pomegranatelifethis

[pomegranatelifethis]

hii! welcome back!

Hii! Coming back was a mix of excitement and nerves, but your message felt like a breath of fresh air.

Thank you so much for sticking around, it really means a lot づ⁠￣⁠ ⁠³⁠￣⁠)⁠づ

[pomegranatelifethis]

Invisible Daughter

The grandfather clock's steady ticking echoed through Wayne Manor's empty halls as you padded down the marble staircase in your fuzzy slippers, clutching a half-finished chemistry assignment. At sixteen, you'd grown accustomed to the silence that filled the sprawling mansion most evenings, but tonight felt different. Tonight, the loneliness pressed against your chest like a weight you couldn't shake off.

"Alfred?" you called softly, hoping the family butler might still be awake. Your voice seemed to disappear into the vastness of the foyer, swallowed by shadows and expensive furniture that nobody ever used.

No response.

You shuffled toward the kitchen, stomach growling. When was the last time you'd eaten? Lunch at school, probably. The cafeteria pizza had been terrible, but at least it was something. At least someone had noticed you were hungry, even if it was just a lunch lady scanning your student ID.

The refrigerator hummed as you opened it, revealing neat rows of prepared meals with little labels in Alfred's careful handwriting. "Master Bruce," "Master Dick," "Master Jason," "Master Tim," "Master Damian." Always "Master" this and "Master" that. You scanned the shelves twice before finding a container simply labeled "Y/N" shoved behind a gallon of milk that had probably expired.

Your name looked so small on that little white label. So... afterthought.

As you heated up what appeared to be leftover lasagna, your phone buzzed with notifications from your group chat. Your friends were making plans for the weekend, talking about movies and sleepovers and all the normal teenage things you rarely got to participate in. How could you explain that your family was never around to give permission? That your father was too busy being Batman to remember he had a youngest daughter? That your brothers were too wrapped up in their own vigilante lives to notice you existed?

"Sorry, can't make it," you typed back, the same response you'd given dozens of times before. "Family stuff."

The lie tasted bitter, even unspoken.

You ate your dinner alone at the massive dining table, your fork scraping against fine china in the oppressive quiet. Sometimes you wondered what it would be like to have normal problems—arguing with siblings over the TV remote, getting grounded for staying out past curfew, having parents who asked about your day. Instead, you got radio silence and empty rooms.

Your phone buzzed again. This time it was a news alert: "Batman and Robin spotted stopping robbery in downtown Gotham." The accompanying photo showed Batman's imposing silhouette alongside the smaller figure of Robin—Damian, your immediate older brother who'd somehow earned Dad's attention and partnership despite being only a year older than you.

You stared at the image until your eyes blurred with tears you refused to let fall.

When had you become invisible in your own family?

It hadn't always been this way. You remembered being small, maybe six or seven, when Dick would swing you around the manor's ballroom while you giggled uncontrollably. Jason used to read you bedtime stories in funny voices that made you snort with laughter. Tim would help you with homework, patient and kind even when you didn't understand. Even Damian, despite his prickly exterior, had once carved you a small wooden bird because you'd mentioned liking robins.

But that was before. Before you'd stopped being cute and small and easy to manage. Before they'd all gotten swept up in the never-ending mission. Before you'd learned that being the "normal" one in a family of vigilantes meant being the forgotten one.

You were Batman's daughter, but you weren't a fighter. You were Bruce Wayne's child, but you weren't interested in the company. You were their sister, but you couldn't keep up with their nighttime adventures. So you'd faded into the background, a supporting character in your own life story.

The worst part wasn't the loneliness—it was the hope that still flickered in your chest despite everything. Every time you heard the Batcave's entrance whoosh open, your heart would jump, thinking maybe tonight someone would come looking for you. Maybe tonight you'd get more than a distracted "hey" and a pat on the head before they disappeared into their own worlds again.

But it never happened.

You'd started staying late at school, joining clubs you didn't care about just to delay coming home to the emptiness. You'd made friends with the librarians, the janitors, anyone who might spare you a few minutes of genuine conversation. At least at school, people knew your name. At least there, you took up space that mattered.

Your chemistry assignment stared up at you from the table, half-finished and due tomorrow. You should probably complete it, maintain the perfect grades that no one would notice or praise. You were the Wayne family's best-kept secret—not because you were special, but because you were forgettable.

The sound of the grandfather clock chiming eleven made you jump. How long had you been sitting there, lost in your own thoughts? You gathered your books and headed upstairs, passing family portraits that seemed to mock you. Bruce's strong jawline, Dick's bright smile, Jason's defiant smirk, Tim's intelligent eyes, Damian's proud stance. And there you were at the end, looking small and out of place, like you'd wandered into someone else's family photo by mistake.

Your bedroom felt like a sanctuary and a prison all at once. Fairy lights you'd strung up yourself cast warm shadows on walls covered with art you'd created, books you'd read, certificates and awards no one had ever acknowledged. This was your world—small, quiet, and utterly separate from the chaos that consumed the rest of your family.

You changed into your pajamas and climbed into bed, pulling your weighted blanket up to your chin. Tomorrow would be another day of invisible existence, another twenty-four hours of being Bruce Wayne's forgotten daughter. But tonight, in the safety of your own room, you could pretend that someone, somewhere, would notice if you disappeared.

As sleep finally claimed you, your last thought was a wish you'd made countless times before: that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow would be different. That someone would see you—really see you—and remember that you were part of this family too.

But deep down, in the part of your heart that had learned to expect disappointment, you knew better.

You were Y/N Wayne, the invisible daughter, and tomorrow would be exactly like today.

◉◉◉

The next morning, you would wake up to an empty house once again, with only Alfred's quietly concerned glances to remind you that at least one person in Wayne Manor remembered you existed. But even Alfred's kindness couldn't fill the growing void where your family's love should have been.And the saddest part? You were starting to get used to it.

◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉

Hello 💌 I know it’s been a while since I last wrote. This little break was due to some personal things, and I truly apologize for the silence.

I’ve realized just how much I missed writing… and more than anything, how much I missed responding to the wonderful messages and requests you left me. Yes, I haven’t forgotten. The topics you asked me to write about are still on my list — and now, it’s finally time to bring them to life.

Thank you for your patience(⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠❤

[pomegranatelifethis]

Hey!

Sorry for the trouble, but do you have a masterpost?

It's fine if you don't, but if you do, could you please give me the link for it?

Hello! No worries, what do you mean! Yes, I have a masterpost. Here is the link

Masterpost 1

Masterpost 2

[pomegranatelifethis]

Shattered Bonds

English is not my native language, I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

The Wayne Manor loomed like a cathedral of shadows, its gothic spires clawing at the Gotham sky. Inside, chandeliers cast fractured light across mahogany panels, but the warmth of their glow never reached you. You were a ghost in your own home, a forgotten daughter of the Bat, tethered to a family that saw you only in glimpses. As Damian Wayne’s twin, you’d once shared his world—two children forged in the crucible of the League of Assassins, bound by blood and secrets. But where Damian’s fire burned bright, commanding attention, you were the ember, quiet and overlooked, your warmth reserved for those who cared to notice.

No one did. Not anymore.

The neglect had been a slow poison, seeping through the years. Bruce, your father, was a monolith, his eyes forever fixed on Gotham’s underbelly, his rare words to you clipped and utilitarian. Dick’s smiles were fleeting, Jason’s rough affection sporadic, Tim’s focus consumed by screens and cases. Even Alfred, with his gentle offerings of tea and concern, couldn’t bridge the chasm between you and the others. Damian, your mirror, your twin, had grown cold, his loyalty now a blade turned outward, never inward. You’d learned to live with it, to swallow the ache of being unseen. But then came Lila, and the ache became a wound.

Lila arrived a year ago, a waif with haunted eyes and a trembling lip, plucked from Gotham’s streets by Bruce’s boundless need to save. You saw yourself in her at first—a girl adrift, hungry for belonging. You spent nights by her side, listening to her whispered fears, bandaging her scraped knees, teaching her to navigate the manor’s labyrinthine halls. You thought you were building something—a sister, a friend. But Lila was no lost soul. She was a predator, and you were her prey.

Her lies began as whispers, soft and insidious. “Y/N pushed me down the stairs,” she’d sob to Damian, her voice quivering with rehearsed fragility. The accusation landed like a stone, and your twin’s emerald eyes—once your anchor—flashed with doubt. “Y/N mocked me during training,” she’d confide to Dick, who’d ruffle her hair and shoot you a disappointed glance. She told Tim you’d sabotaged her schoolwork, Jason that you’d sneered at her weakness, Bruce that you were consumed by jealousy. Each lie was a brushstroke, painting you as the villain in a story you hadn’t written.

The manor turned against you. Family dinners became tribunals, your every word dissected, your silences condemned. “You need to be better, Y/N,” Bruce would say, his voice heavy with the weight of a city he couldn’t save. “We’re a team.” But you weren’t a team. You were the scapegoat, the shadow cast by Lila’s light.

Behind closed doors, her mask fell. In the dim corridors, where the manor’s grandeur faded to gloom, Lila’s cruelty was a blade. She’d shove you against the wall, her nails biting into your arms. “You’re nothing here,” she’d hiss, her breath hot against your ear. “They all love me more.” She’d pinch your skin until it bloomed purple, leaving bruises you hid beneath oversized sweaters. Once, she poured ink into your schoolbag, ruining your textbooks, then wept to the family that you’d done it to frame her. The lie stuck, and your protests were met with sighs and eye-rolls.

School, once a refuge, became a battlefield. Lila’s whispers spread like wildfire through Gotham Academy’s polished halls. “Y/N’s a liar,” she’d murmur to your classmates. “A whore who thinks she’s a Wayne but’s just a mistake.” The words were venom, and they worked. Notes appeared in your locker—crude insults, threats. Girls shoved you in the halls, their laughter a chorus of malice. Boys whispered behind your back, their gazes sharp with disdain. You were ostracized, a pariah in a world you’d once navigated with quiet pride.

You fought to be heard. You went to Damian first, your twin, the boy who’d once shared your heartbeat in the womb. In his room, surrounded by his sketches and swords, you bared your soul. “She’s lying, Dami,” you pleaded, rolling up your sleeve to show the bruises Lila’s fingers had left. “She’s hurting me.” His gaze lingered on the marks, but his jaw tightened, and he turned away. “Lila wouldn’t do that,” he said, voice low and final. “You’re just upset she’s fitting in better than you.” The words were a knife, twisting deep. Your twin, your other half, had chosen her.

You tried Bruce next, standing in his study as rain lashed the windows. The Batcomputer hummed behind him, its glow casting his face in cold blue. You poured out everything—Lila’s lies, her cruelty, the bruises, the bullying at school. “I’m not making this up,” you said, voice trembling but steady. “She’s turning everyone against me.” Bruce listened, but his eyes drifted to the screens, to Gotham’s endless demands. “You need to work this out with her,” he said, as if your pain were a minor dispute. “I don’t have time for petty squabbles.” *Petty.* The word was a sledgehammer, shattering what little hope you’d clung to.

The others were no better. Dick tried to mediate, sitting you and Lila down like children fighting over toys. But her tears flowed on cue, and his sympathy tilted her way. “Y/N, you’ve got to meet her halfway,” he said, oblivious to the bruises beneath your sleeves. Jason laughed it off, slinging an arm around you that felt more like pity than support. “You’re tougher than this, kid. Don’t let her get to you.” Tim, ever the detective, analyzed your claims but found no “concrete evidence” to back them. “Lila’s stories check out,” he said, as if your pain were a case to be solved. Alfred alone saw the truth, his eyes soft as he pressed a warm mug into your hands. “You are enough, Miss Y/N,” he murmured. But his kindness couldn’t undo the family’s verdict.

Lila’s final act came at a family dinner, the table laden with crystal and silver, the air thick with unspoken tensions. She “accidentally” knocked a glass of red wine onto your dress, the stain spreading like blood. Before you could speak, she burst into tears, claiming you’d threatened her for being clumsy. The room stilled, eyes pinning you in place. Damian’s gaze was ice, Bruce’s disappointment a tangible weight. Dick frowned, Jason smirked, Tim looked away. “I didn’t do anything,” you whispered, but your voice was a ghost, drowned by Lila’s sobs. You stood, chair scraping the floor, and fled to your room.

That night, you made your choice. The manor was no longer home—it was a cage, and you were done begging for freedom. In the silence of your room, you packed a duffel bag—clothes, a photo of you and Damian as children, a knife Talia had given you years ago. You wrote a letter, your pen shaking but your resolve ironclad:

*Father,*

Fuck off, I don't care.

*With love, the girl you don't care about*

You left the letter on Bruce’s desk, slipped out through a servants’ entrance, and vanished into Gotham’s rain-soaked night.

The journey to Talia’s compound was a blur of buses, planes, and forged documents. When you arrived, the desert sun burned away the last of Gotham’s chill. Talia waited at the gates, her presence commanding, her eyes sharp but soft as they took you in. “My child,” she said, her voice a balm. She drew you into her arms, and for the first time in years, you didn’t feel invisible. “You’ve carried too much.” She didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t need them. Talia saw the weight in your shoulders, the shadows beneath your eyes, and she understood.

In Gotham, your absence went unnoticed at first. The Batfamily was consumed—patrols, cases, Lila’s endless dramas. But when Alfred found your letter, the manor erupted. Bruce read it in his study, the words blurring as his hands trembled. He’d failed you, his daughter, and the realization was a fist to his chest. Damian, summoned by Alfred’s urgent call, stared at the letter, your handwriting searing into his mind. He remembered your bruises, your pleas, and a crack formed in his certainty. Dick cursed himself, replaying every moment he’d dismissed you. Jason punched a wall, rage masking his guilt. Tim scoured security footage, desperate for a trace of you, but Talia’s network was a fortress, every lead a dead end.

Lila sensed the shift, her grip on the family faltering. She doubled down, weaving new tales, but without you as the scapegoat, her lies frayed. Damian, haunted by your absence, began to question. He revisited your room, finding a hidden journal you’d kept—pages of Lila’s cruelty, your pain, your pleas for help. His heart twisted, guilt replacing his doubt. Tim, ever methodical, dug into Lila’s past, unearthing inconsistencies—a foster home that didn’t exist, a story that didn’t add up. The truth emerged, slow but relentless, and Lila’s house of cards collapsed.

But it was too late. You were gone, and the Batfamily’s regret couldn’t bring you back. With Talia, you trained under the desert sun, your body growing stronger, your mind sharper. You learned to wield your mother’s blades, to command her operatives, to reclaim the fire you’d buried under years of neglect. You weren’t the scared girl who’d fled the manor. You were Talia al Ghul’s daughter, forged in pain and tempered by choice.

One night, as you stood on a balcony overlooking the endless dunes, Talia joined you. “You are whole again,” she said, her voice proud. You nodded, the weight of Gotham lifting. The Batfamily would always be a part of you—Bruce’s strength, Damian’s fire, the others’ fleeting warmth—but they no longer defined you. You’d chosen yourself, your mother, your truth. And in the desert’s vast silence, you were free.

And now, in the silence of the night, with your eyes fixed on the endless desert, the ghosts of your past begin to fade, one by one. Somewhere in the mansion you once called home, the echoes of your cries still linger—but they no longer define you. You spent a lifetime waiting to be heard… but now, in the quiet, you’ve finally found your voice. You are no longer someone’s shadow. Not a twin’s echo. Not a forgotten daughter. Not a casualty of someone else’s lies. Now, there is only you. And this time, the pain didn’t break you—it forged you anew. When you look back, there will still be memories laced with love, no matter how broken. Maybe, one day… someone will truly see you. But until then, as the desert winds whisper your name, you’ll no longer seek validation in the darkness. Because in the end, the moment you stopped fighting for them, you finally won for yourself.

How did it happen?

[pomegranatelifethis]

@chaoticducky I was inspired by your comment

Privately

The Wayne Manor stood as a monolith against the bruised Gotham sky, its spires clawing at the dusk like the jagged teeth of some ancient beast. Within its labyrinthine halls, history whispered in every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of the chandeliers—a symphony of the Wayne family’s polished legacy and the darker, unspoken truths of the Batman. Tonight, though, the manor thrummed with a rare and delicate promise: an evening of peace. You, the heart and soul of this chaotic household, had orchestrated it with the precision of a maestro. A dinner. Just you and Bruce. No capes, no cowls, no crises. Two months of meticulous planning, a menu that could rival Gotham’s finest restaurants, and a dress you’d kept hidden in the back of your closet for an occasion exactly like this.

The dining room was a vision of elegance, bathed in the golden glow of a dozen candles that cast dancing shadows across the mahogany table. Crystal glasses sparkled, silverware gleamed, and the faint aroma of rosemary and roasted lamb wafted from the kitchen, where Alfred had reluctantly left the final touches to you. You smoothed the silk of your emerald-green dress, the fabric clinging to your curves in a way that still made Bruce’s breath catch after all these years. The clock on the mantel ticked past seven, and your fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against the table. He was late. Not by much, but enough to stir the familiar knot of unease in your chest. The kids—Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, and Cass—were mercifully absent, either patrolling the city or holed up in their rooms with strict instructions to leave you alone. Even Alfred had been persuaded to take a rare night off, though you suspected he was secretly reorganizing the wine cellar.

You poured yourself a glass of Bordeaux, the deep red catching the candlelight like liquid rubies. The manor was too quiet, and in Gotham, silence was rarely a good omen. As if summoned by your thoughts, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway, accompanied by the unmistakable clink of kevlar and the faint rustle of tactical fabric. Your heart sank, the wineglass freezing halfway to your lips. No. Not tonight.

“Bruce?” you called, your voice sharp with warning as you set the glass down with a deliberate clink.

He appeared in the doorway, a towering figure still half-clad in his Batman gear. The chest plate gleamed like obsidian under the candlelight, the bat emblem stark against the darkness. His cowl was off, revealing a mop of dark hair damp with sweat and those piercing blue eyes that could unravel you with a single glance. But tonight, they were wild, darting around the room with the intensity of a man on a mission. His jaw was set, his movements purposeful as he strode toward the study.

“Going to get the cowl,” he said, his voice low and clipped, already halfway across the room. “It’s missing, honey.”

You stood so fast the chair scraped against the hardwood, the sound grating in the quiet. “What?”

Bruce didn’t slow, tossing words over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner. “Where’s my supersuit?”

Your jaw dropped, and you kicked off your heels, the emerald dress swishing as you stormed after him. “What??”

He was in the study now, his broad shoulders filling the doorway as he reached for the hidden panel that concealed the entrance to the Batcave. His voice rose, laced with that gravelly Batman edge that could make even the Joker hesitate. “Where—is—my—supersuit?”

You planted yourself in the doorway, hands on your hips, the silk of your dress catching the dim light from the study’s chandelier. This was not happening. Not after you’d wrangled the entire Batfamily into submission, bribed Damian with a new katana sharpener, and convinced Jason to stay out of trouble for one measly night. “I, uh… put it away!” you said, your voice steady despite the fire building in your chest.

Bruce froze, his hand hovering over the panel. He turned slowly, his brow furrowing as if you’d just confessed to hiding the Batmobile in the garage. “Where?”

“Why do you need to know?” you shot back, crossing your arms. The candlelit dinner, the wine, the dress—all of it was slipping away like sand through your fingers, and you could feel your patience fraying like an old rope.

“I need it!” Bruce’s voice was pure Batman now, all commanding intensity, as if the fate of the universe hung in the balance. His eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you were reminded of the man who could face down gods and monsters without flinching.

You stepped forward, undeterred, your gaze narrowing to match his. “Uh-huh. Don’t you dare think about running off to do some daring-do, Bruce Wayne! We’ve been planning this dinner for two months!”

He threw his hands up, exasperation cracking through his stoic facade like a fissure in a glacier. “The public is in danger!”

“My evening is in danger!” you countered, your voice rising to a pitch that could rival Oracle’s comms. You could feel the heat in your cheeks, the kind that came from loving this man with every fiber of your being while simultaneously wanting to throttle him.

Bruce took a step closer, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing with that infuriating mix of determination and righteousness. “You tell me where my suit is, woman! We’re talking about the greater good!”

You laughed, sharp and incredulous, throwing your hands in the air. “Greater good? Greater good? Bruce, I am your wife! I am the greatest good you’re ever gonna get!”

The room fell silent, the tension crackling like a live wire strung between you. Bruce stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between shock and something dangerously close to amusement. You held your ground, chest heaving, your emerald dress shimmering in the low light as you glared at him. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with the weight of your words. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t a full smile—Bruce Wayne didn’t do full smiles—but it was enough to make your heart stutter.

“You hid my cowl,” he said, more a statement than a question, his voice softening just enough to let you know he was trying to de-escalate.

You didn’t back down, though your tone lost some of its fire. “Damn right I did. You think I’m going to let you ruin our first date night in forever because some goon in a clown mask decided to rob a bank?”

Bruce rubbed a hand over his face, the exhaustion of his double life etched into the lines around his eyes. “It’s not a bank. It’s… complicated. Scarecrow’s got a new toxin, and the GCPD—”

“Scarecrow can wait,” you interrupted, stepping closer until you were within arm’s reach. Your voice softened, but the steel remained. “Bruce, I know what you do is important. I know Gotham needs you. But I need you too. We need you. The kids, me, this family—we’re not just background noise to your mission. Just one night. Can’t the city survive without Batman for a few hours?”

He looked at you, really looked at you, and you could see the war waging behind his eyes. The Batman, relentless and unyielding, versus Bruce Wayne, the man who had vowed to love you through every storm. You reached out, resting a hand on his chest, feeling the cold kevlar under your palm and the steady beat of his heart beneath it. “Please,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Stay.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. His hand hovered over the panel, his body taut with indecision. Then, slowly, he let his arm drop, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of Gotham had settled there. He covered your hand with his, his touch warm despite the armor, and his thumb brushed against your knuckles. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, but there was no heat in it, only affection.

“Says the man who dresses like a bat,” you quipped, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He exhaled, a sound that was half-laugh, half-sigh, and you knew you’d won. “Fine,” he said, stepping back but keeping your hand in his. “One night. But you’re telling me where you hid the cowl.”

You grinned, triumphant, and tugged him toward the dining room. “Not a chance. You’ll find it when I’m good and ready to give it back.”

Bruce shook his head, but he was smiling now, a real smile that softened the hard edges of his face and made your heart ache with how much you loved him. He followed you, his hand still clasped in yours, and for a moment, the manor felt alive—not with the chaos of the Batfamily or the shadows of Batman’s mission, but with the quiet, unshakable strength of the life you’d built together.

༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎

The dining room welcomed you back with its warm glow, the candles burning lower now but still casting a soft, intimate light. You guided Bruce to his seat, ignoring the faint creak of his kevlar as he sat down. He looked out of place, a warrior in armor at a table set for romance, but the sight only made you love him more. You poured him a glass of wine, sliding it across the table with a playful smirk.

“Drink,” you said. “You look like you need it.”

He raised an eyebrow but took the glass, his fingers brushing yours in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely,” you replied, settling into your own chair. “It’s not every day I get to hold the Batman hostage.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and took a sip of the wine. “You’re the only one who could.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand, your eyes locked on his. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Wayne. You’re still not getting that cowl back until I say so.”

He leaned back, his gaze never leaving yours, and for a moment, you saw the man you’d fallen in love with—the one who could charm a room full of Gotham’s elite or face down a rogue’s gallery without breaking a sweat. “You know,” he said, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous timbre that always made your pulse race, “I could find it. I’m very good at finding things.”

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “And I’m very good at hiding things. Try me.”

His lips twitched again, and you couldn’t help but laugh. The tension from earlier had melted away, replaced by the easy banter that had always been the foundation of your relationship. You served the food, the plates steaming with herb-crusted lamb and roasted vegetables, and for a while, you both ate in comfortable silence, the only sounds the clink of cutlery and the faint crackle of the candles.

But Gotham was never far away, and you could see the way Bruce’s eyes occasionally darted toward the window, as if expecting a signal to light up the sky. You reached across the table, taking his hand. “Hey,” you said softly. “You’re here. With me. Let the city handle itself for a few hours.”

He squeezed your hand, his expression softening. “I’m trying. It’s… hard to turn it off.”

“I know,” you said, your thumb tracing circles over his knuckles. “But you don’t have to carry it all alone. You have me. You have the kids. You have Alfred, though I’m pretty sure he’s secretly running the whole operation.”

Bruce laughed, a real, unguarded laugh that made your heart soar. “You’re probably right about that.”

You grinned, leaning back in your chair. “Of course I am. I’m always right.”

He shook his head, but the warmth in his eyes told you everything you needed to know. This was why you fought so hard for these moments—because beneath the cowl, beneath the weight of Gotham, was the man who loved you fiercely, who would move mountains for you and the family you’d built together.

As the meal drew to a close, you stood, rounding the table to stand beside him. He looked up at you, his eyes tracing the lines of your dress, and for a moment, you felt like the only person in the world. You leaned down, brushing a kiss against his lips, soft and lingering. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For staying.”

He cupped your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Thank you,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “For reminding me what matters.”

You smiled, pulling him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s dance.”

He raised an eyebrow, glancing around the empty dining room. “There’s no music.”

You shrugged, wrapping your arms around his neck. “We don’t need it.”

And so, in the flickering candlelight, you swayed together, his armor pressing against your silk dress, his hands warm on your waist. The manor was quiet, the city beyond its walls a distant hum. Somewhere, hidden in the depths of Wayne Manor, the cowl remained safely tucked away. For tonight, at least, Batman could wait.

༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎

Later that night, as you lay in bed, Bruce’s arm draped over your waist, you felt the manor settle around you like a living thing, its secrets safe for another day. The kids would be back soon, bringing their chaos and their laughter, and Gotham would call again, as it always did. But for now, you had this—the warmth of his body against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the knowledge that you were his anchor, his greatest good.

And somewhere, in a locked drawer in the guest room, the cowl waited. You smiled to yourself, already planning where you’d hide it next time.

Tag

@itsberrydreemurstuff @Welpthisisboring @lilyalone @itsberrydreemurstuff

[pomegranatelifethis]

Hey, been following your work for a while and I love it! I was just wandering if I could recommend you a fic rec of Yandere Batfam with neglected reader. It’s been going around for a bit, pretty recent. It’s called Ancient Dreams in a Modern Land here on tumblr. Definitely worth to check out because it’s both heartbreaking and funny as hell.

I read it too and absolutely loved it! The emotions and humor were perfectly balanced. Thank you so much for sharing such wonderful things with me (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠). If you have any other recommendations, definitely let me know—discovering things together is so much fun

[pomegranatelifethis]

i miss you baee

┻⁠━⁠┻┻⁠━⁠┻┻⁠━⁠┻┻⁠━⁠┻┻⁠━⁠┻┻⁠━⁠┻┻⁠━⁠┻┻⁠━⁠┻┻⁠━⁠┻┻⁠━⁠┻┻

"I miss you so much too, my love (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠✧⁠*⁠。Even though I haven’t been very active because of my exams, you're always on my mind… I wish I could be here all the time. But the good news is: it’s almost over! I’ll be back and active again later this week—counting down the days until then ✨💖"

[pomegranatelifethis]

Naughty friend

The Brooklyn night was alive with a thousand twinkling lights, each one a star in the urban galaxy that stretched beneath you. You crouched on the edge of a penthouse balcony, the cool metal railing biting into your gloved palms. Your black catsuit hugged your frame like a second skin, sleek and silent, blending into the shadows. In your hand, a stolen necklace glittered—a garish cascade of diamonds and sapphires, plucked from the safe of some hedge fund tycoon who wouldn’t miss it. The theft had been child’s play; cracking the safe took less time than choosing which rooftop to escape to. But the real thrill? That was coming.

You tilted your head, senses prickling. A faint *thwip* echoed through the night, and your lips curled into a predatory smirk. *Right on time.*

There he was—Spider-Man, Brooklyn’s own web-slinging hero, landing on the rooftop across from you with a stumble that was almost endearing. His red-and-black suit caught the neon glow of a nearby billboard, the spider emblem stark against his chest. Even from this distance, you could sense his nervous energy, the way he shifted his weight like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. You stood, letting the wind tug at your hair, and tossed the necklace from one hand to the other, making sure it caught the moonlight.

“Well, well, well,” you purred, your voice carrying across the gap between you. “If it isn’t the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Come to ruin my fun?”

Miles Morales froze behind his mask. He’d faced down muggers, supervillains, and even a rogue mech or two, but *you*? You were something else entirely. The way you moved, all liquid grace and confidence, made his stomach do flips. And that voice—smooth, teasing, like you were inviting him to a game he was already losing. He cleared his throat, praying his voice wouldn’t betray his nerves.

“Uh, hey, hi,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Stealing’s, like, super not cool. You know that, right? So, maybe you could just… give that necklace back? Like, no big deal?”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “No big deal? Oh, Spidey, you’re adorable.” You stepped forward, hips swaying just enough to make him fidget. “But I don’t do ‘give back.’ You want it? You’re gonna have to *earn* it.”

Miles blinked, his brain scrambling to keep up. Was she—were you—*flirting* with him? His palms were sweaty under his suit, and he nearly tripped over a loose brick as he hopped down to your level. “Okay, cool, cool, cool,” he muttered under his breath, trying to psych himself up. “I got this. Just… gotta focus. Hero mode, activate.”

He shot a web at you, aiming to pin your arm, but you were already moving. With a fluid twist, you flipped backward, landing lightly on the balls of your feet. Your hair fell over one shoulder as you tossed him a mock-disapproving look. “Really, web-head? That’s your opening move? I expected better.”

Miles groaned, dragging a hand down his mask. “Oh, come on! You’re, like, *way* too fast! Can you just—hold still for a sec?”

You laughed, a sound that was equal parts delight and challenge. “Hold still? Where’s the fun in that?” You leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell you what, Spidey. Catch me, and maybe I’ll let you keep the necklace. Deal?”

Before he could answer, you vaulted over the balcony, diving into the night like a shadow given wings. Miles’s eyes widened. “Wait, what—oh, *man*!” He swung after you, webs shooting left and right as he tried to keep your lithe form in sight. You were a phantom, slipping through alleyways, scaling fire escapes, and leaping across rooftops with an ease that made his heart race—and not just from the chase.

The city blurred around him as he swung, the wind whipping past his ears. You were always just out of reach, a teasing silhouette against the neon-lit skyline. Every time he thought he had you cornered, you’d turn, flash him a grin, and vanish into the shadows. Once, you blew him a kiss from atop a water tower, and he nearly missed his next web, flailing mid-air before catching himself.

“Dude, she’s *too* good at this,” Miles muttered, clinging to the side of a brick building. His chest heaved, and his mind was a whirlwind. You weren’t just fast—you were *playing* with him, like a cat toying with a mouse. And the worst part? He wasn’t even that mad about it. Annoyed, sure. But also… kind of impressed. Maybe a little charmed. Okay, *definitely* charmed.

He spotted you again, this time on a rooftop near the East River. You were lounging against a chimney, one leg bent, the necklace dangling from your fingers like a prize. The city’s lights reflected in your eyes, giving them a mischievous glint. “Took you long enough,” you called, smirking. “Getting rusty, web-head?”

Miles landed in front of you, hands on his hips, trying to look authoritative. “Alright, game’s over. Hand it over. No more running.”

You tilted your head, sizing him up. Then, in a move that was pure Felicia Hardy, you closed the distance between you, stopping just close enough that he could smell the faint jasmine of your perfume. “You sure you want it?” you murmured, voice low and teasing. “Because I think you’re having too much fun chasing me.”

Miles’s mask hid his blush, but his voice cracked, betraying him. “I-I’m not—fun? What? No, I’m totally professional! Super serious hero vibes, right here!” He gestured wildly at himself, which only made you laugh—a sound that sent his heart into overdrive.

“Oh, Spidey, you’re precious,” you said, reaching out to tap his chest lightly. His breath hitched at the contact, and you noticed, your smirk widening. “Relax. You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“Cute?” he squeaked, then coughed, deepening his voice. “I mean, uh, I’m not flustered! I’m Spider-Man! I don’t get flustered!”

“Sure you don’t,” you teased, stepping even closer. You held up the necklace, letting it dangle between you like bait. “So, what’s it gonna be? Take the prize and be the big, bad hero? Or…” You leaned in, your lips dangerously close to where his ear would be under the mask. “…keep playing my game?”

Miles’s brain was a mess. He was supposed to be stopping you, not… whatever this was. But you were so *confident*, so *cool*, and he was just… him. Awkward, quippy Miles, who still tripped over his own webs half the time. He shook his head, trying to focus. “Okay, no, I’m taking the necklace. That’s the deal. Hero stuff. Let’s go.”

To his shock, you didn’t fight him. Instead, you pressed the necklace into his hand, your gloved fingers brushing his for a moment longer than necessary. “Fine,” you said, stepping back with a wink. “You win. This time.”

He stared at the necklace, then at you, dumbfounded. “Wait, you’re just… giving it to me? What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” you said, turning to leap off the roof. But you paused, glancing over your shoulder. “Oh, and check your pocket.”

Miles frowned, patting his suit. His fingers closed around a small piece of paper, and he pulled it out, heart skipping a beat. A phone number, scrawled in elegant handwriting, with the words *Catch me if you can <3* written beneath it. His jaw dropped. “When did you—how—?”

But you were already gone, a shadow melting into the night. Miles stood there, clutching the necklace and the note, his mind reeling. He’d won… sort of. But it didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like the start of something—something dangerous, thrilling, and maybe a little addictive.

“Man,” he muttered, shaking his head as he shot a web and swung into the city. “She’s *definitely* trouble.”

༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎

Miles couldn’t stop thinking about you. He’d turned the necklace over to the police, earning a pat on the back from his dad and a suspicious squint from his mom, who seemed to sense he was leaving out part of the story. But the note? That was still burning a hole in his pocket. He hadn’t called—yet. He wasn’t even sure if he *should*. You were a thief, after all. A criminal. But you were also… different. Not evil, not cruel. Just… playing a game he couldn’t quite figure out.

He was patrolling near Dumbo when his spider-sense tingled. He spun around, webs at the ready, only to find you leaning against a streetlight, casual as could be. Your catsuit was gone, replaced by a sleek leather jacket and jeans, but the smirk was unmistakable.

“Evening, Spidey,” you said, twirling a familiar sapphire ring around your finger. “Miss me?”

Miles’s heart did a backflip. “You—where did you—did you *steal that*? I just got the necklace back to the cops!”

You shrugged, unbothered. “What can I say? I like shiny things. And I like keeping you on your toes.” You stepped closer, and he instinctively took a step back, nearly tripping over a curb. You laughed, delighted. “Oh, come on, don’t be like that. I thought we had fun last night.”

“Fun?” he spluttered. “You call that fun? I was running all over Brooklyn trying to catch you!”

“And you loved every second of it,” you shot back, eyes sparkling. “Admit it.”

Miles opened his mouth, then closed it. He couldn’t lie—you *were* kind of fun. Annoying, sure. But fun. He crossed his arms, trying to regain some control. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t… the worst. But you can’t just keep stealing stuff! I’m supposed to stop you!”

You tilted your head, considering him. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. One more chase. If you catch me tonight, I’ll give you the ring *and* a little something extra. If you don’t…” You grinned, leaning in close. “I get to keep playing with you.”

His spider-sense was screaming, but so was his curiosity. “What’s the something extra?”

You tapped his nose lightly, making him flinch. “You’ll have to catch me to find out.”

And with that, you were off, sprinting across the street and scaling a building with catlike agility. Miles groaned, but a grin tugged at his lips. “Why do I keep doing this to myself?” he muttered, before swinging after you.

The chase was even wilder than the night before. You led him through construction sites, over the Brooklyn Bridge, and into the heart of Williamsburg, where you darted through crowded streets and slipped into alleys. At one point, you tossed him a playful wave from the top of a moving subway car, and he nearly fell off a lamppost trying to keep up.

Finally, he cornered you on a quiet rooftop, both of you breathing hard. The ring was still in your hand, but you didn’t seem fazed. “Not bad, Spidey,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re getting better.”

“Give it up,” he said, trying to sound stern. “Ring. Now.”

You sighed dramatically, then tossed it to him. He caught it, surprised, and looked at you warily. “Okay, seriously, what’s your deal? Why do you keep doing this?”

You studied him for a moment, your smirk softening into something almost… genuine. “Because it’s fun,” you said simply. “And because you’re fun. You’re not like the cops or those boring security guards. You’re… you. All awkward and sweet and trying so hard.” You stepped closer, and this time, he didn’t back away. “I like that.”

Miles swallowed, his throat dry. “You’re… weirdly nice for a thief.”

You laughed, the sound bright and warm. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” You reached out, slipping another note into his hand—this one with a time and place written on it. “One more game, Spidey. Meet me there tomorrow night. No jewelry, no heists. Just… us.”

He stared at the note, then at you. “Why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t,” you said with a wink. “But you will.”

And with that, you leaped off the roof, disappearing into the night. Miles stood there, clutching the ring and the note, his heart pounding. He should turn you in. He should tell someone. But instead, he tucked the note into his suit, a small, secret smile playing on his lips.

“Trouble,” he muttered, swinging into the city. “Big, big trouble.”

But for the first time, he was okay with that.

[pomegranatelifethis]

@chaoticducky I was inspired by your comment

Privately

The Wayne Manor stood as a monolith against the bruised Gotham sky, its spires clawing at the dusk like the jagged teeth of some ancient beast. Within its labyrinthine halls, history whispered in every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of the chandeliers—a symphony of the Wayne family’s polished legacy and the darker, unspoken truths of the Batman. Tonight, though, the manor thrummed with a rare and delicate promise: an evening of peace. You, the heart and soul of this chaotic household, had orchestrated it with the precision of a maestro. A dinner. Just you and Bruce. No capes, no cowls, no crises. Two months of meticulous planning, a menu that could rival Gotham’s finest restaurants, and a dress you’d kept hidden in the back of your closet for an occasion exactly like this.

The dining room was a vision of elegance, bathed in the golden glow of a dozen candles that cast dancing shadows across the mahogany table. Crystal glasses sparkled, silverware gleamed, and the faint aroma of rosemary and roasted lamb wafted from the kitchen, where Alfred had reluctantly left the final touches to you. You smoothed the silk of your emerald-green dress, the fabric clinging to your curves in a way that still made Bruce’s breath catch after all these years. The clock on the mantel ticked past seven, and your fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against the table. He was late. Not by much, but enough to stir the familiar knot of unease in your chest. The kids—Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, and Cass—were mercifully absent, either patrolling the city or holed up in their rooms with strict instructions to leave you alone. Even Alfred had been persuaded to take a rare night off, though you suspected he was secretly reorganizing the wine cellar.

You poured yourself a glass of Bordeaux, the deep red catching the candlelight like liquid rubies. The manor was too quiet, and in Gotham, silence was rarely a good omen. As if summoned by your thoughts, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway, accompanied by the unmistakable clink of kevlar and the faint rustle of tactical fabric. Your heart sank, the wineglass freezing halfway to your lips. No. Not tonight.

“Bruce?” you called, your voice sharp with warning as you set the glass down with a deliberate clink.

He appeared in the doorway, a towering figure still half-clad in his Batman gear. The chest plate gleamed like obsidian under the candlelight, the bat emblem stark against the darkness. His cowl was off, revealing a mop of dark hair damp with sweat and those piercing blue eyes that could unravel you with a single glance. But tonight, they were wild, darting around the room with the intensity of a man on a mission. His jaw was set, his movements purposeful as he strode toward the study.

“Going to get the cowl,” he said, his voice low and clipped, already halfway across the room. “It’s missing, honey.”

You stood so fast the chair scraped against the hardwood, the sound grating in the quiet. “What?”

Bruce didn’t slow, tossing words over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner. “Where’s my supersuit?”

Your jaw dropped, and you kicked off your heels, the emerald dress swishing as you stormed after him. “What??”

He was in the study now, his broad shoulders filling the doorway as he reached for the hidden panel that concealed the entrance to the Batcave. His voice rose, laced with that gravelly Batman edge that could make even the Joker hesitate. “Where—is—my—supersuit?”

You planted yourself in the doorway, hands on your hips, the silk of your dress catching the dim light from the study’s chandelier. This was not happening. Not after you’d wrangled the entire Batfamily into submission, bribed Damian with a new katana sharpener, and convinced Jason to stay out of trouble for one measly night. “I, uh… put it away!” you said, your voice steady despite the fire building in your chest.

Bruce froze, his hand hovering over the panel. He turned slowly, his brow furrowing as if you’d just confessed to hiding the Batmobile in the garage. “Where?”

“Why do you need to know?” you shot back, crossing your arms. The candlelit dinner, the wine, the dress—all of it was slipping away like sand through your fingers, and you could feel your patience fraying like an old rope.

“I need it!” Bruce’s voice was pure Batman now, all commanding intensity, as if the fate of the universe hung in the balance. His eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you were reminded of the man who could face down gods and monsters without flinching.

You stepped forward, undeterred, your gaze narrowing to match his. “Uh-huh. Don’t you dare think about running off to do some daring-do, Bruce Wayne! We’ve been planning this dinner for two months!”

He threw his hands up, exasperation cracking through his stoic facade like a fissure in a glacier. “The public is in danger!”

“My evening is in danger!” you countered, your voice rising to a pitch that could rival Oracle’s comms. You could feel the heat in your cheeks, the kind that came from loving this man with every fiber of your being while simultaneously wanting to throttle him.

Bruce took a step closer, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing with that infuriating mix of determination and righteousness. “You tell me where my suit is, woman! We’re talking about the greater good!”

You laughed, sharp and incredulous, throwing your hands in the air. “Greater good? Greater good? Bruce, I am your wife! I am the greatest good you’re ever gonna get!”

The room fell silent, the tension crackling like a live wire strung between you. Bruce stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between shock and something dangerously close to amusement. You held your ground, chest heaving, your emerald dress shimmering in the low light as you glared at him. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with the weight of your words. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t a full smile—Bruce Wayne didn’t do full smiles—but it was enough to make your heart stutter.

“You hid my cowl,” he said, more a statement than a question, his voice softening just enough to let you know he was trying to de-escalate.

You didn’t back down, though your tone lost some of its fire. “Damn right I did. You think I’m going to let you ruin our first date night in forever because some goon in a clown mask decided to rob a bank?”

Bruce rubbed a hand over his face, the exhaustion of his double life etched into the lines around his eyes. “It’s not a bank. It’s… complicated. Scarecrow’s got a new toxin, and the GCPD—”

“Scarecrow can wait,” you interrupted, stepping closer until you were within arm’s reach. Your voice softened, but the steel remained. “Bruce, I know what you do is important. I know Gotham needs you. But I need you too. We need you. The kids, me, this family—we’re not just background noise to your mission. Just one night. Can’t the city survive without Batman for a few hours?”

He looked at you, really looked at you, and you could see the war waging behind his eyes. The Batman, relentless and unyielding, versus Bruce Wayne, the man who had vowed to love you through every storm. You reached out, resting a hand on his chest, feeling the cold kevlar under your palm and the steady beat of his heart beneath it. “Please,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Stay.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. His hand hovered over the panel, his body taut with indecision. Then, slowly, he let his arm drop, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of Gotham had settled there. He covered your hand with his, his touch warm despite the armor, and his thumb brushed against your knuckles. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, but there was no heat in it, only affection.

“Says the man who dresses like a bat,” you quipped, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He exhaled, a sound that was half-laugh, half-sigh, and you knew you’d won. “Fine,” he said, stepping back but keeping your hand in his. “One night. But you’re telling me where you hid the cowl.”

You grinned, triumphant, and tugged him toward the dining room. “Not a chance. You’ll find it when I’m good and ready to give it back.”

Bruce shook his head, but he was smiling now, a real smile that softened the hard edges of his face and made your heart ache with how much you loved him. He followed you, his hand still clasped in yours, and for a moment, the manor felt alive—not with the chaos of the Batfamily or the shadows of Batman’s mission, but with the quiet, unshakable strength of the life you’d built together.

༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎

The dining room welcomed you back with its warm glow, the candles burning lower now but still casting a soft, intimate light. You guided Bruce to his seat, ignoring the faint creak of his kevlar as he sat down. He looked out of place, a warrior in armor at a table set for romance, but the sight only made you love him more. You poured him a glass of wine, sliding it across the table with a playful smirk.

“Drink,” you said. “You look like you need it.”

He raised an eyebrow but took the glass, his fingers brushing yours in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely,” you replied, settling into your own chair. “It’s not every day I get to hold the Batman hostage.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and took a sip of the wine. “You’re the only one who could.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand, your eyes locked on his. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Wayne. You’re still not getting that cowl back until I say so.”

He leaned back, his gaze never leaving yours, and for a moment, you saw the man you’d fallen in love with—the one who could charm a room full of Gotham’s elite or face down a rogue’s gallery without breaking a sweat. “You know,” he said, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous timbre that always made your pulse race, “I could find it. I’m very good at finding things.”

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “And I’m very good at hiding things. Try me.”

His lips twitched again, and you couldn’t help but laugh. The tension from earlier had melted away, replaced by the easy banter that had always been the foundation of your relationship. You served the food, the plates steaming with herb-crusted lamb and roasted vegetables, and for a while, you both ate in comfortable silence, the only sounds the clink of cutlery and the faint crackle of the candles.

But Gotham was never far away, and you could see the way Bruce’s eyes occasionally darted toward the window, as if expecting a signal to light up the sky. You reached across the table, taking his hand. “Hey,” you said softly. “You’re here. With me. Let the city handle itself for a few hours.”

He squeezed your hand, his expression softening. “I’m trying. It’s… hard to turn it off.”

“I know,” you said, your thumb tracing circles over his knuckles. “But you don’t have to carry it all alone. You have me. You have the kids. You have Alfred, though I’m pretty sure he’s secretly running the whole operation.”

Bruce laughed, a real, unguarded laugh that made your heart soar. “You’re probably right about that.”

You grinned, leaning back in your chair. “Of course I am. I’m always right.”

He shook his head, but the warmth in his eyes told you everything you needed to know. This was why you fought so hard for these moments—because beneath the cowl, beneath the weight of Gotham, was the man who loved you fiercely, who would move mountains for you and the family you’d built together.

As the meal drew to a close, you stood, rounding the table to stand beside him. He looked up at you, his eyes tracing the lines of your dress, and for a moment, you felt like the only person in the world. You leaned down, brushing a kiss against his lips, soft and lingering. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For staying.”

He cupped your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Thank you,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “For reminding me what matters.”

You smiled, pulling him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s dance.”

He raised an eyebrow, glancing around the empty dining room. “There’s no music.”

You shrugged, wrapping your arms around his neck. “We don’t need it.”

And so, in the flickering candlelight, you swayed together, his armor pressing against your silk dress, his hands warm on your waist. The manor was quiet, the city beyond its walls a distant hum. Somewhere, hidden in the depths of Wayne Manor, the cowl remained safely tucked away. For tonight, at least, Batman could wait.

༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎༎

Later that night, as you lay in bed, Bruce’s arm draped over your waist, you felt the manor settle around you like a living thing, its secrets safe for another day. The kids would be back soon, bringing their chaos and their laughter, and Gotham would call again, as it always did. But for now, you had this—the warmth of his body against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the knowledge that you were his anchor, his greatest good.

And somewhere, in a locked drawer in the guest room, the cowl waited. You smiled to yourself, already planning where you’d hide it next time.

Tag

@itsberrydreemurstuff @Welpthisisboring @lilyalone @itsberrydreemurstuff

[pomegranatelifethis]

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"We’ve reached 1,000 followers! I still can’t believe it... This little community has grown into something amazing. Thank you to each and every one of you! If I’ve made you smile or think, then I’m truly happy. So, what’s next? Even more to come!"

[pomegranatelifethis]

Shattered Bonds

English is not my native language, I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

The Wayne Manor loomed like a cathedral of shadows, its gothic spires clawing at the Gotham sky. Inside, chandeliers cast fractured light across mahogany panels, but the warmth of their glow never reached you. You were a ghost in your own home, a forgotten daughter of the Bat, tethered to a family that saw you only in glimpses. As Damian Wayne’s twin, you’d once shared his world—two children forged in the crucible of the League of Assassins, bound by blood and secrets. But where Damian’s fire burned bright, commanding attention, you were the ember, quiet and overlooked, your warmth reserved for those who cared to notice.

No one did. Not anymore.

The neglect had been a slow poison, seeping through the years. Bruce, your father, was a monolith, his eyes forever fixed on Gotham’s underbelly, his rare words to you clipped and utilitarian. Dick’s smiles were fleeting, Jason’s rough affection sporadic, Tim’s focus consumed by screens and cases. Even Alfred, with his gentle offerings of tea and concern, couldn’t bridge the chasm between you and the others. Damian, your mirror, your twin, had grown cold, his loyalty now a blade turned outward, never inward. You’d learned to live with it, to swallow the ache of being unseen. But then came Lila, and the ache became a wound.

Lila arrived a year ago, a waif with haunted eyes and a trembling lip, plucked from Gotham’s streets by Bruce’s boundless need to save. You saw yourself in her at first—a girl adrift, hungry for belonging. You spent nights by her side, listening to her whispered fears, bandaging her scraped knees, teaching her to navigate the manor’s labyrinthine halls. You thought you were building something—a sister, a friend. But Lila was no lost soul. She was a predator, and you were her prey.

Her lies began as whispers, soft and insidious. “Y/N pushed me down the stairs,” she’d sob to Damian, her voice quivering with rehearsed fragility. The accusation landed like a stone, and your twin’s emerald eyes—once your anchor—flashed with doubt. “Y/N mocked me during training,” she’d confide to Dick, who’d ruffle her hair and shoot you a disappointed glance. She told Tim you’d sabotaged her schoolwork, Jason that you’d sneered at her weakness, Bruce that you were consumed by jealousy. Each lie was a brushstroke, painting you as the villain in a story you hadn’t written.

The manor turned against you. Family dinners became tribunals, your every word dissected, your silences condemned. “You need to be better, Y/N,” Bruce would say, his voice heavy with the weight of a city he couldn’t save. “We’re a team.” But you weren’t a team. You were the scapegoat, the shadow cast by Lila’s light.

Behind closed doors, her mask fell. In the dim corridors, where the manor’s grandeur faded to gloom, Lila’s cruelty was a blade. She’d shove you against the wall, her nails biting into your arms. “You’re nothing here,” she’d hiss, her breath hot against your ear. “They all love me more.” She’d pinch your skin until it bloomed purple, leaving bruises you hid beneath oversized sweaters. Once, she poured ink into your schoolbag, ruining your textbooks, then wept to the family that you’d done it to frame her. The lie stuck, and your protests were met with sighs and eye-rolls.

School, once a refuge, became a battlefield. Lila’s whispers spread like wildfire through Gotham Academy’s polished halls. “Y/N’s a liar,” she’d murmur to your classmates. “A whore who thinks she’s a Wayne but’s just a mistake.” The words were venom, and they worked. Notes appeared in your locker—crude insults, threats. Girls shoved you in the halls, their laughter a chorus of malice. Boys whispered behind your back, their gazes sharp with disdain. You were ostracized, a pariah in a world you’d once navigated with quiet pride.

You fought to be heard. You went to Damian first, your twin, the boy who’d once shared your heartbeat in the womb. In his room, surrounded by his sketches and swords, you bared your soul. “She’s lying, Dami,” you pleaded, rolling up your sleeve to show the bruises Lila’s fingers had left. “She’s hurting me.” His gaze lingered on the marks, but his jaw tightened, and he turned away. “Lila wouldn’t do that,” he said, voice low and final. “You’re just upset she’s fitting in better than you.” The words were a knife, twisting deep. Your twin, your other half, had chosen her.

You tried Bruce next, standing in his study as rain lashed the windows. The Batcomputer hummed behind him, its glow casting his face in cold blue. You poured out everything—Lila’s lies, her cruelty, the bruises, the bullying at school. “I’m not making this up,” you said, voice trembling but steady. “She’s turning everyone against me.” Bruce listened, but his eyes drifted to the screens, to Gotham’s endless demands. “You need to work this out with her,” he said, as if your pain were a minor dispute. “I don’t have time for petty squabbles.” *Petty.* The word was a sledgehammer, shattering what little hope you’d clung to.

The others were no better. Dick tried to mediate, sitting you and Lila down like children fighting over toys. But her tears flowed on cue, and his sympathy tilted her way. “Y/N, you’ve got to meet her halfway,” he said, oblivious to the bruises beneath your sleeves. Jason laughed it off, slinging an arm around you that felt more like pity than support. “You’re tougher than this, kid. Don’t let her get to you.” Tim, ever the detective, analyzed your claims but found no “concrete evidence” to back them. “Lila’s stories check out,” he said, as if your pain were a case to be solved. Alfred alone saw the truth, his eyes soft as he pressed a warm mug into your hands. “You are enough, Miss Y/N,” he murmured. But his kindness couldn’t undo the family’s verdict.

Lila’s final act came at a family dinner, the table laden with crystal and silver, the air thick with unspoken tensions. She “accidentally” knocked a glass of red wine onto your dress, the stain spreading like blood. Before you could speak, she burst into tears, claiming you’d threatened her for being clumsy. The room stilled, eyes pinning you in place. Damian’s gaze was ice, Bruce’s disappointment a tangible weight. Dick frowned, Jason smirked, Tim looked away. “I didn’t do anything,” you whispered, but your voice was a ghost, drowned by Lila’s sobs. You stood, chair scraping the floor, and fled to your room.

That night, you made your choice. The manor was no longer home—it was a cage, and you were done begging for freedom. In the silence of your room, you packed a duffel bag—clothes, a photo of you and Damian as children, a knife Talia had given you years ago. You wrote a letter, your pen shaking but your resolve ironclad:

*Father,*

Fuck off, I don't care.

*With love, the girl you don't care about*

You left the letter on Bruce’s desk, slipped out through a servants’ entrance, and vanished into Gotham’s rain-soaked night.

The journey to Talia’s compound was a blur of buses, planes, and forged documents. When you arrived, the desert sun burned away the last of Gotham’s chill. Talia waited at the gates, her presence commanding, her eyes sharp but soft as they took you in. “My child,” she said, her voice a balm. She drew you into her arms, and for the first time in years, you didn’t feel invisible. “You’ve carried too much.” She didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t need them. Talia saw the weight in your shoulders, the shadows beneath your eyes, and she understood.

In Gotham, your absence went unnoticed at first. The Batfamily was consumed—patrols, cases, Lila’s endless dramas. But when Alfred found your letter, the manor erupted. Bruce read it in his study, the words blurring as his hands trembled. He’d failed you, his daughter, and the realization was a fist to his chest. Damian, summoned by Alfred’s urgent call, stared at the letter, your handwriting searing into his mind. He remembered your bruises, your pleas, and a crack formed in his certainty. Dick cursed himself, replaying every moment he’d dismissed you. Jason punched a wall, rage masking his guilt. Tim scoured security footage, desperate for a trace of you, but Talia’s network was a fortress, every lead a dead end.

Lila sensed the shift, her grip on the family faltering. She doubled down, weaving new tales, but without you as the scapegoat, her lies frayed. Damian, haunted by your absence, began to question. He revisited your room, finding a hidden journal you’d kept—pages of Lila’s cruelty, your pain, your pleas for help. His heart twisted, guilt replacing his doubt. Tim, ever methodical, dug into Lila’s past, unearthing inconsistencies—a foster home that didn’t exist, a story that didn’t add up. The truth emerged, slow but relentless, and Lila’s house of cards collapsed.

But it was too late. You were gone, and the Batfamily’s regret couldn’t bring you back. With Talia, you trained under the desert sun, your body growing stronger, your mind sharper. You learned to wield your mother’s blades, to command her operatives, to reclaim the fire you’d buried under years of neglect. You weren’t the scared girl who’d fled the manor. You were Talia al Ghul’s daughter, forged in pain and tempered by choice.

One night, as you stood on a balcony overlooking the endless dunes, Talia joined you. “You are whole again,” she said, her voice proud. You nodded, the weight of Gotham lifting. The Batfamily would always be a part of you—Bruce’s strength, Damian’s fire, the others’ fleeting warmth—but they no longer defined you. You’d chosen yourself, your mother, your truth. And in the desert’s vast silence, you were free.

And now, in the silence of the night, with your eyes fixed on the endless desert, the ghosts of your past begin to fade, one by one. Somewhere in the mansion you once called home, the echoes of your cries still linger—but they no longer define you. You spent a lifetime waiting to be heard… but now, in the quiet, you’ve finally found your voice. You are no longer someone’s shadow. Not a twin’s echo. Not a forgotten daughter. Not a casualty of someone else’s lies. Now, there is only you. And this time, the pain didn’t break you—it forged you anew. When you look back, there will still be memories laced with love, no matter how broken. Maybe, one day… someone will truly see you. But until then, as the desert winds whisper your name, you’ll no longer seek validation in the darkness. Because in the end, the moment you stopped fighting for them, you finally won for yourself.

How did it happen?

[pomegranatelifethis]

Shattered Bonds

English is not my native language, I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

The Wayne Manor loomed like a cathedral of shadows, its gothic spires clawing at the Gotham sky. Inside, chandeliers cast fractured light across mahogany panels, but the warmth of their glow never reached you. You were a ghost in your own home, a forgotten daughter of the Bat, tethered to a family that saw you only in glimpses. As Damian Wayne’s twin, you’d once shared his world—two children forged in the crucible of the League of Assassins, bound by blood and secrets. But where Damian’s fire burned bright, commanding attention, you were the ember, quiet and overlooked, your warmth reserved for those who cared to notice.

No one did. Not anymore.

The neglect had been a slow poison, seeping through the years. Bruce, your father, was a monolith, his eyes forever fixed on Gotham’s underbelly, his rare words to you clipped and utilitarian. Dick’s smiles were fleeting, Jason’s rough affection sporadic, Tim’s focus consumed by screens and cases. Even Alfred, with his gentle offerings of tea and concern, couldn’t bridge the chasm between you and the others. Damian, your mirror, your twin, had grown cold, his loyalty now a blade turned outward, never inward. You’d learned to live with it, to swallow the ache of being unseen. But then came Lila, and the ache became a wound.

Lila arrived a year ago, a waif with haunted eyes and a trembling lip, plucked from Gotham’s streets by Bruce’s boundless need to save. You saw yourself in her at first—a girl adrift, hungry for belonging. You spent nights by her side, listening to her whispered fears, bandaging her scraped knees, teaching her to navigate the manor’s labyrinthine halls. You thought you were building something—a sister, a friend. But Lila was no lost soul. She was a predator, and you were her prey.

Her lies began as whispers, soft and insidious. “Y/N pushed me down the stairs,” she’d sob to Damian, her voice quivering with rehearsed fragility. The accusation landed like a stone, and your twin’s emerald eyes—once your anchor—flashed with doubt. “Y/N mocked me during training,” she’d confide to Dick, who’d ruffle her hair and shoot you a disappointed glance. She told Tim you’d sabotaged her schoolwork, Jason that you’d sneered at her weakness, Bruce that you were consumed by jealousy. Each lie was a brushstroke, painting you as the villain in a story you hadn’t written.

The manor turned against you. Family dinners became tribunals, your every word dissected, your silences condemned. “You need to be better, Y/N,” Bruce would say, his voice heavy with the weight of a city he couldn’t save. “We’re a team.” But you weren’t a team. You were the scapegoat, the shadow cast by Lila’s light.

Behind closed doors, her mask fell. In the dim corridors, where the manor’s grandeur faded to gloom, Lila’s cruelty was a blade. She’d shove you against the wall, her nails biting into your arms. “You’re nothing here,” she’d hiss, her breath hot against your ear. “They all love me more.” She’d pinch your skin until it bloomed purple, leaving bruises you hid beneath oversized sweaters. Once, she poured ink into your schoolbag, ruining your textbooks, then wept to the family that you’d done it to frame her. The lie stuck, and your protests were met with sighs and eye-rolls.

School, once a refuge, became a battlefield. Lila’s whispers spread like wildfire through Gotham Academy’s polished halls. “Y/N’s a liar,” she’d murmur to your classmates. “A whore who thinks she’s a Wayne but’s just a mistake.” The words were venom, and they worked. Notes appeared in your locker—crude insults, threats. Girls shoved you in the halls, their laughter a chorus of malice. Boys whispered behind your back, their gazes sharp with disdain. You were ostracized, a pariah in a world you’d once navigated with quiet pride.

You fought to be heard. You went to Damian first, your twin, the boy who’d once shared your heartbeat in the womb. In his room, surrounded by his sketches and swords, you bared your soul. “She’s lying, Dami,” you pleaded, rolling up your sleeve to show the bruises Lila’s fingers had left. “She’s hurting me.” His gaze lingered on the marks, but his jaw tightened, and he turned away. “Lila wouldn’t do that,” he said, voice low and final. “You’re just upset she’s fitting in better than you.” The words were a knife, twisting deep. Your twin, your other half, had chosen her.

You tried Bruce next, standing in his study as rain lashed the windows. The Batcomputer hummed behind him, its glow casting his face in cold blue. You poured out everything—Lila’s lies, her cruelty, the bruises, the bullying at school. “I’m not making this up,” you said, voice trembling but steady. “She’s turning everyone against me.” Bruce listened, but his eyes drifted to the screens, to Gotham’s endless demands. “You need to work this out with her,” he said, as if your pain were a minor dispute. “I don’t have time for petty squabbles.” *Petty.* The word was a sledgehammer, shattering what little hope you’d clung to.

The others were no better. Dick tried to mediate, sitting you and Lila down like children fighting over toys. But her tears flowed on cue, and his sympathy tilted her way. “Y/N, you’ve got to meet her halfway,” he said, oblivious to the bruises beneath your sleeves. Jason laughed it off, slinging an arm around you that felt more like pity than support. “You’re tougher than this, kid. Don’t let her get to you.” Tim, ever the detective, analyzed your claims but found no “concrete evidence” to back them. “Lila’s stories check out,” he said, as if your pain were a case to be solved. Alfred alone saw the truth, his eyes soft as he pressed a warm mug into your hands. “You are enough, Miss Y/N,” he murmured. But his kindness couldn’t undo the family’s verdict.

Lila’s final act came at a family dinner, the table laden with crystal and silver, the air thick with unspoken tensions. She “accidentally” knocked a glass of red wine onto your dress, the stain spreading like blood. Before you could speak, she burst into tears, claiming you’d threatened her for being clumsy. The room stilled, eyes pinning you in place. Damian’s gaze was ice, Bruce’s disappointment a tangible weight. Dick frowned, Jason smirked, Tim looked away. “I didn’t do anything,” you whispered, but your voice was a ghost, drowned by Lila’s sobs. You stood, chair scraping the floor, and fled to your room.

That night, you made your choice. The manor was no longer home—it was a cage, and you were done begging for freedom. In the silence of your room, you packed a duffel bag—clothes, a photo of you and Damian as children, a knife Talia had given you years ago. You wrote a letter, your pen shaking but your resolve ironclad:

*Father,*

Fuck off, I don't care.

*With love, the girl you don't care about*

You left the letter on Bruce’s desk, slipped out through a servants’ entrance, and vanished into Gotham’s rain-soaked night.

The journey to Talia’s compound was a blur of buses, planes, and forged documents. When you arrived, the desert sun burned away the last of Gotham’s chill. Talia waited at the gates, her presence commanding, her eyes sharp but soft as they took you in. “My child,” she said, her voice a balm. She drew you into her arms, and for the first time in years, you didn’t feel invisible. “You’ve carried too much.” She didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t need them. Talia saw the weight in your shoulders, the shadows beneath your eyes, and she understood.

In Gotham, your absence went unnoticed at first. The Batfamily was consumed—patrols, cases, Lila’s endless dramas. But when Alfred found your letter, the manor erupted. Bruce read it in his study, the words blurring as his hands trembled. He’d failed you, his daughter, and the realization was a fist to his chest. Damian, summoned by Alfred’s urgent call, stared at the letter, your handwriting searing into his mind. He remembered your bruises, your pleas, and a crack formed in his certainty. Dick cursed himself, replaying every moment he’d dismissed you. Jason punched a wall, rage masking his guilt. Tim scoured security footage, desperate for a trace of you, but Talia’s network was a fortress, every lead a dead end.

Lila sensed the shift, her grip on the family faltering. She doubled down, weaving new tales, but without you as the scapegoat, her lies frayed. Damian, haunted by your absence, began to question. He revisited your room, finding a hidden journal you’d kept—pages of Lila’s cruelty, your pain, your pleas for help. His heart twisted, guilt replacing his doubt. Tim, ever methodical, dug into Lila’s past, unearthing inconsistencies—a foster home that didn’t exist, a story that didn’t add up. The truth emerged, slow but relentless, and Lila’s house of cards collapsed.

But it was too late. You were gone, and the Batfamily’s regret couldn’t bring you back. With Talia, you trained under the desert sun, your body growing stronger, your mind sharper. You learned to wield your mother’s blades, to command her operatives, to reclaim the fire you’d buried under years of neglect. You weren’t the scared girl who’d fled the manor. You were Talia al Ghul’s daughter, forged in pain and tempered by choice.

One night, as you stood on a balcony overlooking the endless dunes, Talia joined you. “You are whole again,” she said, her voice proud. You nodded, the weight of Gotham lifting. The Batfamily would always be a part of you—Bruce’s strength, Damian’s fire, the others’ fleeting warmth—but they no longer defined you. You’d chosen yourself, your mother, your truth. And in the desert’s vast silence, you were free.

And now, in the silence of the night, with your eyes fixed on the endless desert, the ghosts of your past begin to fade, one by one. Somewhere in the mansion you once called home, the echoes of your cries still linger—but they no longer define you. You spent a lifetime waiting to be heard… but now, in the quiet, you’ve finally found your voice. You are no longer someone’s shadow. Not a twin’s echo. Not a forgotten daughter. Not a casualty of someone else’s lies. Now, there is only you. And this time, the pain didn’t break you—it forged you anew. When you look back, there will still be memories laced with love, no matter how broken. Maybe, one day… someone will truly see you. But until then, as the desert winds whisper your name, you’ll no longer seek validation in the darkness. Because in the end, the moment you stopped fighting for them, you finally won for yourself.

How did it happen?

[pomegranatelifethis]

We love you

English is not my native language

The Wayne Manor was a labyrinth of shadows and secrets, its towering walls steeped in history and whispers. To you, it was home—not because of the grandeur, but because of the people who filled its halls. The ones who saw you, who knew you, in a way that made your chest ache with warmth. Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, Cass, Steph, Duke—they were your family, your anchors, their affection a constant tide that kept you afloat.

But there was one shadow you could never quite reach. One figure who stood apart, his presence as distant as the stars you could see from the manor’s rooftop.

Bruce Wayne.

Your father.

The thought of him stung, a quiet bruise you carried beneath your skin. You didn’t hate him—how could you? He was Batman, the man who saved Gotham night after night, the man who had taken you in when the world had left you orphaned. But love, you’d learned, wasn’t the same as presence. And Bruce’s love, if it existed, was a ghost you could never catch.

“Dinner’s ready!” Dick’s voice echoed through the manor, bright and warm, pulling you from your thoughts. You closed the book you’d been pretending to read and stood, smoothing your sweater. The library was your sanctuary, but the dining room was where your family came alive.

As you descended the grand staircase, you felt eyes on you before you saw them. Jason leaned against the banister, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Took you long enough, kid. Thought you were gonna make us send a search party.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile crept onto your face. “You’d love the excuse to be dramatic.”

“Guilty,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you reached the bottom step. His touch was grounding, a reminder that you were wanted here, even if one person’s absence loomed large.

The dining room was a riot of noise and warmth. Tim was hunched over his tablet, muttering about some case until Steph swiped it from him with a teasing grin. “No work at the table, nerd. Y/N’s here, and that’s way more important.”

Tim flushed but didn’t protest, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “She’s right. How’s your day been?”

“Fine,” you said, sliding into your seat. The word was a reflex, but the way Cass’s sharp eyes studied you from across the table told you she’d noticed the slight hitch in your voice. She didn’t say anything, but her hand brushed yours as she passed you a plate, a silent promise: I’m here.

Damian was next, setting a glass of water in front of you with a precision that bordered on reverence. “You didn’t eat lunch,” he said, his tone accusatory but his eyes soft. “You will eat now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yes, sir.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile, before he turned to argue with Dick about something trivial. Duke, sitting to your left, leaned in. “They’re ridiculous, but they’re all yours,” he said, his voice low and fond.

Yours. The word settled in your chest, heavy and sweet. They were yours—your siblings, your protectors, your family. Their love was fierce, unrelenting, sometimes suffocating in its intensity. You’d seen the way their eyes darkened when someone outside the family got too close, the way they orchestrated your life with a care that bordered on obsession. But it was a cage you didn’t mind, because it was built from devotion.

The only one missing was Bruce.

His seat at the head of the table was empty, as it often was. Patrol, you told yourself. The mission. Gotham. There was always a reason, always an excuse. You’d stopped expecting him to show up years ago, but the absence still gnawed at you, a quiet ache that never quite faded.

“Where’s B?” you asked, keeping your tone light, as if the answer wouldn’t matter.

Dick’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but he recovered quickly. “Out on a lead. You know how he is.”

You nodded, spearing a piece of chicken with your fork. You did know. Bruce was a storm, always moving, always out of reach. To him, you were a responsibility, a name on a list of duties. He’d saved you, given you a home, but his heart? That was locked away in the Batcave, buried beneath the cowl.

Jason’s hand tightened on your shoulder, a silent warning not to dwell. “He’s an idiot,” he muttered, loud enough for the table to hear. “Doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“Jason,” Dick warned, but there was no real heat in it.

“What? It’s true.” Jason’s eyes met yours, fierce and unyielding. “You’re worth ten of him, and we all know it.

The table erupted in agreement—Steph’s cheerful “Hell yeah!” blending with Tim’s quiet nod and Damian��s sharp “Tt, obviously.” Cass squeezed your hand, and Duke flashed you a grin that promised he’d have your back, always.

You laughed, the sound bubbling up despite the ache. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” Steph shot back, winking.

And they were. You felt it in every glance, every touch, every moment they carved out for you. Dick, who’d cancel patrols just to watch movies with you. Jason, who’d sneak you onto rooftops to stargaze, his gun never far but his arm always around you. Tim, who’d hack into your school’s system to make sure you never got in trouble. Damian, who’d paint your portrait in secret, then blush when you found it. Cass, who’d teach you to fight not because you needed to, but because she wanted you to feel strong. Steph, who’d fill your room with silly notes to make you smile. Duke, who’d tell you stories of Gotham’s light to remind you there was hope.

They were your family, your everything. Their love was a wildfire, consuming and protective, and you were at its heart, safe and cherished.

But still, you couldn’t help glancing at the empty chair.

The next morning, you woke to the soft clink of metal outside your door. Blinking sleep from your eyes, you found a tray waiting—fresh coffee, pancakes, and a single rose, its petals still damp with dew. A note in Damian’s precise handwriting read: You will eat breakfast. – D.

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. This was their way, your siblings. They didn’t just care—they insisted. Their love was a demand, a vow, and you were its willing recipient.

Downstairs, the manor was alive. Dick was in the kitchen, flipping more pancakes, while Tim and Steph argued over the best syrup. Cass sat on the counter, watching you with a quiet smile, and Jason was cleaning his guns at the table, a habit Bruce would’ve hated but one you found oddly comforting.

“Morning, superstar,” Dick called, sliding a plate toward you. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, taking a seat. “Thanks for the food, Damian.”

Damian, perched on a stool with a book, didn’t look up. “It was necessary.”

Jason snorted. “He means he loves you.”

Damian’s head snapped up, a blush creeping across his cheeks. “Todd, silence yourself.”

You laughed, and the sound drew Tim’s attention. He abandoned his argument with Steph to sit beside you, his laptop already open. “Hey, I was thinking—wanna help me with a case later? I could use your brain.”

“Only if I get to pick the music,” you teased.

“Deal,” he said, his smile soft but his eyes intense,like he was memorizing you.

This was your life now: surrounded, adored, needed. They didn’t just love you—they craved you, their affection a living thing that wrapped around you, tight and unyielding. You’d noticed the way they orchestrated your days, keeping you close, keeping you theirs. A classmate who’d gotten too flirty had mysteriously transferred schools. A teacher who’d been too harsh had suddenly retired. You didn’t ask questions, because you knew the answers lived in the shadows of their eyes.

And you didn’t mind. Not really. Because in their love, you were whole.

But Bruce… Bruce was a different story.

You saw him that afternoon, passing through the manor like a specter. He was in his civilian clothes, but the weight of the cowl clung to him, his shoulders tense, his eyes distant. You were in the living room, curled up with a book, when he walked by.

“Bruce,” you said, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

He paused, turning to you. For a moment, you thought you saw something—regret, maybe, or longing. But then his expression hardened, the mask of the Bat slipping into place. “Y/N,” he said, his voice clipped. “You’re… doing alright?”

It wasn’t a question, not really. It was an obligation, a checkmark on his endless list.

“Fine,” you said, echoing your answer from dinner. The word felt hollow.

“Good.” He nodded, already moving toward the study. “I have work to do.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stared at the empty space where he’d been, your book forgotten in your lap. The ache was back, sharper now, a blade that cut deeper because you’d dared to hope. He was your father, but he didn’t see you. Not the way the others did.

“Y/N?” Cass’s voice was soft, her presence sudden but welcome. She sat beside you, her hand finding yours. “You’re sad.”

You shook your head, but the tears prickling your eyes betrayed you. “It’s stupid.”

“Not stupid,” she said, her voice firm. She squeezed your hand, her gaze fierce. “He’s wrong. Not you.”

You swallowed, the lump in your throat heavy. “I just… I want him to care.”

Cass’s expression darkened, a rare flicker of anger crossing her face. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Before you could respond, Jason appeared in the doorway, his eyes narrowing as he took in your expression. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, but Cass’s grip on your hand tightened.

“Bruce,” she said, the word a condemnation.

Jason’s jaw clenched, and he crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. “Hey,” he said, his voice softer now, meant only for you. “Forget him. You’ve got us. You don’t need him.”You nodded, but the tears spilled over, and suddenly you were surrounded. Dick was there, pulling you into a hug. Tim’s hand rested on your shoulder, steady and sure. Damian stood at your side, his posture rigid with protective fury. Steph and Duke hovered nearby, their presence a quiet promise.

“We love you,” Dick murmured, his arms tight around you. “We’re never leaving you.”

And in that moment, you believed them. Their love was a fortress, unyielding and eternal. Bruce’s absence was a wound, yes, but it was one they’d bandage with their devotion, their obsession, their everything.

You were theirs, and they were yours. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

[pomegranatelifethis]

New Robin

The Batcave smelled like motor oil, leather, and the faint tang of Alfred’s freshly baked cookies, which you were currently swiping from a plate on the workbench. You, the newest and youngest Robin, were sprawled across a chair, one leg dangling, a cookie in one hand and your phone in the other, giggling at the latest chapter of your very spicy Batman fanfiction. The working title? “Caped Crusader’s Forbidden Night.” Pure genius, if you did say so yourself.

“Shouldn’t you be training?” Dick Grayson, the first Robin and current Nightwing, leaned against the Batcomputer, arms crossed, giving you that annoying big-brother stare.

You grinned, popping the cookie in your mouth. “Training’s boring. Punch, kick, dodge, blah blah. I’d rather write my masterpiece.” You wiggled your phone at him, knowing it’d make him squirm.

Dick’s eyes narrowed. “Please tell me you’re not still writing that… stuff.”

“Oh, I am. And it’s steamy. Wanna read the part where Batman—”

“NO.” Dick’s voice cracked, and he threw his hands up. “I’m begging you to keep that away from me.”

You cackled, loving how easy it was to rile him up. Being the youngest Batfamily member had its perks: you could get away with murder (figuratively, of course). At sixteen, you were a whirlwind of chaos, a Robin who preferred pranks over protocol, jokes over jabs, and daydreaming over discipline. Bruce had taken you in after catching you hacking into the Gotham City traffic system to create a smiley face with the lights. He saw potential; you saw a playground.

“Focus, kid,” came a gruffer voice. Jason Todd, Red Hood himself, stomped into the cave, wiping blood off his knuckles. “You ditched sparring again. I was gonna go easy on you.”

“Easy? You threw me into a dumpster last time!” you protested, sitting up.

“That was an accident,” Jason said, smirking. “Mostly.”

You stuck out your tongue and went back to your phone, typing furiously. “Batman’s cape billowed as he pinned the mysterious stranger against the wall, his gravelly voice a low growl…”

“Yo, what’s she typing?” Tim Drake, the third Robin and resident caffeine addict, peeked over your shoulder, then immediately regretted it. “Oh, God, no. Why is Bruce in this? Why is there romance?”

“It’s art, Timmy!” you declared, clutching your phone to your chest. “You wouldn’t understand true creativity.”

“It’s a crime against humanity,” Tim muttered, rubbing his temples. “Bruce would have an aneurysm if he saw this.”

“Then don’t tell him,” you said sweetly, batting your lashes.

“Tell me what?” The deep, unmistakable voice of Bruce Wayne—Batman himself—echoed through the cave as he stepped out of the shadows, cowl off, looking like he’d just survived a board meeting and a gang war.

You froze, phone slipping from your fingers. “Uh… nothing! Just, um, writing my… mission report?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You’ve never written a mission report in your life.”

“Rude!” you gasped, hopping to your feet. “I’m a great Robin! I stopped that bank robbery last week!”

“You stopped it by rigging the sprinklers to blast ‘Baby Shark’ until the robbers surrendered,” Dick pointed out.

“And it worked!” you shot back, hands on your hips. “Admit it, I’m a genius.”

“You’re a menace,” Jason said, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re supposed to be training. Being Robin isn’t a game. It’s discipline, focus—”

“Blah blah, I know,” you interrupted, mimicking his gravelly tone. “‘I am the night, I am vengeance.’ Lighten up, B! I’ve got this.”

The cave went silent. Dick looked horrified. Tim looked impressed. Jason snorted, muttering, “She’s got guts, I’ll give her that.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, but before he could lecture, Damian Wayne—the current Robin and your reluctant partner—stormed in, katana in hand. “You skipped our patrol route planning again!” he snapped, glaring at you. “You’re an embarrassment to the mantle!”

“Oh, chill, Baby Bat,” you said, ruffling his hair, which he dodged with a scowl. “I was busy creating culture. Besides, I already memorized the routes. West End, Crime Alley, then the docks. Easy peasy.”

Damian sputtered. “You—how dare you call me—Father, she’s insufferable!”

“Join the club,” Tim muttered.

You grinned, undeterred, and tossed Damian a cookie. “Eat a snack, Dami. You’re cranky.”

He caught it but looked like he wanted to throw it back at you. Bruce, meanwhile, was still staring, clearly debating whether to ground you or just give up. “You’re on probation,” he said finally. “No patrols until you complete a full training session.”

“Probation?!” you whined, flopping dramatically onto the floor. “This is oppression! I’m being silenced!”

“You’re being disciplined,” Bruce corrected, turning to the Batcomputer. “And delete that fanfiction.”

“Never!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet and bolting for the stairs. “You’ll have to catch me first!”

Jason laughed outright as you sprinted out of the cave, Alfred’s voice calling after you, “Miss, your laundry is still unfolded!”

Hours later, hidden in the manor’s library, you were curled up with your phone, adding another chapter to your fic. “The mysterious stranger smirked, tugging at Batman’s utility belt…” You giggled, knowing full well you’d never delete it. Being the naughty, carefree Robin was too much fun—and the Batfamily, for all their grumbling, wouldn’t have you any other way.

[pomegranatelifethis]

Little Trouble

The Gotham night was thick with mist, the kind that clung to your skin and made every shadow look like a threat. At 16, you were the youngest of the Batfamily, adopted by Bruce Wayne after a rough start on Gotham’s streets. Tonight, you were supposed to be on patrol with Jason Todd, your reckless older “brother” and the Red Hood. But instead of busting criminals, you were knee-deep in a sibling prank that had spiraled straight into GCPD custody.

It started innocently enough—at least, as innocent as anything involving Jason could be. The two of you were staking out a warehouse in the Bowery, waiting for a rumored gun-running deal. But the deal was a bust, and Jason, never one for sitting still, got that glint in his eye. “Hey, Y/N,” he’d said, leaning against a rusted shipping container, his red helmet tucked under one arm. “Wanna mess with Dick? He’s patrolling the Narrows tonight.”

You should’ve said no. Dick Grayson, the first Robin and now Nightwing, was the golden child of the Batfamily. Annoying him was like poking a bear with a stick. But Jason’s grin was infectious, and you were bored. “What’s the plan?” you asked, already regretting it.

The plan was stupidly simple: hack into Dick’s comms and blast the cheesiest pop song you could find while he was mid-patrol. Jason had the tech skills, and you had the playlist. You both cackled as “Never Gonna Give You Up” echoed through Dick’s earpiece, followed by his exasperated, “Jason, I swear to God—” But then Jason, never one to quit while he was ahead, decided to up the ante. “Let’s tag his bike,” he said, pulling a can of spray paint from his jacket. “Something subtle, like ‘Nightwing Sucks.’”

You snorted but followed him to the alley where Dick had stashed his motorcycle. The paint was bright pink, and you took turns scrawling the words across the bike’s sleek black frame. You were halfway through a heart around the insult when a spotlight hit you both like a punch.

“Freeze!” bellowed a voice. GCPD. Of course.

Jason could’ve bolted—he was fast, and his grapple gun was primed—but you froze, paint can in hand, and he stayed. “Not leaving you, kid,” he muttered, raising his hands as two officers approached, guns drawn. The irony? You were vigilantes, trained by Batman himself, but tonight you were just dumb kids caught vandalizing.

The ride to the station was mortifying. You sat in the back of the cruiser, Jason’s knee pressed against yours, his usual cocky smirk replaced by a tense jaw. “Bruce is gonna kill us,” you whispered.

“Nah,” Jason said, though his voice lacked conviction. “He’ll just make us clean the Batcave for a month. Alfred, though? He’s the one I’m scared of.”

At the precinct, the officers recognized you both—not as Red Hood and the newest Batfamily recruit, but as Bruce Wayne’s adopted kids. That made it worse. Commissioner Gordon himself showed up, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You two again? What is it with Wayne kids and trouble?”

Before you could answer, the Batfamily descended. Bruce arrived first, his face a mask of controlled fury, the kind that made hardened criminals sweat. Dick followed, still in his Nightwing suit, his motorcycle towed to the station with your pink graffiti blazing under the fluorescent lights. Tim Drake and Damian Wayne trailed behind, Tim looking exhausted and Damian smirking like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week.

“Y/N, Jason,” Bruce said, his voice low and lethal. “Explain.”

Jason opened his mouth, probably to say something smartass, but you cut him off. “It was my fault,” you lied. “I dared him to mess with Dick’s bike. Jason just went along with it.”

Jason shot you a look, half-grateful, half-annoyed. “Yeah, sure, blame the kid,” he muttered, but he didn’t contradict you.

Dick crossed his arms, glaring at the defaced bike. “You rickrolled me mid-fight with a gang, and now this? I’m framing that paint can as evidence of your betrayal.”

Damian snorted. “Amateurs. If you’re going to prank Grayson, at least make it permanent.”

“Enough,” Bruce snapped. He turned to Gordon, who was barely hiding a smirk. “Commissioner, I’ll cover the damages and ensure they face consequences.”

Gordon waved a hand. “Just get them out of here, Bruce. And maybe lock them in the manor until they’re 30.”

The ride back to Wayne Manor was silent, Bruce’s knuckles white on the steering wheel. Alfred greeted you at the door, his polite “Master Jason, Miss Y/N” laced with enough disapproval to make you both wince. The family meeting in the Batcave was brutal. Bruce laid out your punishment: no patrols for a month, extra training with Alfred, and a written apology to Dick. Tim, ever the overachiever, suggested you also debug the Batcomputer as penance. Damian just called you both idiots.

Later, as you sulked in your room, Jason knocked and leaned against the doorframe. “You didn’t have to take the fall, y’know,” he said, tossing you a candy bar he’d swiped from the kitchen. “I’m the screw-up here.”

You caught the candy, shrugging. “You’re my brother. We’re in this together, even when you’re an idiot.”

He smirked, but his eyes softened. “Next time, we prank Damian. Kid’s got it coming.”

You laughed, already imagining the chaos. “Deal. But no paint cans.”

As he left, you realized that despite the police station, the lectures, and the grounding, you’d do it all again. Jason was trouble, but he was your trouble—and in the Batfamily, that was worth everything.

[pomegranatelifethis]

Brother

The rain came down in sheets, a relentless curtain of gray that blurred the Gotham skyline into a smear of neon and shadow. You stood on the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse, the cold seeping through your jacket, your hair plastered to your face. The city growled below—sirens, horns, the pulse of a place that never slept. But up here, it was just you and Jason, your twin brother, his broad frame silhouetted against the storm. His Red Hood helmet was off, tucked under his arm, and his dark hair was soaked, clinging to his forehead. His green eyes, usually sharp with wit or warmth, were hard now, cutting into you like broken glass.

“You screwed it up, Y/N,” he spat, his voice low but venomous, each word a deliberate strike. “Every damn thing. The intel was bad, the plan went to hell, and it’s *your fault*.”

You flinched, the accusation hitting harder than the rain. Your chest tightened, and you hugged your arms around yourself, trying to hold it together. “I didn’t—Jason, I checked the intel. I triple-checked it. It wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off, stepping closer, his boots splashing in the shallow puddles pooling on the roof. “Don’t stand there and make excuses. You were supposed to have my back. You *always* have my back, and tonight you didn’t. You let me walk into a trap.”

Tears stung your eyes, hot and unwanted, mingling with the rain on your cheeks. You hated crying in front of him—hated showing that kind of weakness, especially when he was like this, all fire and rage. But the weight of his words crushed you. You were twins, two halves of the same soul, raised in the same gritty streets, trained under the same grueling mentorship of Bruce Wayne. You’d fought side by side, bled together, laughed together. But when Jason got like this, when the anger took over, it was like he forgot all of that. Like you were just another screw-up in his way.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you said, your voice breaking. “I’d never let you get hurt on purpose. You *know* that.”

“Do I?” He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that made your stomach twist. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re too busy playing hero to care about what happens to me. You think you’re so perfect, don’t you? The good twin, the one who never screws up, the one Bruce trusts. Meanwhile, I’m the one picking up the pieces when you fail.”

“That’s not fair,” you whispered, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. The rain was freezing now, but it was nothing compared to the cold spreading through your chest. “I’m not perfect. I’m just trying to do what’s right. Same as you.”

“Same as me?” He took another step, his face inches from yours now, his breath warm against the chill. “You’re nothing like me, Y/N. You don’t know what it’s like to crawl out of your own grave, to have the whole world turn its back on you. You’ve got no idea what I’ve been through, and you still act like you can fix me. Like you’re better than me.”

The words hit like a punch, stealing your breath. You stared at him, your twin, the boy who’d once shared your secrets, who’d patched your wounds and teased you until you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe. Now he was a stranger, his face twisted with pain and blame, and it broke something inside you.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you said, your voice barely audible over the rain. “I just want my brother back.”

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—regret, maybe, or guilt. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that hard, unyielding wall he’d built around himself. He shook his head, stepping back, the distance between you growing wider than the rooftop could hold.

“You want me back?” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “Maybe you never had me to begin with.”

He turned, his silhouette blurring in the rain as he walked toward the edge of the roof. You wanted to scream, to run after him, to grab his jacket and make him stay, make him listen. But your legs felt like lead, your throat raw from the sobs you were choking back. The tears came harder now, spilling over, and you didn’t care anymore if he saw.

“Jason,” you called, your voice cracking. “Please.”

He paused, just for a second, his shoulders tensing. But he didn’t turn around. “Go home, Y/N,” he said, his voice carried back by the wind. “This isn’t your fight.”

And then he was gone, vaulting over the edge, disappearing into the storm like he was part of it. You stood there, alone, the rain washing over you, your heart pounding in your ears. The city roared on, indifferent, and you sank to your knees, the cold concrete biting through your jeans. You pressed your hands to your face, trying to hold back the flood, but it was no use. You cried—for Jason, for the brother you’d lost, for the part of you that felt like it was drowning in the rain.

Somewhere in the distance, a bat-signal cut through the clouds, a fleeting beacon in the dark. But you didn’t move. Not yet. For now, it was just you and the storm, and the ache of a bond that might never heal.

------

The rain had stopped by morning, leaving Gotham slick and gleaming under a weak, gray dawn. Jason Todd sat on the edge of his safehouse cot, his head in his hands, the weight of last night’s words pressing down on him like a physical thing. The small apartment was a mess—empty takeout containers, a half-disassembled gun on the table, a cracked mirror reflecting his own tired eyes. He hadn’t slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face, tear-streaked and broken, your voice trembling as you called his name.

“Damn it,” he muttered, dragging his hands through his hair. His knuckles were bruised from punching the wall after he’d gotten back, a futile attempt to drown out the guilt clawing at his chest. He could still hear himself, the venom in his voice as he’d torn into you, his twin, the one person who’d always been there, no matter how far he’d fallen. *Your fault. You screwed it up. You’re nothing like me.* Each word felt like a blade now, turned back on himself.

He grabbed his phone, thumb hovering over your contact. No missed calls, no texts. Just silence. That was worse than anything—knowing you hadn’t reached out, that he’d pushed you so far you might not come back. His stomach twisted, a sick, hollow feeling he hadn’t felt since the days after he’d crawled out of his own grave. He’d been angry last night, blindsided by the botched mission, the trap that had nearly gotten him killed. But it wasn’t your fault. Not really. He knew that now, in the cold light of day, and the truth made him feel smaller than he ever had.

Jason stood, pacing the cramped room, his boots scuffing the worn floorboards. He could still see you on that rooftop, soaked to the bone, your eyes wide with hurt as he’d thrown your love back in your face. *I just want my brother back.* Those words haunted him, each syllable a reminder of how he’d failed you. You weren’t trying to fix him, like he’d accused. You were just trying to love him, and he’d made you pay for it.

He stopped by the window, staring out at the city. Gotham was waking up, delivery trucks rumbling, pigeons scattering from rooftops. Somewhere out there, you were probably at the manor, or maybe at your own place, nursing the wounds he’d left behind. He wondered if you’d told Dick or Tim, if they’d be knocking on his door later to chew him out. He almost wished they would. It’d be easier than facing you himself.

His phone buzzed, and his heart jumped, hoping it was you. But it was just a notification from one of his informants, something about a lead on a case. He tossed the phone onto the cot, cursing under his breath. He didn’t care about the case, not now. All he could think about was the way you’d looked at him, like he’d shattered something precious, something he might never get back.

Jason grabbed his jacket, the same one he’d worn last night, still damp from the rain. He needed to see you, to fix this, but the thought of facing you made his chest ache. What could he even say? *Sorry I blamed you for everything? Sorry I made you cry? Sorry I’m a screwed-up mess who doesn’t know how to let you in?* He wasn’t good with words, not like you were. You’d always been the one to smooth things over, to bridge the gap when he pushed people away. But this time, he’d gone too far, and he wasn’t sure you’d let him close enough to try.

He stepped out into the street, the cool air biting at his skin. The bat-signal was long gone from the sky, but he felt its weight anyway, a reminder of the family he was part of, whether he liked it or not. You were part of that family, too—his twin, his other half, the one who’d shared his nightmares and his dreams. He’d spent years pushing you away, telling himself it was to protect you, but last night had been different. Last night, he’d hurt you on purpose, and the regret was eating him alive.

As he walked toward your apartment, his steps heavy, he rehearsed what he’d say. He didn’t have the words yet, didn’t know if he ever would. But he knew one thing: he couldn’t lose you. Not you. Not ever. The rain might have washed away the evidence of last night, but it couldn’t erase the truth. He’d been wrong, and now he had to make it right, even if it meant facing the one person he’d hurt the most.

[pomegranatelifethis]

Escape

The air in the manor was thick with secrets, each room a gilded cage draped in velvet and stone. You’d been here for weeks—maybe months; time blurred in the absence of freedom. The Batfamily, Gotham’s shadowed protectors, had woven a web around you, their love a chain tighter than any lock. They called you family, their *treasure*, but you knew better. You were their prisoner, a bird with clipped wings, adored but never free.

Tonight, that would change.

The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked ominously, its pendulum a heartbeat echoing through Wayne Manor. You crouched behind a mahogany table, clutching the stolen key you’d swiped from Dick’s utility belt while he’d been distracted, his warm smile masking the predator beneath. The key was cold in your palm, a promise of liberation. The cave entrance was close—just beyond the study. If you could reach it, you could slip into Gotham’s underbelly and vanish.

Your breath hitched as you crept forward, bare feet silent against the polished floor. The manor was a labyrinth, but you’d memorized its twists, counted the steps in the dark. Bruce’s voice lingered in your mind, low and possessive: *“You’re safer here, Y/N. The world outside will break you.”* Safe. The word tasted like ash. His protection was suffocation, his love a noose.

A floorboard creaked behind you. You froze, heart hammering. The shadows seemed to shift, and for a moment, you swore you saw Tim’s silhouette in the doorway, his calculating eyes glinting like a cat’s. But it was just a trick of the light. You exhaled shakily and pressed on, slipping into the study.

The cave entrance loomed ahead, a hidden panel behind a bookshelf. You’d seen Jason trigger it once, his rough hands brushing yours as he’d murmured, *“Stay close, Y/N. I’d hate to lose you.”* His words had been soft, but his grip had bruised. You pushed the memory aside and fumbled with the key, slotting it into the concealed lock. The mechanism clicked, and the shelf slid open with a low groan.

Freedom was so close.

“Y/N.”

Damian’s voice sliced through the silence, sharp and cold as a blade. You spun, stomach plummeting. He stood in the doorway, his Robin suit glinting faintly in the moonlight, green eyes narrowed with betrayal. At sixteen, he was smaller than the others, but no less dangerous. His katana hung at his side, untouched but a silent threat.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, stepping forward. His tone was soft, almost tender, but it dripped with obsession, the same suffocating devotion they all shared.

You backed toward the cave entrance, fingers trembling. “Damian, please. I just need—”

“You *need* us,” he interrupted, closing the distance with predatory grace. “You think you can survive out there? Without us? The world is full of monsters, Y/N. We’re the only ones who can protect you.”

“I don’t want your protection!” The words burst out, raw and desperate. “I want to be free!”

His expression darkened, a storm brewing behind his eyes. “Freedom is an illusion. You belong here. With us. With *me*.”

Before you could bolt, a shadow dropped from the rafters. Dick landed silently, his Nightwing suit a sleek contrast to the warmth in his smile. But that smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Y/N, sweetheart,” he said, voice honeyed but laced with steel, “you’re breaking my heart. Why would you want to leave?”

You stumbled back, the cave entrance just steps away. “Stay away from me!”

Dick’s smile faltered, but he didn’t stop. “You’re upset. I get it. But running won’t fix anything. Let’s talk, okay? Just you and me.”

The lie was almost convincing. You might have believed it, once, when you’d thought Dick was the kind older brother, the one who’d ruffle your hair and tease you. But you’d seen the truth: his love was a cage, his kindness a leash.

You turned to run, but a hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you back. Jason. His leather jacket smelled of gunpowder and rain, his grip unrelenting. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he growled, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of pain. “You know I can’t let you go.”

“Let me go, Jason!” You thrashed, but his hold tightened, bruising. Tears stung your eyes. “I’m not your doll!”

“You’re not,” he said, voice rough. “You’re more than that. You’re *ours*.”

A low chuckle echoed from the shadows, and Tim stepped into view, his Red Robin cowl pushed back to reveal a face too young for the cruelty in his gaze. “You almost made it,” he said, tapping a tablet that no doubt tracked your every move. “Impressive. But you didn’t think we’d let you slip away, did you?”

You glared, defiance burning through your fear. “I’ll keep trying. I’ll *never* stop.”

Tim’s smile was pitying. “Oh, Y/N. You don’t get it. There’s nowhere you can go that we won’t find you.”

The cave entrance was right there, a yawning promise of escape, but the Batfamily closed in, a wall of dark silhouettes. Bruce emerged last, his presence a tidal wave of authority. He didn’t wear the cowl, but he didn’t need to. His eyes, cold and unyielding, pinned you in place.

“Y/N,” he said, voice deceptively calm, “you’re home. Stop fighting it.”

“I’m not your family,” you spat, voice trembling with rage. “I’m your prisoner!”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he nodded to Dick, who stepped closer, a syringe glinting in his hand. Panic surged through you, and you lunged for the cave, only for Jason to yank you back, his arms a vice.

“No!” you screamed, kicking uselessly. “Let me go!”

Dick’s hand was gentle as he brushed your hair back, but his eyes were hollow. “This is for your own good, Y/N. You’ll thank us later.”

The needle pricked your skin, and the world blurred. Damian’s hand rested on your cheek, his touch feather-light but possessive. “Sleep, beloved,” he murmured. “We’ll be here when you wake.”

As darkness claimed you, Bruce’s voice followed, a vow etched in stone: “You’re ours, Y/N. Forever.”