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neellscapsule · 9 days ago

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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 | 4.6k

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.

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pomegranatelifethis · 3 months ago

Text

Naughty fur ball

Bruce Wayne

As the father figure, Bruce’s first instinct would be to protect his youngest, even in cat form. He’d be on high alert, imagining every corner of the Batcave as a potential hazard for a tiny kitten. "Stay off the ledge—Alfred, where’s Zatanna’s ETA?" he’d bark, already mentally cataloging every spell he knows to reverse this. But your naughty streak would unravel him. You’d scamper up his leg, claws digging into his suit, and perch on his shoulder, swatting at his cowl’s ears. When he tries to gently pluck you off, you’d leap onto his workbench, knocking over a tray of meticulously organized Batarangs—one lands on his foot, another triggers a smoke pellet, filling the cave with haze. He’d cough, glaring through the fog as you dart away, leaving paw prints on his case files. Later, he’d find you napping in his utility belt pouch, and despite the chaos—shredded reports, a scratched Batmobile hood—he’d soften, muttering, "You’re still grounded when you’re human again," while stroking your tiny head.

Dick Grayson

Dick, the doting big brother, would melt at the sight of his baby sibling as a kitten. "Look at you, the tiniest acrobat!" he’d coo, scooping you up and spinning you around like you’re still human. But your naughtiness would turn his joy into a frantic chase. You’d wriggle free, clawing his favorite blue-and-black suit as you escape, leaving tiny tears in the fabric. He’d laugh it off—until you pounce on his escrima sticks, batting them across the room. One rolls under the Batcomputer, and Dick’s on his knees, pleading, "Come on, little gremlin, give it back!" You’d respond by climbing the curtains, shredding them as you go, and when he tries to grab you, you leap onto his head, tangling his hair with your claws. By the end, he’s sprawled on the floor, panting, with you smugly licking your paws on his chest, and he’d groan, "You’re worse than Damian’s pets."

Jason Todd

Jason would see your kitten form as a chance to tease the baby of the family mercilessly. "Aw, the little brat’s finally bite-sized," he’d snicker, dangling a piece of string just out of reach. But you’d turn the tables—swatting the string, then lunging at his hand, leaving a scratch that makes him yelp. "You tiny demon!" he’d growl, chasing you as you dart under the couch. You’d emerge with his favorite lighter in your mouth, dropping it into a glass of water with a smug flick of your tail. Furious, he’d rig a trap with a cardboard box and a burger—only for you to knock the burger onto his boots, then climb his bookshelf and send his entire collection of paperbacks crashing down. He’d stand in the wreckage, shouting, "I’m trading you for a goldfish!"—but when you curl up in his helmet to nap, he’d grumble, pick it up gently, and let you sleep, muttering about "damn cute menaces."

Tim Drake

Tim, the sleep-deprived genius, would be equal parts fascinated and frazzled by his youngest sibling as a kitten. "Okay, let’s analyze this—magic, tech, or toxin?" he’d muse, scribbling notes while you bat at his pen. He’d try to keep you contained, setting you on his desk with a toy—big mistake. You’d knock over his coffee mug, soaking his keyboard, and when he lunges to save it, you’d leap onto his conspiracy board, claws tearing strings and photos loose. "No, no, no, that took weeks!" he’d wail, chasing you as you scamper off with a pushpin in your mouth. He’d rig a high-tech laser pointer to distract you, but you’d outsmart it, climbing his shelves to knock over his energy drink stash—cans rolling, spraying everywhere. By the time he’s mopping up, hair wild and eyes twitching, you’d be napping on his ruined laptop, and he’d collapse in a chair, muttering, "I need a vacation… or a tranq gun."

Damian Wayne

Damian, the self-appointed protector of all animals (and his baby sibling), would take your kitten form as a personal mission. "You are small, but fierce. I will train you," he’d declare, setting out a tiny obstacle course. But your naughtiness would derail his plans—you’d ignore the course, pouncing instead on Titus’s tail, sparking a barking chase that ends with a toppled lamp. Damian would scoop you up, scolding, "You must respect the pack!"—only for you to wriggle free and climb his katana display, knocking blades to the floor with a clatter. He’d dive to save them, shouting, "This is anarchy!" When you team up with Alfred the Cat to shred his sketchbook, he’d stand amid the chaos, torn between admiration and fury, finally sitting cross-legged with you in his lap, muttering, "You are a worthy adversary… for now."

Barbara Gordon

Babs would adore her baby sibling as a kitten, cooing over the comms, "You’re too cute to be legal." She’d hack the manor cams to track you, chuckling as you wreak havoc—until you find her tech stash. You’d chew through a spare headset cable, and she’d roll in, shouting, "Not the gear!" You’d dart off, knocking over a stack of external drives, and when she corners you, you’d leap onto her chair, claws snagging her sweater. She’d try to bribe you with a laser pointer, but you’d ignore it, climbing her monitor and accidentally hitting the “mute all” button during a team call—leaving the Batfamily yelling into silence. Exasperated but amused, she’d scoop you up, muttering, "You’re lucky you’re adorable," as you purr against her neck.

Stephanie Brown

Steph would be your chaos co-conspirator, thrilled to see the baby of the family as a naughty kitten. "We’re gonna rule this place!" she’d cheer, tossing you a toy to bat at Tim’s head. She’d egg you on—dangling treats to lure you onto Jason’s bike, where you’d claw the seat, or encouraging you to shred Dick’s laundry. But when you turn on her, clawing her favorite purple cape, she’d gasp, "Betrayal!" and chase you with a squirt bottle—only for you to knock over her smoothie, splattering it across the kitchen. The two of you would end up in a standoff, her armed with a pillow, you hissing from atop the fridge, until Bruce walks in and sighs at the mess. She’d grin, scoop you up, and say, "Worth it," even as you swat her nose.

Cassandra Cain

Cass, the quiet observer, would find your kitten antics both endearing and exhausting. She’d watch you with a small smile, reading your every twitch—until you strike. You’d claw her favorite scarf, and she’d blink, surprised, before gently nudging you away. But you’d escalate, climbing her leg to perch on her shoulder, then leaping onto a shelf to knock over her meditation candles. She’d chase you silently, dodging as you bat at her hair, and when you finally tire out, she’d sit cross-legged, letting you nap in her lap. Later, she’d find her stealth suit with tiny claw marks and just shake her head, murmuring, "Little trouble," with a rare grin—knowing she’d helped you prank Jason earlier by leaving his gloves out.

Alfred Pennyworth

Alfred, ever the patient guardian, would treat you like royalty at first—setting out a tiny dish of water and a cushion. "Even as a feline, you are family, young master," he’d say. But your naughtiness would test even his saintly calm. You’d knock over his silver tray, scattering biscuits, then climb the pantry shelves, sending flour and sugar crashing down. He’d pursue you with a broom, muttering, "This is undignified," as you dart off with a stolen tea bag. The final straw would be you clawing the dining room drapes into ribbons—he’d freeze, sigh deeply, and say, "I shall require a raise, Master Bruce." Yet when you curl up purring in his apron pocket, he’d stroke your fur, resigned but fond, and start cleaning the wreckage.

The Chaos

The Batcave and manor would be a disaster zone. Bruce trips over scattered Batarangs while chasing you off the Batcomputer, where you’ve activated the siren. Dick’s wrestling with shredded curtains, Jason’s buried under his toppled books, and Tim’s sobbing over a coffee-soaked motherboard. Damian’s swinging from the rafters after you knock over his sword rack, Steph’s cackling as you claw her smoothie-sticky fridge perch, and Babs is locked in with a malfunctioning system you triggered. Cass watches silently as you nap post-rampage, and Alfred’s sweeping up flour with a martyred air. When Zatanna arrives, the family’s begging, "Fix the kid!"—not because they don’t love you, but because their sanity’s hanging by a thread.

@jscrawls @Welpthisisboring @lilyalone @itsberrydreemurstuff

English is not my native language

#batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #yandere x reader #bruce wayne x reader #yandere dc #damian wayne x reader #dick grayson x reader #tim drake x reader #jason todd x reader #barbara gordon x reader #stephanie brown x reader #cassandra cain x reader #dc x reader

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cosmic-dust-poltergeist · 2 months ago

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Pt3 of forever teen Danny adopting JJ Tim AND Red Hood Jason.

[Pt2: Here] [Pt 4: here]

Jason had absolutely no idea what he was looking at. Talia's information was apparently out of date when she sent him back here. There's a tiny vigilante version of Joker talking to the air on a rooftop in Crime Alley that wasn't in any of her reports. The whispers on the street call the kid Poltergeist, and he's apparently a chaotic good character and used to be Robin #3 before a run-in with the Joker turned him into the loony he sees before him. Jason is pissed Bruce let a second kid fall into that monster's hands.

And despite Jason searching, he hasn't found anything on the guy that supposedly saved the kid from Joker. Harley is still fucked up from seeing this Phantom guy kill her "Puddin'", but considering she helped fuck this kid up, Jason has no sympathy.

"Shit!" Jason ducks for cover when the kid suddenly snaps his head over to him. When Jason looks back, the kid isn't there anymore. "Double shit."

"Why have you been watching me?" Is asked from behind him. Jason will deny the yelp and jolt if anyone asks, but he totally did as he whips around, finding the kid perched on the building's roof access. There should be no way he got there that fast (is the kid a meta?). He has his head tilted like a curious puppy, the dark purple lipstick smeared over his lips and facial scars not hiding his little little frown. "Who are you, anyways, Mr. Tank?"

"I just wanted to check out the new player." Jason is glad his helmet disguises his voice, it masks some of his awkwardness.

The kid pouts, "I've been around 3 years if you count my year as Robin, that's not very new. If anything, you're the new player, Mr. Hood."

So the kid does know who he is? "Yeah, well, I've been outside of Gotham for those 3 years. You're new to me."

"Hmm, you couldn't have been Red Hood before you left." A second teenager's voice says from just to the left of Poltergeist, startling Jason. An unearthly looking 14(?) year old fades into view. The kid(?) is floating, answering the question of how Poltergeist got to where he is without Jason noticing. "Your ectoplasum is funky, my guy. How long have you been an Revenant?"

"A what?" The helmet can't mask how baffled he is.

"Yeah! Yeah! What's a Revenant, Dad!?" Poltergeist excitedly asks the other kid(?). The (not)kid's obviously not human, so Jason is obviously an idiot for assuming. Guy looks like a kid, but doesn't have the vibe of a kid. And he gets the vibe Poltergeist is call this guy "Dad" in a 100% "this is my father" way and not the weird "I call my sexual partner Daddy" thing that cropped up while Jason was without internet access.

"A Revenant is an undead that had a violent death and had a need to avenge themselves so desperate they rebound their soul to their body." The unknown explains, then seems to stare into Jason's soul. "Something is off about your ectoplasm, though. You should really get that looked at."

"Looked at by who?" Jason asks warily, "Who even are you?"

"Ah, I'm Phantom. Friendly neighborhood dead guy." Phantom fucking finger guns, what even is Jason's life? "And if you're asking that, I can only assume you've never been to the Infinite Realms."

"The where??"

"A dimension that runs parallel to this one. It's the dimension of the dead, undead, and neverbornes. It's very green." Phantom explains. "They'd have more knowledge on how to fix you the best, but I currently don't have easy access to it and don't know where you could. Good news! I'm pretty sure if I give you my own ectoplasm while slowly removing the fucked up bits of yours, it'd straight itself out. The unfortunately side effect is you'd be considered my kid in the eyes of the Realms and I'd want to know who the fuck you are before either of us commit to that."

"It'd fix the pit rage?" Jason asks in a daze. He's killed more people than he ever wanted because of the blackout rage he gets sent into.

""Pit rage"?" Phantom is staring into his soul again.

"I get so angry I blackout and can't truly tell you what I did during the, usually, hours I'm lost to it." Jason explains, "It's how I got on B's radar before I meant to."

Poltergeist is now creepily staring at him. Kid really is mimicking his dad.

"Yeah, no, that's not normal." Phantom scrunches his face in thought. "Rage is normal for a Revenant, it comes with the territory, but blackout rage isn't..."

Phantom looks over to Poltergeist, "How do you feel about a sibling?"

Poltergeist hasn't stopped his staring. It's freaking Jason out. Even more so when the kid starts cackling in delight. It sounds Joker-like. Which is fair given what Jason heard about how the kid became this way.

"I know who You Are Revenant ~!" Poltergeist sings. Making Jason freeze, because seriously??? The Bats haven't figured it out, but this kid in one meeting did???

"Oh?" Phantom asks fondly.

"He's the second Robin!" Poltergeist crows. "You definitely have my permission! How could I refuse the best Robin being my brother??"

"Wha-how-what the fuck, kid?" Jason sputters.

"You thought I wouldn't recognize you?" Poltergeist grins manically. "I stalked you and the B-man every chance I got before you died! I know you! Batsy was a fool to let you go!"

"You what now?" Jason doesn't know how many existential crisises he can handle in one conversation.

"I had a baby stalker phase!" Poltergeist admits happily before turning to Phantom, "Does being a vigilante mean I'm still a stalker?"

Phantom seems to genuinely think about it before answering, "I think you have to be to be a Gotham vigilante. Just try not to let it branch out to other areas in life. Normal people, and probably normal heroes and vigilantes, would probably get scared off."

"Jazz already told me." Poltergeist whines and flops over. Jason can now only see his feet. "Normal people are boring anyways."

Phantom just shakes his head fondly before looking back at Jason. "I'll let you think on it. We'll be around."

And with that, Phantom scoops up Poltergeist and turns them both invisible. Poltergeist's shriek of "Ta Ta!" and happy cackles echo in a way that means Phantom is flying them away.

Jason doesn't need to think on it, but he appreciates the thought.

He heads to his nearest safe house and starts researching up a storm on the supernatural to at least have a baseline on what he (and Phantom possibly) are. He takes a lot of the info with a grain of salt, though. He'll have lots to ask when he meets up with his potential new family. Who needs the Bats anyways? B told him he wasn't his father before he died, why should that change now that he died and came back? Nah, B will just be mad he's a crimelord. Phantom and Poltergeist don't seem to mind at all.

Yeah, he's joining their weirdass family. Maybe he should add a symbol or something green to his vigilante get up to declare it? He'll decide after he talks to them. Phantom might have a family crest or something.

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artemismoorea03 · 1 year ago

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DP x DC Prompt: The New Teacher

(So, I've seen a lot of prompts that have Danny go to Gotham and be a teacher but I don't remember seeing any with it in this direction, so on the chance that this is an original idea here we go!)

Jason was given a choice, or multiple choices. Babysit the Replacement on a mission that could last a week, go to Bludhaven and have some 'brother bonding time' with Dick who needed backup on a big case, or take a temp solo-gig in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere called Amity Park.

Well, considering he was still a bit hurt about the fact that B replaced him all those years ago and the pit loved to grab hold of that bit of frustrations towards his younger brother, that didn't seem like a smart idea. Dick wasn't an option either because he knew that would lead to 'talking about feelings' and other shit that he didn't want to do.

So he took the solo-gig.

It was supposed to be easy, at least that's what had been implied by the others he'd spoken to about the case. It seemed like most of the Justice League thought this situation was being 'exaggerated' because most of the time when somebody checked out what was going on there was nothing happening. No big take over, or kidnapping, or 'end of the world' situation, but there had been too many calls to put Bruce's mind at ease. The frequent calls mixed with the fact that the Government apparently had the area under a 'black out' made Bruce even more nervous.

Hell, if it hadn't been for the fact that Bruce was famous and that Scarecrow, Penguin and Riddler had all escaped from Arkham he would have been doing the case himself.

Which is how Jason ended up in a restraunt named 'Nasty Burger' looking at the news papers he had managed to get from a stand down the street while taking notes of things he had already seen. It wasn't just that the Government had cut them off, all of the tech in the city was easily 20 years outdated compared to the rest of the world.

Nokia phones, chunky computers, hell he'd even seen a kid with a PDA of all things. Thankfully, it looked like his tech still worked other than running slower than it should have, but thanks to modifications made by Barbara and Tim things were running better than he expected. But, they did struggle to have access to anything, specifically the news.

Hence the paper.

Ghost Boy: Friend or Fiend. A new vote cast by the city has found that the Ghost Boy - Danny Phantom - has had an astounding rise in support after the events over the Christmas Holiday. The new polls suggest that 43% of Citizens support Danny Phantom, with the majority of his support coming from the students at Casper High who insist that Phantom is a hero who has saved them countless times over the past few months. 49% of people still agree, however, that Phantom appears to be at the center of the majority of the attacks with many still claiming that he is the sole cause of the attacks. However, 8% of the population remain undecided, including many teachers, police and hospital staff. Upon seeing the new results of the pole Mayor Montez had this to say; "While I will admit that Phantom appears to favor the younger generation and frequently seems to come to their aid, we cannot forget what it has done in the past. Taken hostages, injured innocents, and caused millions in property damage. Phantom may not be a 'villain' in the typical sense of the word, but we shouldn't blindly trust him just because of a few good deeds."

So there was a... hero? Half hero - potentially villain - in Amity Park? That might have explained some of the calls they'd gotten from Amity park over the past few months. Still, he was concerned by some parts of the report.

Students at a high school were frequently coming under attack? So much that this potential-villain kept saving them? Just what was the cause? What could cause so many issues?

Jason looked up as he saw that same PDA kid talking with a girl with short black hair in a half-ponytail who was wearing a black crop-top. The girl seemed annoyed while the boy seemed worried about something.

"But it's Vlad, Sam... what if he does something?" He heard the boy whisper, "We should go back him up..."

"He doesn't need our help, besides Jazz ran away from home, remember? She got herself into this mess it's her problem to get out of it. Something that Danny should have learned a long time ago."

Jason frowned, pretending not to hear them as he hesitated then got up and walked over to the two younger teens. "Hey, excuse me."

The girl looked annoyed and suspicious while the boy looked confused.

"Uh, yeah?" Tucker asked.

"Hey, sorry to bug you both. But could you guys tell me about this... 'Danny Phantom' person?" He asked, holding the newspaper out.

The girl looked even more suspicious, "And... who are you?"

"And how haven't you heard of Phantom?" Asked the boy.

"I just moved to town." Jason admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "So, I'm just trying to catch up on all the town drama."

"You moved to Amity Park... willingly? Psh, what do you have, a deathwish?" The girl grumbled.

"Come on, I just moved from Gotham, which is worse?"

The girl blinked as the boy laughed.

"Furries vs Ghosts, who will win~" He said as the girl elbowed him. "Ow! What?!"

"Danny Phantom is a hero." The girl explained, "He showed up in April and has been protecting the town since."

"A hero, huh? Could always use more of those in the world, but the mayor seems to have it out for him."

Tucker sighed, "No kidding, man. Somebody framed Phantom for something really bad and no matter what he does to try to fix it the city just see's that incident as the only thing he's ever done. It was the first big 'public thing' outside of the high school so it was huge but it wasn't his fault."

The girl reached for her phone suddenly, looking at it before she answered. "Hey, Danny. What's up?" She was quiet for a moment, "Yeah, we're at Nasty Burger, wanna join us? Lunch on me?"

A quiet mumble came through the speaker before she smirked.

"I'll order for you then. Double or triple?"

More mumbles.

"Triple it is. See you soon." She said, then hung up. "Come on, Tuck, Danny is on his way for lunch."

"Hell yeah, see you later, dude." The boy said, then jogged off with the girl.

"A teacher? Yeah, it looks like there's some openings but why would you want to have your cover as a teacher?" Oracle asked as Jason sat in his hotel room, looking through the paper again.

"Most of the incidents seem to surround the High School, I want to see what's going on."

Oracle hummed, typing for a moment. "Alright, well as luck will have it, it looks like teachers are sparse at Amity High, at least from what I'm able to get using your connection... which is infuriatingly slow, by the way, are you sure you did it right?"

"I've done it a million times, of course I did it right."

Oracle grumbled, "Stupid Amity black-out. Okay, so you have options. Most of the teachers have fucked off so all of the teachers in Freshmen year switch around to cover lessons or do mixed lessons. For example the English teacher also teaches Math and the normal Math teacher also teaches Science. So it looks like you could have any position you want and the school would just shuffle around the teachers."

"You said English is taken, right?"

"Yep, the teacher is named William Lancer and he- oh... wait, he's on a leave of absence due to injuries he suffered over Christmas Break. Concussion, broken arm, and bruised ribs, he'll be out for a few weeks."

Jason smirked, "Perfect. Sign me up."

". . . Jason, the English and Math teacher... never thought I'd see the day. Alright, I'll type up your application, send it in and casually push it to the front of the line. You'll be official by the time Winter Break ends in a few days. So get studying."

"Sounds like a plan, but I'll be fine, I mean our family is crazy and i deal with criminals on a nightly basis. How hard could this assignment really be?"

He would regret asking that question by the end of his first day as an Amity High School teacher.

#dp x dc prompt #dc x dp prompt #my prompts #might continue this #maybe not #we'll see

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demonic0angel · 3 months ago

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Jazz mothering the various Bat children. And maybe Bruce, too.

(I greatly enjoyed this ask <3)

Jazz fluffed up Tim’s pillow as she scolded lightly, “This is why you wait for backup. Going off on your own! You might have deserved those broken ribs!”

Tim just frowned grumpily, but it was quickly eased as Jazz patted his hair, bringing up his blankets with her other hand.

Today had been a particularly hard day, with many criminals and plenty of injuries all around. Tim, like the others, was kept in a medical bay cot within the Batcave, but with Jazz by their side, it was starting to look like a resort.

“I’m fine! It’s just a few fractures and bruises, it’s barely nothing.”

“Barely— Tim! Do not underestimate an injury! Infections, complications, broken bones, punctured ribs, permanent damage! Do not test me, Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne!” She snapped as Tim cowered in his bedsheets, staying silent as she continued to fuss over him, drawing the blanket up to his chin.

A snicker interrupted her thoughts and Jazz turned around fast enough to get whiplash. Damian shut his mouth but it was too late, Jazz was already striding forward to fuss over him too.

“And you! You didn’t wear your winter cape today, didn’t you? I knew it was too thin! It’s nearing winter and Gotham City is not a southern city, Damian! You need to stay warm or you’ll get sick!” She stroked his hair too, rubbing his cheek with her hand to check his temperature and also fluffing his pillows.

Damian pouted but took in the fussing without complaint, nuzzling against her palms. Jazz fussed over him a little more, and Damian just settled into his cot with only a small, tiny frown, which was also soothed away.

Jason watched Jazz completely subdue his little brothers with half lidded eyes and a grin on his face. He was also already tucked in and basically ready to sleep. Jazz had fussed over him enough that he was sated with her attention and now he was just waiting for her to finish checking over everyone else so she could sleep beside him.

“Jazz, don’t you get tired of fussing over all of us?” Steph complained, as Jazz had moved on to brush her hair and braid it for sleep. “You do this everytime we get injured!”

“And I’ll do it again and again,” Jazz said firmly, smoothing down her pillows and handing her a glass of water when she asked for it. “Today was quite a bad day for all of you. It’s no burden to me to take care of you. Besides, Alfred needs his rest too and you’re the heroes that are saving us, aren’t you? Just let me take care of you all.”

Steph blushed and then she said to Jason, “Jason, can you fight?”

“You’re asking me if I can fight?” Jason asked incredulously.

“For Jazz’s hand in marriage, I’d kill you,” Steph said very seriously, as Jazz giggled and Jason sneered at her in faux disgust and anger.

“No killing,” Bruce said. He looked tired, and was waiting for the lights to go out. Cass slept in the cot next to him, injured with a broken leg and completely knocked out with painkillers. She was already wrapped up and tucked in.

Jazz patted Steph’s chest, ignoring her protests of ‘not being a kid anymore’, and then moved on to Bruce.

Bruce blinked, looking a tad surprised to see her fussing over him too, before he accepted it.

“Thank you,” he said, as Jazz messed with his pillows and layered more blankets over him.

She gave him a small smile and said, “Like I said, it’s no burden to me. Relax. I’ll take care of you so you can take care of Gotham.”

Bruce closed his eyes with a sleepy nod. Softly, he said, “I’m happy that Jason met you.”

Jazz beamed. “Me too.” She turned to the others, addressing the injured vigilantes. “Alright, everyone! Lights out! Goodnight!”

There were a few choruses of goodnight back to her before Jazz turned off the lights and then climbed into the cot with Jason, carefully avoiding his broken arm and padded chest from a stray bullet. She cuddled against his neck and after a few short, sweet kisses, muttered, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Princess,” Jason said softly. And as she began to doze off after a harrowing time patching up everyone, she could barely hear the words, “Thank you,” before she completely fell into a deep sleep.

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chronicowboy · 3 months ago

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really conflicted over the episode because like. there were things they did really well. i think everything that happened inside the lab was great. ravi's oxygen running out and bobby coming up with his plan to save ravi and hen. my own personal feelings about bobby's death aside i do think the way they had bobby realise his hose was punctured was pretty compelling. a real hiding a fatal wound until they can't anymore moment. and then the conversations. we've been needing more of that. but that tiny moment with hen and ravi talking about when and why you should call. immediately followed by the chim and bobby conversation about family. hen pulling her hose out and risking exposure to save her best friend. chimney waking up from bleeding out and immediately worrying about his best friend. athena making the antiviral deposit and bobby telling her to get out of there. the get my people out sign. buck coming in with his stupidass "you would not believe the day i had" to try to lighten the mood. i think these moments were what made the episode sing. the only problem is tim thinks a two minute long snail's pace helicopter chase is more interesting than these scenes.

#sami rambles #911 spoilers #like these moments were so fucking good and what this show is fucking about #then you have the most boring tone deaf helicopter chase in the world that could have been half the fucking length and wouldn't have made a #goddamn bit of difference #911 show #bobby nash #chimney han #hen wilson #ravi panikkar #athena grant #evan buckley

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meara-eldestofthemall · 2 years ago

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Gee, thanks DC! You Just Turned Bruce Into An Irredeemable Ass.

So, at the end of Gotham War Bruce has officially lost everything. Alfred is still dead, Selina is "presumed dead" and Bruce is both financially and morally broke. Why, you may ask, is Bruce so much worse off this time? Let me count the ways.

He preformed a psychic lobotomy on Jason

The "it's for your own good" excuse only makes the mental rape undertaken by Jason's own father that much more heinous.

Just when you think Bruce can't sink any lower he does. When Dick recognizes that Bruce has lost it, he attempts to use a failsafe disconnect that Bruce himself built into the system. How does Nightwing get thanked for that? Well that brings us to number two on the list.

Batman attacks up his eldest son for doing what he's supposed to do when Batman has gone rouge.

Bruce beats him up because nothing proves you are in control of your sanity like hitting your children. While Dick is holding back, Bruce does no such thing. He hits Nightwing hard enough to send him flying. It could have gotten even worse if Tim hadn't shown up.

Tim arrives and attempts to talk some sense into Batman.

Tim tries to talk Bruce down. It doesn't go well. When Robin is trying to help, as he always does, Batman uses the attempt to reason with him to put the smack down on his son. Bruce could have killed Tim but apparently feels no remorse or guilt.

If there was any teeny tiny little doubt that Bruce will not win the Father of The Year award in 2023 it died a horrible screaming death when Batman abandons his children to potential arrest. Yes, he left a batarang for Dick and Tim but any glimer of possible hope associated with that action was instantly extinguished by Damian's reaction to Batman's callous betrayal.

Bruce abandons Damian.

Look at Dami; he's devastated. Since he came into Bruce's life, Damian has struggled with feelings that he can never earn his father's love and respect. Well, that negative self-image was reinforced in way that may never be repairable. Bruce just utterly destroyed a 13 year old child because of his inability to feel any kind of empathy.

And how does this all end? The best part is that Bruce takes all of his parental responsibilities and dumps them onto Dick.

Thank you Chip Zdarsky and Trini Howard. You've taken Batman from being an edgy anti-hero and made him into a callous monster. Part of me hopes that Bruce never comes back because he doesn't deserve his family.

The only positive aspect in this convoluted mess is that Damian and Tim will be far better off with Dick than with Bruce. Yes, Tim is mostly independent but he still needs guidance (particularly since Tim's first instinct is to try and save Bruce). Damian is essentially Dick's son emotionally anyway so this might help to sustain the positive character growth we've seen in him as of late.

The point of this rant is to wonder what on earth DC thinks they're doing. This story arc has been pure character destruction as far as Bruce is concerned. It's bad storytelling too; rushed, frenetic and massively disappointing.

Hasn't the popularity of Good Dad Bruce in Wayne Family Adventures proved that fans are tired of Bruce being a dark depressed and brooding edge lord? We all accept that Batman is a character with deeeeep issues who is in desperate need of therapy. I, however, draw the line at Bruce being an abusive a**hole.

In years to come when fans wonder when Batman jumped the shark, this is the plot line they'll point to.

#bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #batman #nightwing #tim drake robin #damian wayne robin #batfam #dc stands for disappoints continually

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demon-at-peace · 2 months ago

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DC + DP theatre kids

So Sam is such a theatre kid, don't even try to lie to me, she's dramatic, sassy ect, but she wouldn't ever participate in it, because the popular kids would be there, and it would just be awkward, after highschool though she drags Danny and Tucker to a small theatre three hours away.

Located in Gotham of all places, the current play is Hamilton, (purely for myself) Sam is Hamilton, Tucker is Thomas Jefferson, and Danny decided to be Eliza, they are in love with it. They are singing Guns and Ships in car rides, just utterly in love with the tiny Gothic theatre and the play.

Sam is thriving, funding the theatre simply because she can't stand to see them go out of business. the theatre kid shenanigans are maxed out. They are gossiping in the wings (totally get told to shut up) Sam constantly complaining about itchy costumes.

And obviously the theatre hasn't had enough funds to put on a production like this for years. So they are going full out, and are sold out. The bats are worried, rouges are theatric, there is a reason the theatre hadn't gotten funding, or actors. The rogues liked to make a mess of things. After all last time something like this was the Grayson's.

So on the opening night everyone is just waiting, for something to go horribly terribly wrong. The bats stationed around waiting for the joker, or scarecrow, just something to happen. Dick is so stressed out, he's fretting, yelling at everyone, practically breaking down. The bats are nervous too, this is practically begging something to go wrong.

Except Danny, Tucker and Sam refuse to let something go wrong. The first interference, an attempt at releasing fear toxin, is easily stopped by Danny. The next rouge to try something is Mr. Freeze (idk I just needed a rogue) the room starts to get cold, and Hamilton stops it, delivering right on beat of one of his dramatic lines.

Joker goons come at some point and Danny (in full costume) is just foiling them effortlessly before strutting on stage and delivering the best performance of his life. Tucker utterly saves the tech from going wrong, mad scientist hacker mode and then flounces on stage as Thomas Jefferson .

the bats are smitten. Steph doesn't know what to say, the lead is hot, and clearly a meta, and just effortlessly beat up a goon in the wings of the stage.

Tim doesn't know what to say about this Thomas Jefferson, other than he's a genius, and really fucking pretty.

Jason might be in love with the badass crossdressing guy that's Eliza. Because anyone who can beat someone up while wearing a corset is his type.

Jason is full also in nerd mode, and is utterly oblivious, he's singing to songs, and full on in love with all the actors voices. So what if he knows Hamilton, he doesn't predict the headlines, or realize his career as a badass crime lord is done.

Duke is also a theatre kid and knows all the lyrics, because he was forced into an after school activity as a kid and fell in love. so he knows the lyrics too.

Eventually the performance is done, with nothing happening, the rogues beat to hell, the bats exhausted, but they still ask out their perspective partners, because if they lose the chance they will regret it for eternity.

They say yes, obviously. And the first dates just make them fall in love even more. Mind you the next play is even more chaotic.

---

Hamilton is just awesome. I have no defence, I am simply a nerd.

Sorry I haven't been posting, schools are stressful and I've been a moron. also thank ya'll for being amazing, fr tho I'm shocked so many people like my silly ideas, but thanks!

Also am I spelling theatre right? cause google agrees with me but Tumblr doesn't.

Bye!

#danny fenton #dpxdc #tim drake #jason todd #batfam #dcu #dick grayson #Thanks!!

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prettypasteibunny · 8 days ago

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More of my hc on what the batboys types would be. (Not based in any canon)

Part one is linked at the bottom!

Tim, Damian (older), duke. (Should I do the girls too?)

This is all Written for fun, and for the 2 people who requested more (ily guys). And also the men’s sections are still quite short but I think a lot of it comes down to the fact I would just be repeating the women’s ones in different words.

Tim: women

- he would probably go for a girl his age who attends his high school/college. (So yous can hang out easy)

- I think he’d take a fancy to smart girls, people who can keep up with his wit.

- would like a modest girl but if he really likes them he could give less a shit what they wear. (Is scared to be seen as too controlling)

- idk I see him to be like a Victorian man, the SLIGHTEST bit of skin is show and this man cannot focus. He’s the reason schools don’t allow girls to show shoulders.

- I think he would like taller women, gets flustered around his taller wife. (Like a bird lol)

- also, women who have more muscle then him? He’s dead on the ground if you flex them.

- he doesn’t care about weight or size, if he sees a pretty woman, he likes.

Tim: men

- Tim strikes me as the type to go out with a jock (I don’t know if it’s just nerd x jock banging around in my mind, lol)

- again, somone stronger then him, just able and willing to throw him around.

- blonde hair, blue eyes.. name starts with ‘b’ ends in ‘ennard’

- nah but for real, I think he’s got a thing for blondes. Man or woman, he likes.

Damian: women

- due to being around women with loads of power his whole life he has grown to like women who are stronger/more socially powerful.

- a woman he spots at a gala who is much much richer and has more power then him or his father? Staring the whole time.

- likes modest women, but if you get together he won’t say anything about more revealing outfits.

- he tends to scowl at women similar to the type his father used to bring home (but will still talk if they approach)

- he prefers fit women, he doesn’t need a muscle mommy but someone with a bit of bulk has his eyes.

- people (man or women), who speak multiple languages. Especially his mother tongue. (He likes hearing you speak it)

- he would probably like a more feminine woman but he wouldn’t mind a masculine one.

Damian: men.

- I don’t really see Damian with men but I’ll try

- he strikes me as the type to like men who are just big airheads

- and by big I mean, tons of muscle.

- he does like a man with smarts, but if they can make up for it in muscle he decides he likes them.

- likes a more traditional man, gentlemen if you will.

- he watched boxing once to get closer with his father and was blushing at the men in tiny shorts fighting one another the whole time (Bruce was concerned) (dick was not)

- languages again, but also he likes people who can play instruments.

Duke: women

- he likes pretty girls, traditionally pretty or girls with pretty eyes.

- he also likes girls who can take care of themselves.

- I don’t think he’d find any of the people at galas very attractive, but alot of the reason for that comes from his lower class background.

- there are some exceptions to this but he tends to only find them attractive and then move on with his day.

- he’d probably like somone he can do romantic teen things with (like the movies), arcades, movie nights and cuddling, anyone up for this has his heart.

- as soon as he joins the batfam he closes off to any suitors because he’s not used to this many and is scarred they’re using him for money, until he finds that half of the people don’t even know he’s living with the Wayne’s.

- I think he likes chubbier/plus sized girls. (And making his girl chubby)

Duke: men

- he would turn away from snobbish men. He finds them hard to find attractive.

- but pretty boys? God save him.

- he doesn’t really like bigger men, someone his size (muscle wise) is fine with him.

- a man in his social class, he can’t keep pulling his phone out every time they say a fancy word.

- he probably likes people who have their own job, he likes the fact that they’re supporting themselves.

- a man who can cook and eat well, has his heart.

#batfamily x reader #batfamily #batboys x reader #duke thomas #duke thomas x reader #the signal #tim drake x reader #tim drake #red robin #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #dc robin #dianedrawls #headcanon

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rhiaemrys · 2 years ago

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All of those Batfamily de-aged fics, but like, they’re all in their "Trouble-Maker Era". This is primarily to create as much chaos as physically possible, and potentially cause Batman a stress aneurysm.

Like, Dick Grayson, going from a relatively well adjusted (for a vigilante which isn’t saying much) to a tiny crazed 8 year old Robin who is ready to Fight God or die trying. He keeps perching on chandeliers, throwing stuff at people and hitting Damian over the head every time Damian mentions hes Robin.

Jason Todd, who was a well settled Red Hood. Little murder, but mostly having fun with the outlaws and saving the world. Now is an angry recently resurrected 19 year old bent on beating the Bat up. Currently he's gone to the wind. No one knows where he's at, but once something blows up they'll use that as a triangulator.

Cassandra Cain, who already is a stubborn shit at the best of times but has learned to compromise more and more over the years, is back to the homeless child that Bruce found during No Mans Land. She only trusts Bruce and Duke and is utterly willing to wreck anyone else who gets close to them.

Tim Drake, who has found his calling as whatever call sign he chooses, is now launched back to “All my friends and family are dead or think I’m in desperate need of therapy (which I am but god forbid I admit that), I think I’m a little insane with grief so let me traverse the entire world and work with one of my adoptive fathers greatest enemies to find him” Red Robin era. He's been holed up in his room running the calculations that this is a doomsday scenario since he got back from being de-aged.

Stephanie Brown (who, unlike the rest was smart enough to run for the hills when the magic user appeared, yelling out that this one is for the idiot boys, but unfortunately got waylaid by Cass), is now a new Spoiler who is spoiling to fight Batman barehanded because he said that she should go home.

Duke is back to the Robin War gang era and along with Dick, ready to Fight God. Hes got like, fifty makeshift weapons at one time and ends up teaming up with Cass.

Damian, currently Robin and doing very well in the role, is now back to the newly acquired child stage where he’s attempting to prove himself to both sides of his heritage. He ends up being terribly endearing to Bruce solely because, even if it's only partial, at least Damian sticks around for the whole lecture when the crew gets in trouble (he's only doing that so he can find loopholes).

It concerns Bruce how many of these literal children are either down to murder or take out their siblings should said sibling Attempt To Murder.

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ghostbsuter · 2 years ago

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Damian was 10 when he was shipped off to his father.

He was 10 when he finally decided enough was enough, packed his stuff, called Mara, and the ball went rolling.

The moment Talia left the mansion, the DNA test confirmed, and Bruce emotionally compromised, did he finally move.

He'd stared his father down, felt nothing when he stood up and mild annoyance bloomed when his father asked– demanded– where he was going.

"You're a fool if you believe I will stay here." He spat, eyening the man in disdain.

It became very apparent that Damian wasn't what Bruce thought he'd be, what Talia thought he was.

"Your mother entrusted me with your safety–"

"I don't need protection. Mother wouldn't care if I stayed or not." He blinks. "Where is the cave? I wish to use the computer, I have people to contact."

Reluctantly, Bruce shows him the way, questions of who and why, and the plans he apparently had were asked.

Damian answers with vague wordings and enough open spaces for interpretation. Words greatest detective, he can figure it out himself without damian spelling it out for him.

When they do arrive in the batcave, Tim Drake— Robin— was sitting at the computer.

Huffing, Damian shoved the entire chair away from the table, taking its place and started typing.

"W— hey! What—? Who?" Tim looked between Bruce and Damian, despite being sleep deprived his eyes caught on the similarities, mouth dry and mind calculating.

"Does Dick know?" Is all he asks, leaning back and watching the younger boy work.

"Not yet."

A heavy sigh.

"Silence," the boy huffs, annoyed. "I'll have to make a call."

Glaring daggers, he pulls out a old burner phone, pressing the single number saved inside and waits.

"Damian."

"Hello, brother."

('Oh. Did he have another?' Tim wonders, watching Batman's face, blank like a paper sheet. Nothing. It feels like all his efforts of bringing the man back were just flushed.)

—

Or in simpler words:

Danyal al Ghul, the first successor of the demons head, born with his twin Athanasia al Ghul, to be the future of the league.

They were reborn with their former memories, stuck in place, constantly watched and trained. Manipulated. Weaponized.

All for a man playing immortal.

They'd only started planning when two more children came into the picture, Damian and Mara Al Ghul.

Danyal now Daniel "Danny" and Athanasia now Eleanor "Ellie" Nightingale took matters into their own hands and separated to take the kids in and end this.

End the league. End the cycle of whatever this, this cult is, and take over.

In many universes, Ra's al Ghul does not die, always returns, wielding his people like mere weapons.

In this universe, Danyal al Ghul is acknowledged as a traitor, killer of the Demons head and Older Brother, borderline father even, to his tiny brother Damian al Ghul.

In this universe, he raises Damian instead of Talia, shows him the cracks of this careful manipulated picture and listens when Ellie tells of her travels to this tiny child with a sad sad fate.

In this universe, Ellie takes in their tiny cousin, shielding her from the cruel eyes of a man not worthy. She trains her, shows her the ropes and takes her along when she leaves.

In this universe, Damian al Ghul and Mara al Ghul live a good live, protected by the twins of old souls and have a somewhat normal if not very complicated childhood.

#dcxdp #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #fic prompt #writing prompt #dc x dp prompt #Danny is Damians older brother/father #Danny aka Danyal al Ghul #Ellie aka Athanasia al Ghul #Dani is Maras mentor/parental figurine #Danny and Dani got reincarnated as twins in the league #the reason Damian and Mara suffered so much under Ras was because he alr had a granddaughter and son #why a pair more if they cant even surpass the first ones? he blatantly ignores the huge age gap #danny killed ras #Bad parent Tali #bad parent bruce #bruce wayne tries #damian just doesnt care bcs he alr got a father figure #why one more?#to dami talia is more a of a teacher #and what does he do with teachers he doesnt like? get rid of them #sorry talia love #anyway clockwork is having a field day with his fav drama show #for funnsies #adding Dan as Jasons mentor for the rage issues #Mara al ghul my beloved #Damian is NOT interested in the Robin title!!!!#he is much more serious about the phantom family name

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takemetomyfragiledreams · 8 months ago

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This is a wip about banshee!Tim gradually adopting all the bats and keeping them alive. It has the possibility to be an eventual Robin pile but I haven't fully decided on where it'll go. The original intention was to eventually have it be damitim but honestly it could go jaytim, dicktim or just robin pile. If you have a preference I'm all ears.

Talia becomes aware of her father’s shadow at the age of five. A boy with skin so white she half expects him to be translucent and eyes so frigid they put the winter sky to shame. He lingers in shadows and darkened corners, ever silent and ever watching. Her father never mentions him, not even when he perches on the arm of his throne or steals bits of meat from his plate. She half thinks she’s crazy for the first thirteen years of her life but doesn’t once dare to ask. Secrets get you killed in this world and this is one she’s not willing to die for.

He never speaks to her. Never seems to speak to anyone. He’d be an afterthought if his presence wasn’t so alien.

At the age of thirteen, the night before her first solo mission, she wakes to find him sitting on the edge of her bed. No scream comes; she’s learned the only one she can depend on is herself.

He touches a finger to his lips and she remains silent as the guards outside walk past. When the lights from under the door fade, he speaks for the first time.

“Tomorrow, you’re going to die.”

Talia’s hand curls around the blade beneath her pillow. “Is this a threat?”

“A fact.” His face is cold, emotionless. It’s like looking into the depths of a still pool; all she sees is herself staring back. “You will die many times in this world and you will pay dearly for your return.”

“The pit,” she understands.

“If you’re smart, you’ll start saving what pieces of yourself you have left. You’ll need them one day.” He stands. Instead of opening the door, she watches as he finds tiny handholds in the stone of her wall and begins to climb to the ceiling. There’s a small hole six meters up, where the smoke of her fires can escape. It’s barely big enough for his head.

“Who are you?” She calls as loud as she dares.

“When the time comes, I will scream for you. Follow the sound back.”

He vanishes out the hole like smoke, body contorted into impossible shapes. Talia lays down and stares up at that dark maw of space until her eyes blur and droop.

Three days later she can’t stop the sword from cutting through her chest. She slices through her enemy but it’s too late. Her knees fall out from under her as her mouth opens in a silent cry.

Across the room, she sees a boy’s eyes turn from icy blue to black as his mouth contorts into the shape of a horrific scream; the sound rings in her ears long after it’s over.

It’s the last thing she hears as she dies and the first she hears as she comes gasping from the Pit, naked and shaking as her heart restarts in her chest.

He stands in the shadows when her father holds a hand out. Always watching. Waiting.

This repeats twenty times in the span of a hundred years. Twenty times in which she dies to a scream and returns to one. And then it stops.

He’s sitting in front of a machine, eyes big as he presses his palms to the glass. She feels something sick in her stomach but cannot place just what it means. Motherly instinct? The desire to whisk her growing child out of sight and away from this creature no one ever seems to talk about.

“His name,” he says, “what will you call him?”

The last thing she wants to do is tell him. Still, she cannot stop herself.

“His name is Damian.”

“Damian,” he sighs, croons, growls. “Damian Wayne-al Ghul.”

She never told him who the father was.

The day Damian is born is the day she loses him, if she ever had him in the first place. It’s in the way he looks past her to stare into the shadows; the way his nose scrunches and his lips curl in delight; the way he waves his grasping hands and the way she cannot stop him from leaving her arms.

“Tim,” he babbles up at the monster that has dogged her life and death. She didn't even know he had a name to give.

Damian giggles and pats at a pale cheek with his own colored fingers. “Tim!”

Tim smiles a ghastly, jagged sort of smile down at him. It’s like watching someone learn how to feel for the first time; unnatural, yet impossible to look away from. There’s color in his face for the first time, a light in his eyes like the first thaw of spring.

“Damian,” he says like it’s something reverent, something holy. It’s the level of devotion a prince deserves but she cannot find it in herself to be pleased.

It’s then that she acknowledges the bitter truth: Tim scares her in a world where she is not meant to be afraid of anything. He’s the only being she fears save perhaps her father and he’s looking at her son like he hung the stars.

What bitter irony.

For the first time, she comes to him. He’s standing just outside Damian’s room, looking in like there’s nothing he wants more and less than to go inside.

“Normally you’re inseparable. What is it?”

He’s silent for so long that she half convinces herself he’s an illusion.

“I’m leaving.”

Talia blinks. He’s never left once; not that she’s aware of. “Leaving?”

“If I stay, he won’t turn into the boy he needs to be to survive what’s coming.” Tim turns almost human eyes on her. He looks drawn and tired. “I won’t be able to let you hurt him.”

“I would not—"

“You would. You know nothing else.”

They stand together, staring at the closed door in mutual contemplation. Finally, Tim sighs.

“You’ll do your best to kill the good in him, but remember death is never permanent. Not for an al Ghul. Do more than that and I’ll come for you. I don’t care what destiny says.”

Talia’s hands itch for her knives, but she does not reach. She knows better. “When will you return?”

“When I’m needed.” He turns to meet her eyes, small but oh so fierce. “Teach him well, Talia. Show him what he needs to know to survive.”

He’s gone before she can respond. They both know she will do nothing less.

(Still, he scares her; Talia al Ghul is not meant to be afraid of anything.)

#jaytim #dicktim #damitim #robin pile #wip talk #i really love this verse and honestly I'm tempted to do each pairing regardless #it has the potential to be a longer fic as well #fic: death becomes #banshee!tim drake #kayla talks #my writing

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