chrrybbye

[chrrybbye]

Yandere Batfam x Twin! Reader

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CW: nothing triggering i think, reader can speak multiple languages and so can her twin, longer than my average chapter so very long for me, secret identities ig, manipulative tendencies, straight up gaslighting

TITLE: Mellifera Serpentes

You and your family⸺in reference to the Wayne family⸺aren’t close. It’s not that you don’t get along. No, it has nothing to do with getting along. You’re just not close. This is factual.

And, well, perhaps you do not get along. Maybe just a little.

(That time when Damian attempted to kill you and Diana smashed an entire cake on his face.)

So when you walk in from school, your junior year of highschool, your face fixed into a mask of indifference, the type of indifference that should radiate the idea: Please let me disappear into my room.

The stares are an unaccounted variable.

It’s unusually packed. The manor is mostly cold, rarely ever lively, and never welcoming. But today, for one reason or another, is different. All the bat girls⸺who are more often or not at the Clock Tower⸺are in the living room, excluding Barbara. But you’re more than willing to guess Barbara is somewhere in the manor, whether in her own room or the batcave.

Dick is in there, too, cuddling up to Damian on the couch. Or trying to, at least. Damian looks like a ruffled, very unwilling kitten. It’s no surprise that Jason is nowhere in sight, either probably working or at his own apartment, like a grown man should be.

And the strangest thing. Bruce, making himself some drink in the kitchenette. A half-formed joke about Bruce needing caffeine or alcohol at three in the afternoon floats into your mind, but It’s nothing but a bare wisp that’s quickly extinguished with the need to get to your room as quickly as possible without coming off as suspicious. You can’t melt into the shadows like you usually would, as much as you’d like to⸺that would just be giving your secret talent for being a sneak completely away.

You decide you are going to walk in and up the stairs to your room, in an completely orderly and ordinary fashion, in the way a completely ordinary person would.

Tap.

Tap.

You sling your backpack off your shoulders, sighing at the release of pressure on your back, only to hide your wince at the loud sound it makes when it dips lower than expected and makes contact with the floor. Nice going, [Name], you scold yourself. Their utter lack of attention to you has made you lax in your efforts to be stealthy around them.

Tap.

Tap.

You’re hurrying across the hardwood floors now. Anything to get away from all the gazes that are suddenly attached to you. Was one tiny noise all it took to get them to notice you? It had never been like that before. Why now? Why must they choose the most inopportune time? You regret your decision to hide the silence of your footsteps⸺anything to avoid the situation right now, you think a little humorously. Even if they did find it suspicious how sneaky you were. What were they gonna do? Investigate you? [Name], how come you’re silent when you walk?

Tap.

Tap.

“[Name].”

It takes everything in you to slow to a stop, just a step away from the staircase. You’d almost made it. You had been so close. Bruce clears his throat.

“[Name], how come the school called to say you were absent from one of your classes?”

Everyone is staring. You’re not anxious, not yet. It’s embarrassing, but what is something as little as missing one class in the grand scheme of life? Mostly, irritation prickles at your skin underneath your uniform. Of course Bruce has no consideration for your privacy. The whole family probably knew before you even got home from school.

You’re stranded with two choices: quickly apologize and put up a genuine front and then hope it blows over, or put on your best puppy eyes and tell him you’ve got no idea what he could ever mean. Which one will hit your dignity harder?

But then a brilliant idea comes to you.

“Wrong person,” you grunt, and then begin stomping up the stairs. The bluntness, the hard tone, the eagerly leaving footsteps; it’s all Diana. A near perfect imitation of her.

“[Name]. I know It’s you.”

You try to pretend as if you don’t see Dick and Cass nodding. Damn Cass for her freaky hyperfixation on body language⸺as for Dick? You’re not sure whether he’s bluffing or trying to play up into the idea that he knows anything, anything at all, about you.

You close your eyes, releasing a terse sigh before looking down at Bruce. “Father, you must be mistaken. Can’t you tell us apart?”

You won’t give up the act until it’s pried from your cold, dead hands.

You don’t miss the flash of hurt on his face. One, because it’s as clear as day, but also because it means it’s working. He’s beginning to believe he wrongly identified you. You press your palm to your mouth, hiding your smile, grateful for the way the shadows fall over the joyous lines of your face.

You would chide yourself for sloppy acting, but it’s hard because it’s so damn easy to trick them. It makes you want to laugh. It worked out better than you thought it would. Diana could fulfill her part of your play⸺come home, act clueless, smile a little and leave. She was more than used to pretending to be you. You two were two sides of the same coin, as both people and bodies.

The knowledge each of you had of the other was intimate, more than biggest dreams or deepest fears. It was a complete understanding of each other.

You feign a yawn. “[Name] stayed behind to study with some friends,” It’s a quick lie you made up. In actuality, it was Diana who stayed behind so she could take part in the art club. She’s probably putting on a smile, pretending to be you, and wishing she were dead right now. Or maybe that you were dead, so she wouldn’t have to put up with all your intricate schemes.

It’s hard to feel bad, though; you act friendly with your fellow students all the time. Diana can handle pretending to be you for an hour. “If that’s all, then I’ll also go to my room. To study.”

You level a glare at Bruce, before stomping the rest of the way upstairs. And you go to Diana’s room, too, just in case any of them come after you. You could always play it off as wanting to sleep in your twin’s bed if you were desperate to sleep on your own, but to you, it just seems more trouble than It’s worth. Besides, the opportunity to sleep on Diana’s bed⸺without prompting⸺doesn’t come every day. Just on the days where she needs help handling her nightmares.

You’re familiar with Diana’s room. Cozy, even. You don’t look around, just close the door behind you and flip the lights off. You said you were gonna study⸺but what self-respecting person actually studies after getting home? Not a chemistry genius like you.

You dive onto her bed face-first. The wrinkled sheets and haphazardly placed blankets⸺as if a wild boar had slept on the bed and then ran away⸺don’t bother you in the slightest. You and Diana share a lot of habits, after all, but if there is one thing different about the two of you, it’s scents.

Diana’s scent is sweet, like the nectar of a fruit, and you’re completely happy to breathe in her scent of honeydew drops and freshly sliced apples. Her scent of sugar is so sweet and calming, it completely lulls you to sleep.

You wake up to a cat sitting on your face.

You sputter, removing the cat with a quickness.

“Oh, good afternoon. You’re awake.” Diana’s sitting near her TV, scrolling through her Netflix catalog.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t wake up ever again if I was more unfortunate than I happened to be,” You cough up a few hairs. Being out done by an overly fluffy cat would be quite the humiliating way to go. “You were complicit to just allow the cat to choke me to death?”

“It is not my cat,” Diana shrugs.

“You’re so cruel.”

“She cried when I attempted to move her!”

“Get my backpack for me? Because, you know, you did just almost let me die on your bed…”

“You could have just asked,” Diana huffs, grabbing your bag and tossing it at you. You don’t miss the way her eyebrows raise. “Why’s your backpack so heavy?”

You grin, unzipping it. “Just wait and see, sister,” you pull out a metal case. “You know where I was, right?”

“Yes. With Jake’s dad.” She scrunches her nose, “He didn’t do anything to you, did he? That man is a creep. Unfaithful and unfilial. He didn’t?” And then she’s grabbing your wrist, crowding you as she moves closer, her presence becoming oppressive. Her grip is tight enough to break your wrist. It’s hard to breathe at the sight of her dark, threatening expression. “Did he?”

You smile at your sister’s overprotectiveness. It’s one thing that hasn’t changed over the years. Sometimes, you forget she’s just as trained in combat as you. You twist your arm out of her grip, “No, I’m alright. We were in public the whole time.” You push the case to her chest, “Here. Take a look.”

Diana takes it with a healthy dose of suspicion, still glancing at you as if to quickly check for physical evidence of a misdeed against you. She doesn’t find anything, of course, and so she obediently opens up the metal case⸺only to gape at all the trinkets that fall out.

“Is that a golden valve? And metal gears? A crankshaft⸺fuck, is that a motor?” Her eyes are positively sparkling. You think you’re allowed to take credit for the heartwarming sight. Or the feeling, at least. Making your sister happy is nothing short of an achievement for you.

Her excitement comes to an end eventually, of course, and she narrows her eyes as she scoffs.

“I didn’t know he was willingly giving away all his shit. If I had known, I would’ve staged a break in a long time ago,” beneath her sharp words, there’s a curl of satisfaction⸺and she wolf-whistles right after, so it’s no mystery how she feels. Diana is pleased with your gift.

You laugh, short and quick. “I wouldn’t say for free. I had to pull a lot more strings than I thought I would in order to accumulate these.”

(He may not know just how many parts are missing from his collection⸺but It’s not thievery. No, it was all willingly given to you! Even if you had coerced Jake into giving you some spare parts.)

“How did you get these?” Diana asks, though you can tell she’s only half listening, immersed in observing her motor.

“Horse racing,” you answer. “Jake’s father was surprisingly into it. We placed bets on the horses. If I won, he would give me machine parts.”

“Rich men,” Diana sighed, then smirked. “I bet you beat him by a long shot.”

A matching smirk curves your lips. “You bet I did.” You leaned a little closer, “And I had Clevian rig the whole thing. Mr. Leron didn’t see a single penny.”

Diana shakes her head and laughs gleefully. “How much money did you win?”

You whistle, then pout, “You’re asking the good questions, but I wanted to surprise you with it, my good sister.” You say, tone sulky.

Diana rolls her eyes. “You can keep all the money if you wish,” she says, dryly, “But that fucker better have reimbursed you properly for your time.”

“Language, love,” you sigh wistfully, but dutifully pop open another case, watching as Diana’s eyes widen in wonder.

“So I guess he wasn’t a complete waste of time. This is more than I expected,” she relents. “But not enough to forgive a fool like him for hanging out with a schoolgirl.”

Seemingly over your sin of throwing him off Diana’s bed, Mr.Cuddles brushes up against your leg.

“Is that what you’re angry about?” you muse, smiling, “Say, do you think you could pretend to be me and go out with Jake’s dad this Thursday?”

“What?” Diana shrieks, appalled. She crosses her arms, one eyebrow delicate raised, jaw slack.

“Please? All you must do is laugh at his bad jokes. I can give you which bets to place.”

You already knew you had Diana, even without the please. But you still slip in a little incentive⸺it’ll be a slice of cake for Diana. You let her know that, eagerly. Lord knows she’s pretended to be you in higher stake situations.

“Ugh, for one afternoon, I suppose I could.” But Diana’s begrudging acceptance is quickly replaced by anger, “That man wants to take you out again this Thursday? Shouldn’t he focus on his own wife? Or is even his own son too much to ask for?” She’s practically vibrating in place, “I should remove his fingers one by one and then sodomize him with it. He is undoubtedly lacking in the department of both father and husband⸺or even human decency.”

You withhold your laugh with such an ability that it is impressive, even for you. You don’t wish to enable this behavior, but you don’t wish to squash it, either. You know that the only place Diana can dump the burden that is her emotions off her chest is with you, in private. Even if it’s anger or comments too inappropriate to share in public spaces. Only with you can she be the girl with a glass heart and clumsy feet. Only with you can she be the lost girl who is stuck in the shadows while everyone else is found.

To others, she may be judgemental and cold. Jaded and cruel. But to you she has always been your little sister, the small thing bruised and crying as she tucked herself into a little ball, the missing part of your rib. Diana is your own. And you’ve always protected your own with the fierceness befitting the heiress of the Rhodendron family.

To others, Diana Wayne she may be, but she has always been Diana Rhodendron to you.

Your one and only twin sister, bound by both blood and flames.

“Hey,” you click the case shut, smiling⸺her quip had been funny, after all, and you are not immune to humor, despite your aunt’s best efforts⸺and set it to the side. “Why don’t we take down all your new parts to your workshop?”

“But you’ll get bored there,” Diana murmurs after a moment. “You don’t know the first thing about machines. And I need to finish an old project first.”

“Rude,” you tut, “And I can sit there long enough. I’ve got new ballet shoes to break in. They’re in here, aren’t they?”

Diana gestures toward her dresser, where a pair of hard vermillion ballet shoes, still laced together, sit prettily.

“Perfect,” you hum, sweeping them up by the laces. “I knew I had forgotten something here yesterday. Let’s go.”

The whirr of machines scraping hardly cracks your concentration. It doesn’t even chip it. Instead, it serves as background music⸺you’re completely zoned in on your shoes, which you bend over your knee and slap against the floor with all your might before you slip them on and begin to slowly bend your feet to different degrees.

Diana doesn’t say anything, also focused on her work, where she’s elbow deep in a car engine. Car grease streaks her arms and practically paints her hands. She’s wearing a jumper and some bright camp t-shirt, which you know she isn’t scared to get dirty because it already is.

Finally, when you begin hesitant pliés, Diana’s eyes flicker over to you. “You’re going to get your pointe shoes dirty, you know. You should go to the studio Bruce built for Cass’s ballet.”

“I know. But this corner is kind of clean⸺you haven’t gotten your robot juices on it. And it cannot be worse than when Clevian bled all over my white heels,” you wrinkled your nose. “Nothing can be worse than that. I had to throw those away in a dumpster and come home barefoot. I had to say I got mugged and wasn’t allowed to go anywhere unsupervised for a month...,” you took a breath, “do you wonder if Bruce knows about your little workshop?”

“I don’t think he cares,” Diana answered flippantly. “Beyond maybe that I received one of his cars that he thought was too old to work anymore. He probably thinks I keep it sitting here to look pretty.”

You smile. “I remember having to beg Alfred for that car⸺he had looked at me as if I had lost my head. It took all my charm and more to get him to agree.”

“Yes well, he probably doesn’t know you handed it off to me the second he turned around.”

“Yes, well, what’s mine is yours,” you shrugged with a chuckle, before moving your arms for balance. The shoes were a little stiff, but that was a problem that could only be solved with time. You guided your feet in the familiar pattern, ignoring the itchy tightness on your feet.

There was a grunt from Diana, the growly, frustrated one.

The kind you were familiar with, that didn’t mean any good. You stopped dancing and removed your pointe flats⸺not wanting to actually dirty your shoes⸺and opened one of the cabinets, the one not filled with metal, and grabbed a black towel, clothes, a water bottle, and an energy bar out.

“Alright, Einstein,” you said, a dry humor in your tone, “Time for a break. You’ll end up breaking your delicate pieces if you keep working with so much anger. You know how it is, for us. An unfortunate side-effect. Tone it down a little. You are aware the pieces are expensive to replace.”

Diana exhaled. The pent up tension in her frame leaving with it. You watched as she calmed down from her angry state, deflating. “You’re right,” she let her wrench drop to the ground. “Yeah.”

“Having difficulties?” You asked, already wiping her down without asking. She would still need to change, but at least after washing her down with the bottled water, she wouldn’t be stained a dark muddy gray. Still a little gray until she showered, but still.

“Yep…” Diana huffed, “A lot of this engine is obsolete if i modify it, and I just⸺why didn’t he take better care of it? No wonder it broke down. Of course, he’s a billionaire, so he can get a new car whenever he pleases, should he please⸺but still. If he had cared about it, even at all, it’d be a lot easier to modify. As it is, the old engine won’t work with modified parts. Ugh.” She scrubbed at her face, leaving a dark streak, “It’s annoying, but I can figure it out. Maybe I can modify the old parts, too⸺but I might need to switch out the gas tank and the tubes…yeah.”

You waited a beat once she finished. “Wanna go fire guns?” You asked, smiling.

Diana smirked at you sideways. “I remember archery to be more up your alley,” she jabbed.

“I’m proficient at both,” you huff, wiping her face. “C’mon. We have an emergency stash of clothes for this reason⸺look at your mess,” you chide.

“Sorry,” Diana says, sheepish. “I can shower before we go.”

You consider it. “Don’t worry about it, sister.” you reply, “No one goes down there besides Alfred. No one will notice.”

Diana nods mutely. You smile, finished wiping her face.

“Yeodongsaeng, gin-jang pul-eo.”

(Sister, at ease.)

Diana huffs a little. “Ce n’est pas un problème,” a beat, “Sœur.”

(It’s not a problem…sister.)

You laugh.

“Hold steady.”

Diana huffs, short, a little exasperated. “I know, sister.”

Your lips curl, cheesy, unrepentant. “I know, too. But each time still feels like the first time.”

Diana looks up to the sky; probably praying for patience. “Well, it is far from my first time. I’ve come a long way since then. Many years have passed.”

“They have,” you agree, easy, narrowing your eyes onto the sight of your gun. You align the sights with your target, and after a moment, you fire.

“Bullseye,” you declare. Not a boast, but definitely not humble. Pride simmers beneath your nonchalant facade. It’s what you’ve been trained for since you can remember⸺you’d be a disappointment if you weren’t good at it. Your eyes flicker to your gun, just freshly fired, and a sense of nostalgia itches at the edges of your skull. There used to be a sense of excitement about it⸺firing a gun, hitting the bullseye⸺underneath the pressure to be perfect, to be the best. Now, it’s a necessity⸺this is something you need to survive. It’s not a class you can ace or get praise for.

But still, it’s something, and you’re fucking good at it. What isn’t fun when you’re good at it?

Diana doesn’t even blink. She fires her gun, once, thrice, all shots landing exactly in the Bullseye territory. Your pride comes back threefold. You beam at Diana, almost dropping your gun to hug her. She’s come so far from the little girl who couldn’t hold her gun longer than thirty minutes or line her sights up to aim. “Tu as un grand talent, sœur.”

(You have great talent, sister.)

Diana blushes, the delicate color crawling from her cheeks to her forehead. “Danke.”

(Thank you.)

You roll your eyes, equally peeved as you are amused. Diana has always had this unwritten rule where if you speak to her in a foreign language, she will always reply in a different one, no matter which language you speak to her in⸺so you switch to her favorite one. It’s fair game: after all, she already switched to your favorite, German. “Como siempre has hecho, hermanita.”

(As you always have, sister.)

“Grac⸺Bedankt,” Diana’s soft voice takes a sharp curve, nearly tripping over her words. She glances at you, as if checking to see If you know that she knows that you know, before going back to her gun with fumbling fingers. Cute.

You’re about speak again, not quite formed or thought-out words on the tip of your tongue, when the tell-tale hiss of the elevator⸺the secret elevator that leads to the underground firing range⸺nearly shocks your soul out of your body.

Someone is coming. Someone was going to be here, in a matter of seconds, going to stumble upon Diana and you each with a gun in hand.

Fuck.

You chuck your gun towards Diana, who catches it with something a little less than grace and ducks behind the display case. The not glass one.

“Young Master Diana?” Alfred’s polished shoes click across the floor. “Pray tell: what’re you doing here?” He sounds a cross of confused and concerned. He doesn’t know you were firing guns down here just a second ago.

“I’m so sorry, Alfred!” It bursts out your mouth, like a bubbling shame finally popping. “I got lost by my own accidental mistake. I, um, meant to grab Diana something while she was in the shower⸺but I… lost my way? I’m really sorry, I thought I should just leave, but then I got distracted and came in here, I⸺I never meant to snoop! But what is this place anyway, Alfred? Wait, no, you don’t have to tell me. I deeply apologize, Alfred! I had no intention of ending up here…” Forced tears spring to your eyes as you blink at Alfred.

“Please calm yourself, Young Master [Name],” replies Alfred, having realized which twin he was talking to, a mixed expression of exasperation and relief⸺which sets off your red flags⸺as he retrieves a handkerchief from his suit. “I understand you got lost. I am not mad. I won’t say anything. Here, do not cry,” he hands you the handkerchief with the gentlemanliness expected from a butler. Truly, it almost makes you smile: had he been born into your family or hired as a servant, he would’ve made a stellar confidant. A shame, really.

You dab at the fake tears in your eyes. You could stop crying in as little time as 1.37 milliseconds, and it took around 8.157 seconds for your face to lose the signature flush of someone freshly sobbing. “Thank you, Alfred,” you sniffle anyway, because to stop crying suddenly would put your whole act in jeopardy. You need to get Alfred out of here, and as soon as possible. Alfred nods. “I only came to search for you. Young Master [Name], there is a gala invitation addressed to you. There’s one for Young Master Diana as well.”

Fuuuuuuuck.

Your eye twitches, despite your best efforts. Galas are a waste of time. Time is not something that has ever been on your side, not now and not for the foreseeable future.

Net-working potential, you try to remind yourself as you smile. “Oh, how splendid! I’ll make sure to attend. I will give Diana hers, as well.”

The cards have a showy font and are trimmed in gold. Kind of tacky.

“Shall I escort you out?” asks Alfred, ¾ away from the elevator. You remember to smile as you shake your head.

“Oh, no, Alfred. Give me a moment to read these, please. You can tell father we will both attend⸺and oh, please, Alfred. Do not mention anything to father, I would simply die!”

Not really. You don’t care what the old man thinks of you firing a gun⸺It’s just that he isn’t supposed to know. Alfred doesn’t know you were firing a gun, which is a relief, but you’ll explode in anger if Bruce somehow connects the dots. He was already too close to seeing through your disguise as Diana earlier.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” replies Alfred before boarding the elevator. Whatever the hell that means. But you take it as meaning he’ll keep his trap shut.

“Good grief, finally,” groans Diana, voice laden with irritation.

A/N: im soooo sorry it took me this long to get this out, I really have no excuse other than me not liking it and obsessing over for it for weeks before I js told myself fuck it. I just write for fun so im gonna put it out even if the timeline is sloppy and the characters have no depth and inconsistent writing. The good thing is that the next part should come out fairly soon🫡 and yes I did change the header, because i wasn’t being completely unproductive during my away time

love, chrrybbye

taglist: @gluttonousriceflour @1abi @d4rkf10w3r @jjopees @jsprien213 @alishii

[chrrybbye]

...♡

[chrrybbye]

I'm a very big fan of the “one of the ways Batman fights crime is by making the bad guys afraid he could be anywhere”. The “he’s not in every shadow, but he could be in any shadow” thing.

I think it would be fun to mix that with the way the rest of the batfam is drawn when they're in shadows:

the glowy eyes and splashes of vibrant colour, especially with Nightwing's symbol looking like it's actually reflective.

So now I'm thinking:

imagine if Gothamites realized that dangerous people get really uneasy when they keep seeing things that, out of the corner of their eye, might look like a vigilante. To the point that they avoid areas where, let's say, an old poster on the wall is just that shade of yellow that keeps jumpscaring them every time they turn. Or that old trash can that still has a patch of green paint that hasn't peeled away yet. Not even realizing what makes them nervous, just knowing that a particular place makes them jumpy. Stuff like that.

So to keep themselves a little safer Gothamites just start… adding little things like that in their neighborhoods. Nothing that outright references the Bats - stuff like that might get vandalised or just lose the effect if it's recognised, but things like:

- plants on window sills in flower pots or vases in bright colors

- little shiny trinkets in the windows that just might be mistaken for a flash of a utility belt

- colorful curtains get very popular for children's bedrooms

- someone sticking a piece of blue reflective vinyl on a chimney visible from the street, so that as you walk you see a little flash of electric blue when the light from streetlights hits it just right

- people painting a pair of dots with glow-in-the-dark white paint high up on walls by fire escapes or in dark alleys, that look like glowing eyes

So basically I want Gothamites to invent protective charms and amulets which have exactly zero supernatural properties and aren’t intended to have any, but still very much work lmao

[chrrybbye]

i hate when a man call himself batman to impress you fuck out my face rn you’ll never be bruce wayne

[chrrybbye]

Slipping through my fingers

[chrrybbye]

The Kiss🌺

[chrrybbye]

Misty knight

[chrrybbye]

ONE LAST LULLABY

➶-͙˚ ༘✶MASTER LIST*ੈ✩‧₊˚

synopsis: your mother, who was just as sweet-tongued as she was quick handed, passes away leaving you to be taken in by your Father, who you quickly learn is Batman. And that neither he or his children particularly like you. That’s fine⸺but why, and what, are all these strange things happening to you? What is with the resurgence of old memories featuring glass vials and straitjackets? Why is your body⸺your singing⸺so different from others? You think you just need to hang on until your eighteenth birthday.

ACT 1: the calm before the storm

00: you had that same look in your eyes.

01: no, I ain’t got nothing to smile about.

02: and I miss you like a little kid.

03: I sit here poor for you.

04: the music seems so loud.

05: coming soon

ACT 2: LOCKED

ACT 3: LOCKED

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

THERE’S A CASSETTE LABELED….

READER AND MOTHER : little soldier by the crane wives and/or velvet ring by big thief

READER AND BAT FAMILY : price of perfection by katherine lynn rose and/or good 4 u by olivia rodrigo

READER AND JULIETTE: cure by vivinos (mizisua cover) and/or she likes a boy by nxdia

READER AND DANIEL: Impact by enjambre and/or do I wanna know by arctic monkeys

ACT 1 READER : top of my school by katherine lynn-rose

ACT 2 READER: nightmare by halsey

READER AND JULIETTE (happy…?) : casual by chappell roan and/or little miss perfect by write out loud

ACT 3 READER: people I don’t like by upsahl and/or the hand that feeds by the crane wives

full Playlist for this series here!

[chrrybbye]

Yandere Batfam x Neglected! Meta! Reader

TITLE: one last lullaby

04 | 🌸 the music seems so loud.

A/N: this one's long. Longer than any of the other chapters, lolol. Buckle up, 'cause you’ll probably click off once or twice.

S.MASTERLIST + playlist

CW: GAY people. specifically HEAVILY implied future lesbanism. JUST IMPLIED btw. the main relationship is TBD :), feeling like an outcast, nightmares, unexplainable full-body pain, mention of country songs

Your father being Batman is, maybe, not so crazy after all.

Your mother did love her stories, whether it was in the middle of comforting you from a nightmare or reading you to sleep, and your father? Oh, how he was a favorite of hers. Sometimes he ranged, seeming like no man and a million men at once⸺ “a brilliantly heroic knight” “a stoic, dark man” “a flighty playboy” and so on. Maybe he really was all of these things, or maybe he wasn’t.

But one thing that stayed a consistent trait of your father was his determination to do good. She had never described him as anything less than a man of great honor. And if being Batman wasn’t a great honor, what was it?

And, somehow, you were both more and less angry at your father for it. For the idea of Batman being just a man⸺your father, at that⸺makes him seem far less all-knowing than you had initially deemed. Hundreds of people die everyday. It’s impossible for the great Batman⸺man, not men⸺to save all of them. It’s impossible for your father. Because Batman is just a man.

But if Batman can’t save you, then who can?

Your first day of school is approaching.

They’ve made quick work of it, as they seem to do everything, and you’re enrolled in Gotham Academy before you can blink. And like all things, this fact of information is delivered to you by Alfred. You may be young and he may think of you as unassuming, but you’re no fool. Everyone can tell⸺it seems Bruce can’t stand to talk to you. Besides your first meeting and when he’d given you your mother’s camera, you’ve had no other interactions. He seems to disappear at the most convenient of times.

(And neither can your so-called siblings, it seems.)

School, for most children⸺just the very word should bring dread. It should come with a sinking feeling, as if you just ate rocks, and a dry throat and an uneasy stomach. That’s how it used to be for you.

So why does it come with a flying feeling?

For other children, school is like a chain to the crushing reality of adulthood and responsibility, but for you⸺the idea of school ignites an expectation in your chest, a revelation of hope. School, this thing you’re supposed to hate, makes you feel hopeful…why?

Because existence in the manor is lonely.

You had people before, mostly younger children you would play with, and even your mother because when she wasn’t doing terrible things to you, she was kind and loving, but now?

Now, you fear you only have Alfred⸺and even he is slipping away.

Alfred has other duties. Other children, including Bruce. He has responsibilities as the Batman’s one and only butler. He isn’t entirely yours, and you understand it is selfish to wish he was⸺you got here last, you have the least claim.

But dammit, if you don’t feel your stomach turn green with envy whenever Alfred rushes off because Dick and Bruce had a squabble, or because Bruce crashed through a window, or because Dick was fooling around and got hurt trying to handstand on top of a chair,(isn’t he an acrobat? he’s almost a legal adult now, why does he still do such childish things?) or because Jason broke something.

Well, you’d be lying. But school? Now you can have a purpose again, besides trying to earn Mummy’s love or rotting away in the Wayne mansion. You have a reason to get up and out of bed.

(Maybe you can make friends.)

School can give you purpose.

You have a nightmare again.

When you wake to silence, a nothingness filled only with your sobs, you feel even emptier than before. You miss the songs your mother would sing to her plants in the morning. It felt like everything from your old life had been ripped from you, leaving you exposed and bare. There was no one who hit you or forced you to drink burning concoctions. But there was no one who held you when you cried or read you to sleep either.

You felt out of place, balling up on your fancy cold bed.

You had lost everything, except for maybe one thing⸺your only comfort.

You sing yourself a lullaby.

People at school are so kind. On your first day, the girl sitting at the desk next to you scoots closer and asks, “hey, want a piece of gum?”

One of the boys⸺a blonde boy with a nice smile⸺helps you on the math problems that you struggle with.

The teacher pretends to look the other way as you whisper to each other.

There’s a group of girls who are eager to pull you to the table at lunch. They ask you a bunch of questions, some you aren’t sure how to answer, but you enjoy the time you spend watching them and talking. Even when the girls bicker among themselves, you sit there just enjoying being part of a community.

People are so kind.

But there’s one girl who sticks out to you.

Juliette.

She fights to get a chair next to you during STEAM, she competes to sit next to you at lunch (even if all the girls were fighting for it at lunch), and during study period she runs up to you with a textbook in hand, exclaiming, “I’m one of the smartest in the grade. I can catch you up!”

She’s got blonde hair that shines golden brown in the sunlight, her teeth white like pearls, her soft lavender braces peeking out whenever she smiles. But your favorite thing about her might be how she looks at you when you talk, her green eyes wide and sparkling like she’s hanging on to your every word. It makes you feel heard.

You think you like Juliette a lot. You want to speak more. You want to speak more to her.

When you get home from school (you had called Alfred to beg him to let you take the bus with Juliette) he’s waiting for you with a plate of cookies and lemonade. You nearly smile at Alfred.

“How was school, Young Master [Name]?” He asked, a steady smile on his lips.

You take a seat on a stool at the kitchen island and sip your lemonade. “It was amazing, Alfred,” you say after a second, and then you’re unable to stop. You don’t even notice that you’ve called him Alfred. “I talked to a lot of people. They were loud. But they were interesting⸺and they have so many clubs, Alfred,” you sigh happily. “There…there was a gardening club. I think I’ll join it,” your tone slows, realizing you’ve been talking all this time. It must be difficult for Alfred to deal with your chatter, but you can’t stop. Why can’t you stop? “My⸺Mama…my mother liked to garden. We had plants all over our apartment.”

Because Alfred just nods. It must be difficult for him to suddenly see the nearly mute child suddenly turn into a chatterbox with seemingly no ‘off’ button, but he just nods. He nods, still smiling, and that’s why you can’t seem to stop talking.

Have you become addicted to attention? To the feeling, if only for a split second, of someone nodding along and listening to your words? Why?

It must’ve been because of Juliette.

You find your answer⸺no⸺at school, in the form of a boy who is too desperate for your attention. Attention is a kind of transaction. You give someone your attention in return for their own attention. In wanting someone else’s attention, you give them your own attention. But you didn’t want the attention. Not his.

He would drag his chair to your desk in the morning, insist on walking you to your next class, steal your textbooks and write on your math papers. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t⸺your throat would close up and your hands would get clammy.

You tried to ignore him, just offering nods to the absolutely inescapable questions he’d pepper you with, ignoring him until P.E⸺when a soccer ball flew at your head.

You had heard the whish of the ball before it had hit you, but you had been unprepared to move. You felt an intense throb as you lost your balance, knocking into the girl next to you, Theresa. She just barely caught you as you began to hold your temples.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” The boy cursed, running over to you with a cheesy smile, “Shit, that was my bad. You okay, [Name]?”

“Um…” you grunted as your temple throbbed. It was a constant thrum, rattling against your skull. You bit down on your lips. You felt as his hand neared you, reaching for your head, when someone smacked it away.

“Dude,” you recognized Daniel⸺the boy who helped with your math⸺speaking to the other boy. “I just watched you aim straight for her head. That wasn’t an accident.”

“I⸺no⸺that’s not true!” The boy squeaked. His heartbeat was irate, either stressed or…lying.

“Whatever. Quit skulking around her⸺she clearly doesn’t want to talk to you.”

You heard the boy grunt in response and mumble “me neither” under his breath before walking away.

You watched Daniel with a detached kind of intrigue. Why had he stood up for you? The boy was trying to apologize⸺the matter could have been resolved with a simple acceptance of his apology. Daniel and you were on good terms, but that didn’t equate to close ones. He didn’t have any reason to defend you. The whole situation seemed more trouble than it was worth, which was funny since Daniel had been the one to put himself in the position.

You watched him as he stretched his neck, turning to you with an awkward smile, “Hey, um. Sorry about that. If he keeps bothering you⸺or, if he’s bothering you⸺then you can come to me.”

“Okay. Thank you.” You had told him the necessary pleasantries, and therefore had no clue what to say beyond that. There wasn’t anything else you needed to say. Still, as you watched Daniel, there was this nagging sensation in the pit of your stomach. It made you hop from foot to foot, as if it was going to explode from your throat⸺which was exceedingly dry, you noticed. You couldn’t just let Daniel walk away.

“Um…um…”

Daniel turned to you, waiting⸺just waiting. He wasn’t staring at you like you were the nuisance of the earth, or as if you were a black hole sucking away at his precious time, or as if he was going to devour your soul the moment you started speaking.

“Why…” you had already begun speaking. There was no plausible way to back out now, not without losing some of your already meager dignity. You had to suck up your regret. “Why did you help?”

Daniel turned to you, his friendly smile already in place. “It was the right thing to do,” he said, voice full of certainty. It made you stumble, confused. How could helping you have been the right thing? Surely him and the boy, if they ever were, were no longer on friendly terms. You frowned at him. He had lost a friend for no reason.

“Okay,” you said, instead of the questions swirling in your mind. Not because you thought he would get angry, but because you had entered this entire conversation by mistake, and you were more than happy to cut it short. And then again, “Thank you.” because it felt right. You were thankful that he answered your question.

Daniel smiled and clapped you on your shoulder, which confused you further, because why would he do that? You watched as Daniel ran to play basketball with some of his friends.

Theresa watched you as you watched him.

“He’s like that,” she said, startling you. “Friendly. He’s friendly to everyone. He’s nice.”

You nodded in agreement. Then, as she was about to respond, you asked, “What does it mean?” making your thoughts audible.

“Huh?”

“What does it mean,” you asked, imitating Daniel’s gesture, shoving Theresa’s shoulder a bit, “this?”

“Oh.” Her eyes softened a bit. “It’s kind of like a high five. A less informal version of a handshake. Kind of like a hug? But It’s, like, a boyish thing. You do it to comfort people sometimes, or just, like, say bye. You don’t really do it to say hi.”

You nodded. “I understand.” So, he was…trying to comfort you? It had been a little comforting, but the comfort was majorly offset by your confusion. You berated yourself for not just enjoying the gesture, brief as it was. “Then, what does ‘it was the right thing to do’ mean?”

“I...I don’t know?” answered Theresa, her voice cracking a little. She sounded stressed, so you nodded and let the topic drop. You were good at that⸺you didn’t like to irritate people. But Alfred seldom seemed irritated⸺perhaps you should ask him?

“That’s quite the question, Young Master [Name],” chuckled Alfred, your sheets neatly folded into squares over his arms. Why? You weren’t sure. Maybe he could sense all the tears and snot absorbed by it and deemed it in need of a thorough wash. Or worse, replacing.

You couldn’t figure out why, but the idea irked you. You didn’t want new sheets or pillowcases or blankets. You wanted the things in your room that⸺despite your dislike⸺you had begrudgingly accepted as yours. Those were your belongings. You didn’t want them thrown away or scrapped or given to some other child. The fear, however irritational, made your stomach knot. You barely noticed when Alfred continued talking.

“Young Master, there are some fundamental truths that everyone must learn and accept. One of these is that not everyone is as good as they claim or try to be. For some, to be ‘good’ is more difficult than for others. Many of us humans have impure and filthy minds.” Alfred said, removing a sticker from the wall, “But that does not mean that all humans are strictly ‘bad’ or ‘evil’. It’s whether humans follow the code of what is ‘good’ that decides whether they are ‘good’ or ‘bad’.”

Alfred said it all as if it was simple.

“So to do what is right…it would simply mean doing the opposite of what you would perceive as ‘bad’.”

It was an answer, a clear-cut one, received without any fanfare. Yet, you had another question, “What would it mean to be evil? Or do something evil?”

“Something that you know will hurt or harm others, or may make them feel negatively,” answered Alfred.

“Then…” You felt a hot rush of shame as your throat began to close up. It was shameful that you did not know what it meant to be a good person⸺how could you be something that you had no clue about? But you wanted to be. You wanted others to think of you as good. It sounded more honorable than being seen as a bad person…You couldn’t back out now. You just had to say it. Curse your big mouth…It’s been giving you trouble all day.

“Then what would being a good person or doing good things mean?”

“Doing things that will make people happy or safe,” Alfred smiled. “Young Master, I believe you already are a good person. An evil person does not wonder if they are an evil person.”

The very idea sounded like horse crap. You? A good person? Preposterous, even. What had you done that was ‘good’? Who even was ‘good’?Juliette was good. Daniel was good. Theresa was good, all the girls who had talked to you, welcomed you on your first day, they were all good. They made you happy. Could you be like them?

Could you be good? Was that something you could live for?

To be something good?

(You watched with relief as Alfred placed your sheets in a laundry basket.)

Unfortunately, the night brings you no more peace than the day. Your mother flashes behind your eyelids, blood, a suspicious gas…your heart is stuttering against your chest, and by the time the sun rises, you realize you’ve spent the whole night sweating in your blankets.

(Jason sneaks you a cup of coffee. “Ya look like the living dead,” he says. “And yer eyes are red. Are ya good? Did ya sleep well?”

The small cup of brown liquid, thrumming in your hands, sends a zip of warmth down your spine to your toes. “Thank you, Jason,” and this time you really do smile. It reminds you of the tea⸺really more like hot water⸺that your mother made after long nights.

Maybe one of your siblings can stand to talk to you after all. You miss the red on Jason’s cheeks.)

Juliette sees right through you. Not the way Dick or Bruce do, as in literally through you as if you don’t exist⸺but when you sit down next to her at STEAM, she pulls a granola bar out of her uniform pocket and presses it into your hands.

“Girl, you look like you got attacked by a vampire!” Worried lines are etched into her face as she frowns at you. Still holding your hands. “I was gonna save that for Ms. Jefferson’s class, ‘cause you know how she is⸺have you had her class yet?⸺but you need to eat like, now. You’re gonna need it.”

“I’m okay,” you said. Which was true, you had eaten earlier, even if you had barely gotten through eight bites with your shaky hands.

“Please? I’m reallyyyy worried about you.” Juliette stared at you with such expectant eyes.

You sighed and pulled off the wrapping, taking a bite. “Okay. Sorry.”

“No! It’s fine. Don’t say sorry. Did you sleep well?” She felt up your forehead. Her hands were so gentle.

You were about to answer⸺a white lie on your tongue⸺when the clearing of a throat came from the front of the class. “Girls. Could we focus, please?” said the teacher, tapping the projector. “I’d hate for you to miss instructions.”

“Yes, miss,” you and Juliette said at the same time. Juliette smiled at you, and when your eyes flicked to her mouth, you noticed her braces were now a vibrant, colorful teal.

Iris blue, you think your mother had called it.

Juliette convinces you to join the choir.

It’s a heat of the moment thing⸺and you also admit you’re weak to anything Juliette asks. She had stared at you with her gleaming jade eyes and you’d given in after five minutes.

You pretend not to enjoy it as they make you sing a stupid country song.

You arrive home to the news that Dick has come back from his new place in Blüdhaven. It’s strange, how the house seems just a tad bit fuller whenever Dick is around⸺strange because you’re so used to the emptiness.

And seeing all three of them together for the first time makes you even emptier.

You’re there too of course, sat at the dinner table while Jason and Dick catch up and Bruce stares at them lovingly. But it should definitely be noted that you only considered coming because Alfred asked. Perhaps you also thought it might be less awkward, now that you thought one of your siblings might like you a little.

It’s not.

Jason does speak to you occasionally. Asks how you like the food and if you like the stuff in your room. You answer as best as you can, but Bruce and Dick’s weightful eyes make you feel like you’re being crushed. Dissected, like a frog. You answer with as little words as possible.

It’s not joyful in the slightest⸺but not at all comparable to when Dick or Bruce ask you something.

When Dick says something, he says it with a smile⸺the coldest smile you’ve ever seen. It’s strained, fraying. Nothing like his warm smiles for Jason, or the delicate but there ones for Bruce. It fills you with the discomfort of seeing someone tearing at the seams. It’s similar to your mother’s smile, but so different. It’s not the smile of someone struggling, their edges being chipped away. It’s the smile of someone who wants to throw a blanket over you and make you disappear.

It makes you feel like an alien wearing the skin of his sister.

When Bruce asks something, It’s straightforward, simple. There’s many answers⸺and only one of them is right. It’s a lot less simple than he tries to convey it as. It feels like a test, a bid on your worth. The idea of him finding your answer lackluster makes your palms sweat around your knife and fork as you swallow a mouthful of pasta that tastes like nothing.

The silence as you contemplate your answers is always deafeningly loud. You can’t stand it. You miss Juliette’s chatter in your ear, her warmth at your back. You miss Daniel’s hand on your shoulder, his gentle explanation of multiplying fractions.

Before long, most of the plates are clear (not yours. You just can’t.) and you’re standing, the tightness in your stomach easing, getting ready to leave when a familiarly calloused hand grabs your wrist.

“Hey,” says Jason. “Did ya know we had an art room?”

You didn’t. You feel bile rise up your throat. Is this supposed to be a fun fact? Is this something you were supposed to know? Should you say you knew, even though you didn’t?

The words “okay” are on the tip of your tongue, but Jason speaks faster. “I can show ya if ya want.”

You gulp down your “okay” at the light of speed. He wants to take you there? You’re stuck, the urge to smell the oil smudged onto floors, the acrylic peeling from the walls⸺and the urge to run away to your room. Where no one can ask you befuddling questions or look at you like you’re trash wearing human skin.

You don’t know why you say yes.

(You pretend to not see the hope flash in Jason’s eyes.)

Jason is a simple kind of company. He takes you straight there, but he doesn’t drown you in awkward silence. He offers up light chatter, chatter you don’t actually have to respond to. Chatter that sets you at ease. He tells you a story about the time Dick broke a chandelier⸺which leaves you slightly off kilter, trying to align the Dick from your memories to the one in Jason’s memory. It’s just too much of a difference, and it leaves you with a crushing realization. It has nothing to do with you⸺Dick just doesn’t like you.

He probably never will.

If Jason sees your change of expression, he doesn’t say anything, eagerly pulling you towards the art supplies. You try to pretend the relief you feel at seeing paintbrushes and chalk and oil pastels isn’t crushing. You thought the last time you would see anything of the sort was the brief glimpse before you had left for school the day that your apartment complex caught on fire.

You reach for the oil pastels before you can think. They had always been your favorite, despite your mother’s many complaints about them. You liked to think she only kept her collection of oil pastels for you⸺after all, you had seen her snap one of the sticks in anger more than once. Not that it mattered. They were probably burnt into wax by now.

There was a notepad nearby. Before you know it, you’re scribbling a doodle onto the lined page. Jason gets this childish, hopeful kind of look on his face. “Hey, ya think ya could draw me?”

You could lie. It’d be a white lie⸺a simple “I’m not good at drawing people” and that’d be the end of it. Yet you don’t.

You don’t know why you nod yes.

Jason beams at the finished product. He gives a too-brief-to-even-register hug and then he’s holding the notepad to his face and grinning, “Don’t we look just alike?”

You feel heat rush to your face. He’s trying to compliment you, you know, but It’s still embarrassing. Your mother never did say much when you showed her one of your drawings. Jason’s warmth is a different kind of warmth, you suppose. Not any less than Juliette’s, but different.

Still much better than the coldness of your sheets.

(Of those doctor’s gloves.)

You and Jason depart in your doorway, after he walks you to your bedroom. Why? You didn’t feel like asking.

You pretend you don’t get jumpscared by Alfred, dusting off your dresser. He sends a pleasant nod your way. “How was dinner, Young Master [Name]?”

So that’s where he went, you think to yourself. Cleaning rooms.

“Fine,” you answer, tone groggy.

“I see you’ve made a companion of Young Master Jason.” Alfred notes.

“Yeah,” you can’t quite keep the smile out of your voice. “He’s good.”

“And the others?” asked Alfred, his hope palpable.

“Fine,” you said, voice intentionally flat. It was harsh, but what were you meant to do? Tell Alfred that you felt like human scum next to them? Insignificant? Like muck, hopelessly and pitifully stuck to their shoes⸺even though you hadn’t asked to be attached to them, legally or biologically? If you could scrap yourself off their shoes like the dirt you were to them, you would with a quickness. Yet unfortunately, you were stuck as a fly on the back of their favorite flyswatter. You sigh.

(You know they don’t like you. It’s not your biggest heartbreak. You had already told yourself there would be no one to brush your hair and pick out your clothes⸺so what if there’s no one to call your family, either?

You’re not dead yet. You’ll be alright. You always are.)

“How was I to know dinner was such an exhausting endeavor?” You mumble, rubbing your eyes. “I’ll head to bed, Alfred. Goodnight.”

“Do try,” murmured Alfred, looking a little spaced out. “You’ve been looking a little quaint lately. I shall see you before school tomorrow. Goodnight, Young Master [Name].”

You feel like you’re on fire. Not your blood or your bones⸺you. Your very essence, from where you’re arching, gasping into the sheets, practically eating them as you cry into them. From where your scratchy nightdress is rubbing against you and sparking miniature fires.

Your throat is dry, closed, so much worse than all the times it closed while you were talking and felt as if you were going to die. Well, you still feel as if you’re going to die, but ten times worse now. Your stomach is twisted and your limbs are pulsating and tightening like a cramp, feeling like someone is stabbing you all over. You sob as your stomach cramps, practically screaming, your chest throbbing⸺you might throw up.

No, you are throwing up⸺or maybe that’s just your spit? You are drooling everywhere. It’s hard to tell, not that you care, it feels like all your bones are snapping.

You muffle your cries into that stupid, ugly rabbit. By biting its face, of course. That ugly, worthless plush.

You hate it.

When you wake the next morning⸺sweaty, sore, and a nasty taste in your mouth⸺you’re just grateful to be alive. The rabbit is still intact, too, which feels like a little more than you asked for⸺which was “please don’t let me die.”

(You didn’t know why you would keep living, just that you didn’t want to die right then⸺alone, small, insignificant.)

But you’ll take it, nonetheless. Like you always do.

(You lied to Alfred. You didn’t get any sleep⸺though you definitely got in your fucking bed.)

Juliette tutts at you when she sees you again, holding your face in your hands. “You look even worse than yesterday,” she murmured. “You need to take a cat-nap!”

“A cat-nap?” You question, watching Juliette as she watches you.

“Yeah! Like the nap a cat takes,” she explains, “where they curl up in a ball and stuff⸺”

A pair of high-heels click against the tile floors and there’s a jingling of keys…that stop right outside the restroom. “Girls? I know you’re in there!”

Juliette ‘eeyp’s and falls a little closer to you, and you’re practically swimming in her blouser where her chest is pressed against your face. You try not to make a choking noise as you rest your hands on her hips, holding her bodyweight up and keeping her from teetering on to the ground. You close your eyes and hope your skirt isn’t taking a dip in the toilet water right now.

The high-heels click away.

Juliette’s hands, tight on your shoulders, loosen a little. She’s beaming. “I told you we would get away,” she whispers, smug.

You nod, letting Juliette go as she crawls from between your legs.

Your first taste of rebellion. You don’t think it’s that bad. It makes Juliette happy.

prev. {☆||☆} next.

taglist: @bunbunboysworld @inayouboo @thatoneraeder

[chrrybbye]

the small things

TW: suicidal ideation, suicide, may appear insensitive to others as It’s my experience

It’s the little things that make you want to kill yourself.

I mean yeah, the big things fucking suck⸺but sometimes It’s as little as looking at a bottle, or a picture, or a box of quick-make desserts, or a pair of shoes, or an article of clothing, or hearing a firework that makes you realize “I wanna fucking kill myself.”

And there’s something poetic about it. Realizing you wanna die because you stared at your kitchen too hard. It’s funny, too, but only after you imagine yourself dead in your bathtub. Overdosed because someone left out the ingredients to make my favorite food and it all went bad and then I had to be the one to throw it away. It’s funny.

It always is. It can’t be anything other than funny. Maybe depressing⸺but it’s too depressing to call it depression.

So it must just be a bad day.

(And another. And another.)

A/N: wrote this because I looked at one of those icing pipe things while i was emotional and I began to cry and was overcome with the urge to chug pills and then sit in my bathtub. Or hang myself in my room, until I realized I didn’t even know where to find rope, let alone within three hours at freaking midnight. I don’t consider myself to be depressed or suicidal, just overrun with hormones, not that I would know because talking about feelings is like #1 most cringiest thing no matter how you go about it. Not mentally perfect tho.

[chrrybbye]

Hands down this is my favourite KouNene interaction in the series:

#Amane and Mitsuba's deadpan jealous faces in the BG are sending me haha

[chrrybbye]

made this and cried about it after btw

[chrrybbye]

Okay everything else aside hyuluka having posters of each other tho

[chrrybbye]

evil. absolutely evil. vivinos when i get you

[chrrybbye]

When I tell you I started crying laughing drawing Ivan like this. He’s so out of character 😭😭 I love Ivan so much how do you think they reacted to till losing

[chrrybbye]

In another universe they are together

[chrrybbye]

DO NOT DO THIS.

This makes me so angry.

If you work in a movie theater and you do this I have no respect for you.

My younger brother is Type 1 Diabetic.

When we go to a movie theater, we always get him diet soda. If he were to get regular when we asked for diet, we would not give him the insulin he would need for it. If that happens, his blood sugar level could go so high he could go into a coma, go blind, or even die.

If somebody gave him regular soda instead of diet without telling us, that person could be responsible for a nine-year-old being killed or blinded.

Just thinking about that makes me so angry. I get scared every time we take him to a movie in case the people working there saw this picture and decide to do the same thing.

Please signal boost this so people know.