kbnyan

[kbnyan]

Stitches and Sarcasm

a jason todd and batsis! reader oneshot | m.list

Summary: you’re stitching your brother up whilst trying to reconnect with him | events align with post-UTRH if you squint (like a few days later)

Jason Todd’s apartment was the kind of place that reeked of solitude. The dim light from a single flickering bulb casting long, warped shapes across the cracked walls. It smelled like gunpowder, whiskey, and something metallic, like dried blood. The place was barely lived in—no personal touches, no warmth. Just a temporary graveyard for a man who didn’t know how to stay dead.

He felt the moment something was off. A presence, silent and waiting. Someone watching.

His fingers curled around the grip of his gun before his brain even caught up with his instincts. Smooth, practiced, deadly. The weapon was out of the holster and pointed at the darkened corner of his apartment before he even registered the shape standing there.

“Y’know,” he drawled, voice rough from exhaustion, “if you’re gonna break into my place, you should at least try not to breathe so damn loud.”

Jason didn’t expect an answer. He expected a threat.

But instead, you stepped out of the shadows.

His grip tightened on the gun before his brain caught up—before recognition slammed into him like a bullet to the gut. His arms tensed, but he didn’t lower the weapon. Not yet. His stomach twisted, a strange, uncomfortable sensation he couldn’t place.

It was you.

He should’ve known. Should’ve realized the second he stepped inside, should’ve felt it in his bones. But he’d spent so many years trying to forget you, trying to let go of that part of himself, that he barely knew what it felt like to have you near anymore.

Still, his first instinct was to keep his guard up.

“Oh,” he said flatly, his voice devoid of anything remotely close to warmth. He finally lowered the gun but didn’t put it away. Just in case. “It’s you.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t react to the gun, didn’t react to the fact that he’d pointed it at you like you were a stranger.

Like you weren’t—like you hadn’t been—his family.

Jason felt something ugly coil in his chest.

You were studying him. He could feel it—the weight of your stare, the way your eyes darted over him, cataloging every little thing. The stiff way he carried himself, the limp he hadn’t been able to fully shake, the way his jacket sat unevenly on his shoulders. Jason hated that look. You were picking him apart, analyzing him the way you always had.

It made something bitter rise in his throat.

“How the hell did you find me?” His voice caught, the deep rasp unmistakable.

You crossed your arms, tilting your head slightly. “It’s been years, Jason. You think I wouldn’t have picked up a thing or two from Bruce?”

A scoff. Dry. Unimpressed. “Cute. Real cute. Now answer the question.”

The gun stayed firmly aimed at your chest.

You sighed, tilting your head slightly. “Tracked your supply runs. You have a pattern, whether you realize it or not. You’re good, but not perfect.”

Jason let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? Guess I got sloppy.”

The silence between you was heavy. Uncomfortable. Unforgiving.

You could feel Jason’s eyes raking over you, scrutinizing. He was studying you, just as much as you were studying him.

You were still looking at him like that—like you were trying to understand him, like you were trying to see through all the layers of armor and blood and anger to something that didn’t exist anymore.

It made his skin itch.

You took in everything—the way his jacket sat unevenly on his shoulders, the stiffness in his stance, the way he was favoring his right side just a little too much.

“You’re hurt,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them, and Jason felt something tighten in his chest.

He scoffed, shifting his weight slightly to take the pressure off his bad leg. “No, I’m not.”

“Jason—”

“I said, I’m fine,” he snapped, voice like a blade.

You didn’t back down. Of course you didn’t. You never did.

“Lying doesn’t work on me,” you said, meeting his stare head-on. “I know you.”

Jason hated that. Hated the way you said it like it was still true.

Because the person you’d known was dead.

Jason’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, you thought he might actually argue. But then he sighed, shaking his head, looking exhausted.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Why are you here?”

You hesitated. Jason caught it—the brief flicker of uncertainty in your expression before you pushed through it.

“I needed to see you.”

Jason let out a bitter chuckle. “Congratulations. You saw me. Now leave.”

He saw the way your shoulders tensed at that. The way you took a slow breath like you were forcing yourself to keep steady.

You still cared.

And that was dangerous.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Of course you’re not,” Jason muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

You took a step forward. “Let me help.”

Jason stiffened. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

“Help?”

A bitter laugh escaped his lips as he shook his head.

“You’re kidding, right? Did you tell anyone where I am? Did you tell Bruce?”

“No!” you said quickly, taking another step forward. “I told no one. I turned off my tracker before coming here. It’s just me.”

Jason’s mouth twisted slightly, something unreadable in his expression. You couldn’t tell if it was relief or disappointment.

Silence settled over the room, thick and suffocating. Jason tilted his head, as though trying to read your expression, but you knew he couldn’t. Just like you couldn’t read his anymore.

“You’re bleeding, Jason.”

Jason scoffed. “That’s nothing new.”

“Jason,” you said, voice softer this time. “Please.”

For a second—just a second—his expression cracked. Something raw and vulnerable flickered behind his eyes, something fragile and aching. But then he blinked, and it was gone.

His jaw tightened. He didn’t want this. Didn’t want you here, didn’t want the way his chest ached at the sound of your voice, at the way you looked at him like you still saw something worth saving.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he muttered.

“And you shouldn’t be doing this,” you shot back.

“Doing what?”

“This,” you said, motioning around the dingy apartment. “All of this. What are you trying to prove?”

Jason let out a humorless laugh. “That Gotham doesn’t need a fucking coward. She needs someone who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty for justice.”

“This isn’t justice.”

His eyes darkened. “Then what the hell is it, huh? What do you call it?”

“Pain,” you whispered. “Self-destruction. A slow suicide with a gun instead of a noose”

Jason flinched. Just barely.

But you caught it.

He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “Don’t,” he warned, voice dangerously low.

“You’re pushing everyone away,” you said, taking another step closer. “You’re pushing me away.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, stepping forward again. “You know I didn’t mean it like that—”

Jason snaps his gun back up, his voice rising. “Don’t take another step unless you want a bullet in your chest.”

You froze, the hurt flashing across your face before you could mask it. “Jason…” you murmured, taking a slow, hesitant step.

“I’m serious,” he growled. “Go home.”

The two of you locked eyes, his steel gaze clashing with your own. His were hard, unrelenting, but there was a flicker of something else—hesitation, vulnerability, maybe even longing.

You exhaled sharply, frustration creeping into your voice. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” Jason shot back. “It really is. You leave, you go back to your nice little world where everything makes sense, and I—”

He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

You frowned. “And you what?”

Jason’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

The silence stretched between you once more. Stretched too long. It was the kind of silence filled with things unsaid, the kind that felt like it carried the weight of every mistake, every moment of time lost between you.

Jason shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “You should give up on me.”

“I’m not going to.”

“You should,” he muttered.

“But I shouldn’t, though.”

Jason bristles at that.

“I don’t need you,” he said, forcing the words out.

“You’re lying.”

Jason clenched his fists. “Am I?”

“You don’t believe that.”

Jason’s gaze snapped to you, something sharp in his eyes. “Don’t I?”

You didn’t back down.

You took another step forward, slow and careful, like you thought he might bolt. “At least let me stitch you up.”

Jason didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you.

But then, finally, he let out a slow, frustrated breath and muttered, “Fine. Whatever. Do what you want.”

It wasn’t an invitation.

It wasn’t acceptance.

But it was enough.

For now.

Jason refused to sit.

You could see it in the way his muscles tensed, in the way his stance shifted, like he was ready to bolt the second you let your guard down. But you weren’t giving him the chance.

“Sit down,” you said, voice steady.

Jason didn’t move. His gaze flickered to the door, then back to you. Weighing his options.

You shoved him—not hard, just enough to throw him off balance, to get him to land heavily onto his worn-out couch. He let out a sharp exhale, one hand instinctively going to his side, fingers pressing against the bleeding wound through his jacket.

You glanced at the couch, wrinkling your nose. “You need a new couch.”

Jason huffed out a dry laugh, tilting his head back against the worn fabric. “Yeah, I’ll add that to my to-do list. Right after ‘get shot’ and ‘bleed out on my own floor.’”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe try not to get shot in the first place.”

Jason scoffed but didn’t argue. His jaw was tight, his fingers twitching like he was debating getting back up. You ignored it.

You crossed the room without another word, heading toward the kitchen. “Where’s your first aid kit?” you asked over your shoulder.

“Cabinet. Left of the sink,” Jason muttered, rubbing at the tension in his neck. He heard you hum in acknowledgment before you disappeared from his line of sight, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

And just like that, the weight of the night came crashing down on him.

His ribs ached, the sharp sting of broken skin screaming at him every time he moved. The fight had been messy—sloppy, even. He’d underestimated how many guys would be there, how deep into the pit of Gotham’s underbelly he’d wandered. It wasn’t just some back-alley arms deal; it was an entire trafficking operation. He hadn’t planned on taking them all out tonight, but when he saw the cages—saw the way the kids inside flinched at the mere sight of him—something inside of him snapped.

He had gone in reckless. Let the rage take control. Got sloppy.

One of the guys had landed a solid hit with a crowbar to his side. Jason gritted his teeth at the memory, his fingers unconsciously curling into fists at the phantom pain. A fucking crowbar.

Because of course it had to be a crowbar of all weapons.

It hadn’t been the finishing blow, though. The bullet graze along his abdomen had done that. It was shallow, but deep enough that it wouldn’t stop bleeding. He hadn’t planned on tending to it anytime soon—had figured it would scab over like all the others. Another wound on a body already covered in them.

But then you showed up.

He still wasn’t sure how you found him. The fact that you did sent something cold and sharp through his chest. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be looking for him.

How the hell did you even find him?

And why did it make something in his chest tighten?

Jason gritted his teeth, pressing his fingers into his temples.

It didn’t matter.

Pain was just part of the job.

What mattered was that the kids were safe.

That was the only thing that mattered.

But now you were here, forcing him to sit still, forcing him to acknowledge the damage, forcing him to—

Your footsteps echoed against the floor as you came back.

You reappeared in his peripheral vision, first aid kit in hand, and sat down beside him on the couch. The silence between you stretched, thick and heavy, as you set the kit down and opened it.

Jason turned his head slightly, watching you out of the corner of his eye.

You’d changed.

Older.

Tougher.

There was a sharpness to you now, something hardened and worn down. The way you carried yourself, the way your face held no trace of the wide-eyed kid who used to follow him around—it was like looking at a stranger.

And yet… it was still you.

Still the kid who used to cling to his side, still the kid who looked up to him like he was worth something, like he wasn’t just some street rat Bruce had picked up.

But you weren’t that kid anymore.

Just like he wasn’t your big brother anymore.

The realization made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries.

He had missed too much.

He had missed everything.

You started working in silence, peeling back his jacket, assessing the damage. Jason let out a quiet hiss as you pressed antiseptic to his wound, but he didn’t pull away. He just clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay still.

Then, you spoke.

“How long are you planning on doing this?”

Jason’s gaze flicked up to yours, searching. “Doing what?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely at him. At the blood, the injuries, the bullet wound. “Running yourself into the ground like this. Taking on entire gangs by yourself. Going after people in ways Bruce wouldn’t.”

Jason scoffed. “So that’s what this is about. You’re here to play the morality police now?”

You exhaled sharply, your fingers pausing for a second before resuming their work. “That’s not what I said.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

You didn’t respond immediately, just pressed harder against his wound, making him grunt in pain.

“I’m here,” you said, voice tight, “because I care about you, Jason.”

His jaw locked.

You weren’t supposed to say that.

You shouldn’t have said that.

Jason exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Well, don’t.”

You stilled for just a second, just long enough for him to notice. Then you continued cleaning his wound, voice tight. “You don’t get to tell me how to feel.”

Jason let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“I’m not the person you remember.”

Silence.

Then—

“No shit.”

Jason’s head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing. “Then why the hell are you here?”

“Because I’m trying to understand you,” you shot back. “I’m trying to figure out what the hell happened to the Jason I knew.”

Jason let out a bitter laugh. “He’s dead.”

Your fingers faltered for just a second.

Then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“Jay…”

Jason froze.

Everything inside him went still, his breath caught in his chest like a vice had closed around it.

Jay.

Not Jason. Not Todd.

Jay.

The name you used to call him when you were younger. When you still saw him as your big brother. When you still—

Jason’s mind spiraled back—years back—to late nights on rooftops, to laughter muffled beneath masks and walls, to whispered “be careful”s before patrols.

Back when you still trusted him.

Back when he still had you.

His throat went dry.

You must have realized it too because you tensed immediately, pulling your hands back, guilt flashing across your face.

“Sorry,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

The silence was deafening.

The word stung.

Don’t.

Don’t say sorry.

But he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

The silence was thick, suffocating.

Jason stared at you, at the way your expression had closed off, at the way your fingers hovered uncertainly over his wound like you weren’t sure if you should keep going.

And for the first time in a long time, Jason didn’t know what to say.

His body had gone completely still, but his mind was spiraling, dragging him back to the past with vicious clarity.

“Jay, do you think I’ll ever be as good as you?”

“Jay, don’t go without me!”

“Jay, you promise you’ll come back, right?”

Your voice was younger in his memories, filled with something lighter, something innocent and naive. Something that hadn’t yet been shattered by reality.

Now, sitting beside him, stitching up his wounds, you looked like a ghost of that past. Same face, same eyes—but different. Hardened. Worn.

Unrecognizable.

Just like he was.

Jason swallowed thickly, forcing himself to breathe, to ground himself back in the present. Then, his voice came out rough, almost strained—

“Don’t… don’t say sorry.”

Another beat of silence.

You didn’t say anything after that. Neither did he.

Neither of you looked at each other.

The weight of everything unspoken settled between you like a chasm neither of you could cross.

Jason shifted slightly, trying to ease the throbbing pain in his ribs. He should’ve said something else, should’ve changed the subject, but his head was still spinning, his chest still tight.

And then, after a long, suffocating pause—

“Who did this to you?”

Jason exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the couch. “Some asshole with a crowbar.”

Your body went rigid.

Your hands had stopped moving, still hovering near his wound, but your eyes weren’t on him. They were somewhere else—far away.

Jason let out a dry, humorless laugh at that. “Yeah. Ironic, right?”

You clenched your jaw, shaking your head. “It’s not funny, Jason.”

“Never said it was.”

You looked at him then—really looked at him. And Jason saw something in your expression he wasn’t sure he could handle.

Because it looked like grief.

Like you were mourning someone who was still sitting right in front of you.

Jason turned away, staring at the floor. “I don’t need you to save me.”

“I know.” Your voice was soft. “But I still want to try.”

“You shouldn’t be playing nurse for me.”

You didn’t look up. “And you shouldn’t be doing… this. Any of this. What are you trying to get out of it, Jason?”

He scoffed, wincing slightly as you pressed the antiseptic to his wound. “Justice. Revenge. Call it whatever you want.”

“This isn’t justice,” you said quietly.

“Oh yeah? And what do you know about justice?” Jason snapped. “You’re still sitting pretty with Bruce, letting him call the shots. Letting the Joker live. Letting him get away with everything he’s done.”

“Bruce mourned you,” you said firmly. “He mourned for months. Years. We all did.”

Jason’s laugh was cold and bitter. “Sure he did. But not enough to do anything about it. Not enough to stop the Joker permanently.”

You clenched your jaw, your hands pausing mid-stitch. “He doesn’t kill, Jason. You know that.”

“And that’s why he’s weak,” Jason spat. “That’s why I had to step up and do what he couldn’t. What he wouldn’t.”

“He’s not weak,” you said, your voice rising slightly. “And neither am I. You think you’re the only one who’s suffered? We all lost you, Jason. I lost you. And now you’re back, but you’re not the same.”

Jason’s gaze darkened, his jaw tightening. “You don’t get it. None of you do. You think you can just waltz in here and fix everything?”

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you snapped, your frustration boiling over. “I’m trying to understand you. I’m trying to be here for you, but you won’t let me!”

The room went silent, your harsh breaths the only sound. Jason looked away, his expression unreadable.

“Bruce still cares about you.”

Jason’s breath stilled for half a second.

You said it so softly, like you knew how he was going to react. Like you were already bracing for it.

Jason let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah?” His voice was rough, biting. “That why he threw a fucking Batarang at my throat?”

The silence that followed was immediate.

You froze.

Jason felt it—the way your hands had gone motionless against his skin, how your breath had caught ever so slightly.

And then he saw your face.

And fuck.

He knew that expression.

It had been burned into his brain since that night.

The night he’d come back, the night he’d stepped out of the shadows and made himself known to Bruce.

And to you.

He had expected anger, confusion, even disgust.

But the way you had looked at him—

Like you had been betrayed. Like he had ripped something apart inside you.

And now, that same look was back.

“…What?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Jason clenched his jaw.

Of course you didn’t know.

Of course Bruce had never told you.

His lips curled into a sneer before he could stop himself. “Of course you don’t know,” he muttered, shaking his head. “All you ever see is this amazing man—Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s perfect hero, can do no wrong.”

Your brows furrowed, your eyes darkening. “That’s not—”

“He’s so good, right?” Jason continued, bitterness coating his words. “Loves all his kids equally, treats us all like we matter—”

“I know he’s not perfect, Jason.”

Jason stiffened.

You had cut him off this time.

And your voice—

It was sharp. Not with anger, but something deeper. Something more raw.

“None of us are,” you continued, voice lower now. “But he’s trying. He wants to—”

You stopped suddenly, exhaling hard through your nose as you dropped your gaze, your hands curling into fists.

Jason stared at you.

Scrutinized the tension in your shoulders, the clench of your jaw.

You were frustrated. But not at him.

At yourself.

For not knowing what to say.

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

And then the overthinking started.

The overanalyzing, the picking apart every tiny movement, every breath, every twitch of your fingers.

Were you pitying him?

Were you angry at him?

Or—

Did you still see him as your brother?

Jason’s jaw tensed.

Finally, he muttered, “I don’t need you to be here for me. I don’t need anyone.”

“That’s not true,” you said softly.

Jason’s eyes flicked back to you, and for a moment, you thought you saw something crack in his armor. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“You should give up on me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I won’t.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “You should. Everyone else has.”

“Well, I’m not everyone else, I’m your sister.”

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose.

He hated that word. Hated how easily it left your mouth. Like it still meant something.

Like it hadn’t been broken years ago.

But it did mean something.

His sister. You were his sister.

You still see him as your brother. Why?

“You shouldn’t have come.”

You didn’t even look at him. “You said that already.”

“Yeah, well, I meant it.”

You finished the last stitch, cutting the thread with practiced ease before leaning back. “And I ignored it.”

Jason let out another bitter scoff, shaking his head. “Typical.”

You shot him a look. “You don’t get to talk about ‘typical.’”

Jason raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. And I’m not giving up on you, no matter how hard you try to push me away.”

Jason didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the floor. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words.

You were still studying him, scrutinizing every movement, every flicker of emotion that passed through his face. He let you.

Because deep down, some part of him knew—he was doing the same to you.

And he hated what he saw.

Because all he could think about was how much you had changed.

How much he had missed.

You packed up the first aid kit and stood up, putting the kit back in its place. Still, before you left, you hesitated, your hand hovering for a fraction of a second before finally resting on his shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jason. Whether you like it or not.”

He didn’t look at you, but his shoulders tensed under your touch. It was barely a touch—gentle, fleeting—but Jason felt it..

He wasn’t used to this anymore. To the warmth. To the gentleness.

And then—just as quickly as it had come—it was gone.

You pulled away.

And the absence was visceral.

Jason clenched his jaw, an unfamiliar tightness creeping up his throat. He hated the way his body reacted to it—to the sudden cold where your hand had been.

It was stupid. He shouldn’t care.

But the second your warmth disappeared, something ugly curled in his chest, something hollow and raw and fucking unbearable.

His fingers twitched. A thought—brief and reckless—urged him to grab your wrist, to stop you from leaving just yet.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

As you turned to leave, his voice stopped you.

“You’re wasting your time.”

It came out quieter than he intended. More uncertain. More vulnerable.

Silence.

Thick. Stifling.

Jason hated silence.

Because silence left too much room for thinking. For remembering.

You hesitated. He could see it in the way your shoulders stiffened, in the slight pause before you finally glanced back at him.

Your eyes met his.

And fuck.

He should’ve looked away.

But he didn’t.

Because the way you were looking at him—soft, aching, certain—made something inside him twist violently.

Made even more memories resurface.

Like he was still your brother, still family, still someone worth standing beside—and it made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“Maybe,” you said softly. “But you’re worth it.”

Jason sucked in a breath.

His throat felt tight. His chest felt tight.

And before he could stop himself, before he could shove the words down and bury them under every wall he had built, something broke through.

A quiet, fractured exhale.

He turned his head slightly, just enough that his hair shadowed his face. He didn’t want you to see. Didn’t want you to know what those words did to him.

Because you had said them so easily.

Like they were the simplest thing in the world.

Like you meant them.

And Jason—

Jason wasn’t sure he could handle that.

Because damn you.

Damn you for saying it like that—like it was the only truth in the world.

Like you actually believed it.

Like you still saw something in him worth holding on to.

He turned his head slightly, letting his hair fall forward to shadow his face, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

Because if you kept looking at him like that—if you kept believing in him like that—

He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to push you away.

a part of me feels like i yapped too much with this lol 😭 but still, hope you guys enjoyed this 🫶

taglist (open): @k1arar3 @kingshitonly @rainnyydaysworld @ceridwyn3 @darkfaethedestroyer @blueiones @strwberryglass | ask to be added <3

[kbnyan]

Dick: Okay, so with Bruce being on a mission with the Justice League, we need someone to be Batman.

Jason: So you just be Batman again

Damian: Actually, I strongly disagree with that arrangement

Tim: Don't tell me.... you think you should be Batman?

Damian: No, I'm aware I don't have the same attitude to be Father

Jason: really?... just the attitude?

Damian: I believe Cain should be Batman

Cassandra: Oh?

Dick: Umm.... Dami, I don't think-

Damian: Think about it. Grayson is too nice, Jason has way too much pent-up anger

Jason: Fuck you.

Damian: And well Drake is just..... Drake

Tim: Wow...

Damian: Cain is the only person who can match Father to a T.

Dick: There are many reasons why she can't be-

Jason: No, no, no, Dick. The demon child has a point

Dick: ..... um, okay then

(Later thar night)

Penguin: About time you showed up-

Cassandra (in Bat suit): You'll pay for your crimes

Penguin: ..... the hell am I looking at?

Robin: What?

Penguin: WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT? WHO IS THIS?

Red Hood: Batman, duh

Penguin: No, don't do that

Nightwing: Don't do what? This is Batman

Penguin: That's obviously a teenage girl

The Batkids: (gasps loudly and in sync)

Penguin: WHAT?!

Red Hood: How dare you assume his gender.

Robin: During Pride Month, too

Red Robin: (shaking his head) and here I thought you were an alley

Penguin: okay no just take me in

[kbnyan]

Concept sketch for a mural haha

[kbnyan]

I can't believe I lived long enough to see Jay twink death

[kbnyan]

[kbnyan]

"Please, we need you."

Dick was not above begging. He desperately needed your help. You don't bother looking away from cooking your breakfast. He broke into your apartment to plead for your help. Why are they bothering you this time? You retired years ago. You said flatly,

"No."

Of course they would come to you. Your power is biokinesis, and you hate using it. The ability to control the processes within every living thing felt unfair. You could control their blood cells, the photosynthesis of plants, you could use their stomach acid to attack their organs, and there are so many body horrors you can do. You could ruin people. Permanently, if you aren't extremely careful.

You can control vital organs, snap or fuse bones by controlling the calcium, and knit muscle together by manipulating the protein and blood controlling the muscles. It was overpowered, and you felt no joy in your abilities. It's beneficial, yes, but you became their crutch when someone goes rogue, and now that you are retired, you have become their last resort panic button. What's even happening? Did the Justice League become evil again? Doesn't Bruce have plans to neutralise them?

Younger you were in love with being a hero and being the best. Older you now realised how robotic and fruitless the fighting always has been. You gave up your suit. You gave up that life.

"Hate to break it to you, cupcake, but you're needed. Get in your suit."

Jason said as he, too, crawled in your window. He paused to look at Dick. They appeared to have the same idea to recruit you without discussing it among themselves. You sighed. You don't even have your suit anymore. You got rid of it to stop the temptation to return. You retired. You're done. Why can't they respect that?

"Even if I wanted to, I destroyed my suit. I'm not going out there."

The eldest brothers looked at each other as Tim also crawled in. What is this? A clown car? Where did he come from? Tim admitted sheepishly,

"We made a spare suit for you. Y'know... just in case you came back?"

He was rudely shoved out of the way by Damian. The two glared at each other for a moment before both of them gave up on their combined annoyance. Dick said,

"This is an emergency. Every other hero has been taken over except us."

You shut off your stovetop and plated your pancakes with a scowl. They deal with something like this monthly. What is the big issue now? You grabbed your fork and maple syrup.

"This happens all the time. Why do you need me now?"

Silence followed your question. None of them wanted to admit why they came to you. After a long moment of silence, Dick, ever the leader, decided to tell you since nobody else was saying anything,

"Bruce has been taken over as well."

You nodded. That makes sense then. Bruce is their beacon. Who they all turned to for any plan when there is little hope left. Still, you didn't want to come back.

"Constantine?"

"Out of commission."

"Plastic man?"

"Taken over."

"Wally?"

"Outrunning it, but unable to help."

You groaned. Obviously, they would take the League first and foremost, but the backup heroes are also taken over? What about the all of the other solo heroes?

"Am I really your last option?"

You were perplexed. Why are you among the last to be mind controlled? Was it something in the food? Tim shrugged. He explained,

"You were a missing hero. They don't expect you to come out of retirement."

You took a bite out of your pancake as you contemplated what to do. They obviously need your help, but the fight would be taxing. You're out of practice, too, so you'll be more tired than previously.

Nobody can fight someone who could fry their brain or fuse their muscles together to prevent movement, but it would take a lot out of you to fight so many heroes at once. You finally said,

"Let me finish my breakfast first."

And so they all awkwardly lounged around your apartment as you ate, to your amusement and their stress. They all felt a timer going off, but you felt like dragging your feet until you could feel your responsibility to the world suffocate you.

"When did you take this picture?"

Jason cried in outrage, holding one of your various framed photographs. You snickered. That's the photo of Jason cuddling with Artemis, clearly asleep but Jason was smiling so serenely and she was clearly trying to struggle away from Jason's iron grasp without waking him up like a trapped bunny struggling against the inevitable.

"And when did you take this?!"

Dick said as he held up his favourite plushie that you stole. He had to buy a new one after months of searching. In your defence, he never came to you and never asked for it. You said defensively,

"It was a souvenir! I took something from everybody. I stole Tim's old Superboy shirt that's honestly kind of embarrassing. Why is Kon shirtless, Tim?"

Tim decided it's best not to answer that question. Kon gave it to him. He found it in a store in Thailand and decided it was funny enough to give to Tim. Neither of them talk about it now, and it turned into a pyjama shirt for when everybody else is out of the house. It was so poorly photoshopped that it would be a shame to throw away. It's better to hide it. They laughed about it every time they looked at it now. Even Bernard found it funny when Tim showed him the shirt.

Damian stared at you with raised eyebrows. What did you take from him? He didn't notice anything missing. You gave him a sharp smile before getting up to do the dishes. You innocently said,

"Jon actually willingly gave me a goodbye picture. Does that cheek kiss mean anything?"

Damian froze as all eyes turned to him. He looked disgusted in the photo, but you could tell there was something there. What's with the Bats pining painfully for the Supes? Bruce isn't any better. They actually kissed (while undercover, but you snapped a photo and blackmailed him for weeks).

"Are me and Dick really the only normal ones?"

Jason was in disbelief. Did they break the Super curse? You scoffed,

"Dick is the only normal one, and even he dated an alien. I know about your past situation with Kara, Jason."

Jason, Jason, Jason. Always the "I'm too tough for love," but he thrives on it.

What is up with all the Bats pining aliens anyway? Tim let his crush go when he aged and met Bernard (who he never shut up about to his friends), Bruce let go of his Clark crush the day after their kiss, but Damian is still hesitant to admit he may be gay and kind of annoyed he is so similar to his father. Even their taste in men are the same, gross.

"Is there a point to your useless questioning, or are you ready to fight?"

Damian asked with crossed arms. You chuckled. He's just mad Jon gave you that photo. You have a lot of photos all over your home. Some petty, some wholesome, some purposely ugly. You had a little bit of everything.

Dick found the photo of Bruce very comfortably kissing a startled Clark. It looked like they were going to make out judging by the way Bruce was holding him and the robbers in the background. Bruce was undoubtedly thinking of a plan, but you managed to snap the picture after locking the tugs into place by fusing their knees together and their wrists to their hips.

Dick decided to question you about this after the fight. Your feet cracked as you walked to the window, drawing their attention back to you. You locked your window and opened it again.

"Fine. I'll fight."

You said before you crawled out of the window. The others quickly followed until everybody realised you had no idea where you were going, so Dick took the lead. You asked,

"What's the plan then? Am I fighting alone?"

Jason looked at you as if you were crazy. Alone? No. They are too antsy to sit around and do nothing. If they can be useful, they will be useful.

"Never alone, cupcake."

Jason said. You didn't know how to feel about that. They are incredibly useful, yes, but you weren't sure if they would get in your way or not.

You put on the suit in the Batcave with a sigh. Back to this chaotic storm. You said after a pause,

"You'll be the guards then. I'll work on frying the control."

The others nodded. That works for them. They need to be doing something, or they would feel useless.

You all arrive to where Bruce was last tracked to be and found a massive base. You scowled as you eyed the ranks. Most of the sidekicks would be easy to take care of, but the big members were more challenging. The control would be more established.

You decided to target Batman first in the meantime. Batman has everything possible in his utility belt, no matter how unlikely something will happen with the wits to back up his fighting prowess, so he's one of the biggest threats to your crew and you. He's dangerous.

"This is going to hurt."

You warned just before shutting down various parts of his brain. You grimaced as you forced the mind control out of him. It was a battle of wits that Bruce eventually was able to join in helping the more you pushed out.

You closed your eyes and winced. Even with the help, whatever is in control was digging their way through you as well. Bruce was the easiest one with his mental fortitude. What will happen with the others? What will you have to do for Clark? Or Wally with his speedy thoughts? Could you even keep up with his thoughts? The idea made you nauseous already. They are going to be the hardest. Wonder Woman might be the next best target. She'll be the next easiest because of her godly genetics, and she can help in the fight against Superman.

You succeeded in releasing Batman's mind control and immediately moved onto Wonder Woman. She's a massive threat already to the Bats. Batman can join the fight, but even he will struggle with Wonder Woman. He'll have to rely on the others for help while he figured out a way to take her out.

You scowled when you entered her mind. The mind control is becoming smart. It moves locations now. You have to chase it through the brain and even through the nerves and veins in the brain.

It's sentient, you realised. You thought maybe it was just a device or someone else, but no. They are a hive mind of living beings. It's a parasite that you have to chase through their brain to "cut" out. You have to cut their feeding ground.

You hissed in pain as you moved through the heroes. You have no idea how you will deal with the aliens like Starfire and especially the Supes. You had to double-check that you didn't transfer the parasite to yourself multiple times.

There are so many heroes and so many devastating combinations that you had to break up. Everybody was in chaos, but the Bats worked as smoothly as a well-oiled machine. It would be admirable if you weren't so preoccupied with both fighting heroes and killing the parasites.

The League was getting overwhelmed. They were struggling to fight off the horde of sidekicks that they trained, and the solo heroes weren't easy to take down either. You were working as quickly as you could, but these parasites are so quick in their squirming and don't give up. You were trying to fry them out and starve them without causing any lasting damage on anyone. You were so, so, so careful in protecting them that it was slowing you down substantially.

You were also being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers. Would it kill the League to stop picking up sidekicks? You managed to share with the telepaths to look out for a parasite and to distract it until you can get to the hero, but they were also struggling by the numbers.

You shuddered. You needed more help. Could you get Constantine to help at all? What about the other magicians? You weren't sure there was any more help to have. The parasites are smart and learn from each other. When one goes down, they all learn. Soon, you'll run out of tricks, and who's to say a similar parasite won't come back again? There could be more out there.

You almost collapsed when you finished the last hero, shivering. There are at least 30 sidekicks turned into newly made heroes, not even counting the League and the solo heroes, but you managed.

Before anybody could hug you or even thank you, you were gone. You slipped away silently, but everybody knew that you saved the world. You were the main and only reason they won.

The earth isn't conquered, and the heroes don't have to be killed by the Bats. You left a note to Batman about everything you learned about the parasite, but you left the clean-up to the telepaths. They can assess any damage done to the heroes better than you ever could.

You did your best to heal the damage done when you had to shut off parts of the brain in your mission, but you know the telepaths will be much better suited than yourself with assessing mental damage. Everybody was perfectly normal and functional, at least, so that had to count for something, right?

You undid all the fused bones and locked muscles as you left the building. The sound of seemingly hundreds of bones cracking back into place again is a sound you wished you weren't familiar with.

The following screams haunted your memory as you watched everybody fall to their knees in agony. You fixed their muscles and bones, so it's to be expected to be agony.

You had to decommission everybody at some point in order to work out the parasite without fuss, so everybody was in severe pain. Nothing but agony follows you, but they are all healthy, and that's all that matters in the end.

You went home after dropping off the suit into the BatCave and collapsed on your couch. Now, you can relax and retire once more. You sighed in relief at the thought. You don't know how many heroes you helped, but it felt like far too many.

You really hated being a hero.

[kbnyan]

Cass found you healing. There was something about you that healed a part of her that nobody else ever could. Maybe it was her mummy issues, or maybe it was genuinely your loving personality; either way, it didn't matter. You were soothing and patient with her. You even taught her how to speak, read, and write.

She came to the startling realisation she loved you at her family Christmas gathering. You weren't just a friend. You had stopped being a friend in her mind long ago, but she never addressed those feelings. It was safer to keep it all bottled up. She would come back to it another day, like rejecting a phone update until it finally automatically updates. She'll deal with it eventually.

Well, eventually happened.

It started when Steph and Babs both made a joke about the two of you being a lesbian couple. Cass and you both froze in place. Neither of you knew what to do, but your gay panic barrelled through you like a gun to your head.

You had quickly signed something Cass couldn't catch to Steph, who paled and also began to slightly panic. What started as an innocent joke suddenly became a massive plot twist between the two.

Steph. Was. Mortified. She would later brag she is the reason you two got together and that she saw it all along (falsely, as well), but that moment had her horrified. She did not anticipate that she would ever have to deal with this being a possibility. Girls are always close. Why would you two be any different?

She had to wheel Babs far, far away, and have a panicked conversation, which Helena joined in as well with wide eyes.

Barbara was on the gay train immediately and was coming up with plans and bouncing ideas off of the other girls. What do they do? Does Cass know? Is Cass gay? Their heads were spinning. She hadn't considered that any of them could be gay. Well, except Tim, but his relationship with Kon has been so well-established that they don't feel like a gay couple anymore.

Helena "what do you mean she's gay" Wayne was floored. Now she was invested. She needed to study you both before deciding if this was an actual thing yet or not.

The girls all watched you two carefully. Tim joined in quickly as he understood and also became invested. He dragged Kon into it, too, but told him to let the detectives work after Kon complained and told them to leave you two alone.

You tried to act oblivious to their obvious growing group staring you both down. Not cool, Steph.

You glared at Steph, who looked away but looked back again once your gaze was back on Cass. Your gaze softened as you looked at Cass. Your sweet, beautiful, best friend. You'd give anything for her.

Cass was incredibly confused, but she was happy. She wanted to cuddle on the coach, and you laughed your agreement. This was the moment she knew she had feelings for you: cuddling on the coach, watching a terrible Christmas movie, and having hushed conversations with you. You both had content smiles on your faces.

She had blushed hard when you kissed her forehead, but she looked at you like Cupid just hit her with an arrow, and you looked at her like she held your heart in her hands.

The girls (plus Tim and an uninterested Kon) needed to strike. How? Mistletoe? There was no guarantee you wouldn't cop-out and kiss her cheek. They didn't know. They asked Tim how he managed to date Kon, and he shrugged,

"I decided we're dating one day, and then we started dating. I suspect M'gann did something, but I don't know."

Kon shook his head, but he didn't know either, so he let Tim's explanation go by without comment. Tim gave a thoughtful expression. He didn't know what they should do. Kon said plainly,

"We could tell Jason to force them to kiss."

Jason narrowed his eyes at the group. He heard his name amongst the growing group of siblings despite being on the other side of the room.

"What are you idiots scheming?"

He actively had to walk past you and Cass to join the group, but as he passed, he, too, noticed the cuddling duo. He stared for a moment before you tell him to fuck off and he heads back to his scheming siblings.

"We're trying to get these two together. Can you help us?"

Jason crossed his arms while casting his gaze back to you both. He took note how at peace Cass seemed in your arms. She seemed serene and the way she looked at you... Well, it looks like she's in love.

Jason gave a resigned sigh. Even he can see the clear love and devotion.

"What do you need me to do?"

He tried to look disgruntled, but he couldn't hide how curious he was. He watched his siblings carefully. What are they thinking?

"It's not a good idea. Kon wanted to make you force them to kiss. He doesn't trust his superstrength."

Kon shrugged. He's not the brains when it comes to human interactions. Tim and him are both awkward and he struggles with what's normal still.

They watched Cass giggle as you rolled her on top of you for her to sleep. You smiled fondly and gave her a quick forehead kiss. She blushed with a grin on her face. Friends kiss, right? You run your hands along her back and whisper to her,

"I got you."

The evening was surprisingly quiet. Suspiciously quiet. Your eyes landed on the group gathering and narrowed in suspicion. Almost everyone was gathered now and whispering with quick glances your way.

Cass felt so at ease. It was like her heart beat your name. She did consider that you might be more than a friend, but she didn't know how you felt. Sure, you kissed her and cuddled her whenever she asked and you were always respectful by asking before touching her, but you were so close that it makes sense how you'd act. She said in a small voice,

"I have a question."

She took a deep breath to steady her voice, burying her face in your neck. She doesn't want to see your face when you end the friendship.

"Are we... more than friends?"

The silence she received concerned her. She pulled away and looked at you anxiously. After another pause, you asked,

"Would you want to be more than friends?"

Cass nodded. She isn't sure she'd ever survive without your soft forehead kisses and cuddling feels so right. You smiled at her and said in a cheeky tone,

"I guess we're dating then, Miss Cain."

Cass immediately kissed you. You were her salvation and her inner peace. It felt amazing to kiss you like girlfriends. It felt like she could fully relax now that the uncertainty was removed.

The kiss was long and full of love. It spoke all the words she never said and all the pining you both had for each other.

When you pulled back, you both giggled. Your hushed confession of love was for only her ears, but that didn't stop the rest of them trying to listen.

Cass was equally quiet as she whispered to you,

"I love you. You're my saviour."

You kissed her again and raised your middle finger to the group you knew were watching. You love this woman with everything in your heart.

Dick had no clue. He came out from the kitchen with Alfred and both men stopped as they saw the scene. You and Cass kissing, a large group trying (and failing) to pretend they aren't watching. You gave them the middle finger after a while of staring and a couple of photos taken.

Alfred looked relieved, but Dick felt betrayed. Cass never told him she's gay. He's the first one everyone goes to for their problems and secrets. He knew Tim was bisexual long before everybody else, he knows Jason reads fanfiction (he snooped on his phone and found Wattpad downloaded), he knows Damian has hidden a pet fox in his room, he knows everything about everyone except Cass. Cass never went to him, and she rarely caused trouble (that she gets caught doing). Why didn't she want to tell him she's gay? Did she not know until you?

Bruce came down the stairs and also took in the scene. He had a feeling he had more gay kids. He wasn't sure who it was, but it makes sense that it would be Cass. She kept all her cards to her chest, only revealing things as needed. He should have seen it sooner.

Neither of you cared what the family thought. It was only putting a label on mutual feelings that were ignored for far too long.

[kbnyan]

odi et amo - (05) my orbit

negelected! meta! reader x platonic! batfam

masterlist / prev / next

(TW) : emotional neglect, self-destructive behaviour, self-harm, suicide, depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, underage smoking, underage drinking, alcohol abuse, bpd, depictions of mental illness, violence, trauma, cults ...

bruce knows he’s not the perfect father, but he was confident that he tries his best - it’s just that his best was not enough for you.

the one thing he counts on from everyone is the ability to make their problems known, whether it was entitlement to deter the pain of being molded into a weapon, to the parentified rage-masked positivity. a cry for help came in many forms, all catalogued by heart.

yet silence was unfamiliar territory - the quiet suffering, the averted gaze and floating presence: even in your descent into despair you were polite, as if you feared you’d disrupt them, ruin their peace if you dared announce it.

and bruce knew silence.

just not enough.

just too late.

your eyes remained bleary no matter how hard you rubbed them, everything around you feels like some hazy dream. you feel like you’re drifting in and out of dimensions, just not the one that’s restricted to the linear passage of time. it felt great honestly, you were so tired of knowing, of seeing, of hearing. you finally managed to stop caring about the feather-like touches you felt at the back of your neck while standing alone in a room, or the sharp clawing pain that ripped open skin the voices left in their wake. 

you don’t like alcohol, you believe. you hated the taste, hated that it was the only thing your aunt saw worthwhile, hated the dreadful headaches that hit you the next morning. but you need it, you also believe, you need it to forget, need it to ignore, need it to breathe without feeling the weight on your chest and their lingering words.

they were always talking.

the talking, talking, talking.

it was driving you mad, they said so many things, demanded a lot more, and within that crowd of noise you could hear your friends - or the echo of what your memories retain.

but most of all, you heard your aunt. 

her yelling, yelling, yelling.

that you were useless, that you weren’t enough, that you tainted a legacy. you had failed a test you didn’t even know existed.

you promised it would be a temporary remedy, a band aid solution while you find something more sustainable or productive. but you were sick of it, you knew you were just lying to yourself so your sober self would pick up the bottle a little faster, a little more sure, a little less guilty. why condemn you for your methods if no one had bothered to help?

hunched over the toilet seat, you were regurgitating a vile mixture of whatever cheap alcohol you’ve been able to purchase and your stomach acid; but it was just a small sacrifice in return for the prolonged blissful ignorance of their presence that drinking grants, you’d rather trade temporary pain for the cease of ringing headaches the layer of voices and overlapping screams that haunted your consciousness.

that was what you remembered what felt like just a minute ago, and now you’re here, sitting at the dining table along with a few others as you’re staring into nothing in particular. you vaguely recall leaning against the sink, swishing lukewarm vodka like it was mouthwash before hearing alfred’s muffled voice informing you that bruce had wanted to have a lighthearted talk - some bonding time of sorts over some afternoon tea. you had hummed dismissively, and whatever happened in between those timeframes, you have no recollection of.

the atmosphere feels a bit tense, not that you were in your right mind to even notice it. stolen glances at your faraway expression or the mindless repetition of your nails picking into your thumb, no one present really knew how to talk to you. some awkward chatter took place, the topics constantly shuffling but general enough, as if they were hoping that one would finally pique your interest to make you break the silence and participate.

you’re not even here, mentally. everyone could tell something was…off, to say the least, even without knowing how you usually were. bruce didn’t think it was best to bring up your concerning behavior from what alfred had relayed to him yet (he’d rather do that in private), but he thought some interactions with people would perhaps help, or rather, he had hoped it would. 

the prolonged awkwardness eventually made tim stand up and leave. ‘i have more important things to attend to’ he had said, and since someone had finally crossed that bridge, with the given opportunity others had scattered away as well - save for bruce and cassandra.

cassandra had wanted to reach out and hold your hand. she knew how to read people, yet she can't discern anything off of you. you were but an empty vessel of a person, and that scares her. after seeing the state you were in previously, she had promptly brought it up to bruce, who seemed even more on-edge with additional information regarding you, especially after the additional information of events alfred had relayed. maybe some wounds just don't heal with time. so now, they both sat there helplessly, not knowing what to do, looking at you not looking at them.

jason had seen that look before, he’d seen what life could do to people - it destroys, it's relentless, it's brutal, it's unfair; he’s seen people pick up their own pieces and try to fix the hole in their soul, but what’s broken will always have cracks, he understands that, he’s a living testament of that.

what he hadn’t understood was why you had that look.

sweet little you. naive, sheltered, little you. you, who had no idea of the horrors he’s seen, the torment he’s heard, the hell he and the others had lived. you, who grew up and lead a relatively normal life, unaware and unbothered by the injustice that roams the streets, that lurks in the shadows, that hunts the weak, of what had become duty.

a burden that haunts him. you, who were free from that duty. 

but that look, all empty-eyed and unfeeling expressions despite the bite of the cold kitchen tiles burning your feet, you stood there like you’ve seen unimaginable pain, like you’ve heard too much, like you’d know what it’s like to be haunted.

you both hadn’t moved an inch, not until he scoffs while you stand there, staring at him. or maybe through him, as if you could see more than what he could. he hates that.

then he stepped closer, your eyes still trained on something that he can’t even see, angering him further, and he’s trying his hardest to remain composed, to not snap at you.

he almost did so, until he stepped closer. until he smelled the smoke and alcohol that’s clinging onto you like you were one, like that’s all you were.

he halts, his heart stutters.

weren’t you just a kid? how the hell were you drinking and smoking while underaged, under this manor’s roof no less? if it wasn’t such a concerning detail he had just come to uncover about you, he’d be applauding on how well you had managed to hide it from the literal family of detectives in this household to continue doing so. did you get mixed up in the wrong crowd? did you make bad friends? do you even know what you're doing?

he didn’t know when, but the front of your hoodie was fisted tightly in his grip, the smell more prominent at the close proximity, and the look on your face has yet to change. he can tell you’re not comprehending a single thing, but he still harshly whispers anyways. 

“what the fuck are you doing to yourself?”

what are you doing to yourself? you had ventured to the kitchen in hopes of finding a glass more suitable for drinking, an upgrade from the crumpled up paper cups that had been used well over the intended amount of times that littered your study table and bedroom floor. despite the copious amounts of alcohol you’ve introduced into your system lately, you were always cautious on not getting caught, taking measured steps and irregular routes, even memorising everyone’s daily habits to avoid them; never leaving your room for long periods of time while being drunk to the point of unawareness. you weren’t that careless.

so when you had sobered up just enough to hear the whispers trailing the rim of your ears during the dead of night, it was cue for you to carry out your task - until things didn’t go as planned, until jason appeared, and behind him a trail of warped faces and screams of agony. 

you weren’t stupid. if dick hadn’t casually dropped such earth-shattering information on how your family fought crime in costumed armor nightly like regularly scheduled family outings (that didn’t include you, you weren’t capable enough), the voices were sure to remind you of their mistakes and brutality, their bargaining on the life they were entitled to if your family had been just a bit faster, or smarter, or more decisive. you think it’s ironic, that they had wanted to hide this part of their life from you forever, yet the consequences of their failures were yours to bear.

your vision starts to warp at the edges, brain hammering in your head, from the noise or the hangover, you can’t tell. jason’s mouth continues to move but you can’t understand a single thing over the mixture of all the voices, his, the ones behind him and the ones in your head.

you closed your eyes and covered your ears as if it would help.

his coat whips violently in the wind, standing in front of an abandoned building following up on a lead to his current investigation. the chill is bone-deep, not from what merely the weather had caused, but also the unravelling of disturbing details that did not make sense when pieced together. he had battled sleepless nights, chasing down clues that more often than not lead to dead ends, or more questions than answers. 

missing people who disappeared from the streets - people with no names, who no one would miss, discarded embalmed body parts that could not lead back to an identity, some passing whispers of something… supernatural, something occult. labels like ‘the elect’ and ‘the sacrifices’ were thrown around too often for comfort.

this had been the closest he’s gotten to a substantial piece of information, a gathering of sorts taking place within demolished architecture that had no address and no history (just some failed project due to lack of funding and fraud, he checked). it had been a nightmare thus far, the absurdity of it all did not diminish the danger it promised - he had to solve it, and he needed to do so fast.

he was grateful for the woman that had given him this information, despite being frantic and begging him for help escaping something she dared not mention, the details given to him were all precise and relevant, and even if he had strongly doubted that it would lead anywhere, he could at least rest easy knowing that he had tried to help an innocent woman who was scared for her life and assure her that whatever it was, it wasn’t out to get her.

it was dark, light rain falling sideways, wet footprints on concrete floors and ruins all around. he made his way further inside, eyes wide open in apprehension, just until he caught a glimpse of cloaked silhouettes arranged in some peculiar formations. there’s rhythmic thumping along with incoherent chanting, like they were summoning something, or someone. there were dark markings on the floor, sigils and circles that ignited recognition in comparison to the photos pinned in his office, and with the occasional pivot from the wind, the flames danced bright enough to show what they were drawn out of: dark red liquid, blood.

he only then registers the smell of iron, too busy holding his breath bearing witness to something he previously wasn’t even sure was serious or not. he thinks it is now, and just as he was about to make a move to leave and report his findings, the air shifted. the cold now burns, unnaturally so, and a shiver runs up his spine. the chanting had ceased, the thumping paused, and from behind the walls, a figure emerged. draped in white, not pure or angelic in sense, but white as in the lifelessness of perfection - a promise something mere mortals could not achieve, where shadows could not lurk.

a sense of foreboding consumed him as she walked up the steps and sat on a broken altar, straight and holy - pristine, where another figure situated behind had begun to lift the cloth off their head. the silhouettes kneeled uniformly, a practiced movement, and lowered their heads as if they were unworthy of seeing her face, and that’s when bruce could see her.

the woman that tipped him off.

your mother.

@confused-they @hoeinthehouse @strwberryglass @heartjwonie @glitchmshade @bat1212 @buddee @eyeless-kun @thereeallink @icantcryicantstopcrying @bunbunboysworld @gh0str00m @wizzerreblogs @lazy-kari202 @dotomuses @gwyneveire @gh6st24 @roseapov @kore-of-the-underworld @kingshitonly @plsfckmedxddy @unknownloner1345 @lilithquillete @v3vina @froggy-voidd @angrybuttooshorttofightyou @sami0169 @m3vlOvesu @pix-stuff @bunbunbread @agent-nobody-knows @cxcilla @horror-lover-69 @redkarmakai @mariadvorak @shirp-collector-of-fixations @batboygirlie @diejager @noclue-0 @sick2mystmch @novs9011 @kitkatkitmeow @crazycaoticsimp @majonla @hebaoffside @randomlyappearingartist @blueiones @shycreatorreview @simpingpandas @splaterparty0-0 @bk-4-trash-fire

im not rlly proud of this chapter :/ its been kind of hard trying to push the narrative to get to the point i wanted, but now that it's done i am finally getting to the part where the idea for the plot started hehehe. SORRY FOR LITERALLY DISAPPEARING MY SKIBBIDIS, i was busy w my j*b but finally got around to finishing this chapter while on a business trip :p i hope i didn't disappoint 💔🥀 as always, do like and reblog and comment as it helps with my motivation ;^)

(TAGLIST) closed due to limit :sadge:

[kbnyan]

Heyyyyy so I lap up angst like a starving raccoon so could we mayhaps get the batkid’s reactions to your divorcee reader and Bruce’s separation? Ik in the original hc post you did you said that people had been asking/wondering why reader hadn’t left yet, so maybe seeing which Batfam members were on team divorce and which (if any) were on team parent-trap. If you we’re already planning on doing that, I was also wondering how Reader reacted to Jayson’s death and subsequent revival and how he handled Red Hood and the dynamics between his son and (then) hubby.

No pressure on this, I just love this idea and pretty don’t see people tackling Bruce’s serial rouge-kissing habits in the batmom/dad fics. I rlly love your take on it!!

I will totally be writting the fanfic about BatDad, Bruce and Jason's dynamic later because I would love to think about what that absolute mess will look like

Dick

Dick in my opinion was the person who was the most conflicted when it came to the divorce.

On one hand he had known you for as long as he had known Bruce and in his head you and Bruce were one connected entity. You worked off eachother well and supported each other. You stopped Bruce from going to far over the edge, constantly pulling him, away from the brink of obsession. He remembered watching you take care of Bruce on his worst nights and stich up both of them when they came home from rough missions. You guys worked well together and loved each other or at least he thought you did when he was younger.

Because on the other hand as he got older he started to realize that maybe it wasn't you both supporting each other, maybe it was just you supportng Bruce. You making sure Bruce didn't die. You making sure Bruce kept up with his civilian life. You forgiving Bruce after he found another way to let you down.

When he and Bruce were at their worst so angry that they couldn't even be in the same room together you still found a away to keep in touch. Half the time he was running around with the Titans blowing up at people over the smallest things and you still tried to invite him over for dinner. God. He just assumed you'd always be there even when he blew up at you or ignored your calls for weeks on end.

A world without you and Bruce together seemed impossible to imagine in a way, even after he realized it would probably be better for you if you and Bruce did divorce.

Jason

Jason was against you two getting a divorce probably the most out of anyone else.

He had seen you and Bruce at your best. His days in the manor were filled with you two takig him to school and museums. He remembered walking into the kitchen for breakfast and seeing Bruce fumble through trying to help you while you laughed at him. In his head you guys were perfect especially when compared to the relationship he saw between Catherine and Willis. You and Bruce loved eachother and often didn't even argue in front of him.

He also idealizes you and Bruce's relationship in the same way he idealizes everything before his death. The negative moments have been smoothed over with time and he rarely sees you two together anymore so there's nothing to prove him wrong in his idea.

For his enitre life even after his death you and Bruce were his example of what love was. He watched you two together and he truly believed that maybe someday he could love someone the way you two loved. Hearing about the divorce is kinda like realizing that maybe even the moments of his life he truly thought were good weren't.

How many times were you and Bruce angry at eachother, but didn't want to argue in front of him? How many nights did he walk into Bruce sleeping at his desk because he wasn't allowed back into the bedroom? How much of Batman's private talks with Catwoman were betrayals of your trust?

It makes him have to come to terms with the real sadness you were experiencing with a child and how even the best parts of his childhood weren't nearly as good as he thought.

Tim

Tim was anti divorce because he really didn't want to think about how Bruce would fall a part without you.

He saw Bruce after Jason died and you had nearly completly withdrawn from the relationship. He had to make sure that Bruce was okay and Bruce was pulling his punches because Bruce had lost his son and had basically lost his husband. He knows what Bruce does when you aren't their for him he spent his time making sure that Bruce without you didn't die.

So he doesn't want you two to get divorce and he even found out where you were staying to try and convince you to take Bruce back. Which did not work and just left you both in a screaming match.

You and Tim are both in seprate parts of your journey to realizing that it isn't your job to make sure Bruce is okay. In a way it frustrates him because he thought he understood you the most out of anyone. Others were wondering when you two would finally break it off and why you commited your life to Bruce, but he understood the fight to keep Batman alive even if it cut into your own life.

He gets even more upset with you as Bruce begins to fall a part in your absence. In his head you two were on a mission together and you just left. Tim likely doesn't get in contact with you for a long time after the divorce and if you guys do talk he's very short and to the point. I don't think the relationship gets better until he's later into his adult life and finally realizing he can't spend his life looking out for Bruce.

"Do you think he can ever get better." He asks you after crawling onto your balcony one night.

"I don't know, maybe, if he really wanted to, but you know its not your job to get him to that point its his." You guys sit there for a while and then he leaves and starts getting in contact more often.

Damian

Damian was pro divorce.

He had no about you as a person outside of the road bloack you had acted as towards his mother and father's relationship. He acts older than he is, but he is still a child and in a way wanted his parents to be together at the end of the day.

Whe he meets you he's even more pro the divorce. In his eyes you're weak and you make his father weak. You aren't a capable fighter or hyper inteligent like the rest of the family you're just a normal person and to him that makes you largely useless.

I think there are times when he is a little jealous about the way his other siblings describe the family and manor before the divorce. Outside of Tim and Jason most people could see the writing on the wall, but they still missed you. Dick was constantly talking about the way you would give him pep talks after bad nights out or fights with Bruce. Tim rarely talked about you, but when he did it was obvious that he found a kenship with you that ran deep even if he denied it. Jason acted like you were a saint who had never done anything wrong in your life which Damian doubted. Barbra talked about the nights you spent together cordinating the ever growing opperation across the city. Stephanie remembered how when she was just starting you truly did try your best to get Bruce to give her a chance and help her. Cassandra described you as kind and troubled even on your best days and Duke seemed to like you more than he liked Bruce most days.

There was a connection they all had to you that led to family dinners at your new home and late night meetups to talk about fears and hopes before the city called for them again. He didn't have that at least not with you and the mansion felt like a ghost town most nights.

Barbra

Barbra was pro divorce and had been for years at the point it happened.

She was further away from the situation than Dick and the rest of the boys and that's likely what made it obvious to her that you and Bruce simply didn't work. She watched as you forgave him constantly without ever being sure that he wouldn't hurt you again. Bruce was terrible for you and she was not going to let you pretend otherwise.

Barbra was around as long as Dick, but she wasn't burdened with nostalgia about the relationship. She watched as Bruce's lifestlye made it nearly impossible for you to have friends who cared about you and not just friends who were friends of Bruce. She watched while you were cheated on multiple times. She watched you have breakdowns next to Bruce's unconcious battered body wondering if he would ever wake up again.

She was very open about the dislike she had towards you two together she wasn't subtle either. She would send you links to divorce lawyers, couples therapy, or anonymous groups for failing marriages. She liked you and for a long time you and her were the ones who worked closest together. She didn't like watching Bruce breakdown what little of you there was left.

Sometimes she would watch you and Bruce together and think maybe she was wrong. Maybe there was love their that was great enough to come back from past failures. But the Bruce would break your heart again and she would be reminded of why you needed to leave.

Stephanie

Stephanie was pro divorce and she has said that to Bruce's face.

Stephanie didn't have the blinders on about Bruce being an amazing father or mentor because of the way he treated her when she first began to fight crime. During her short time as Robin she watched the way he treated you and it was just another check in the reasons why Batman is an ass list. Because for all the kindness and understanding that you showed Bruce he had a habit of acting like you being their was expected like it was your job to take care of him.

Stephanie and Bruce argued often and she has on multiple occasions called a cheater/manwhore who was going to be divorced. In her defense she definitely called it. She liked you and it frustrated her that you allowed for Bruce to just bulldoze over your life for so long.

After the divorce she definitely went to your house and said she was there to cheer you. It devolved into you both bitching about the worst moments in your relationships with Bruce and calling him an ass.

She's happy for you. Proud that you finally found a way out of it all.

Cassandra

Cassandra was pro divorce.

She had a view of Bruce that was developed through him saving her and showing her a path in life toward being a person she could be proud of. I think that Bruce's relationship with you was definitely a moment for her where she learned that Bruce was better as a symbol than a person most days.

She watched the way the days weighed on you. She could see the exhaustion in your body even when you were happy. She could also tell that you and Bruce loved eachother. You and Bruce were madly in love with eachother, but that didn't really change anything. She was pro divorce from the moment she saw you two together to be honest.

She also worried because she and Bruce were so alike. They both had a devotion to the cause that others at times found hard to understand. In a way I think she started to worry about what someone who fell in love with her would have to deal with because she didn't want to treat them like Bruce treated you.

I'd like to think she has on multiple occasions grabbed your are and told you its okay to leave. She was very happy for you when you finally did.

Holy shit this was a long one. I'm sorry for not adding Duke I just really haven't read anything with him in it and I have no clue how he acts

[kbnyan]

Homophrosyne

— tim drake x male! reader

PART I

word count — 1.5k

notes — reader is a bit older than Tim, he has the same relationship to the team as babs, steph, luke, etc. (aka not bruce's kid), slowburn (co-workers to friends to best friends to something to friends again to lovers??)

summary — maybe you weren't part of the team like you once thought. despite being there since the early years, your relationship with them could only wither. unbeknownst to you, one boy was still there. funnily enough, he was the one to ignore you from the start.

warnings — cursing (just one lmao), tim's kind of a bitch when you first meet, mentions of jay's death, more of an introduction/prolongue if anything, as we go further i'll go more in depth with how reader is and how he feels which is lwk projection but not. his psyche is fucked like the rest of them and has an unordinary perception of love and all.

You didn’t belong in the Bat family — at least, not like before.

It wasn’t exactly fair to say you were ignored ever since. Bruce wouldn’t just take in a child only to ignore them from the start. There was a process, one that you must admit, you took part in.

A tiny child you were, only 7 years old, covered in dirt and whatever polluted the streets of Gotham. Torn slippers were all that protected your feet as you ran, far, far away from the crackhouse you were meant to call home.

You ran away at midnight, all the lamps in your street flickering in a fight to stay alive. Even as they tried, the lights were dim, so they didn’t have much use. You were unsure how far you’ve gone; perhaps a block before collapsing to your knees.

And as much as you needed to, you couldn’t cry. All you could do was pant in exhaustion, mentally and physically.

That was the moment he arrived. He was dressed in all black, his infamous bat symbol imprinted at the center of his suit. As you stared up at him, he stared back. Even through the cowl you could see the way his eyes had softened, a cold mask warming up at the sight of you.

Mere seconds later came his sidekick — complaining about his mentor — and then he saw you. There was a look of surprise, then a bit of concern. You were beaten, dirty, your clothes inappropriate for the cold (though he couldn’t say much without sounding like a hypocrite with his shorts).

What was most worrisome was your expression. You looked dead, completely done with life and uncaring if you live or die. Maybe that’s what made the both of them reach out to you.

Dick was still uncertain. Even so, he helped you adjust to the manor, bringing you a warm set of clothes the moment Alfred brought them out. He was even kind enough to sit by your bed as you rested, only leaving once he was sure you were sound asleep.

There were times you’d think about that night. You can’t say the same for him, perhaps he had long forgotten about it. It’s not like it was his job to remember. And besides, you weren’t his sibling nor were you Bruce’s kid, just a child he helped out.

Some years later he’d leave, stepping outside of Bruce’s shadow to form his identity outside of Robin. You were happy for him, but sad to see him leave for a different city. The night before he left, he held you tight, promising to visit, and read you a story like he had just a few years ago. He may have a negative relationship with Bruce, but he couldn’t find himself to project it onto you.

After he left Bruce brought in another child. It was the same time you began your training as a vigilante.

He was older than you by two years, another scrappy kid from the streets. Due to his past it was rather easy for you both to form some kind of bond. Apparently he tried to steal the tires from the batmobile only to get caught by Bruce.

You trained alongside each other, patrolled together with Batman, and formed a strong relationship. All was well, until just a year or two later.

Regret filled your body as Bruce held his; lifeless and bloody. Maybe you should have gone with him, should have followed him. If you were there your friend might have been saved.

Something nagged at you, screaming that you somehow took part in his death. You could only break down into the arms of Barbara (your mentor was mourning, you couldn’t burden him with your grief). She kept you in a motherly hold, rubbing your shoulders as she whispered that you were just a child, you shouldn’t bear responsibility for his death.

Even at that point in your life, you didn’t shed a tear. What you could do was shake and pant, struggling to breathe like oxygen was suffocating you.

You think that was when it began.

Bruce wouldn’t talk to anyone unless it was vigilante-related. He avoided leaving his study, only doing so to put on the suit. He became a ghost, or maybe he treated everyone as ghosts.

Neither you, Alfred, nor anyone else close to him, could gain his attention.

Patrolling with him was nothing but silent; he refused to ask you how you were, correct your stance, nothing. All he did was give orders and leave you to follow. Even as your body bled, limbs aching, he did nothing. He was too deep in a pool of his grief that you couldn’t swim to him.

Soon enough, he’d take your suit away from you. He thought it was unsafe, he couldn’t risk losing you too, he thought he was doing good. Your new job was behind the scenes, gathering intel and sitting in the batcave. At first you hated it, but then grew to enjoy it a bit more than your old job. Hell, in the daytime you’d go out (as a civilian) and sneakily investigate scenes to gather more information first hand.

It took no less than a year for there to be a new Robin. This time, it wasn’t the bat who took him in. No, that boy barged into your lives with full knowledge of who you all were, what you do, and despite the risks; he still joined.

He didn’t bother forming any personal bond with any of you at first. Tim was only focused on being Robin, helping Batman get back on his feet.

Although you were once part of the trio-now-duo, he paid no mind to you. As long as you were there to do the job, he didn’t care. He didn’t even bother to greet you properly.

It irritated you a bit, though you understood that he stood on business. You allowed him to act that way, and you reacted similarly. Present you can’t really blame your distant relationship, seeing as you played a part in keeping the distance. Though there were times you’d catch him staring at you, saving a seat for you beside him at the dinner table, simple things despite the lack of communication.

However if there was one thing that bugged you, it was the attention he got. From Alfred to Dick and Barbara, they were hyper focused on him. It continued on as more people joined the family, slowly pushing you out of the frame. They began knowing you as your ‘vigilante’ persona rather than as yourself.

They’d refuse to train with you, making excuses that you were experienced enough, didn’t need to given your job, and they needed to help the others. Bullshit — as the others grew they still spent more time with them than with you. It was your fault for allowing it, for beginning to silence yourself and stray away from them as they pushed you. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt you one way or another.

The revival of Jason was something you had mixed feelings for. You thought he’d at least look at you when the rest didn’t, but like the 3rd Robin, he didn’t even spare you a glance. The only times he’d give you his attention was during your encounters while in the suits. Those times he’d make some comments, never a full sentence, but at the time it was good enough for you.

Now, at 20 years old, you were still nothing to them without the job. There were many times you wished to stop, but you couldn’t find it in you to do so. You loved what you did, loved stopping crime from the sidelines. Reasons were still unsure; you knew you should save people, but did you enjoy it? Perhaps you only liked beating those who hurt them, especially the elites who took advantage of the oppressed.

Your identity developed, changing names and hero identities like the other members. Yet as much as you did, nothing felt right, no new suit or name made you feel like yourself, and you didn’t know why.

It was past midnight, and you stood at the edge of a rather tall building. It was abandoned, in one of the emptier areas of the city, an old apartment building that had been labelled as inhabitable a year back.

While it’s been years since you’ve lived here, over a decade to be exact, it was still so familiar. You would visit the place often, ever since you found out there was no life inside. This was where your parents had died, the crack house they helped create despite the children living there. With such a shitty city as Gotham, it was no surprise that those below the upper class would find ways such as this to cope.

As you stare at the ground below, something egged at you to jump, to feel some form of freedom. You wanted to feel the air on your skin as you fell to death, a small taste of openness in a suffocating life before it ends.

But you knew that thought was stupid.

Even as you suffocated in your own home, you knew there was something you could do about it. There was something you had and would do.

“What’re you thinking about?”

[kbnyan]

I read ur tim headcanons and omg yessss pls do a one shot for tim trying to flirt and being adorably awkward!! 🙏🙏🙏

it came out more romantic than i intended to. i hope you still enjoy this loverboy Tim nonetheless! :)

while i was writing i listened to this playlist, also this is not proofread :(

Every Breath You Take | Tim Drake x reader

Tim was in love, but that would be an understatement. He was utterly and foolishly in love with you. And right now he was sure he was doing a poor job in hiding his feelings. You were in his new apartment. For someone who is a nepobaby times two, the apartment wasn’t anything “special”. If anything, it was modest at best. Not that there's anything wrong with modest. 

In fact, it felt right. It was smaller than the estate he grew up in or Bruce’s manor, but it just fit, you know? He had barely unpacked, the boxes all around the place scattered and yet it felt like home. Because of you. You, who decided to stay over for the past two days sleeping over on the shitty couch just to keep him company. Because Tim could have faked it all he wanted, but he was not one for silence nor loneliness. Having you so close felt right. It felt like home. 

And right now, he truly was doing a poor job in hiding his feelings. You two were sitting on his bed, he was straddling your lap as you did his makeup. Why? Why not? No reasons in particular. You two just had time to waste and an extra excuse to be together. The room was quiet with the exception of the cars passing on the street every so often and the soft, quiet music he was playing in the background on his laptop. There was not a word from you nor him though, which is making him more agitated. 

His mind is going so fast, trying to decode if you have caught on the fact he has stared at your lips for the 10th time alone in those five minutes. Or the fact he was fidgeting more than usual or even how his breathing was picking up each time slightly more when you got closer to him. Your breath was hot, the minty scent of the mint you ate earlier lingering between you two as your eyes were so focused on his face. He almost felt shy under your intense gaze, the way your eyes were so accurately looking and sculpting him like the finest artwork. 

The brush you were holding gently caresses shades of sparkling pink on his eyelids while your tongue slightly pokes out of your lips in concentration. So kiss me, pretty little bird. His heartbeat sped up and before he could control it, his mouth opened to let out the most foolish nonsense he has ever let out.

“You do know– once a penguin chooses its mate it’s pretty much for life?” why in the fuck did his mouth even say..

“Yeah? I did not know that actually.” you say, your lips curling in a smile as a little laugh leaves your mouth. So sweet.

“Yeah– I mean, it’s pretty cute. Like, maybe you know, we should do like them. Like the penguins I mean.” he says out before he can register what he had just let out. For the love of– he truly was an idiot at times. 

You stayed quiet. Maybe choosing if to ignore what came out of his mouth, laugh or run away. Maybe all three. And he wouldn’t have blamed you if you chose the latter. 

“Tim?” your voice is quiet, interrogative almost.

“Yes?” god he hated how quiet and pathetic he sounded.

“Are– you saying what i mean you’re…” you stop your sentence in half, looking at him with your mouth slightly apart. “I… I am sorry” you muttered quickly.

“Sorry for w–” but his words died on his tongue as your lips touched his. An involuntary moan left his lips at the sensation. He pushes more of his weight on you, making your back touch the mattress as his hands find your cheeks to deepen the kiss. Gentle yet such a hungry kiss.

“You– you’re shit at flirting” your words came out in a pant, your smile soft and teasing, as a small chuckle left your lips. Lips that were still touching his, despite being separated to catch some air.

“I– oh just shut up” he says equally panting, grinning as a fool, as his lips touched yours again and again and again.

And hopefully, for the rest of eternity too.

© GLAMOURSCAT (all rights reserved. do not share, modify, translate and re-upload my work outside of tumblr)

[kbnyan]

Late Night Nuggets With The Bros

Batbro!Reader

Prompt: “McDonald's is open, wanna go get some chicken nuggets?" "It's 3 in the morning." "And?" "Let's go."

Summary: An impromptu 3AM trip to Bat Burger with the Wayne boys? Sure, why not?

Notes: Fluff! Reader is male and uses he/him pronouns. 1.1k words.

How Jason wrangled him into this honestly isn’t much of a mystery. This specific brand of chaos is just something he enjoys. It’s hardly chaos though. It’s more just fun and shenanigans.

So when Jason came into his room in the middle of the night to ask to grab their brothers and go to BatBurger? Absolutely.

Jason doesn’t even bother to knock on Dick’s door, simply just opening it and going right in. He grabs one of the pillows on the bed and whacks Dick with it. Dick wakes with a noise that’s between a shout and groan.

(Y/N) glances around the hallway to make sure no one heard him.

“Jason-“

“And (Y/N).” Jason helpfully adds. Dick glances over at their brother, stepping into the room and closing the door slightly behind him.

“Jason. (Y/N). What’s going on? Are both of you okay?”

“BatBurger is open, wanna go get some chicken nuggets?” He says even though BatBurger is almost always open.

“And fries.” (Y/N) chimes in. Jason nods.

“And fries.” He agrees.

Dick glances at the clock.

“It’s 3 in the morning.”

“And?”

Dick lays there for a second while his brothers wait for a response. He gets up. “Let’s go.” The other two quietly cheer.

“We’re getting Tim too.” Dick’s told as he grabs a hoodie.

“He’s already awake and food would do him good. And we can’t leave Damian out.”

When they arrive at Tim’s door (Y/N) knocks on it before Jason opens it. Lo and behold there is Tim, headphones on, looking at a screen.

(Y/N) walks in and taps the desk, causing Tim to pause what he’s doing to look up at him.

“BatBurger.” Is all he says, gesturing to the other two in the doorway.

Tim just shrugs and turns his stuff off. “Sure.”

“Damian and then we’re leaving.” They all nod in agreement.

Dick takes the lead on this one, gently rousing Damian from his sleep. “Dami.”

Damian grumbles before opening his eyes. “Richard. What is it?”

“We’re going to BatBurger.” It’s then that Damian notices the others. “Do you want to come with or grab you anything?”

Damian’s eyebrows crease as he thinks it over. “If you allow me a moment to get dressed I will be joining you.”

“We’ll be waiting outside your door.”

Quietly the five of them sneak down to the garage, after arguing over what vehicle to use they eventually make their way to Bat Burger.

They spend the ride debating exactly how many nuggets they want (30 was the minimum), how many fries to get (a lot), if they were getting burgers (Damian was getting his veggie burger at least) and milkshakes (Jason and (Y/N) were going to share one, they spent a good 5 minutes going over what flavor to get) and what their excuse was for when they got back, in the scenario they couldn’t sneak back in or got caught (they went out to grab something from one of Jason’s safehouses after Jason woke them up looking for something, meaning they might actually have to grab something for one of his safe houses. Or the store.). Let it be known the Wayne kids were through. Most of the time. Well, at least half of the time.

It’s late so no one is around and cares too much about the five Wayne boys entering the diner. They’ve all been here too. What’s more unusual is how most of them are half in pajamas. When they order all they receive is a raised eyebrow before it’s repeated back to them and confirmed. Jason pulls out a heavy Wayne card.

Tucked into a corner, Tim and Jason are flicking around straw wrappers while Dick and (Y/N) talk, Damian giving his thoughts every now and again.

It’s as uneventful as a meal at this time with them can go. (Y/N) mixes 5 different sauces together and dips a nugget in and attempts to get his brothers to try it. Tim briefly steals his and Jason’s milkshake to dip some fries in. They also ordered two kids meals solely so Dick and Jason could have the toys. And Damian quietly swipes fries from everyone but Dick while Jason does not at all hide that he’s stealing fries from (Y/N) and Dick.

About an hour later they end up at the store. Jason drags them to the toy aisle. Eyeing up some of the toys and grabbing a few. Some for the excuse and some for Lian. And then some are figures of other heroes. Dick grabs a toy and presses into Damian’s hand. Tim’s got something in his hands too.

Jason’s about to show Damian a Magic 8 Ball when (Y/N) grins and walks away.

“What’d yo-“

The others look at (Y/N) who proudly brandishes a Furby.

“Oh god.”

“Bring the cart over. I’m getting a fuck ton of these and putting them in the manor to fuck with Bruce.”

“That,” Jason says as he continues his trend of chaos. “is something I can get behind.” He pushes the cart over, handing Damian the ball. “Ask that thing a question and shake it. You don’t have to say the question out loud.”

“If you’re hiding them in the manor let me help. I don’t want to accidentally find one, or worse, walk down a hall and hear one.” Tim calls while Damian shakes the box.

“You got it Timbo.”

“So now the manor’s going to look and sound haunted?” Dick asks.

“Fuck yeah.” (Y/N) and Jason have at least 5 Furbies in the cart.

“Do you want to modify some of these?”

“Like the ones online or just decorate them?”

“Thinking more along the lines of ripping the sound machine out and add some more sounds. But we can do that too.”

Dick stares at his brothers. “Damian ask the Magic 8 Ball if coming here was a terrible idea, please.”

“The ball says that it is better not to tell you now.”

“Seems like you’re out of luck, Dick. Legos?”

Dick who was woken up at 3AM and now stands in the toy section with all of his brothers, figures he might as well. “Get some for the centers!” Jason yells after them. “Oh fuck we should probably be getting stuff to donate.”

Pausing his inspection of the Furbies (Y/N) looks at the cart. “Do we need another cart?”

“Yeah probably.” They end up with two more and walk out with two and a half carts full of stuff. There’s a few snacks from the stands by checkout thrown in there. Jason makes sure to separate the ones he initially grabbed for Lian.

“Is the excuse that we went out to buy stuff to donate to the centers now?”

“Should we drop them off now?”

Dick glances at the clock. “Alfred would kill us for missing breakfast.”

“Fair point.”

“Alright let’s get going.”

“We gotta make sure Dad doesn’t see the Furbies though. Swing by one of my safe houses at some point. We can drop them off there.”

They can only hope Alfred won’t directly question them about their whereabouts too much or that Bruce sees through them.

[kbnyan]

YOUR WHAT?!

pairing(s): dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, stephanie brown, cassandra cain, kyle rayner, wally west, hal jordan x fem! reader.

summary: their reactions to the "current partner" trend.

a/n: mute Cass you are canon in my heart <3

DICK GRAYSON

[You step backwards from the camera, showing off the outfit you'd coordinated with Dick, trying to prevent yourself from bursting into a fit of giggles as you anticipate his reaction.]

"He wanted us to match, isn't my current boyfriend so cute!" You smile as you watch his reaction through the phone screen.

[The camera zooms in on your boyfriend, who immediately stumbles mid-step like you punched him, as his smile drops into a horrified stare.]

"Current???" He gasps, a hand clutching his heart dramatically. "I’ve met your family. I fold your laundry. I shared my dessert with you last night, willingly!"

You brace your hands on your knees, hunched over as you burst into laughter. You go to speak, but Dick's on a roll.

"No. No, no, no. I’m not some temporary man. I’m not a placeholder! I’m..." He sputters, trying to articulate his point as he waves an acussing finger at you "I'm an endgame boyfriend. The endgame boyfriend!"

He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his back to sulk.

"Aw, is the endgame boyfriend gonna cry?" You hug him from behind, resting your cheek against him.

"Maybe."

[The camera cuts to a sulking Dick, drinking poutily from a mug you bought him earlier that says "#1 Boyfriend." Just managing to pick up his mumbled words.]

"Current boyfriend… ridiculous… I’m soulmate material"

JASON TODD

[You prop your phone up, resting it against your mug to show off your still groggy boyfriend who is currently mid-sip of coffee]

"Breakfast with my current boyfriend."

This instantly catches Jason's attention, making him cough a little as he lowers the mug. "…The current what now?"

"Boyfriend." You beam, as if nothing in the world is wrong.

He squints as you, his coffee long forgotten. "See that's what I thought I heard, current boyfriend, but I must be wrong. What happened to 'ride or die'? What happened to you’re it for me, Jay'? Did I hallucinate all of that?"

"Hon, relax."

But he cuts you off, "No, no, no. See, now I’m wondering if I need to get my duffle bag and my helmet and hit the road. Am I getting replaced? Are you conducting auditions behind my back?"

"Oh, here we go." You mutter under your breath as Jason stands and begins pacing.

"I’m tall, I give the best hugs, I'm rich." He pauses and just when you think he's done he spins to face you. "I read! I literally read books. That's like a dreamboat hobby. What more do you want from me?"

"Babe. It’s a tiktok trend. It’s literally a joke." You giggle.

[You pick up the camera, zooming in on his squinting face as he freezes]

"…I better be the final boyfriend. I swear to God." He grumbles and your heart melts a little.

"You are, honey. You're the last one." You stand, leaning in to kiss him softly.

"Damn right I am. Put that in the caption. Tattoo it on your forehead. I will not be dethroned by some stupid trend." He huffs, but doesn't hesitate to recieve your affection.

TIM DRAKE

[You're leaning against the headboard, Tim resting his face against your stomach, his arms wrapped around your waist as you hold your phone out to the side.]

"Y'all wanted him in more content, so here he is, the current boyfriend."

It takes a few second for your words to register, but when they do he lifts his head to stare at you so quickly he nearly snaps his neck.

"A, wha? ah!" He sputters, his mouth taking even longer to catch on.

"Ah, wha? Lipstick in my Valentino white bag?" You mocked and the glare he threw you was mutinous.

"You're such a bitch."

You raise a brow, "Oh, so we're updating that status to ex-boyfriend?"

"You wouldn't." When you simply stare at him, his face drops a little. tone turning more uncertain, "...would you?"

You let the charade continue for a few more seconds before his deadly puppy eyes do you in and you drop a kiss to his forehead.

"No, baby. Never."

With your confirmation that no, you weren't breaking up with him, the brattiness abruptly returns.

"Ha, knew you didn't have the balls to leave me." He crows, and you roll your eyes, shoving him off you and consequently the bed when he tries to snuggle back into you.

STEPHANIE BROWN

[The video starts selfie style, with you standing behind Steph, still dressed in her fuzzy hello kitty pyjamas, as she pours herself a bowl of cereal.]

"So, here she is, the current girlfriend."

[Stephanie freezes mid-bite, turning to look at the camera in sheer disbelief]

"…Current?" You try not to laugh at her reaction but a few giggles slip out and Steph launches into a tirade.

"CURRENT?! Like I’m a seasonal limited-time offer?! Babe, what is this, a McRib romance?!"

"Would you prefer ‘temporary live-in menace with nice legs’?" you tease.

"Okay first of all, accurate. Second of all, current?! Babe, I’ve already picked our wedding colors. I’ve named our hypothetical cats! I have a whole pinterest board dedicated to our future life together!"

"Steph—"

"CURRENT?!? I'll kick you in the fucking head!" She grouses, forgetting her cereal as she storms off in a dramatic huff.

CASSANDRA CAIN

[You and Cass are cuddled together on the couch surrounded by fluffy pillows and blankets. She smiles softly and leans into your side when she notices the camera.]

"Date night with with my current girlfriend."

You feel the way she stiffens against you and instantly regret your words. The TikTok long forgotten, as you turn your full attention to your girlfriend.

"Hey, love, I didn’t mean it like that. It's a stupid TikTok trend. You’re not just some current flavour of the month, you’re my person. Always."

[Cass blinks, the tiniest smile breaking through her usually serious expression. She reaches out and squeezes your hands softly, before pulling back to sign an "I love you"]

You beam, leaning your forehead against hers, you're stomach erupting into butterflies as you thought about the ring you had hidden inside your pillow.

KYLE RAYNER

[Kyle sits across from you, paintbrush in his hand as he focuses intently on the canvas in front of him.]

"Painting the cats with my current boyfriend, look at him go!" You laughed as he looked up at you with a dopily in love grin, before he registers what you've just said.

"Wait. Current Boyfriend?" His brow furrowed as he put down his brush. "Current boyfriend cause we're gonna get married and then I'll be your husband right? Right?"

He looks like a kicked puppy and you stand, moving around to slide into his lap.

[The phone's discarded on the table but it still records the conversation]

"Yeah, baby, we'll get married." You hum, hokking your arms around his neck.

"Oh, that's good, should I go and get the ring I bought a few months ago then?"

"Kyle?!"

HAL JORDAN

[You’re walking through your apartment, filming, Hal is in the kitchen wearing sweats and an obnoxious tank top that says 'welcome to the gun show.' He's making pancakes while humming something off-key.]

"Fit check with my current boyfriend!"

Hal smirks, turning to face the camera. "Damn right. Look at this—pilot, sexy, short stack master... wait." He squinted, analysing your previous sentence. "Hold on. Back up. Current?"

[You try to keep the camera steady as he turns around fully, eyes squinting like you just told him Batman’s funnier than he is.]

"Current boyfriend?? Excuse me?? I—I live with you. We have two cats together, is that what you're telling our sons I am?"

You practically howl with laughter at his meltdown, "It’s just a trend!"

But it's like he doesn't even hear you, too busy on his warpath. "I fixed the leaky faucet. That’s not ‘current boyfriend’ behavior, that’s husband energy."

[He points dramatically at the pancakes sizzling in the pan.]

"That right there? That’s commitment. That’s ‘I’ll be there in your 80s cutting your meds into quarters’ energy."

[The camera cuts to show you sitting with your face resting against your palm as Hal continues to pace in the background, widly gesticualting.]

"Just a current boyfriend... The betrayal..."

WALLY WEST

[You're sitting on the couch, flipping the camera to show off an unsupecting Wally sitting cross legged on the carpet as he works on constructing the $1000 Lego Millenium Falcon you'd gifted him.]

"Y'all look what a nerd my current boyfriend is."

[Wally pauses. His head turns slowly like a confused golden retriever.]

"...Current?...Current?! Babe. Babe. What do you mean current? Did I miss a breakup?! Are you firing me?! I just bought us matching toothbrushes!”

"Well, technically you are the current one." You tease.

"That makes it sound like there could be a next one! You think you can upgrade from this?" He runs a hand down his body. "Limited edition! No returns!"

"You're right. Nobody wants to take the model back anyway." You snort.

[He clutches his chest like he's been shot, fake-sobbing as he collapses against the carpet.]

"We made a spreadsheet for potential baby names just for fun! What about Wallace junior huh?"

"No child of mine will be named Wallace." You deadpan, humour momentarily forgotten until he suddenly crawls toward you, making it impossible not to laugh.

[He buries his face into your lap, and you burst out laughing, pulling him into a hug while he dramatically clings to you like dead weight.]

[kbnyan]

Wayne Diaries

WARNINGS: this came to me in a dream, geniually a crack fic, for the general plot it follows the story of the reader, who finds out is the child of Bruce and Diana, a drunken one night stand that resulted in her and now she tries to be a part of the family, also Bruce and Selina have twins named Amanda and Martha, two three year olds who run the monor like mafia bosses, also the episodes where they mention their alter egos wouldn't be posted .... that's pretty much it, hope you enjoy it because it is the first fic I have written for them and there will be more in the future hopefully

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You hadn’t known what to expect when Diana led you up the steps of Wayne Manor. You’d met Bruce once—formally. Stiff handshake, brief glance, and the quiet kind of gravity that pulled every room into his orbit. You didn’t know how to look him in the eye for too long without feeling like you were being x-rayed. It had been too hard already to show vulnerability to Diana, the mother you just met two months ago.

Now he was your father, your biological father.

Now you were living in his house. The gates of Wayne Manor loomed ahead, all ornate iron and mystery, as if the building itself had opinions—and none of them were welcoming. You took a breath, squared your shoulders, and reminded yourself: you deserve to be here.

You held your overnight bag like a lifeline as Alfred opened the massive front doors.

"If it helps," he said with a soft, knowing smile, "the rest of them felt this way too."

"Terrified?" you asked.

He inclined his head. "More like quietly bracing for impact."

As he led you through the halls—each one more intimidating than the last—you heard a crash, followed by a shout.

"Damn it, Dick, that was antique!"

"Then it shouldn’t have been in the middle of the cartwheel zone!"

You turned the corner and saw what could only be described as a chaotic gymnastics battle royale. Dick Grayson was mid-flip, Donna Troy held up a scorecard that read “9.2,” and Damian Wayne stood beside her, giving half-hearted commentary into a foam mic with “Wayne Diary” painted on it.

"You’ll want to go slow on the introductions," Alfred said lightly, as if he wasn’t leading you directly into a war zone. “The family can be... enthusiastic.”

"Stick the landing, Donna!" Dick Grayson shouted, standing barefoot on the coffee table.

Donna Troy, who was apparently not above flipping through midair in the middle of a mansion, did a near-perfect roundoff back handspring, skidding to a halt in front of the fireplace. She looked smug.

“Ten out of ten,” Damian said, holding up a cardboard sign scrawled in red Sharpie.

“That’s not even laminated,” Steph complained from behind a tripod.

Tim, seated beside her and carefully adjusting a microphone, looked up and waved a little. “New subject in the frame. Confirming visual. Steph, start rolling again.”

You stood frozen. Damian turned.

“You're new.”

You nodded slowly.

He turned to Steph. “She’s new.”

“I know, I invited her to star in today’s episode.” Steph grinned wickedly and waved her phone like it was a magic wand. "Smile for the first ever crossover of Wayne Diary: Myth Meets Mayhem."

You were still processing that when Jason burst into the room wearing a trench coat, sunglasses, and what you sincerely hoped was a fake mustache. He collapsed onto the couch.

“Abort. Abort the public polling segment. Gotham is unwell.”

“Did you ask the question?” Tim asked.

Jason nodded solemnly. “I asked thirty people if they’d date Bruce Wayne. The answers ranged from ‘absolutely, that man screams damaged billionaire’ to ‘only if he keeps the eyeliner.’”

You turned slowly. “Why would—does he wear eyeliner?”

Cass silently slid past the camera, holding up a makeup palette.

You rubbed your temples. Steph trained the camera on your face.

“On a scale of one to accidentally drinking glitter glue, how overwhelmed are you?”

You sighed. “Somewhere between ‘this is a sitcom’ and ‘I should’ve stayed on the orphanage.’”

Stephanie returned to her position which was being perched on the arm of a couch like a gargoyle, after a solemn nod and warm smile. Tim sat beside her with a headset on and a laptop open, whispering things like, “Okay, if she survives the intro, I say we move to confessionals by lunch.”

You just blinked.

“Welcome to Wayne Diary,” Steph said brightly. “You’re officially part of the content pipeline now.”

“Content—what?”

Before you could protest, you were handed a mug that said “I Survived Wayne Brunch,” shoved onto a beanbag, and positioned under soft lighting.

“Alright,” Steph said. “Question one: are you more terrified of Bruce, Diana, or group dinners?”

You stared at the camera, at the siblings surrounding you, and muttered, “Yes.”

The first official week in the manor was like living in a reality show that refused to tell you the rules.

Your room was larger than any apartment you’d ever seen, but the noise bled through every wall. Somewhere, someone was always arguing, laughing, or accidentally blowing something up in the name of "science" (read: Tim).

You had developed a theory—chaos levels increased exponentially in this household based on the number of Wayne's awake at any given time.

Cass appeared in your doorway silently one morning, handed you a mug that said “World’s Okayest Sister,” and pointed to the living room. You followed.

Cass and Steph had set up an interview corner. They’d hung a soft curtain as a backdrop, adjusted the lighting just so, and were prepping cue cards while Tim fiddled with the sound system.

🎥 Episode Title: "Meet the Myth Baby"

Shot: Close-up of you in front of the fireplace, bundled in a hoodie five sizes too big—possibly Dick’s—looking equal parts tired and overwhelmed.

You: “I don’t even know where they get some of this stuff. Tim asked me how I felt about vengeance. Like, on a scale from ‘meek librarian’ to ‘season two anti-hero.’ I’m just trying to figure out how to turn on the shower without it talking back.”

🎥 Cut to: Jason sipping coffee.

Jason: “She’s cool. A little shell shocked. She has that look I had when I first moved in, like someone switched my blood with espresso and said, ‘Run.’”

🎥 Back to you, wide-eyed.

You: “Someone put a batarang in the cereal box.”

🎥 Steph (off-camera): “That’s Bruce’s love language.”

🎥 Clip: Damian sprints through the hall, your book in hand.

You (chasing him): “Damian, give it back or I swear on God I’ll put Nair in your shampoo!”

It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

You were curled in the library, reading quietly, sunlight pooling over the pages of a rare Themysciran text. Then the air shifted.

Damian appeared in the doorway like a cat with malicious intent.

“I’m borrowing that,” he declared.

“No, you’re not.”

He lunged.

You shrieked and took off after him, shouting colorful curses. He darted past Alfred, who sighed but did not intervene. Past Jason, who immediately started filming.

"Ten bucks says she tackles him before the koi pond."

Tim: “Already betting on chapter titles: ‘Library Larceny Ends in Near Drowning.’”

You finally tackled Damian mid-hallway. The book flew. Cass caught it one-handed.

Donna looked up from her coffee. “Do you all do this daily?”

Cassie: “Hourly.”

🎥 Cut to the twins, Amanda and Martha, in their own ‘segment’ holding juice boxes.

Amanda: “We saw her chase Dami with a sandal.”

Martha: “She said a bad word. Two of them.”

🎥 Back to you in confessional, face in hands.

You: “I’m not a fighter. I’m a reader. I wanted a library card, not a grappling hook.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Operation: Parental Recon”

Cass had stolen Bruce’s calendar.

“Why is that... concerning?” you had asked.

“Because it says ‘dinner with C,’” Tim replied, whispering like you were in a spy movie.

Jason, holding binoculars and wearing a fake mustache, explained: “That’s obviously Selina. Which means they’re on a date. And it is our civic duty to observe and gather intel.”

Cue the worst stakeout in Wayne history. All of you in terrible disguises—Jason wore a neon tracksuit, Cass had a fake baby doll strapped to her chest, Steph tried to pass you off as a foreign exchange student named “Philippa,” and Damian wore a fedora and trench coat two sizes too big.

🎥 Cut to: the group huddled in a car, parked awkwardly across from the restaurant.

Dick: “Do you think she’s gonna propose?”

Cass (writing on a notepad): ‘Selina looked at Bruce and laughed. Record: 2 laughs, 1 almost-smile.’

Steph: “Their server is named Dante. That’s a date name.”

You: “This is absurd.”

🎥 Cut to: Amanda and Martha in the backseat with their faces pressed to the window.

Amanda: “They kissed! Blegh!”

Martha: “Nuh uh. He just did the bat-glare.”

Back at the manor, everyone sat around the dining table watching the raw footage.

Selina: “You filmed my date?”

Jason: “In fairness, you’ve done worse to us.”

Selina: “True. Carry on.”

🎥 Episode Title: “From Mascara to Manor: Is This Real Life?”

You sat in front of the camera, fingers knotted together.

“I didn’t grow up with this. With any of this.” You laughed awkwardly, pushing hair out of your face. “Sometimes I feel like I’m dreaming. Like if I blink too fast, I’ll wake up in a dorm room or something.”

You exhaled slowly.

“I don’t know if I fit. They’re all so loud. So connected. They move around each other like magnets and mess and muscle memory.”

You paused, eyes flickering off-camera.

“But... sometimes I catch them watching me. Not in a creepy way. Just like... they’re waiting. Like they’re trying to make space without saying it out loud.”

You smiled, just a little.

“Maybe I’ll find my place in the noise.”

🎥 Comment pinned by WayneDiaryOfficial: “You already have.”

Dinner was never normal, but tonight was... special.

Yara (off camera): Here we see two very stubborn people trying to parent their long lost child

Dick (also off camera): In this battle of wits who would win as they desperately try to make up for the long lost time

🎥 Shooting like it’s a wild animal documentary

Bruce sat stiffly at the head of the table. Diana sat beside him, her posture regal and her expression unreadable. Amanda and Martha were smearing mashed potatoes on each other.

“I think she needs more structure,” Bruce muttered, glancing at you.

“She has discipline,” Diana replied. “What she needs is freedom. And more protein.”

“I allow freedom.”

“You installed tracking in her shoes.”

Bruce blinked. “Safety protocol.”

Selina sipped her wine across from them. “You’re both wrong. She needs a punching bag, a decent therapist, and a new pair of boots.”

Steph: “That’s a blog title if I’ve ever heard one.”

Amanda threw a pea. It hit Tim square in the forehead.

“Why do they have better aim than me?” he whispered.

Selina deadpanned: “Genetics, honey.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Vigilante Thirst Traps & Fishbowl Dares”

One morning you woke up to find Steph and Tim knocking urgently.

“Emergency filming. No time to explain.”

You were half-dragged downstairs where a table had been set up. In the center: a fishbowl filled with folded papers.

“Wayne Diary: Lightning Round,” Steph announced. “Each paper is a challenge. You read it, you do it.”

You pulled the first one: “Dramatically re-enact Alfred scolding Bruce in Shakespearean style.”

You stood tall. “Master Wayne, wherefore dost thou insist on brooding in shadows, clad in cape and consequence?!”

Cass clapped. Tim cried actual tears.

Jason pulled: “Ask strangers what they’d name Bruce’s next child.”

Twenty minutes later, you were all in the park.

“Sir,” Jason asked, “if Bruce Wayne had yet another child, what should their name be?”

The man answered, deadpan, “Regret.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Jason Todd vs. The Streets of Gotham (and Loses)”

“Okay,” Steph said, pressing record, her grin borderline villainous. “New episode. Jason goes undercover to ask Gotham citizens the real questions. Since you all liked the last one so much, we simply had to deliver.”

Jason adjusted his oversized trench coat and dollar-store sunglasses. “I feel like I’m about to get arrested and develop trust issues.”

“Lean into the chaos,” Tim said from behind the camera. “Now go ask strangers if they’d date our dad.”

Jason blinked. “This family needs therapy.”

🎬 Cut to: Jason approaching a woman outside a bakery.

Jason: “Excuse me, would you date Bruce Wayne?”

The woman looked him up and down. “If he came with a dog.”

Jason perked up. “Like Ace?”

She shook her head. “No, like a golden retriever. Something emotionally available.”

🎬 Cut to: Jason interviewing a guy holding a skateboard.

Jason: “Bruce Wayne. Date or ditch?”

The guy smirked. “Ditch. Too broody. I’d date Nightwing, though. Have you seen those glutes?”

Jason stared into the camera like it had betrayed him.

🎬 Cut to: a goth teen with black lipstick.

Jason: “Thoughts on Bruce Wayne?”

Goth teen: “He looks like he eats cold steak for breakfast and listens to Gregorian chants in the shower.”

Jason: “He does.”

🎬 Jason to an old man in a park.

Old Man: “Bruce Wayne? I thought he was a vampire. Still looks 35.”

Jason: (sighs) “You’re not wrong.”

🎬 Cut to: Jason trudging home, trench coat flapping dramatically, narration playing over the footage.

Jason (V.O.): “Today I learned Gotham has opinions. And those opinions are brutal.”

🎬 Back at the manor. Everyone is gathered around the couch, watching the footage on the big screen.

You’re half-sprawled across the couch with a bowl of popcorn. Amanda and Martha are using Damian’s head as a footrest. He’s too distracted laughing to protest.

Bruce, standing with arms crossed, watches silently.

Jason groans. “I have been emotionally destroyed by ten strangers, a senior citizen, and a goth with better eyeliner than me.”

“Speaking of eyeliner,” Bruce mutters, eyes narrowing. “Why am I always wearing it in these clips?”

Cass held up a sparkly eyeshadow palette triumphantly. “Aesthetic.”

Tim chimed in, “Technically it’s ‘Wayne Diary Visual Cohesion Protocol #3: Everyone Looks Hot, Even Dad.’”

Selina, sipping wine, leaned back with a smug grin. “It’s called branding, darling. You're lucky Cass didn't give you highlighter too.”

Bruce turned slowly to Cass.

Cass blinked innocently.

Jason waved toward the screen. “The Nightwing glutes guy will haunt me for life.”

Dick, casually flexing beside the fridge: “I mean, he’s not wrong.”

Stephanie cackled. “You’re never recovering from this, Jay.”

“I want a refund on this family,” Jason said dramatically. “Where’s the customer service number?”

You threw a pillow at his head. “It's the Bat-Signal.”

🎥 Bonus Segment: Watching Vigilante Thirst Traps

The idea had seemed innocent enough. Maybe even fun.

You, Tim, and Steph were reviewing video ideas when the concept came up: Reacting to vigilante thirst traps. It was framed as satire. Analysis. Research.

It was a disaster.

Cassie Sandsmark had joined for this one, parked beside you with popcorn while Donna stood behind the couch laughing uncontrollably.

"Okay, first up," Steph said, playing the first clip. “Nightwing.”

Dick swung through the rain, shirtless, backlit by the Gotham skyline. Dramatic orchestral music swelled.

“Artistic!” Dick shouted from across the room.

Cass wrote something in a little notebook and showed it to you. It read: 9/10. Rain adds dramatic tension.

Next came Red Hood, slow-motion walking through an explosion.

Jason: “Hell yeah.”

Cass: 8.5/10. No helmet = more face time.

Selina strolled by, picked up a cracker, and said, “You’re lucky. Your mom would never let me do this with Diana’s footage.”

Donna: “You tried?”

Selina: “She caught me. Lassoed me. Long story.”

Bruce (walking by): “You’re all grounded.”

🎥 Five minutes later (Spongebob meme voice)

“You guys,” he said. “You GUYS. I just found something… cursed.”

Tim squinted. “Worse than that ‘Gotham’s Got Talent’ clip of Dick trying to backflip while holding a mic?”

“Worse,” Jason said gravely, casting the video to the big screen.

The title alone made your stomach twist: “BatDaddy Energy | Gotham’s Dark Snack 💦🦇🔥”

Steph: “No. No. No—”

Too late. The video played.

It was a 30-second fan edit. Batman landing dramatically on a rooftop. Slow-motion cape billows. Close-ups of his jawline under moody lighting. That one shot where rain streamed down his cowl, making him look like a shampoo commercial for trauma.

Set to some deeply questionable music—low bass, breathy vocals, and moans in the background.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, clutching a pillow to your face.

Cass actually recoiled.

Damian made a strangled sound. “Whoever made this belongs in Arkham.”

Dick walked in just as the beat dropped and a slow zoom on Bruce’s rear filled the screen.

“Why do I hear boss music—oh GOD,” he gagged.

Martha toddled in with Amanda behind her. They stopped mid-run.

Amanda blinked. “Is that... Daddy?”

Martha frowned. “Why is he sad-sexy?”

The room fell into pure chaos.

Steph dropped her phone like it burned her. “I’m getting bleach. For my eyes.”

Tim stood, dramatically unplugging the screen. “Society is broken. There is no redemption.”

Jason was on the floor wheezing. “Dark snack! Who let them say that?!”

Cass, blinking slowly, held up her notepad: ‘Therapy. Gotham needs therapy.’

You, clutching your stomach from laughter and horror, managed: “The comments are worse. Someone said they wanted to be ‘grappled like a criminal.’”

Dick flinched. “No. Absolutely not. I'm done. I’m moving to Blüdhaven and changing my name.”

In the corner, Damian was furiously typing on his tablet. “I am tracking the IP address of this monstrosity and reporting them for war crimes.”

Selina peeked into the room, coffee in hand. “Did you find the video?”

Jason pointed at her. “YOU KNEW?!”

She shrugged, sipping. “I have fan edits too. Way better lighting.”

Bruce walked in just then, perfectly timing his dramatic entrances as always. “Why is the living room in an uproar?”

Everyone fell silent.

Martha, very seriously, turned to him. “Daddy... are you a snack?”

Bruce stared at her. Then on the screen. Then to all of you.

He turned around and walked out without a word.

Jason fell over laughing again. “HE SAID NOTHING. NOTHING. HE ACCEPTED IT.”

Steph, red-faced from laughing, muttered, “This better go in the Wayne Diary: Trauma Dump Edition.”

🎥 Episode Title: “What Do You MEAN You Used to Be a Spy?!”

It started like any normal Thursday—if normal Thursdays involved balancing a toddler on your hip while Steph tried to teach the twins how to do a TikTok dance and Tim muttered about shadowbanning.

Then Alfred walked in with tea.

“Alfred,” you said sweetly, “how do you stay so calm?”

He poured tea into your cup. “Well, I once disarmed a nuclear warhead using only a bobby pin and a dead man’s watch, so your sibling drama rarely registers.”

You blinked. “You what?”

Jason froze mid-dance. “Repeat that.”

“Oh, yes. That was in Budapest. Or was it Marseilles?”

Cassie leaned over. “You disarmed a bomb?”

“Not just a bomb,” Alfred corrected. “A diplomatic incident. Also a tiger. Long story.”

Everyone stared.

Dick: “You’re telling me you’ve had more near-death experiences than Bruce?”

Alfred smiled kindly. “Child, I trained him.”

Steph whispered, “He’s cooler than all of us.”

Amanda clapped. “Alfie is a ninja!”

“Please,” Alfred said, exiting the room. “I was MI-6. Ninjas have better PR.”

You looked into the camera, stunned. “We need a spin-off.”

🎥 Cut to: a logo idea sketched by the twins that read: ‘Alfred: Gentleman of Shadows.’

The camera turned on mid-commotion.

Steph was holding the mic upside down, Tim was adjusting the lighting with scientific intensity, and you were on the couch nursing a mug of tea Alfred had brought in ten minutes ago.

“Alright,” Jason said, sitting backwards in a chair like a troubled substitute teacher. “Today’s theme: Alfred tells us something wild and pretends it’s normal.”

You blinked. “That’s... a theme?”

“It’s a lifestyle,” Dick said, entering with a tray of cookies. “Alfred has lore, and it’s terrifying.”

Tim raised a finger. “Remember when he casually said he used to fence with royalty in his youth, and none of us questioned it?”

“Or when he mentioned being shot in the leg in 1974 but still baked a soufflé?”

You looked toward the kitchen, where Alfred was calmly dusting powdered sugar on pastries.

“Wait, we’re filming this without asking him?”

“Oh, he knows,” Cass said from her perch on the back of the couch. “He always knows.”

And then, like a storm in a tuxedo, Alfred entered the room with a fresh pot of tea.

“Ah,” he said, “the children have gathered to procrastinate productively.”

Steph turned the camera toward him. “Alfred, what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

He didn’t blink. “Define ‘craziest.’”

“You pick,” Jason said, crossing his arms.

Alfred poured tea with perfect calm. “Well. There was the time I impersonated a dead Russian diplomat to smuggle classified information out of Geneva.”

You choked on your tea. “I’m sorry—what?!”

“Oh yes,” he continued. “Quite the mess. Had to fake a limp and everything.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “You’ve never told me this.”

Alfred offered him a cookie. “Because, Master Damian, I knew you would attempt to recreate it for sport.”

Tim had stopped breathing.

Jason leaned forward. “Please. What else.”

“Well, there was also the time Master Bruce disappeared in the Himalayas, and I had to arm-wrestle a monk to retrieve him.”

Bruce—who had just walked into the room unnoticed—froze mid-step.

“That never happened,” Bruce said stiffly.

Alfred sipped his tea. “Then where did I get the bruise, Master Wayne?”

Steph was vibrating with excitement. “We need flashbacks. Can we do flashbacks? Dramatic re-enactments?”

Cass raised a hand, deadpan. “I’ll be the monk.”

Amanda peeked in from behind the doorway. “What’s a Himalaya?”

Martha followed. “Is it where Daddy gets sad and disappears?”

Bruce turned to leave.

“Again.” Jason snorted.

But Alfred wasn’t done.

“Oh, and then there was the time I buried a safe house in Prague beneath a fake antique shop. Very convincing work. I believe Interpol is still baffled.”

Tim finally broke. “YOU BUILT A WHAT?”

“I was bored. And the wine cellar was lacking.”

You couldn’t breathe. “Alfred. Have you considered writing a memoir?”

“I have,” he replied. “But I fear it would be classified as fantasy fiction.”

Steph clutched the camera. “This is the best episode we’ve ever done. I’m naming it Alfred: The Lore Files.”

Jason turned toward you. “Okay. Top ten facts. Go.”

You raised a finger. “One, Alfred could kill us all and no one would suspect him.���

Cass: “Two, he’s probably already done that. Temporarily.”

Tim: “Three, he casually manipulated the stock market once.”

Alfred looked mildly pleased. “That was a good quarter.”

Dick: “Four, he’s the only person who can yell at Bruce and survive.”

Bruce sighed loudly in the hallway.

“Five,” Steph added, “he has royal tea gossip and refuses to spill it unless we’re bleeding.”

Jason nodded solemnly. “Six, he once stared a hitman into changing careers.”

“Seven,” you whispered, “he never trips over Legos. Ever.”

Martha walked in with a crayon drawing. “Uncle Alfie’s magic.”

“Indeed,” he said, taking it gently. “And magically immune to nonsense. Now go draw the Manor without adding a disco ball.”

Everyone watched him leave in awe.

“Was that—” Tim whispered. “Was that... the best episode ever?”

Steph hit stop on the recording. “We’re putting this one behind a paywall. Alfred content is premium.”

You stared at the now-empty hallway.

“I’m scared to ask what he did before becoming a butler.”

Jason grinned. “A menace. Clearly.”

And as the episode faded to black, Cass held up a sign she’d written in bold Sharpie:

“THE BATFAMILY FEARS ONE MAN — AND HE SERVES THEM SCONES.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Who Gets the Rose? (And the Batmobile)”

The living room no longer resembled a place for human habitation. Furniture had been shoved to the walls. Fairy lights tangled with batarangs dangled from the ceiling. The fireplace blazed, illuminating a very suspicious red carpet rolled out across the floor.

“Tell me again why this is happening?” you asked, leaning over the kitchen island, munching an apple with a vague sense of dread.

“Because Bruce hasn’t emotionally engaged with a woman onscreen in years,” Steph replied, clapping a headset onto her ears as she adjusted the tripod. “We’re doing the world a service.”

“Also because Jason has a tux and no shame,” added Tim, already wiring a mic into Jason’s lapel.

Jason grinned at the camera and struck a pose. “Tonight on Bat-Bachelor, we take Gotham’s most emotionally unavailable billionaire and pair him with the city’s most dramatic disasters. Who will win the key to his armored heart?”

From stage left (aka the hallway), Dick entered in a synthetic wig that belonged in a dumpster fire, tottering in heels he absolutely couldn’t walk in.

“I’m Veronica Steele,” he purred, striking a pose. “I’m mysterious, emotionally guarded, and I bake. Brownies that could kill a man.”

“I want her to win,” Steph whispered, almost reverently. Donna and Cassie provide color commentary: “He looked at her once in 2006. That’s basically marriage.”

Next came Cass, gliding in like a silent knife in the dark. She said nothing. Simply placed a single dagger on the coffee table, stared at Jason for ten seconds, then vanished behind the curtain again.

“Her name is Knife Girl,” Tim narrated. “Her love language is smoke bombs.”

You nearly choked on your apple.

“Next up,” Jason continued, “we have Charles Charming.”

Tim, dressed like a trust-fund magician, walked in with a cat plushie and winked. “I bring quiet nights, shared secrets, and a strict skincare routine.”

Donna entered last in a long gold dress and combat boots. “I’m not here to win. I’m here to make them all lose.”

The final rose ceremony began, with Jason dramatically holding up a plastic flower.

“Bachelor Bruce,” he intoned. “Who will you choose?”

That’s when Bruce walked into the room.

He blinked. He stared.

Dick was mid-wink, one heel kicked off. Tim was holding up the cat plush like it was Simba. Cass was halfway through rappelling down the stairwell for dramatic effect. Jason had just declared, “Tonight, we choose love... or vengeance.”

Bruce took in the scene, exhaled slowly, and asked, “Why is Dick in a wig and heels?”

Cass, from above, whispered: “Commitment.”

Without another word, Bruce turned and walked out.

Steph yelled, “ROLL CREDITS!”

🎥 Episode Title: “Hero or Himbo: The Identity Crisis Special”

The rules were simple. Steph held up a cue card that read: “Rate the vigilante footage: Hero or Himbo?”

You sat with Donna and Tim, each holding a red buzzer. A screen flickered behind you with clips queued by Alfred (unwillingly, but efficiently).

First clip: Nightwing mid-backflip in low lighting, slow-mo sparkles added by Steph.

“Hero,” Tim said immediately.

“Himbo,” you countered.

“Himbo,” Donna agreed. “That’s a showboater’s flip.”

Clip two: Red Hood leaning on his bike, helmet off, hair tousled like a shampoo commercial.

Cass buzzed in: “Hero.”

Jason appeared behind the couch. “Why is this in here?!”

Steph: “Because it got 200k views in 3 hours.”

Jason: “I was posing for intimidation.”

Steph: “Intimidating... to your fan club.”

Clip three: Wonder Woman in full armor, sword catching sunlight, walking out of flames like an apocalypse made pretty.

The room fell silent.

You slowly reached over and turned off your buzzer. “...That’s my mom.”

“New category,” Steph said, typing it on screen. “INTIMIDATING GODDESS.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Cat Class 101”

“Today’s challenge,” Selina announced, looking regal in black satin and diamond-studded earrings, “is theft.”

Everyone turned to look at her.

You raised an eyebrow. “Of what?”

She smiled. “Bruce’s favorite pen.”

“The silver one?” Damian asked.

“The one he locks in a drawer with a retinal scanner.”

The entire room collectively groaned.

“Why does he even have that?” you muttered.

Steph: “We don’t ask questions here.”

Cue training montage:

You’re all in cat ears.

Jason tiptoeing in socks.

Tim building a laser map on a tablet.

You, crawling across a marble floor whispering, “This is beneath me.”

“That pen is locked behind a biometric scanner and a drawer with titanium alloy.”

“Exactly,” Selina said, tossing you velvet gloves. “Class is in session.”

Jason tried crawling through an air vent and got stuck.

Cass knocked out three motion sensors with hairpins.

Tim hacked the scanner. “He added a heartbeat verification system?!”

Meanwhile, you baited Bruce with a fake ‘Gotham Times’ article about a stolen WayneTech prototype. As he read, Amanda walked in with her crayon drawing.

“Look, Daddy! Mommy’s punching an alien!”

He smiled faintly. That was your cue.

You slid beneath the desk, retrieved the pen, and replaced it with a carrot.

Later that night, Bruce stared at the carrot in silence.

Selina, sipping wine nearby, said, “She’s good, isn’t she?”

He didn’t respond. Just reached into a drawer behind a hidden panel.

“New pen,” he muttered. “More lasers.”

🎥 Episode Title: “Law & Disorder”

“Court is now in session!” Steph yelled, slamming a spoon against a mixing bowl before dramatically swinging a robe over her shoulders..

Cass stood silently by a projector screen with one message typed out: ‘Someone deleted my dance video. Vengeance shall be mine.’

“Objection!” Jason shouted.

“You don’t know what that means,” Tim replied.

“You don’t know me.”

Donna: “Why are you the judge?”

“Because I have the best robe.”

Cass wrote on a whiteboard: ‘It was my best routine.’

Everyone gasped.

Dick : “It was such a good routine!”

Alfred brought in tea. “Should I also bring the polygraph?”

“I can rig one!” Tim offered.

You brought out the evidence: a screenshot of the deletion time. 3:04 a.m.

Jason waved a chili-stained oven mitt. “I was cooking. Google ‘exploding crockpot fix.’”

“I did,” you said. “It was the next tab over from ‘how to delete cloud videos.’”

Dick cracked and collapsed dramatically. “IT WAS ME! I was trying to make a remix and deleted the master file! I FAILED CASS!”

Cass walked over, gave him a silent hug.

Then she turned and wrote on the board: ‘Retribution postponed.’

Steph banged her spoon again. “Court dismissed. But I’ll see you all next week for the case of Damian vs. The Lego Fire.’”

🎥 Episode Title: “Rated T for Therapy”

The camera zoomed in on Steph, who was sitting in the Batcave with a gleam in her eyes, and Tim, who looked just as evil but with a knowing, mischievous smirk.

"Alright, Batkids," Steph said, flipping through a thick binder labeled ‘Fanfic That Haunts Us’, “Tonight’s episode is about to get real uncomfortable. We're diving into the depths of the internet’s most dramatic, absurd, and confusing fanfiction.”

Steph dumped a stack of printed fanfiction on the table.

Jason: “Absolutely not.”

You picked one up and read aloud. “’Red Hood smirked, pulling her into his arms. ‘I kill for you,’ he growled.’”

Tim whispered, “Oh my god.”

Dick nodded solemnly. “I’ve read that one. It gets worse. There's a musical number.”

“Where did you even find these?” Jason asked suspiciously, sitting in the corner, clearly bracing himself for whatever horror was coming his way.

Tim tapped his tablet with exaggerated smugness. “Don’t worry, Red Hood. I made sure to find ones specifically about each of you.”

Jason paled. “Please tell me you didn’t—”

“Too late!” Steph announced dramatically. “We’re starting with you, Jay.”

Jason shot to his feet. “No. No way. I’m not doing this.”

Steph grinned. “You’re reading it aloud. Deal with it.”

She handed him a sheet of paper, and the camera zoomed in on the title: "The Vampire Barista’s Dark Brew." Jason immediately buried his face in his hands.

“I can’t… I can’t believe this exists,” he muttered.

Steph read aloud the opening line in a mocking voice: “‘The dimly lit café smelled of espresso and danger, but no one knew that the barista behind the counter was more than just a coffee expert. He was a creature of the night. A vampire, with an addiction to both blood and caffeine.’”

Jason was absolutely mortified. “I’m not doing this.”

“Too bad,” Tim said. “You’re up.”

Jason sighed dramatically, snatched the paper, and began reading, his voice dropping into the deep, brooding tone of someone who could only be described as trying too hard:

"‘The vampire barista wiped his hands on his apron, his fangs gleaming as he leaned forward. ‘Do you want the usual, or something... darker?’ he asked, his voice a low, delicious growl. The woman at the counter shivered, but not from the cold. ‘I’ll have the blood latte,’ she whispered, her voice barely audible over the steam of the espresso machine.’”

Everyone burst out laughing. Even Bruce cracked a smile behind his stoic mask.

Jason, red-faced, pushed through the increasingly ridiculous lines, each one more cringeworthy than the last. Finally, he dropped the paper with a loud sigh. “I’m done. Someone else take over.”

Steph threw her head back in laughter. “Next!”

Dick and Donna sat together, looking incredibly uncomfortable. "Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this?" Dick asked, eyeing the fanfic Steph handed him with suspicion.

“Oh, you will,” Tim said, tapping the tablet like a villain plotting doom.

The title read: “The Forbidden Circus Romance: Night of the Highwire Lovers.”

Dick read the first line aloud with dramatic flair, immediately sounding like he was taking himself way too seriously: “‘The circus was in town again, and with it, the air was thick with both magic and danger. The acrobat and the ringmaster locked eyes from across the tent, the chemistry undeniable, but forbidden. They were from two worlds that could never collide. Or could they?’”

Donna snorted. “Oh no.”

Dick continued, dramatically flipping through the pages. “'Their forbidden love burned like a firecracker in the night sky, hot, fast, and dangerously beautiful. The crowd roared, but the acrobat’s heart beat only for him—the daring ringmaster who had promised to teach her to fly... and never let her fall.'”

Donna bit her lip to stop from laughing. “Is this… is this a romance or a trapeze act gone wrong?”

Dick, trying to maintain his dignity, read another excerpt: “‘As the acrobat twirled high above the audience, the ringmaster watched with a longing that could never be fulfilled. He knew that if she fell, he would never be able to catch her... but that didn’t stop him from reaching for her anyway.’”

Donna and Dick locked eyes. “I’m regretting everything,” Dick said under his breath. “But also, that’s kind of beautiful?”

“It’s definitely dramatic,” Donna replied.

The group erupted into laughter, and even Dick couldn’t help but chuckle. “I swear, if anyone ever writes this about me in real life, I’ll leave Gotham.”

Bruce was up next. He wasn’t thrilled to be part of this, but Steph gave him a look that said, ‘You’re reading this, and you’re doing it dramatically.’

He cleared his throat and adjusted the paper. Everyone leaned forward in anticipation.

The title was unassuming. “Alfred’s Perfect Day: The Fluff Chronicles.”

Steph squinted. “This is… is this even fanfiction?”

Tim shook his head. “Apparently, Bruce has a softer side.”

Bruce stared at the first line, his voice barely above a whisper. “‘It was a quiet Sunday afternoon in Wayne Manor, the only sounds the occasional hum of the grandfather clock and the soft rustle of pages turning. Alfred was at peace, sipping tea in his favorite armchair, when a familiar voice broke the silence. ‘You seem content, Alfred,’ Bruce Wayne said, stepping into the room.’”

Everyone was staring at Bruce. “Uh… is this… is this your ideal Sunday?” you asked, genuinely curious.

Bruce didn’t even respond, continuing with the story. “‘Alfred smiled, his eyes twinkling behind the rim of his glasses. ‘I am, Master Bruce. There is nothing quite like a quiet afternoon with good tea and company.’”

“I didn’t write this,” Bruce muttered.

“Of course you didn’t,” Steph said, stifling a laugh. “But the family fluff is strong in this one.”

Bruce read on. “‘Master Bruce took a seat next to him, the warmth of the sun from the windows casting a soft glow over both men. ‘I’ve been meaning to thank you, Alfred,’ Bruce said quietly. ‘For everything you’ve done for this family.’”

You blinked. “Oh no. Wait. Everyone’s going to cry, aren’t we?”

And they did. By the time Bruce finished the story, everyone had something in their eye. Even Damian was wiping a stray tear from his cheek, trying to pretend it wasn’t happening.

“That was…” Donna started, voice cracking slightly. “Beautiful.”

Jason sniffed. “Are we going to do something about this vampire barista situation, though?”

“You can never unhear that,” Tim said, shaking his head.

Steph hit the button to stop the recording. “Best. Episode. Ever.”

Bruce set the paper down with a quiet sigh. “I’m still questioning my life choices.”

Alfred, who had walked in quietly, overheard and gave a knowing smile.

“You’re not the only one, Master Bruce,” he said, voice rich with amusement. “You’re certainly not the only one.”

Your eyes scanned another. “Why am I described as ‘a storm in silk and steel, doomed to ruin mortal men’?”

Steph: “Because the author gets you.”

Cass held up one tagged: ‘Enemies to Lovers—Nightwing x Reader x Red Hood.’

Jason: “WE’RE RELATED.”

Then Diana walked in.

She read one paragraph, paused, and calmly took the laptop.

“I’ll be speaking to their mother.”

Steph screamed: “NOOOOOOOOO!”

Everyone dived after her as Diana left the room.

🎥 Episode Title: “Can’t Stand the Heat”

The challenge: make Alfred eat your food without judging you aloud.

You were paired with Tim. Five minutes in, he set a pasta pot on fire.

“WHY IS IT ON FIRE?” you screamed.

“I DON’T KNOW, IT’S WATER.”

Jason and Steph went full spicy. Jason added a hot sauce labeled ‘Lazarus Heat.’

Damian and Cass made perfect dumplings, quietly plating them with precision. You suspected witchcraft.

Amanda and Martha made a cake with so much frosting it was a structural hazard. Shaped like the Bat-Signal. With gummy bats.

Bruce tried one bite of each. His expression didn’t change. You thought maybe he died mid-taste test.

Alfred took one bite of Cass and Damian’s dish.

“Acceptable,” he said.

Cheers erupted. Cass bowed. Damian nodded like a samurai who’d just won a duel.

You and Tim looked at your charred noodles.

“We tried,” you said.

“No, we didn’t,” Tim replied.

🎥 Episode Title: “Ghost Protocol”

It started as a prank. Tim uploaded spooky ghost sounds into the Manor’s speaker system. Steph set up glowing sheets to fall from chandeliers at random intervals.

“I give it two hours before someone cries,” Jason said, sipping cocoa.

Cass, face painted like a skeleton, hid behind curtains whispering “Join usssss.”

You set up a ‘mysterious’ shadow to walk by Bruce’s study. Amanda and Martha insisted the manor was haunted by a cat ghost named Meowsephine.

Selina fully committed: black candles, ouija board, and a crystal cat figurine.

Bruce finally snapped the breaker.

“Go to bed.”

Then the suit of armor moved.

Amanda screamed. “GHOST!”

Alfred appeared behind you. “Oh, that’s Gregory.”

Everyone: “...Gregory?”

“He’s haunted. But very polite.”

No one slept that night.

🎥 Episode Title: “The Breakdown Round”

Steph turned to the camera. “Welcome to sixty seconds of vulnerability. You’re not allowed to make fun of anyone until after the cookies.”

Tim went first. “I haven’t slept properly since I was 15. Sometimes I pretend to nap just so people stop asking.”

Jason: “I once ate an entire cheesecake alone on the roof. Blamed it on Tim. Felt no guilt.”

Cass held up a sign: ‘I don’t talk much because people fill silence with their worst thoughts. I like to leave them room to surprise me.’

Dick danced across the floor "I would have been the world's greatest gymnast, I just know it."

Damian: “I’m not cute. I am FEARSOME.”

You hesitated. Then, “Sometimes... I miss not knowing. I miss being just a girl. I didn’t grow up with all of this, and some days, I wish I could go back. But then I see all of you, and... I wouldn’t trade it. Not even for a quiet life.”

Silence fell.

Alfred entered with cookies and tea. “Your parents love you. Even when you’re insufferable.”

Everyone got up and hugged him.

Even Damian. Especially Damian.

And the camera caught it all.

Fade to black.

Your room was a mess of lighting cables, half-drunk tea, and a dry-erase board covered in blog ideas. Amanda and Martha had colored a “Wayne Diary” logo on your wall with crayons.

You stared at your reflection.

You didn’t look like her yet. Like the daughter of legends.

But when you walked into the chaos of the manor—past Jason play-wrestling with Damian, past Tim frantically uploading a new episode, past Dick teaching flips to the twins while Donna rated his form—you didn’t feel invisible anymore.Somewhere between sword fights in the foyer and Cass teaching Amanda and Martha how to somersault through laser traps, you realized you weren’t surviving this family. You were becoming part of it.

One night, Martha climbed into your lap holding a glittery card that said, in shaky marker: “You are our hero.”

You felt real.

You helped Steph and Tim edit Wayne Diary episodes. You designed a logo. You started answering fan comments anonymously—sometimes with your own memes.

And when you sat on the couch, mug in hand, and smiled for the camera as Steph said, “Welcome back to Wayne Diary,” you believed it.

Even in the madness.

Especially in the madness.

[kbnyan]

[ snow day. ]

the snow hasn't let up since morning broke, pressing against the windows and muting the world in that odd winter stillness that makes everything feel too far away. you're not sure how long you've been on the couch; hours, maybe.

kon's legs are spread enough for you to be between them, one bent against the back cushions and the other dangling over the edge. bart is unceremoniously sprawled over you, trapping you between them with a dead weight that feels like gravity itself was tired.

nobody's moved much. bart tried once. he pushed himself up, mumbled something about snacks then dropped face first into your collar, pressing kisses along the bone like it made up for the lack of carbs. he hasn't tried again. you didn't even have the energy to tease him.

every now and then, he shifts and his eyes flutter open like he's surprised he dozed off for the millionth time, then sighs and settles back in. kon's warm, as he always, and hasn't had a reason to attempt leaving the safety of the couch cocoon.

it's not quiet, not really - but when is it ever?

bart hums every now and then; aimless, unknown little tunes that drift into mumbles followed by soft breathing. kon keeps sighing like he wants to say something but can't seem to find any words. you tilt your head to kiss his jaw once, just to see what he'll do and he hums in response before kissing your crown without even opening his eyes.

bart makes a pleased noise as he watches the exchanged through barely open eyes and shifts again. he collects your hand to mouth lazily at your wrist to add his own affections.

there's no conversation. no phone screens, no movie playing in the background, and no comms going off to ruin your day. just the white noise of the heater and the way bart's fingers trace patterns on kon's thigh, even though he's struggling to stay awake.

every few minutes, someone shifts just enough to kiss someone else. foreheads, stomachs, mouths, the curve of a shoulder or a palm, like it's just part of breathing now. like affection is the only language between the three of you.

you don't remember falling asleep. you remember the warmth, the weight and kon's voice at some point - low and edged with that husky roughness only caused by sleep - mumbling to you: "don' move, babe… he just got comfortable."

your eyes crack open just enough to look at the sleeping speedster. bart had shifted down enough to barely be visible under the blanket, arms crossed and resting over your thighs. you just smile and close your eyes again.

[kbnyan]

[ excuse me? ] + not rated, but uses the term tits.

it had been a day. one of those soul sucking, head throbbing, everything has gone wrong, need a voluntary coma kind of days. the kind of day where even breathing felt like too much effort, like you may just give out with every inhale. somewhere in the middle of trying to survive it, through the missed bus, the passive aggressive emails, shitty customers, spilled coffee, that one unavoidable puddle, the weird guy on the street who definitely called you something that classified as a slur - you made a very important, life changing decision:

you were going to bury your face in kon's absurdly perfect chest and simply cease to exist for a while. pretend the day never happened. pretend the world around didn't even matter.

by the time you reach the compound, still half vibrating with rage and not an ounce of willpower left in your body, you don't even register the ability to hesitate.

you find him in the rec room, slouched back on the couch, watching some ridiculous sitcom rerun. he doesn't register you being in the room until you're in front of him, glaring like his comfortable existence has offended you as a whole, just by breathing.

"hey-" kon starts, brows drawing together in that effortlessly confused, pretty boy way of his. it makes the rage boil hotter in your veins and you can't even name why. maybe it's because he looked so.. laid back. like the world didn't even register to him. you knew that wasn't true, but he'd always been good at hiding things.

you cut him off with a sigh that sounds like it came from the depths of your fucking soul before shaking your head. "no. don't talk. i don't want to hear your voice. please."

"…okay..?"

you could hear the breathed out "hurtful" that followed but you didn't acknowledge it.

"i need to," you say, voice heavy, dramatic, annoyed beyond belief, as you nudge his knees apart to step between them and jab a finger a bit hard into his pec like it personally owes you the comfort, "drown in your tits."

he blinks a few times like he's processing each word separately while also still taking in the fact you just pushed yourself between his legs like you belonged there. his lips parted for a second before any words came out; "..excuse me?"

your hand just flattens against his chest before curling a bit. you lean closer to him, fingers pressing into all that ridiculous, infuriating, shirt straining muscle that has you almost at a complete loss. "kon. i'm not kidding. i need to go full face first into your chest. like. suffocate. just for a little while. it'll heal me. restore the part of my fucking soul that's somewhere out in the city."

kon stares at you, and you stare back.

he opens his mouth again, probably to make a joke because it's kon and he can't help himself, but you glare, and the joke dies in his throat. he clears his throat, shifting a bit. "are you.. okay?" he asks instead, voice a bit softer.

you shake your head again, lip beginning to wobble. "i'm exhausted. i'm gross. i am a burnt out, emotionally flammable gremlin that hasn't eaten. i slept like shit, started my day with tim in my ear and you are warm, and soft, and strong, and *superboy*- look, are you gonna let me smother myself in your man tits or not?"

"…i mean," kon says after a second, the tips of his ears turning pink. "i'm not gonna say no, but like… there are couches.. and blankets.. pretty sure there's some plushies.. and words we could use to-"

you're already crawling into his lap, ignoring the other suggestions. "oh, okay, no then-" he muses, letting you make yourself comfortable.

"shhh," you mumble, cheek pressing directly against his left pec. your arms circle around his waist with the kind of desperation people have when their boyfriend is the only good person seemingly left on the planet. "you talk too much. just flex. for my spirit. because you love me and any other time you'd be showing off anyway."

he lets out a stunned breath that may or may not be a laugh, you aren't sure, his arms instinctively settling around you as you settle against him like a weighted blanket with trauma and tears threatening to form. "you're so weird." he sighs, patting your lower back.

"mmhmm," you hum into his chest. "but your chest is doing god's work right now, so whose fault is that, really?"

kon just squeezes you a little tighter as you shift, nosing against the center of his chest. "you're lucky i like you."

"i'm lucky you're built like a superhero and mine and always so stupidly warm and soft."

"i mean, i.. kinda am but that's not the point." he mumbles, more to himself, just sinking further into the couch.

you stay like that; for how long, you don't know, just melting into him, drowning in the safe, steady rise and fall of his chest, letting yourself disappear for a minute into someone who holds you like you're worth something.

"better?" he asks after a little while, nudging his cheek against the top of your head. he doesn't say what he's thinking. how small you are like this, not weak, just vulnerable and human. how you've never let yourself be seen like this in front of the others.

you just nod, attempting to squeeze closer to him, like you're trying to fuse with him for the sake of comfort.

[kbnyan]

My Heart — Part Six

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker

angsty chapter and reader is NOT happy. it is not implicated in the text but the tea is ADULTERED totally drugged.

word count | 4.6l

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13. conner looks 22 as well.

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942 @lilyalone @aixaingela @lettucel0ver @time-shardz @pix-stuff @galaxypurplerose @cupid73 @theproblemisthattimnotfictional @vanessa-boo @timebomb1101 @chemicalwindexbottle @chiizuluvr @ihavenomuse @mat5u0 @thismessyshe @lovebug-apple @myjumper @angwlart @esposadomd @nisarelle @mrmacwaffles @mazixxss @ememgl @naomi-xxi @bbmgirll @ash0-0ley @rowan-no-rizzz @hearts4mica @sillyheartmoonnyx @crumbs-and-covers @nininehaaa @ironsaladwitch @c4xcocoa @keyllsbk @welpthisisboring @redkarmakai @yuyuzi-ling @91-kya @mat5u0 @nymphzy0 @jeshomie @keysmashstuff @imsomniaccorner @rowan-no-rizzz @xoxoangellll @oliviaewl

previous. next.

It’s only been a few hours. Not even dinner yet. And your things — your life — are already bleeding back into the Manor like they never left.

Boxes stacked neatly by the stairs. Suitcases rolling in. Steph and Duke arguing softly over where to drop your art stuff. Cass ghosting through the hall, carrying your sketch portfolios like they weigh nothing. Tim? You don’t even know where he is, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he already hacked the Royal Resort, changed your room access code, and sent a digital notice of your “check out” to their front desk. Smug little bastard.

You aren’t even going to try fighting it. No one here listens to “no.”

Because the Waynes, God help you, never really ask for things. They consume them. They fold you back into the sharp jaws of their family, biting down until you realize that escape was never really an option.

You tend to forget you are a Wayne as well.

You stand in the middle of it all, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching them pull your belongings through the front doors like this is normal. Like they didn’t spend four years letting you stay gone.

“Annoyed?” Jason’s voice is far too entertained, standing beside you with a box balanced on one palm.

“Beyond,” you mutter, glaring as one of your easels is carried toward the stairs.

“You knew it was coming.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Jason smirks but lets it drop, wandering off with the box. You sigh, shoulders slumping, and turn toward the wing where your room still waits. Untouched. Too familiar.

And it is… different. Familiar in the bones of it, but stripped of its soul. The walls are bare where posters and paintings used to hang. The shelves mostly empty, save for a few stubborn relics that Alfred clearly refused to toss — old books, a cracked snow globe, a tiny bronze bust of Athena from your first Gotham art exhibit.

Damian’s already there. Of course he is. Smaller than the others, but somehow taking up more space than all of them combined, hovering at your side like a shadow that refuses to detach itself.

The kid hovers near your bed, arms crossed behind his back like a tiny, overly proper soldier on duty. His green eyes flick to you, guarded but… softer than usual. Like he hasn’t quite figured out how to stop being angry at the world when it comes to you.

“Need help unpacking?” he asks, tone clipped, but there’s hope there. The kind that coils tight in your chest.

You hesitate, torn between instinct and guilt, then nod, stepping inside.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Sure.”

He follows, eager despite his mask of disinterest, helping you tug open bags, sort clothes, stack books. For a while, it’s… weirdly peaceful. The steady rustle of fabric. The faint creak of the floorboards. Damian brushing past you without biting words, his fingers tracing over your old framed photos on the shelves — ones you left behind because they hurt too much to take.

You catch him pausing at the piano music sheets tucked beside your nightstand. His brows furrow.

“You still play?”

“Not often.” You shrug. “More painting now.”

Damian hums, thoughtful, gaze lingering. “You should’ve stayed.”

You freeze, the words hanging in the air like smoke. You glance up, meeting his eyes — so green, so much like Bruce’s it physically aches. But they’re not cold, not like your father’s can be. They’re… fractured. Full of sharp edges and careful walls, yes, but under that?

Longing.

Guilt gnaws at your ribs.

“Didn’t know you existed yet,” you say softly, fingers curling around the strap of an old bag. “Not really.”

His mouth presses thin. “That doesn’t change it.”

You exhale, standing, brushing invisible dust from your jeans. “I left the Manor, Dami. I didn’t just… leave you.”

“You left me,” he says, blunt, young enough to say it like a wound, like a scar carved too deep. “You all did. But you… You weren’t supposed to.”

God, you hate how your throat tightens.

The bitter ache behind your ribs.

You hadn’t been prepared for him — for this — when you came back.

Your fingers reach for another box, peeling it open just to avoid his stare, but it doesn’t help. His presence is overwhelming. Silent and sharp like his mother’s. Possessive like his father’s.

“I didn’t even know you,” you murmur, voice rough. “I knew… of you. Little headlines. Files. Cass tried to tell me. But I—” You pause, eyes shutting briefly. “I was so angry. I couldn’t even… I couldn’t come back.”

“Because of him,” Damian says. It isn’t a question.

You nod.

Bruce Wayne. The great Dark Knight. The man you once idolized, once bled beside as Huntress, as his partner. The same man who never quite looked at you the way he looked at the others. Not the way you needed. Never the way you begged for as a kid with bruised knuckles and desperate, reaching hands.

“Because of a lot of things,” you correct gently, placing your sketchbook aside, the worn leather cover heavy with memories. “But yeah… mostly him.”

Damian’s jaw clenches, the muscle ticking. His arms uncross, falling at his sides. He looks…

Small.

Despite the bravado, the stiff lines, the name of the Demon Head running through his blood… He’s thirteen.

Your baby brother. One of your younger siblings. The one you abandoned before you even truly met him.

You weren’t there for the first bruises on his knuckles. You weren’t there for the first nights he slipped into patrol. You weren’t there for his first real battle, the first time he realized that Gotham’s love is sharp-edged and cruel.

You weren’t there. You left.

And it’s starting to suffocate you— the realization that this boy, this brother, had spent years carving out his place in the family you abandoned, while you disappeared into the art galleries and the high-rise studios of New York.

You curse under your breath, stepping forward before you can overthink it, cupping the back of his neck gently, tilting his head toward you.

“You shouldn’t want me here,” you whisper, honest, broken. “I don’t know how to do this anymore.”

His eyes glisten for a second, the weight of his walls faltering. But only for a moment. His hands lift, fisting in your shirt, his brow pressing against your shoulder in a rare, vulnerable gesture he’d never admit to.

“You’re my sister,” he mutters, the words muffled but steel-strong. “I don’t care how long it takes. You belong here. You were the only one who was mine. Blood. Sister. Everyone else is just… attached.”

You swallow thickly.

Damian, for all his sharp edges and biting remarks, was still just a boy looking for someone who belonged to him in the same undeniable way that blood does. He wasn’t just a Wayne. He was yours.

“I’m here now,” you promise, voice soft, fragile. “For as long as I can stand it.”

He gives a sharp little nod, like that’s acceptable.

But you both know the truth.

It’s then, when you pull another box from beneath the bed, that you find it — old, dusty, edges worn, but unmistakable.

The Box.

The one that started this whole spiral, even if you don't know it. You pop the lid, heart stumbling when you see your old notebooks stacked inside. Your sketch journals. Poetry. Music sheets. Little scraps of yourself you never let them see.

Damian watches, sharp-eyed. “You wrote a lot.”

You smile faintly, fingers ghosting over the familiar covers. “Started around your age. Couldn’t… couldn’t really talk to anyone. So, I wrote.”

For a second, there’s something bitter in your throat. The weight of all those words that never reached the right ears.

“I saw that box,” Damian says, breaking your thoughts. His lips press thin, voice low. “Grayson and Father had it.”

Your head jerks up.

“What?”

He nods, glancing toward the door like they’ll appear at any second. “They read your letters. The invitations. That’s why some of those are missing.”

You frown, rifling through the papers. Sure enough… gaps. Missing slips of faded cardstock, soft with time. The ones with their names.

You straighten abruptly, box in hand.

“I’ll be back,” you say tightly, already halfway out the door.

Damian follows to the threshold, but wisely stays behind.

You stalk down the halls, passing portraits and shelves that mock you with their polished familiarity. Your boots echo over the marble. Your heart pounds heavier. The box is tight in your arms, fingers curled so hard around the edges your knuckles burn white. You don’t even hesitate when you reach your father’s study. You shove the door open without knocking, the hinges groaning under the force.

Bruce looks up from behind his desk, the same goddamn desk that’s always separated him from you. His eyes lift slowly, unreadable behind that ever-present mask of indifference.

“Y/N,” he greets simply, setting down a pen.

You march in, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling with the weight of it all, and slam the box down onto the dark wood of his desk.

“They’re mine,” you snap, teeth bared around every syllable. “The invitations. The letters. The pieces of me you ignored for years. Give them back.”

His gaze drops to the box, lids lowering slightly. Calm. Too calm. Always calm when you’re coming undone.

“You left them here,” he says quietly, like that’s supposed to be some kind of explanation.

“That doesn’t mean you get to—” your voice cracks— “to keep them. To— to read them like you suddenly give a damn.”

“I’ve always cared.”

The words are so simple. So detached.

It’s laughable.

You laugh— bitter, sharp, ugly.

“Yeah? You cared while I was bleeding under that Huntress mask? You cared when I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen— when I was killing myself trying to be enough for you? I was practically breaking my ribs to breathe in this house, Bruce—”

You use his name like a blade.

And for the first time, his expression shifts. The faintest flicker of hurt behind those unreadable eyes.

“Don’t—” he starts, but you’re already unraveling.

“No, I’m talking,” you hiss, voice cracking with the sheer force of holding it together for too long. “I begged for your attention. I broke myself for your pride. I learned to throw knives before I learned to drive, I broke bones before I got my period, and the only thing I ever wanted—” your throat tightens, eyes burning— “was for my dad to fucking look at me like I mattered.”

His mouth parts— an interruption, maybe. You don’t let him.

“You looked at Dick,” you spit, pacing now, heat climbing under your skin, nails digging crescent moons into your palms. “At Jason. At Tim. Hell, you adopted half the city because they were broken and brave and you saw them. But me?” Your voice cracks, and it slices through the room. “I was standing right here. Your kid. Your first daughter. And you never— you never looked.”

“I saw you.”

The words fall from his mouth like they should mean something.

You stare at him, chest heaving, that dangerous, shaking, bitter-laced laugh creeping out of your throat.

“You saw me when it was convenient. At galas. On patrol. When I played the part. But you didn’t see me when I cried myself to sleep in this house. When I begged Alfred to remind me why I even existed in this family.”

“Y/N—”

“No!” Your fist slams onto the desk, rattling the box, the notebooks inside shuddering under the force. Your shoulders curl forward, that trembling, raw ache choking every syllable. “You read my words, Bruce. You read every pathetic, desperate thing I wrote to get your attention, and you didn’t say a damn thing. You just kept them. Like— like souvenirs of how badly you failed me.”

He stands now, slow, careful, like he’s trying not to spook a wounded animal.

“I kept them because they mattered.”

You flinch. Because that— that doesn’t make it better. That makes it worse.

“Then why didn’t I?” you whisper, voice cracking so thin it’s barely audible.

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. And for once, Batman looks speechless.

The lump in your throat crawls higher, the weight of everything clawing through your ribs until you can’t stand it. Your vision blurs with unshed tears, the room suffocating, the walls pressing in—

Jason’s voice cuts through the static, smooth but laced with warning, not to you.

“Hey— hey, sweetheart—” His hand catches your elbow, tugging you gently away from the desk, away from the storm brewing in your chest. His eyes flick to Bruce, sharp, protective. “That’s enough.”

Your father doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t argue.

“Later,” he murmurs, tugging you. “Let’s not explode the whole house on your first day back, yeah?”

You let him guide you, too raw, too frayed at the edges to resist, the box clutched to your chest like it holds your last shred of pride.

He doesn’t take you far. Just out, through the side door, past the old stone threshold that still smells faintly of ivy and rainwater. The gardens stretch ahead of you, green and alive, overgrown in some parts, perfectly manicured in others. Like everything in this family — halfway wild, halfway curated.

The cold air bites when the door to the garden swings open. The scent of wet grass and the sweetness of the last lingering roses hit you like a ghost. The gardens haven’t changed. You could close your eyes and walk these paths blind, could still find the cracked stone where you used to sit, where you used to hide.

It shouldn’t affect you the way it does. But it’s been years. Years since your boots walked these cobbled paths. Since you brushed your fingers along the rosebushes, memorized the stone statues of long-dead Waynes, listened to the wind thread through the hedges and wondered if maybe, just maybe, you belonged here.

You stop by the little wrought-iron bench. The one you used to curl up on with a book or sketchpad when Alfred scolded you for pacing the halls like a restless cat. Your knees threaten to buckle.

Jason’s still beside you. Silent for a beat, his blue eyes scanning your face like he’s cataloging every fracture in your armor.

“You good to sit?” he asks finally, voice stripped of its usual cocky charm, softer, older, gentler.

You nod, throat tight, and collapse onto the bench. The box lands beside you, your arms falling limp at your sides as exhaustion crawls under your skin like a sickness.

Jason leans against the backrest, arms crossed, one leg kicked out lazily in front of him. But his gaze never leaves you.

“I thought you’d punch him,” he says after a moment, like it’s some normal conversation.

“I thought so too,” you rasp, voice barely holding steady. Your fingers twitch, nails biting into your palms.

Silence settles between you, heavy and humming with unsaid things. The garden is quiet, save for the rustle of leaves in the warm Gotham breeze and the faint chirp of birds that have somehow not abandoned this cursed place.

You bite your cheek, hard, tasting iron at the back of your tongue. The weight in your chest grows unbearable.

“He had no right to keep them,” you whisper, more to yourself than him. “Those letters—those words were mine, Jay.”

Jason nods, slow, his eyes dark with understanding. He tilts his head, letting the silence stretch, giving you room.

It cracks something in you. Your walls cave in on themselves, and the words spill out, raw and broken.

“You’re my family,” you breathe, voice cracking on the confession. “And I love you. I love all of you. But you’re— you’re terrible.” You swallow around the knot in your throat, eyes burning, vision swimming with tears you’ve tried so hard to swallow. “You’re all terrible.”

Jason’s brows pull together, faint lines creasing between them, but he doesn’t interrupt. He exhales slowly, raking a hand through his hair. “Yeah. We are.”

“It’s not fair,” you choke, the sob clawing its way up your throat, unstoppable now. Your hands cover your face, shoulders shaking, breath hitching as it pours out of you, ugly and too real. “It’s not fair— I was here. I was here and I tried— I tried so damn hard to make him proud. And he— he just—”

You can’t finish the sentence. It shatters in your chest before it reaches your lips.

Jason exhales softly, the sound rough at the edges. Then, gently, he shifts, his hand reaching to curl around the back of your neck, tugging you toward him.

You resist for half a second, pride prickling. But you’re exhausted. Hollow. And there’s something in Jason’s touch — that stubborn, protective, reckless love he’s always carried for you — that breaks you down completely.

Your forehead bumps against his shoulder. You curl into him, tears spilling freely now, staining the worn fabric of his jacket. His hand stays at your nape, grounding you, his other arm curling protectively around your frame.

“I know,” he murmurs, chin resting against your temple. “I know, Birdie.”

“It’s not fair,” you croak, rubbing your palms over your eyes, as if that can stop the burning. “It’s not fair that I spent years begging for you all to see me, to just—just be there. And now you’re all here like you never left. Like you didn’t forget me.”

Jason tilts his head toward the sky, his lips twisting like he wants to argue, but he can’t.

You don’t let him. The flood’s coming now, and you can’t hold it back.

“You died, Jason.” Your voice sharpens, cuts through the garden like glass underfoot. “You died, and it ruined me.”

His head snaps down to you, breath caught in his throat.

“I was fourteen. I was fourteen and you were dead and no one—no one even noticed that it broke me.” You glare at him through the blur, the tears slipping, unwanted and hot. “And then you came back, and you—you didn’t come to me. You stayed away. You built walls. You left me behind again.”

Jason’s throat bobs. “I didn’t know how to come back to you.”

You shove your hands into your hair, tugging hard at the roots like it can ground you, like it can make you stop shaking. “I waited for you.”

“I know.”

“You were my favourite person,” you choke, the words ragged and small. “You were my brother and you were my best friend and you just—just left.”

His breath trembles out of him like a cracked apology.

“I didn’t mean to leave you,” he says, and his voice sounds like it’s breaking. “I didn’t mean to die on you.”

“But you did. I needed you,” you whisper, voice fraying apart at the edges. “I needed you and you— you just disappeared.”

Jason’s hand tightens slightly at the back of your neck.

“I know,” he says again, pained and low. “I’m sorry.”

You stay like that for a while. Your breathing slows, the storm inside your chest quieting to a simmer, though the ache never fully leaves. Jason lets you cry, lets you shake, doesn’t rush you to pull yourself together like the others always do.

hated myself for staying away from you when I came back. I thought—I thought you’d hate me for what I became. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

Your breath shudders out, a laugh cracked in half by grief. “I’ve always seen you. Always.”

He finally, finally looks at you, really looks, his eyes raw, his walls caved in.

“You were the only one who ever really saw me,” he admits, a little too late, a little too soft.

Your ribs collapse under the weight of it. “And you left me anyway.”

Eventually, you straighten, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your sweater, sniffling quietly. Your throat is raw, your eyes glassy.

Jason watches you, patient, still.

“Not exactly the grand return I wanted,” you mutter bitterly, half a laugh, half a sob.

Jason snorts softly. “No one expected you to waltz in all sunshine and rainbows, Birdie. You’re still a Wayne.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch faintly, the first ghost of a smile threatening to break through the grief.

Jason taps the box at your side. “You keeping those?”

“Yeah.” You brush your fingers along the worn cardboard, the ache settling in your chest like an old friend. “They’re mine.”

“Good.” He pushes off the bench, offering his hand. “C’mon. You’ve caused enough drama for one morning.”

You hesitate, eyes flitting to the Manor behind him. The looming walls, the endless expectations, the memories stitched into every corner.

Jason squeezes your hand gently.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promises, eyes steady, blue and familiar. “I’ve got you.”

“. . . You’re not allowed to leave me again,” you mumble, voice raw.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

You kick at his boot, just enough to make him huff a little more. “Promise.”

His gaze flicks down to you, and there’s something fierce, something broken in the way he answers. “Promise.”

And you believe him. You have to.

Even if it’s not fair. Even if you still want to scream. Even if the ache never quite leaves.

You love them.

They’re terrible.

But they’re yours.

You don’t eat dinner with the rest. You don’t have the energy to push yourself into another room where their eyes would watch you like you’re some fragile puzzle they’re trying to solve. You don’t want to play at the table, pretend you belong there just yet.

The library is quiet, save for the low, steady crackle of the fire devouring its own weight in the hearth. Shadows climb the walls, curling over the spines of leather-bound books, tracing old portraits, creeping across the floorboards like they know this house better than anyone ever could. You don’t bother to look up when you hear the door open. You already know who it is.

The sketchbook rests on your lap, half-finished lines scrawled across the page—limbs bent in motion, a face tilted in anguish, the sharp angles of a cathedral stitched into human skin. You’ve been working on it for hours, your pencil dancing through the strokes like your hands know grief better than your head does.

Lines bleed from your fingers, chaotic and gentle all at once, spinning a face you can’t quite hold in your head, features that slip just as you start to form them. Maybe it’s Jason’s nose. Maybe it’s Bruce’s jaw. Maybe it’s no one.

Bruce says nothing as he crosses the room. His footsteps are quieter now than they were when you were a child. Lighter. Older. Worn thin by years of carrying everything and everyone but you.

You still don’t look up.

The cushion beside you shifts when he sits, the same space on the same old couch where he used to read to you, back when things were simpler. Back when you thought love came in the shape of bedtime stories and scraped knees bandaged with rough, clumsy hands.

A porcelain cup clicks gently against the coffee table. You glance at it, finally, the faintest twitch in your brow when you notice the color of the tea, the faint aroma curling toward you.

“Raspberry,” Bruce says quietly, settling back into his seat, eyes fixed on the fire. “Three sugar cubes.”

You stare at the cup, steam curling like ghosts into the dim light, and then at him. His jaw is sharp in the flicker of flames, his mouth set in that unreadable line. You don’t thank him.

For a while, neither of you speak. The silence settles, heavy and familiar, stitched together with old tension and years of too much and not enough.

You sip the tea anyway. It’s perfect. Just how you’ve always taken it. It only makes you angrier.

Bruce leans his elbows onto his knees, watching the fire like it holds all the answers he never found in you. “You used to climb onto the piano bench before you could even walk properly,” he says, voice low, rough with memory. “Alfred was terrified you’d fall. But you never did.”

You don’t interrupt, fingers tightening around the sketchbook, pencil still clutched between them like a weapon.

“You’d sit there,” he continues, “banging on the keys with your little hands. No sense of melody. Just noise. But God, you looked… happy.”

Your jaw locks. You keep your eyes on the flames. Let him speak.

He exhales slowly, shoulders heavier than you remember them. “You always found ways to make your presence known.”

You laugh once, quiet and bitter. “Didn’t seem to work very well.”

You can feel his eyes on you, waiting, holding, but you keep your gaze fixed on the flame. You don’t want to see his face. You don’t want to see the weight he carries, because it’s the same one suffocating you.

“I do not forgive you,” you murmur, voice soft but sharp enough to draw blood. The fire crackles, swallowing the quiet like kindling.

His eyes don’t flinch. His mouth doesn’t twist. He just nods, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “I know.”

The admission sits heavy between you, thick as the smoke curling from the hearth.

For a long time, the only sound is the breathing of the house itself. Old beams creaking. The pop of burning wood. The distant hum of the world outside, too far removed from this broken little moment.

Bruce’s voice, when it comes again, is quieter. Almost lost to the flame. “Is there anything so undoing as a daughter?”

You blink, startled by the words. His eyes drift back to the fire. “Alfred said that,” he adds, lips curving faintly at the memory. “When you were a baby. You’d cry in my arms and quiet the second I’d hold you close. Clung to me like you never planned to let go.” His throat works. “I didn’t know then how much I’d… ruin that.”

You stare at the flames, but your mind drifts elsewhere—to the old halls of this house, to the forgotten rooms and creaking stairwells, to the years spent watching the people you love blaze bright for the world while you flickered, silent, unseen.

The halls, the rooms, the garden paths—they carry your shape, your scent, the laughter you left behind. But it’s not you who haunts them. It’s them who haunt you, the people, the memories, the versions of yourself that used to dream inside these walls.

You are not a house haunted by a ghost. You are a ghost haunted by a house.

Every corner of this place still echoes with pieces of you. The forgotten toys buried in the attic. The old recital photos tucked between bookshelves. The faint scratch on the bannister from your first Huntress grappling hook, never sanded out, never fixed.

And yet, it was never your home the same way it was theirs.

You breathe in deep, the warmth of the tea settling in your hands, doing little to thaw the cold buried deep in your chest.

“I’m tired,” you say at last, the words stripped bare of all the fight. “I’m so tired, Bruce.”

His eyes soften. His posture shifts, the wall of Batman faltering, the edges cracking just enough to let the father show through.

“You don’t have to stay,” he tells you quietly. “Not if it hurts you.”

You snort under your breath, shaking your head. “You all made that decision for me already.”

His jaw clenches. You don’t let him argue.

The fire burns, and the house breathes, and for a little while, you both just sit there, surrounded by everything unsaid.

“He was right,” Bruce adds, voice low, fractured at the edges. “Nothing in my life has… undone me the way you have.”

Your chest twists, breath catching, vision blurring faintly at the corners. But your expression doesn’t break. Not in front of him.

You sip your tea again, letting the warmth sting your throat, drowning the lump rising there.

The room stretches long with silence. The fire burns. The shadows breathe. The ghosts stay quiet, for now.

Neither of you apologize. Neither of you move. But for the first time in years, you sit in the same room, quiet together. And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

For now, you let the halls remember you again.

For now, you let the ghost haunt its house.

You blink once, twice, before your lids drop against your cheeks — exhaustion pushing you into silence, into sleep, into the soft surrender of someone who trusted again.

In the flicker of the firelight, you drift. Eyelids flutter as you realize you’re curled on the sofa — the sketchbook clutched loosely, the fire dimming, the tea unmoved. Bruce’s silhouette stands guard in the shadows, and you breathe — finally — like you’re safe.