pomegranatelifethis

[pomegranatelifethis]

I think I'm dying

The Wayne Manor library was your sanctuary, a labyrinth of leather-bound tomes and soft lamplight where you could lose yourself for hours. At sixteen, you’d carved out a place among the Batfamily, not as a vigilante but as a quiet anchor, someone who patched up their wounds—emotional and physical—when Gotham’s shadows spit them back out. Tonight, though, the library’s warmth couldn’t shield you from the sharp, unfamiliar pain clawing at your abdomen. You curled tighter into the armchair, a copy of *Jane Eyre* forgotten on your lap, your breath hitching as another cramp twisted through you.

You’d never felt anything like this. A dull ache had started that morning, easy to ignore, but by evening it was a relentless vise, squeezing your insides with no mercy. Then there was the blood. You’d stared at the red stain in your underwear, heart pounding, before piecing it together. Your first period. You’d read about it, heard friends whisper about it, but no one warned you it would *hurt* like this. Embarrassment burned hotter than the pain—you couldn’t tell *them*. The Batfamily was a pack of overprotective, mostly male vigilantes. How do you explain this to people who dodge bullets for a living?

The library door creaked open, and you stiffened. Dick Grayson poked his head in, his perpetual grin faltering when he saw you hunched over, face pale. “Hey, kiddo, you okay? You look like you just fought Bane and lost.”

You forced a weak smile, clutching *Jane Eyre* like a shield. “I’m fine, Dick. Just… stomachache.”

He stepped inside, all easy grace, but his eyes—sharp, trained to catch lies—narrowed. “Uh-huh. That’s not a stomachache face. That’s a ‘something’s seriously wrong’ face. Spill.”

Before you could deflect, another cramp hit, and you couldn’t stop the whimper that slipped out. Dick was at your side in an instant, crouching to meet your eyes. “Whoa, hey, talk to me. What’s going on?”

Your cheeks flamed. “It’s nothing. Really. Just… girl stuff.” The words felt like broken glass in your throat.

Dick’s expression softened, understanding dawning. “Oh. *Oh*. First time?” When you nodded, barely meeting his gaze, he didn’t laugh or make it weird. Instead, he squeezed your shoulder. “Okay, stay put. I’m calling in reinforcements.”

“Dick, no—” But he was already gone, leaving you to curse your luck. Reinforcements in Wayne Manor meant chaos.

Ten minutes later, the library was a battlefield of Batfamily concern. Dick returned with Tim Drake, who clutched a laptop like it held the secrets to curing periods. “I’ve got articles,” Tim announced, scrolling furiously. “Cramps are caused by prostaglandins, which trigger uterine contractions. Heat helps. Also, hydration. And maybe ibuprofen?”

“Tim, chill with the WebMD,” Jason Todd drawled, leaning against a bookshelf. He’d shown up with a heating pad—where he’d found it, you didn’t ask—and tossed it onto your lap. “Here. Crank that bad boy up. Works wonders.”

You blinked at the heating pad, then at Jason. “You… know about this?”

He shrugged, a rare softness in his green eyes. “Grew up around women. Picked up a thing or two. Don’t make it a big deal.”

Damian Wayne, perched on a ladder with a scowl, muttered, “This is absurd. If the pain is this severe, perhaps a medical evaluation is warranted.”

“Damian, it’s just a period,” Dick said, ruffling his hair, which earned him a glare. “She’s not dying.”

Bruce entered last, silent as ever, carrying a tray with a steaming mug of chamomile tea and a bottle of painkillers. He set it on the side table, his presence grounding the room’s chaos. “Take two,” he said, nodding at the ibuprofen. “And drink the tea. Alfred swears by it.”

You stared at the tray, then at the five vigilantes circling you like overzealous nurses. The embarrassment was still there, but it was drowned out by something warmer—something like belonging. “You guys are ridiculous,” you mumbled, popping the pills and sipping the tea. The heating pad was already dulling the cramps, and the tea soothed the knot in your chest.

“Yeah, well, you’re stuck with us,” Jason said, smirking. “No suffering alone in this family.”

Tim piped up, still scrolling. “There’s also this yoga pose that’s supposed to—”

“Drake, enough,” Damian snapped, but there was no venom in it. He hopped off the ladder and, in a rare moment of gentleness, draped a blanket over your shoulders. “Rest. We’ll handle patrol tonight.”

Bruce’s hand rested briefly on your head, a quiet gesture of reassurance. “If you need anything, you tell us. No shame in it.”

You nodded, throat tight. As they filtered out—Dick with a final wink, Tim muttering about anti-inflammatory diets, Jason tossing you a salute—you sank into the armchair, the pain easing under the heat and care. The library was quiet again, but it didn’t feel empty. Not with them.

For the first time that night, you smiled. Being part of the Batfamily was messy, chaotic, and occasionally mortifying. But it was also this: a room full of heroes who’d drop everything because you were hurting. And that? That was worth every cramp in the world

[pomegranatelifethis]

Echoes in the Night

The Gotham rain fell in relentless sheets, blurring the city into a smear of neon and shadow. You perched on a gargoyle overlooking Crime Alley, the cold seeping through your suit. Your cape, heavy with water, clung to your shoulders, but you didn’t care. The weight felt right—matched the ache in your chest. You were Y/N Wayne, daughter of the Bat, and tonight, you were breaking every rule in his book.

Bruce had grounded you again. Another mission, another mistake. You’d gone after a lead on Black Mask’s smuggling ring, acting on a tip you hadn’t fully vetted. The intel was bad, and you’d walked into an ambush. You’d fought your way out, leaving a trail of unconscious thugs, but the shipment was gone, and Black Mask’s men had scattered. Bruce’s verdict was immediate: no patrol, no cave access, no suit. “You’re a liability, Y/N,” he’d said, his voice cutting deeper than any blade. “Until you can prove otherwise, you’re done.”

But you weren’t done. Not with Gotham. Not with yourself.

Your comm was off, your tracker disabled. If Bruce wanted to bench you, fine—but he couldn’t stop you from saving lives. You’d slipped into an old prototype suit, one Tim had tinkered with before abandoning it. It was lighter, less armored, but it was enough. You were enough.

A muffled cry echoed from the street below, and your senses snapped to attention. You dropped silently, landing in a crouch behind a dumpster. Two figures loomed over a kid, no older than fifteen, his backpack torn open on the pavement. One thug brandished a knife, the other a crowbar. Your jaw tightened. You hated bullies.

You moved like a ghost, slipping behind the one with the crowbar. A swift strike to his wrist sent the weapon clattering, and a knee to his gut dropped him gasping. The knife-wielder spun, blade slashing wildly, but you ducked, grabbing his arm and twisting until he screamed. A final kick to his chest sent him sprawling into the gutter. The kid bolted without a word, and you let him go. No need for thanks—just survival.

“Sloppy,” a voice rasped from the shadows.

You tensed, hand snapping to the batarang at your belt. Dick Grayson stepped into the dim streetlight, his Nightwing suit gleaming faintly. His escrima sticks were holstered, but his posture screamed disappointment.

“Dick,” you said, voice flat. “Here to drag me back?”

He crossed his arms, rain dripping from his hair. “Here to figure out why you’re sneaking around in a knockoff suit. Bruce benched you, Y/N. What are you doing?”

“Saving people,” you snapped, brushing past him to retrieve the thug’s knife. “Someone has to.”

Dick grabbed your arm, not hard, but enough to stop you. “This isn’t about saving people. It’s about you proving a point. And it’s gonna get you killed.”

You yanked free, glaring. “Don’t act like you care. None of you do. Tim messes up, he gets a lecture. Jason goes rogue, Bruce barely blinks. But me? I step one toe out of line, and I’m locked in the cave like some disobedient pet.”

Dick’s face softened, but before he could respond, a new shadow descended. Batman. The real one. His cape flared as he landed, silent and imposing, the cowl’s white lenses locking onto you like a predator’s stare.

“Y/N,” Bruce said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You were ordered to stand down.”

Your heart pounded, but you held your ground. “And you were supposed to be my father, not just my drill sergeant.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and raw. Dick shifted uncomfortably, glancing between you and Bruce. For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in Bruce’s eyes—guilt, maybe, or pain. But it was gone as fast as it came.

“You’re compromising the mission,” Bruce said, stepping closer. “Your actions have consequences. You could’ve been hurt. Others could’ve been hurt.”

“Like you care about me getting hurt,” you shot back, voice rising. “You don’t even see me, Bruce. I’m just the screw-up who’s never as good as Dick, or as smart as Tim, or as… whatever Jason is to you. I’m your daughter, and you treat me like I’m nothing.”

Silence fell, heavy as the rain. Dick opened his mouth, but no words came. Bruce’s face was unreadable, his fists clenched at his sides. You waited, desperate for something—an apology, an acknowledgment, anything. But he only said, “Get in the Batmobile. We’re done here.”

The words were a punch to the gut. You laughed, bitter and hollow. “Yeah. We are.”

You turned, ignoring Dick’s call after you, and fired your grappling hook. The city swallowed you as you swung away, the rain stinging your face. You didn’t look back, but you felt their eyes on you—Bruce’s judgment, Dick’s worry. It didn’t matter. You were done begging for their approval.

Hours later, you found yourself in an abandoned warehouse, the kind of place Jason used to haunt when he needed to disappear. You sat on a crate, peeling off the prototype suit’s gloves, your knuckles bruised and raw. The fight with the thugs hadn’t been clean, but you’d won. That was something.

A creak echoed behind you, and you spun, batarang raised. Jason Todd leaned against the doorframe, his Red Hood helmet tucked under one arm. His leather jacket was slick with rain, and his green eyes studied you with something like amusement.

“Rough night, princess?” he asked, strolling closer.

“Don’t call me that,” you muttered, lowering the batarang. “What do you want, Jason?”

He shrugged, tossing his helmet onto a nearby crate. “Heard you went AWOL. Figured I’d see how much trouble you’re in.”

You snorted, turning away. “Plenty. Bruce caught me. Dick too. Same old lecture—‘you’re reckless, Y/N, you’re a liability.’”

Jason let out a low whistle. “Sounds like Bats. He’s got a real talent for making you feel like crap.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the lack of mockery in his tone. “Why do you care? You don’t exactly stick around for family dinners.”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I know what it’s like to be the black sheep. You’re out here, fighting his war, and he’s still got you under his boot. Pisses me off.”

You blinked, the words sinking in. Jason, the rebel, the one who’d walked away from Bruce’s rules, was taking your side. Again. It was… disarming.

“He doesn’t get it,” you said quietly, staring at the warehouse’s cracked floor. “I just want to help. To be enough. But it’s like I’m invisible.”

Jason sat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. “You’re not invisible, kid. Not to me. And not to Gotham. You took down those punks tonight, yeah? That’s not nothing.”

You swallowed, the lump in your throat tightening. “Bruce doesn’t think so.”

“Bruce is an idiot,” Jason said flatly. “He’s so busy chasing his own demons, he forgets he’s got a kid who’s bleeding for his cause. But you don’t need his approval. You’re a Wayne. You’re already enough.”

The words were rough, but they hit like a lifeline. You looked at him, searching his face for a lie, but all you saw was that crooked, defiant grin. For the first time all night, you felt a spark of warmth.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

“Don’t get sappy on me,” he said, nudging your shoulder. “Now, c’mon. Let’s grab some burgers before Bats sends the whole family after you.”

You laughed, a real one this time, and followed him into the rain. The city was still a mess, and Bruce’s shadow still loomed large, but for now, you weren’t alone. And that was enough.

[pomegranatelifethis]

I love you brother

The night air in Gotham was thick with the scent of rain and rust, a city perpetually teetering on the edge of collapse. In the Wayne Manor, nestled among the sprawling grounds and gothic spires, the Batfamily moved like ghosts, each carrying their own burdens. But none carried a weight quite like Jason Todd—and you, his twin, the fragile shadow tethered to his side.

You sat on the edge of Jason’s bed in the dimly lit room, your thin fingers clutching a worn copy of *Pride and Prejudice*. The book was a comfort, its pages soft from years of handling, but it couldn’t drown out the ache in your chest—not the emotional one, though that was ever-present, but the physical one. Your heart condition made every beat a quiet rebellion, a reminder that you were a guest in your own body, always one misstep from collapse. The doctors had been clear: avoid stress, avoid exertion, avoid *life*. But how could you, when your twin was Jason Todd, the boy who burned brighter than a Molotov cocktail and loved fiercer than anyone you’d ever known?

Jason was pacing, as he often did, his boots scuffing the hardwood floor. His leather jacket hung loose on his frame, the red bat emblem on his chest catching the faint glow of the lamp. He was eighteen, all sharp edges and barely contained fury, the first Robin to wear the mantle after Dick Grayson left to forge his own path as Nightwing. But to you, he wasn’t Robin or the Red Hood he’d one day become. He was just Jay—your brother, your anchor, the one who’d carried you home from the hospital when you were six and whispered stories of Gotham’s underbelly to keep you awake through the pain.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Jason muttered, glancing over his shoulder. His green eyes, so like yours, were stormy, but there was a softness there reserved only for you.

“Like what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. You tilted your head, a habit that made you look younger than your years, like a lost duckling trailing after its mother.

“Like I’m gonna break something if I don’t sit still.” He stopped pacing, running a hand through his dark hair, the white streak at his temple glinting. “I’m fine, Y/N. You don’t need to worry.”

But you did worry. Always. Jason was your world, the only constant in a life that felt like it could slip away with one bad heartbeat. You’d followed him from the streets of Crime Alley to the grandeur of Wayne Manor, clinging to his shadow even when he donned the Robin cape and leapt into Gotham’s chaos. Bruce Wayne—Batman—had taken you both in, but while Jason thrived under the cowl, you remained the quiet twin, the one who flinched at loud noises and cried too easily. Sensitive, fragile, the family’s porcelain doll. Alfred had once called you “the heart of the manor,” but you felt more like a cracked vase, waiting to shatter.

“I’m not worrying,” you lied, setting the book down. Your hands trembled slightly, and you tucked them into the sleeves of your oversized sweater—Jason’s, stolen from his closet because it smelled like him, like gunpowder and cedar. “I just… don’t like it when you’re restless. It means something’s wrong.”

Jason sighed, crossing the room in three strides to sit beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, and he slung an arm around your shoulders, careful not to squeeze too hard. “Nothing’s wrong, kid,” he said, though the nickname was absurd—you were the same age, born six minutes apart. “Just… Bruce is being a pain. Wants me to follow his rules, play nice with the bad guys. You know how it is.”

You nodded, leaning into him. Bruce was a looming presence, a father figure who loved fiercely but demanded obedience. Jason chafed under his control, a wild thing caged by Batman’s code. You, on the other hand, adored Bruce, though you’d never say it aloud. He’d given you a home, a family, even if you felt like an outsider among the vigilantes. Dick was kind but distant, always off in Blüdhaven. Alfred was a steady hand, brewing tea and stitching wounds. And Tim, the new kid sniffing around, was too smart for his own good, already eyeing the Robin mantle Jason wore like a crown.

“You’ll be careful, right?” you asked, your voice small. “When you go out tonight?”

Jason’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Always am. Gotta keep my promise, don’t I?” He tapped your chest lightly, right over your heart. “Gotta come back for you.”

It was a promise he’d made years ago, after your first surgery, when you’d woken up sobbing and terrified. *I’ll always come back, Y/N. You’re stuck with me.* And he’d kept it, through every patrol, every fight, every close call. You were the reason he fought so hard, the tether that kept him from falling too far into the darkness.

The door creaked open, and Alfred appeared, his pristine suit a stark contrast to the chaos of Jason’s room. “Master Jason, Master Y/N,” he said, his British accent crisp. “Dinner is served. And, Master Jason, I trust you’ll refrain from bringing your… arsenal to the table this evening?”

Jason smirked, the first real smile you’d seen all day. “No promises, Alfie.” He stood, pulling you up with him, his grip gentle but firm. You swayed slightly, your vision spotting, and he steadied you without a word, like it was second nature.

Downstairs, the dining room was a rare gathering point. Bruce sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable, though his eyes softened when they landed on you. Dick was there, visiting from Blüdhaven, his easy grin a balm to the tension. Tim hovered at the edges, a skinny kid with too many questions, and you felt a pang of sympathy—he was as out of place as you were.

“Y/N, you feeling okay?” Dick asked, passing you a plate of roasted vegetables. His concern was genuine, but it always made you feel like a child.

“I’m fine,” you said, offering a shy smile. Jason snorted beside you, muttering something about “mother hens,” but he piled extra food on your plate anyway, knowing you’d barely eat otherwise.

The meal passed in a blur of conversation—Bruce and Jason arguing about tactics, Dick mediating with a roll of his eyes, Tim chiming in with some tech jargon that made your head spin. You stayed quiet, content to listen, your shoulder brushing Jason’s. He was your shield, your safe harbor, and as long as he was there, you could endure anything.

Later, when the manor was dark and the others had retired, you sat by the window in Jason’s room, watching the city’s skyline glitter like a broken promise. He was gearing up for patrol, his Robin suit a second skin, the domino mask dangling from his fingers.

“Don’t wait up,” he said, but it was a useless request. You always waited, counting the minutes until he slipped back through the window, bruised but alive.

“Be safe, Jay,” you whispered, your voice catching. He paused, then crossed the room to press a kiss to your forehead, quick and fierce.

“Always, Y/N. You’re my heart, remember that.”

And then he was gone, a shadow swallowed by the night. You curled up on his bed, clutching his pillow, your own heart stuttering in protest. Gotham was a cruel city, and Jason was its fiercest son. But you were his twin, his shadow, his fragile, sensitive other half. And no matter how dark the night, you’d follow him anywhere, a lost duckling bound to the boy who’d always come back.

@itsberrydreemurstuff @Welpthisisboring @lilyalone @itsberrydreemurstuff

[pomegranatelifethis]

In another universe again

Promise?

The Wayne Manor was a labyrinth of secrets, its towering walls steeped in history and whispers of the past. You’d grown up within those walls, a daughter of the Wayne legacy, twin to Damian, the son destined to inherit the mantle of Robin. But where Damian was sharp edges and fierce determination, you were a shadow, slipping through the cracks of a family that never seemed to notice you were there.

You were Y/N Wayne, the other half of a pair, but to the Batfamily, you were an afterthought. Bruce, your father, was a man consumed by his mission, his eyes always fixed on the horizon of Gotham’s endless night. Dick was the golden son, too busy charming the world to see you fading. Jason, with his jagged edges, spared you fleeting glances but never lingered. Tim was lost in his own mind, his coffee-fueled nights leaving no room for you. And Damian—your twin, your mirror—carried the weight of expectations you could never touch. He was the heir, the prodigy. You were just… you.

The neglect wasn’t loud. It was quiet, insidious, like a slow bleed. A missed birthday here, a forgotten promise there. Training sessions where you were left to spar with dummies while Damian was molded by Bruce’s hands. Family dinners where your seat was filled with silence, your voice drowned by their laughter. You tried to be seen, to be heard. You trained harder, studied longer, patched your own wounds after patrols. But the harder you tried, the more invisible you became.

Then came Lila.

She arrived like a burst of sunlight, a foster girl with wide eyes and a smile that disarmed even the coldest hearts. The Batfamily welcomed her with open arms. Dick ruffled her hair, Jason taught her to throw a punch, Tim helped her with homework, and Bruce—*Bruce*—smiled at her in a way you’d never seen directed at you. Even Damian, your stoic twin, softened around her, his rare laughter echoing through the manor.

Lila was everything you weren’t. She was wanted.

You watched from the sidelines as they showered her with affection, their voices bright with praise. “Lila’s a natural,” Dick would say. “She’s got heart,” Jason added. “She’s one of us,” Tim declared. And you? You were the ghost in the room, your presence barely acknowledged. The realization settled in your chest like a stone: you were worthless to them.

The doubt crept in slowly, then all at once. Why weren’t you enough? Were you too quiet, too weak, too *you*? You spent nights staring at the ceiling of your room, the weight of their indifference pressing down until you couldn’t breathe. You stopped joining them for meals, stopped waiting for them to notice you. They didn’t.

The kidnapping was almost a relief.

It happened on a rainy Gotham night, the kind where the city seemed to drown in its own despair. You and Lila were grabbed off the streets, thrown into a van before you could react. The world went dark, and when you woke, you were in a warehouse, wrists bound, the air thick with the scent of rust and fear. Lila was beside you, her face pale but defiant, her eyes darting to the cameras mounted on the walls.

The kidnappers were professionals, their faces hidden behind masks. They spoke in clipped tones, their words broadcast live to the city. “The Batfamily has one hour to choose,” their leader said, his voice cold as steel. “One girl lives. One dies. Make your choice, or we kill them both.”

You knew what would happen before it did. You saw it in the way Bruce’s voice crackled through the comms, calm but strained. You saw it in the way Dick hesitated, his eyes flickering to Lila. You saw it in the way Jason’s jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the girl who’d become their sister in all but blood.

“We’re coming for you,” Bruce said through the feed, his words meant for both of you but landing on Lila like a lifeline. “Hold on.”

The clock ticked down. The kidnappers paced, their guns glinting under the flickering lights. Lila whispered to you, her voice trembling. “They’ll save us, Y/N. They have to.”

You wanted to believe her, but the truth was a blade in your gut. You’d always been the one left behind.

When the Batfamily arrived, it was with the precision of a military strike. Batman led the charge, Nightwing and Red Hood flanking him, Red Robin and Robin covering the exits. They moved like shadows, neutralizing the kidnappers with ruthless efficiency. But when the moment came—when the leader grabbed you and Lila, a gun to each of your heads—they froze.

“Choose!” the leader roared, his finger twitching on the trigger. “Now!”

Bruce’s eyes met yours through the haze of smoke and chaos. For a moment, you thought he saw you—really saw you. But then his gaze shifted to Lila, and you knew.

“Save her,” he said, his voice steady, final.

The world slowed. Dick lunged for Lila, pulling her from the kidnapper’s grip. Jason tackled the man holding her, his fists a blur. Tim and Damian cleared the room, their focus on the girl who mattered. You were still there, the gun pressed to your temple, your heart a hollow drum.

They’d chosen her.

The cameras were still rolling, broadcasting every second to Gotham and beyond. You looked into the lens, your reflection staring back—a girl forgotten, a shadow no one would mourn. You thought of the manor, of the family that had never been yours. You thought of Damian, your twin, who hadn’t even glanced your way.

The kidnapper’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “Looks like you’re the one they don’t need.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry. You just stared into the camera, your lips parting to whisper one final word.

“Goodbye.”

The gunshot echoed through the warehouse, a single, deafening crack. The world went black.

The echo of the gunshot hung in the air, a jagged wound in the silence of the warehouse. The cameras, cold and unyielding, captured every moment—the blood pooling beneath your motionless body, the kidnapper stepping back, the world watching as Y/N Wayne, the forgotten daughter, became a ghost before their eyes.

Bruce Wayne—Batman—stood frozen, his cape a heavy shroud around him. His mind, always calculating, always planning, had betrayed him. He’d made the call, the tactical choice: save Lila, neutralize the threat, then save you. It was supposed to be clean, precise. But the plan had unraveled, and now you were gone. His daughter, his *child*, lay dead because of him. The weight of it pressed against his chest, a suffocating force that no kevlar could shield. He stared at your body, the camera’s red light mocking him, broadcasting his failure to Gotham. He wanted to move, to cradle you, to scream, but Batman didn’t break. Bruce Wayne, though—he was shattering.

“No…” The word slipped from Dick Grayson’s lips, barely a whisper, as he stumbled forward. Nightwing, the heart of the family, was unraveling. He’d been the one to pull Lila to safety, his hands gentle but firm, his focus on the girl they’d all come to love. But now, as he looked at you, your eyes still open, staring into the void of the camera, guilt clawed at him. He’d promised to protect you, hadn’t he? All those years ago, when you and Damian came into their lives, he’d vowed to be the big brother you needed. Yet he’d let you fade, let you slip through the cracks. “Y/N, I’m sorry,” he choked, falling to his knees beside you, his gloved hands hovering over your still form, afraid to touch what he’d already lost.

Jason Todd’s rage was a living thing, coiled and ready to strike. Red Hood had taken down the kidnapper who held Lila, his fists a blur of vengeance. But when the shot rang out, when he saw you crumple, something inside him broke. He’d always seen you as the quiet one, the kid who patched her own wounds and never asked for anything. He’d meant to check on you, to pull you into his orbit, but there was always another mission, another fight. Now, he stood over your body, his helmet hiding the tears burning his eyes. “You bastards,” he snarled, his voice cracking as he rounded on Bruce. “You *chose* her over your own kid!” He wanted to hit something, to tear the world apart, but all he could do was stare at you, the sister he’d failed, and feel the weight of his own worthlessness.

Tim Drake’s mind was a storm of data, replaying every second, every decision, searching for the moment it all went wrong. Red Robin was supposed to be the strategist, the one who saw every angle. But he hadn’t seen you. Not really. You were always there, a quiet presence in the Batcave, working beside him in silence while he buried himself in cases. He’d noticed your absence at dinners, your retreat from the family, but he’d told himself you were fine. You were strong. You didn’t need him. Now, as he knelt beside Dick, his hands trembling as he scanned your vitals—knowing it was pointless—he felt the full force of his neglect. “I should’ve… I should’ve checked on you,” he murmured, his voice hollow. The cameras caught his failure, too, and he knew the world would judge him. He deserved it.

Damian Wayne, your twin, stood apart, his katana still in hand, blood dripping from its blade. Robin was trained to be unyielding, to prioritize the mission above all else. But you were his other half, the shadow to his light, the one who understood the weight of being Talia’s child in a world that didn’t want you. He’d pushed you away, told himself it was to protect you from his own darkness, but the truth was uglier: he’d been too proud, too focused on proving himself. Now, as he looked at your lifeless body, your blood staining the concrete, something inside him fractured. “Ukhti,” he whispered, the Arabic word for sister slipping out, a plea and a prayer. He didn’t move toward you. He couldn’t. If he did, he’d have to face the truth: he’d failed you, just like the rest of them.

Lila, the girl they’d chosen, stood trembling in Dick’s arms, her wide eyes fixed on your body. She didn’t speak, didn’t cry, but the guilt was there, etched into her face. She’d been the one they saved, the one they loved, and now your death was her shadow. The cameras caught her, too, the girl who’d taken your place, and Gotham would whisper her name with scorn.

Bruce finally moved, his steps heavy as he approached you. He knelt beside you, his gloved hand reaching out to close your eyes, a gesture too late to matter. “Y/N,” he said, his voice low, broken. “I thought… I thought there was time.” But there hadn’t been. He’d calculated wrong, prioritized wrong, and now his daughter was gone. The world watched, and he felt their judgment, but it was nothing compared to the war raging inside him. He was Batman, the protector of Gotham, but he couldn’t protect his own child.

The Batfamily stood in a fractured circle around you, each grappling with their own guilt, their own failure. The cameras kept rolling, the live feed searing your death into Gotham’s memory. The city would mourn you, the forgotten Wayne, but the family who’d lost you would carry the weight forever.

Dick’s hand rested on your cold cheek, tears streaming down his face. “We didn’t see you,” he whispered. “God, Y/N, we didn’t see you.”

Jason’s fists clenched, his voice a raw growl. “This isn’t over. Whoever set this up—they’re gonna pay.”

Tim’s head bowed, his mind still racing, still searching for a way to undo the impossible. “I’m sorry,” he said again, the words useless against the void.

Damian’s grip on his katana tightened, his voice barely audible. “You deserved better, ukhti.”

Bruce remained silent, his hand lingering on your face, the weight of his choice a noose around his neck. He’d failed you, just as he’d failed Jason, just as he’d failed Gotham too many times before. But this—this was different. This was his daughter, and he’d let you die.

The warehouse was silent now, save for the hum of the cameras and the distant wail of sirens. The Batfamily stood over your body, a family broken by their own hands. They’d chosen Lila, and in doing so, they’d lost you.

And Gotham watched, its heart as cold and unforgiving as the night

Bruce Wayne knelt beside you, his hand still resting on your closed eyes, as if he could will you back to life. His mind was a battlefield, replaying every second of the night—his choice, his hesitation, his failure. He’d chosen Lila because she was the civilian, the one they’d welcomed into their home, the one who’d seemed so fragile. But now, as he looked at your lifeless form, a gnawing doubt clawed at him. Something was wrong. The kidnappers’ precision, the cameras, the broadcast—it was too orchestrated, too perfect. His instincts, honed by years as Batman, screamed that this was no random crime.

“Bruce,” Tim’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and urgent. He was crouched by one of the kidnappers, a tablet in hand, his fingers flying across the screen. “You need to see this.” His face was pale, his eyes wide with something that looked like fear. Bruce rose, his movements mechanical, and joined Tim. The screen displayed a series of encrypted messages, traced back to an unlisted server. The sender’s codename was innocuous—*Starling*—but the content was damning. Instructions for the kidnapping, coordinates for the warehouse, even the exact wording of the ultimatum: *Make the Batfamily choose.* And at the bottom, a single line that turned Bruce’s blood to ice: *Eliminate Y/N Wayne. Secure the family.*

Bruce’s gaze snapped to Lila, who was still clinging to Dick, her sobs perfectly timed. His heart, already fractured, began to splinter further. “Lila,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “Step away from Nightwing.”

Dick frowned, his arms tightening protectively around her. “Bruce, what—”

“Now,” Bruce barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. Lila’s sobs faltered, and for a fraction of a second, her mask slipped—a flicker of calculation in her eyes before she buried her face in Dick’s chest again. But Bruce saw it. And so did Damian.

Damian Wayne, your twin, stood apart, his katana still dripping with the blood of the last kidnapper he’d dispatched. His green eyes, so like yours, were fixed on Lila, and the realization hit him like a blade to the chest. He’d always been wary of her, the girl who’d slipped so easily into their lives, but he’d dismissed it as jealousy, as his own struggle to share the family he’d fought to claim. Now, as he pieced together the puzzle—her sudden arrival, her effortless charm, the way she’d drawn their attention away from you—he felt a rage unlike any he’d known. It wasn’t the cold, controlled fury of the League of Assassins. This was personal, visceral, a brother’s wrath for the sister he’d failed.

“You,” Damian hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. He took a step toward Lila, his katana rising, but Jason grabbed his arm, holding him back. “She did this. She *planned* this.” His eyes burned with unshed tears, his voice breaking as he looked at your body. “Ukhti, I should’ve known. I should’ve protected you.”

Bruce’s mind raced, connecting the dots. Lila’s foster records had been clean—too clean. Her arrival had coincided with a lull in major threats, a perfect distraction. She’d played them all, weaving herself into their hearts while you faded into the background. And now, you were dead because of her. Because of *him*. The guilt was a noose, tightening with every breath. He’d failed you as a father, and now he’d failed you as Batman, blinded by a girl who’d weaponized their affection.

“Tim,” Bruce said, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. “Secure the evidence. Dick, restrain her.”

Dick hesitated, his eyes darting between Bruce and Lila. “Bruce, she’s just a kid—”

“She’s a traitor,” Damian snapped, wrenching free of Jason’s grip. He lunged for Lila, but Bruce stepped in front of him, his hand on Damian’s chest.

“Not yet,” Bruce said, his voice a low growl. “We need answers.”

Lila’s performance faltered as Dick gently but firmly pulled her away, his hands cuffs-ready. Her eyes widened, a flicker of panic breaking through her facade. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she cried, her voice trembling. But the cameras were still rolling, and Gotham was watching. The city would see her unmasked, just as the Batfamily had.

Damian sank to his knees beside you, his katana clattering to the ground. He reached for your hand, cold and still, and pressed it to his forehead, a gesture of grief and apology. “Ukhti,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I was supposed to be your shield. I let you down. I let her take you.” His shoulders shook, the weight of his failure crushing him. He’d been raised to be a warrior, not a brother, but you’d been the one constant in his life, the one who’d understood him without words. And now you were gone, stolen by a girl who’d played them all.

Bruce watched, his heart a bleeding wound. He wanted to comfort Damian, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but the words wouldn’t come. He was the father, the leader, and he’d let this happen. He’d chosen Lila, not because he loved her more, but because he’d underestimated you. He’d thought you were strong enough to wait, to endure. He’d been wrong.

The sirens grew louder, GCPD closing in. Tim was already uploading the evidence to the Batcomputer, ensuring Lila’s betrayal would be exposed. Jason stood guard, his gun trained on the remaining kidnappers, but his eyes kept drifting to you, his sister, the one he’d never truly known. Dick cuffed Lila, his face a mask of betrayal and guilt, while Tim worked in silence, his jaw tight with suppressed grief.

Bruce knelt beside Damian, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make this right,” he said, though the words felt hollow. “For her.”

Damian didn’t look up. “There is no right,” he said, his voice barely audible. “She’s gone.”

Talia al Ghul stood in the heart of her fortress, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across her sharp features. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and steel, a reminder of the empire she’d built. Her spies had just delivered the news, their voices trembling as they recounted the events in Gotham. The live broadcast had reached even the remote peaks of Nanda Parbat, and Talia had watched, her heart a storm of ice and fire, as her daughter—*her* Y/N—was shot dead on camera.

She stood motionless, her emerald eyes fixed on the tablet displaying the frozen image of your body, your blood pooling beneath you. The world had seen it, but only Talia understood the true cost. You were her daughter, her legacy, the child she’d trained in secret, hoping to mold you into a weapon as deadly as Damian. But you’d chosen Gotham, chosen your father, and she’d let you go, believing Bruce would protect you. She’d been wrong.

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger, the blade glinting in the torchlight. “Lila,” she murmured, the name a curse on her lips. Her spies had uncovered the girl’s treachery, the messages linking her to a shadowy network that rivaled even the League. Lila had played the Batfamily like pawns, orchestrating your death to secure her place. Talia’s lips curled into a snarl. The girl would pay, but not before she suffered.

“Beloved,” Talia said, her voice soft but laced with venom, addressing the empty air as if Bruce could hear her. “You failed her. You let a viper into your home and called it family.” Her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed. She’d lost you, her daughter, her shadow, and the pain was a blade in her heart. But Talia al Ghul did not break. She planned.

She turned to her assassins, her voice a whip. “Find the girl. Bring her to me alive. She will learn the price of crossing the al Ghuls.” Her gaze returned to the tablet, to your still face, and her voice softened, a mother’s grief breaking through. “Rest, my daughter. Your blood will not be spilled in vain.”

Talia would burn Gotham to the ground if it meant avenging you. And when she was done, Lila would beg for the mercy you’d never been given.

[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.”

[pomegranatelifethis]

Claws and confessions

The arcade was alive with the hum of machines and the chatter of late-night gamers. Neon lights painted the walls in electric blues and pinks, casting a glow on your sleek, dark fur as you lounged against a racing game console. Your demon cat tail swished lazily, sharp claws tapping rhythmically on the machine’s edge. You were no stranger to attention—your feline features and fiery attitude drew eyes wherever you went—but tonight, something felt… off.

Then *he* walked in. Or rather, someone who looked like him. MK, but not quite. His usual clumsy bounce was replaced by a swagger that screamed trouble. His brown eyes, normally warm and earnest, glinted with a playful edge you’d never seen before. Your ears flicked, picking up the subtle shift in his aura. This wasn’t your MK. But gods, you’d spent years pining for the real one, hiding your crush from everyone, even Mei, terrified that confessing would shatter the friendship you cherished. So, when this imposter leaned in close, you didn’t pull away.

“Hey, kitty,” Porty MK drawled, propping an arm against the console, his grin all teeth. “You look like you could use some company. Wanna ditch this dump and cause some chaos with me?”

Your tail stilled. The real MK would’ve stammered, probably tripped over a wire, and apologized profusely. This guy? He was all confidence, no hesitation. Your instincts screamed *clone*, but your heart—stupid, traitorous thing—whispered to play along. Just for a moment, you could pretend this was MK, flirting with *you*. So, you tilted your head, letting a sly smile curl your lips.

“Chaos, huh?” you purred, voice low and teasing. “You think you can keep up with me, hero?”

Porty’s eyes lit up, clearly delighted by your response. “Oh, I *know* I can. Stick with me, and we’ll set this city on fire.”

You laughed, sharp and a little reckless, leaning closer despite the warning bells in your head. His cologne—something cheap and flashy, not MK’s usual scent of noodles and motor oil—tickled your nose. It was wrong, all wrong, but you let it happen, savoring the thrill of being wanted, even if it was a lie.

Before Porty could push further, the arcade doors slammed open. The real MK stormed in, his staff glowing faintly, his face a mix of fury and panic. “Porty! Get away from her *now*!”

The clone cackled, dodging a wild swing from MK’s staff with infuriating ease. “Relax, original! Just havin’ a little fun with your kitty. She’s into it, aren’t ya, Y/N?”

Your cheeks burned, tail lashing as you stepped back, caught between embarrassment and guilt. MK’s eyes darted to you, wide and searching, like he was trying to read your soul. “Y/N… you okay? He didn’t—?”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, crossing your arms, claws digging into your sleeves. “I knew it wasn’t you.”

Porty, still dancing around MK’s attacks, grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Oh, please! She knew from the start, and guess what? She didn’t claw my face off. Didn’t push me away. Not once. Kinda makes you wonder, don’t it, hero?”

MK froze mid-swing, his staff clattering to the floor. The arcade’s noise faded into a dull roar as his gaze locked onto you, confusion and something else—hurt?—flickering in his eyes. “Y/N… is that true? You… let him?”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to lie, to say you’d been tricked, but Porty’s words cut too close to the truth. You *had* let him flirt, hadn’t you? Because for a fleeting moment, you’d wanted to believe it was MK, finally seeing you the way you saw him. “I… I didn’t stop him,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I knew it wasn’t you, but… I wanted to pretend. Just for a second.”

The silence was deafening. Porty, sensing his cue, threw a mock salute and vanished in a burst of glittery confetti, leaving you and MK alone amidst the arcade’s chaos. MK rubbed the back of his neck, his usual nervous tic, but his expression was unreadable. “Y/N, why would you… I mean, did you *want* him to flirt with you? Because it was me?”

You flinched, tail curling around your leg like a shield. “It’s stupid, okay? I’ve… I’ve liked you for years, MK. Like, *really* liked you. But I never said anything because I didn’t want to lose you. You’re my best friend, and I was scared. When Porty showed up, I knew he wasn’t you, but… it felt nice to imagine you’d look at me like that.”

MK’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide as saucers. “You… like me? Like, *like* me, like me?”

You nodded, bracing for the worst. Rejection. Awkwardness. The end of everything. Instead, MK let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his messy hair. “Y/N, I’m such an idiot. I didn’t even realize I liked you back until I saw Porty with you. I was so jealous, I thought my head was gonna explode. I mean, you’re amazing! You’re fierce and funny and—ugh, why didn’t I see it sooner?”

Your heart did a flip, your tail shooting straight up. “Wait. You… like me too?”

“Duh!” MK grinned, that familiar, goofy smile you adored. “I’ve been clueless, but yeah, I do. Like, a lot. I just didn’t know it until Porty rubbed it in my face.”

You stared at him, half-expecting this to be another clone trick. But no, this was MK—real, awkward, perfect MK—blushing and fidgeting in front of you. A laugh bubbled up, sharp and relieved. “We’re both idiots, aren’t we?”

“Totally,” he agreed, stepping closer. His hand hovered, like he wasn’t sure if he could touch you, then settled on your shoulder, warm and grounding. “So, uh… wanna grab some noodles? Maybe talk about… us? If you want there to be an us, I mean.”

Your purr was involuntary, vibrating in your chest as you grinned. “Yeah, MK. I’d like that. A lot.”

As you left the arcade together, your tail brushed against his arm, and for the first time in years, you didn’t feel like you had to hide

[pomegranatelifethis]

Can I get a MK x demon cat!reader one shot where the first thing Porty MK does is flirt with the reader who immediately realizes something is up but doesn’t do anything because even if it’s not the real MK…she can still pretend for a bit because she’s had a crush on MK for years at this point but has always been too scared to tell anyone even Mei in fear of losing her best friend

Meanwhile MK also likes her back but doesn’t realize it til after he talks to Porty demanding answers and that he apologizes to reader only for Porty to point out that reader could have pushed him away at ANY time. Like and other time people try to flirt or get handsy with her. She just didn’t.

Claws and confessions

[pomegranatelifethis]

Blood and Bonds

The air in the Wayne Manor was thick with tension, a storm brewing behind the heavy oak doors of the dining room. You sat at the far end of the table, your fork clinking against the porcelain plate, the sound sharp in the silence. Two weeks ago, you’d stormed out of this very room, words like daggers flung between you and the Batfamily. It had started small—a comment from Dick about your reckless patrol habits, a jab from Jason about your inexperience, and Bruce’s ever-present stoicism that felt like judgment. You’d snapped, your sixteen-year-old heart unable to bear the weight of their expectations any longer.

“You don’t trust me!” you’d shouted, voice cracking. “None of you do! I’m not a kid, I’m part of this family too!”

The argument had spiraled, each member of the family adding their own brand of critique or defense. Tim had tried to mediate, but even his calm logic felt patronizing. Damian, ever the blunt one, had scoffed, calling you “emotional” and “unfit for the mission.” That was the final straw. You’d grabbed your jacket and left, slamming the door behind you. For two weeks, you hadn’t spoken to them. Not a word, not a text, not even a glance when you passed them in the halls of the manor. You’d thrown yourself into school, into your own world, trying to prove you didn’t need them.

But today, school had been its own battlefield.

---

The school courtyard was a blur of chaos. You stood in the center, fists clenched, chest heaving, blood dripping from your knuckles and staining your school uniform. The crowd of students parted like a tide, their whispers a dull roar in your ears. On the ground, crumpled and groaning, was Jessica Kline, the girl who’d spent weeks taunting you, pushing you, testing your limits. Today, she’d gone too far.

“You think you’re so special, huh?” Jessica had sneered during lunch, her voice loud enough to draw a crowd. “Living with the Waynes, acting like you’re one of them. They don’t care about you. You’re just their charity case, a pathetic stray they picked up off the street.”

You’d frozen, her words slicing through the fragile armor you’d built over the past two weeks. The anger that had been simmering since your fight with the family boiled over, and before you knew it, your fist had connected with her face. The fight was a blur—shouts, shoves, the crack of bone. Jessica had fought back, but you were trained by the best. You were a Wayne, even if they didn’t see it. By the time the teachers pulled you apart, Jessica was unconscious, blood pooling beneath her head. The paramedics arrived quickly, their faces grim as they loaded her onto a stretcher. Brain hemorrhage, you overheard one of them whisper.

Now, you stood alone, the weight of what you’d done crashing down. Your hands shook, the blood—hers, yours—staining your skin like a brand. Tears burned your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as you sank to your knees. You hadn’t meant to go this far. You just wanted her to stop, to take back the words that cut deeper than any blade.

The crowd parted again, and you heard the familiar sound of boots on pavement. Your heart sank. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

---

Bruce Wayne’s shadow loomed over you, his presence commanding even in civilian clothes. Behind him, you could feel the others—Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian—each radiating their own mix of concern, anger, and shock. You kept your eyes on the ground, unable to face them.

“Y/N,” Bruce’s voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it, a crack in his usual composure. “What happened?”

You didn’t answer, your throat tight with sobs. The blood on your hands felt like a confession, a truth you couldn’t hide. You’d gone too far. You’d become the monster Jessica had accused you of being.

Dick knelt beside you, his hand hovering over your shoulder before he gently touched you. “Hey, kiddo, talk to us. We’re here.”

The gentleness in his voice broke you. The tears came harder, your body shaking as you finally looked up. Their faces were a mix of emotions—Dick’s worry, Jason’s barely concealed fury, Tim’s analytical frown, Damian’s scowl. But Bruce… Bruce’s eyes held something you hadn’t seen in weeks: pain.

“She… she said you didn’t care about me,” you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper. “She called me a charity case, said I wasn’t one of you. I just… I wanted her to stop.”

Jason cursed under his breath, his fists clenching. “That’s what this was about? Some punk running her mouth?”

“Jason,” Bruce warned, his voice sharp. He turned back to you, his expression softening. “Y/N, why didn’t you tell us you were hurting?”

You laughed bitterly, the sound raw and broken. “Tell you? After everything? You all made it clear I’m not good enough. I didn’t think you’d care.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Dick’s hand tightened on your shoulder, and even Damian’s scowl faltered. Tim stepped forward, his voice quiet but firm. “You’re wrong. We care. We’ve always cared. We just… we screwed up.”

Bruce knelt in front of you, his hands reaching for yours. He didn’t flinch at the blood, didn’t pull away. “You’re part of this family, Y/N. Not because we took you in, but because you belong. We should’ve made that clear. I should’ve made that clear.”

His words hit like a punch, and you sobbed harder, leaning into him. For the first time in weeks, you felt the weight of their presence not as judgment, but as love. Jason crouched beside you, his usual bravado gone. “Kid, you don’t gotta fight the world alone. Next time someone talks smack, you tell me. I’ll handle it.”

“Or at least don’t send them to the ICU,” Damian muttered, though there was no venom in his tone. He hesitated, then added, “You fought well. But you’re an idiot for thinking we don’t want you.”

Dick chuckled softly, ruffling your hair. “What he means is, we’re sorry. And we’re here now. Let’s figure this out together, okay?”

You nodded, the tears still falling but lighter now, less like a storm and more like rain after a drought. Bruce pulled you to your feet, his arm steady around you. “We’ll deal with the school, the hospital, all of it. But first, we’re going home. And we’re talking. No more silence.”

As you walked away, surrounded by the family you’d thought you’d lost, you felt the blood on your hands begin to feel less like a stain and more like a reminder. You were a Wayne, flaws and all. And they were yours, just as much as you were theirs.

---

Back at the manor, the family gathered in the Batcave, the heart of their world. You sat on the edge of the medical bay, Alfred cleaning the cuts on your hands with his usual quiet efficiency. The others lingered nearby, their presence a silent promise. Bruce stood at the computer, already pulling up files on Jessica’s condition and the legal ramifications. Dick and Jason argued over who’d get to train you next, while Tim analyzed the school’s security footage to piece together the fight. Even Damian, perched on a stool, offered a rare nod of approval when you caught his eye.

For the first time in weeks, the cave didn’t feel like a battlefield. It felt like home.

“Next time,” Alfred said, his tone dry but warm, “perhaps try words before fists, Master Y/N.”

You smiled, the first real smile in what felt like forever. “No promises, Alfred. But I’ll try.”

And as the Batfamily filled the cave with their voices, their laughter, their love, you knew you’d never have to fight alone again.

[pomegranatelifethis]

Requests are open (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)

[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]

I keep getting requests

Please, send me your wishes or spark some ideas my way! Time is slipping through my fingers like whispers of a fading dream... Boredom has curled up beside me like an old friend, and my inbox is as barren as a winter’s branch. It’s so quiet, even the shadows hold their breath. A single word, a fleeting sentence, or even a soft “What’s up?” could stir this stillness. Come on, let’s ignite a spark—share a thought, toss out an idea, and let’s dive into a little chat that dances with possibilities!

[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]

Hii! Not sure if u would see this but can I ask for more child reader x batfam, specifically a short story on readers first xmas with them!

New year (Soon)

[pomegranatelifethis]

Please, send me your wishes or spark some ideas my way! Time is slipping through my fingers like whispers of a fading dream... Boredom has curled up beside me like an old friend, and my inbox is as barren as a winter’s branch. It’s so quiet, even the shadows hold their breath. A single word, a fleeting sentence, or even a soft “What’s up?” could stir this stillness. Come on, let’s ignite a spark—share a thought, toss out an idea, and let’s dive into a little chat that dances with possibilities!

[pomegranatelifethis]

Ding dong

You hugged the rabbit in your lap tighter as you blinked. You were soaked from the rain, but you held back so as not to show anyone that you were crying. As you stood in front of the door, the sound of the car driving away behind you continued to echo in your ears.

The person who left you left without even stopping to check if the door was open.

You held the folder tighter in your hand. It said "To Bruce Wayne - Personal" in capital letters.

The door opened.

"God…" said the old man in a gentle voice. He bent down and came down to your eye level.

"Little lady, what are you doing here?"

You couldn't say anything. You couldn't speak. You just handed over the folder. Your lips trembled, but your tears held back. You pulled your rabbit up a little more. It made you feel safe.

That evening

You were under a soft blanket in the living room. Accompanied by the crackling of the fire, there were people around you that you didn't know but somehow felt warm.

A cheerful person who makes you hot chocolate.

A tough-looking but sweet person who smiles at you without you noticing.

A girl who sits silently and watches you.

And another one who straightens his rabbit, tough but gentle.

They were all looking at you from afar. And in one corner of the room... there was the man reading the folder. His black hair, thoughtful facial expression, and that strange warmth in his eyes when he looks at you.

He left the folder on the table. He took a deep breath. Then he approached you. He sat next to her.

You made eye contact. Something inside him made him feel different.

"I… I'm your father."

When he heard these words, everything inside him became complicated. You tried to understand.

Then you just shook your head. “Okay…” you said in a whisper.

You held your rabbit tightly. He gently caressed her hair.

"You're home now."

Next Days

Life slowly began to take shape around you in the mansion.

Patrul times were now after you fell asleep. Weapons, costumes—all kept out of sight.

You lived in a world of just hot breakfasts, cartoons, coloring books and lots of laughter.

When night came, someone was always with you.

Someone was telling a fairy tale,

Someone was braiding her hair,

Someone was sitting quietly with you, painting.

And every night, a whisper reached his ear:

“Sweet dreams, my little star.”

Every night, while you were in deep sleep, they were out to protect the city. They were wearing costumes, wearing masks, blending into the shadows of Gotham.

But when they returned in the morning, one of them always stopped by your room. They were looking at you with pieces of armor still on them, tiredness in their eyes, but love in their hearts.

And when morning comes…

You just woke up with a new breakfast, a new sketchbook, and lots of hugs.

Because to protect you from the darkness, you had not one but five heroes.

And for you… it was all normal.

Because you were their most precious secret.

It had been about two weeks since you arrived at the Wayne Manor.

Every morning at breakfast, a different face greeted you. Sometimes, it was the smiling boy — the one with slightly messy hair, who always managed to make you laugh. Other times, it was the quiet one, always sitting next to you with black hair. Sometimes, it was the one who would come into the kitchen and ask, "What do you want to eat, little one?" — the one with a slightly furrowed brow, but secretly caring for you a lot.

But they all had one thing in common: They cared about you.

And you had started to get used to them. You were forming bonds with each of them, individually. But it was hard to remember their names, so you had come up with your own nicknames for them in your head:

Funny brother (Dick)

Serious but sweet brother (Damian)

The one who falls asleep but brings chocolate (Tim)

The one who gets angry but secretly makes you laugh (Jason)

That morning, everyone was in the kitchen. The sun had rarely risen over Gotham. As you wrapped yourself in a blanket and climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs, you looked up and glanced around.

"Good morning, everyone," you said shyly.

Dick turned to you: "Good morning, little lady! I’m taking you to school today, are you ready?"

You smiled. "Okay... Funny brother."

Everyone paused for a moment. Tim almost dropped his cup. Damian raised an eyebrow. Jason chuckled.

"Did she just say 'brother'?" Jason said, grinning.

You blushed and lowered your head. But as Bruce walked in through the kitchen door, your eyes locked on him.

He was the quieter, more serious one. But he never missed checking on you at night. And every morning, he would face you with a tired but peaceful expression.

Today, you felt a bit braver.

When he leaned down towards you, you reached out and tried to climb into his lap, blanket and all. He easily lifted you up and wrapped his arms around you.

And you rested your head on his shoulder and whispered:

“Dad…”

There was a silence. It was as if the air in the room had stopped.

In that moment, Bruce’s eyes softened a little more. His embrace tightened a little more.

And he responded with just one word:

“My love…”

Dick wiped his eyes, pretending, as if saying, “I’m not crying, you are!”

Tim was staring at his coffee, though his nose was red.

Jason turned his back, but his shoulders were shaking.

Damian, however, kept looking at you without averting his eyes. For the first time, it seemed like he was proud.

In that moment, maybe for the first time, you truly felt "belonging."

A father.

And four brothers.

You were no longer alone.

[pomegranatelifethis]

random request!!

I need fluff Batfamily like imagine the Wayne manor suddenly got an unexpected guest a cute little 4 year old girl holding tight to her bunny stuff toy in the brink of tears as she watches as the car that dropped her off speed out of the gates leaving her alone without even confirming someone answered the door. and she's holding a folder that has her identity and birth certificate in it along with a letter for Bruce telling him she's his biological daughter from their one night stand 5 years ago. and the whole batfam just adore her and makes sure she doesn't know about their night life making sure she's sleeping before they go on patrols and stuff.

if possible thanksssss

Ding dong