#platonic Alfred pennyworth x reader

[miniaturesuitgladiator]

Yandere platonic Batfam x

Child Girl scout reader!

Notes: reader is a child in this.

Warnings ⚠️: mentions of kidnap and reader is low class. Not proofread. Please do not judge my girl scout logic I am not a girl scout and have never been one!

🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀

The manor was as dull as ever lately. The big fancy walls of the place only felt colder as time went on.

Dick had broken up with Kori for the umpteenth time that month and was living at the manor ,or more like mopping at the manor..

On rare occasions Cass would stop by. And if they were very lucky jason would stop by and say hi every now and then.

Bruce was as cold as ever not being able to catch the joker and being behind in alot of meetings.

Duke was frustrated with his over all high-school experiences.

And Cass was pretty sure she was going through a mid life crisis despite her still being young.

Pretty soon Tim would graduate high-school and Bruce new he'd be off to living his own life.

Now damian was still pretty young but he didn't really count for a kid. Atleast not in Bruce's eyes. Damian lacked that child imagination. That childish spark. And bruce will admit he is partially to blame....

But on a particular lucky day they had met you!

Or more like Alfred had met you first. And that began the overly possessive vigilanty family to fall absolutely in love with your cute self!

You were about seven never having been blessed with a high class life but your mama sure did try and give you her best!

You oh! so desperately wanted to be a girl scout!

And who was mother to break your heart and tell you she didn't have the money?

So she worked extra shifts at the hospital. Her being a nurse meant that most of her time she was at the hospital working.

But that never stopped her from dropping you off in some of the richest and hopefully safest neighborhoods in gotham so you could sell your cookies for the girl scouts.

She hated leaving you alone but she just couldn't resist your cute puppy dog eyes as you promised you'd be safe....and she really didn't have time to argue or should she'd be late to work, agian!

So with a kiss on the cheek from you and a smile she left. Leaving you on the richest street in gotham.

Sure being low class in gotham was hard but you never saw it that way. You always tried to be kind.

Because in your mother's words, 'in a world where you can be anything, be kind.'

So kind you were. Even to the stuck up little girl scouts who didn't like you because you were poor.

But you didn't pay them any mind! You loved being a girl scout! The other girls were probably just jealous you sold more cookies then them!

Atleast that's what your mama told you.

You smile and skip your way down the street pulling your wagon full of boxes of cookies behind you.

Walking up to each house with a smile on your face most bought some because how could they deny such a cute thing with chubby cheeks?

Sure they'd probably never eat the cookies from a low class kid but they couldn't find it in their cold, spoiled, hearts to say no to you! (They saw it as charity.)

Finally with your last boxes of cookies you pull your wagon with you as you walk up the long drive way and surprisingly the gate was open!

Stepping up to the big door you knock exactly three times.

Alfred being as confused as ever stops cleaning and checks the cameras only to not spot anyone on the footage.

Hesitatently he begins cleaning playing it off as his ears playing tricks on him. But he hears the knock agian. So he doesn't even bother with the camera.

Opening the front door his harsh gaze immediately softens at the sight of you!

Ofc the cameras wouldn't see you! You were to small to be seen on the ring camera!

Your just so cute with your little sash and badges! And your smiles so bright something that the old butler hasn't seen in a while...a genuine smile.

You have that child like wonder that's still in your eyes and by your little dirty shoes the butler knows you traveled a long way to get here.

"Hello sir. I'm here to offer you some of the best cookies in gotham. Girl scout cookies!" You say with one of the biggest smiles and happiest eyes!

"It's five dollars for a box or two boxes for nine! I only have chocolate chip and blueberry left." You say giving your speech like you've done a million other of times.

But this time it would change your life completely.....

To your complete surprise he hands you a hundred dollar bill and you hesitatently take it giving him your last two boxes.

"I don't have change sir....." You say trying to give him back the money to which he just shakes his head.

"Keep it...as a tip." He says his voice holding no pity like the others.

"Really?" You say your eyes shinning with excitement.

And by seeing your happiness Alfred knows you deserve it. So he nods and you take the old spy by surprise by hugging him.

"Thank you so much!" You say as you pull away jumping on the balls of your feet.

"I'll be back every Saturday to give you a box of cookies until I repay you!" You say skipping off with your wagon in tow.

Alfred looks at you with puzzled look did you not know what recieving a tip meant?

Well he wasn't going to stop you from coming back. Especially as you shoot him your absolutely adorable smile as you walk down the driveway and wave goodbye shouting a cute and kind.

"Have a blessed day!" As you leave.

Have a blessed day....Alfred definitely hasn't heard that in a long time..especially in gotham.

You were definitely diffrent...

But you had kept your word coming back every Saturday at 1pm sharp never missing a Saturday!

And each time Alfred would give you a hundred dollar bill saying it was your tip. And you'd give him a hug and tell him you'll be back every Saturday until you repay him!

Alfred doesn't exactly know what about you made him become so attached to you. Maybe it was your hugs? Or your sweet smile?

Either way he didn't mind because he'd wait by the door at 1pm sharp every Saturday waiting to see you walk down the driveway with your little red wagon and big toothy smile.

Eventually he did learn your name and how old you were and you learned quite a bit about him too.

Until one day the he had gotten so caught up in cleaning the manor he didn't even realize that he was about to miss his favorite part of the week!

There was a knock on the door exactly three times just like there always was on Saturday at 1pm for the past few months.

But this time it wasn't the sweet butler you had come accustomed too. No, now it was a big fancy looking man with blue eyes.

"Hello?" He says his voice much softer then it would look like he'd sound like.

Your puzzled eyes search his looking for your dear friend.

"Hi?" You say as tilt your head still searching for your favorite costumer.

Bruce's eyes take you in... your far to young to be out here alone. Where are your parents? He wants to ask but more importantly who are you looking for?

"I usually come by here at this time....do you know where Mr. pennyworth is?" You say your eyes still searching around for the older man.

Bruce looks at you confused how did you know Alfred? Bruce eyes scan you seeing if your a threat but by the way you nervous fiddle around with it your sash as he continues to look at you he deems that your just a harmless child.

"He's inside...do you want to come see him?" He says his voice now much softer and his eyes aren't as cold as they once were. But you take a step back.

You might have been a kid but you aren't that stupid.

"My mama says I can't go in strangers houses.." You say as you look at him clearly looking for a place to hide.

Bruce nods as he sees your nervous deamor.

"Well I suppose I could bring him out to you." Bruce says and your eyes light up with excitement at the thought of seeing your dear friend agian.

And oh.... how bruce envies the old butler by how just the mention of him makes you smile.

Why was Alfred so important to you?

Bruce goes back in but Alfred is already on his way to the door finally remembering his favorite part of the week.

Bruce watches the interaction closely as you smile when Alfred gives you the money. And how sweetly you hug Alfred.

Bruce had initially thought you only came for the good money Alfred was giving you but the way you smiled was kind...and very adorable.

The whole interaction was definitely wholesome and bruce couldn't help but want to be apart of it...he so desperately wished someone would hug him as happily you hug Alfred...

Bruce being the jealous man he is started to be the one opening the door every Saturday at 1pm enjoying your happy smiles and childish jokes you would tell him as you waited for Alfred to come to the door.

And just like Alfred Bruce always made sure he'd never be busy on Saturday at 1pm because rain or sunshine you'd be at their door.

Eventually it was raining very hard and your mother not checking the weather app before you left had left you alone in the rain with no way to contact your mother.

You do your usual houses ending up at the manor at 1pm and despite the hash rain you still had that cute toothy smile on your face that they loved seeing.

"Hi Mr, Wayne!" You happily say...always so happy.

Bruce smiles you always call him Mr. Wayne even when he tells you not to. You must have very good manners or are just very forget he thinks to himself.

"Hello sweetheart." He says. He's called you sweetheart since the second time he had met you.

Now bruce wasn't that into nicknames but for you the nickname really matched. You were just too sweet.

After you do your usual talking with Alfred and bruce you turn to walk back in the rain.

"You can't possibly walk back in that rain, sweetheart." Bruce says his voice edged with worry and concern.

But you dismiss his concern with a shrug and a smile.

"I've walked in worse.. plus my mama is gonna pick me up soon!" You say happily giving them their two boxes of cookies and walking a way.

But they don't smile back this time when you yell. "Have a blessed day!" Like you always do.

No, their eyes circle around everything about you. About the rain. How harshly it's hitting your skin. How wet your hair is getting. How heavy your little red wagon must be for you as it continues filling up with water.

They watch as you slowly disappear down the long driveway their hearts still longing to help.

But altimately they decide that they can't do anything. Your not their kid. They can't offer you a ride because they know you'd never accept.

They don't even know the name of your mother let alone her number. How were they supposed to verify if your mother was really going to pick you up?

Or were you just going to walk home in the rain?

You'd surely get sick... and after after about five more minutes the two men come to the conclusion that.....fuck the rules you were definitely not going to be walking alone in the rain.

So with Alfred handing bruce the keys bruce quickly took off in his black Mercedes.

You continue walking down the street trying not to feel scared as the lightning strikes agian. And when a black and very nice car pulls up beside you you walk faster.

You knew how much your mother worried...the last thing she needed was for you to get kidnapped!

But the car kept up with your pace and the window rolled down and as much as you tried not to you couldn't help but turn your head to see who was driving the car.

You immediately stop walking as you see the driver.

"Hi Mr. Wayne!" You say smiling and bruce can't even register a real smile as he takes in how your soaking wet from head to toe. And he just knows that those old shoes are probably hurting your feet.

"Hey sweetheart......how about I give you a ride?" He says his voice pleading as he pulls the car to a complete stop.

You look at him and tilt your head and bruce has to stop himself from just getting out the car and picking you up and putting you in himself.

Your adorable confused motions give away your response. So bruce speaks up agian.

"Just one ride to your house." He says still pleading but in his mind you don't really have a choice you are going to let him give you a ride.

"You won't kidnap me right?" You question and instead of bruce feeling offend or angry at that he smiles and shakes his head. You were trying to be safe. But that wasn't exactly a good question to ask.

Atleast not to the richest man in gotham who didn't have to necessarily kidnap you to keep you.

Reaching over and open the passengers seat for you Bruce shows you a award winning smile; a smile that not even the paparazzi has caught him with in years.

"Of course not sweetheart....come on get in."

And plus it's not considered kidnapping when you legally adopt someone right?

Thanks for reading!

Likes Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

[yourcutelittlegayfriend]

Imagine: Taking the Pennyworth name instead

(just short for now I'll work with this after I finished my deadline)

I'm thinking of a small AU for this but I always thought what could happened if Reader was an Isekai or regressed in a Neglected batfam fic?

Reader knowing what happens to the story or her future life with these people and they just straight up planned something to stay far away from the family without causing them to become yandere or obsessed with them.

If reader think it through and most possible solution is to stay at the mansion and be discreet as possible.

And the most I could think of is just get adopted by Alfred instead, bcs why not? You get to stay at the mansion, you won't have the Wayne name on you for reasons that maybe you resent the thought of being called a Wayne.

And even if for a short while you can feel like you belong, not as a child of a rich asshole who becomes a vigilante that runs around 'his' city to do his nightly fight with criminals that just keep multiplying because god only knows he has more patience and time for them that his neglected child who rots in an old house that makes the child feel it's their own Arkham Asylum.

Not to be related to a bunch of bitchy brothers and sisters who thinks they're far more important or involved in the family and never thought that just because they 'died' multiple times your trauma weights lesser than them, just because yours is far more tame doesn't mean you don't get to deserve a little love too.

(This is just me putting myself in the reader's shoes because that's really what I do to most of the x reader fics I make)

Imagine reader just straight up ask Alfred is they could be his child or grandchild instead.

"Adopt me". Alfred stop himself from tipping the teapot when he heard a small tiny voice below him.

The butler looks down and sees the old yet younger addition to the family stare at him from below holding an- wait a minute is that a real adoption papers??

--- Tune in next time to when will I finished this fic before another sh8y day intercept this again---

ALFRED PENNYWORTH SUPREMACY RISE UUPPPPPPP!!!!!!

(some of you might wonder why I'm fixating on Alfred being reader's grandfather/father, it's very simple I just miss my grandfather and Papa so now u know, I'm pretty sure no one wondered but here you go anyway hahahaha)

[acid-ixx]

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

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

read until the end for an author's note.

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

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

not delivered.

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

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

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

not delivered.

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

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

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

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

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

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

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

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

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

not delivered.

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

not delivered.

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

not delivered.

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

not delivered.

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

not delivered.

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

not delivered.

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

not delivered.

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

not delivered.

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

not delivered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what does it require?

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

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

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

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

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

just how?

you are a flower.

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

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

you are a flower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

how could you grow now?

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

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fuck, fuck, fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

calm down.

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

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

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

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

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

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

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

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

are you actually going to do this right now?

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

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

eyes, they may be everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you're scared, rightfully so.

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

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

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

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

you deserve this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"feel better now, hon?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that makes you feel excited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

this is it.

you're going to die today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

you're going to die.

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

you're going to die.

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

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

you're going to die.

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

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

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

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

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

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

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

this is not as bad as their neglect.

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

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

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

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

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

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you'd rather die than this.

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

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

you feel cold.

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

"jason...?"

"angel..."

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

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

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

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

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

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

otherwise, i can't add anymore to my taglist so taglist requests are closed!

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku , @okaybutfullhomo , @trasshy-artist , @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa , @ilovvmyhusband , @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony , @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts , @darling006 , @starringyau , @samanthahanes, @rosecentury , @jaythes1mp , @pi1nkl0ver , @i-thirsty-boy, @sharks-are-cool-l, @silverklaus, @traumaramacenter , @maddimoon , @anxrq, @thedarknesslord , @h0rr0r-10ver-69 , @lazy-idate , @cupids-pretty-boy , @alishii, @mel-star636 , @sitepathos , @freakyotaku059-blog , @dirtydiavolo, @sunbleachedantlers, @24hrsoflanii, @ceramic-raven , @une-lueur-dans-la-nuit , @tdickensstuff4 , @thickerthanthieves , @arlandvery , @distressed-lezbo, @bunbunboysworld , @bellethesleepypotato, @nebuluma, @alliwantisadonut, @alishii, @kusakiguzen, @sirenetheblogger, @emmbny, @ryukyuin, @solkara, @starsdotalk, @nightstarblue, @huhuhhuhh, @shadowpup163, @sunshine-skz, @24hrsoflanii, @bazellawrites, @pato-spoiler-27, @harumy07cat, @rains-mae, @funnybunnyxxx, @littlelilithspost, @howisgroguthiscute, @yuyuzi-ling, @tullipam, @coldcrusadehideout, @princessloveweird, @hybridcon

[rizzanon]

Undoing Fate

neglected to regressor batsis! reader x platonic batfam

what if after 20 years of neglect from your family full of vigilantes, you face an unfortunate death, only to find yourself regressed back to when you were 16?

⤷ lots of emotional neglect, reader was batgirl, reader was a tryhard and an overachiever, reader had no social life in her first life, mentions of drugs, mentions of human trafficking, mentions of death, regression themes, toxic and unhealthy relationships, dysfunctional family, toxic mentalities, reader and everyone else needs therapy…, canon divergence, major character death(s) | tba | based on this

⤷ info! (background) 1 | 2 | read this first to understand the plot and each batfam better :)

⤷ art!!! 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

⤷ if you’re bored m.list

00 | And she cried over nothing

01 | Sixteen again

02 | A quitter? | ?

03 | Everything is awesome…

04 | Until it’s not | .

05 | Untouched memories

06 | Another suffocating day | .

07 | —

08 |

taglist is closed‼️

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(2/3) @animegirlfromvietnam @estreiiuh @simply-lovely78 @twismare @ssak-i @g4bbi3xx @buddee @alor-thes @kiyoramen @weirdothatreads @bat1212 @actuallysleepingrn @k1arar3 @zelabee @just-pure-trash @mindless-rock @heartjwonie @nickey-diano @goldfishsmemory @infirebaby @thephantomdanny @madkill44 @w31rd3rg1rl @fishstcks @yvesnoteve @otterluver05 @lilithskywalker @vanilliona @definitely-not-sammie @strwberryglass @f0rtunej @cottage-worm @darkfaethedestroyer @cloudserenity @bigchungusdrinksspritecranberry @cooldeermagazine @fightmebissh @fantasyhopperhea @sirenetheblogger @dind1n @stupidvodkka @lilithquillete @unamused-boss @insomniaccorner @paastaboi @octavius-world @yukixies @imguce @jellyedkazoo @jsprien213 @bad4amficideas @farmerboywakatoshikun-blog @rissareader @itsberrydreemurstuff @i-am-here3 @eyeless-kun @jayjayjayson @rosy-myhouse34 @verypersonadazzel @ehh-im-just-here-to-read @thesehandsarerated-e

(3/3) @glitchmshade @prongs-moon @jjllmx @thegothamsiren @v3vina @levi-09 @leovergurl @dazailover4ever @sofiaswrittendelusions @yukinaabutlazy @sbrewer21 @ryuushou @batboygirlie @simp-hub

(idk why i can’t tag some of y’all, must be your settings i think 😓) (or let me know if i accidentally spelt ur user wrongly 😭💀)

[xan-izme]

𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐬

Part 1: Dinner Time

Prologue

TW: Past neglect, death, violence, mention of blood, drinking

Tag list: @pix-stuff, @sweetconnoissurgarden, @craftymoonchaos, @jsprien213, @hebaoffside, @bunbunboysworld, @melonylla, @numbu5, @tatsuri-zomushiki, @formulas-bitch, @fantasyhopperhea, @otterluver05, @caged-birdies-blog, @minkyungseokie, @una1002289, @vanessa-boo, @welpthisisboring, @sirenetheblogger, @salfishers, @meeeeeeee-stuff, @eylsiankub, @lilithskywalker

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"Eight years in hell. . ."

You were seated on top of a desk playing with a snow globe in your hands.

"Can really make you go crazy." Your head hits the wall behind you, slowly turning to the bleeding man on the ground, once again receiving a blow to the face from a man dressed in dark red.

"P- please. . . I don't know anything. I swear." The man whimpers as he begged.

You sighed. "You're lying. I really, really hate liars' doctor." You through the snow globe onto the ground, shattering the glass. The man in red took your small fit of rage as a signal and pulled out a gun, pressing it against the doctor's head.

The bleeding doctor felt another type of fear the moment he felt the cool metal against his temple.

"W-wait! Wait! Please! I have a family; I'm begging you please!" The doctor cried and begged. The man in red glanced to you, you sighed and waved you're hand off. The man in red put his finger on the trigger, about to shoot.

"WAIT- Gotham hospital! She was at Gotham hospital!"

The man in red paused and glanced over to you.

You walked closer to the doctor, crouching down to the man's current level, as the man in red slowly pulled the gum away, the doctor felt a large wave of relief wash over him.

"Are you sure?"

The doctor nods "She s-saw Doctor Hill, that's all I know, I promise that's all I know."

You stay silent for a moment before standing up. "Thank you for your cooperation."

The Doctor felt relived. Wanting to go back to his wife and kids, hug them as tight as he could-

BAM!

The Doctor fell with a thud. Blood slowly seeping out of his body as you tossed the gun you used to shoot the doctor to the man in red.

"That's for lying" You mumbled as you stare at the doctor's body with indiffrence.

You've been out of Arkham for almost a month now. You should be relaxing, try to fit back into society. But no, your mother was missing, the Falcone's didn't know where her whereabouts were, some made comments of her abandoning you the moment you got out, which coursed them to have a slow death for their crude comments.

Your mother loves you, and you know she would never abandon you. So now you're searching. But you aren't getting to her fast enough. And your growing impatient. You wanted to come back out into the world and run into the arms of your mother, but your just met with Gotham's ugly mug. It angered you beyond words.

The man in red, Rex, works for the Falcones, but has come to be loyal to you. Rex followed behind you as you walked out of the room and down the halls.

"Give doctor hill a visit for me, will ya?" You spoke coldly as your heels clicked loudly walking down the empty hall of an abandoned building. Rex nods before speaking up.

"What about you Miss Falcone. Are you going back to the Falcon manor?"

Ah, yes. You took your mother's last name. All done in paper. No more, Y/n Wayne. That little girl is dead.

". . . No, I need to grab a few things."

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Alfred knows you have been out for a month, so why have you not come back to the manor?

Alfred tried to keep in touch as much as possible during your time in Arkham. Every phone call, he could hear that sweet innocent girl he knew fade. He has tried to phone you multiple times but no use. Even tracking you down with was difficult, Alfred has tried to tell Bruce about his worry for you not coming home, But Bruce seemed to almost immediately shut down at the mention of your name.

He's worried for you, he just wants to see you, and make sure you're okay.

There was a met Gala being held today. Preparing for it was exhausting, but it was like that every time a gala had to be held. Everyone scattered all over the manor.

With a heavy sigh, Alfred entered the kitchen, the gala's close to an end, the rich of Gotham turning in for the night. But Alfred comes to a stop when he noticed a woman in the kitchen, dressed in a dark red dress, her back faced to him as she picked up a glass of wine.

"Excuse me ma'am, you're not supposed to be in the back here." Alfred spoke firmly with his usual stoic expression. The woman in red slowly turns around with the wine glass in hand. Then she spoke, the face, Alfred surely does not recognize, but the voice. He knows your voice.

"I rather be away from the crowed, if you don't mind." You gave the older man a small smirk as you see the realization hit him.

"Miss Y/n?"

Your small smirk cracked even wider. Alfred walks closer, shocked to see you here, in the kitchen munching on some sweets, just like you used to when you were younger.

You shrugged with a small giggle slipping from your red lips

"The one and only"

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"Miss Y/n, come, Master Bruce must know your home!" Alfred might not show it a lot, but he is overjoyed to see you in the manor again. You've grown so much.

"Ah, well I was hoping to just grab some things from my old room and head out." You try to walk off to the back staires

"Nonsense, come, come." Alfred needed you to meet the family. For the family to see you. He touched your back as to lead you out of the kitchen and into the dining room.

You immediately flinched away.

Your negative reaction causes the butler to coil back.

"Miss. . .?"

You let out a weak cuckle.

"Sorry, I'm not fond of being touched." You began to meekly rub your hands together. Alfred comes to realize your time in Arkham has damaged you in some way's he might not be able to know yet.

"No need to apologize miss Y/n." Despite the small awkward moment Alfred still managed to have you walked out to see the others.

You felt an immense amount of DeJa'Vu. The walls, the detailed engraved in these walls. These walls haunted your dreams. Only half of your childhood was spent in this manor. You remember running down those stairs once Bruce came home from work. Skipping through these halls after getting a solo part in choir, something Bruce never really paid mind too.

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Almost everyone was here tonight. Jason, Dick, Cassandra, Tim, Damian and Duke. Steph couldn't make it. Barbra was spending time with her father. And. . .

Bruce watched as his children chat, argue, laugh. He smiles to himself as he takes a sip of his glass of white wine.

"Where's Alfred?" Damian spoke up as he turned his head in search for the butler that is always usually hovering around. Bruce shrugs

"Most likely in the kitchen."

Suddenly, the doors open, in comes Alfred with a smile on his face.

"Alfred." Bruce can tell Alfred seems to be in a more chipper mood than he was in half an hour ago.

"We have a visitor." Alfred's words confused the others. Then you stepped up. You scanned the room. Some faces new, some old. Others were still confused, either not recognizing you due to the years that have passed, or the fact they simply didn't know who you were.

But Bruce didn't take long to recognize you. And the way he paled at the sight of you, it just made you smirk at his reaction. Dick was quick to follow the realization.

"Y/n . . ." Bruce mumbled.

Jason's head whipped to Bruce once he heard the name. Looking back at you then to Bruce.

"Y/n, we thought you were still . . ." Dick tried to speak, but he seemed to get more uncomfortable with just thinking of his words.

You wait for Dick to say the words, but clearly, he was still in shock to say it.

"Arkham? I've been, rehabilitated." You say this with a soft smile.

Jason, trying to process what the actual fuck is going on right now stayed silent. Damian also confused spoke up.

"Father who is this woman?"

Your eyes snapped to the young boy, your head tilt for a moment. Walking closer to the table. Your heels click as you kept your eyes on the young boy, and Bruce kept his eyes on you. Still not believing you were out.

"I'm his daughter. Blood, daughter." You spoke as you kept a playful manner to yourself. The Damian frowns. "Imposible. I'm fathers only blood child."

You paused for a moment. You seem to be analyzing the situation.

"Is that what dear old daddy said." Your chuckle, almost darkly, as you sipped on your glass of red wine. Alfred pulled up a seat at the end of the table, across from Bruce. You took a seat.

The room that was once filled with chatter and warm air was now silent and tension filled the air. You leaned back into the chair; Alfred re-fills your glass.

"Thank you, Alfred." You kept a small playful smile on your red lips. You let out a small sigh before speaking

"So, what did I miss?"

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"𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢?"

[klemen-tine]

No Prince Charming

(Batfam x Mom!Reader)

Anonymous asked:

Hello, I really like your work.

I saw that you have an open request, so I want to share an idea that has been sitting in my head for a long time.

Reader married Bruce for convenience. (In my head, the reader is a woman, but I'll leave it to your taste) The wedding takes place shortly before the appearance of the first Robin. Bruce and reader have a cold relationship. Reader comes from the wealthy population of Gotham. Therefore, reader is well educated and intelligent. So after a while, when Dick already appears, reader understands what her husband does at night. But reading doesn't say anything about it or hint at it. The reader doesn't want to get involved in any of this, it scares her. And although the reader is planning a divorce, she takes care of all the members of her new family. And although she is neglected in the family, the reader becomes a parental figure for children. But the children won't admit it. When Damian appears, the reader doesn't say a word to Bruce. But Damian treats reader very badly. And that becomes the trigger. The reader slips Bruce the divorce papers.(not to mention that they are getting divorced, since Bruce is likely to protest) and when Bruce signs them, he leaves the estate, leaving the divorce papers and the wedding ring on the bed when no one notices. And only then does the family realize what they have done with their neglect of reader. Their yandere trait is waking up in them and now they need to somehow find their reader.

Sorry if it's too much.

And I apologize for the English, I am writing with a translator

❤

Warning: Non-consensual drugging, not descriptive sex. It's just mentioned, no details. Hinted at Dick's trauma with his sidekick.

It was a marriage of convenience. That's all it was. Bruce Wayne knew Y/N L/N since childhood, and while they weren’t close, Y/N was the only one who never treated him any differently after his parents were murdered. Maybe it's because her own father was murdered, and she understood that sometimes the greatest support was to act like nothing changed. 

Fast forward to young adults, Bruce Wayne was now Brucie in public, and Y/N was the unstoppable woman leading her own company by the reins. Bruce had come to her with an offer, one that had her brows raised and painted lips smirking. For Bruce Wayne, this will help solidify his position as someone who was not Batman, and for Y/N it would finally silence the hecklers that gnawed at her heels and bit into her shoulders. 

A frigid marriage, filled with cold greetings, Brucie still entertaining women, Y/N still controlling her company with painted lips, and rumors surrounding them. Despite the coldness, Y/N knew a lie when she saw one. She knows a front when she comes face to face with one, and it is why when she saw Batman in the hallways of Wayne manor, staring at her in shock and apprehension, she rolled her eyes and continued to sip her wine as she made her way back to her office. 

“Please don’t stain the carpet. Alfred just shampooed them.” They never brought it up again. Bruce was no Prince Charming, despite the front he put on for strangers. There were no whispered promises, no flowers, no gifts, nothing but ‘hellos’ and ‘goodbyes.’ 

Then, along came Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson. A child who had blinked up at her with large blue eyes, and Y/N could feel her heart crumble. She had welcomed him with open arms and smiles. She had welcomed all of the Robins in. Her manicured nails getting shorter each time, so she doesn’t have to fear hurting one of them, and her smiles became softer. Y/N had never tried to replace any of their mother’s, but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel like one. 

But it was Bruce they had a closer bond with. Which is why they started following his behavior towards her. Clipped words and rolling of eyes were common, as were the cold shoulders and tense silences. 

“You’re not my mom! So stop asking how school was!” Y/N stared at Jason in shock and curiosity about where that outburst had come from. Alfred was the only one to say anything. A stern, “Master Jason,” and a look that had even Bruce cowering had the young boy apologizing. Y/N ignored the way her heart slowly broke, as the quirky child full of smiles, sass, and who loved classics, turned his back on her. 

As if she wasn’t the one to introduce those books to him. 

Y/N doesn’t blame them for their cold behavior towards her. She doesn’t blame Dick’s disregard, Jason’s hurtful words, Tim’s cynical looks, Steph’s taunts, and Damian’s heated actions.  

Y/N had cried at Jason’s funeral, she helped Bruce fight for custody for Tim, she had consoled Dick after some of his own traumatic experiences, and she sat there and listened as Damian compared her and Talia. Talia, of all people. She had met the woman once, and Y/N had nodded at her. Y/N never judged Bruce for sleeping with the woman. Hell, Y/N would have too.  Y/N can recall the day Damian came to their manor, and the short look Dick had given her when she and the child made eye contact. 

Y/N doesn’t know if it was a look of concern or mockery, but she knows he did look. 

She was there for Richard when his trauma with his sidekick happened. He may have never told her, but Y/N is a woman. A woman who has known people that have suffered the same way Dick has. That are still suffering like he is. 

“I’m sorry Richard.” 

“What do you even know?! You know nothing! Absolutely nothing so just butt out!” Dick glared at her with blue eyes that had put the arctic water to shame. Y/N stood there and took it all. She stood proudly with her shoulders back and chin up. 

In public, she was a stoic mother keeping the children in check while Bruce goofed off. She was the woman who failed her children, because she chose to continue running her business. Her very, very, very successful business. A business that had taken her and her mother from the bottom of High Society, to the top 10%. A series of great investments, smart marketing, and pretty words have lined her pockets with money that she could easily retire on. 

Yet, all that money couldn’t save her mother. The woman died of a heart attack, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing Y/N could do besides bury her mother. 

“Bruce please.” 

“I am busy.” 

“I know but Bruce, this is my–” 

“Ask Alfred.” He had turned his back and Y/N was stuck staring at the retreating man with a new feeling of heartbreak. The tabloids ate up that she was alone at her mother’s funeral. A private event that no one was allowed into besides close family and friends. 

When she came back, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped, Damian had picked the time to make his disdain known again, “–and my mother would have never let herself go like that. You look horrid, unbefitting of a Wayne. A disgrace.” 

Blank E/C eyes stared into raging green and she sighed, “Thanks, Damian.” She spared him no glance after that, and she walked towards her bedroom to take a hot shower. It was there, under the hot spray of water that she finally cried. She cried for the last part of family she had, and the years she lost from marrying a man who didn’t even like her enough to attend a godforsaken fucking funeral. She cried for the children she couldn’t even call her own. 

She cried for the life she missed by marrying Bruce fucking Wayne. 

“Honey, are you happy?” 

“Of course Mama.” 

“You never could lie to me sweetie.” Her mother kissed her forehead and looked into E/C eyes with nothing but love, “You’ve worked so hard, sweetie.” That acknowledgement alone had her almost in tears, “But please start working for yourself now.” 

Taking a deep breath, Y/N hopped out of the shower and called her lawyer. Divorce papers were in her hands within 24 hours, and her bags packed in 3. 

She stood next to Bruce, ignoring the scowl on his face as she ‘disrupted’ his work. Y/N kept her face neutral, because if she smiled it would give it all away, and handed him the page he needed to sign. 

For a billionaire and for a vigilante, he sure didn’t read the damn paper. Which is fine. Great even, because now, after being here for over a decade, Y/N is free. She laughed in her room, laughing so hard that it almost tore her throat. Leaving a copy of it on Bruce’s bed once he was gone, she grabbed her suitcase and accidentally ran into Alfred on her way out the door. 

The old man took a look at her clothes, her bags, and her expression before sighing, “Shall I drive you for the last time, Lady Y/N?” Y/N smiled, bitterly at the thought of leaving Alfred, her only solace in this cold mansion. 

“To the airport, please.” The ride was silent, and Y/N didn’t look back as they left the gates of the mansion. It wasn’t until they were halfway there that Y/N spoke up, “My lawyer will call in a few days, just to hash out the details.” 

“Is that so?” 

“There’s nothing I want. No assets, no money, nothing will be taken, I just want a divorce.” She just wants the law to recognize that she is not a Wayne. That she will never be a Wayne. 

“Lady Y/N, perhaps a check for compensation for the emotional strain would be nice?” Y/N laughed, bitterly and sad, “I don’t want his money. I want nothing to do with him anymore.” 

“And the kids?” 

“They don’t need me. They never did. I doubt they will even notice.” Gotham International Airport wasn’t crowded, and that may be because it was 1pm on a Tuesday. Alfred helped her with her bags, and the old man stared at the woman before him. He remembers meeting her for the first time, a confident young woman who had a way with words and was unfairly intelligent. Matching wits and able to speak confidently in a room of people who thought little of her. 

It's good to see some of that coming back. 

Y/N hugged Alfred, “Thank you, Alfred. For everything.” The older man sighed and watched as the woman took her bags and walked away. Not once did she look back and Alfred decided to stay until her form disappeared in the building. He sighed heavily and when got back in the car, he dialed a number he knew by heart. It only took three rings before the voice of the man he raised answered, “Alfred, is everything okay?” 

“Master Bruce, I fear you may have lost something precious, and I do hope you, and the young masters, have a plan to make this up to them.” He hung up afterwards as he merged into traffic, and he hoped his message finally hit something within his son’s dense skull. 

When he returned back to the manor, he began the preparation for making dinner. All was silent throughout the manor, until the door opened and the rush of the footsteps began marching towards him. 

“Master Richard, I urge you to not run.” 

“Bruce told me there was an emergency and to hurry to the manor?” Alfred sighed, “While it is an emergency, it is not one you can fix on your own.” No, this was something for Bruce to fix seeing tha all the problems stemmed from him. 

Dick raised a brow, “What kind of emergency is it?” Alfred pursed her lips, “Miss Y/N Wayne is now Miss Y/N L/N once more.” He turned to look the man he has considered his grandson in the eyes, and he could see the revelation sink in. 

“Y/N divorced Bruce?” Alfred nodded, “The papers have been signed.” 

“Bruce would never sign those papers.” Alfred raised a brow, “They are signed and waiting for him to read.” Dick slowly walked out of the kitchen, “Is she still here?” Alfred turned back to the food and Dick began speed walking towards Y/N’s room. As a child it never occurred to him why they would they never slept together, but as he got older he understood. 

He knocked on her doors, calling her name like he used to as a kid. 

Dick had always understood that Bruce’s and Y/N’s relationship was not one of a couple in love. He also understood that Y/N’s treatment in the manor by the residents of the manor was unfair. Whenever he could, he would correct Damian’s harsh words, but even he himself couldn’t fully bring himself to be all that kind to her. 

He tried. He desperately tried, because he saw all that she did for them behind the scenes. He saw the mistreatment and judging looks others would give her as her ‘husband’ was out fooling around. 

Dick saw the blank look she had given Damian after her mother’s funeral. The one none of them had gone too. 

“What do you mean you didn’t go?” His voice panicked as he talked to Tim, “I didn’t go. I was under the assumption someone else would go.” 

Y/N could have been Gotham’s biggest bitch, but not even then would she have deserved that. What made it worse was that Y/N was not a bitch. She wasn’t cruel, or unkind. She was as much of a philanthropist as Bruce was. Always aiding those whose needed it and desperately trying to make Gotham a better place. 

Dick opened her doors and was greeted with an empty room. Gone were the picture frames, and the closet was empty along with the bathroom. Her prized jewlery, the things she took care of almost obsessively, all of it was gone. 

He could remember beng 9 and sitting next to her as she cleaned one of her sapphire earrings. Thin fingers with long nail held the earring next to him, a scrutinizing look on her face before she would break out into a grin, “As I thought, nothing could ever compare to our Dickie’s sapphire eyes.”

“Holy shit.” 

“What’s going on- why is Y/N’s room empty?” Tim looked throughout the room, and Dick could see the wonder across his younger brother’s face. Right, between all of them, Tim and Y/N had the least amount of time spent together. 

Dick stared at his brother as the image of Y/N smiling at a string of pearls entered his mind. She had explained to him when he asked that pearls, while feminine, also symbolized new beginnings. She had gotten it when Tim’s custody was signed over to the Waynes. 

“She’s gone.” Tim met Dick’s eyes, “Like… taking a vacation gone?” Dick gave a humorless chuckle, “She divorced Bruce, Tim. Y/N is gone.” This must have been what Alfred saw when he broke the news to Dick. The confusion and then realization coming to light in those blue eyes. 

“Bruce would never sign those papers.” Dick had said the same thing, and yet here she was. Gone. As if to emphasize his point, Dick made an exaggerated expression and motioned to the empty room. 

Tim looked around and he could feel a headache forming, “Bruce is gonna be pissed.” Dick groaned, “Fuck Bruce for a second, the only stable-mentally healthy-adult figure that isn’t Alfred is gone, Tim.” The boy didn’t look all that bothered, “Well, if she’s happier then I don’t mind.” 

Of course he doesn’t mind. Why? Because this little stalker most likely knows where she’s going. Tim did a good job hiding it, but Dick was raised by Bruce. He is trained to spot the mciroexpressions of people, and even if they are his own siblings. 

Tim is panicking. The very thought of Y/N leaving had not once occurred to them, and for Tim who loves planning, this was not once ever in the plans. 

Not once. Y/N had been a staple within the manor, and to imagine her not being here was rough. Evenw hen she left for business trips, it was fine because they all knew she was coming back. SHe would come back with souvenirs, handing each of them something that reminhded her of them, before running upstairs to get out of the family’s judgemental line of sight. 

“Fucking hell.” 

++++

Bruce entered the condo with ease. His steps light as he walked through the dark room, noting the all the furniture. There was no Y/N in the living room or kitchen, but when he looked out the balcony door, he could see her back. She was leaning against the edge of the infinity pool, without doubt a hot tub of some sorts because it was too cold to be swimming in a regular pool. 

She didn’t even turn around to look at him, her attention focused on the view of the snowy mountains and raging seas in front of her. Bruce could see the wine bottle left on the side of the pool and the glass that looked like it was finished only a short while ago. When she did turn around, E/C reflected the stars and dimly lit light around the pool, making them shine and sparkle like they were the galaxy.

Bruce isn’t blind. He knows Y/N is an attractive woman who had many people lusting after her even when they were married. Talia even made a note of it, “You should see if she wants to join next time.” He should have known that his clipped response was a sign. 

It was all there, and yet he did everything within his power to ensure that he would not fall in love with her. Falling in love has always been out of the question, and when Y/N came into his life, Bruce made it his mission to do just that. The woman before him had never complained, and she never seemed to fault him for it, but he could tell there was resentment. If he couldn’t have allowed himself to fall in love with her, he could have at least offered her friendship. One that made life more bearable for the both of them, and set a good example for the kids. 

“What are you doing, Bruce?” She didn’t seem shocked that he was here, let alone in her vacation condo. Bruce took off his shirt and pants, stripping down to his boxers before joining her in the hot tub. He had grabbed two glasses of wine before doing so, handing her one and taking a sip from the other. 

 “Is it wrong of me to want to join my wife on her vacation?” 

“Ex-wife. The documents are signed, and besides this is a girl trip.” Bruce re-read those documents and kicked his foot for not fucking reading them when he first signed them. He should have known she was up to something. 

“Y/N, come back to the manor.” He stared into E/C eyes as she took another sip of the wine. Bruce had come with a speech prepared, ready to convince her to come back with him, but it was all lost as he stared and observed the woman in front of him drink delicately from the glass. Y/N L/N has always been a woman of class, even when she was near the bottom of high society. It wasn’t her good looks that landed her in the top 10, possibly even top 5%, and like every classy woman, she was only allowed to regret a few things. Their marriage is one, but leaving is not even an option on the list of things she wants to regret but can’t. 

He knows this. She knows this. 

And yet, Bruce could only focus on how beautiful she looks, and how beautiful she would look sprawled on the silk bed sheets. Y/N has aged like fine wine, looking even more beautifully and worth more and more with each passing year. Aging gracefully and beautifully as the years passed and still catching the attention of others. 

It's a shame his younger self was more into whiskey than wine. 

He wonders how different their relationship would be if he had gotten to know her before and during the early years of their marriage. Without a doubt it would be easier to talk to her. Easier to convince her to come back to a manor that now misses her.

“And why should I?” It’d be easier to answer her with a compelling reason, one that would have her actually debating on whether or not to come back. Bruce reached over and brushed a strand of hair out of her face, and he’s shocked that she even let him do that. She didn’t flinch, nor did she lean into his touch. Y/N stood still as he moved the H/C lock behind her ears. 

“The manor misses you.” He’s never heard her laugh the way she did in that moment. Throwing her head back and exposing unblemished skin to the night air as she laughed, and continued to laugh. Her shoulders shaking from the force and slightly distilling the wine. 

Once she was done, her cheeks were red from the laughter and she was gasping for breath, “Yeah, okay. So Alfred misses me, I’ll make sure to give him a call then.” She turned her back to Bruce and began walking towards the edge of the pool. 

“The boys, girls, and I do too.” Chateau Petra was on his lips and the feeling of cold wine hitting his face and upper chest had him closing his eyes for a second. When he opened them, Y/N’s wine glass was empty and on her face was a hard expression. Cold E/C eyes glaring into his as she pulled herself out of the pool, and grabbed the rest of the wine bottle. 

“Sleep on the couch. You’re going home tomorrow.” Her steps quiet as she stalked into her home and she headed for the bathroom. Bruce sighed, and stared at the night sky with a new look in his eyes, ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures.’ He would like to believe that he is above this. He wants to believe that this was the worst case scenario happening and therefore this needs to happen. 

Has to. The very thought of Y/N being away caused an itch to form under his skin and a burning fire in his chest. A fire he never knew blazed in him until it went out. Now, more aware and protective of it, Bruce found himself craving the warmth in ways that had his mouth foaming and muscles tensing. He looked down at the water and saw the red wine diluting and sprawling throughout the pool water, looking like blood for only a second. 

A smile curled on his lips and he pulled himself out of the pool water, drying himself off before making his way into the shower with his ‘ex-wife.’ They may have never been lovers, but they were two adults living under the same roof. 

So, of course they have had sex. 

Hate sex is the best and worst sex. It is the best because Bruce can go as hard as he wants to and Y/N will love it. It is the worse because hate sex is all Y/N will see this as. Y/N will only see it has hate sex and not for the love Bruce feels for her. She won’t feel it in the way he caresses her skin or in the way he leaves his bite marks on her thighs. All Y/N will see this as, is hate sex. 

Which is fine. If hate sex is what Y/N needs to see this as to work then Bruce will take it. He has time. He has plenty of time to show her how much he cares and loves her. Those divorce papers will be long gone, every single one of those copies non-existent. He loves her. He loves her in the way a cactus loves the sun, or how the stars love the moon. 

Bruce was so enamored by her, that he couldn’t help but to fall deeper. Her soft hands, that have never broken a bone but have broken many hearts, cradling scarred shoulders and sharp cheeks. She didn’t flinch when his own rough hands gripped her’s, bruising and secure, and she didn’t flinch when intense blue eyes met hers. In fact, she smiled, like this was all a joke he was the butt of it. 

It pissed him off that even she could have secrets and inside jokes that he doesn’t know about. As she laid there, her eyes now closed and body relaxed, Bruce pulled out a syringe filled with something that will keep her asleep. Only for a few days. Barbara is already working on getting rid of the divorce papers and the kids were preparing for her return. 

Bruce kissed her forehead, smiling down at his Sleeping Beauty. If need be, the manor will be her castle and the kids her vines covered in thorns. Bruce, in all his daunting and terrifying glory shall be the dragon, keeping her locked within her castle because nowhere was safer than the castle. Only she could keep him calm, and only she could make him feel human. 

Batman was never Prince Charming.

_________________________________________________________

Not my best work in my opinion... but I still like tbh.

@problematicreblogger

@kurai-hono-blog

@rosecentury

[nikovraskol]

crack baby ; prologue

wc ; 1572 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ?

tw ; death, neglect, brief mention of drugs, curse words

prologue, one, tbc..

Your death was completely preventable.

As you lay on the concrete floor of the cold alleyway, you can’t help but feel a sense of peace. Yeah, sure, you were shot 5 times and you’re currently bleeding out in some piss-smelling drug-ridden pavement. At least you’ve died in a somewhat honorable way, people will have a tell to tale, whether it’s good or bad, you’ll be remembered for a while.

Or maybe that’s wishful thinking, maybe the lack of blood is making you delirious. There’s no way you’ll be remembered as anything but the child that haunts the manor, that stalks around, staring at the residents of the Wayne manor with hopeful eyes. A child who doesn’t belong, who’s body isn’t able to fill in the cracks in the family, a child who wasn’t able to give anything, to devout anything.

A child of 21, but a child nonetheless. 

The way you got caught up in the shooting was so unbelievably stupid, you were too nice to refuse taking on an extra shift from your co-worker, working overtime for free because you didn’t know how to say no. You got caught up in a fight between goons on your way home. For a brief moment, that small child you had buried foolishly believed your father would swoop down and protect you.

Then you were shot, again and again and again.

You don’t want to die, you decide at the last minute. You want to go back in time, to tell your poor 16-year-old self that yearning for the love of a family who doesn’t have love to give is foolish. A foolish child dying a foolish death.

And then, your eyes shut for the last time, you can almost hear your mother’s low humming, the smell of the dingy, old apartment you used to live in with her, you can taste the cold food she worked to provide (you can feel her hands on your neck, can hear her apologies ringing over and over as she cries).

It’s peaceful, almost nice.

Until you wake up – and your first thought is; what the fuck?

Your hand instinctively moves to your lower abdomen where you were shot – you were shot! You remember the burning pain shooting through you, so why on earth are you unharmed and.. in your bedroom?

It’s strange, why are your old posters up? Trinkets you distinctly remember throwing out, clothes you don’t wear thrown about – and that’s when it happens.

Your eyes catch a reflection in the mirror, your reflection. Your reflection that isn’t yours, why is

your hair shorter? Why are you so small– why are you.. Sixteen?

“What the fuck?” You hiss, jumping out of bed – wobbling as you whip your head around, taking in every nook and cranny of the small room. “What the fuck?!” 

You jump towards the mirror, leaning in as you slap, pinch and stretch your face, awed by the youthful appearance, you had forgotten how cute you looked. No, that seems like the wrong word, you looked sixteen. Just an average sixteen year old, healthy and alive (somehow).

A few moments ago you were lying in a pool of your blood in a run-down alley, an unloved 21 year old – now you’re sixteen again, and you have a chance to change the inevitable! If you ignore the pit of dread in your stomach. Sixteen had been the worst year of your life, full of anger and hormones and teenage drama. Sixteen had been the year you struggled the most.

On the bright side, at least you had a trial run..?

“Young Master (Name)” A british, familiar voice calls out and you tense, whipping your head around to see Alfred. It had almost slipped your mind, Alfred is alive. He’s standing before you, as straight and proper as always, smiling at you as if nothing had changed. As if you hadn’t sobbed at his funeral, as if you hadn’t cursed your family for dragging him into their mess, as if you hadn’t spent countless nights at his grave, as if–

“Are you.. alright?” He asks, taking in the flabbergasted expression on your face – to which you straighten up, nodding with a shaken exhale as you ignore the churning of your stomach. You felt nauseous, everything felt too real in an uncomfortable way. A very uncomfortable way – the mix of emotions threatening to consume you.

“You didn’t come down for breakfast, I was beginning to grow worried.” He explains, taking in the way you nod blankly once more, his brows furrowing. “Is– everything alright”

“Y– yes, I’m just not hungry, I’ll– have something later.” You can’t keep your voice from trembling, you’re five seconds away from breaking down and sobbing before him, but you don’t want to worry him. You need to figure out a game plan, you’ve no time for stupid pleasantries like food, plus even if you tried to eat you’d probably throw up then break down sobbing.

“Alright, Young Master. But please, eat something before noon.” Alfred sighs, clearly worried by your peculiar behaviour, his eyes lingering for a moment too long before he leaves your room, shutting the door behind him with a resounding click. Oh fuck, how are you supposed to interact with anyone in this family if a two minute interaction is enough to have you trembling? Whatever, it matters not! You fumble around with your face for another moment before letting out a long sigh, your head already aching from the bewilderment of the situation. You shuffle over to your bed, plopping down with another huff. You had no idea what to do, no plan to go forward, but you had to figure something out. 

You couldn’t stay in the Manor, you couldn’t deal with the dismissive eyes, the fake words of reassurance. You couldn’t stand curling up in your room, listening to the distant sounds of laughter as everyone celebrated without you. You couldn’t stand being that child again.

“I need to leave.” You say with more firmness than you had intended, your eyes set on the mirror before you. Of a sixteen-year-old (Name), staring back at you with pitiful eyes, you’ll get them out, you’ll give them a future – you’ll give yourself a future.

“Okay. Now, where do I begin?” You mumble, staring up at your ceiling before reaching for your phone. Time to go house hunting at sixteen. Yipee.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Alfred was picking up your plate with a thoughtful expression, breakfast had always been your favourite time of day because it always gave you a chance to see your family. No matter how you felt, or how busy you were. How peculiar.

It’s unusual for you to so blatantly skip it, there’s also that whole thing with your demeanour. Something in you had shifted, and he didn’t like it – it felt as though you were slipping away, as though you had resigned, as though you had stepped back, content in living as a shadow lurking in the dark corners of the Manor.

That simply won’t do. 

He won’t give up on that smiling child, looking up at him with their front tooth missing, dirt staining their clothes as they ramble on about how they found a top secret hide-out, how they can’t wait to tell your big brothers their adventures. 

Well, he’s sure with a few clever strings pulled he can finally put you on centre stage, with the lights shining on you. He just needs to remember to reserve a front row seat, for himself, of course.

“What the fuck?” You grumble, repeating that sentence for the nth time as you angrily type on your phone – why is every apartment in this city and the city over so bummy? It’s either too expensive or overridden with rats or overtaken by gangs.

You never moved houses in your past (?) life, staying in the Wayne Manor was easy once you accepted the inevitability of chasing after a fruitless relationship. Plus, the housing in Gotham and Bludhaven has always been..

Well, it could be better!

“(Name).” Your heart jumps out of your chest as an strangely familiar voice calls out for you, dark, low, paternal. Who on earth?

Your heart sinks as your eyes shift to the figure at your door. Batman, Bruce Wayne, your father, is in your room? What the fuck? This had never happened in your life, certainly not at sixteen. You can recall every single time you’ve ever seen your family, so why? Your hand curls around your phone as you gape up at your father. This isn’t supposed to happen. The one thing grounding you through this crazy, disconnecting experience was the comfort that you were familiar with your future, that you had a grasp on what events are bound to go down.

You’ve been awake for about twenty minutes – how’s it already changed?! Inside you, a deep part of your soul shifts, the air in the room suddenly being sucked in by his overwhelming presence, his eyes – cold and calculating, sizing you up as if you were a specimen, as though you were a pretty piece of silver at an auction and not his flesh and blood, your breathing become uneven as you try to grasp at your memory, anything that might've slipped your mind regarding interactions with your father.

You draw a blank, this has never happened. It's not supposed to happen – what the fuck?!

“Let’s go for a walk.”

yall i feel like this sucks i havent written in like two years im so rusty omg im so embarresed ill die bye

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

pt.4 SILLY LITTLE BAT

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-hero! Fem!reader.

synopsis ⸺ In a Gotham steeped in darkness, Bruce Wayne confronts a past resonating with secrets. As he uncovers the identity of an enigmatic antiheroine, he will discover hidden truths that will stain his legacy. Blood, a symbol of betrayals, intertwines with his fate, revealing that darkness dwells within him as well.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, Religion, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, tw.noncon, Discrimination, Street Fights, Gaslight, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia

Chapter guide! Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is— I took a long time because I went on vacation, I wasn’t inspired, I had a lot of things to catch up on, and blah blah blah. The good thing is that I brought part 4, and just so you know, there are about four or five more parts of the story, maybe more.

I'm dirty, infinitely dirty,

this is why I scream so much

about purity.

Bruce sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the weight of the memories and the silence that now inhabited that room. Every corner of that space reminded him of his daughter's presence, a presence that had been fragile and ephemeral, like smoke disappearing between fingers. He looked at the diplomas and trophies on the shelves, those small proofs of her effort and dedication. He caressed them with the same reverence he used when going through old photographs, searching for something, anything, that would tell him he had done enough, that he had been a good father.

But he only saw the same emptiness in her eyes that he had known since childhood. She resembled him more than he would have imagined. In her dull gaze, in her absent smile, he recognized the same pain that had accompanied him after his parents' death. He realized, almost bitterly, that this darkness was an inheritance, a shadow he had left in her without realizing it.

Bruce ran his fingers over an old photo from her first birthday after losing his mother. That day, Alfred had secretly taken her to Metropolis in a desperate attempt to give her some happiness. But even at the amusement park, where laughter and noise were contagious, her face remained a vacant mask. She wasn’t really smiling, as if something inside her knew she would never have the normalcy that other children enjoyed.

With a heavy sigh, Bruce rested his head on the pillow that had been hers, wanting to cling to the scent of his daughter. But there was no trace of her aroma left. Alfred, in an act of rigor that Bruce couldn’t understand, had eliminated any trace of her, perhaps trying to close a wound that Bruce was unwilling to let heal. He had reproached Alfred for hours and hours for erasing that last vestige of his daughter. But Alfred’s look, serious and filled with silence, told him what he already knew: maybe he didn’t deserve to keep those memories because he had failed to protect the person he loved most.

He closed his eyes, sinking into the pain of each thought that emerged from that dark room. Everything reminded him that, somehow, he was responsible for his daughter's disappearance, as if his own shadows had consumed her. In his mind, images of what he could have done differently began to surface, a parade of possibilities where he was a better father, more attentive and less blind to her suffering.

Suddenly, Titus and Alfred the Cat entered together through the door, coming in silently, as if they understood the weight of that moment. Titus approached Bruce, resting his massive head on his knee, while Alfred the Cat jumped onto Bruce's lap, purring softly. Bruce petted the dog and the cat, finding in them the only comfort that seemed left to him. His voice trembled when, in an almost delirious tone, he confessed to them:

"Maybe I’m the real killer here. What kind of father lets his daughter get lost in the dark? What kind of monster was I that I never saw her pain? If she’s dead… if my little girl has left this world… then I am the only one responsible."

He paused, breathing heavily, as the words he wanted to suppress escaped his lips in a bitter and disturbing whisper. "Sometimes I wish I had… had stopped her mother. If she hadn’t been… if I had raised her from the beginning… I could have saved her from so much pain."

The words, though spoken in a barely audible murmur, weighed heavily in the room. He caressed the pillow, almost pleading for the past to change, for every mistake to be undone. The cat purred softly, as if understanding the pain Bruce was trying to stifle deep in his chest. Titus looked at him with eyes full of loyalty, without judging him, but not offering the redemption he desperately sought.

"I would give anything for a second chance," he whispered, his voice broken. "I would give my life to undo every moment that made her drift away. I would give anything to see her smile again, even if it were just once… even if it were just to tell her how sorry I am."

The house was silent, and in that instant, Bruce understood that there were no words, no time, no strength that could change the past. He was trapped in an abyss of guilt, with only shadows and memories now haunting him, reflecting his own empty and broken face.

Finally, he could no longer contain himself. Feeling the emptiness in his chest, tears began to fall onto the pillow, soaking it with his pain, as if the weight of his own guilt slid out in every sob he tried to stifle. His face was buried in the memory of his daughter, lost in the pain that tormented him with an intensity he could no longer bear.

It was then that Damian entered, dressed as Robin, with his katana stained with a dark red liquid that could be nothing other than blood, with a sharp and direct arrogance, breaking the silent mourning of Bruce. Coldly, he looked at his father and pronounced, almost with disdain, "No matter how much you cry like a whore, Y/N won’t come back."

Bruce looked up, surprised and hurt, but before he could respond, Damian continued with the same hardness. "While everyone was out in a gang like a bunch of lowlifes and came back empty-handed, I found something you didn’t even bother to look for while lying here like a cheap whore." Damian looked at him with a mix of disappointment and reproach, as if he couldn’t understand how his father had let so many signs slip by.

"Did you know? I had a relationship with Ivy, that old woman who had the indecency to date my little sister while being an old hag. Plus, she worked as a waitress in some bar wearing little clothes to survive. Like some common bitch. And the last time, she was seen in the subway, with a strange man with psychiatric crazy vibes... surely another one that slipped away while you were lying here." Damian’s words were blows to Bruce, each revelation a testament to how much he had let slip away.

Damian continued, each phrase laden with resentment and questions. "Why did she have to work? Why did she, the daughter of the renowned multimillionaire Bruce Wayne, the masked hero of Gotham, have to depend on a miserable paycheck that didn’t even cover the end of the month? And the subway, father, did she really have to take the subway like any unknown person in this city?"

Bruce looked down, unable to respond. Each of those questions was a dagger reminding him how far he had been from understanding his own daughter. He had ignored, or perhaps never wanted to see, the sacrifices she made to survive, the paths she took in search of something he had never given her. Now, with Damian's words filling the silence, Bruce realized he had condemned his daughter to the same fate he was trying to combat on the streets.

Damian watched him, his gaze cold and critical, as the room filled with a tense silence. For the first time, Bruce understood that perhaps he was never the hero he thought he was, and that in his attempt to protect everyone, he had failed to protect the one who needed him the most.

Bruce felt anger bubbling inside him, intensifying with each word that left Damian's lips. "How dare you come in here and say that? You weren’t a brother to her, you weren’t there when she needed you the most," he shot back, his voice echoing in the room like dark thunder. The image of his daughter intertwined with his rage, each contained tear now fueling his fury.

Damian frowned, unrestrained. "That's how I show my affection; you should be used to it," he retorted disdainfully, recalling that moment when he arrived at the mansion, he had stabbed Y/N with his katana. "I did what I had to do, and I don’t have to accept your reproaches. Everyone failed Y/N, even you."

"Don’t try to blame others for your own failures!" Bruce shouted, frustration filling every corner of his being. "You weren’t there, Damian. You can’t always hide behind your arrogance."

Damian crossed his arms, his defiant attitude unbreakable. "And what if I wasn't? At least I didn’t hide behind a mask of sadness. Better stop reproaching me and listen to what I have for you." He stepped closer, pulling out a half-open old cardboard box. "I brought you a gift."

Bruce looked at him suspiciously. "What is it now?"

"I went looking for Selina, but she slipped away like a scared kitten," Damian said, mocking the situation. "A waste of time, but I found Ivy in Arkham. She said little about Y/N, which annoyed me, so… well, here you go." He opened the box slowly, revealing Poison Ivy's head, the fresh blood still dripping from the edges.

Her face, once beautiful, was now serene, with pale skin and a touch of green that evoked her connection to nature. Her normally vibrant red hair now fell messily around her face, while her eyes, closed forever, seemed almost at peace, as if she had found a breath in the chaos she once inhabited.

Bruce felt as if the world had stopped. There was no horror in his gaze, only an emptiness where anger and sadness collided. "What have you done?" he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, but resignation permeated every word. The life of his daughter, the decisions he had made and what that meant now overwhelmed him.

Damian shrugged. "She was a monster, just like all of us. What matters is that now you have something tangible, something you can show."

"What kind of family are we?" Bruce let slip, feeling defeated. "This family is a failure."

"Oh, so it turns out we’ve been a family all this time?" Damian replied, scornful, but his tone was less certain.

Bruce closed his eyes, feeling the discomfort of the situation. "Take me to the apartment where she lived," he said, his voice enigmatic and cold. It was a request that resonated with the gravity of what he had lost, an echo of what he had failed to protect. As Damian looked at him with surprise and a hint of concern, Bruce knew that the truth he would face in that place was beyond any form of redemption. The darkness that had invaded his life was about to be confronted, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for what he would find.

As Bruce and Damian prepared to leave, Titus and Alfred the Cat watched them from a distance. The dog remained alert, his ears perked, as if he could sense the tension looming in the air. His instinct told him that something grave was about to happen. Alfred, with his wise and sharp gaze, seemed to share the same unease, his eyes fixed on the men who were heading toward the dark fate they had chosen.

As Bruce and Damian headed for the door, Titus stepped forward, his expression a mix of concern and determination. It was as if he were trying to convey a silent message, a call to reason that his owners could not hear amid their emotional turmoil. Alfred the Cat, with his elegant stride, approached Bruce and rubbed his head against his leg, seeking comfort for the hero who seemed on the brink of losing himself even further in the darkness.

Turning around, Bruce felt a pang in his heart. He looked at his animals, those innocent beings who had always been there to offer him companionship, and realized that they were aware of what was about to come. In a world where violence and betrayal lurked around every corner, their departure was the beginning of something much darker.

With one last look, Bruce found himself in Titus's eyes, reflecting a mix of loyalty and worry. It was as if the dog knew that the decision they were making would not only affect them but would also drag others into a chaos from which they could not escape.

Damian, impatient, had already crossed the threshold, but Bruce paused for one more moment. "I’m sorry," he murmured, although he was not sure to whom he was really addressing: whether to the animals who looked at him with eyes full of wisdom or to himself for the path he had chosen.

However, it was already too late to turn back. With one last glance at the room where it all began, and at the animals who looked at him with concern, Bruce stepped into the dark world that awaited them, unaware that soon, everything would get worse. The air was charged with ominous anticipation, and the feeling that tragedy loomed over them like a shadow, deep and inevitable.

You lay on the bed, your body still heavy from the forced encounter, thoughts fluttering in your mind like butterflies trapped in a net. The room was enveloped in an unsettling gloom, the air thick with a tension that could not be ignored. Beside you, he breathed with a calm that contrasted with the whirlwind inside you. There was no name, no face to remember; it was just him, the one who had kidnapped you and made you his own, a figure who had taken your life and distorted it at will.

As you stared at the ceiling, the silence became a mirror of your thoughts. Rage and hatred toward your family surged within you, feelings that had once seemed so distant. They didn’t understand you, they hadn’t been there to protect you, and now, in this strange intimacy, you found yourself wishing to be with him more than with them. Confusion engulfed you; on one hand, there was a part of you longing for affection and acceptance, while on the other, there was a strange pleasure in the situation, a desire to escape the life that had caused you so much suffering.

Despite everything, you missed your mother. Her laughter, her hugs, the way she always knew how to calm your fears. But that maternal figure was slowly fading from your memory, drowned by the anguish of betrayal and loneliness. You found yourself trapped between the desire to remember the good and the hatred toward the past that had brought you here.

As the room remained silent, a dark and almost self-destructive impulse took hold of you. With trembling movements, you picked up a sharp object and pressed it against your skin, feeling a sting that was both physical and emotional. In that moment, you thought about the irony of your situation: you had lost control of your life, and in seeking an escape, you chose to hurt yourself.

The duality of your feelings was heartbreaking. On one hand, you yearned for freedom, to reclaim your identity and the love that had been taken from you. On the other, there was a part of you that felt alive in this new relationship, a twisted connection that kept you captive. The internal struggle manifested in every thought and every action, revealing the complexity of your situation.

You remembered moments from his life, the wounds he carried, and the pain he had faced. Had Bruce ever been so lost, so filled with sadness that he had to do the unthinkable to feel something? The idea that the man you admired could also have been vulnerable struck you like a revelation. You wondered if he had ever cried in solitude, questioning his place in the world, if he had ever felt so trapped in his own life.

As you touched your stomach, an old pain resurfaced. There, beneath the skin, was a scar, a reminder of the time Damian had hurt you with his katana, an act that had been both an attack and a cry of desperation. The brush of your fingers over the wound, although healed, still brought memories of suffering and betrayal, a deep connection intertwined with the pain you felt now. The scar was a metaphor for your life: a wound that would never fully heal, a reminder that pain is part of your existence.

Tears fell more forcefully as you thought about how your family’s decisions, rivalries, and chaos had influenced your life. Bruce, with his constant struggle against the shadows of his past, was a reflection of what you could have been: strong, determined, but also broken and lost. In that moment, you felt just like him, entangled in a cycle of suffering and confusion.

You allowed yourself to cry, feeling that perhaps in that vulnerability there was some freedom. It was a relief, an act of resistance in the midst of the oppression that surrounded you. As the outside world faded away, the pain of the scar became a reminder that, despite everything, there was still a part of you yearning to break free, wanting to escape this darkness. And amid that sadness, one thought grew stronger: perhaps, just perhaps, there was a way to find your path again.

The man let go of your cheek and, with a casual gesture, lit a cigarette, the smoke dancing in the air like shadows in the dim light of the room. His eyes, fixed on you, had a dangerous intensity. "Do you see this?" he said, exhaling the smoke slowly. "Now you are stained, like Gotham. You’ve been in the mud, and it’s your duty to clean yourself up. This is just the beginning."

He looked at you with a twisted smile, an expression that mixed amusement and dominance. "You have to understand that you can’t escape from what you are. The city is a reflection of yourself. And like Gotham, you too need to be purified." With a sudden movement, he offered you the cigarette. "Smoke. It will help you forget the tears."

You hesitated, but his eyes challenged you, a clear message that there was no room for denial. With a mix of fear and despair, you brought the cigarette to your lips, feeling its bitterness touch your tongue. "Don’t make me repeat myself," he said, his voice a cold whisper. "I want you to feel the poison, just like the city does. You are part of it now, and you must accept your role."

The pressure of his words overwhelmed you, each syllable a reminder of your distorted reality. "But why me?" you stammered, feeling desperation twisting inside you. "Why do I have to be part of this?"

"Because there is no choice," he replied with disdain. "There never was. Every day, every decision you made has led you here. Weakness is not an option. Look around you; Gotham has no place for the weak. If you want to survive, you need to get your hands dirty. And believe me, there is a lot of blood to clean up."

Your heart raced as you inhaled the smoke, the burning filling your lungs and leaving a feeling of emptiness. "What do you want from me?" you asked, feeling the power he had over you strangling you.

"I just want you to accept your new place. I want you to understand that in this world, death and destruction are inevitable. There is no redemption for the stained, but you can try to fix it… in your own way."

He trapped you in a dark cycle of thoughts, where each of his words echoed in your mind like a terrifying echo. You knew he was playing with you, manipulating your emotions. "If you don’t clean yourself, you will suffer the consequences. And if you cry for her again, I promise you will pay for it," he said, tightening his grip on your arm.

As the smoke dissipated into the air, the feeling of being trapped became more palpable. You found yourself between acceptance and internal struggle, but deep down, you knew you had to find a way out. However, the darkness around you grew more intense, and each of his words was another chain binding you to this fate you had not chosen.

The air thickened as he exhaled smoke, the room filling with a gray fog that seemed to reflect the chaos in your mind. He looked at you with an intensity that overflowed with obsession, a strange mix of affection and dominance that enveloped you. Despite the tears running down your face, you felt no sadness or fear. You had passed the stage of terror; now you felt strangely alive, almost liberated in your pain.

"My dear," he said in a soft yet authoritative voice, "you must not see this as a punishment. It is a purification. Gotham needs someone who understands its pain, and you are the chosen one." He leaned closer to you, his hot breath on your skin. "You are like a spark in this darkness, and together we can illuminate it. You just have to let the poison flow through you. With each tear, you are cleansing the city."

As he held you, the contact between the two of you was electric, and a part of you began to understand his madness, the way he had woven his dreams of greatness and purification through your own desires for belonging. "Did you know my mother was in Arkham?" he continued, as if sharing a special secret. "She was stained too. In her mind, she fought demons that no one else could see, just like you now. And look where she ended up: trapped in her own memories, in her own shadows."

The revelation hit you. A fragment of pain resurfaced, intertwining with the new knowledge. "What… what happened to her?" you asked, your voice trembling. It wasn’t sadness you felt; it was curiosity to know that story that had remained hidden.

"She got lost in the darkness of Gotham, just like everyone else," he said with contempt. "But that doesn’t have to be your destiny. You are stronger. My mother let herself be consumed by her madness, but you… you can take control. Let me guide you."

You fell silent, contemplating his words. The tears continued to fall, but now they were just a part of you, a manifestation of the internal struggle. You knew you were trapped in a dangerous game, but there was something in his promise of power and control that began to seduce you.

"So cry if you need to," he said, caressing your cheek with a touch that was both gentle and threatening. "But don’t let those tears weaken you. Every time you feel the urge to cry for her, remember what you are. Remember that the city needs someone like you to cleanse it of the filth."

"How can I do that?" you asked, feeling the echo of his words resonate in your mind. "How can I clean something so deeply rooted in darkness?"

"With determination," he answered firmly, his eyes shining with a mix of fervor and madness. "You must learn to see the beauty in chaos. There is power in pain. With every action you take, with every decision you make, you will be purifying Gotham of its own decay. And I will be by your side, guiding you. Together, we will be unstoppable."

As you absorbed his words, a strange sense of purpose began to take shape within you. Although his love was perverse, there was something in his vision that resonated with you, as if you were destined to fulfill that role. As the smoke from the cigarette faded into the air, so too did your fears, leaving only a cold and clear determination: you were going to take control of your destiny, even if it meant losing yourself in the process.

"No! I don’t want you to go!" shouted little Y/n, clinging to her mother's handbag with the desperation of someone who knows something important is about to slip away.

Her mother, a blonde woman with a tired gaze, let out a sigh of impatience. Y/n couldn't quite remember her face, but she knew it hardened at the tug on her bag, and without thinking, she pushed the girl, causing her to fall to the ground with a dull thud. Y/n looked up from below, her big eyes reflecting a mix of fear and pain.

"Stop being silly, Y/n," her mother murmured, struggling to hide the tremor in her voice. She leaned down, trying to smile, but the coldness in her eyes betrayed her. "You know I have to do this... for both of us. Everything I do is for you, even if you don’t understand it now."

The girl nodded slowly, but inside, she felt the truth—that repeated phrase was just a curtain. She knew there was something broken in her mother, something she was too young to fully comprehend but sensed in every harsh gesture, in every bitter word that hung in the air. Something that made her feel alone, even when they were together.

Her mother straightened up, adjusting the bag as if it weighed tons. She raised a hand in a mechanical farewell, and without another word, she left through the door without looking back.

Days passed in a haze of silence and dry tears. Y/n had no idea how much time had passed since her mother left, leaving the echo of her footsteps as the only reminder of her presence. Hugging herself, she spent the nights waiting for some familiar sound that never came.

When she finally opened her eyes, she realized her surroundings had completely changed. She was no longer at home; she was sitting in a cold, unfamiliar room, with gray walls and flickering lights dimly overhead. In the distance, she could hear whispering voices.

"How is it possible that someone left such a small child alone?" It was the firm, serious voice of a man. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she distinguished a police badge on the man's uniform. It read Commissioner Gordon.

Next to him, a red-haired woman spoke in a low voice. "Dad, you can't be sure. Maybe it was just a lie. You know how her mother was: a history of psychiatric hospitals and drugs at home. How do we know she didn't make up the story about Wayne?"

"Barbara, we have evidence that doesn't lie," Gordon replied coldly, his tone tinged with disdain. "We know the paternity test is real."

The girl felt the world sway around her. She listened to every word and felt each comment like a dagger sinking deeper into her chest. Those adults, figures of authority and trust, spoke of her mother as if she were little more than a mistake, something despicable that had left scars on her life. Sitting there, hidden behind a wall and hugging her knees, tears returned to her eyes, a mix of sadness and a terrifying understanding of what it meant to be alone in the world.

"Do you really think someone like that should have had a child in her care?" Barbara said from her wheelchair, her tone full of contempt. "She was probably just looking for easy money, manipulating everyone she could."

Commissioner Gordon frowned, clearly uncomfortable. "Barbara, that's not fair! Even if she didn’t lead the best life, she was still a citizen like anyone else, and she had the right to rebuild her life. No one is perfect."

From her corner, Y/n tried to cover her ears, but Barbara's words were impossible to ignore.

"I can't believe it, Dad. How could anyone in their right mind have left a child in the hands of that woman?" Barbara said with a cold, almost poisoned voice. "Someone who clearly had drug addiction problems and who was in and out of psychiatric hospitals. I bet she didn’t even know who the real father was."

Each word made Y/n's chest tighten even more. Her mind screamed silently: Stop! Please stop saying that about her! Her small hands trembled as she remembered the moments she had spent with her mother. Her mother, who although had those dark days and her brusque manner, had fed her, tucked her in, and cared for her as best as she could. Despite her mistakes, she had been her mother, and that was all Y/n could understand.

But Barbara’s words kept filling the room, like a storm of resentment. "I don't know how Bruce can even be involved in something like this. That woman was a burden to everyone. I can't imagine anyone worse as a mother."

Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to block it out. It's not true. She’s not bad. She took care of me. We didn’t have much, but she always tried to be there for me. But no matter how hard her thoughts tried to silence the pain, Barbara's words left deep scars, increasingly difficult to heal.

As Y/n remained there, her tears already dry, her thoughts twisted in her mind like threatening shadows. She heard the echoes of Barbara's cruel words and Gordon's, and a silent resentment grew in her chest, almost like a slow poison. She tried to remember the good moments with her mother, but the dark thoughts seemed to drown them out. She was good, she was good... No, you can't say that about her... But those same thoughts tangled with hate and confusion, and the pain grew stronger.

Suddenly, everything turned white. The walls, the voices, the cold metal chair beneath her legs... everything disappeared into a blinding void that enveloped every corner of her mind. And then, there was only her, standing in that white abyss, with a strange weight on her shoulders and in her hands.

She looked down and saw a white armor, shining as if made of shards of moon and shadow. It covered her body completely, with firm, polished plates that fit like a second skin, protecting every part of her. The gauntlets were solid, with sharp and detailed edges, and in her hands, she wielded two katanas whose blades reflected that void like deadly mirrors.

The design of the armor was imposing and terrifying. The helmet resembled a bat, with long pointed ears extending upward, and a dark V-shaped visor that barely revealed her eyes. The lines that ran across her chest and arms formed the silhouette of folded wings, as if that bat awaited to unfold at any moment. The chest was engraved with fine black details, resembling veins radiating dark power. In the center, a small emblem in the shape of a black teardrop contrasted with the radiant white of the armor, like a mark of pain and sacrifice.

In the dim light of the void where she stood, Y/n felt the weight of the katanas in her hands as if they were extensions of her own being. In that moment, the white armor fit her like a comforting embrace, a reminder of the power she now possessed. She looked at herself in a non-existent reflection, feeling that every part of her being was ready to act, to reclaim what she had lost.

With a tremor of emotion and a palpable obsession, she held them to her chest, hugging them tightly. Words flowed from her lips, laden with a burning, almost manic desire: "Soon you will be mine... I will go home. I will be my little girl again."

The echo of her voice resonated in the white void, vibrating with the intensity of her longing. In her mind, an image formed of a home, a place where shadows no longer lurked and where her mother, though imperfect, would be able to embrace her once more. The idea of being together again, of transforming her pain into power, filled her with a fierce determination.

"I will come back for you," she whispered, her voice choked with a mix of tears and a crazed smile. "Nothing will stop me. I promise." The choked laughter turned into a murmur of echoes, resonating in the abyss like a sinister promise, as the world around her began to fade again, leaving her alone with her obsession and her new identity.

In the silence, whispers began to rise, soft at first, but increasingly insistent. One word repeated, muted yet burning, like a spark in the shadows.

K

e

r

o

s

e

n

e

The word reverberated in the void, growing more intense, like a kind of dark mantra. And when Y/n could barely bear the weight of those voices, one final phrase emerged, chilling and final:

"Death is the ultimate prize."

You walked through the halls of the old apartment block, your white armor shining in the dim light, like a bat defying the embrace of the night. The echoes of your heels resonated, a dark song reverberating in the solitude of the worn walls.

Your figure, sculpted in gleaming metal, was a silhouette of elegance and mystery, as you hummed a forgotten melody, slipping between the shadows like a whisper of the forbidden. Each step was a heartbeat in the silence, a chilling reminder that there is still life in abandonment.

The portraits on the walls watched you, empty eyes that seemed to come alive, as you moved with the grace of a specter, a macabre dance of light and shadow at dusk.

The doors, worn and creaking, whispered secrets of past stories, and you, guardian of those forgotten tales, advanced fearlessly, seeking what was left behind.

You were an enigma, a reflection of the lost, a shadow walking, dressed in white, in a world clinging to its demons, where the past and present intertwine in a lethal embrace, and the night waits, eager for your return.

You paused before the door of one of the apartments, its frayed wood opening like an abyss, a dark invitation that defied logic. The silence became thick, almost palpable, and the echo of your humming faded, leaving a void that swallowed the darkness.

The threshold awaited you, a portal to the unknown, and a cold breeze, laden with whispers, caressed your skin like a lost lover. Inside, the shadows seemed to come alive, a palace of echoes and laments, where time had woven a web.

Your heart raced, a mix of adrenaline and challenge, as you gently pushed the door. It creaked in protest, like an old ghost, and when it opened, revealed an abandoned world, furniture covered in dust, with withered memories.

The remnants of a past life crowded every corner, and a scent of decay floated in the air, but something more, a glimpse of presence, urged you to enter, to explore the hidden. You peered in, and the dimness embraced you, as if the apartment claimed you as its own.

Each step on the creaky floor was an act of daring, and the walls seemed to murmur forgotten secrets, stories of betrayed loves and lost souls. In the center of the room, a dark, diffuse, and shadowy figure formed among the shadows, like an echo of your own existence, a reflection of what could have been.

You stood still, breath held in the abyss of the moment, the half-open door, a threshold to your destiny, and the silence, now laden with promises, stripped you of fears, leaving only the certainty that in that space, you faced the echoes of your own darkness.

As you advanced, your eyes fixed on a dusty, worn wooden box resting on the small dining table. Something about it drew you in, as if it held a dark secret. You approached and, with trembling hands, opened it. Inside, horror was revealed: the head of Poison Ivy, the green hair still vibrant, a gaze frozen in time. You didn’t cry, but a slight tremor coursed through your body, a mixture of surprise and disdain for the brutality that had taken place in that space.

"Normally you enter through the window," you murmur to the air, with an ironic smile on your lips, as if addressing a presence you hoped would appear.

And then, as if the night itself had responded to your call, Batman emerged from the shadows, his dark figure silhouetted against the dim light coming through the window. The air became tense in an instant.

"Who are you?" he asked, his grave voice resonating with a mix of distrust and anger. "What are you doing in the apartment of Bruce Wayne's daughter?"

You laughed, a laugh that echoed in the empty room, filled with irony and knowledge.

"His daughter?" you mocked, your eyes shining with a mix of challenge and amusement. "So Y/n is your daughter. Isn’t it curious how things intertwine in this city?"

The silence grew heavy, and you felt his gaze intensify, evaluating every word you had spoken. He knew you had crossed a line, but the revelation had ignited a spark of playfulness in you.

"How do you know who I am?" The question slipped from his lips, but there was no fear, just an unsettling curiosity.

"Gotham has its secrets, Bruce. And I, like you, am part of this darkness. The identity of a hero or heroine is just a game of shadows, and in this game, you and I know how to move between the lines."

You stood firm, the tension between you palpable, as the echo of laughter still resonated in the air. Batman's figure, always imposing and enigmatic, seemed to waver at the revelation that in this dark labyrinth, he was not the only player.

The tension intensified, and Batman took a step forward, approaching you with an intense gaze.

"How do you know about my daughter?" he inquired, his voice brusque, each word laden with frustration. You remained firm, crossing your arms, letting the silence settle between you.

"Oh, Gotham speaks, even in whispers. The city has a way of revealing what heroes prefer to hide," you replied disdainfully. "Your life, your secrets, are more exposed than you think." He frowned, anger crackling in his eyes.

"What do you know about Y/N?" he demanded, his voice low and threatening, as if waiting for you to throw down a challenge.

"I know you didn't want her. That you left her in the shadows while you dedicated yourself to your personal crusade," you replied, irony dancing in your tone. "That girl grew up without a father, and you, the great hero of Gotham, preferred to be a myth."

Rage etched itself on his face, but there was something more, a hidden pain surfacing behind the armor of his anger.

"It's not that simple, and you have no idea what I've done for her," he retorted, his voice tense, each word like a blow.

"Really?" you asked, flashing a mocking smile. "What have you done? Cut off her partner's head, the only person I love, just to extract invalid information? What a great father."

An uncomfortable silence settled between you, as the air vibrated with unspoken emotions.

"You are not one to judge me," he declared, his voice tense. "You know nothing of what I've sacrificed."

"Maybe not, but I know enough about the void you've left," you replied, undeterred. "And I know Ivy was there for her. You, the hero, vanished while others took on the role of father."

The anger shone in his eyes, but there was also a spark of recognition. He observed you, assessing the courage that led you to challenge him.

"And who are you to come and point fingers? A lost anti-heroine in her own struggle?" he shot back, his voice laden with contempt.

"I am what Gotham needs," you replied, confident. "A reminder that even heroes like you can fail."

The discussion turned into a power struggle, both of you clinging to your truths, while Poison Ivy's head remained a sinister reminder of the choices you both had made.

Suddenly, Batman's fury exploded like lightning in the darkness. Without warning, he seized you by the neck, lifting you with surprising strength. The air became scarce, and the pressure on your throat made you feel vulnerable, although the mockery never left your expression.

"Where is Y/N?" he demanded, his voice charged with rage and desperation. The shadows moved around him, intensifying his figure, which seemed more monster than hero at that moment.

Despite the iron grip, you kept your gaze fixed on him, challenging him, feeling the adrenaline pulse through your veins.

"Are you that worried about her whereabouts?" you replied, a mocking smile barely hiding your disdain. "Maybe she's hanging from a hook in a slaughterhouse, who knows? That would be an ironic twist for a girl who grew up in the shadow of a hero, don’t you think?"

His eyes narrowed, anger and helplessness battling within him. You leaned in closer, feeling the pressure on your neck, but that only fueled your defiance.

"Don't laugh about this!" he roared, tightening his grip slightly. The fury in his voice was palpable, but something deeper kept him on edge.

"Me? Laughing? You, the great Batman, scared for your daughter's life?" you shot back, never breaking eye contact.

The tension was becoming unbearable, but there was something fascinating about the game you were playing. He was caught between rage and fear, and you, in your shadowy game, fed off his anguish.

"Do you know something? You're losing yourself in your own legend," you continued, while he held you in the air. "I'm sure you once dreamed that she would have died in that alley with her mother."

In that instant, something in his expression changed. The anger slowly faded, giving way to a deep concern, though he still held you firmly.

"I warn you," he whispered, his eyes locked onto yours. "If you lie to me, I won't show mercy."

You laughed again, though the risk was imminent, as your heart raced.

"And what will you do?" you challenged, your voice trembling but resolute. "Threaten me with your dark past? I'm here because I know the truth, and I do not fear your shadows."

Bruce's patience evaporated like smoke in the heavy air of that apartment. With a sudden movement, he hurled you towards the table, the impact resonating with a crash that reverberated through the walls. Your katanas slipped to the floor, leaving you defenseless. The furniture creaked under your weight, but adrenaline kept you alert, your instincts sharp.

You quickly rose, shaking your head to clear the confusion, while the anger on his face transformed into determination.

"I don't have time for your games, Kerosene," he shouted, stepping forward, ready to fight. "If you know Y/N, tell me!"

You steadied yourself, smiling defiantly as you positioned yourself, preparing for combat.

"Do you really think you'll throw away the only one who can help you?" you replied, feeling the pulse of challenge coursing through your veins. "I'm offering you a chance to know the truth, and you choose to fight. Very typical of you."

With a swift movement, he lunged at you, throwing a direct punch. You dodged, making an agile turn, but the atmosphere became a whirlwind of force and speed.

You charged at him, hitting him in the side, feeling how his tense muscles responded to your attack. It was not just a physical fight; it was a clash of wills, an explosion of repressed emotions.

"You’re an idiot if you think you can scare me!" you yelled at him while he tried to immobilize you. You twisted and managed to sidestep him, landing a blow to his jaw that made him stagger.

Bruce quickly regained his footing, his eyes blazing with fury. He advanced again, his movements precise and calculated, while you played with speed and agility.

"Stop!" he roared, his voice echoing in the enclosed space. "I just want to know where my daughter is."

"And I just want you to stop living in your hero fantasy," you replied, with a defiant laugh as you dodged another attack. "The truth hurts you, Bruce, and you prefer the fight over facing it."

The exchange of blows continued, the sound of fists colliding and the creaking of breaking furniture filling the air. The room became a battlefield, with the table as the central stage of your struggle.

Bruce, with a mix of skill and strength, cornered you against the wall, but instead of giving up, you seized the closeness. With an agile movement, you pushed him back, making him lose his balance.

"Are you going to keep this up? Destroying what’s left of this city?" you said, breathing heavily but not yielding. "Or are you going to listen to what’s really at stake?"

His eyes were now inches from yours, the fury and frustration of his search fueling the spark of the battle. Both of you were willing to fight, but deep down, you knew there was something deeper at play than just physical strength.

The battle continued, becoming increasingly intense and violent, like a whirlwind of unleashed fury. You launched at him, landing a blow that hit his chest, but Bruce responded with a punch that made you stagger; the force behind his blow was terrifying. The rage emanating from him was palpable, and with each attack, both of you took the struggle to a new level.

The apartment walls vibrated with the thud of bodies colliding and furniture being dragged. The sound of shattering glass echoed in the air as you crashed into a table, breaking it into pieces.

You got back up, a piece of wood in hand, and threw it at him. Bruce dodged it, but the fragment smashed against a lamp, exploding into a million shards. The light flickered before going out, plunging the place into an unsettling darkness.

Both of you moved like shadows through the chaos, and sweat and blood began to mix, the air filled with a metallic smell that only intensified the battle. Bruce landed a punch on your jaw, and you tasted blood in your mouth. You didn’t stop; with a cry of defiance, you responded with a series of rapid blows, each one stronger than the last.

You darted to his side, using your agility to hit him in the ribs. The impact made him stagger, but before you could capitalize on the opportunity, Bruce spun around and kneed you in the abdomen. The air escaped your lungs, and the sharp pain made you fall to your knees. However, you didn’t give up.

With renewed determination, you got up and threw a direct punch to his face, hearing the crack of his skin upon impact. Blood spurted from his lip, and the fact that you had hurt him only fueled his fury. With superhuman strength, he pushed you back, slamming you against a shelf, which gave way and collapsed on you. Books and personal items scattered across the floor, covering the place in even greater chaos.

But there was no time to stop. You rose amongst the debris, feeling the adrenaline pumping through your veins. With a leap, you charged at him again, landing a blow that left a mark on his face. Rage and pain intertwined in the air, and both of you were on the brink of madness.

The room had turned into a battlefield, with blood staining the floor and walls. The apartment’s decor, once a refuge, lay in tatters, as if Gotham itself had decided to yield to the brutality of your confrontation.

Bruce, with his determined gaze locked on you, lunged at you again. Both of you were exhausted, but the fight was a necessity, an uncontrollable impulse that kept you standing. His fists and your movements were a wild dance, and amidst the chaos, both of you knew that the outcome of this battle would not only define the present but also seal your fate.

You charged at him, landing a direct blow to his stomach, and when he bent forward, you took the chance to hit him in the face once more. Blood spilled from his nose, but he countered with a knee strike, and the impact resonated in your bones.

The fight continued with increasing ferocity, the room transforming into a wreckage. Every blow exchanged resonated like thunder, but it was the moment when Bruce landed a punch to your side that made you fall to your knees again, gasping for air. The pain was intense, but there was no time to lament; rage and frustration drove him to push onward.

Seeing the opportunity, Bruce lunged at you, and with a rough movement, he lifted you off the ground, holding you by the neck and raising you into the air. You struggled, feeling the pressure increase, the air escaping your lungs. The room blurred around you as you began to lose control.

"Tell me where Y/N is!" he shouted, his voice echoing in your mind like a refrain of desperation and fury.

You were on the brink of passing out, your eyes clouding, but amidst the confusion, you managed to maintain lucidity, though it was becoming increasingly difficult. Bruce's hands were like a yoke around your throat, and the feeling of suffocation intensified with every passing second.

The pressure was unbearable, and you fought to free your neck, to breathe, but it felt like trying to break chains of steel. Your hands struck his arm, but he wouldn’t relent, becoming more focused, more desperate.

Finally, with a titanic effort, you managed to reach your helmet, and in a twist, you pushed him back, but the pressure of his grip was too much. It was then that, in a last-ditch attempt to free yourself, the helmet slipped off your head, falling to the floor with a dull thud.

The light of the apartment filtered back into your vision, and it was at that moment that Bruce, seeing your face, stopped dead in his tracks, the expression of his fury transforming into horror.

The face before him was not just an adversary; it was a reflection of his own daughter. The reality crashed against him like lightning.

"...Y/N?"

A/N ──── I WANT TO EMPHASIZE THAT YES, WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN THE DOCTOR AND Y/N IS REAL. And yes, it's necessary; you'll understand why by the end. Furthermore, Ivy's death has always been planned. In the next chapter, a female character will appear who, I warn you, will be a victim of the Waynes, and the scene will be a bit graphic and very grotesque.

I want to add that this chapter is very, very, veeeery weak because I’m very tired, not very inspired, and dealing with other things. I’ll try to do better for the next one and bring you a chapter of better quality.

And a warning for those on the taglist: if you’re already on it, please don’t ask me again and again to add your name because I end up getting confused and repeating names.

Also, there are some that I can’t add for reasons I don’t understand.

If you requested to be on the taglist before and you're not, please ask me here or send me a message; I don’t bite.

Feel free to ask me anything if you’d like.

Take a bath!

Tag list! ◇ — @amber-content @toast-on-dandelioms @feral-childs-word @sweetconnoisseurgardener @victoria1676 @toasted-cat18 @nosyrobin @beeaskewwrites @yandere-enthusiast @telltaletoad @dhanyasri @vanessa-boo @m3vl0vesu @jellypotato66 @midnightgrimoire @cherryxxxxyoongi @plsfckmedxddy @h0neysiba @mybones537 @erikasurfer @sheepintherain @pix-stuff @yan-rai @uniquecutie-puffs @arlandvery @theblonde777 @alishii

@maicenitas @ti-girl1226 @vanilliona @chickenwings435 @thedramabrotherss @bat1212 @imnotdumbimstupif @somebodyrandom-613 @aelxr @jsprien213 @lovebug-apple @zenychwan @starsdotalk @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron @misdollface @clementinesyummy @bunbunboysworld @lunaluz432 @meowmeeps @adeptusxia0 @mettatons-number-1fan @fairygardenprincesss @nervousalpacalady @mottysith

@redkarmakai @the-rouge-robin @twismare @wizzerreblogs @beeboopneep @mistfire1999 @delfinadolphin @expctron

Inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams ' work, @i-cant-sing 's work and @klemen-tine 's work, be sure to check them out!

[sheep-from-rad]

breathes, I need to make a masterlist for DC. Writing Batfam is becoming too fun 

*I don't own DC also reader is gender neutral. this could be applied to yandere batfam as well, i think*

Bruce, Batfam and baby! Reader would be fun to watch. This man raised children but apparently having a baby in the house made him realize that he still has a lot to learn. Reader arrives at the estate as a baby after their mom (ex fling) decides that it will be better if they will be with Bruce instead.  

If this man’s sleep schedule was bad before, now it's abysmal. It was so bad that Batfam had to step in. Baby! Reader cries at 3 a.m. and before Bruce can even stand up he sees Jason at the dark corner of the room telling him to go back to sleep because Dick already has it handled. I love the idea of baby reader’s crib being in Bruce’s room because it will be easier to reach the crying baby reader at night that way. 

There’s no such thing as too much clothes. Batfam sees something cute or a baby clothing, they are buying it. Damian is partial towards stuffed animals and he will deny it but Bruce had seen him bonding with by reading animal related baby books. I also see Damian as a possessive brother in the sense that once they have their hands on  baby! reader, they will never let anyone else hold them. Not even Bruce. 

Batfamily had to now pack another shirt whenever they go outside with baby!reader or else they’ll be coming home wet with baby drool. Every Batsibling has their alarm clocks and they’ll always fight each other on who gets to feed the baby reader. Alfred wins most of the time because the siblings get too caught up in the fighting; they just forget about feeding the baby. 

Jason will nonstop troll Bruce for sure. Bruce will be entering the dining hall all tired with baby reader in his arms and Jason will be singing, ‘A single mom who works two jobs’ meme until Bruce glares at him or tells him to stop. Coffee supply on the estate doubles because Tim is not the only one addicted now, Bruce too. 

Superhero themed onesies are banned inside the house because it became a mini competition between the batfam but don’t let anyone know that Bruce kept a Batman bib. Every bedroom is baby proofed because each sibling just loves to monopolize baby readers. 

Galas are now fun. The batfam who previously avoids galas like it’s a plague now from time to time pops in to say that Bruce is gonna be late because either baby reader got into a teeny tiny accident and needed to be changed or baby reader got into Stephanie’s make up kit and needed to be wiped clean. 

The idea of a baby!reader learning how to crawl and walk is funny too. Bruce just constantly stressed out because his little baby just disappears and then comes back in the arms of a sibling who told him that they crawled to their room. Baby reader sees older siblings training and they’ll be trying to replicate it (with the siblings making sure it won’t be dangerous of course). Just imagine Dick’s social media with a picture of him stretching and baby reader (face covered for privacy) next to him replicating it. 

Batfam was overprotective before and it became more protective now. Tim will always be quick to cover baby!reader’s face when the siblings  are out in public say for ice cream or a little shopping trip. Securities are doubled too. If one sibling is taking baby reader out, another one will be following behind and the others are on the roof.  No baby photos because let’s face it, one quick photo can land on a random newspaper and some villains might get their hands on a copy. 

Damian will always be quick to pull away baby!reader on galas especially when Bruce is surrounded by women who try flirting with him using their ‘maternal’ skills. Passing baby!reader around the gala are not allowed unless Bruce himself lets the person hold the baby!reader. 

Imagine one day Batman goes to a Justice League meeting with the baby! Reader strapped on their chest because apparently the batfam is busy and Alfred is on vacation. If Bruce only knew that the batfam lied because the JL wants to meet the baby reader. Did Justice League got overboard with the Christmas gifts the next year? Shhh… we don’t talk about that, the impromptu storage room is still full.

[couldeatthatgirlforlunch]

The Lost Condom

Synopsis: You were in the middle of a spicy time with your boyfriend, when something odd happened: the condom disappeared. Inside. Of. You.

The solution? Go to the hospital.

The problem? Your family didn't know about your relationship.

Pairing: Jon Kent X Gn!AFAB!Reader; Platonic!Batfam

Tw: 18+; Only mention and slight description of genitals and sex, but nothing too explicit; All characters are aged up of course; English isn't my 1st language.

Word count: 1,8k.

Requested? Nah.

Extra notes: This isn't an original idea of mine, it's based on a real life story someone told me. Also the family finding out scene was inspired by this fanfic from @dccomicsimagines and this scene from Megamind. Also, eventually I will work on the asks waiting for me I swear 😭

General masterlist

So… You were in the middle of… Having fun… With your boyfriend… When suddenly, he said something that really confused you.

— Hmm… Babe… Where’s the condom? — Your head snapped back to look at him, since you were on all fours.

— Where's the ‘what’? — Your eyes were wide, unconsciously. Jon was blushing intensely, looking from your eyes to your entrance. He didn't know how to explain.

— I-I-I put it inside with the condom on, but now it's… Gone! — You narrowed your eyes. You watched him wrap and then enter you, you didn't feel him pull out at any moment, and even if he did, why would he tell you that he pulled out, took the condom off and then put it inside again secretly while you were still going at it?

You were both silent for a few seconds.

— Search for it! — You practically yelled at him, making him scramble to get off of you. You laid with your back down and legs open, looking at the ceiling, trying to calm down and not feel embarrassed. You felt him entering you with his fingers and searching around for minutes, grumbling and getting frustrated. The sensation was good… But you had bigger priorities at hand!

You huffed and changed positions a few times. A pillow underneath your butt, legs up, on all fours. Nothing worked. You even searched around the room and the bed, just to be sure. At some point, you both defeatedly decided it was best you go to the hospital.

The thing is, your relationship was still new, and no one in your family was aware. Lois and Clark already knew and approved, and you thought Cass suspected you were seeing someone, but you hadn't told them yet.

Especially Damian.

You and Jon knew each other years before Damian was even part of the family, since Bruce raised you since your birth — you were the product of one of his affairs, your biological mother didn't want to raise you, but she also didn't want to abort, so she and Bruce agreed that he would have you as soon as you were born — and he's best friend was Clark. Although, you didn't see each other much back then. It was after the Supersons became a team and besties that he started frequenting the manor more. You always had a childhood crush on each other — Jon thought you were beautiful and nice, and you thought he was cute and sweet, very different from the gross and rude boys from your school. —. Until you were each other's first kiss, then years later, first relationship, and first time. Of course, all in secret from Damian. The older family members only knew about your crush because of your physical language, but since you grew older and learned to hide, they assumed it was just a childish crush from the past.

Lois and Clark knew and approved, but they also always reminded you that you needed to tell Bruce soon, or at least Alfred, especially after you started being sexually active.

Unfortunately, the day came. Yes, you and Jon were old enough to have sex, but too young to be mature and brave enough to go to the hospital by yourselves. Lois was in another country for work, Clark was in the Watchtower in a League meeting, your dad was there too. Leaving the 2nd best option: Alfred — the best would be Lois, then Alfred, Clark, Cass, and then you would have to discuss which one of your other family members would it be.

Since you were in Metropolis — again, no one knew. More privacy wink wink —, Jon flew you back to Gotham, and you both almost cheered when you realized you were completely home alone, except for Alfred, of course.

Poor Alfred knew something was up when you suddenly were back from your “shopping trip”, with messy hair and clothes, red face and Superboy looking almost sick. He released a long sigh.

— Mx/Miss/Master (Y/N). Young Mr. Kent… — You cleared your throat.

— Alfred… We need help…

After you explained everything, Alfred looked ten years older. He didn't comment on anything, but his face showed how unimpressed he was. He just gestured for you to follow him to the garage, took the keys and started driving.

— Let me warn Master Bruce while we are-

— NO! — You yelled, started. He looked at you through the rearview mirror disapprovingly.

— Should I remind you that he will see the hospital bill and go after the truth? — You bit your lip.

— No, I know that. Just… Can't we pay on cash? — You smiled at him hopefully and nervously, but it was more like a grimace. Alfred was silent. You groaned. — I will tell him okay! Tonight! — Jon’s eyes snapped to yours, wide. — Relax! You're not gonna die!

— Yeah, until Damian whips out a kryptonite sword… — He groaned, hiding his burning face in your neck. You huffed, now wasn't time for him to be adorable.

— He doesn't have a kryptonite sword. Dad didn't let him do it. He would have to build it first. That would give him enough time to calm down. — Jon looked at you, indignant. Alfred cleared his throat.

— While we're there, I can't make any promises that if your father asks, I will hide the truth. He will know. — You and your boyfriend groaned, rubbing your faces with your hands.

— Yes, Alfred, I know…

Two hours later, you were finally laid down in position for the doctor to begin the procedure. Since if wasn't anything serious, you were on the emergency and there was only a curtain separating you from the rest of the patients outside. Alfred was sitting just outside, waiting, while Jon was standing by your side, holding your hand, as if you were about to give birth. The doctor was amused by your story, and her jokes helped you calm down.

She searched around you for a few minutes, the instrument she was using inside you being a little uncomfortable. Jon was silently horrified when he saw, you were startled too, but maintained the composure.

— AHA! Found it! It was really deep inside, almost on your cervix! — When she pulled out the condom, you both let out a breath of relief you didn't know you were holding.

You quickly put your clothes on again, you and Jon chatting as everything seemed lighter, and then left.

What you didn't know was that when Bruce got home and you and Alfred weren't there, it made him call, finding out just that you were in the hospital. Alfred refused to say much more than reassure him that it wasn't urgent and that he would soon know, thus he didn't have to crazily drive all the way there. That didn't stop him from alerting all your siblings.

When you got home, your whole family was there.

— Jon?! What're you doing here? — Alfred kept a straight face. Wow, he really wasn't going to help.

— Hmmm... — Jon subtly and subconsciously hid behind you. You shifted from one foot to another. Damian got up with a threatening scowl. You just came from the hospital. With a kryptonian.

— Kent! If you hurt my sibling I will-

— I didn't! — Jon almost yelled, then covered his face with his hands.

— Then, what is happenning here? — Bruce got up with a raised brow, analyzing the situation.

You thought for a moment. You either told them now and made things easier, or you spent all the way to dinner with them bothering you to tell. You could take it, Jon couldn't.

You took a deep breath.

— JonandIwerehavingsexwhenthecondomdisappearedinsideofmewecouldn'tfinditanywheresoweaskedAlfredforhelpandwenttothehospital.

They blinked.

— … What?

You huffed.

— Jon and I were having sex, when the condom disappeared inside of me. We couldn't find it anywhere, so we asked Alfred for help and went to the hospital. — You said, slower this time, although uma lower, more abashed tone.

Silence.

— … But… It was stuck inside? Weren't you wet, though…? — Tim's analysis broke the silence.

— SEX?! — Dick and Jason exclaimed.

— YOU WERE HAVING SEX WITH MY SIBLING?!

— Knew it. — Cass smiled and nodded, proud of herself.

Bruce heaved a sigh and sat down again.

— I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DID THIS! — Damian threw Tim's coffee mug in your direction and Jon zoomed in front of you. The mug broke. Jon had a sheepish expression.

— Tim, go grab kryptonite. — Jason ordered and got up, walking toward the hidden compartment in the shelf where he kept his guns. Dick held him back while Damian threw a flower vase at Jon.

— No! Don't do that, Tim. — Dick ordered back. Tim shook his head.

— I wasn't going to anyway… — He mumbled. Damian threw the center table.

— YOU ACTED BEHIND MY BACK! YOU TRAITOR! YOU- OUCH! PENNYWORTH STOP! — Alfred tutted, pinching his ear.

— I'm sure civilized conversations don't involve breaking the forniture. — Alfred shot a pointed look at Bruce. — Master Bruce! Say something! — Your dad just kept gazing at you and your boyfriend.

Cass sighed, stepping toward Bruce and sitting beside him.

— (Y/N)’s happy. He’s good. They're careful. — Bruce nodded, finally showing some reaction and looking pleased. Jason stopped struggling against Dick and looked at you.

— I don't care. I'm going to kill him. — Damian growled, starting to pace around the room in anger. Jon silently sighed in relief that Damian kept his distance by being on the other side of the room, the couch and the whole family serving as a barrier. You stepped forward.

— It's not casual. We've been together for almost two months now. — Everyone but Alfred and Cass gasped. Damian burned holes in Jon’s head with his eyes and your dad looked at you, masking his mix of emotions.

Cass tsk.

— So clueless. Many signs. — She shook her head.

— (Y/N), why didn't you tell us before? — Dick asked carefully, walking in your direction and stopping in front of you. Jon fiddled behind you. You shrugged.

— Didn't want to deal with you all while we were just starting things. Especially if it didn't work out.

— When were you planning to tell us? — You pouted.

— I don't know… In a month or two? You guys probably would find out by yourselves. — You shrugged.

— You've been sneaking out a lot… — Tim spoke up for the second time, catching everyone’s attention. He was fiddling with his laptop, likely doing his own investigation. The ones closest to Tim looked from the monitor to you again.

— When did you go to Metropolis?! — Jason exclaimed, indignantly.

— Hehe…

Damian growled.

— So that's why you've been ditching me?! — Damian pointed a finger at Jon, who scratched the back of his head.

— Surprise...? — Jon weakly sang the word.

Bruce cleared his throat.

— So that's why Clark’s been acting like he was happy he knew something I didn't… — He got up and pointed at you. — No more sneaking out. Ask permission before going anywhere. — You opened your mouth to protest, but he stopped you. — Either that or you're grounded. — You pursed your lips and nodded in defeat. — Now we will talk about birth control…

Comment, like and reblog 🥰

DC Taglist:

@wandalfnation @vadersassistant @h0rr0r-10ver-69 @hxsun4 @silverklaus @toast-on-dandelioms @bluewillbon

[luludeluluramblings]

Smalltown!Neglected!Meta!Reader x Yandere!Batfam ☁️ Part Two

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Part One ☁️ Part Three ☁️ Part Four ☁️ Part Five ☁️ Part Six ☁️ Part Seven ☁️ Part Eight

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: Still establishing some more lore and feelings. Currently, the Batfamily has two yanderes. With more yandere’s being revealed outside of Gotham and some in Gotham about to start falling into obsession. Also, my favorite Reader is one who is manipulated into thinking the collar around their neck is a necklace. Will be working on Part Three, but it might take longer because we have obsessions starting and Reader starting to get to a breaking point.

Warning(s): Yandere themes, Obsessive behavior

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Poor Reader has it rough. Not too rough, but still life kinda sucks and they wanna go home now, please and thank you.

But, as always, things start to brighten up a notch or two.

Reader is thriving at school, sure they can’t hang out with their friends, but their friends understand (which honestly kinda odd, but they’ll roll with it)

There is a small issue.

Reader is a metahuman. (I know, shocking. So unique.)

Reader controls the weather, at will or with extreme emotions (oooooo interesting)

Back in their hometown, Reader didn’t have to hide said abilities that much. (Hell, more than a few people knew about it. Such an understanding community.)

Here in Gotham, in a practical stranger’s house, they’re not gonna to that.

Which is fine. Fine fine fine

Okay, so Reader is tense. Doesn’t have a healthy outlet, and is bottling things up. So that storms brewing. Gonna be fun when that comes back to bite Reader in the ass.

But, things are looking up. (I swear this time!)

Duke and Cass are hanging out with Reader more. They’re sorta becoming a trio of amigos.

Though, they do disappear often. For long periods of time.

Reader is pretty sure Bruce is Batman, at this point.

They’re not stupid, it’s in their damn genetics to be somewhat intelligent, so to speak.

But, no one actually tells reader. It’s lead to some awkward situations of them going silent when Reader enters the room, or the manor being unusually empty after everyone went to the ‘library’.

(Smalltown doesn’t mean stupid, bunch of jerks.)

It just makes reader feel even less like they’re part of the family. Even Alfred disappears for a time, leaving Reader completely alone with nothing, but portraits and old wood furniture.

No one says anything. No one mentions a single thing. (Am I not worthy of the secret? Why did you drag me here only to ignore me?)

Bruce continue to bounce between ignoring and coddling. Yet gets upset if Reader does the same. (Making them anxious.)

Dick pops back in, immediately showering Reader and excessive amounts of affection before shooing them off cause he’s gotta take care of somethings. (It makes reader feel like a pet in a degrading way.)

Jason gets caught harassing Reader by Alfred. Which leads to a screaming match between Jason and Bruce. It’s a violent one, but Alfred drags Reader out of the room before they can see. (But they hear things breaking and It’s terrifying.)

After that, Reader is extremely cautious around Jason. Which for some reason makes him angry and more violent. (Why does he hate me? This is scary.)

Stephanie starts to come around. Slowly. They’re getting there. (Stephanie still prefers to hangout with Tim and Tim…)

Tim ignores Reader the most. Will not talk to Reader at all. Which sucks because Teader thinks they would total get along. (But, nope. All they get is the cold shoulder.)

Reader just avoids Damian like the plague.

Reader talks more often to her other half-brother living miles away than the one she’s currently living with. (That’s gonna piss Damian off later)

While Barbara remains cordial.

Life is moving on. We’re good. Everything’s good.

Wait? Gotham Academy is having its own student Gala? That sounds amazing! Getting dolled up, having a night with friends. Maybe…. Having a date escort them….

And the best part is, Bruce says Reader can go.

Now, Cass and Duke and Damian won’t be going. Which is a bummer, but Reader understands.

Bruce even buys reader something to wear.

An obnoxious designer outfit. (A couture ruffle monstrosity that’s all the rage on the runway.)

It’s so terrible you have to laugh. (Just to hide how upsetting it is that no one actually knows what you like here or bothers to ask.)

Reader even shows Stephanie and they share a laugh. (It’s great. Reader needed that laugh.)

But, there’s no way Reader is going to wear this. So, Reader calls their childhood friend and favorite fashion designer.

Commissioning a more mature outfit. (Reader is almost grown, time to take a break from the ruffles and embrace the sexy.)

BFF comes through and then a week later someone shows up at Wayne Manor. (Damn that was fast.)

Someone from Reader’s hometown, and this starts to set things in motion.

BFF’s older brother, Reader’s childhood crush, shows up holding a dress and driving Daddy’s old truck. Which he hands Reader the keys too.

Nana and Grand Daddy, the Step Grandparents, wanted to surprise reader with a gift from home. (Remind Reader how much better living in a smalltown is compared to somewhere like Gotham. How much their town adores them and misses them.)

Poor oblivious Reader. Not realizing their smalltown is so desperate to have them back. (Reader was their’s first, they know Reader best.)

Nor how desperate Gotham is going to be to make force reader to stay.

[writing-flower]

“ Between life and death, death is tempting ”

First act: “From the roots”

Prologue: “Happy fifteenth birthday! (Again?)”

WARNING: Mention of blood and death.

Chapter I

Masterlist

My memory had never been the best, it was good, but not exceptional. Nothing out of this world.

I wasn't as smart as Damian or Tim, I wasn't as strong as Jason or Dick, nor was I as sharp as Bruce Wayne.

I wasn't exceptional, but I was good, but not good enough for them. For him.

God, I was so focused on getting his attention, playing sports, try to pass every subject with the highest grade, join any club like debate or math.

Anything, but all that never leads to anything.

Well, almost nothing, everything I did only caused Damian to see me as a desperate for attention, which, he wasn't wrong.

But still, it didn't make it hurt any less, every insult, malicious insinuation even the occasional threat flying through the air, each one was the result of three years of trying to get someone to look at me.

Sometimes that attention only appeared with Dick, on the few times that he came to visit and came across a scene of me with Damian, He immediately stopped him.

Forcing him to apologize, spoiler, he never apologized.

The first time it happened I thought that my attempts had finally yielded good results, but no, I dare say this was worse.

As if he gave me hope and then suddenly he snatches it away without any fanfare.

Oh wait, that's literally what happened.

And about the others, I didn't even have the chance to talk to them, simply because I was already tired and also because if Damian continued he would have more reasons to screw me.

And let's face it, nobody wants to feed the wolf because you know it bites.

In this case, the bird.

It didn't help that almost the entire family was going on patrol, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested in being part of that, but then I remember Jason...I immediately got that idea out of my mind.

Mm, but if I stop to think, or rather, remember, another thing that I learned in my attempts to get my family's attention, I fell in love with dance.

It was the only class that I didn't drop like the others, I genuinely loved it.

Once in her class, the teacher made us all dance with large, long, and thin fabrics. She made us dance what we wanted, in her words: “Dance as if you were free”.

My companions danced with joy, I just stayed silent for a few moments watching them without knowing how to start.

But then I sighed to close my eyes, letting my body move as it wanted.

“Dance as if you were free” I thought, I started to imagine the music in my head. It was nice, I love it.

I went from knowing what the hell to do to starting to laugh with my classmates, I turned around and then curtsied, feeling how almost all the fabric covered my body.

I open my eyes and see my entire audience applauding, not just me, but also the rest of the dancers.

As soon as I turned eighteen I followed my teacher's advice. I didn't do it before because I was a minor, I needed my tutor's permission and blah blah blah...

Contact with my family at this point was zero, except for the new member, Duke, a sweet and kind boy.

Just looking at him made prayers come to mind for Bruce.

“If you let this kid end up like Jason, I’ll take care of throwing the Joker at you myself, you unhappy idiot.” I was thinking but also listening as Duke energetically told me what his first patrol had been like.

I used to have a certain respect for Bruce, I mean, he's Batman and he does everything in his power to make sure Gotham isn't in such a shitty place.

But then I remember that he keeps adopting children as if they were dogs to give them "A better life" by turning them into human weapons.

Sooooo, yeah, I wish that every day he wakes up with a backache and a headache.

"[Name]"

"Yes dear?" Through the mirror I watched Duke looking at me hopefully as I put on my makeup for the upcoming performance in an hour.

Oh no, I already know what he's going to ask.

"Why do you never come to the mansion?" God, I swear he does that look on purpose, brat.

I sigh as I turn around to look at him.

"You already know my answer, I have no reason to do it and I don't want to either." I said as I turned back to the mirror to continue.

"Yes! I know, but why exactly don't you want to?"

A silence reigned in the room, putting on my makeup but at the same time thinking about what to answer him.

As much as I resent the Waynes, they didn't do anything to Duke, until now, they treat him as he deserves and the last thing I want is to plant that seed of hatred towards them in Duke.

Because I know him, as soon as I tell him what my childhood was like in that mansion and those responsible, the first thing he will do is complain.

And at this point in my life I don't want any unnecessary drama with them.

I lowered the lipstick and looked at him.

"I never liked being in that mansion, since I was little I was always afraid of those giant, dark hallways, and I still am."

Duke stared at me in bewilderment. "Is that the only reason you don't want to come to the mansion?"

I nodded. "It sounds stupid, I know, but every time I walk down those halls it brings back bad memories."

That wasn't a lie.

Duke was silent for a few moments before coming up to me and hugging me.

"Aww, honey you are such a sweetheart sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"Yeah, because you can be a brat sometimes too." I laughed as I ruffled Duke's hair until it was disheveled.

"A white lie won't hurt anyone." I thought while Duke laughed and tried to pull my hand out of his hair.

Without realizing it, it was already time to start. I said goodbye to Duke, telling him to go back to the mansion, but he insisted on staying.

Something I allowed, GOD, I should have begged him not to do it.

Because from one moment to the next while I was dancing, all the lights went out and when they came back on I felt like blood was flooding my mouth, like everyone was screaming in fear.

What happened? Why am I bleeding?

Duke, he was next to me trying to keep me awake, to not close my eyes.

It got to the point where I couldn't hear anything he was saying, it was complicated while I felt like a part of my body was bleeding non-stop.

I hate to see him cry, please look away... leave me here.

Please...

I don't want the last thing I see to be you crying...

Please...

She opened her eyes calmly and confusedly, all she could hear was the ringing in her ears. She thought she was in a hospital because of the light.

But when her vision stopped blurring, she realized that the light was not from a hospital spotlight, but from the skylight in the wooden ceiling.

"Wait...Skylight?" She muttered, feeling her voice raspy and her throat sore.

The bed wasn't that soft, it was really hard and uncomfortable but still [Name] didn't want to get up, after almost dying...

[Name] sat up in bed right away.

"I ALMOST DIE!" She literally jumped out of bed and ran to the closet to get her clothes.

She needed to see how Duke was doing, his desperate face and the way he held back the urge to cry and couldn't, broke her heart.

But it was when she pulled out a t-shirt that she realized.

"This isn't my size..." Confused, [Name] walked over to the mirror.

If Duke broke her heart, now she's literally having a heart attack.

"WHAT THE FUCK!?" [Name] could swear that any living thing that was near her would have run away in less time than it takes a rooster to crow.

She touched her face carefully, as if it would disappear or break if she touched it hard, this is so weird...a woman in her late twenties trapped in her fifteen year old self, god, what a hell.

[Name] She stepped back without taking her eyes off the mirror while she sat back down on her bed.

On the other side of the door, she heard someone knocking on it two or three times. Accompanied by a soft but direct voice calling her name.

"Miss [Name]"

[Name] immediately turned around to stare at the door, for a few short moments no one said anything, there was only silence.

"Are you okay? You didn't come down to breakfast. That's not something usual for you." Alfred said once he got no response from her.

"Yeah, I'm fine Alfred...I just stayed up late last night that's all..." She didn't know what to say, obviously it wasn't okay, but she didn't want any more problems in her head, she just wanted to focus on the main problem.

She literally just got younger, which would be a good thing if it weren't for the fact that she also came back to this damn mansion.

"Okay, miss, I'll be waiting for you with your breakfast, you need to eat something before you start the day." [Name] was about to reply until Alfred stepped in. "Also, Happy Birthday Miss."

She didn't say anything, she didn't want to.

Alfred walked away from the door, [Name] could hear his footsteps moving away through the hallways and down the stairs.

"Was it always this quiet?" She muttered in her mind as she turned her gaze back to the mirror.

She thought about her life before coming back here, it wasn't good, she didn't earn much from dancing, but... it was her life, a life that took her time to perfect.

And now, I go back to the beginning? Shit, no.

"Alive or dead, I don't care, either way I'm getting out of here..." She said with some frustration and tiredness. "Happy birthday to me...that's new."

With nothing left to lose, she gets back out of bed to find some clothes to change into.

It was her birthday and she had to look good.

And hopefully, it would be the last birthday she would spend in this mansion.

NOTES: Hi, I hope everything is okay, even if it's better than me, I had finished the 'prologue' a while ago but I was feeling a bit unsure that something felt out of place or "weird".

I repeat and reiterate, I can understand English but in terms of speaking/writing it I am still learning. Until I feel completely confident for now I will continue using the translator (my savior).

But if there are any errors (probably some, I hope not many) let me know, I want everyone to be able to read comfortably and as long as I can I will make it happen.

Anyway, I hope you like it, I love you! Muak muak💋💋

TAGS:

@crazycaoticsimp @closetreader1864

[yourcutelittlegayfriend]

No More Chances

✧ M A S T E R L I S T ✧

Yandere Platonic Batfamily x Neglected Regressing GN Reader

In which a sad little child of a Wayne is somehow curse by the fates to live again and again, facing death in the end just to relive their fears, trauma and neglect from their own family.

Will they find away to end this looping nightmare or to live another reset again just to find a good gooddamn ending?.

Warning this Fic will contain:

Suicide and Suicidal thoughts, Death [Mainly Y/N's], Violence, Cursing, Drugs and substances, Guns and other weapons, Family Neglect, Talk about traumas or phobias, out of characters from the DC characters, mixed versions of the Batfamily [Will be mentioned if there are changes or implications of specific depictions of comics, games or other media for DC characters], Typos [ I can edit if there are typos but don't expect perfect or poetic English from me cuz I'm not that great in English ] and lastly This is NOT a Jinx!Reader I only had inspo of jinx and Arcane reference for this they are not fully Jinx because if they are then that would be a different fic now.

EXTRA EXTRA NOTE :

For the love of anything out there if you do not like to consume these type of fics in tumblr, DO NOT message or comment to me about how you don't like to read yandere or even x reader fanfictions in your feed, it's not my fault, I don't control your recommendation or what pops up in your screen, you have fingers SCROLL AWAY.

--- 0 0 0 0 ---

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1 : Dear Mother, Goodbye

Chapter 2 : A New Reset, An Old Story

Chapter 3 : Hello Father, Die

Chapter 4 : Oh Love, Why can't I See You?

Chapter 5 : Poor Goldilocks, Nothing Is Just Right

.......

[ O N G O I N G ]

Headcannons

--- ? ? ? ---

Fate's Chapter Assessment

[ 0 ] ,

No More Chances Q&A [#No More Chances Q&A]

Flasbacks&Babies

Doodles& Hallucinations

BadguyOrNot?

-✧✦✧-INTERTWINED FATES-✧✦✧-

Melody composed by fate [song fic]

Death by Family

Father

Sons

Daughters

Grandfather

✧✦✧ CRACKED VISIONS ✧✦✧

Imma finna rock yo' shit

Black Betty Bam Balam

〖 = ✧ = 〗

A taglist will be made if you want to be updated quickly, I only tag when I reblog a chapter so please comment your @ below thank you so much.

Q&A for No More Chances are open (Don't ask for updates you already know why I don't post much)

[ If you're having trouble finding the chapters for this fic all of them will be tag with #No More Chances or find #Masterlist ] (all images are from mixed media of screenshots, Pinterest, tumblr and google)

[acid-ixx]

ch.3: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

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

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: allusions to sexual assault, prostitution, and alcohol abuse.

"hey baby bird!!! <333 long time no see! how are you?!"

please stop.

"i know that we haven't been talking for quite a long time—"

no, you have never once had a solid conversation with him.

and you wish it stays that way between the two of you.

"—so let's catch up over coffee, yeah? i'll be staying at the manor for a week!"

you don't want to, you don't want to see his face at all, his dismissive eyes. don't want to hear his voice, how it only sings praises for everyone but you.

"(name)??? it says you have seen the messages :( are you asleep? you shouldn't sleep with your phone on, baby bird, that's dangerous!"

he doesn't have the right to scold you, he's not your older brother anymore. and you're not asleep, fuck, you regret not dozing off this afternoon. hell, you're more than awake and aware of the messages he's sending you, eyes scanning over the train of spam that clutters what was once an empty one-sided conversation.

"baby bird? c'mon, i miss you!!!"

lies, lies, lies. all he ever says are lies and you wouldn't fall for it, not anymore.

yet you're simply frozen in shock, seated up in bed as you simply watch dick's messages stack upon each other.

you watch, and wait. it's like you have lost autonomy over your body's actions.

five minutes pass.

your phone rings.

it was the only sound that fills the room other than the wringing in your ears.

it continues ringing, reverberating throughout the room, but all you do is stare, stare until the it ends, for everything to end and for all of this to be a sick hallucination your brain played on you.

there's nothing else you could focus on, your heartbeats spike the longer the call sound continues. you didn't even have the strength to decline the call, let alone move as you fear you might end up pressing the accept button.

so you wait, you wait until it stops.

and once it does cease, your sweaty thumb immediately pressed the block button on dick's profile, even going as far to delete all the past chats you had sent him. then, without moments hesitation, hastily scrolled all the way to the bottom of the list, where their other contacts lay barren of messages.

you have only used enough effort to message dick. that's what probably triggered his sudden intent on spending time with you, no? or was this all for his sick pleasure?

fortunately, all your other contacts with your past family are empty.

it will remain empty.

so you immediately blocked them, all of them. the thumps in your heart are erratic, so much so that you had to remind yourself to breath. through your nose, and out your mouth.

that's it, right? he'll get the message, definitely. that you don't want him to talk to you, to get rid of the false pretenses between the two of you, you don't want to "catch up" over coffee, or over anything.

it's all over, you tell yourself.

'calm down, relax...' you're in the safety of your own apartment, you should feel safe right now, he wouldn't bother you anymore.

not anymore would you be led to believe that they care for you.

— so why is it that you can feel that familiar rise of bile? taste it, even? why is it that your body is shaking so uncontrollably?

what the fuck.

seriously, just what the absolute fuck is wrong with you?

you never take yourself as an overdramatic person, especially not now, at the age of eighteen where you had finally learned to live for yourself, to never yearn what you knew was unattainable. your past tantrums were no more, no more you say but you wish so badly to carve a knife into your very heart.

why is it that now— now that you were out of your comfort zone, out of their empty presences and their overwhelming absences; why is it now that he just suddenly decided to appear? why is it just now that you feel your skin scorching uncomfortably at just a single message.

shit, your heart hurts so much. you want to take the beating organ out of your chest, just to make the pain stop.

your momma always told you, she said it herself that you are a brave child, her pride and joy despite the hellish living conditions you both were subjected to.

why is it so hard to believe her now?

just, why are you so weak?

when your mother hid you inside that closet - one too small for even a malnourished child like you to fit - telling you to hush for her, and that it's just a game of hide and seek with the 'bad guys', to not make a single sound at all or even come out if you hear screaming— you did what you were told, obediently, covering your mouth, trying your hardest to ignore your sore joints and heavy breathing.

"woah, mommy! is this really me?! you always make me look so nice." a young voice squeals, the sound echoing throughout the hollow room.

"yes, it's you, baby. you who are so strong, unlike me. momma will always love you." scarred hand, littered with gashes and soiled bandages run brush through your messy hair as your small form sat on the dirty bathroom sink. your eyes are drifted towards a mirror, checking out the new shirt your mother had bought for you.

"i love you too..."

you never cried that loud when light suddenly hits the cramped interiors of the closet, when you were caught and shoved outside of your hiding space by strange men, your mother nowhere to be found. when you felt the same men ripping your clothes apart, knives branding your skin like a searing hot pan; you never fought back because that's what your mother taught you. even when they pinned you down and injected you with a strange substance, head suddenly numbing and vision darkening; you still woke up alive, no?

... you woke up alive and conscious in a police station, where you had questiomed to the kind officer about your mother's disappearance, where she had bared the news that you would be taken in to a new family; a new home where your father resides in. one way cleaner, way safer she says.

yet for the next 15 years you were neglectef of the love your mother had given you. you were only raised by a butler too busy to fully focus on you. you had compared yourself to your siblings, siblings who had achieved so much in so little time.

and you?

you are only a wayne by name, but a (last name) by heart.

but you are brave, you are strong— you came from the lowest of the low, yet you pushed through and through to be a better person, and look where you are now...!

... just look at yourself now.

your phone lays untouched on the bed sheets. it tempts you, mocks your panicked state, and you want to rip that rectangular piece of metal apart. yet all you do is stare at it, sitting upright as one hands supports your weight. your fingers clench the mattress, it does nothing as your vision darkens from your lack of breathing.

breathing.

oh, breath in, breath out. do what alfred has taught you years ago, the- the one he uses whenever you would run alone in the desolate halls of the manor to alfred's room, just because you were anxious of the monsters in the corner of your eyes, where he would help you return to your senses and play you a lullaby from an old music box right after. the one he uses after you two would watch horror movies and you were too scared of any sounds that engulf your surroundings.

your throat tightens, and you want to vomit out the contents of what you have eaten— but you have to try.

five things you can see.

your eyes, although frozen wide and stinging with tears, darts around the room. everything is darker now, it's cold and you feel so small. your apartment was small. unlike the place you had lived before, it lacks of furniture, of life, of personality. the only things in your tiny apartment were basic necessities, but even food was scarce for someone like you who had juggle working multiple jobs and college just to pay for rent.

you can see your phone, the candy wrappers you had forgotten to throw, the overflowing trash bin, an empty bottle of prescription pills, alfred's gifts on the shelves counts, right? you laugh sarcastically at yourself; even a trashcan has more contents in your shitty apartment.

fuck, your chest throbs, you remind yourself to breath a little deeper.

four things you can feel.

the mattress is too hot for you, sweat already running down your forehead as if you had ran a marathon. you can feel the tears well up your eyes, overflowing with bitterness that you thought you had already buried deep down, and your hands gripping the sheets so uncomfortably tight. the weather is too cold, winter's nearing but the blood pumping through your veins scorches your very being.

that's four, three more to go and you hope this would all be over. you hope that this would all be a dream, a hallucination, anything.

three things you can hear.

does your choked sounds count? or does it need to be anything else? fuck, why doesn't it work as well as when alfred helps you through? you told yourself that you could take on anything in life, but is it all just a lie—?

focus. focus on your surroundings. you can hear your sniffling, heavy intakes of air, and a repeat of the phone ringing with dick's name as the contact.

shit, shit, shit. don't remind yourself of that. move on, just get onto the next thing.

two things you can smell or... taste? you don't remember, why can't you remember? your thoughts keep running back in circles to the messages, that stupid '<3', the way his desperation could be felt through the phone.

it reminds you of yourself.

before you knew it, your fist brought itself to punch your chest.

thump, beat, thump.

every time your heart beats too loudly, you strike your chest as hard as you can, uncaring for the pain it inflicts you, uncaring for the way you beat the air out of yourself. as long as it distracts you from the bile rising up your throat and the unsated nausea from sitting in the same position— it'll be fine if you hurt yourself. you've already done so a million times, no?

... yet nothing works.

why doesn't anything work out in your favor?

please don't do this to me.

your fists eventually stops. everything hurts even worse.

just earlier ago, you were praising yourself for all the progress you had made. how you weren't in need of validation anymore. you try so desperately to erase any inch of evidence that you were a wayne.

it all crashes down, again and again, and again and again.

moments ago, you were laying on your bed, scrolling through social media, making plans to hangout with your small group of friends in college, trying to cling on to the good parts of your past— ignoring the empty chats of what was once family.

but even without them, even if they haven't knew that you pushed them away from your life— they're always seeping their way at the back of your mind.

you truly can not erase your past. no matter how much you shake your head to rid of the thoughts, no matter how much you try to erase any documentations, any

even talking to alfred reminds you of your stupid past. a past that eats you up every time you wake up from the nightmares, wishing that there would be someone, anyone, who would hold your body tight and tell you it's alright. your mother, your father, your brothers and your sisters— they just were never there for you for so many years. and you hate to admit it but; you still cling to the wish that one of them would...

would hug you and kiss all your wounds away. drive away the countless of dreams filled with terror and torture.

you're independent now, but at what cost? what good does it do when you still try your damn hardest to live? when you know it in your soul that you still desire for a semblence of familial love.

and now that you've pushed alfred away, you're truly alone.

alone and stuck in a loop of trying to run away from your past and failing miserably.

and all you can ever do is, well...

you cry.

the tears bursts out of your eyes like a broken faucet.

you cry because that's the only thing you know how to do. you let the waters loose, hands quickly tangling itself on your hair, ripping fragile strands apart. you cry because you've been living a such a life full of lies, of broken promises, a life where you have to constantly walk on eggshells. you cry because you want to turn back and throw away all your progress just to feel the embrace of a family who had never once held you in their arms. you let yourself heave, let your voice wail out to its deepest frustration, uncaring for the thin walls, or the sleeping neighbors next door, or the rumbling of your empty stomach.

you cry, for what seems like hours, unending like the memories of solitary isolation, like the wanting of a love that you could never quite catch. you let your eyes become all puffy and red; red like the gashes you have scratched upon your skin, like the crimson, beaded blood from your bitten lips.

you don't find any strength in yourself to stifle your sobs anymore.

not when you're so, so lonely in this world.

and when your voice dies down, when your hoarse shrieking becomes no more; you simply force yourself to stand, despite the spinning of your vision, the stumble in your steps and the lack of air in your lungs; you run to your bathroom, slamming the door shut, letting adrenaline take its course into your already tired body.

your knees, they buckle after its few wobbly steps. it's sore and lacks the circulation to be properly controlled, but you ignore it in favor of expelling the acidic bile that finally rushes itself up your tongue.

at least you find just one thing to be grateful for— that your knees slipped on the wet tiles and land coincidentally towards the toilet's rim, a loud thud vibrating through the room.

alfred says the best way to cope is to never jar your emotions.

it's painful, everything is so painful that you want to scream; you need to let it all out.

you don't care if your knees were to bruise because you couldn't help it anymore, spilling out the contents of your breakfast onto the toilet bowl. your throat constricts into itself, and all you could do is gag and force every bit of food out of your mouth.

and it tastes so bitter that you cry even more. there were some bits and chunks stuck on the sides of your tongue, you can taste the acid on the back of your throat. you feel the urge to vomit even more but there's no more to expel. all you can do is dry heave, shaking hands finding its way to cover your mouth from gagging anymore.

it's so pungent, so fucking disgusting— but all you do is force yourself to stand once more, to look away from the mess you had created and flush it away.

the tears just wouldn't stop, the throbbing in your heart could never be expelled just as easily as the contents of your stomach.

yet you chose this life, there's no more alfred to assist you on your own personal struggles. there's no more rubs on the pack, pats on the head or a warm meal that greets you every time you drown in your own emotions. it's only you who can solve your own problems. you can't depend on anyone but yourself...

if only life was as easy as it is to flush away unwanted contents from your stomach.

if only you weren't in gotham... if only dick wasn't in...

gotham.

he's in gotham right now.

shit.

shit, shit, shit.

dick is in gotham, and you know he just doesn't give up.

he can track you down, he'll find you, he might hurt you because you blocked him— you know of his temper, of his unadulterated anger; you're scared of that. just what have you done wrong? did you take something that was his? no, no, never.

you've never been in his room before. he knows yours because he had visited once, but you don't know his. you don't even know which hallway leads to it.

oh, fuck.

you stumble towards the bathroom sink, hastily twisting the faucet's valve. cold water immediately rushes down, you cup your two hands together to collect the running water.

you need to get to you bearings, prepare for the absolute worst because you know, you know the power he holds in his arms.

with the amount of times he had spammed you, called you even— there's something he wants from you, and you don't want to entertain whatever he has on his mind.

you splash your face - splotched with tears, snot and drool - clean multiple times, rub your swollen, red eyes, and wipe the bits of vomit on the sides of your mouth. you can still taste the vomit. god, it's disgusting.

so you hastily grabbed your toothbrush, pushing an insanely large amount of toothpaste on the bristles. you scrub your teeth aggressively, feeling the urge to rid of the pungent taste of stomach acid. then you gargle mouthwash, twice, and spit it all out.

your movements are too quick for your own self to catch up, but you have to do this. your brain tells you to follow through whatever it has to do.

follow through instincts, get him out of your mind.

distract yourself from dick and the cryptic messages he had sent, that you had thoroughly deleted but...

it dawns upon you that albeit all your failed attempts at bonding with him— you know nothing about dick beyond the circus incident that had killed his parents and his identity as gotham and bludhaven's vigilante, nightwing.

you know nothing about him...

and you fucking blocked him before you could ask for an explanation.

what does that message mean? what does he want to talk about all of a sudden? a person doesn't just fucking waltz in someone's life after 15 years of absence and exclaims himself as close as your friend, no?

it had been so long since you had last heard him call you baby bird, let alone even read your messages, so why spam you now?

your knuckles grip at the bathroom sink's tiles, it was the only thing that provides you balance, legs too wobbly to support the dizziness. you feel a huge lump on your throat again, but you can't just erase all the efforts you had done to get yourself together.

— but at the same time, it's too hard to ignore the panic that resurfaces on your very mind.

so what do you need exactly?

distraction, something to get your mind off of the current situation? before you run away from gotham—

you need a distraction, anything. even if it's stupid, you'll regret it later, just not now.

cigarettes? no, you don't smoke. alfred will kill you if he finds out and you can never lie to him.

drugs? you'll be shot in the head by nasty criminals scamming naive citizens for half the price before you could even purchase them.

... then what?

you look at yourself in the mirror, puffy eyes glazing with emotions you yourself couldn't comprehend.

'despite everything, it's still you, no?'

if you could describe yourself right now, you would call yourself a mess, a big loser who had let their emotions run free for too long, let themself go way too quickly, gave up too quickly, and believed too naively. you had lost so much yet gained so little. a wayne so stubborn that it was the only thing you could ever relate to your father who had estranged you without knowing it.

there was more negatives than positives, you're aware of it.

but if there's one trait that anyone could generalize off of you, it would be that you're always desperate for something.

anything.

and just one time, you tell yourself. one time and that's it, nothing more, nothing less.

once you done relaxing, you're packing your bags and making a run for it. you'll even cut alfred off of your life once and for all. no matter how much it pains you to do so, it's necessary so you could make a new identity from scratch.

it'll hurt you so deeply.

but that's why you're going to do what you wish you had done back when you were still so young—

you need a drink right now.

the wayne manor, in all its glory, is truly just an empty palace that houses buried memories.

with walls that cover the cries of one lonely child; a child who yearns for the unreciprocated love of their family. it was a cage for a child who stalks the frigid halls without any company, who sleeps in a room too small for their age, who cries for anybody to notice the pain that they had hidden with rose colored tints for so long, who yearns for a warmth that could never be provided in the spaces of harsh, black wallpaper and harsh winters.

it will always be innately lonely, and cold.

yet it's even more sullen now, an atmosphere so empty nobody could pinpoint.

no more was the voice that sings of the butler's splendid cooking. no more was the etching of ballpens on smooth paper on an intricately designed diary that stores all the rants of one's daily life. no more were the strokes on colorful canvases that paint dreams of a different life. no more was the humming of multiple tunes every morning. no more was the presence of the ghost who water the plants every afternoon. no more were the footsteps that thud in the kitchen and the hands that opens the fridge.

and most importantly—

no more were the hushed cries of the kid who resides in the smallest room of the wayne manor.

a house could be described as a building where a unit, moreover a family, lives in; but a home is what represents comfort, a place of belonging and safety.

it was a place encased with deep, historical roots.

but right now, encased in a field of damp grass - wet from heavy rain - and the overwhelming scent of petrichor— the manor is simply a house.

for it could never be complete without the presence of the very lonely child who cries for a love never to be attained.

the wayne manor, in all its worth, would never be the same without (name) wayne, a child who had always belonged, but at the same time, always wronged.

bruce wayne never considered himself the greatest father.

he could be gotham's best detective, the most feared vigilante, or the heavily beloved billionaire who donates millions on hospitals, hosts charity events, and so much more.

he could spend his entire life saving countless of other lives that do not deserve the turmoil of living on edge constantly, attend meetings, plan out his every moves, sit on cushioned seats as he broods over where the all the next criminal hideouts; he could do everything and he'll be damned great at it.

—but he will never be the greatest at being a father.

he had long accepted that fact, embraced it even, facing countless of criticism from both alfred and media alike, but it would never be an excuse to neglect or mistreat any one of his children, just like how it would never be right to just ignore a kid's cry for comfort in the barren halls of a manor.

bruce was never outright cruel towards anyone, every action of his baring significance to his moral code.

which was why bruce feels a pit of neverending regret now.

in all the years that he had spent trying to raise his children, children who, in a way, are trouble. who all differ from each other from ideals, to pasts, to habits, to preferences— he wouldn't lie and say that he never had difficulty helping each and every one of them grow to be who they are now.

living through his decisions are never easy, especially if the outcomes were unpredictable; raising a child, let alone children, could go so many ways.

the lives that he had to juggle, alongside his identity as bruce wayne and as batman, they were all an endeavor that he had chose to balance. he had come so far and stumbled so often. but at least by the end of it, he would be proud to say that he truly will never regret having them by his side when he was at the lowest points of his life.

he had his flaws and his mistakes, he had done irreversible actions that he wishes he could reverse, and most importantly, he had failed each and every one of his children indubitably.

but he really tried.

he tried his best to be there for every single one of them. he was there for dick when he had witnessed the death of his mom and dad, adopting the boy who was overflowing with rage towards the killer of his parents and utilizing his gymnastic skills for good. he was there to pick jason up when he had stolen the batmobile's tires, helping the child unlearn the past abuse he had fallen victim to (and although he had died, then resurrected, and turned cold-blooded towards criminals, murdering without hesitation— he still cares for jason deeply). he was there when tim had lost his parents. there for damian who had only been raised as an assassin since he was born. for cass, for duke, for everyone.

he really tried to be active in their lives, supporting them through their blood, sweat, and tears.

... but he had never tried to be there for you.

his forgotten third child, the biological firstborn, child of a well-known prostitute, (name) (last name), whose identity has long been erased off of the face of the internet; the scandal of a century that took the shared efforts of him and barbara to decimate whatever information the late (or missing?) (last name) has in the underground.

(name), his child he has never once bat an eye on, too preoccupied with tim, aversing his attention away from you to train the other kid; ultimately ignoring the immense trauma you must have dealt with from being raised by a mother targeted by most criminal organizations from extorting their cash. it was sickening for him to think of just how cruel were the conditions the two of you were forced to live through.

it was sickening for bruce to imagine the even lonelier years you had to suffer through after your mother's disappearance— years where your father's presence was elsewhere, years that a child has to suffer through alone without any figure to look up to.

it was your name that he had hesitated to even say, in fear of butchering the pronunciation and earning more of alfred's judgemental looks.

(name) wayne.

not even a face can be associated with you, not your voice, your hobbies, nothing.

he couldn't recall a memory where he had taken you to a fancy gala, or one-on-one father-child dates, or any occasions that requires bonding with each other.

he wasn't the man who welcomed you through the doors of the manor, nor was he the father who should've picked you up at the police station.

bruce wayne knows nothing of his third child.

if alfred hadn't confronted him about your terrible living conditions as of now, living in debt whilst trying to push through college, then how long would he have ignored your presence inside the manor? how long would the years pass without him acknowledging any important milestones that you would reach?

until your untimely demise perhaps?

he couldn't even remember a time he had at least given you a gift during christmas or new year or any time of the day.

not even the name of your elementary and high school, or your college university. he doesn't know of your friends, your teachers or what subject you excel in.

you had already graduated highschool, and he wasn't even there for your ceremony. he wasn't there to walk you up the stage, wasn't there to shield you from the thousands of photographers who would've attended should they know that a wayne would attend, wasn't there to offer you a pat on the shoulders for a job well done.

then who had to walk you up the stage?

"alfred..." he stops walking, clearing his throat as alfred turns back at bruce, offering a raised eyebrow at the sudden pause and bruce's rigid pose.

"yes, master?"

"when... (name) graduated," he hesitated on saying your name again, catching on alfred's sudden squint of the eyes. "who walked them up the stage?"

he hopes you didn't have to go up there alone, that a teacher at least accompanied you or—

"i was the one who attended in your stead, master bruce." the butler replies without hesitation, as if it was a normal occurrence. he sighs again, too tired to scold bruce's surprise for absolutely dismissing all the important dates that include you and instead turns back to continue on his treck to guiding bruce to your room.

alfred's look of condescension makes him sink deeper into the void of regret. for being unable to

fuck, how many important events had bruce missed? from school plays, to parent-teacher conferences, to talent shows— was there ever a "bring your father to school" day?

oh... he really hopes there wasn't.

his hands find itself scratching his head, fingers tangling itself onto his hair in hopes of providing distraction— but his thoughts all circulate towards you, a faceless entity, an itch that he could never reach unless he sees you for himself.

the further he walks through frigid halls, the smaller the space seems to get.

how many birthdays had he missed?

when even is your birthday?

you are eighteen now, five when you were taken in which means... almost fourteen years of missed birthdays...

he didn't even give you a single gift card out of pity. not even money for allowance, or a birthday cake.

bruce was never there for you, and he has a feeling that that may have been one of the reasons of you moving out.

he needs to make up for it at least, once he contacts you he'll apologize for everything—

but first, he needs to see the state of your room. to at least have a first impression of you, of what your life was in the manor; any clues that pertains to just who his child is, as humiliating as that sounds for a father.

which was why he didn't hesitate to let alfred lead him straight to your room, albeit the shame he feels for not even knowing where his own child's room is located.

back when he had taken damian in, it was him who introduced the boy to his own room, whom had promptly thrown a tantrum and demanded someplace bigger before ultimately accepting his fate.

... how would you have reacted to your own? he wishes to at least picture your face, probably opposite to damian's, as you get to live in an entirely different space from what you're used to.

would you be pleased? would you look at him with sparkling eyes and thank him? or would you maintain a neutral stance? an overwhelmed one?

he really wants to see you, your expressions, just a sliver of your presence.

but nothing comes up in his mind. not the length or color of your hair, not your height, not anything. he could picture a vague imagery of your mother, but not you.

it makes him wonder; does any of your siblings know what you look like? were you at least any closer to them that you are to him?

he hates just how much desperately the darkness in the pit of his chest is crawling in need to hasten his steps towards wherever your room was.

the rain outside had already ceased, but a newer thunderstorm was brewing inside bruce's heart.

he needs to see you.

as he walks behind alfred through the halls of the manor, he had just noticed how barren the other side of the manor truly is.

cob webs and dust particles litter through the corners of the untouched furniture, the wallpaper peeling off itself and revealing untreated mold and even more cocoons of baby spiders that would soon crawl out, and even most of the ceramic vases they had passed by houses no flowers, instead being covered in a thin sheen of dust.

it was obvious just how neglected this corner of the house is.

just like you.

alfred was always meticulous in his duty as a butler, but bruce had advised the old man to leave unexplored parts of the manor be, seeing as how nobody would stroll by; and to only clean it whenever he would host an expensive gala in the manor with spare rooms as guest rooms.

it made bruce wonder if these halls are the path that leads directly to your room, which it actually does, and he feels even more guilty at just how... different your living condition is compared to your siblings.

it was no wonder why the butler would always excuse himself early, seemingly always making a treck towards a forgotten chamber that he rarely visited.

he'll make a note of relocating you to a room closer than his if you ever were to decide to come visit during holidays or vacations.

... alfred said it had been six or seven months since you had left, just how many occasions have he missed?

counting only fills the dread in his the growing hole of the pit of his heart.

yeah... he will get you a new room, one preferably closer to his; just so he could greet you every morning by knocking on your door and at least escorting you to the kitchen for breakfast. he'll try to make small talk, invite you over and... bond with you.

that'll be a good habit he could incorporate into his daily life.

a small part of him wishes you wouldn't look at him in disdain if he had to forcibly visit your apartment.

he swears it's in all the good of his heard; he just needs to check for himself if you were doing okay.

as him and alfred nearly arrives at your bedroom, the two had already noticed the light peaking from outside the doors and what seems to be two voices ensuing an argument.

even alfred, who had ceased his steps, looked surprised at the presence of the people who seemed to be there before them.

bruce doesn't even hesitate jogging towards the room, unaware of alfred's immediate shift to a calculating gaze, as bruce immediately opens polished, mahogany doors, inviting himself in.

... it smells of bleach and fabric refresher.

his heart clenches at the implication.

"father...? why are you here?" damian's voice cuts through the tension, bruce merely dismisses youngest child as his eyes takes in the space, ignoring how the other presence in the room - dick, with wide, feral eyes - quips about an ongoing "family" reunion.

bruce analyzes every detail, heart thumping loudly in his chest.

small... your room is way too small, and lacks of any design or life whatsoever. a tiny bed is shoved in the corner, the closet too miniscule to even contain clothes for someone your age (just where do you store them, then?), the windows barely welcome any ventilation nor sunlight, even your bedside table was too small to be considered one; the lampshade on top of it could be easily toppled over by a single sway of a hand.

everything is clean, too clean and orderly.

his eyebrows furrow at its state. even a model's walk-in closet is significantly bigger than the cramped space he calls your bedroom.

no proper ventilation, not even any space is provided for... your hobbies. hobbies that he wasn't even aware of.

is this how you had been living for almost eighteen years of your life?

how do you live like this?

just how much has he neglected you?

"bruce...?" it was dick's voice that he had now registered. it sounds out of breath, way too abnormally distraught and out of character.

he slowly looks at dick, equally befuddled at the presence of his eldest and youngest sons.

he seems disheveled, stressed even. the athlete's blue eyes were wide and dilated, seemingly unfocused as his stance was rigid. he was breathing too deep, hand clenching his phone too tight, veins popping through muscles, and he holds a... notebook in the other, this time like it was a delicate piece or artifact.

"... why are you here?" dick tries to cover his current state with an awkward laugh, but he could never hide the furrow of his brows, the flickering in his eyes, nor the anxious stomping of the his feet. sweat runs down dick's forehead; it looks like he's been inside the room the longest.

and dick refuses to get out of it. he won't, not until he finds out just why were you pushing him always all of a sudden.

he's afraid of forgetting his baby bird once more and neglecting your needs. if you were just as self-depracating as he is then... just how well would you be coping all by yourself?

does bruce share the same intentions as him? he doesn't know, his thoughts all leading to a path of thinking about, well, you.

you and your wide eyes looking at him like he was the world.

"i'm just here to visit... (name)'s room." bruce replies, a deep tremor in his parched throat, threading even further into the cramped space as his eyes seem to lock into the multitudes of messily stacked notebooks in the center of the bed.

they were all captioned '(name)'s diary', each having different fonts for every notebook and a date plastered on the very bottom.

"and you both are...?" he stares at them, demanding an answer as he sits on your too small bed (—it creaks, he hates that it does so he promises to get you a new one, a bigger one even, with enough space to fit in at least four people just as you deserve), picking up one of the diaries in his hand; it sports messy calligraphy and peeling stickers, reminiscent of just how old it was.

the hold he has on the diary is delicate as he flips through the first page the same way the eldest child had done. the papers were stained gray from the lead of the pencil, doodles littering every page, from flowers to animals and even faces that bruce couldn't recognize.

at least it provides the void in his heart food for thought, taking in every small detail about you and your hobbies.

you like documenting your life through diaries, that was the first thing he noted about you. the entries all date far from back when you were five or younger, the earlier pages highlighting, well, you and your mother's life. though the handwriting wasn't all that eligible, bruce finds himself becoming fond of the common topics you often rant about from "momma's burnt stack of pancakes" (paired with a drawing on the side, colored with dried markers and glitter gel pens), to the fairytales your mother loves to read you.

as much as it was entertaining for him to read through your mind, it's sad how aged the papers were and how some pages were crumpled to the point some contents were incomprehensible.

he'll get you even more high quality ones, rather than the cheap paper the one he's currently holding has. and he'll buy you designer pens, or do you prefer the more functional ones? would you like fountain pens or glass dip ones just to enjoy the experience?

bruce notices a pattern of the pen's strokes, an array of thinner lines were preferred in most of your entries compared to the thick pencils you sometimes force yourself to use, as there was an entry you had mentioned where if you use thicker lines then you'll run out of pages quicker, and "my mom doesn't have enough money to buy me one right now."

even the doodles in pencil had prefered line widths. finer quality for even finer details, thicker lines to emphasize and exaggerate your art on the side of the papers.

would you prefer mechanical or charcoal pencils? charcoal is messy and smudges, bruce knows as he sees small drawings of a tiny sprite that point towards a smeared sketch of a flower, a look of disdain on its furrowed brows.

he couldn't contain the upward quirk of his lips, blocking out dick's shadow that seems to get closer to bruce.

unfortunately, there were no ballpens of your preference on your bedside table for him to take for himself. he'll find out himself sooner enough though; what materials you like to utilize for your diaries and sketches. hell, it seems you like using a mix of normal and puffy stickers alongside a mix medium to obtain different colors.

journaling supplies, you'll find a lot of them in your arsenal soon.

he'll make sure of that once he finds out where you live.

he looks at damian flipping through what seems to be one of your sketchbooks.

art is, undoubtedly, one of your hobbies too— that's the second thing he notes, picking up what seems to be your second diary right after he flips through the first one, wasting no time to learn more about you.

this time, your second diary talks about your early life into the gotham manor. your anxious yet earger energy to meet your father, how the dick grayson (presumably your idol, with how you mention him as the) is now your brother, and how you almost got lost just wondering in the manor; they all highlight your innocence and curiousity about the world. you write so effortlessly, unafraid of writing down what you truly feel.

though you barely mention the incident regarding your mother, you have stated multiple times about how you miss her beautiful smile and her captivating laughter.

he's grateful that you're fond of writing diaries, exposing bruce to the deeper, more personal parts of your life. he doesn't need to pinpoint any lies or truth. all your secrets, your endeavors, your dreams and your passions are buried deep into the crevices of your diaries, etched in thousands of words and drawings that tell bruce just who you are.

and truly, you are his child.

bruce craves to know more about you in person the more he reads through your entries.

fortunately, it wasn't only him that feels an intense need to take you in, as the presence of his eldest cuts him off of the his train of thoughts.

"y'know, before you forget we're even here, bruce," dick quips with a fond smile as he looks at his bruce's unkempt state, taking a seat next to his father who seems to be in his own world just like damian. the bed creaks against their weight, both cringing at the sound before bruce returns to his own world of... analyzing you, just like he did hours ago.

but he knows that his father knows how to multitask, so he doesn't hesitate to answer.

"i'm also here for (name), i promised to take them out for dinner month's ago." that seems to actually catch bruce's attention, as he looks up from reading your second diary, gazing at dick as if to urge him to continue.

dick proceeds with a sigh, a smitten smile plastered on his face as he recalls the only memory he has of you.

"(name) really has a knack for writing and all, right? i love them for it. when i first met them, they were just so adorable. my baby bird tried to ask me for an autograph!" dick couldn't help himself from yapping, chuckling lightly as he remembers the deathly grip you had on alfred's cuffs, how you were hiding behind the butler's legs and looked at dick so enamored. he couldn't contain his unhinged smile, the goosebumps on his skin made shivers ripple throughout his entire body.

bruce (and even damian, who had all his attention on your sketches) had listened in on his monologue.

"i was the one who helped lead them to their room," he continued confidently, tapping his phone with his fingers, "they clung really close to me when we climbed up the steps, even tried to hide under my jacket..."

looking back, dick wishes he had carried you up the steps. thing was, you were incredibly small back then, and the manor's staircase is particularly hard to transverse through when ascending, so you must've felt exhausted and leaned onto him for support. your tiny legs must've been sore once you two had arrived by your room.

oh, he should've noticed. dick swears he won't make that mistake again once he gets you back in his arms, he promises to carry you the moment you even show the slightest bit of fatigue.

he swears he will, and he'll make sure to spoil you rotten with all the affection you deserve.

oh, dick really wants to see his baby bird again.

"yeah, that's, uh, the only time we had only ever talked." he admits shamefully, opening his phone for what seems like the thousandth time, looking at your profile over and over again, one that had him blocked.

he bites his lips, nibbling his skin in anticipation, in hopes that in the good of your heart that you just, unblock him.

it was just so unbelievable, despite you having all the reasons to push them away from your life, he just doesn't want to accept it. doesn't want to think of the worst outcome; of you hating him.

his baby bird blocked him and he just couldn't comprehend the amount of hurt he's feeling right now. what's wrong with checking up on his baby sibling? on someone he hasn't talked to for a long time already?

scrolling up through your previous messages fills him with both dread, and another emotion he doesn't want to admit— the slightest bit of pride he feels that you chose him over everybody else. you chose dick grayson as your idol, as someone to look up to and eagerly wanted as your older brother.

he was the favorite.

yet he feels terrible at the same time for taking it for granted, for forgetting your his own younger sibling. and bruce? bruce feels terrible just looking at how much your disappearance - an existence he didn't even know existed not until a few hours ago - impacted the atmosphere of the house.

is your absence the reason why the manor had felt too empty, then...?

even alfred seemed to sulk more often, always having his phone around and... talking to someone?

does alfred know where you are? or at least maintain communication with you?

it seems like the family was equally keen to find out just who you were.

whilst the two engross themselves in their own personal matters, damian continues to stand near the middle where the light hits the brightest, analyzing all the pages of your sketchbook. the youngest couldn't even afford to miss a single detail, green eyes mulling over the poses of your human sketches; the anatomy, the composition. all the progress, the mistakes, the erasures... his mind seems to eat up every drawing as if it was a piece of art hung in a museum.

which it should've been— but he wouldn't even let worthless critiques lay their eyes on any one of your sketches. they wouldn't understand you as much as he does.

it's his to look upon, nobody else could understand the meaning of your art, the meaning of his older sibling's art.

the older sibling who he used to threaten with his sword, who he called vile names — a bastard child, he told you one day. he was unable to ignore the glare you sent him, how he felt a pang in his heart after — the older sibling who he ridiculed endlessly in front of his best friend, whose actions he criticized without end; who had started to avoid him like the plague after all of his incessant bullying.

his older sibling who he had used as a punching bag for all his negative emotions, who he was incredibly jealous of, who he felt the need to fight, to compete with, all for the sake of grabbing your attention without seeming frail in his intentions.

his weak and incapable older sibling, who he knew hated him with all their gut.

the unwanted and undeserved treatment he had subjected you to was gruesome.

it was just exactly like your drawings... gruesome and brutal, to say the least. as if it was a medium of releasing all your unparalleled anger. charcoal strokes violently covers the entirety of your pages, it was unpredictable where the lines meet and end, whenever there is color, they blotch each other without harmony, all the subjects of your art either human or anything else within your vicinity.

if someone else with inexperienced, undeserving eyes were to witness your sketches, they would not understand and dare say, criticize your art pieces for being too contemporary, for letting your emotions run free through cheap quality paper without any ounce of care for the rips and tears of the pages.

but damian likes it... he likes the rawness of your pieces, likes it when you incidentally find a way to express tragedy, grief, and all the antagonistic traits a human could bare. he likes just how all thr subjects you paint were muddled with dull colors, sometimes too vibrant, sometimes too neon, sometimes a mix of all— your hectic personality bleeds through the pages.

you should've... shared your talents with him. albeit the jealousy he feels towards you, the sense of competitiveness— a small part of him admits his desire to bond with his only blood sibling... he doesn't even know why he treated you like trash, yet felt so incredibly heartbroken whenever you would retaliate with a blank, soulless stare.

he doesn't know why he felt so compelled to melt into your embrace, despite never once being physically close to you. your warmth always emanates off of your body; he hates that he wanted your validation, your praise and your attention.

he'll apologize to you sooner, damian will drag you back even if he has to, he needs to, actually.

needs to get you to forgive him, to look at him fondly, and to love him without bounds. he's on his path to redemption, he acknowledges his wrongs, all the wrongs he had done to you, he couldn't list it all out but he knows just much it affected your views on him.

damian knows he should've dismissed your reactions— he was raised by assassins for gods sake! he should not be so perceptive of every micro expression of yours, but the connection he feels towards his blood sibling is stronger than any bond, a bond that he himself chose to sever and came to regret afterwards.

he remembers one specific expression of yours after he had criticized your anger issues when he had heard news of you being transferred into another school. it was a glare that lacked any fight or bite, you had long since given up on him and allowed him him harass you whenever he felt like so. but that day was the same day you had snapped, nearly choking on his

he told himself to ignore it, that you were merely throwing a tantrum (despite how hypocritical he seemed)

yet he didn't expect to be overcome with regret.

with hurt.

with empathy at the tears that welled on your eyes.

damian doesn't want to admit it but, that was one of the first times he had hesitated to retaliate with an even crueler comeback to your glare. he wanted to so badly run to you and bond with you and your unadulterated anger, to comfort you and provide you the affection you had so desperately needed— but in the bitterness and the jealousy of his heart, he had forced himself to leave you be; a decision even until now he regrets because... you had no longer seen him as a younger brother, let alone treat him as one, as he desired to.

after that incident, you tend to avoid him more and more, not even eating in the same room as him, let alone ditching whatever you were doing in favor of keeping to yourself.

he should've held himself back from hurting his older sibling, the one who, despite doning no skills or talent in combat whatsoever, who knew that he was more of a threat than a younger brother; was brave enough to approach him with a tray of alfred's baked cookies and a hesitant yet welcoming grin.

and yet he had replied with a sword to your neck and an insult to your origin, calling you a bastard child; the product of a whore and his father's terrible decisions.

he had simply watched as you had left the hallway with a knick on your neck and a wobble on your steps, nearly dropping the tray of untouched goods due to the inconsolable shivers you must've felt.

you hate him, no? he could see it in your eyes, no matter how defeated it may be, there was always a tinge of resentment towards him that he knows he couldn't undo.

you hate him, you must've hated him so much and he hates that. hates how he wants to throw a rampage over the fact that you would never consider him as a younger brother.

... if things were different, if he had never let his emotions and his past dictate his actions, would you love him?

for the first time in quite a while, he had felt tender longing and desire, his hands caressing the pages of your sketchbook as if it could bring you back to the manor.

for the first time in a while, damian allows himself to want, to dream about a fantasy where you would cherish him, allow him to melt on your chest whenever he feels the pressure of the world getting to him, let him sulk about his deepest darkest insecurities as you would run your fingers through his hair and tell him it's all alright.

for the first time in so long, he would openly admit the immense regret he feels, wishing for an opportunity to turn back time, to never unsheath his sword towards you and to never open his mouth to allow vile words to spew out of it.

time passes by oh-so quickly when you are left alone with only your thoughts to accompany you.

it had been quite awhile since the trio were left pondering about your very existence, alfred noted, watching the three scramble about through their minds. they had seemed to have forgotten the very butler who had been observing every single one of their actions.

alfred had waited so long for this moment to come, for them to realize just how crucial you are to the family, how you are the very final jigsaw puzzle the complete the picture perfect definition of a home, how much they need you if they wish to maintain even the slightest bit of sanity.

it was only right that he decides to place the final nail in the coffin.

after all, this was all to get you back to your safety, to where you rightfully belong.

—"it seems like the family has finally taken notice of young master (name)'s disappearance...?" alfred buts in by the door, a single eyebrow raised, crossed arms, an all-knowing look that just screams 'i told you so'.

he continues once he had their complete attention, "i would like to say that i am heavily disappointed in how it took more than a decade and a half for all of you to find out about their existence. if it wasn't for the long months of their absence and even a personal sermon towards master bruce about their financial struggles, they would've long been gone. well... they would be gone soon if they are unable to pay this month's rent for their apartment."

his tone was sullen as he nitpicks every single one of their reactions, a mixture of confusion, shame and regret a commonality between the three.

"(name) is in financial debt?" it was damian who asked first with furrowed brows and wide eyes, unbelieving of what alfred had just stated. "but father wires money to all of his children, right?

the youngest turns back to his father's seated form, expecting a nod of some sorts, but all bruce had was a tense jaw and a solid stare. it speaks of volumes, all damian could do was shut his mouth, looking back at alfred with a pout.

alfred expected this reaction. it was truly unfortunate how the family would never know just how important you were in their life.

yet all he could do was press on, further their guilt and desperation.

"young master damian, i am aware of bruce's willingness towards providing for his children, but (name), like you, had adopted your father's stubbornness to accept any financial aid on their part..."

the silence was defeaning now, tension so thick that not even a knife could cut through it. fortunately, the people alfred were with are trained combatants, formidle not only through fights but with words.

it was a shame they had never used their brains to connect the dots with just how sullen the manor was the moment you were gone.

"how do we...?" this time it was dick who talked, albeit hesitantly. "bruce could at least send a few thousands to them, then? or i could do it, you could just give us their location and—"

"unfortunately, there is nothing i could do about it, master dick," alfred interrupts dick's sudden onslaught, "for even i do not have master (name)'s address. they refuse even the slightest bit of a clue, hence why i have confronted master bruce about it."

it was like a needle had dropped on the floor, an intense, numbing feeling everyone present was subjected to feel.

... what?

it was dick who had reacted first, springing up from his seated position as he stared at alfred's defeated eyes incredulously.

"are you serious, alfred? (name) could be anywhere in gotham right now? unprotected, unsafe, and in debt?"

a long, defeated sigh was what he had merely received from the alfred.

"yes, master dick, you hear exactly what i say."

"but the world outside is too dangerous for (name)! we can't just let them loose in a street filled with criminals who can take advantage of their innocence!"

"they're eighteen, dick." all of a sudden, it was damian who cuts back with a roll of his eyes, "i'm sure they can survive on their own."

"yeah right, and have you even read their latest diary, or are you just gonna pretend like you aren't going to keep their sketchbooks all for yourself, huh?" dick retaliates with clenched teeth, letting himself be swayed by his own emotions. "or... you're planning to track their location without us so you can get a reservation to visit them first?"

"calm down, dick—" bruce stands, immediately holding dick back, gripping the athlete's tense shoulders.

"why should i, bruce?! (name) can be anywhere, we— i can't afford to bide time on anything but them!" he glared back at his father, slammimg his fist onto your bedroom walls without hesitation. cracks immediately formed on the chipped wallpaper, a testament to dick's strength; you'll be relocated to another room, a better one anyways and they'll... they'll turn this one into a bigger atelier for you.

dick just needs to let his anger out, yeah... unfortunately, his father seems to think otherwise.

bruce retaliates with a snarl, "we need a solid plan, dick. we can't just randomly search where they are—"

"look, if none of you are willing to help, then fine, i'll track (name) all by myself—"

"— i've never mentioned not coming, grayson." damian cuts him off with a glare, possessively holding all your sketchbook in one hand. "i'll be the one spending time with them first."

"yeah, right... and you, bruce? you coming with or no?"

defeated, bruce replies, "... you already know the answer, dick."

"of course, dad. glad to know we're on the same team after all," dick lets out an airy laugh, returning to his old demeanor. but bruce could easily pinpoint the sharp edge to his giggles, how calculated it is and how it's all merely a cover up to hide the unbearable itch to get you into his arms.

not like bruce could help it too, feeling the same way dick does— all he wants to do is see you for himself after all.

"then call the others into the batcave, now. tell them it's a priority mission, don't let them say otherwise, and don't settle on any excuses."

bruce is so grateful that he had his hands on your diaries, that he was given the grace to read through your entries and embrace even the slightest clue about you.

although there was no face to associate with your name, no photograph nor portrait— he at least has an idea of your personality, of what you like and prefer; something that bruce would hold dear, something that feeds the growing urge to find you.

find you to not only correct his mistakes, to make up for all the lost time, but to also get closer to you. to bond with his child, the one he should've focused on all those years ago. the one who, despite showing disinterest to vigilantism, chose to not fall deep into the pits of resentment, of committing heinous acts— you had chosen to run away from them without any intentions of badmouthing your own family even after the years of neglect.

his child, (name) wayne.

you were a symbol of what he had strived to cherish, to protect. it was your innocence through these pages, your eagerness to the world despite its cruelty, that relays the message to bruce that he should've centered his attention on both you and tim instead of just tim.

maybe then the dispair he had felt after jason's death would've been less devastating, maybe then you'd act as his source of light in the darkness he had choose to brood in. maybe then he wouldn't have acted so rash, so impulsive and tense.

after all, you had lost your mother too early, and your father was just somebody you can watch through the television and read through the newspaper.

and you? you were forced to take the short end of the stick, without any familial attention nor emotional support whatsoever— a substantial failure on bruce's part. you didn't deserve anything you were subjected to, didn't deserve to know what pain and despair felt like.

bruce should've been the father who had to shoulder all your burden. he should've been there for you as he was there for all your other siblings.

he should've been the man who would kiss your wounds away whenever you go out to the park with him to play. he should've been the man who would sit on the crowded bleachers to watch you perform on a talent show. he was supposed to be the father who would hold you close to your chest as you cry about your first heartbreak, about your overdue projects, about the bullies in the school.

but he wasn't that father for you. and now, you seek love and attention from people who weren't even family. because they had failed you, he had failed you.

there was so much things about you that he doesn't know of, so much he had missed out on. his absence was a constant in your life; what would you have felt if he suddenly barged in on it then? especially now that you've moved out on the presumption of neglect?

but could he help it if he does?

could bruce help it if he was already concocting a way to bring you back? alfred had explicitly told him that you were living off of debt

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,100+ words. no beta we just die. undertale reference. this is my least favorite chapter LMAO, despite it's length i had to waste blood sweat and tears for this and i hate it so much. anways guys pls comment or send as ask if u like this and what's good abt it bec this chapter literally made me question my ability as a write 😭 erm im gonna take a break after this and mostly answer asks bec istg my energy is so drained. also is it jst me or does everyone default the reader as female ^^' it's jst weird for me bec i always write them as gn/male. oh and if anyone is wondering, yes i am gonna add the batgirls too bec they r family !! the entire family (universe) is obsessed with u !! also yall i cant add anymore to the taglist, tumblr won't allow me.

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku , @okaybutfullhomo , @trasshy-artist , @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa , @ilovvmyhusband , @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony , @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts , @darling006 , @starringyau , @samanthahanes, @rosecentury , @jaythes1mp , @pi1nkl0ver , @i-thirsty-boy, @sharks-are-cool-l, @silverklaus, @traumaramacenter , @maddimoon , @anxrq, @thedarknesslord , @h0rr0r-10ver-69 , @lazy-idate , @cupids-pretty-boy , @alishii, @mel-star636 , @sitepathos , @freakyotaku059-blog , @dirtydiavolo, @sunbleachedantlers, @24hrsoflanii, @ceramic-raven , @une-lueur-dans-la-nuit , @tdickensstuff4 , @thickerthanthieves , @arlandvery , @distressed-lezbo, @bunbunboysworld , @bellethesleepypotato, @nebuluma, @alliwantisadonut, @alishii, @kusakiguzen, @sirenetheblogger, @emmbny, @ryukyuin, @solkara, @starsdotalk, @nightstarblue, @huhuhhuhh, @shadowpup163, @sunshine-skz, @24hrsoflanii, @bazellawrites, @pato-spoiler-27, @harumy07cat, @rains-mae, @funnybunnyxxx, @littlelilithspost, @howisgroguthiscute, @yuyuzi-ling, @tullipam, @coldcrusadehideout, @princessloveweird, @hybridcon

[rizzanon]

06 | ANOTHER SUFFOCATING DAY

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The sharp cool air bit at your cheeks as you walked down the streets of Gotham, the din of the city surrounding you. People rushed past, bundled up and hurried, but you barely noticed. Your thoughts were too loud, replaying the awkward lunch with Barbara.

And Dick.

You knew they planned it. It wasn’t a coincidence. Dick showing up just as Barbara tried to soften you up? His concerned eyes, his cautious tone, the way he leaned forward every time he spoke—as if proximity could somehow mend what was broken. It was calculated. All of it.

You didn’t hate them for trying. But you couldn’t sit there and let them pick at the wound they’d left in you.

The moment Dick started talking about “your life” and how “you both haven’t spent some time together”, you felt your chest tighten, the coffee in front of you suddenly too bitter to swallow. You hadn’t meant to leave so quickly. But the words had stuck in your throat, choking you. You made some excuse about having plans and got out of there as fast as you could without outright running.

It wasn’t a lie. You did have plans. Caitlyn and Adrien were meeting you at the library later. But “later” was still a few hours away. You could’ve stayed and talked to them. You could’ve let them say whatever it was they needed to say.

But you couldn’t do it.

Why couldn’t you?

The question burned in your mind, eating away at the edge of your thoughts. You didn’t understand it entirely. Sure, you had expected to feel awkward seeing them again after all this time, maybe a little angry. That much made sense. But what you felt in there was something else entirely. Something heavier. Sharper.

It was like a storm had cracked open inside of you, filling your veins with rage and grief that didn’t belong to you.

It didn’t feel like you. No, that wasn’t right.

It did belong to you—it just wasn’t yours anymore. It belonged to someone you used to be, someone you thought you’d left behind.

Sixteen year old you.

That version of you, when your father had been lost in the timestream—presumed dead—and the weight of Gotham’s shadow had fallen heavier on your shoulders. On everyone’s shoulders. When you threw yourself into every mission and patrol, desperate to prove yourself. To prove to everyone else that you were useful—that you could help. The one that was benched and replaced, the one who’d walked away with more bruises inside than out… that’s what you’d felt.

Your older self had moved on—or at least you thought you had. You weren’t that angry, reckless kid anymore. You’d told yourself you understood why Dick and Barbara did what they did, even if it hurt. You had buried whatever sort of negative emotions you felt back then. You’d told yourself you forgave them. Because they meant well.

They only did what they thought was right at the moment.

But sitting across from them just moments ago, seeing their faces, hearing their voices—it all came rushing back. The raw, unfiltered pain. The bitterness you thought you’d buried. The feeling of being left behind by them.

And it wasn’t fair. Not to them, and not to you either. But it was there, clawing at your chest, screaming for attention.

None of this matters, you told yourself.

It shouldn’t matter.

Not now. Not anymore.

You weren’t sixteen. You weren’t the same girl who needed their validation to feel whole.

So why was that old pain refusing to go away? Why was it still clawing at your chest like it was desperate to be heard?

Was it because you were back in this time? Back to when the wounds were still fresh, when everything was falling apart?

The ache throbbed like a second heartbeat, making you grit your teeth.

You exhaled sharply, willing yourself to focus. None of this would matter in a few hours when you were with Caitlyn and Adrien. For now, you just needed to clear your head.

As you walked, your mind wandered aimlessly through the noise of Gotham’s streets. You were too wrapped up in your thoughts to notice much—the chaotic honking of cabs, the sharp clatter of hurried pedestrians, or the faint scent of roasted nuts from a street vendor. Everything was muffled, distant, like the city itself was trying to fade into the background.

That’s why the sudden impact took you completely off guard.

“Whoa!”

The force slammed into your side, nearly knocking you off balance. You staggered a step, your boots scraping against the pavement as you barely managed to steady yourself.

Blinking, you looked down to see a small figure sprawled on the sidewalk.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, your voice softening as you knelt down to check on the kid.

The kid on the ground, no older than nine you think, was rubbing his back, wincing. His round face scrunched up, his wide brown eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, blinked up at you.

“Yeah,” he muttered, looking up at you. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

You sighed, offering him a hand. “No, it’s okay. You just caught me off guard. You sure you’re not hurt?”

He hesitated for a moment before nodding, though his wince when he tried to stand made you narrow your eyes. That’s when you noticed it—a scrape on his shin, the fabric of his pants slightly torn. A thin trail of blood trickled down his pale skin, standing out starkly in the cold light of the afternoon.

“Hold on,” you said gently, guiding him to a nearby bench. “Sit here for a second, okay?”

The kid obeyed, his small legs swinging idly as they dangled above the sidewalk.

“I’ll be right back,” you promised, already heading towards the convenience store on the corner.

Inside, you quickly grabbed a small bottle of antispetic, some wipes and a pack of bandages, rushing back to where the kid sat. The boy was still swinging his legs, humming softly to himself as he traced the patterns on the bench.

“Okay,” you said, kneeling in front of him again. “This might sting a little.”

The boy just shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

You arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment. As carefully as you could, you wiped the scrape clean, dabbing at the blood with gentle precision. He flinched only once, biting his lips to keep from making a sound, but his tiny hands gripped the edge of the bench tightly.

“There,” you said after pressing a bandage over the wound. You patted his knee lightly and smiled. “Good as new.”

The boy tilted his head to look at his leg, then back at you. His big brown eyes practically sparkled with wonder. “Thanks! You didn’t have to do that.”

“Sure, I did, you replied, leaning back on your heels. “It was my fault you fell and scraped your knee, after all.”

He giggled, a soft, bubbly sound that melted through the cold air. “It wasn’t your fault! I wasn’t watching where I was going. I was running.”

“Running, huh?” you asked, tilting your head. “Why the rush?”

He puffed out his chest a little, trying to act tought almost. “I like running! It makes me feel like a superhero!”

The earnestness in his voice made you chuckle. “A superhero, huh? Well, superheroes need to be careful too, you know. Especially in Gotham. You don’t want to go running into the wrong kind of person.”

“I won’t!” he promised, his little hand lifting as if he were making a vow. “I will run really fast, so no one can catch me!”

“Good plan,” you said, giving him an approving nod.

He kicked his legs again, glancing around the bustling street. “My name’s Elliot, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Elliot. I’m (Name).”

“Nice to meet you too!”

He tilted his head, studying you with a curious look. “You’re really nice. Are you from around here?”

“Yeah. I live nearby.”

You studied him for a moment, his small frame dwarfed by the oversized coat he was wearing. “What about you?”

“I live at the orphanage,” he said simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

The casualness of his tone tugged at your chest. “The one down the street?”

“Yeah.”

There was no sadness in his voice, no hesitation. Just a simple fact.

“How long have you been there?” you asked, leaning back slightly.

He shrugged. “I dunno. A while, I guess. I don’t really remember anything else.”

The weight of his words settled over you, heavy and uncomfortable. The casual way he said it made something twist in your chest. You cleared your throat. “Well, you should be more careful running around out here. Gotham’s not exactly the friendliest city, you know.”

He nodded earnestly at your words.

“Just don’t go running into any supervillains, okay?”

He giggled. “Okay!”

Satisfied that he was okay, you stood and brushed off your jeans. “All right, kid. You’re good to go. Take care of yourself.”

“Okay! Bye, (Name)! Thanks again!” he said, hopping off the bench.

You watched as Elliot disappeared into the crowd, his small figure weaving through the bustling pedestrains with ease. The city swallowed him up in seconds, his bright energy and carefree smile lingering only in your memory.

And then all of a sudden…. something hit you.

Flashes. Sharp and sudden, like a flood of images pouring into your brain.

You saw Elliot. But not on the street. He was in a dimly lit room, his wide eyes filled with fear. Shadows moved around him—figures closing in. You heard muffled cries, the sound of something heavy scraping against the floor.

And then it was gone.

You gasped sharply, your breath catching in your throat, as you clutched the back of the bench for support. The world tilted for a moment before steadying again, but the ache in your chest hadn’t left.

“What the hell was that?” you muttered, your voice trembling.

You glanced back toward the spot where Elliot had disappeared, your pulse racing. The flashes still lingered in your mind like afterimages, vivid and unshakable. You could still feel the weight of his fear, the sharp edges of the shadows closing in on him.

It felt real. Too real.

But it couldn’t be.

Could it?

Your chest tightened as you wrestled with the questions clawing their way to the surface. What was that? A vision? A hallucination? You’d never experienced anything like that before. There was no warning, no explanation to what you just experienced, just those flashes of something you couldn’t comprehend.

Your gaze darted over the crowded street, searching for the small boy, but he was long gone. A part of you wanted to chase after him, to grab his hand and demand answers—even if you weren’t sure what those answers could possibly be. Another part of you felt frozen, stuck in the swirling chaos of your own thought.

Even if you did catch up to Elliot, would he be able to give you the explanation you needed? From the looks of it, the kid seemed fine. He looked content with where he was, content with his life. Nothing seemed amiss.

Nothing…?

No. There was something amiss.

His clothes.

They weren’t in terrible shape, but they were clearly old—faded fabric, a few loose threads, and patches in places that made it clear they weren’t new. Passed down. Not what you’d expect from a child living in an orphanage funded by Wayne Enterprises’ charity foundations.

Your father’s charity had strict guidelines. Proper care, sufficient resources, and decent clothing for all the kids under its wing. That much you knew. Elliot’s oversized coat and scuffed shoes didn’t fit that picture.

But that wasn’t proof. You had no solid foundation for your suspicions—just flashes of fear and shadows that may not have even been real. For all you knew, it was nothing. Your mind could have been playing tricks on you, filling in blanks that didn’t exist.

Still, the thought gnawed at you, refusing to let go. There was more to this. There had to be. And you knew it. You had to check this out. You had to investigate this—

But then came the reminder: you weren’t Batgirl anymore.

You clenched your jaw at the thought. You’d quit that life, stepped away from the vigilante world and everything that came with it. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t go back—not for anyone, not for any reason.

But what if there was something deeper here? What if those flashes were real, not some random trick of your mind? You couldn’t ignore it. Not completely.

A sigh slipped past your lips as the internal battle raged on. Investigate? No, that wasn’t who you were anymore. And yet, you couldn’t just let it go.

For now, there was only one thing you could do without crossing the line you’d set for yourself: check out the orphanage in the Batcomputer’s database. If there was something wrong, there’d be records—staff changes, supply reports, funding discrepancies. Something that could confirm or deny the flicker of unease twisting in your chest.

You’d start there. That much, at least, was safe.

You had other plans with Caitlyn and Adrien. Whatever this was, it would have to wait until later.

…..

Damnit. You couldn’t wait. This couldn’t wait.

With that, you turned to head towards the orphanage down the street. You had to see with your own eyes that Elliot was okay. That what you experienced was a figment of your fucked up imagination.

The orphanage loomed ahead as you walked down the street, its iron gates standing tall, though not imposing. A modest building of faded red brick with large, neatly trimmed hedges lining its perimeter, it seemed well-maintained. The kind of place that didn’t scream luxury but gave the impression of care.

You hesitated just outside the gate, your fingers curling around the cold metal bars as you peered inside. The soft sound of laughter drifted through the crisp air, and you spotted a handful of kids running around in the garden. A boy and girl were tossing a ball back and forth while another group of kids crouched near a flowerbed, clearly engaged in some secretive game.

And then you saw him.

Elliot.

He was in the middle of the yard, darting between two other kids as they played an energetic game of tag. His oversized coat flapped as he ran, his laughter echoing through the space. His carefree smile, his bright energy—it was a relief to see.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

He was fine. He looked fine. And so did the rest of the kids.

Maybe you were imagining things after all. Lack of sleep? Stress? Yeah, probably. The flashes you’d seen earlier couldn’t have been real. There was no sign of fear here, no shadows closing in. Just kids being kids, carefree and safe.

Still, you couldn’t shake the unease simmering in your chest. The orphanage itself didn’t give off any bad vibes. The garden was tidy, the kids seemed happy, and the building looked well-maintained. But something about it all still felt off.

You leaned against the gate, lost in thought. Was it guilt? Anxiety? Or was there actually something here you were missing?

“Can I help you?”

The sudden voice startled you, making you flinch.

Your eyes snapped up, landing on an older woman standing just beyond the gate. She was thin, with silver hair neatly pinned back, and she wore a pale green cardigan over a plain blouse. Her sharp, gray eyes studied you with polite curiosity.

“Oh, uh…” you stammered, stepping back from the gate. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—uh, I wasn’t—”

Her expression softened, and she offered you a small smile. “No need to apologize, dear. It’s not every day someone stops to stare at the children playing.”

You cringed internally at her words. Damn, the way she put it made you sound like a creep. But before you could say anything more, she stepped forward and gestured for you to follow. “Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea? It’s much warmer inside.”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the kids before nodding.

Inside, the orphanage was cozy but simple. The hallway walls were painted a soft beige, and framed pictures of smiling children lined the space. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mixing with the aroma of freshly brewed tea.

The woman led you into a small sitting room with worn but comfortable-looking furniture. A sturdy wooden table sat in the center, and on it was a tray with a teapot and two mismatched cups.

“Please, sit,” she said, gesturing to one of the chairs as she poured tea into the cups. “I’m Mrs. Cole, the warden here. And you are?”

You introduced yourself, feeling a bit awkward under her steady gaze.

“So,” she said, handing you a cup before settling into her own chair. “What brings you here today?”

You hesitated, your hands warming against the cup’s surface as you searched for the right words. “I, uh… I was just… checking on one of the kids. I bumped into him earlier on the street, and I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

Her brows lifted slightly, and then she chuckled softly. “I see. Spying on children, were you?”

The way she said it—lighthearted and without malice—made your shoulders relax, but the heat still rushed to your face. “That sounds so bad. I didn’t mean—ugh.” You groaned, cringing at your own words. “I didn’t mean to make myself seem so suspicious and creepy.”

Mrs. Cole waved a dismissive hand, a warm smile on her face. “It’s quite all right. You don’t seem the type to mean any harm. Which child was it that you were worried about?”

“His name’s Elliot,” you said, setting your cup down. “I just wanted to check in, that’s all.”

“Oh, Elliot,” she said, her tone light. “He’s a lively one, isn’t he? Always running around, full of energy.”

You nodded, watching her carefully as she took a sip of her tea. “Yeah. He seemed pretty happy.”

“Of course,” she said with a soft chuckle. “We do our best to make sure all the children feel safe and cared for. It’s not an easy task, but it’s rewarding.”

Breathing is steady.

No rapid blinking.

Stance isn’t rigid.

No notable pupil dilation either.

Either she’s telling the truth, or she’s an excellent liar.

“Has he been here long?” you asked, trying to keep your tone casual.

“Elliot? Ah, yes,” she said, setting her cup down. “His parents passed away in a car accident when he was only a few months old if I remember correctly. There was no next of kin, and he ended up in my care. He’s grown up well. A sweet boy, really. A bit of a dreamer.”

You nodded slowly, forcing a polite smile. “That’s good to hear.”

But it wasn’t. The pit in your stomach only grew. You wanted to believe her, to convince yourself that everything was fine, that you were overthinking this. But the image of Elliot’s oversized coat and scuffed shoes kept gnawing at you. And then there was that flash—the fear in his eyes, the shadows.

You glanced around the room, taking in the neat but modest surroundings. There were no obvious red flags, no signs of neglect or mistreatment. And yet… something felt glaringly wrong.

“I don’t mean to pry,” you said carefully, “but I noticed his coat seemed a bit… old. Do the kids get new clothes regularly?”

Mrs. Cole’s smile didn’t waver, but you noticed her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the handle of her cup. “We do our best with the resources we have. Of course, donations don’t always cover everything we’d like.”

“Right,” you said, keeping your tone neutral. “Well, it’s great that you’re doing so much for them. I’m sure it’s not an easy job.”

Mrs. Cole inclined her head, her smile firmly in place. “It’s a labor of love, as they say.”

You nodded, though your mind was already racing. Something about her demeanor—the way she’d hesitated when you mentioned Elliot, the overly smooth responses—set off alarm bells.

Her words sounded rehearsed, like something you’d hear at a charity gala. Polished, pleasant, but impersonal. Something in your gut twisted. You didn’t have proof—nothing concrete—but the flashes from earlier refused to leave your mind.

But maybe it was nothing. Maybe you were projecting, letting your own guilt and unresolved issues cloud your judgment. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this place than met the eye.

You finished your tea quickly, standing up and offering a polite smile. “Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Cole. I should get going.”

“Of course,” she said, rising to her feet. “It was lovely to meet you. Do stop by again if you’d like to volunteer. The children always appreciate new faces.”

You nodded, murmuring a quick goodbye as you stepped out into the cold air. The sound of laughter still drifted from the garden, but it felt distant, almost hollow.

Your mind raced as you walked away, replaying the conversation over and over. The flashes you experienced, the shadows closing in—they didn’t feel like random visions. They felt like something real, something you couldn’t ignore.

And then there was Mrs. Cole. Polite, warm, and perfectly pleasant on the surface. But there was something beneath it all, something she wasn’t saying. You were sure of it.

You glanced back at the orphanage, its brick walls bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.

You weren’t Batgirl anymore. You weren’t a detective or a hero. But right now, none of that mattered.

Something was wrong here. You didn’t know what, but you were going to find out.

Tim stared at the coffee cup in front of him, the steam long since gone cold. The café was quiet, save for the hum of conversation and the soft clatter of cups against saucers. But his mind was loud—too loud. Gotham’s shadows seemed heavier lately, the air thicker, and even though crime rates had started to level out with Bruce’s return, Tim couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe it was just him. Bruce was back. Dick was Nightwing again. Damian was still Robin. Everyone seemed to be slipping back into their old roles, their old dynamics.

Everyone except him.

He stirred his drink absentmindedly, watching the ripples swirl and fade. Red Robin was his now, his own identity carved out of necessity. He wasn’t exactly proud of what he’d built with it, but the question lingered: what did Red Robin mean in a Gotham where everything was supposed to be falling back into place? He wanted to feel like things were normal again, but there was an unease in his chest that he couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the way Bruce had been lately—colder, more distant, like the time apart had left cracks in the foundation of their already-fragile relationship. Maybe it was the weight of managing Wayne Enterprises on top of everything else. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he hadn’t figured out yet.

“Tim.”

The voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Cassie standing across from him, arms crossed and a brow raised. She tilted her head, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Brooding even in a café. Classic Tim Drake.”

“Cassie.” he said, blinking away the fog in his head.

Tim hadn’t even noticed the time pass until Cassie slid into the seat across from him. “Did you forget the whole reason we invited you out to eat?”

Tim glanced up from his coffee. “You mean forcing me to postpone my work and dragging me out to eat?”

Cassie shrugged unapologetically. “Same thing.”

Tim sighed, already feeling the weight of the conversation that was about to unfold. He hadn’t wanted to go out, hadn’t wanted to leave his thoughts behind. But here he was, surrounded by familiar faces. The air of the café was warm, the clinking of cutlery and cups acting as a faint soundtrack to his spiraling thoughts.

Cassie leaned forward, eyes softening as she looked at him. “So, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. Just the usual.” Tim tried to brush it off, shifting his gaze away. But Cassie wasn’t buying it. He felt like he was wearing his discomfort like a badge, too heavy to ignore.

“Don’t even try it. You’ve been cooped up with work, patrols, and whatever else Gotham’s been throwing at you. But this is something else. When’s the last time you got out of your own head?”

He hesitated, looking down at his cup. “I’m fine, Cassie.”

“Tim.” Her voice softened, and when he looked up, her expression was tinged with concern. “You don’t have to do that with me. What’s going on?”

Tim opened his mouth to respond, but his mind flickered to Gotham once again—its fractured streets, its shadows that felt even darker now. He leaned back in his chair, taking a long breath, trying to find the right words. “It’s Gotham. It’s everything. Bruce is back, Dick’s Nightwing, Damian’s still Robin, and I’m… Red Robin.” He let the words hang in the air, not fully knowing what to make of them. “It’s just—where do I fit in all of this? Everyone’s falling back into their roles like nothing’s changed. But I’m not sure I fit anywhere anymore.”

Cassie raised a brow, clearly sensing the deeper meaning behind his words, but she didn’t push him too hard. Instead, she tilted her head and spoke in a gentle, teasing tone. “Are you sure this is just about Gotham? Because if it’s only Gotham, that’s a lot of caffeine for someone who’s just having a ‘midlife crisis’ at, what, eighteen?”

Tim let out a half-laugh, the first hint of relief he’d felt all day. He was grateful for the distraction, but the nagging feeling at the back of his mind wouldn’t let go. Gotham was one thing, but there was more to it, something beneath the surface. He couldn’t stop thinking about how things had shifted within the family, how everything had changed after Bruce’s return. Even with Stephanie as Batgirl now, there was something unsettling about the way Bruce had leaned into her role, leaving you behind.

You.

Tim’s grip on his drink tightened.

Maybe that’s what’s been off.

You had been Batgirl, the title was yours before Bruce being lost in the timestream turned the whole family upside down. When he returned, Tim thought it would bring you relief—that it would give you the chance to be Batgirl officially again, to rebuild what had been fractured. But instead, it seemed to push you further away.

Tim wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed how Bruce had interacted with you, how he seemed to choose Stephanie over you, without even saying a word. Tim had noticed the way Bruce seemed to regard Stephanie as Batgirl more openly, more comfortably, than he ever had you. It wasn’t spoken out loud, but the difference was there, in the little things Bruce did—or didn’t do. And Tim knew better than most how much that could sting. How it could make you question whether you really had a place at all.

And that was what gnawed at him the most. He knew that feeling intimately. And unlike him, you hadn’t fought back.

No.

You had fought back.

But it hadn’t been enough. Not really.

And now, you’d chosen to step away completely. And Tim couldn’t fathom why.

That wasn’t all that had changed.

Something about your recent behavior, the way you’d started to act differently, unsettled Tim in a way he couldn’t explain. The day he’d seen you and Damian talking had only made things worse. You’d apologized to him over something. And Damian—he had actually apologized too. That alone had been jarring enough, but the way he leaned into the small pat you gave his head afterward? The way he smiled—actually smiled—when you walked away?

Tim couldn’t wrap his head around it. You and Damian, who were once at each other’s throats constantly—more him than you—were suddenly… close?

Maybe not that close. But whatever had shifted between you two, it felt monumental. And it only made Tim’s unease grow.

He couldn’t help but wonder if your connection with Damian was what solidified you decision to quit being Batgirl.

Tim hated not knowing for sure. Hated feeling you were slipping further away while he stood on the sidelines, powerless to understand why.

You had stepped away, and the world kept turning, and yet, Tim was left here wondering why he was the only one who noticed how wrong it all felt.

Why was it so easy for everyone else to move on?

Why did it feel like you were disappearing right in front of him?

And why—

Why did it bother him so much?

Tim exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face, barely registering the scrape of his palm against the stubble on his chin.

He was spiraling. Overthinking. Doing exactly what Cassie didn’t want him to do when she dragged him out here.

“Still with me, Drake? Or am I interrupting a brooding session?”

Tim didn’t even look up, though he felt a sense of relief wash over him at the sound of his friend’s familiar tone, watching him slide into the seat next to Cassie. “What do you want, Kon?”

“Food. And maybe some actual conversation?” Kon’s grin was sharp, teasing, but Tim could hear the undercurrent of something else beneath it. Concern, maybe. Annoyance. Behind him, Bart bounced in, all energy and bright eyes. “Hey! You really went out and left us all wondering if we’d get the invite back into your brooding circle.”

“You’re late,” Tim deadpanned. “I’m already way ahead of you in the ‘feeling sorry for myself’ game.”

“Yeah, that’s a surprise,” Kon muttered, tossing a fry into his mouth. “So, what’s up, man? You finally coming to terms with how much Gotham sucks?”

“Do I look like I’m ‘coming to terms’ with anything?” Tim said dryly, running a hand through his hair.

The words sat heavy in his throat.

Because no. He wasn’t coming to terms with anything. He was still stuck in that place between knowing something was wrong and not knowing how to fix it.

He wanted answers. He wanted to understand.

Because this wasn’t just about Gotham, or Damian, or the changes in the family.

It was about you.

The words about you were sitting just on the tip of his tongue, but something was holding him back. Was he ready to say it out loud? Was he ready to admit to them that the problem wasn’t Gotham, but you?

“I don’t know,” Kon teased. “You don’t look nearly as miserable as you usually do when you get all angsty. Cassie’s worked her magic on you?”

Cassie rolled her eyes, but before Tim could reply, he felt Bart’s gaze flickering over to him with that sharp energy he always carried. “So, who’s the real problem? Because I’m guessing it’s not Gotham, but you’ve been keeping something from us.”

Tim hesitated, his hand tightening around the cup in front of him.

He hadn’t meant to talk about this.

But the words were already there, sitting on the tip of his tongue, refusing to be swallowed back down.

“It’s nothing,” he finally said, his voice quieter. “It’s just… (Name).”

There, he said it.

The words hung in the air.

“You mean your sister?” Bart questioned.

Tim paused. The simplicity of the question caught him off guard.

Your sister.

The word sat strange in his chest, like an ill-fitting puzzle piece forced into place.

Was that what you were?

Of course, that was what everyone thought. What everyone had always assumed. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Easier to slap a label on something so tangled and complicated and pretend it all made sense.

But did it?

Because the truth was, the two of you had never really acted like siblings. Not in the way that mattered. Not in the way Dick had been like an older brother to him all these years, not in the way Bruce had been a mentor and partner to him. There had always been distance, always something unspoken and unresolved. You were just… there. Always there. Not quite a sibling, but not not one, either.

You weren’t like Stephanie, who shoved her way into his life until he had no choice but to care. You weren’t like Cassandra, who slipped into the role of family so seamlessly that it felt inevitable.

You were just… there.

Sometimes close. Sometimes so far away he couldn’t even read you.

And yet—

Yet, there had been moments. Quiet ones. The kind that didn’t fit into any neat, easy definition of family but still meant something. The nights after patrol when neither of you spoke but just sat in the bat cave in companionable silence. The rare times you had backed him up without hesitation, without question, even when no one else had. Moments where, in your own quiet, detached way, you had shown that you cared.

Hadn’t that meant something? Or had he just imagined it?

Tim faltered, staring down at his hands. The words felt heavy in his throat.

“No, she’s—”

He stopped.

He couldn’t say it.

Because what was he going to say? That you weren’t his sister? That you had never really felt like one?

Or that you were, that you always had been, even if neither of you had ever been good at showing it?

He couldn’t say it, because at the end of the day, you were his sister. Maybe not in the way that everyone assumed. Maybe not in the way that was easy or simple or made sense.

But you had been there. And Tim didn’t just let people go. He couldn’t just let people in his life go.

No matter how far away you seemed now.

“Whatever,” Tim said quickly, brushing it aside. “That’s not the point.”

“Sure, sure,” Kon said, his tone full of mischief. “Whatever you say, Tim.”

Before Tim could respond, Bart’s eyes suddenly widened. He tapped the table, pointing past Tim toward the window. “Oh, wait, isn’t that her right there?”

Tim’s breath caught in his throat.

He turned.

And there you were.

Walking past the café, completely unaware of the inner turmoil that had just been about you.

What were the chances?

“Oh yeah,” Kon said, leaning back in his chair as he squinted through the glass. “That is her.”

Tim felt his grip tighten around his cup.

Cassie tilted her head, watching you as you passed by the café window. “Oh, she cut her hair. Looks good on her.”

Tim barely processed her words, too caught up in the sheer coincidence of it all. Or maybe it wasn’t coincidence at all. Maybe Gotham was just cruel, always forcing things in front of him that he wasn’t ready to deal with.

“Should we invite her over?” Kon asked casually, already shifting in his seat.

“No—” Tim started quickly, panic flashing through him.

But Bart was already gone.

A gust of wind, a sudden rush of air—

And then you were there.

Hair windblown, eyes wide with confusion, breath still catching up from the sudden shift in space.

“The hell—” you started, blinking fast, clearly trying to process the fact that you’d just been yanked off the street and dumped at their table.

Tim didn’t even have time to glare at Bart for pulling this before your gaze finally settled on him.

Tim met your gaze on instinct.

And just as quickly, he wished he hadn’t.

Because the moment your eyes landed on him, your expression shifted. Slightly. Just the smallest shift. It was subtle. Barely even there. Just a small, fleeting change in your features.

Just enough that someone else might have missed it.

But Tim saw it. Of course he saw it. He always saw it. He felt it.

Like a blow to the chest, knocking the air right out of him. Like something sharp was twisting in his gut.

He barely kept himself from wincing.

Well, this is already going great…

Your visit to the orphanage had left you feeling unsettled. You kept replaying the conversation with Mrs. Cole in your head, dissecting every word, every glance, every hesitation. There was something about her that didn’t sit right with you. Something about the way she had looked at you, the way she spoke, like she knew more than she was letting on.

But before you could dwell on it any longer, you suddenly heard someone call your name.

You barely had time to turn, to see who it was, before—

Everything blurred.

The world around you shifted in a rush of wind and color, and the next thing you knew—

You were inside.

Inside a random café, sitting at a table surrounded by familiar faces.

The scent of coffee and something sweet hit you first, warm and inviting, but your brain was still playing catch-up.

Your eyes landed on Bart, who was grinning from ear to ear.

“Ta-da!”

You blinked.

What.

Your eyes then landed on the others at the table.

Cassie, Conner, and—

Tim.

Oh.

Oh.

Your stomach twisted.

It took you longer than it should have to realize what was wrong, why seeing Tim like this felt off.

Because this wasn’t the Tim you remembered.

This was a Tim who was younger, just as you were younger now.

It was the first time you were actually seeing him like this since you had found yourself back to when you were sixteen.

And god, did it feel weird. It never stopped being weird.

“Hey!” Bart grinned, all bright energy and no regard for personal space. “You looked like you were gonna wander around aimlessly, so I figured—why not save you the trouble?”

You blinked. Your brain was still trying to process what the hell just happened.

Kid Flash. Right. Speed. No sense of boundaries. No concept of asking first. Should’ve expected that.

You inhaled, barely holding back the urge to sigh, schooling your expression into something neutral, something polite. “Right. Thanks for that.”

“Oh nice! You didn’t scream,” Bart noted cheerfully, plopping into the seat next to you. “That’s an improvement.”

You turned to him, blinking. “Excuse me?”

“Y’know,” Bart waved a hand. “Last time I zoomed someone into a new location without warning, they kinda freaked out. You just looked mildly horrified.”

“That’s… comforting,” you said dryly, still adjusting to the sudden shift.

“Glad to be of service,” Bart chirped.

You exhaled sharply, finally taking in the people around you.

Cassie, smiling, looking a little amused.

Kon, grinning, elbows on the table.

Tim, staring at his coffee like it suddenly got so interesting.

You weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.

The café was warm, the scent of coffee and pastries filling the air, but you felt off, like you didn’t belong here, like you had been dropped into a scene that wasn’t meant for you.

Because you weren’t close to them. Not really.

Sure, you’d fought alongside them before, shared battlefields, been in the same circles because of Gotham and Tim, but outside of that? Outside of the life you’d left behind? There was nothing. No real connection. You weren’t friends.

Cassie leaned forward slightly, her expression open, easy. “You cut your hair.”

You blinked at the casualness of it. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Looks good on you,” Kon added, resting his arm on the back of his chair like he had all the time in the world.

You stared at them for a beat too long, trying to figure out if they were messing with you. If this was some kind of setup.

But their expressions were… genuine.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

Why were they even being this nice?

Why were they looking at you like they actually wanted you here?

“…Thanks,” you said eventually, the word feeling foreign in your mouth.

You’d never really talked to them before. Not beyond polite small talk or necessary battle strategy. But now they were trying to make conversation, pulling you into their little group like you belonged there.

You watched as Kon casually elbowed Tim, who hadn’t said a word. Not once.

“What? Not going to say hi to your sister?”

Tim’s posture stiffened, like he hadn’t expected to be dragged into this.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t look at you.

The tension was immediate.

Cassie sighed, kicking Kon under the table. “The one time I’m asking you to not make things awkward..”

“I’m not the one..!” Kon tries to argue, but he backed off under Cassie’s glare.

Bart, either oblivious or just not caring, was still watching you with that bright-eyed curiosity, like he was studying something interesting under a microscope. “So what were you doing before I heroically saved you from walking around alone?”

You tensed, caught off guard by the question.

“I wasn’t—” You cut yourself off, shifting in your seat. “I was just running errands.”

Not a lie, exactly. But not the truth, either.

Mrs. Cole. The orphanage.

That wasn’t something you were about to share. Not yet.

Bart hummed, clearly not convinced but also not pushing it. “You sure? You looked pretty deep in thought.”

“Yeah,” Kon added, tapping his fingers against the table. “You weren’t exactly giving ‘casual stroll.’”

You glanced at them, at their easy camaraderie, their familiarity with each other. With Tim.

He still hadn’t said anything.

You could feel his presence across from you, a steady weight pressing at the edges of your awareness, but you didn’t look at him.

Not really.

You weren’t exactly ignoring him, but you weren’t acknowledging him either.

It was easier this way.

Easier to pretend like there wasn’t a tension suffocating the air between you two, like his presence wasn’t pressing against your awareness like a phantom touch.

But his friends?

They definitely noticed.

Of course they did.

Bart’s gaze flickered between you and Tim, curiosity written all over his face. Cassie’s smile faltered slightly, like she could sense the awkwardness and was trying to find a way around it. Even Kon, usually laid-back, was watching the both of you a little too closely.

Not subtle in the slightest.

And you hated it.

Hated that they were trying to figure you out.

You weren’t stupid.

You knew how this worked.

They were trying to get something from you, weren’t they? Information? They were being nice because they wanted to know something. About you. About Tim.

But why?

You barely even knew them.

Sure, you’d crossed paths, had mutual connections, but that wasn’t enough for them to care. So why were they acting like it was?

You didn’t want to be a part of this.

Didn’t want to be here.

“Y’know,” Cassie begins, breaking the silence. “You had this really intense thinking face on. Do you always look that serious?”

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “I—”

“I bet she does,” Kon interrupted before you could finish. “Bet she’s just like Tim—probably broods in her free time, too.”

Tim, for the first time since you joined the table, finally acknowledged the conversation, shooting him a glare. “She doesn’t brood.”

Kon raised a brow. “You sure? Because I was getting major brooding vibes when she was outside.”

“I don’t brood,” you said flatly.

“See?” Tim muttered.

Kon just shrugged. “Alright, alright. Serious vibes then. That better?”

“Not really.”

“I dunno,” Bart chimed in, resting his chin in his palm. “I kinda like the serious vibe. Makes it even more fun to mess with you.”

You gave him a blank look. “That’s not very reassuring.”

Bart grinned. “Wasn’t supposed to be.”

Cassie sighed, shaking her head. “Ignore them. They get like this when they meet new people.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “New people?”

Cassie shrugged. “I mean, kinda? We’ve never really hung out before. Outside of fighting crime, that is.”

And that was true.

You had crossed paths before, sure. But actual conversation? Actual interaction? It had been minimal.

Which made this—whatever this was—even stranger.

You were still trying to figure out why they were doing this.

Why they were talking to you.

Why they were being nice.

You weren’t stupid.

They were fishing.

For what, you weren’t sure.

But you didn’t want to find out.

So you took the out when you saw it.

“I should go,” you said abruptly, pushing your chair back.

Kon blinked. “What? But you just got here.”

“Yeah, well I have other plans.”

Cassie frowned slightly. “Are you sure? You don’t have to rush off—”

“It’s fine,” you reassured, already standing. “It was nice seeing you guys.”

Your voice was polite. Empty. And you still didn’t look at Tim. You barely spared him a glance.

Cassie sighed, but didn’t push. “It was nice seeing you too, (Name). See you around?” You gave a polite nod at that, and then turned to leave.

But for a second, just a second, as you turned to leave, you felt it—

The way Tim’s gaze lingered on you.

You saw something flicker in his expression.

Something that looked almost like—

No.

You didn’t let yourself think about it. Didn’t let youtself feel anything about it.

It was something you didn’t have the energy to unpack.

So you didn’t.

You just walked away.

Bart let out a low whistle as the café door shut behind you. “Well, that wasn’t awkward.”

“Bart,” Cassie scolded, elbowing him lightly and shooting him a pointed look.

“What? It’s true.” He gestured at the door. “Did you see that? I mean, I was expecting a little awkwardness, but that was painful.”

Cassie sighed, giving Tim a quick glance, but he wasn’t reacting. Not outwardly, at least. She knew what was bothering him. They all did. It was impossible to miss, the way his shoulders were slumped, the way his hands fidgeted with the cup in front of him, his gaze unfocused as he stared down at the table like he was trying to break it apart with sheer willpower, the weight of the encounter settling heavily in his chest.

It wasn’t like Tim didn’t know things were weird between you two. But that—that was something else. His mind kept returning to the look on your face, that tiny flicker of discomfort as you’d stepped into the café, only to fade into polite indifference.

Indifference. That’s all it was.

He’d expected… what? That you’d at least acknowledge him more? That you wouldn’t act like he was just another person at the table?

Because that’s what it had felt like. Like he was just another acquaintance, someone who happened to be there, and nothing more.

You were polite, careful, giving Cassie, Kon, and Bart the same level of conversation you always did. But with him? It was like you had a wall up so high he couldn’t even see over it. And what made it worse was how easy it was to see through it. You weren’t ignoring him outright, but you also weren’t letting yourself interact with him beyond the bare minimum. It was deliberate.

Which meant you were doing it on purpose.

Which meant you didn’t want to talk to him.

And the worst part? Tim couldn’t even pinpoint why it bothered him so much. He’d seen you pull away before, but this felt different—he could see it in your eyes, the way you actively avoided him, the way you kept your answers to him curt, brief. Every word from you seemed to fall flat, like you were already somewhere else, mentally preparing to leave. He hadn’t expected an embrace, or anything dramatic, but this? It felt like an emotional wall, one that he wasn’t sure how to scale.

Tim swallowed, shaking the thought out of his head before it could get too deep.

Kon, likely sensing the shift in mood, stretched his arms over his head and leaned back in his seat. “Anyway, how’s everyone’s food? Because my burger is phenomenal.”

Cassie gave him a flat look. “Seriously?”

“What? I’m just saying, good food is good food.”

Bart, thankfully, jumped onto the change in conversation. “I knew I should’ve ordered the burger…”

Tim let the conversation fade into the background, keeping his expression neutral. He should just move on. It was one interaction. One awkward conversation. Nothing worth thinking about.

Except he was thinking about it.

He couldn’t help but compare it to the way you were with Damian.

That still didn’t make sense to him.

Because while you barely even looked at Tim, you were actually getting along with Damian now?

You’d apologised to Damian. Damian had apologised to you.

Tim had seen the way you pat Damian’s head, how Damian had smiled at you.

Damian, who used to view you as nothing but another obstacle, another person he had to prove himself better than. Damian, who you used to dismiss just as easily.

Tim gritted his teeth slightly.

When did that change? How did that change?

What had he missed?

And why did it even matter to him?

You were your own person. He had no right to dictate who you were close to, who you let in. It wasn’t like he had a claim to your time or attention.

But it did matter. Because for all the years you’d spent working together, for all the time you’d spent in the field, all the fights you’d fought—together—he’d never once seen you look at him the way you’d looked at Damian. Like you trusted him. Like you cared.

He shut his eyes briefly, then exhaled. No.

He was overthinking it.

He had to be.

He forced himself to let out a short breath, fixing his expression into something neutral before glancing back at Kon, who was now dramatically going on about his burger.

Tim let himself nod along, pretending to listen, pretending everything was fine.

But his mind was still on you. And no matter how much he tried to push it away, the feeling sat heavy in his chest.

“Ever going to turn to the next page?”

Adrien’s voice cut through the haze in your mind, snapping you out of whatever daze you’d fallen into. You blinked, realizing your eyes had been stuck on the same paragraph for—who even knows how long? Right. You were in the library. With Adrien and Caitlyn. You should be focusing on this now. But no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t. Not after the absolute mess of a day you’d had.

“Right. Yeah.” You muttered, hurriedly flipping to the next page even though you hadn’t actually processed a single word from the last one.

Adrien and Caitlyn exchanged a glance. You didn’t see it, but you could feel it. That unspoken concern. You weren’t exactly the most talkative person on a normal day, sure, but this was different. This reminded them of before. When you were on the brink of exploding. When you pushed them away because of everything that had happened.

And Caitlyn? She was having none of it.

She leaned in slightly, keeping her voice low for the library’s sake. “Okay, what’s up with you?”

You shook your head. “Nothing. Just exhausted.”

Adrien snorted quietly. “You say that every time you don’t want to talk about something.”

“Because I am exhausted,” you shot back, but your voice lacked any real weight behind it.

Adrien didn’t buy it. “Uh-huh. And I’m Batman.”

That earned a small huff from you. “No, you’re an idiot.”

Caitlyn smirked. “He can be both.”

Adrien gasped, mock-offended. “Et tu, Cait?”

“You were literally just shoving the cart return door for five minutes before realizing you had to pull it open,” Caitlyn deadpanned.

“Okay, but in my defense—”

“You have no defense,” you and Caitlyn said at the same time.

Adrien groaned. “Okay, you two suck. I’m being bullied.”

It was lighthearted, easy. A familiar rhythm. But it didn’t last long, because the next time Caitlyn looked at you, her expression softened again. “Seriously, though. You’ve been weird all day.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

“Liar.”

“I’m—”

“Liar,” Adrien echoed.

You let out a sharp breath, the sudden pressure getting to you, and the next words left your mouth harsher than you intended. “Can you two just drop it?”

There was a brief pause. Adrien and Caitlyn both stared at you, taken aback.

You sighed, immediately regretting it. “I’m sorry. I just—there’s a lot of bullshit going on.”

Caitlyn’s gaze didn’t waver. “You wanna tell us?”

You hesitated.

Where would you even start?

With the lunch you had with Barbara? The way she invited you out, how it seemed normal at first—until Dick showed up and you realized it was a setup? That it wasn’t just a casual lunch, but an intervention in disguise? Dick trying to talk to you like you weren’t avoiding him, like things weren’t still awkward between you two? The way he looked at you, like he still saw that younger version of you that needed him, and not the one that knew how to work without him now?

And the worst part? You could tell Dick actually believed he could fix things between you. That he could sit across from you, act like things weren’t broken, like he could just talk and that would somehow be enough to undo everything that happened.

Or maybe you should start with bumping into Elliot? How after your little encounter with the little boy, your head had suddenly filled with these flashes—images? Visions? Hallucinations? Images that weren’t yours but felt too real to be just dreams. You didn’t know what they were, only that they left you feeling unsettled, disconnected from your own reality.

And that was what led you to visit the orphanage. Where you met the warden, Mrs Cole. How something about Mrs. Cole didn’t sit right with you. How everything about her felt too perfect, too practiced, too pristine—like a picture frame with something ugly hidden behind the glass. Like she was playing a role rather than living a life. Something about her had unsettled you, made your skin crawl in ways you couldn’t even articulate. You weren’t sure if it was paranoia or instinct, but something about her wasn’t right. And that thought had lingered long after you left.

And then, of course, there was Tim.

Tim and his friends.

That whole encounter had been worse than you could’ve expected. When Bart had suddenly whisked you into that café, you hadn’t even had time to process it before you were sitting across from Tim and his friends, completely caught off guard.

Superboy. Wonder Girl. Kid Flash. You weren’t close to them. You had barely interacted with them, and yet they had acted so welcoming—too welcoming.

And Tim?

Tim barely spoke.

And neither did you.

You answered questions too quickly, too politely, all while making a conscious effort not to look at him. And Tim—he did the same. The two of you danced around each other, careful and distant, as if eye contact alone would shatter whatever fragile thing was left between you.

And the more you thought about it, the more it frustrated you, because—why had it been so awkward?

It shouldn’t have been.

There was nothing to be awkward about.

And that was exactly the problem.

There was nothing to be awkward about.

No bond. No closeness. Nothing substantial.

If anything, the two of you had the kind of dynamic distant coworkers would have—barely interacting, only speaking when necessary, a mutual awareness of each other but not much else.

So why had it felt so suffocating? Why had it felt like you were both tiptoeing around something?

And you knew it wasn’t the current you feeling like this. It was your sixteen-year-old self.

And you couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

Maybe it was because of everything that had led up to that moment. Maybe it was because of what happened before all this.

Because despite everything—despite the distance, despite the lack of an actual bond—there was still something there. Something unspoken, something unresolved.

And that was what made it awkward.

That was what made it feel like more than just an uncomfortable run-in.

It was why you had left as soon as you found an opening.

It had been a mess. The whole day. One tangled, suffocating mess. And even now, hours later, you could still feel the weight of it.

There was no way in hell you could tell Adrien and Caitlyn all of that.

You let out the biggest sigh, slumping back against your seat. The sound was loud enough to earn multiple hushed scoldings from around the library. You muttered out a quick, hushed apology before running a hand down your face, fingers threading through your hair.

Adrien nudged your foot under the table. “Hey. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Caitlyn nodded. “You don’t have to tell us everything. But just—don’t shut us out, okay?”

You swallowed, the guilt creeping in. Because they were right. They were always there for you, and yet here you were, keeping them at arm’s length. Not because you didn’t trust them. Not because you wanted to. But because dragging them into your family’s secrets—into the chaos that surrounded you—would only do more harm than good. For both them and your family.

Some truths just weren’t meant to be shared.

You exhaled through your nose, glancing between the two of them. “I know. And I appreciate you guys. Really.”

Adrien narrowed his eyes. “That felt like an ‘I’m not actually going to tell you anything but please don’t be mad at me’ appreciation.”

You let out a small, dry chuckle. “It’s exactly that kind of appreciation.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes. “Of course it is.”

Silence settled between you.

Yet, you found your thoughts drifting towards Elliot once more. The flashes that you still couldn’t pinpoint whether they’re real or just a fucked up hallucination. The orphanage that felt off in ways you couldn’t quite put into words.

You couldn’t let it go.

You wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if you didn’t at least try to figure out what was going on.

You needed an excuse. A reason to go back. A way to investigate without drawing too much suspicion.

And then, suddenly, something clicked in your mind.

You looked up at your two friends, a new thought forming. “…What do you guys think about volunteering at an orphanage?”

FInally done with this chapter ohmygod…. thank you all for being patient with me and hopefully you guys enjoyed this chapter 🥰 lmk your thoughts on this chapter lol. also, this was definitely more of a world-building/plot developing chapter (yes! the plot is finally moving lesgo!!) expect more of young justice core 4 and uf trio in chapter 7 as well as two surprise people soon 🤭

reader 🤝 tim — overthinking things to the max (i actually hope i did his character justice 😬)

also i promise i’ll answer my inbox soon 😭 there is just so much stuff to reply to but i’ll eventually empty it out sooner or later

taglist is closed ‼️

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[xan-izme]

𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐬

Prologue

Part 1

Your mother was a beautiful kind and dangerous woman. In short. She was a Falcone. And for young Bruce, being with her was a thrill. Being Batman gave him a thrill, but your mother was a different kind of thrill.

Till she got pregnant. And the thrill was gone.

Your mother kept you of course. Counting the days till she gets to hold you in her arms. And when she finally got to hold you, to feel you close and hear your sweet little voice. The rest of the Falcone men decided that your mother wasn't ready to take care of you. So, they forced you out of her arms and sent you to Bruce.

Bruce held you once. And immediately passed you to Alfred. He was too young to become a father. (Never mind the fact he was already acting as a father to two boys)

He didn't have time to play daddy. Deep down Bruce did come to care for you over the years and attempted to try and hold you. But then Jason died, Dick distanced himself. Holding you, an innocent little thing, felt wrong.

When you were eight. You had tantrums. Night terrors. terribly scared of the dark. Thunderstorms especially. Gotham famous for its long dark nights and loud thunderstorms. Bruce, too busy with his new sidekick, Tim. Didn't have time to comfort you. No matter how heartbreaking your scrams for him were. Crying for him, so he can save you from whatever nightmare you have woken from.

But only Alfred occasionally Dick, would come and save you.

Bruce would give you toys, new dresses as a form of apology. He wouldn't give it to you directly. But have Alfred give it to you or leave it in your room when asleep. But no matter how many new toys he gives you. Those nightmares just never stopped.

Due to the neglect. Your mother was able to meet with you secretly. As years passed, she was able to steal you away when Alfred wasn't hovering around you. Take you to shop and give you whatever you wanted. Holding you in her arms and not wanting to let go.

Slowly, your mother was gaining the favor of some of the Falcones. To let her have you back. To welcome you back into the Falcone family. Once she gets the whole family to agree. She can make a case of child neglect against Bruce Wayne and take her sweet Babygirl back.

But when you were ten. Your powers began to kick in. You told Bruce, hoping your father would help you. Help you understand. Bruce, told you to keep it a secret. And to tell no one else.

Having a kid who was a meta was the last thing he needed at the moment. Trying to re-connect with Jason who still had deep hate for him instead focusing on his first-born child who was struggling to understand.

You felt like a freak.

And it wasn't long till you lost control of your powers. To keep it short. You accidently killed a few other kids with your powers. It was an accident. You swore. You see you would have just been left off. Your a kid. It was an accident. But most of all your a Wayne. But one of the kids you killed was a Falcone.

And Bruce couldn't risk you getting killed. He cared about you. Just not as much as he should. So, to avoid the wrath of the Falcone's. Bruce had to claim you were mentally ill. Sending you to Arkham. Only for a few months. That's what he said to you. That's what he promised.

You did your six months in Arkham. Six months turned to eight. Eight months turned to ten. Ten months turned to two years. Then finally, you were taken out from your cell. Lead by two prison guards. They said you had a visitor. You assumed it was another reporter. But was proven wrong when you see Bruce on the other side of the thick glass. You were shocked but happy to see your father.

"Daddy." You spoke softly as you slowly smile, putting your hand on the glass. Bruce hesitates to put his hand on the glass, once he does, he focused back to you. Your eyes stared at him with so much love and hope.

". . . Your case. . . the court decided you're, too unstable to attend court, so. . ." Bruce didn't look at you as he spoke. So, he couldn't see the smile on your face fade. Confusion taking over.

"But. . . I did my six months. . . I-I've been here for a year! Daddy, please I didn't do it on purpose!" You were on the edge of crying.

"I promise. I'll get you out of here as soon as I can." Bruce wanted to try and console you. But that was harder due to the glass between you two. He reaches out his hand to the glass once more. But the loud buzz that queued it was time for you to get back to your cell.

"Please Daddy don't let them take me!" You cried, putting both hands on the glass. You were in full despair. Bruce didn't know what to do. He can take the risk from the Falcones and get you out with a snap of his fingers. Or he can make it easy for everyone but you and wait till you serve your time.

". . . I'm sorry" Bruce can see you falling deeper and deeper into dispare.

Guards burst from the doors and had to forcefully take you away.

"No- No! Daddy please! DADDY!" Your screamed louder as the guards took you away, reaching out to Bruce who just stood there. And did nothing. As always.

Seven years later.

No one ever visited you again. Well, no one from the Waynes. But your mother visited you every week. Her visits where the only reason you kept saine.

Arkham isn't all fun and games. Obviously. You were immitted into Arkham's fucked version of rehabilitation. You started hearing things after your first month in Arkham.

. . .

You sent letters almost every day to the Wayne manor. But never got any back. None from Bruce. None from Dick. You and Tim weren't close. So, you didn't expect anything from him. Alfred prefers to call you. Wanting to hear your voice to make sure you were not lying to him when he asks of your wellbeing.

You stopped sending letters to Bruce a few months ago. Not like he'll respond anyway. You don't need Bruce. You have your mother. And she's all you'll need. She's your world now, your reason to keep living this pointless life. And once you're out, Mama promised to give you a big hug. Which you so desperately needed.

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

"𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢. . . 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚎?"