, or send Bruce and the magic user to Robin.

So could you imagine that Batman and some magic user (im thinking Constantine for this since he has a lot of experience with summonings and demons and sacrifice and all that) just appearing next to Dick while Danny is mid working on making the BatComs work with ectoplasm so Robin could call his dad.

Meanwhile danny is not panicking, he's a 15 year old, he's got this, Jazz told him that babysitting is easy, hes a fucking King, hes got this in the bag, don't worry Robin, it's all gonna be ok, no I'm not panicking, ignore my rambles. Do you have any dead relatives that he can call that can make you feel more at ease? Your parents? Sure, if you want to go and just speak into this orb, it summons any ghosts that you ask for. You don't even have to say their real name. Just say who they are to you, and they'll appear if they became a ghost and didn't end up going forward into The Beyond. That's what happens when you "rest peacefully," he guesses, you go forward onto the next stage of... existence? So if you ask for them- HOLY SHIT DID YOU ASK FOR BATMAN?!?!?!? IS BATMAN DEAD?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?! WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!

DPxDC Prompt #17

There is a room Danny's Keep he set up shortly after defeating Pariah Dark. It became necessary when the broader magical community realized Pariah had be defeated and therefore a new King took his throne. Danny found himself briefly bombarded with waves of attempted summonings.

Which, the summonings themselves, wouldn't have been so bad. Turns out people can't just drag the King of Ghosts to themselves on a whim. Danny has to actively accept a summoning to get pulled to it. And if he just decides "No," the pull and whispers go away. No problem there.

No, the problem is the offerings. And sacrifices. The things that people put in the circle as payment for even attempting to summon him. Like having to put a quarter in the payphone just to listen to it ring and ring and ring as the person on the other end of the call doesn't pick up. Since the summoning magic regarded these things as belonging to Danny even if he rejected the summons, they usually ended up just materializing in front of him if he didn't go to them.

Which, okay. It was funny that time he got to end a fight with Vlad very fast when a whole gold bar materialized and dropped on his head. And the food was nice sometimes when it was late and everywhere was closed and his parents had left samples in the fridge to contaminate everything into animation again. But the goat head dropping from the ceiling onto his desk during on of Lancer's English tests was not appreciated. Even if it did get the test rescheduled and the whole school shut down for a few days to investigate the "potentially satanic activity."

So, yeah, it was a bit of a problem. Fortunately, it was a problem with a relatively simple solution. Danny set up an inbox. With a bit of help from Tucker and Pandora, and a couple tips from Clockwork; all summoning offerings and sacrifices would now go straight to the dedicated room in the Keep.

And! As a special touch, the summoners would also get a chipper, automated voice saying, "The Ghost King you are trying to summon has more important things to do than answer you right now. Please leave a message in the circle with your name, date, location, contact information, and reason for summoning. The Ghost King will get back to you at his earliest convenience." Sam's stupid fancy girl gala voice had been perfect for that little message.

It was the perfect solution. Danny no longer had to deal with randomly materializing offerings putting his secret identity at risk. Pariah's skeletons, who had been antsy for something to do now that they were no longer bent under the thumb of a cruel tyrant, were instructed to take care of all the offerings; making sure everything was always cleaned up and put away. And all Danny had to do was stop by periodically to check in and "Officially respond" -ie, write a fuck off note- to the summoning messages (Clockwork's insistence).

A perfect solution. Up until Danny checked in one day to find the skellies pampering a whole ass boy. No. Not just any boy. Danny recognizes that costume.

"Why is Robin here?"

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Seven: another deal. another oath

tw: grief

Marco got you sick. 

Building pressure throbs between your eyes, ravaging your sinuses with tightly packed snot. It moves to your throat until you’re constantly hacking up phlegm and the pressure in your ears swells so viciously that you can hardly hear anyone over the idle chatter in the restaurant. Of course, there is no evidence to prove that it was Marco himself who got you sick. There are countless people who flood through the doors of Sapori with empty stomachs and noses running from the bitter, humid cold of London. Anyone could have gotten you sick. 

Yet, over the last week, no one has gotten as close to you as he did. Fingers digging into your arm. Legs pinning yours to the bench. Gentle hand—the hand of a killer, his hand, that brutal fucking hand—caressing the side of your face, holding you hostage. Taking, and taking, and taking—tongue shoving past your teeth—

Blurry eyes glance away from the assaulting brightness of your phone screen. Sapori is quiet; it always is this early. Early for late night dining, anyway. Half past ten, you’ve spent most of the morning cleaning every single corner of that building. It’s how you rationalize spending more hours at work even without customers—you have to keep your hands busy and cash flowing. Except, after a while, you got too dizzy to continue, so you’ve taken refuge at a lonely table. The dust and carcinogens you’ve inhaled haven’t done anything to ease your symptoms, but you can’t afford to stay idle. There are numbers to be crunched, cash to be earned, and debts to be paid. 

Which brings you back to your phone. 

Having only graduated school without any sort of higher education, your options for jobs are limited, but working one job isn’t cutting it anymore. You can either pick up more hours like you have been doing this past work, or attempt to find a job that will pay slightly more to help cover the difference in what you now owe Marco every month. You’ve been staring at hourly wages for so long you feel your eyes begin to cross, and you don’t exactly like what you’re seeing. An early morning librarian job for £10.44, coffee shop barista for £9… nothing salary. Nothing that will save you. 

“Job hunting?” 

The ache and throbbing in your ears suffocates your senses so viciously that you didn’t hear Bruce’s footsteps approach. Jumping, you stare up at him like a child caught with their hand in a cookie jar. Nothing like looking at other job postings with your boss staring over your shoulder. The embarrassment is enough to open up a black hole in your stomach where it consumes your organs bit by bit until you’re liquified. Your phone screen goes black, and you choke out a sheepish smile through the snot leaking into the back of your throat. 

“Just for a second job. Part-time,” you explain. Your voice sounds louder than his—ears too clogged to properly receive soundwaves. “Don’t worry, I’m not leaving any time soon.” 

Bruce’s mellifluous laugh is the first thing that’s warmed your soul all week. It’s contagious. He’s always been a jovial man—you’ve heard a few of the cooks call him The Italian Santa Claus because of his rosy cheeks and round stomach. The smallest of smiles flitters across your lips as he carefully takes the seat across from you with a large bowl in his hands. 

“Ah, I wouldn’t be upset if you left. Sad, yes, but everyone finds their way out of here eventually,” Bruce assures. His accent is odd. Immigrating from Italy at a young age, his vernacular is a mash of proper English, Italian, and what you’re guessing is Italian-American slang. Or, at least, that’s what you’ve been able to gather from the movies, anyway. “You’re a hard worker. Anyone would be lucky to have you.” 

A wave of tears build up behind your eyes at his words, and they’re held back by a flimsy, half formed dam. Your emotions have been strewn about in your brain all week—cluttered, sticking halfway out of folders and filing cabinets. It’s hard to shove them back when you can hardly shut the drawers. 

“Here,” he continues as he pushes the bowl toward you. The hard lines of his face soften as he watches you curiously peer at the contents. Tiny bits of pasta shaped like stars swirl around in some sort of thickened broth. “Pastina. Good for your health. You sound sick. Eat up and go home.” 

Your hand is hardly gripping the spoon when he says that, and it nearly slips out of your grasp to clatter back into the bowl. Mouth half open, you stare at Bruce with wide eyes. There’s not a single hint of maliciousness on his face—his eyes twinkle bright as he runs a hand over his balding head. Though he appears happy—proud of himself, even—you feel nothing of the sort. 

“I can’t go home,” you try to argue, but he quickly cuts you off with a wave of his hand. 

“You’re sick, and you’ve been working too much. You’ve worked more hours than I can legally give you this week, and though I don’t mind paying you under the table, it’s not exactly good for either of us. Rest, before you really make yourself sick,” he dismisses. 

Swallowing thickly, you attempt to fruitlessly hide the tremor in your voice. “But I… I really need the money.” 

It’s all you can think about. Money. Numbers This vicious counting game. How you’re going to cough up the extra cash for Marco and still have enough to feed yourself. To do anything. To live. Or worse—what happens to you if you can’t make enough? How many more times is he going to change your payments based on stupid mistakes that aren’t your fault?

Waving your words off again, Bruce stands to his feet, hands pressing flat against the swell of his stomach as he does so. “I’ll give you a raise, then.” 

Jarred, the side of your spoon taps against the edge of the bowl as you follow him with your eyes. “A raise?” 

“Sixteen,” he replies. “Should be enough. I’m tired of you working so many hours. You need to go out and be a kid before you get old and useless like me, yeah? Pick up a hobby. Hang out with that guy Bianca won’t stop talking about. He seems nice, hm? I just want you to be happy, kid. Now, eat up. You’ll feel better.” 

Bruce vanishes just as quickly as he appeared, leaving you alone with a bowl of pastina and your thoughts. It’s good that he did, because if you tried to thank him for such a gracious gesture, you’d certainly crumble. Perhaps he knew that, too. 

In a poor attempt to save yourself from crying in public, you quickly turn your attention to the food Bruce lovingly whipped up for you. Steam wafts and twirls upwards, hitting your face in a fine mist. Its flavor is difficult to discern with how congested you are, but the rich texture is enough to satiate the hole in your stomach. It always seems ever growing these days. A barren cavern; a void that wants to swallow you from the inside out. Not ravenous, just gutting. 

Maybe one day it will fill itself up again. 

For now, it grows. Slowly. Insidiously. Taking bits of you and shredding them into ribbons. They trail behind you, fluttering in the wind as you walk up the steps to your flat where they then roll down the stairs. It would look beautiful if it wasn’t for the fact that it was you. You, with quiescent feet trudging through the door. You, with the fatigued body that can hardly dress herself into pajamas. You, who curls into bed, a motherless child—a creature waiting to vanish. 

Too broke to afford cold medicine to aid you with your congestion, it takes time before you can finally fall asleep. When you do, it grips you like a vice, pinning you down, spoon feeding you dreams you haven’t been able to see with the hours you’ve been pulling at work. They’re heavy, holding your head under water, threatening to suffocate you; you can do nothing but watch. 

You dream of your mother. 

She’s folding your school uniform in the laundromat—the very same one you use as common ground to meet up with Marco. Washers swish water in their drums as dryer alarms chime the end of their cycle in terrible cacophony. Pristine white blouses become ruined with burgundy—her hands are soiled. Covered with blood. She folds, and you sit and watch her, hands tangled in string, fingers unable to move. Each fold is done with purpose. Crisp. Effortless. Blouses, skirts, and ties stack up taller than her on the table, threatening to scrape the ceiling above. 

“Throw them away,” you say, voice weak. 

She does not look at you. 

“They’re ruined. Throw them away,” you say. 

She does not look at you. 

“Did I ruin them?” she asks. 

You blink. The string around your fingers tightens. You feel them turn cold as ice. Lack of blood. Festering wounds. Irritated nail beds. An extension of the sins trapped inside of you. 

“It wasn’t you,” you murmur. 

Finally, she looks at you and you flinch. 

“Who was it?” 

Fibers snap, and the string falls free from your hands. Fluttering and dainty; it lays on the floor in generous spirals. There’s so much blood on her shirt. An artistic splatter of violence. You can’t look away. 

“You already know,” you choke out. 

She smiles. A toothy grin. Teeth perfect and whole, lips curling, but it’s not real. Her eyes are cloudy—her eyes are dead. Her smile is dead. Your mother is dead. Cold skin, colder gaze, coagulated blood on linoleum. Rotting. You still smell it: stale blood, cologne, and mint. It follows you everywhere. 

He follows you everywhere. 

Your phone is under your pillow, and someone is calling you. Vibrations rattle through the cotton filling, yanking you out of your dream like you’re being pulled out from under water. For a moment, you think you’re home. Really home. Yet, the room is too cold, and you are too alone. Blinking the sand from your eyes, you shove your hand between the comforter and mattress to yank your phone from underneath your head. The screen flashes. 

Incoming Call from Captain Jack Sparrow

You hit accept and bring the speaker up to your right ear. “Hello?”

“Chip!” Aelin’s voice purrs on the other end. “What are you up to?” 

“Uh…” You pause as you turn to lay on your back, eyes blankly glued to the ceiling. You forgot to turn the heat back on when you got home, and you swear you can almost see your breath. “...relaxing.” 

“That’s a first. Hey, I’m stuck at Terminus, and I’m bored. John wanted to have a quiet evening together but got caught up with some work stuff. Wanna get dinner or something?” she asks. 

You sniff, and the pressure behind your eyes and ears nearly doubles. “I… don’t think I’m feeling up to that tonight. Sorry.” 

“Oh wow,” Aelin gawks. Her voice drips with concern, and you hear shuffling on her end. “Are you sick? You sound very… congested.” 

“Yeah, I got sent home from work. Must’ve caught a bug from… somewhere.” 

Aelin says something in response, but you can’t hear it. There’s nothing but ringing as you force yourself to sit up and hack up snotty phlegm, trying not to choke on it as it comes up. Acidulous liquid coats your tongue, and you wince. Vile. Why can’t you ever have anything that tastes sweet? Something easier to stomach than an unwanted tongue or blood? 

“Chip?”

Her voice brings you back to the present—back to your cold apartment with frigid sheets and your pounding headache. There’s no reason for your tears, yet they plague you anyway. Maybe it’s from your cold. Maybe it’s because you dreamed of your mom. Or maybe it’s just because you’re sad, and you have been for a while. You’re just not able to hold it back anymore. 

“Do you wanna spend the night with John and I?’ Aelin finishes. 

Lips curling inward, you try your best to hold back a sob. “Yeah… Yeah, that sounds nice.” 

“Lovely. Riley’s driving. We’ll be there soon, okay?”

An attempt is made at making yourself look somewhat presentable, but it’s hard to make art when the canvas is crumbling. Nothing can cure you of the red irritation plaguing your scleras, nor the constant sniffing from congestion. You make do with fresh clothes and a washed face before shoving a few necessities in an overnight bag. Simple. Small. Something that won’t take up much space. 

When Aelin arrives, it’s a very unceremonious occasion. There’s gentle greetings. A pitiful look. There is no mention of how cold it is, or how the place looks sparsely lived in. She’s beautiful in her peacoat with pristine curled hair and flawless makeup. Perfect for a quaint dinner with a friend. Her viridian eyes look at you with a pity that’s nearly palpable. You feel bad for being sick—she seemed so thrilled to eat with you. 

Simon waits for both of you in front of the building in a sleek, black car that you’re surprised he can fit into. It’s terribly appropriate for him; something that would look perfect hidden in Terminus’s car park. Yet now it’s being used to transport you—a pathetic, ill woman—to her friend’s house as if you’re nothing more than a child. 

It isn’t until you find your seat in the back that you realize just how long you slept for. Dusk pulls its cimmerian shadow over the sky, obscuring the streets in the pale yellow glow of streetlights as Simon pulls into traffic. You got home around noon. Nearly a whole day wasted with sleep. 

Little is said between the three of you as you struggle to stay conscious. The consistent gentle hum of the car’s engine is better than any lullaby that you can recall. A siren’s song. A loving hand on your back. Head bobbing and swaying with the turns of the road, you listen to whatever Simon has droning on the radio; some sort of rock station that plays so quietly you almost can’t hear it at all. Every now and then, you catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, glancing at you like you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep watch over you. 

It seems he’s still taking Aelin’s request to heart. 

As the car approaches the house, Aelin digs into her purse where she quickly shuffles through a small, periwinkle wallet. She fishes out some cash before handing it to Simon as he parks. 

“Here,” she whispers, quiet enough that your poor hearing can’t catch. “Get her some medicine, please.” 

“Yes ma’am,” he mutters in reply. 

Before you know it, you’re tucked into a quiet guest room on the second floor of the house. Heat radiates from the baseboards, yet your muscles tense and ache in a shiver. To combat this, Aelin has found every spare blanket and duvet she can find and has tossed them on top of you until you are nothing more than a heaping pile of laundry. At first, she had recommended throwing them in the dryer to help warm them up further, but you rejected it. 

You hate making her go through so much unnecessary effort on your behalf. 

Still, she refuses to leave you as you curl into a ball, face pressed against her side as she sits on top of the covers next to you. Aelin always smells lovely. Fresh rosewater and lavender. You’re enveloped by her scent like it’s a warm hug as she rubs a hand along your back, but it’s muted. The considerable amount of blankets only allows you to feel the ghost of her touch. 

“How long has this been going on?” she asks tenderly. 

You shrug. “Day before yesterday, I think.” 

She pouts with a huff, hand ceasing its movement as she silently chastises you. “And you were still trying to work?”

“I have to,” you mumble against her. 

A terrible quiescence soaks the room. Everything hurts, and you want to rest, but you know that won’t come soon. Not when Aelin’s concern is eating her alive—a vicious plague ripping through her heart. You can hear the beasts feasting on her marrow even now. 

“Well, I brought an old friend to come visit,” Aelin grins. Before you can gather the strength to ask her what she’s talking about, she pulls something out from underneath the covers to set it in front of you. “Tada!” 

An old, well loved stuffed animal sits before you with lopsided eyes and a faded smile. Once vibrant, crimson fur has now faded into an off-tone auburn, but the resemblance of a fox is still unmistakable. 

“I thought I told you to get rid of that,” you mutter. 

“I can’t get rid of her! You used to love Pumpkin,” Aelin says as if offended. 

For a long moment, you stare at your old stuffed animal and relive the memories that soak it. It was a gift from your father when you were a child—something you used to hold close with you every night, even after his death. Even after you went to live with John and Aelin after graduation. You don’t know why, but one day you decided that you couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. You’re not sure if it’s because it was gifted to you by your father—the man you’ve tried so hard to continue loving despite his flaws—or because sweet Pumpkin had become so tainted with you that you figured you should take pity on the poor thing. 

When you don’t respond, Aelin sighs and sets the stuffed fox on the nightstand. “Alright, fine. She’ll sit right here for when you’re ready.” There’s a short pause that stretches between the two of you, but it doesn’t last long before Aelin decides that the silence is driving her mad. “I’ve heard you and Riley have been getting close,” she prompts like she’s about to spill the daily gossip. A change in subject. A way to ease you into what she really wants to talk about. “Visiting him at the club, then?”

The club. Andrei. Spilled pasta in an alleyway. Your unfortunate run in with Marco made you forget all about how you ended up in this mess in the first place. The blade of Andrei’s knife glints just as brightly in your mind now as it did that night, and you cover your urge to puke with a well timed cough. You wish she wouldn’t bring it up, but it’s a good sign. 

It means Simon was true to his word. 

“Just to deliver food. He kept fixing stuff at my apartment. Had to pay him back,” you explain like a broken record. 

Lips stretch over ivory teeth as Aelin shifts next to you. “Is that so? Sounds like he fancies you.” 

“Or maybe he’s just doing the job that you assigned him to do,” you reply bluntly. 

Aelin doesn’t tense at your insinuation, but she does sigh as she settles back against the headboard. “Thought he was better at keeping secrets than that.” 

“He didn’t tell me, I figured it out on my own,” you claim, stuffy voice unable to land the plosives of your consonants. 

She chuckles amicably as she looks down at you. Eyes closed, you’re nearly asleep, and you would have been if it weren’t for her conversation. 

“Well, you were always the smart one. Still, I won’t retract my statement. Riley’s had a lot of… partners, but he never lingers around anyone like he does with you,” she insists. “He’s a good man, really. I’m sure you’ve seen that for yourself.” 

“Can’t entertain that,” you say. There’s a sour stoicness to your tone; too tired to be annoyed yet yearning for silence. “I’ve got work.” 

Another stillness—a suffocating one. Aelin’s smile has long since vanished as her lips press together tartly. There you go, talking about work again. Like you can’t stand to do anything else. Like you’ll die without the money. 

“Chip… you know that if you need help, you can always ask, right?” she prods carefully. “Anything. I mean it. John and I… we’re here for you.” 

Help. you think of that word, and a sour cordolium rips through your chest. Asking for such a thing from someone is out of the question. You made that deal with yourself ages ago. 

“I don’t… I don’t need help. I just… miss my mum.” 

You feel the moment when the room freezes. It’s when Aelin looks down at you, doleness unleashed in her gaze. Bringing up your late mother was a mistake, but she’s all you can think about after that dream. You wonder if you’ll ever have a normal dream of her again—fresh, normal, and void of all blood. A dream where she smiles and it’s not dead. 

“I’m sorry,” is all she can say. 

“Me too.” 

When Simon returns, you’re fast asleep. Aelin can hear the sound of his boots on the floor from a mile away; purposefully making his existence known as he opens the door to the only room with the light on. His eyes are drawn to you, body curling into Aelin like you’ll fall through the bed without her. He approaches the bed and holds out the bag for her to take, and the very first thing she finds is every bit of cash she had given him to buy the items in the first place. 

Instead of chastising him, she rummages through the rest of the items. NyQuil, Sudafed, Vicks, various soups and electrolyte drinks. It’s a variable feast to fight off your cold. Aelin looks up to poke fun at the man—at this raging chink in his armor—but she loses all words when she sees the way his hand presses against your forehead. Careful fingers gently brush against a faint scar by your temple as he feels the heat radiating from your body. He watches you with gentle devotion as your shoulders rise and fall with your breaths, congestion causing you to quietly snore. You do not stir awake, but she witnesses the way your brows furrow when he pulls away. 

“She’s got a bad fever,” he concludes quietly. “She looks exhausted. Dehydrated.” 

“Yeah. She’s been overworking herself too much. Hasn’t been resting or healing like she should,” Aelin concurs. 

Fragile silence breaks as you breathe, airways too clogged for you to sleep peacefully. Simon and Aelin stare down at you for a moment, each of them considering the circumstance. Her lips press tightly together in thought before she carefully slides away from you, leaving your coiled form. She sets the bag of medicine and supplies on the foot of the bed before facing Simon with crossed arms. 

“Can I talk to you before you leave?” she requests. 

Simon answers her with a curt nod before they exit the room with the lights off and the door shutting tight behind them. Aelin’s heart pounds away in her chest as it fights against the tightness of her ribs. It’s an ever constricting cage. Relentless. Vile. She ensures that she’s not facing Simon as they traverse down the stairs. 

“Chip is… really scaring me,” Aelin breathes, and she feels her voice crack nearly as bad as her heart as her feet hit the landing. “I’m more than a little concerned or worried now she… she’s always been something of a workaholic, but this is different. It feels like she’s trying to run away from something and she’s just—I don’t know—keeping something buried inside of her. Pushing away any help anyone tries to offer her. I’m… scared she might hurt herself.” 

“Hurt herself?” Simon repeats in disbelief. “Has she done anythin’ like that before?” 

“No. Not that I know of. It’s just…” 

The words die as Aelin’s lips press tightly together once again, and she finally forces herself to look at Simon. He’s nothing but a stone—this immoveable being who won’t be swayed by anything physically or emotionally. She steadies her breath as she wills away the tears welling in her eyes. 

“I’m going to tell you this because I trust you,” she says, gaze attempting to harden. It’s a silent vow. A demand that he not repeat any of the words she’s about to speak. 

“Of course,” Simon nods. 

Aelin swallows the guilt in the back of her throat. 

“Chip’s parents are dead. They have been for a while. First it was her dad, and then her mum. My dad was the Chief Inspector working the cases of their deaths. It wasn’t… from natural causes. She holds a lot of guilt and she gets in a bad headspace over it, and I think that’s a bit of what’s happening and… it’s worse than I’ve ever seen it before. This time of year is always hard for her considering the anniversaries of their deaths, and I don’t know if it just seems worse because she’s sick right now but… fuck, Simon. The way she talked about her mum just earlier, I swear I nearly broke.” 

Crisp eyeliner marks the edges of her eyes, yet it smudges as Aelin banishes the tears from her vision with the tips of her fingers. Still as ever, Simon watches carefully and without judgement as she gathers herself in order to finish. 

“She needs to talk to someone about it, but I don’t think she wants it to be me. There are many things I think she would share, but there’s no way she’d give me the whole story,” she concludes. 

Confusion clouds Simon’s stern gaze, and he shifts on his feet. “What, you’re thinkin’ she’ll tell me and not you?” 

“Yes.” Her reply is speedy and sharp; a warning. No one knows you better than her. “She carries guilt for a lot of stuff. For… There’s just some things I know she won’t want to tell me. Things she can’t tell me because it’s… well, me.” 

Something is off—Simon can smell the stench of it from a mile away. He knows better than to question Aelin, and she seems very convinced that this is the true issue at hand, but there’s an uncomfortable trepidation that hangs somewhere in the balance of it all. A picture half developed. The brittle edge of a cliff. It’s the same feeling that afflicted him the night he fought Andrei in the alleyway—a deja vu that screams trouble if he even attempts to entertain it. 

“Please,” Aelin begs. “You don’t have to do anything crazy, I just don’t want her to be alone. Swear to me you won’t let her be alone through this. Simon, I’m not strong enough to cut through her walls but the thought of… the thought of her like this kills me.” 

Another deal. Another oath. Simon has always been a protector, in some way. A tool which one uses to bludgeon. He doesn’t know if he can be gentle. He knows he’s certainly not palatable. But he thinks of your sleeping form in the VIP room after the tussle with Andrei, and the heat of your fever against his hand, and he thinks he’d at least like to try. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he assures her. 

Nodding, Aelin attempts to strengthen her resolve with a deep breath. Frayed nerves still poke out of her skin, completely wired with worry. It sparks and fizzles, yet she still glances back up the stairs, as if she can feel the aura of exhaustion seeping out of the bedroom. 

“Thank you,” she says, voice hardly above a whisper as she looks back at him. “Truly, I appreciate it.” 

“Can’t do everythin’ on your own,” he says. 

She scoffs playfully. “Tell that to Chip.” 

Once the front door locks shut behind Simon and the house is still and quiet, Aelin sneaks back upstairs. You’re hardly conscious when she gently urges you awake to press cough syrup to your lips, but you don’t complain. You never complain—not when there’s bitter liquid on your tongue; never when you should. Silent. Pliable. Once you’ve swallowed every last drop, you collapse back into bed, body weak and overheated; slick with sweat. 

She knows she should leave once your snoring starts back up again, but she can’t. There’s something to relish in how peaceful you are in this moment. Not working yourself to death. Not running from the grief that’s been strangling you since you were a child. For a moment, as you lay there in bed, Aelin gets to see you as you were when you were a kid. 

As she stands at the foot of the bed, she recalls the first time she ever met you—both clad in black and unable to look at one another without timid smiles and tear filled eyes. Aelin was the one who had to break the silence. To introduce herself as the daughter of Sean Gilroy; the man who sat in that coffin so adorned with flowers and love. You’ve grown so much since then. A fine woman who should be proud of herself. She wants to shake you awake. Yank you out of your sleep and scream at you that there’s nothing to be forgiven—nothing to punish yourself over. 

She doesn’t. 

Instead, she turns around and leaves, ensuring that the electrolyte drink Simon bought is on the pillow next to your for when you wake up in the morning.

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[deltarogers]

WHAT?

PAIRING: Steve Rogers x Pregnant!Girlfriend!Reader

SUMMARY: You’ve been pregnant for nearly 3 months, and you haven’t been able to tell your boyfriend because you’ve been busy with missions. During one, you decide to drop the bomb, scared neither of you will come out alive.

WARNINGS: near death experience, angst to fluff, mentions of miscarriage

“Steve!” Your voice rang out, rushing towards your boyfriend. There was a scuffle in downtown Manhattan, and the Avengers had been called in, you and Steve included.

A small outburst led to thousands of AI manned drones to come in shooting at civilians, and you guys were trying to put an end to it.

Bruce had gotten out of control, and so had the drones, amounting to enough to cause a building to collapse.

And it was going to hit your boyfriend.

You rushed towards him shortly after calling his name, shoving him out of the way.

You nearly made it out yourself, but a large pillar had crushed your legs, searing pain coursing through your body.

Remain calm, you thought to yourself. You were 12 weeks pregnant, and you didn’t want to risk miscarrying.

“Y/n?!” You heard Steve call out right before he found you, rushing to your aid.

“Fuck- Steve…” You trailed off and he shook his head, trying to lift the pillar off of you.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m going to get you out of this” He assured and kept trying. The more he pushed, the more he failed, and the more anxious you got.

“Steve” You said and he looked to you “Is now a bad time to tell you that I’m pregnant?” You asked and Steve paused, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion, as if he didn’t hear what you said.

“What?” He said, his voice thick with venom. He was pissed, and that only made you more nervous.

“Steve- I’m sorry, please just-“ You trailed off, panic finally setting in.

“Right-“ He said, and it seemed, with the prospect of you being pregnant with his child, he lifted the pillar like it weighed nothing, his previous failures erased.

The ride in the aircraft back to the Avengers tower was painful, physically and emotionally. Steve wasn’t speaking to you, and your legs had never been in so much pain before.

You tried to hold yourself together, sitting in silence as your body throbbed and begged for relief, but you couldn’t, hissing and wincing at the pain.

“We’re almost there..” Nat said and you were more than happy for the comfort, not that you were getting any from your boyfriend.

You assumed he didn’t want the baby, and that he was pissed that you were pregnant.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He finically said, after pacing near the cockpit for 10 minutes at least.

“You were busy…there wasn’t a right time” You explained and he scoffed.

“You had plenty of opportunities…that excuse is bullshit” He retorted and that’s when you began to cry, frustrated that he didn’t understand.

That’s when it happened.

All the stress had gotten to you; getting hurt, Steve being angry, not telling him you were pregnant….

First it felt like cramps. Then there was a sharp pain that shot through your stomach, causing you to cry out as you nearly collapsed to the floor.

“Y/n? What’s going on, sweetheart…” Steve said quickly as he rushed to your side, helping you back up and into your seat.

“Hurts…” You muttered and Steve went into a frenzy.

“Stark! I need you to get us to the tower, NOW!” He cried out and Tony turned back, only to see you faint in Steve’s arms.

When you woke up, you realized almost instantly you were in the med bay, next to you sat Steve, his furrowed brows and worried expression were the first things you saw.

“Steve? Is the…” You started and he shook his head to silence you.

“The baby is okay” He assured and you sighed in relief.

“If you want to, you know…terminate, we can” You finally said after a few beats of silence. “If you don’t want this baby, we have options” She said to him.

Steve lifted his head surprise when he heard those words. “Absolutely not” He said sternly, which caught you off guard.

“I don’t want that, sweetheart” He said after taking a breath, his voice much calmer than before. “I was so upset that you didn’t tell me, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you” He apologized “I have been busy…and I’m sorry for that too” He added.

“It’s okay” You said to him, gently grabbing at one of his free hands, placing it on your small bump.

Steve didn’t let you work after that. Well….he did, but he wouldn’t allow you to come on missions, and you respected that, not wanting to worry him more than you had to.

Now, you were about 6 months along, baby bump full and large. You guys were having a girl, who was estimated to be 9 pounds. I guess that’s what happens when you get pregnant by a super soldier.

Waiting for Steve to come home every night was worrying, and he knew that. He didn’t mean to worry you, but he had to work, he wanted to.

When he came home this particular night, he was in a good mood, making his way to you, resting on the couch.

“Hi, Captain” You said with a teasing smile, holding out your arms for him as he sat down next to you. “How was work?” You asked him softly.

“Good, I missed you, and her” He said and gently placed a hand over your bump.

“Missed you too…we both did” You said before gently cupping his cheek in your hand, leaning down to press your lips to his.

Steve melted into the kiss, allowing your lips to move in nearly perfect sync, before pulling away for air.

“I love you…both” Steve muttered, moving down to press soft kisses to your stomach.

“We love you too. Steve” You said softly sighing in relief.

FIN.

A/N: Honestly did NOT have a solid ending in mind. Stay tuned for more Cap and a page revamp!!!

[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 ...

[deadchannelradio]

i just think bruce isn't very good at grief. not that it's something anybody can be "good" at it's an emotion and loss is just loss there's no moral good or evil attached to loss but he has built his entire life as a monument to the dead in a way that makes it so he can never really interact with the living. bruce himself is pushing through the veil of the dead to interact with his (living) (sometimes undead) children in essence he does haunt them and because he is incapable of seeing them as anything other than pre-dead individuals they haunt him right back.

in a way this is something of the issue he has with dick when dick is a child- Bruce loves Dick terribly, fiercely, and with his entire heart, which is why he is so brutally controlling and awful to dick. he is terrified of losing him- to other pursuits, to growing up, to death- and so he ends up sabotaging himself over and over by becoming violent in the face of those threats. when you spend all of your time pre-mourning it almost is a relief to actually mourn- kicking Dick out of the manor is easier than experiencing Dick leaving, so he kicks Dick out before Dick can grow out of him.

the issue there- both in the metanarrative and in bruce's life itself, is that batman needs a robin. Robin is in essence Batman's rubber ducky to allow him to verbalize things to the reader, so he's more opaque, and without robin he's just less fun, and Nightwing is making big waves that are almost drowning batman stories out. and in the narrative Bruce is unmoored from his grounding point (robin) and adrift and unsure and misses him terribly, so he finds another little boy and puts him in robin's clothes!

Jason and Bruce have such an. ugh. it's kind of so insane it's so fast paced and so close so rapidly in a way that you only really get from people going through stressful situations together. Bruce does everything in his power to not make the same mistakes he made with dick- he adopts jason immediately he made sure their relationship had no ambiguity he is trying to hold on to jason in the ways he could not hold on to dick and like Yes they loved each other Yes jason was good for bruce and bruce was good for jason Yes it was some of Bruce's best (arguably only) parenting (the first child to call bruce his father!) yes they loved each other fiercely. but it was so mind bogglingly codependent. ive said this before sorry friends but i have to say it again Jason is the only robin who like. did not have friends. did not have a team. did not have A Life Outside Of The Batman. he didn't have peers, who might make him want to change or grow in ways bruce isnt ready for. he just had batman!

and so in this completely insular world when Jason fucks up (you can read how that situation broke down in whatever way you want to- i personally think felipe garzonas jumped tho [shrug]) and Bruce sees a way Jason might change and leave him and freaks and immediately falls back on How He Acted With Dick. but jason and bruce don't have dick and bruce's relationship and jason has nobody else and so it is just like an all out rejection to jason, who immediately starts looking for a new parent.

this is all because of Dick and Bruce's previous relationship with a sidekick! he's haunted by dick. he says over and over he wishes he could go back to those days of batman and robin. those days were Bruces high point as a person if not as a parent and he wants them back so badly he is willing to try and recreate it with someone else- everything Jason is as robin only exists because Dick grayson carved that path in the hillside for him- he's wearing dick's colors and his fucking name, for christssakes. And not only does this attempted redemption/recreation not work (because people are people and cannot be replaced) but it does work in the worst way possible, because now Jason Todd is never going to be able to grow up, just like bruce wanted. worst monkeys paw curl in the world.

Bruce is an extremely reactionary person. All of this ^ is a reaction to loss. everything that comes after is reaction to loss. Bruce has been mourning for so long that he doesn't actually know how to function outside of it- who he is outside of grief does not actually exist. it could! arguably it even does! but bruce does not believe he exists without the dead and his grief, and so he keeps writing his own joy out of existence in his internal narrative, thusly denying himself from actually experiencing it. And he is insistent on dragging everyone else down with him! and in some ways they are dragging themselves down, but Bruce is the only one literally sitting in a dark hole in the ground with some poor baby's clothes on a mannequin with biohazard brain juices all over it. He doesn't want to lose anybody but he knows he will because he believes everything to already be over, and so he reacts to things as though it's already done, and in his mourning of things yet to happen he does not live in the now, and so he loses people. over and over and over again, and without having spent the time with them that he wanted to spend.

its kind of a classic tale. Bruce is just the only man unlucky enough to have to do it over and over again.

so yeah. long rant about basically what you just said. bruce would rather lose exactly 0 children but he has already lost them all in his mind (and in some cases has actually put them in the ground) and all of his relationships with his kids are highly valuable to him, and acting like only one exists or is more important than the others actually shoots your own narrative in its foot because they all dont actually exist without each other. except for dick grayson. who kind of did just Do That. he set the precedent for all this & Bruce is reacting to Dick's ghost in many of his decisions. it's like how when you were a kid and you would do the food web demonstrations in science class and with every string you cut more of the web falls apart way beyond that one string. except dickie g is a keystone species like mosquitos or something and when you get rid of him 80% of the ecosystem dies off because the thing that ate the thing before them that ate the thing before them that ate the thing before them that ate mostly dickie g died due to dickie g being gone

tldr relationships are incredibly complicated and build off of each other and so cutting one out or trying to cheapen it actually ruins the whole thing but you know what you do you booboo [skull] [crylaugh]

i love when people try to make bruce and jason's relationship cuter by making it sound like dick does NOT exist AT ALL like "batman's first son and he loved him" and "he would rather lose everybody than lose jason" like im pretty sure that bruce would prefer to lose neither dick nor jason but you know what you do you 💀😂

[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???

[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?

[prlssprfctn]

AU, where Bruce accidentally gets de-aged (physically and mentally), and the first person he bumps in is... Red Hood.

To Jason's defence, he didn't connect the dots at first. He was just patrolling around his usual turf, thinking of nothing in particular, when he saw a small child in a ridiculously serious suit, sulking around Crime Alley. He looks distraught, and considering that he looks rich, it is no surprise - that is not a place for him. So, he is either lost or something happened, right?

He takes the helmet off, as he usually does when he is dealing with kids (they got scared easily) and carefully approaches a brooding baby.

'Hey, shrimp. Where are your parents at?'

That said shrimp turns around, his big blue eyes looking confused and lost, and Jason thinks he looks awfully familiar.

'I am not shrimp,' he protests instantly, pouting at him. 'And they are somewhere... here. We just left the movie theatre together!'

Jason glances at the abandoned movie theatre, back at the little rich boy with a familiar frown, and it clicks. This is his fucking dad. Suddenly, a kid - but it is fucking Bruce Wayne, for sure.

'Was watching Zorro by any chance?' Jason still asks, just to be sure that he is not going insane.

Bruce - and it must be him - beams at him.

'Yes! This is a great movie, by the way.'

Oh, hell. At least, he didn't witness his parents' death just yet. Jason wasn't sure he would be able to deal with his father being so small, and mourning his mom and dad. He would probably cry himself at some point.

'Hey,' Jason calls out for him slowly, squatting down; God, who would've thought that this little shrimp would become so tall and big in the future. 'Aren't you... You must be Thomas's kid, right?'

Okay, yeah, Jason is going to lie to this kid. Because there is no way he manages just to steal Bruce as a stranger to bring him back home; it is still a kid, even if it is his father. Right?

'You know my dad?' Bruce tilts his head, little fingers tugging on the hem of his jacket; suspicious.

'You could say that,' Jason nods. 'Alfie... I mean, Alfred called me. Asked me to pick up a kid, since Thomas and Martha got an urgent call.'

Fuck his life and stupid life choices. What the hell he was even doing? He looked like a mugger; or like a psycho. But Alfred was his best bet - he could call him, after all; ask, well, support his idiotic made-up story.

'No one calls Alfred Alfie but my dad,' Bruce pouts in a very, very spoiled manner.

'Well... I do. We served together in the army,' he blurts out.

His armour, apparently, is enough a proof for the kid to nod slowly.

'Okay. But you gotta take off your strange mask first,' Bruce folds arms on his chest.

...???

Did this kid just agree for an unknown man to take him home? Like this? Who could've thought that this pouty child would become the most paranoid man alive in the future?

'Uh, why?'

'So I can remember your face and do an identikit, if you turn out to be a bad guy,' Bruce smirks stupidly. 'Duh.'

Jason is going to cry. This kid is so cute.

'Yeah, duh,' Jason huffs, but despite his better judgment takes the domino mask off as well. 'Go on, take your time. My identikit should be the prettiest, shrimp.'

Bruce... gawks at him. His eyes are comically wide now, mouth open, and then, he jumps a little closer to him - oh, God, he is jumping when excited? - putting his hellishly cold hands on Jason's cheeks.

'Woah. You look like dad.'

'Uh,' Jason nods awkwardly, and because he is an idiot, adds a joke: 'We are brothers, actually. Just don't talk much.'

...Apparently, little Bruce can't take jokes. Because he lets out an adorable gasp, and throws himself on Jason as if they knew each other for ages now.

'Uncle? That's so cool. You look like Zorro!'

Damn this little kid, and this stupid family. Damn Joe Chill and the night he killed this kid's parents. Damn it all. Bruce might be an asshole sometimes, but he was so... cute and innocent.

'Thanks, shrimp,' Jason slides a domino mask back on, picks up little Bruce with one arm, and grips a helmet with another. 'Come on, let's go home. Alfred will make your favourite tiramisu.'

'You know my favourites?!'

Jason sniffles.

'Yeah. Yeah, I do, kid.'

If he gets so emotional over this kid, he has no idea how worse Dick is going to be once he finds out.

Oh, this is going to be one hell of a night.

[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, chapter five pt 2,

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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[sleepingdiaryzzz]

"DAD!"

Bruce sighed at the familiar call, instantly recognizing the voice. It was you, the child he never intended to have, thrust into his life by forces beyond his control. He still wasn't ready for this—wasn't ready to be a father.

In the early days, you’d tried calling him "father" or "dad," hoping for a connection. But he’d ignore you every time, barely acknowledging the title. Frustrated, you’d started calling him "Mr. Wayne" out of spite. And to your surprise, he responded. Since then, you'd settled into calling him as if he were just another public figure, like some distant acquaintance. You learned quickly that Bruce Wayne didn't want to be publicly labeled as your father, that he wasn’t comfortable with the label at all.

But now, hearing that word—"Dad"—from you in public, his irritation rose. He’d told you ages ago not to call him that outside the manor. Yet, there was also a sliver of satisfaction; he finally had a reason to confront you over it, something he’d oddly wanted since you’d moved in.

Turning around to find you, Bruce stopped short. There you were, arms around Harvey Dent, laughing in a way that sent a pang through him. It was the kind of bright, easy laughter he’d never heard from you in his presence. The warmth in your eyes, the carefree lightness in your smile—it all seemed reserved for Dent, a scene that felt oddly father-child-like.

His grip tightened unconsciously, fingers curling around the grass he’d been holding. Harvey looked back at you with an almost fatherly pride, and it stung in a way Bruce couldn’t have anticipated. In that moment, the crowd faded around him, and all he could focus on was the two of you, bonded in a way he hadn’t managed to be with you.

Your laughter rang in his ears like a melody he’d never noticed before, something beautiful and elusive. And for the first time, Bruce felt something new—a desire to be the one to make you laugh like that, a yearning to hear it directed at him. He wanted all of it for himself.

Bruce’s hands clenched involuntarily, his fingers digging into his palms. He told himself that he was better than Dent in every way that mattered—stronger, more capable, more disciplined. But in this, seeing how effortlessly Dent could make you feel safe and valued, he felt an unsettling flicker of doubt. Bruce could face any enemy, any challenge, but standing here, watching someone else make you feel what he couldn’t, he felt almost... inadequate.

The feeling was absurd. Jealousy wasn’t supposed to affect him; he’d trained himself to be above such things. But he couldn’t stop the bitterness gnawing at him as he watched Dent with you, a man whose easy warmth contrasted so painfully with Bruce’s own guarded nature. It stung to realize that, for all his power and reputation, he was losing you to his own friend. Dent looked at you with pride and affection, the kind that came naturally to him—and Bruce hated that Dent could offer you what he hadn’t even known you needed.

And then, through the murmur of the crowd, your voice rang out again—“Dad!”—directed at Dent, not him. Something twisted painfully in Bruce’s chest, his vision blurring as he watched you lean into Dent’s embrace, trusting and relaxed. The sight was a punch to his pride, yes, but more than that, it was a revelation of all he’d pushed away, all the moments he’d let slip by because he hadn’t wanted to be vulnerable.

For the first time, Bruce felt an unfamiliar desperation creep in, a fear he’d never faced even in the darkest moments of his life. Losing you to Dent seemed almost absurd, yet it was becoming a reality before his eyes. He was starting to see the damage his own indifference had caused, each unspoken word and dismissed gesture now cutting him deeper than he would ever admit aloud.

If only he’d turned around that first time you called him "Dada." If only he’d been there, shown you warmth instead of distance. Now someone else was in the place he’d abandoned, and he feared—truly feared—that you were already too far out of his reach to bring back.

(A/n: feel free to use this idea to make a story! Though you needa tag me too😼)

[phantobats]

I know that every batfam member would be able to survive the five nights at Freddy's Pizzeria, but I like to imagine they all go about it in different ways:

Bruce: figures out that there are souls haunting the animatronics and starts internally debating the ethics of (adopting) rehabilitating haunted and homicidal animatronics, on the basis that the souls are still children. Survives the five nights and plays by the rules, although his power level remains suspiciously high at the end of each night.

Dick: would have an absolutely joyful time spending five nights inside that cursed building as an adrenaline junkie. He's also weirdly gifted at excelling in obscure jobs such as a nightguard fighting for his life.

Jason: the second one of them moves, the building is going up in flames.

Tim: figures out how to jam the doors shut without them draining his power and uses that to his advantage to get work done, since he's already awake and doing nothing of importance.

Damian: convinces himself to guard by the rules without trying to sabotage the equipment and succeeds. Whenever an animatronic pops up at one of the windows, he starts insulting them. He also makes sure to insult them whenever he's done with his shift to assert dominance. Additionally, he nicknamed each of them after his brothers since they remind him of his everyday nuisances.

Barbara: being oracle has prepared her for this moment — quite literally child's play for her, so she multitasks between babysitting vigilantes and homicidal furry ghouls. (aren't they the same thing atp?)

Cass: she would manage to predict their movements and slip away to jumpscare them instead, running away before they manage to do any damage. Why stay inside the office when you can hassle the animatronics to hide in the office from you?

Steph: adrenaline junkie pt.2, although she would treat it like a 'let's play' and video call either Tim or Cass to share the experience with them — all they hear is her screaming, cursing and then laughing when they pop up.

Duke: unironically would also be hunting the animatronics from the shadows. He does it on the first night and they decide not to annoy him again for the rest of the week.

Edit: this is unironically being written by me, in the form of Nightwing becoming a night guard. will update with the link to the fic once i am done.

[stxrkiss]

谷 𝁼 𝒈𝒐 ahead ִ and 𝒞𝓇𝓎 𔓕 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔊𝔦𝔯𝔩 ᮫ ꒱

そんな無垢な目で見つめるな... 汚したく なるだろう?

# 𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝓑𝓻𝓾𝓬𝓮 𝓦𝓪𝔂𝓷𝓮 𝑥 𝐹𝑒𝑚 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 ☆

# 𝑺𝒀𝑵𝑶𝑷𝑺𝑰𝑺 : 𝘏𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥'𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘦? 𝘏𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦. 𝘖𝘩 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦...

# 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝘛����𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘳, 𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘴, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱𝘴, 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘳. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳/𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘋𝘕𝘐.

# 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬 : 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦.

Bruce remembers the first time he met you.

You were five years old. A tiny thing, too small, too delicate, all bright eyes and soft hands, clinging to his leg like a lifeline.

Your father—one of his most trusted business partners—had laughed, shaking his head.

“She’s taken a liking to you,” he had said, ruffling your hair.

And then, with all the confidence of a child, you had beamed up at Bruce and declared,

“I’m gonna marry you one day!”

The room had erupted in laughter. Your father had chuckled, his business partners had teased him. But Bruce—

Bruce had only smiled.

It was harmless. Just childish innocence.

Or at least, that’s what he had told himself.

You grew up fast.

Too fast.

One moment, you were that little girl clutching his hand at charity galas, giggling when he lifted you into his arms. The next, you were nineteen, standing in his home like you belonged there, a young woman too beautiful for her own good. all soft curves and knowing smiles.

Bruce didn’t know when it started—when his affection for you twisted into something ugly.

All he knows is that one day, he looked at you—really looked at you—and something inside him snapped.

Because you were beautiful.

And it was wrong.

So, so wrong.

And Bruce—he was not a good man.

He tried to be. God, he tried.

Bruce tried to ignore it. He told himself it was natural—a fatherly protectiveness over the daughter of his closest friend.

But a father wouldn’t think about you the way he did.

A father wouldn’t ache like this.

A father wouldn’t watch you when you weren’t looking.

Wouldn’t stare when your nightgown slipped off your shoulder.

Wouldn’t feel his throat tighten when you called him “Mr. Wayne”, your voice so sweet, so innocent, so cruel.

You had no idea what you were doing to him.

And that was the worst part.

You make it impossible.

Because you’re thoughtless. Careless.

You touch him too much. Press yourself against him in hugs that last too long, your fingers curling around his arm, your breath warm on his neck.

He told himself it was innocent. That the way he watched you wasn’t wrong. That the thoughts in his head were just passing moments of weakness—nothing more.

It gets worse when you start talking to him about boys.

You sit on the couch in his study, curled up in one of his expensive leather chairs, talking about your boyfriend problems while he nurses a glass of whiskey, fingers tightening around the crystal.

“Ugh, I don’t know,” you sigh. “Liam’s being so... needy.”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

You don’t notice the way his jaw clenches. The way his fingers tighten. The way his thoughts turn ugly.

You just keep talking.

“He wants to have sex, but I don’t think I’m ready.” You stretch your arms above your head, your crop top rising just enough to show a sliver of your stomach. “I mean, I don’t want my first time to be... disappointing, y’know?”

Bruce stares at you.

His blood boils.

Your first time.

With some boy.

Some child who doesn’t know a damn thing about you.

He hates it.

The thought of your soft little body under some clumsy boy, of you making those sweet little sounds for someone who doesn’t deserve them—someone who doesn’t know you like he does—it makes something inside him snap.

He wants to tell you the truth.

That boys don’t know how to take care of a girl like you. That they’ll use you. That you need a man—someone who can be gentle, who knows how to take care of you, how to teach you.

He wants to say all of it.

But instead, he just takes a slow sip of whiskey and says,

“Be careful who you trust.”

You don’t see the way his eyes darken.

You don’t hear the warning in his voice.

And the worst part?

You ask him for advice.

“Mr. Wayne,” you say sweetly, resting your chin on your palm, “why do men always want one thing?”

Bruce’s jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists under the table.

You don’t understand what you’re playing with.

You don’t see the way his eyes darken when you talk about them. The boys who touch you. The ones who don’t deserve to even look at you.

You don’t understand the filthy thoughts he has when he imagines you with them.

You don’t understand that he wants to ruin you.

Bruce stares at you, at your bare skin, at the way your lips part as if waiting for him to take.

And God help him.

He does.

His hands clench against the couch. He leans in, close enough to breathe you in.

Close enough to claim.

Close enough to ruin you.

He doesn’t remember when he started following you.

Not just in the manor. Not just in his home.

Outside. In the city.

You don’t notice.

Or maybe you do.

Maybe you like knowing he’s watching.

Watching as you go on dates with boys your age—pathetic, fumbling boys who don’t know how to take care of you the way a man like him would.

You always seem disappointed after those dates.

And Bruce tells himself it’s because you know.

You know they aren’t enough.

That they’ll never be enough.

That no one will ever love you the way he does.

But then, one night, he looked at you—really looked at you—and something inside him snapped.

Because you weren’t a child anymore.

You were soft curves and bright smiles and whispers of silk.

And it was wrong.

So, so wrong.

He tries to ignore it.

To pretend that nothing has changed. That you’re still just the daughter of his friend—a girl he has known since childhood.

But you make it impossible.

Because you’re cruel.

You don’t even realize it, but you are.

The way you hug him just a little too long. The way you press against him, your body warm, your scent too sweet, too intoxicating. The way you laugh—tilting your head back, exposing the soft skin of your throat.

The way you call him “Mr. Wayne” in that sweet, teasing voice—like you know exactly what it does to him.

But you don’t.

You don’t understand how dangerous it is to tempt a man like him.

But you will.

Soon.

He thinks about it too much.

The way you look at him. The way you look for him at every party, every event. The way you light up when he pays attention to you.

He shouldn’t.

You’re too young. Too innocent.

He should be ashamed of the way his fingers tighten around his glass when he sees you in those short dresses, the way his breath hitches when you cross your legs, letting the hem ride up—just enough.

And he knows, deep down, that you aren’t doing it on purpose.

That you trust him.

That you have no idea how sick he is.

That you have no idea how long he’s been watching you, how long he’s been thinking about you in ways he shouldn’t.

That you have no idea how badly he wants to ruin you.

It happens late one night.

You’re staying at the manor while your father is away, wandering around in nothing but a silk nightgown that barely reaches your thighs.

And Bruce is watching you.

He shouldn’t be.

But God help him, he can’t look away.

You’re sitting on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, scrolling through your phone, completely unaware of the monster lurking in the shadows.

Then, without looking up, you murmur,

“You’re staring, Mr. Wayne.”

His blood runs hot.

You’re doing it again. Pushing him. Testing him.

You don’t even know what you’re playing with.

“What are you doing up?” His voice is calm. Controlled. But there’s an edge to it, a tension that wasn’t there before.

You stretch, your nightgown riding up, exposing too much skin.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. Then, you turn to him, eyes dark, playful. Inviting. “But maybe you could help with that.”

Silence.

A long, dangerous silence.

Then, Bruce is in front of you, his hands gripping the couch on either side of your body, caging you in.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says, voice low, deadly.

But you just smile.

And Bruce?

Bruce finally snaps.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not soft.

He grips your wrist, too tight, dragging you forward until you gasp, your balance thrown off.

You fall against him, your body flush against his, and he hates himself for how good it feels.

For how warm you are. For how easily you fit against him.

His breath is hot against your ear, his hands shaking as they hover over your skin.

He shouldn’t.

He can’t.

But he wants to.

So, so badly.

“You think this is a game?” His voice is hoarse, strained.

Your lips part, confusion flickering across your face.

And for the first time, you see it.

The way he looks at you.

Like a starving man staring at his last meal.

Like a man at war with himself, a man who has spent years trying to fight something that was always meant to consume him.

You blink up at him, lips slightly parted.

His breath shudders. His grip tightens.

Then, he’s kissing you.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate. A collision of heat and teeth and pent-up want that’s been festering inside him for too long.

You gasp against his lips, and he drinks it in, pressing you deeper into the couch, caging you with his body.

And when he finally pulls back, his pupils blown wide, his breath ragged—

And Bruce—Bruce knows he’s going to hell for this.

But maybe he was always meant to burn.

And maybe you were always meant to burn with him.

© stxrkiss ☆ don't copy, translate or use my works here or any other websites.

[littlefankingdom]

Dick who climbed on anything as a child. Even in public, especially in public. The moment Bruce looks away, he is climbing something to get as high as possible. The first times, it gave Bruce an heart attack. Now, it's just a headache.

People pass by and ask if they should call the firefighters, and Bruce tiredly tell them "He is fine, he can get down on his own.", like people with cats.

Imagine, you're walking out of some building, only to see a 10 years old standing on top of a lamppost, having a discussion with his dad guardian at the bottom.

"Dick, get down."

"Make me."

"Get down or you're grounded."