#and bruce is missing for three days again

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfam x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 8

A/N: that's the last of the chapters I have already wrote. Now I need to be locked in againnn. Thank you all for the support and that you're even reading this. 🥹

I opened the taglist again and why do some of you have the craziest longest names ever.😭.. jk love u guys!! 🩷 - poppy

The city skyline bled grey against the window.

Meetings stacked on his tablet. Stock reports in his inbox. A board call in twenty minutes.

And yet—

Bruce couldn’t stop staring at the box on his desk.

It had arrived with Alfred that morning.

No explanation. No label.

Just a quiet look. A subtle press of the old man’s hand on his shoulder.

“You may want to read this today, Master Bruce.”

He hadn’t opened it at first.

Didn’t think much of it.

Too many numbers. Too many decisions. Too many fires in Gotham to put out.

But now—he was exhausted.

And he needed something to distract him.

He opened the lid.

Dozens of envelopes.

All small. Some crooked. Many with bright, mismatched stickers and glitter residue.

A few had tiny pressed flowers taped to the corner. Others had faint crayon hearts scribbled along the fold.

He blinked.

Lifted one.

____

To Daddy

From: Y/N

____

The writing was messy.

Half the letters backward.

The “N” in her name was so big it crossed the entire envelope.

He hesitated.

Then slowly, carefully, peeled it open.

The paper inside was pink.

Lined notebook paper, torn at the edge. Crumpled. Wrinkled. Like it had been folded and unfolded dozens of times before she finally gave it to Alfred to deliver.

The handwriting inside made his throat tighten.

⸻

Hi Daddy.

I saw a movie yesterday with Alfred and it had a dad and a girl in it and they fed ducks. They looked very happy and the ducks were very cute. I want to feed ducks too.

Maybe if you are not busy we could go. There are ducks in the park. Alfred said so.

But it is okay if you are busy. You are Batman.

I still like you.

From,

Y/N

(PS I will bring the bread!!! Alfred baked it with me)

⸻

The final line was in all caps.

The “D” in bread looked like a flower.

He read it twice.

Then three more times.

By the fourth, he had to stop.

He closed his eyes.

The words burned.

The sweetness. The effort. The gentle apology woven into every sentence—as if even asking for a moment of his time was too much.

As if she already expected to be dismissed.

He reached into the box again.

Pulled another letter.

Then another.

And another.

⸻

Father, I got 100% on my test. Alfred says that means perfect.

I wrote a story with your name in it. Do you want to read it?

I miss you when you are gone. I am good, I promise. Please come say goodnight.

⸻

Some were barely legible.

Some were never even opened.

All were dated between age five to twelve.

All addressed to him.

⸻

He remembered the first time he saw her.

When Ivy had been cornered in that warehouse, she’d laughed in his face.

“Congratulations,” she hissed, as the chains tightened around her ankles. “You caught the eco-terrorist. Now go find your daughter.”

He’d thought she was bluffing.

But she wasn’t.

She led them to an address.

Run-down. Hidden.

And there—in Alfred‘s arms—was a girl.

Tiny. Pale. Eyes too wide for her face.

A stuffed elephant held in her hands.

Bruce had frozen.

Because when she looked up at him—

She smiled.

Small. Hopeful.

“Are you my daddy?”

He didn’t know how to answer.

Didn’t know how to hold her.

Didn’t even remember what he said that first day.

But she reached for him anyway.

⸻

Back in the present, Bruce pressed his hand to the letter again.

His breath shook.

⸻

Alfred

He had watched her for weeks.

Watched her smile politely. Lie sweetly. Slip in and out like a shadow.

And he had known something was wrong.

Something was cracking behind that smile.

He couldn’t do much.

Not anymore.

But he could make them see what they had done.

So he packed the letters.

Every single one he’d intercepted.

Every one she’d handed him, hopeful.

Every note that went unanswered.

Every truth her father never read.

He packed them in a box.

And gave them to Bruce.

“They always think they have time,” Alfred thought grimly, standing now in the empty kitchen.

Until one day… the girl is simply gone.

____

Bruce

He couldn’t stop shaking.

The box was spread out across his desk now—every envelope, every little folded note, laid out by date.

Color-coded by her own childish hand.

“2000—&—10”

“11 and a haf.”

“Thirtenth!!! (finally!!)”

“Fourtine”

He sat there, frozen, sorting them like pieces of a life he never bothered to memorize.

The birthdays.

The school plays.

The “Alfred let me help him make a cake today!” notes.

The “I got picked for science fair!”

The “I was the sunflower in the dance recital!”

The “Tim showed me the Batcomputer (don’t tell).”

He kept reading.

Letter after letter.

And what haunted him most wasn’t the content.

It was the tone.

How it changed.

At first, she always asked:

“Can we go to the park, Daddy?”

“Will you come see my painting?”

“Can we have breakfast together sometime, just us?”

And then she started writing more like:

“I know you’re busy. That’s okay.”

“I hope you’re safe tonight.”

“I watched the news. You looked brave.”

Then—

She stopped asking altogether.

Just sent updates.

“I won the English award this week.”

“Alfred said I looked pretty in green.”

“Leyla,my friend, let me braid her hair again.”

“It’s okay if you don’t have time. I just wanted to say hi.”

And still, he never wrote back.

He didn’t remember ever seeing these.

Had Alfred intercepted them?

Or had he just…

Not cared enough to notice.

His hand hovered over the last envelope.

It was dated exactly one year ago.

The handwriting was sharper now.

Grown.

Still soft. Still graceful.

But… no stickers. No drawings. No crayon hearts.

Just a white envelope.

Sealed with tape.

Her name signed in ink, small and clean:

From Y/N

He opened it.

His stomach dropped.

____

Dear Dad,

I hope you are well.

I know you are busy with work and the city and your responsibilities.

I just wanted to write this, maybe one last time.

I don’t think I’ll send more letters after this. It’s not because I’m mad. I’m not.

I just realized maybe I’ve been writing them wrong all these years.

I thought if I told you about me, you’d want to be part of it.

But maybe you already are part of too many things.

That’s okay.

I’ll still cheer for you. I’ll still think you’re amazing.

Thank you for giving me a home. Even if you couldn’t stay in it much.

I hope the city treats you kindly.

I hope I made you proud, even if you didn’t notice.

—Y/N

⸻

He didn’t breathe.

He couldn’t.

The weight of the paper in his hand felt heavier than any file, any blueprint, any death certificate he’d ever signed.

A whole year ago.

She had already stopped.

She had already stopped.

Stopped writing.

Stopped asking.

Stopped hoping.

But Bruce—

He wasn’t ready to believe that yet.

He didn’t call.

Didn’t ask Alfred to check.

He just left.

Tore out of Wayne Tower like a man with purpose, not panic. Like this wasn’t spiraling out of his control.

She’s just upset. She’ll come around and forget about it. She always does.

He told himself that. Over and over.

She’ll be there.

She’ll be home.

With Damian.

Back from school.

He just needed to be at the Manor when she walked in.

He just needed to see her. To hold her.

To apologize and make up for all the times he has been a terrible father.

The car couldn’t move fast enough.

He arrived at the manor in record time, stepping through the massive front doors with his jaw clenched, eyes searching the entry hall.

Empty.

Silent.

She’s probably upstairs.

“Miss Y/N hasn’t returned yet,” Alfred had said gently on the phone, moments before Bruce arrived. But Bruce hadn’t listened.

He was already in motion.

Then he heard the front door open behind him.

Footsteps.

Fast. Familiar.

Damian.

The boy stormed in, school blazer unbuttoned, tie yanked loose. He looked irritated—tense and brooding the way he always was after a fight.

Bruce turned to face him.

“Where’s your sister?”

Damian blinked. Frowned.

“…She’s not back yet?”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to bring her home.”

Damian scoffed, brushing past him with a grimace. “Tch. She probably left early.”

Bruce didn’t move.

Damian kept talking. “We had an argument, okay? She was being secretive. Again. I figured she’d run off to sulk like she always does.”

He sounded defensive.

But Bruce wasn’t listening anymore.

He was already walking.

Up the stairs.

Slow. Measured.

Damian hesitated in the hall, watching him ascend.

He sighed.

Fine. Might as well tell him now. Tell him everything.

About the Silas guy. The fake friend. The lies. She’s hiding something, and someone needs to say it.

He followed after his father, still stewing from the hallway encounter at school.

Bruce reached the end of the second-floor corridor.

The room furthest from the rest.

The door was cracked open.

He pushed it fully open.

And stopped.

Not because the room was plain.

He’d already noticed that last week.

Not because there were no flowers.

Not because the bed was neatly made.

Not because there were no shoes by the wall or coat on the hook.

But because—

Her elephant plush was gone.

The one thing she never went anywhere without.

The one thing he remembered from the very beginning.

It wasn’t there.

Something in his chest—

snapped.

He stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, breathing shallow. The sound of his own heartbeat pulsed in his ears like thunder.

It was too quiet.

Behind him, footsteps slowed.

Alfred had just returned—his keys still in hand, grocery bags half-unpacked in the foyer when Bruce arrived.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He stood behind Bruce now.

Looked into the same empty space.

And his heart cracked.

Not from surprise.

But from confirmation.

He had feared this.

Felt it in his bones.

Watched her slip farther and farther from them like fog through fingers.

Bruce’s hands slowly curled at his sides.

His voice, when it came, was low. Cold.

“Where the hell is my daughter?”

Alfred didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

The silence said it all.

Damian had just stepped into the hall behind them.

Ready to tattle. Ready to vent and snitch on his little sister.

Then he heard those words.

Froze.

Eyes narrowing.

“What…?”

His voice faltered.

“What do you mean by 'where'?”

Bruce turned, expression blank.

“She left.”

“Left where?”

No answer.

Alfred stepped into the doorway now.

Surveying the room. The bed. The desk. The missing pieces.

His voice was a whisper, breaking under the weight of it:

“She packed.”

“She’s not coming back.”

Damian took a step back.

His throat tightened.

He thought of their fight.

Thought of her eyes—wide and anxious. How she flinched. How she looked smaller than ever in that classroom, even when she tried to snap back.

And now she was gone.

She lied to him.

She smiled at him like nothing was wrong.

And then she disappeared.

Damian looked at the room again.

At the bed. The window.

And for the first time in his life—

He felt scared.

The room was still.

Frozen in time.

None of them knew how long they stood there—Bruce, Alfred, Damian—just staring at the doorway. The air felt heavy, like the oxygen had drained out of the house entirely.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Until—

“Hey—”

Tim’s voice cut in from down the hall.

Footsteps. Quick. Measured. He’d just returned from Wayne Enterprises, backpack slung over one shoulder, something clutched in his hand.

A carved wooden box. Small, chest-shaped. Slightly dented at the corners.

The chess box.

The one she had made for him years ago. He found it today in his office drawer—the only thing he’d never thrown out. He was ready to bring it to her. Start again.

His boots scuffed against the polished floor as he turned the corner—then stopped.

Three of them were standing there.

Bruce. Damian. Alfred.

Silent.

Their backs to him. Faces turned to her room.

Something in their posture—

Something wrong.

Tim blinked.

“…What’s going on?”

Bruce didn’t turn.

Alfred lowered his gaze.

And Damian—Damian didn’t answer at all. He was pale. Rigid. Eyes fixed forward like a predator who’d lost his target.

Tim stepped closer, confused.

Then—

He caught a glimpse inside the room.

Empty bed.

No color.

No presence.

And the phone.

Her phone.

Just sitting there. Quiet. Dead. Untouched.

His breath caught.

“…No.”

He was already moving, storming past them, gripping the edge of the desk and yanking the cord out of the wall.

Pulled up the tracking software on his watch.

The phone pinged.

Last location: Here.

Status: Offline.

No signal.

No trace.

Nothing.

“She left,” Bruce muttered, the words rasping out like they were cutting his throat on the way out.

Tim’s fingers fumbled across the screen. “No—no, she wouldn’t just—She’s—she’s a kid, she’s just a—she’s—”

He was already spiraling.

Then Damian moved.

Like a switch flipped in him.

He was tearing through her room now—no hesitation, no restraint.

Sheets flung. Mattress shoved aside like it weighed nothing. The small rug kicked out of place. Drawers yanked open with violent force.

“Master Damian—” Alfred began, but the boy didn’t even hear him.

He was on his knees, dragging his hand across the floorboards, searching for—something, anything.

And then—

His hand paused.

A soft click.

One of the planks wobbled.

He dug his nails beneath the edge and pulled.

A loose board lifted.

Underneath,

a box.

Not tech.

Not cash.

Not escape supplies.

Just—

A box.

Wooden. Worn. Carefully hidden.

Damian pulled it free, shoving the lid open with a rough breath.

And inside:

Drawings.

Letters.

Painted cards.

Handmade bracelets, crumpled origami bats, scribbled “I love you” notes.

All of it—

For them.

“Tim’s the smartest,” one said in crayon. “He doesn’t talk to me a lot but I hope he knows I think he’s amazing.”

“Dick said I could come to the arcade next week!! I can’t wait I can’t wait I can’t wait!!”

That never happened.

“To Jason—I made you a snack today but I left it in the fridge because I don’t want to bother you. Hope it makes you feel better.”

Even ones for Bruce:

“I don’t need anything fancy. I just want you to be home sometimes.”

“Happy birthday, Daddy. I don’t know if you want to celebrate, but I got you this drawing anyway.”

The drawings were aged.

Edges curled. Smudges at the corners. One or two had obvious water damage.

Most were never opened.

Others looked like they’d been recovered from the trash.

No one spoke.

Bruce knelt beside Damian now, one hand trembling as he picked up a folded note.

“You’re my favorite hero even if you don’t talk to me much. I hope I can be someone you’re proud of. I try really hard. Even if I mess up. I’m sorry if I mess up.”

Tim stared into the box.

Into the pieces of a girl none of them really knew.

A girl who begged for their attention, then slowly taught herself not to want it anymore.

Then the door burst open.

“I’m home!”

Dick’s voice.

Bright.

Hopeful.

He was holding a paper bag in one hand and a small wrapped box in the other.

“Got the pastries she liked on her instagram—figured I’d surprise her. Did she make it back yet?”

They didn’t answer.

He froze mid-step when he saw their faces.

“…What happened?”

He looked past them.

Into the room.

And saw it.

The phone.

The empty bed.

The missing elephant plush.

The blank silence.

The box in Bruce’s hands.

The raw devastation on Alfred’s face.

The panic in Tim’s fingers as they tapped furiously on his screen.

Damian crouched on the floor. Trembling. Jaw clenched. Hands shaking in his lap.

Dick’s voice cracked.

“…Where’s my little flower?”

_____

The window creaked.

The air shifted.

All heads turned.

Jason.

Boots heavy. Leather scuffed. Red helmet tucked under one arm. He stepped over the windowsill like it was nothing, pausing mid-motion as his boot hit the floor.

Unlocked?

He frowned.

That window was never left open.

He would have to scold her for being so careless.

The room hit him like a brick.

Scattered sheets. Overturned drawers. Empty desk. The low hum of tension in the air.

And the silence—the eerie, heavy silence—of a room that had been picked clean of a life.

Jason turned to the others, arching a brow.

“…Okay, why does it look like someone just got abducted in here?”

No one laughed.

No one even flinched.

That’s when he noticed it—Bruce, standing beside the bed, face blank, eyes darker than coal. Tim crouched beside the desk, still glued to his tech, sweat at his temples. Damian near the foot of the bed, fists clenched, lips curled in furious silence.

And Dick—

Dick was on the floor, kneeling beside a small wooden box with shaking hands. His gloves had been tossed aside, like they were getting in the way. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were wildfire.

Jason’s voice lost its sarcasm.

“…Where is she?”

No one answered.

He stepped forward, fast now. Eyes darted across the mess.

“What happened? What the hell happened?”

Then his eyes locked onto the pile in the box.

Small drawings. Crayon notes. Carefully tied bracelets, some frayed, some with beads missing. A hand-drawn sketch of the whole Batfamily… with a stick-figure Jason holding a cupcake labeled “Don’t be angry today.”

His throat tightened.

“…She made this?”

Dick didn’t speak.

Just slowly lifted a folded diary page and passed it to him.

Jason took it.

Read.

And everything inside him stopped.

“Today Dick smiled at me. He called me his little flower. He hasn’t said that in a long time, but I remember it every day. I hope maybe he says it again soon. I don’t know why he stopped. But it made me feel warm. It made me feel like maybe he loves me too.”

Jason lowered the page slowly.

“…She’s gone.”

Tim spoke, voice sharp. “We don’t know where. She left her phone, her tracker, everything.”

“She planned it,” Damian added bitterly. “She’s been planning it for a while.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. His helmet fell to the floor with a thud.

“Why the hell didn’t anyone notice?”

That was aimed at everyone, but especially at Bruce.

Bruce, who hadn’t moved in minutes.

“You,” Jason snapped, stepping forward now, finger pointed. “You’re her goddamn father. What the hell were you doing?”

“She was—” Bruce started, but Jason cut him off.

“She was invisible in this house for years, Bruce. She screamed for attention without making a sound. And you—what? You just let it happen?”

No one stopped him.

Not this time.

Alfred’s voice finally cut in—tired, gravel-soft.

“She left today. She was wearing her coat, and the plush was missing.”

Jason’s breath caught.

“The elephant?”

Dick nodded once. His face was still blank.

Jason cursed.

He spun toward Tim, voice sharp.

“You’re the genius—track her.”

“I’ve tried,” Tim snapped back, pushing to his feet. “She wiped her digital signature. Do you want to know what’s worse? We don’t even know her. We never bothered to. I have no clue what she listens to. Where she likes to go. What kind of clothes she wears. Hell—I just found out she’s the student rep two days ago.”

Dick finally stood up.

When he moved, he moved like a soldier.

Eyes dark. Expression flat. He took off his jacket, grabbed his comm from the desk, and clipped it to his belt without a word.

“Where are you going?” Jason asked.

“Where do you think?”

Dick’s voice was low. Controlled.

“I’m going to find my little flower.”

Damian stood too.

“If anyone finds her, it will be me.”

“No,” Tim said without looking at him. “If anyone finds her first, it’ll be whoever knows her best. And none of us do.”

His eyes finally lifted.

“But we’re going to learn.”

They didn’t speak again for a long moment. The weight of what they’d lost—what they had blindly let slip through their fingers—hung in the air like a curse.

But as the silence deepened, something else began to stir beneath it.

Resolve.

Not calm.

Not peace.

Something darker.

Possessive. Territorial. Obsessive.

She was theirs—their sweet, soft Y/N. The one with the doe eyes and sugar-laced voice. The one who baked for them and never asked for anything. The one they didn’t deserve—but still belonged to them.

And now?

She was out there. Alone. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

In a city like Gotham.

That was unacceptable.

Whether she wanted to be found or not didn’t matter.

She was going to be found.

She was going to be brought back.

And this time—she would never be allowed to slip away again.

Even if it meant burning Gotham down to find her.

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[fractualized]

So I picked up a copy of Batman Masterpieces: Portraits of the Dark Knight and His World, understanding it collects the images and text from the Fleer Master Series card set from 1996. As a bonus, it includes each initial painting idea submitted to the artist and the artist's commentary on the final product.

What I didn't know until I had the book in my hands is that this card set told a story, one about the (seeming) death of Batman. And is there batjokes in it? Of course there is like 95% of my posts are batjokes related what else would I be doing here

(The book as a whole is very enjoyable outside that, of course.)

So for one thing, while technically the first image of the book is Batman swinging through Gotham, repeated mention is made of how the card set is bookended with a picture of Joker's face at the start and Batman's face at the end.

[art by Scott Hampton]

The story opens with Joker's escape from Arkham. Not long after, Batman's death is announced with this image:

[art by Scott Hampton]

Afterwards, for the most part, the cards fall into a few categories:

Various people in Gotham reminiscing about Batman's role and reputation

Alfred, Dick, and Tim setting aside their mourning to review possible suspects

Joker thinking up possible answers

Other rogues explaining their own theories

The resolution of the mystery

One of my favorite images is of Scarecrow. I just love his demeanor and his skull spraycan.

[art by Dermot Power]

Took me a few moments to catch the details in this one of Croc.

[art by Dermot Power]

But anyhow, the thing with Joker's part in this tale is that he naturally cannot accept that he wasn't the murderer, even though he can't remember doing it.

[art by Carl Critchlow]

[art by Carl Critchlow]

He can't convince himself that other rogues managed to murder Batman, though, starting with Catwoman.

[art by Dermot Power]

As you can see, the whiskers are there, so it looks cool, albeit upsetting.

Two-Face is another prime suspect-- until Joker realizes Harvey is still in Arkham.

[art by Dermot Power]

I thought the text for this one was interesting, if only because I'd say that nowadays variant covers serve the function of letting artists run with ideas that don't necessarily show up in stories.

This Talia one is fun given that the framing for this portion of cards is that they're from Joker's POV.

[art by Dermot Power]

The idea of a woman loving a flying rodent is disgusting! What would so do? Hold him dramatically? And lovingly? And romantically? And stare deep into his broody eyes...

After his review of suspects (including Poison Ivy) yields nothing, Joker starts developing wild theories about how maybe he is the Batman's killer after all.

[art by Carl Critchlow]

The scenarios often take after known elseworlds like Gotham By Gaslight and Bloodstorm. But I'm highlighting this one, based on Holy Terror (which I'm pretty sure Joker doesn't actually appear in).

[art by Duncan Fegredo]

Some scenarios are from non-DC stories, like this Frankenstein painting, which may be my favorite of the book.

[art by Duncan Fegredo]

Finally, Joker runs out of ideas and breaks. If he didn't kill Bats, then Bats cannot be dead! And then he hears that the police have recovered Batman's body and they've already interred it in a special memorial crypt. Joker must go see the proof for himself.

And gasp!

[art by Scott Hampton]

Happy clown. :) But gasp again! That shadow to the right?!

That's right! Batman is alive! And he promptly punches Joker in the face.

[art by Scott Hampton]

"Nothing could flush my nemesis from hiding except for himself. And his undying love obsession with me."

So yeah. Batman faked his death explicitly to trap Joker. Like I guess it's a strategy worth trying for the single time it could work, but I feel like I'd save it for a moment of urgency. In the story as described, it doesn't appear that Joker had gotten up to much of anything by the time Batman "died."

And, as noted, Bruce's family completely believed he was dead. I mean, probably only for a matter of hours, but– Wait, nope, an early card notes that the batsignal went unanswered for three nights.

I don't know how many comics there may be about members of the batfam trying to kill this man, but I'm going to guess not enough.

[rosemaryhoney27]

Operation: Gaslight the Billionaires”

aka: How Danny Phantom Accidentally Became the Perfect Wayne

The chaos of the Batcave had mostly settled. Danny had been with them for three days, and Vlad Masters was officially on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

It wasn’t the ghost attacks. It wasn’t even the rogue AI that tried to merge with the espresso machine (thanks, Tim). It was the fact that Danny was actively making him look insane.

Bruce entered the kitchen expecting the usual post-patrol disaster: someone bleeding, Jason frying something suspicious, Damian glaring at vegetables like they insulted his honor, and Tim unconscious on the table with a Red Bull IV.

Instead… the kitchen was sparkling.

Alfred was humming. HUMMING. And Danny?

Danny was wearing an apron that said “I cook with spirit (and some ectoplasm)” and was gently stirring a pot of something that smelled incredible. He handed Alfred a tray of prepped vegetables with the air of a beloved sous-chef in a Michelin-starred restaurant.

“Knife is clean and set aside, Mr. Pennyworth. Do you want the counter disinfected again before the meat’s on?”

Alfred smiled. Smiled. “That won’t be necessary, Master Daniel. You’ve done splendidly.”

Bruce stood in the doorway like a man waiting for a piano to fall on him. “…Who is this child?”

Alfred replied calmly, “The most helpful young man we’ve had in this kitchen in years. I daresay Master Richard could learn a thing or two.”

Danny looked up, beamed at Bruce, and said, “Good morning! You want coffee? I just finished a batch of Colombian roast. Tim said you like it strong enough to dissolve crime.”

Tim, from under the counter where he’d been sleeping with a tablet as a pillow: “That’s not even a joke. I’ve seen it eat through one of Damian’s throwing knives.”

Bruce walked over and took the mug Danny handed him. It was the perfect temperature. The exact strength he liked. He took a sip.

His soul briefly ascended.

“…This is better than Alfred’s.”

Alfred gave an approving nod. “Indeed. I showed him once.”

Vlad stormed into the room like a man preparing to perform an exorcism. His hair was frazzled, one of his slippers was missing, and there was what looked suspiciously like slime on his sleeve.

“BRUCE. Tell me honestly, what have you done to him?”

Bruce blinked. “To Danny? Nothing.”

“HE MADE A THREE-COURSE MEAL AND ASKED IF I WANTED A MIDNIGHT TEA.”

“I like being helpful,” Danny said, halo practically visible. “Uncle Vlad gets stressed so easily.”

“I DO NOT—!”

“He also helped Damian organize the armory,” Alfred added serenely.

“Color-coded the blades,” Damian muttered, glaring slightly less than usual. “And sharpened them.”

Jason walked in, paused, sniffed the air. “Is that real garlic bread? Did we finally break the food curse?”

Danny handed him a plate. “You should eat. You looked hangry yesterday.”

Jason stared at him. “I could kill for you.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“Nice. Boundaries.”

Vlad was gaping. “You are all being tricked! This is an act! He’s a little gremlin with teeth! He ate my briefcase!”

Danny blinked innocently. “It smelled like almonds. I thought it was marzipan.”

“IT WAS NOT MARZIPAN.”

Cass wandered in, stole a breadstick, and gave Danny a high-five. “Nice work.”

Vlad turned to Bruce, furious and hollow-eyed. “This is not fair. He fought a space god last week, and now he’s making quiche.”

Bruce just shrugged. “Some people contain multitudes.”

“He bit a vampire diplomat in Prague.”

“He was undead and had no permit for summoning circles,” Danny added cheerfully. “Also, he was rude to the hotel staff.”

Stephanie peeked in. “Did I hear someone say quiche?”

“Spinach and mushroom,” Danny called.

“I’m going to implode,” Vlad whispered to the heavens.

Danny wiped his hands and turned to Vlad with a kind, innocent smile. “Uncle Vlad, I know it’s hard to accept, but maybe… I’ve matured?”

Vlad squinted. “You turned your teacher’s car invisible three weeks ago.”

“She parked in the ghost zone exit lane,” Danny said, wounded. “I was helping traffic.”

Bruce sipped his coffee and studied the boy who had seamlessly infiltrated his house like a social trojan horse. “How did you convince him to stay with you again?”

“I blackmailed the adoption agency and offered full scholarship access, six haunted properties, and a personal lab,” Vlad muttered.

“Reasonable,” Tim said. “Sounds like a good pitch.”

Bruce looked at Danny. “Would you like to stay a bit longer?”

Vlad: “No.”

Danny: “Sure!”

Jason: “New little brother unlocked.”

Vlad looked down into his empty tea mug like it had betrayed him. “This is how I die. In a Wayne manor. Smothered by domestic competency and passive-aggressive hospitality.”

Danny patted his arm. “It’s okay, Uncle Vlad. Want me to make you some chamomile?”

Vlad hissed like a vampire at dawn.

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

@errorunfound1

Yandere!neglectful!Batfam x mom!reader

Wayne Manor had always felt vast, but to you, it was more of a void than a home. It was easy to get lost in its endless hallways, in the constant hum of life orbiting Bruce’s nocturnal mission. You married him for love, despite knowing the weight of the life he led. You accepted his scars, his mission, his world. But what you hadn’t expected was how little space there would be left for you in it.

Bruce was always out, chasing shadows, leaving you to navigate a family that seemed determined to keep you at arm’s length. You poured your heart into them—Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian—but your efforts were met with indifference at best and disdain at worst. You had been a mother in every way that mattered, yet the coldness you received in return made your heart ache.

“You don’t have to act like you care,” Jason sneered once when you tried to patch him up after patrol. “We both know you’re just here for him.”

Tim barely acknowledged you unless it was necessary, his head buried in his work. Dick’s smiles, once genuine, now felt like politeness masking discomfort. And Damian, always the sharpest, had no qualms about cutting you down. “You’re not my mother,” he’d said, his words a dagger that twisted in your chest.

Bruce never intervened. When you tried to tell him, his responses were dismissive. “They’ll come around,” he’d say before disappearing into the night. But they never did.

So, you stayed quiet, swallowing the hurt, letting it fester.

One night, you stood in the empty dining room, staring at the cold, untouched dinner you’d prepared. The clock ticked on the wall, counting the hours Bruce was late. Again. You could hear the faint hum of voices from the Batcave below, the family gathered around him while you sat alone.

It wasn’t anger that bubbled up this time. It was resignation.

You left that night, not with a dramatic goodbye, but with a simple bag and a note left on the kitchen counter.

“I love you, but I can’t keep losing myself in a family that doesn’t want me.”

The days without you passed unnoticed at first. Bruce buried himself in his work, assuming you needed time to cool off. The Batkids carried on as usual, their lives too busy to miss the quiet presence you’d once provided.

It was Alfred who noticed first—the meals left uneaten, the flowers on the windowsill wilting. “Sir,” he said carefully one evening, “she’s not coming back.”

Bruce stopped mid-step, his expression flickering. “She just needs time.”

But days turned into weeks, and the absence became impossible to ignore. The manor felt colder, emptier. Jason snapped more often, his temper flaring at the slightest provocation. Tim’s focus wavered, his mistakes piling up in a way they never had before. Damian trained harder, his strikes sharper, but there was a new tension in him, an unease he wouldn’t voice.

“She left us,” Damian said one night, his tone sharp but brittle. “That’s on her.”

“No,” Dick said quietly, guilt heavy in his voice. “It’s on us.”

Bruce found you three weeks later, living in a modest apartment far from the grandeur of Wayne Manor. The door was locked, but that had never been an obstacle for him. He let himself in, his imposing frame filling the doorway as you stood frozen in the kitchen.

“Bruce,” you said, your voice tight.

“Come home.” His tone was soft but firm, the same voice he used to give orders in the field.

Your laugh was bitter, hollow. “Home? That place hasn’t felt like home in years.”

His jaw tightened, the only sign of his frustration. “You belong there. With me. With them.”

“I belonged there once,” you said, your voice breaking. “But I spent years trying to love a family that couldn’t love me back. Do you even realize how much it hurt, Bruce? To be invisible in my own home?”

He stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. “I didn’t see it. I should have. But I’m here now.”

“Too late,” you whispered, tears spilling over.

But Bruce Wayne was not a man who gave up easily. His hand reached out, brushing against yours. “You think I’ll let you go that easily?” His voice dropped, a dangerous edge slipping into his tone. “You’re mine. You always have been.”

You pulled away, shaking your head. “You don’t love me, Bruce. You love control. You love having someone waiting for you. But I won’t be that person anymore.”

The silence between you was heavy, suffocating. His eyes bore into yours, and for a moment, you thought he might let you go. But Bruce was nothing if not persistent.

“You’re coming home,” he said, his voice soft but unyielding.

Before you could respond, his hand shot forward, pressing a syringe into your arm. The sharp sting was followed by a wave of dizziness, and your legs buckled.

“Bruce,” you gasped, your vision swimming as he caught you.

“It’s for your own good,” he murmured, his arms cradling you as darkness pulled you under.

(A/n: this is why I don't take money 😅 writing shi asf 😔🔥 chat did I cook or am I cooked?)

[haveihitanerve]

Four Times the Batkids Forget They're Adopted, and The One Time Damian Forgets He Isn't

It had started off as a joke, as most things do, and Dick meant nothing behind it, really. It was amusing to him, actually, to tell his coworkers things about Batman and pass it off as his father. “Oh my dad? Yeah hes not big on talking. He loves showing me he cares though.” (this was, of course, in reference to Batman doing three back flips and a kick split when Nightwing had patrolled with him the other day, a classic Nightwing move) But it soon…went deeper. Dick stopped making jokes out of it, and actually began listing things about Bruce. About his Dad. It didn't help that his police friends were actually interested. “So did you and the old man do anything fun over the weekend?” Dick thought back to how he had wanted to surprise Bruce by stopping by for dinner and instead had ended up in the sewer eating granola bars on a stakeout for killer croc, who had escaped. Again. “Oh yeah we had a picnic.” Dick nodded, smiling at Randy. “Yeah. He’s, he’s kinda bad at remembering when to eat a meal on time and all that.” Dick laughed. “Its something I share too. Must be genetics.” He rolled his eyes. Randy laughed, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I hear you. My old man smoked all the live long day. I try to keep it down, but that addiction gene is just strong eh?” Dick chuckled. “Yeah I guess.” His phone buzzed in his pocket and he waved to Randy, turning to tug it out. It was one, simple message from Babs. “Ur adopted genius. What genes.” 

Jason didn't even know how they had gotten on the topic. But here they were. “Yes. I got my mothers hair, of course, but I get my temper from my father.” Artemis was saying. “I have parents.” Bizarro grunted. Roy laughed, smacking him on the shoulder. “Well you certainly didn't get Kal’s looks buddy. But you do have his killer hair.” Starfire laughed. “That is true. I, for one, share my parents hair and have my fathers powers. But truly the best gene I was given were my mothers eyes.” They all turned to Jason. “What about you?” Roy asked. Jason scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, I used to have my dads eyes but um after the pit y'know,” He waved to his now green eyes. “And actually I have my dads dark black hair, and he’s graying early too, which might be why my white streak is so prominent.” They nodded in agreement. “But yeah, hes actually a little taller than me so maybe I’ll still grow a few inches but uh yeah. I don't… remember my mother enough to talk about her.” “Dang man. I wish we could meet your dad.” Roy murmured, laying a comforting hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Then we could really compare. I mean-” He laughed. “You sound like his carbon copy.” Jason frowned at his friend. “What do you mean? You’ve met Bruce?” They stared at him. “Jason,” Artemis began slowly. “Aren't you adopted?” 

Tim hunched over the information form, eyes straining to read the small print. His hand reached up to stifle a yawn and he settled for a sigh instead. It was late, but Tim needed to get the form done before he went to bed, otherwise everything would be far too stressful in the morning. He reached over and grabbed his coffee mug, a dark black cup that had a red R painted on it poorly. Bruce had made it for him a few years ago when he had first become Red Robin. He sipped it, staring down at the medical form. “Gods I hate having to do this.” He muttered, but reluctantly grabbed the thick medical binder Alfred had obligingly gotten for him when he had asked for medical records of the family. Tim did not under any circumstances, want to have to sit at the doctors office the next day and somehow lie his way through all the medical questions relating to his family history. He didn't have the time nor patience for it, and it was crucial he was given proper medical advice what with his missing spleen. “Any history of heart issues Bruce?” Tim muttered, flipping back past Martha and Thomas to Bruce’s great great great grandfather. “Nope, guess not.” Tim was halfway through the form when he realized the blood coursing through his veins wasn't Bruce’s. 

Steph rubbed a hand across her belly, staring at the monitor. “Your baby looks good Ms. Brown. They’re at the proper stage. Due in about two months. We’ll see you back here for your next check up.” “thank you doctor.” Steph murmured, sliding off the bed and dressing quickly before hurrying out to her car. The car door slammed shut behind her and she breathed, pressing her forehead to the steering wheel. Her phone buzzed. She lifted it and pressed it to her ear, hitting accept. “Hello?” “hey Steph.” Bruce’s voice vibrated through the phone. “How was your doctors appointment?” Steph gave a bitter laugh. “Everything looks good. The baby will come in about two months.” “Thats good. Thats real good.” Steph nodded, eyes closed. “You doing okay Stephanie?” Bruce asked, voice soft. “I don't know.” her voice broke and she squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears. “I just- I’m so scared Bruce. So scared.” Bruce hummed comfortingly through the phone. “I know Steph. Its scary. And parenting, its hard.�� Steph coughed out a watery chuckle. “Was that a hit?” She muttered, rubbing a hand over her face. Bruce chuckled. “No. Baby it wasn't. And just think, you’ll get to see all the firsts I didn't get with you. Their first steps. Their first wave. You might even get to hear them say mama before i kidnap- i mean adopt him or her.” Steph laughed again, and it sounded less watery. “Yeah. Well, when do kids start walking?” She asked in interest, sniffing and sitting up straight again. Bruce hummed. “Well i started walking almost immediately, but Im special.” Steph laughed. “Of course.” “alfred said i first started talking when I was around thirteen months old, and Talia said Damian was walking by ten, but she could have been lying.” Steph nodded. “Tell me more.” She whispered. Bruce obliged, happy to distract her. “Oh and whats probably going to be your favorite, babies, or at least I did, start laughing at around four months.” “laughing?” Steph gasped. “Oh Brucie!!! Thats too funny! Little chubby baby you, the future batman, laughing!” She cooed. She could almost feel his eye roll through the phone and stifled her laugh. “So yeah..” Bruce finished. “You should expect your kiddo to start walking around then. And laughing probably sooner. I would have if you'd be in my life at that time.” Steph was quiet. “Thank you B.” He hummed. “Anytime Steph. I’ll always be here to help you.” “Wait wait wait-” a new voice joined in the background of Bruce. “Are you guys serious right now?” Steph identified it as Jason. “What?” Bruce asked puzzled. “B, Stephs adopted. Her kid is as likely to walk at the same time you did as when she did!” 

“Damian?” “Go away Drake.” Damian called back, riffling through the papers. “Dami?” Tim poked his head into his younger brothers room. “Oh hey kiddo. Whatcha doing?” “I am busy Timothy.” Damian countered in annoyance, shoving the box back under his bed and moving to his desk. “What are you looking for?” Tim asked puzzled. Damian ignored him. “Dami.” “Go away Timothy.” Tim crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Come on Baby Bird. Tell me.” Damian shook his head, covering the blush on his cheeks by poking behind the desk. “Damian.” Tim’s hand was suddenly on his back. Damian jumped. Tim held up his hands in surrender. “Just tell me. I’m sure I can help you find it.” Damian sighed in acceptance, cheeks pink. “I have.. Lost my adoption papers.” He muttered, staring at the floor. But Tim didn't laugh or ridicule him. In fact, when he looked up, his brother seemed thoughtful. “Well i know me and dick and jason have them hung over our beds…” His gaze drifted to the very clearly empty space above Damians bed. “I know.” Damian jerked his head in a nod. “That is why I wished to find it.” Tim nodded in understanding. “Well, lets go look in the den. Thats where Alfred keeps all the legal stuff.” Damian trailed after his brother to the living room and watched as he opened the cabinet and pulled out three boxes. “You look through this one, I’ll search these two.” Tim ordered. Damian nodded, accepting the box. It was where Alfred found them, two hours later, broom in hand. “My dear sirs, what are you doing?” The butler asked in bafflement. “Looking for Damians adoption record.” Tim answered, nose still in some papers. Alfred looked at them. “Master Tim. Master Damian.” The two boys looked up. “Yes Alfred?” Tim asked. Alfred's face was fond and utterly confused. “Master Damian is not adopted. He is Master Bruce’s blood son.” 

@nonepizzawithleftglitter @zombiewithaflowercrown

you asked and you shall recieve!

[sistertotheknowitall]

Masterpost

“But to the BatFam? That is just Some Guy. A random dude - if you will.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m missing my spleen.”

“Oh cool, yeah, missing organs suck. I’m missing a kidney and part of my liver. Oh! And my gallbladder but that was more of a necessary evil, it was like, poisoning me or something.” Danny was so focused on applying pressure to his wound (and maybe being a bit too light headed) that he didn’t notice how silent his friend had gotten. Like-wise the comms had gone equally quiet as Gotham’s vigilante family realized that they knew very little about this kid.

It was concerning how quickly they all started to see him as a friend considering it was them as vigilantes he interacted with the most. Tim was the only one who saw him frequently when out of the suit because he was a regular at Danny’s day job. (He worked as a barista in the coffee shop Tim favored.) The others saw him occasionally but more often than not it was just in passing. Steph, Duke, and Dick had to stop themselves from approaching him on the street.

It was odd, one day he had just moved to Gotham, seeming to appear out of nowhere, and then the next he was a constant presence in their lives. Usually armed and ready with a concerning or odd quip, it had started with him being another victim of the city’s petty criminals and had snowballed from there.

Now it wasn’t like the bats saw Danny everyday, but it was expected that he would cross paths with at least three of them before the end of the week. They ran into him more often than any other Gothamite, including the criminals and rouges they fought.

At first the constant meetings by “coincidence” was suspicious. If he wasn’t the one being saved from a mugging, kidnapping, or city wide villain assault, then he was near by and trying to help.

(“Trying to help” usually meant drawing attention to himself so the original victim could escape. Once it had meant Danny armed with a baseball bat against four grown men. Bruce and Dick have tried to talk to him about putting himself in harms way but the kid is surprisingly elusive when he wants to be. Yet, even when avoiding Batman and his eldest, Danny could be found on the patrol route of another family member.)

But honestly? The guy seemed just as exhausted as they were of seeing each other. By the twelfth time in a month, Danny had accused them of stalking him.

The background check Bruce and Tim had run came back clean and he never seemed to be involved in the various criminal activities. He was just there, a weirdly unlucky bystander. So as far as Dick and the others could see, Danny was a completely normal dude. He just said strange things and wasn’t intimidated by them, he actually made it a point to be unhelpful sometimes. When trying to learn his name he gave them the run around for two months. (“I know about stranger danger. I don’t care how often you say you’re the ‘good guys.’ I’m not falling for it.”)

On one memorable occasion Danny had disappeared for a week and a half. When they started to assume the worse, he popped back up behind the counter at work. Tim had relaxed significantly when he entered the shop to Danny organizing pastries in the display case. Once he’d placed his order, the young CEO asked Danny if he’d been on vacation. To which Danny had just sighed and told Tim “I wish, but no I was called to court to handle some affairs I couldn’t get out of.” (After a check to see if Danny had gotten charged with something and coming back empty, Tim had concluded that it was an odd way to say he had had jury duty.)

Thinking about it now, outside a stray comment or two, Danny didn’t talk about himself or his life. They knew he didn’t have a good relationship with his parents, “they were much more goal oriented than that joke of a kidnapper, but I think drugs do that to a person.” (It was still unclear if he meant his parents were kidnappers themselves or on drugs.) They knew he had an older sister who would “kill me again if she finds out I was in another bank robbery.” They also knew he was, possibly, depressed after last week’s comment of “is it considered murder if you’re already dead but, like, still alive?” (Damian had saved him from a drug ring but after another “baby ninja” comment the young Robin had threatened to give Danny back to his would-be murderers.)

Dick knew Danny was a weird guy who never wanted to elaborate on the things he said. (Jason was still confused on what he meant by “rotted milk soul.”) That didn’t mean the comments themselves didn’t say a lot about him. And tonight’s comment, accompanied by the prominent and jagged autopsy scars, said more than Danny was probably willing to share.

Part one

[witherby]

HI HI. SAME ANON :33anon here!!!

omg???? jfc christ? that was so good im shaking my cup for more 😭 i think the fact my ask is being used as a power shower is silly... i love it keep up the good work!

(side note ive done metamorphosis may i be 🎆anon.... i will be yapping at you on a later date o7)

Welcome to the club 🎆 I am smooching ur cheek

Hahaha...wouldn't it be so silly....if I used your ask again.....to post the second part hahahaha.....isn't that the silliest idea hahahaha.........

The Littlest Wayne: Uncertain Home

(Part 2 of 2)

Masterlist is Here!

"Let me make sure I've got this straight."

Everyone stiffens in their seats. When Batman says things like that, it means he is very, very close to yelling. Batman never yells unless his patience has reached its limit, his emotional threshold has bubbled over, or he hasn't slept in over six consecutive days. Given his usual activities, it could very well be a combination of the three, and the current situation is not helping.

"You —" he points a gauntleted finger at Manhunter, "— realized my child was showing signs of developing their powers six weeks ago, and told no one."

He turns to Superman and Diana next, talking through clenched teeth.

"And then you two, today, realized the same thing, indirectly told them they would no longer have a place in my home, and then they vanished under your cape."

He places his hands on the meeting table. Inhales. Exhales.

"No one attempted to reach out and express their concerns to me, the father, in either incident."

He slams his fists on the table. The wood splinters under the impact. Everyone flinches with it.

"AND NOW MY CHILD IS MISSING! DID I FORGET ANYTHING? DID I LEAVE ANYTHING OUT!?"

The silence afterwards is deafening. Bruce yanks his cowl off and slams it to the floor, running his hands through his hair.

"The Watchtower is under lockdown until further notice. We do not leave until either I find my kid, or I figure out how to track them down."

"Batman," the Flash chimes in, "I feel for you. This is a bad situation, but we can't all stay here; I have to —"

Bruce rounds the table and crowds Barry into his seat with near-inhuman speed. His eyes are wide and wild and his teeth are bared.

"We do not leave until I find them."

The lights briefly turn red and an automated voice comes over the intercom, alerting them that lockdown protocols have initiated. The heroes watch as blast shields cover the windows and the Zeta tubes deactivate, effectively blocking their only ways out.

Green Lantern re-enters the room from the observation deck with a determined expression.

"Checked the monitors and surrounding galaxy. Skies are clear, and earth-side we should be fine for at least a couple hours, so I went ahead and triggered the protocol."

"Hal!" Barry protests. "C'mon, I'm gonna be late to work again! It's not as easy for some of us to maintain our civilian covers, you know!"

"Well, then it sounds like we gotta find our missing Mouse fast."

Bruce presses a button on his gauntlet and pulls a small ball out of it, rolling it to the center of the table. A hologram screen pops up and shows a picture of you sitting in Tim's lap and enthusiastically looking at something on his computer with him. To the right of the image, a wall of text begins to appear, detailing observations made about your growth, health, and development of your powers.

"You already knew," Diana mutters, like the words have been punched out of her. Clark holds his head in his hands.

"Why didn't you tell us then, huh?" Oliver frowns. "Didn't think we could benefit from that information?"

"My child, my discretion," Bruce hisses. That shuts Ollie right back up. "This is everything I've been able to passively observe about their ability. They can latch onto any shadows in their immediate vicinity, up to a range of approximately one hundred feet, and until now has only used them for pathfinding, like solving puzzles or looking for small objects. What just happened today with Superman's cape is the first discovered instance of them being able to traverse into darkness itself."

"That's why the Watchtower is locked down," J'onn realizes. "If they can only travel so far with the shadows, chances are high that they're still in here."

"Yes."

"How do we pull them out if we find them?" Arthur speaks up, arms crossed. "Last I checked, no one else has shadow powers."

"Do what you can without risking injury to them or yourselves. If you can talk them out, that will be the ideal tactic. Any more questions?" Bruce waits a few seconds for anyone to speak up, then dismisses the holo-screen and rises to his full height. "Then everyone fan out, cast some shadows, and get to work."

--

Arthur is having no luck. He checks the furniture that was already casting shadows, like tables and beds and appliances, to no avail. Calling to you and feeling around those dark spaces isn't gonna get him anywhere.

Clark and Diana had picked up his cape and hunkered down under the fabric, gingerly asking you to please come out, Uncle Clark and Auntie Di are very sorry they implied what they did, they never meant to scare you, please please please come back.

Barry is zipping around the whole tower, checking high spaces and low, calling for you with a mixture of urgency and concern.

Ollie uses his body to cast a shadow under the fluorescent lighting and Dinah crouches in the space of it, patting the ground gently and urging you to appear. She insists everyone is worried and looking for you because they want you to be safe.

Bruce is frantic. He's visually very composed, but Hal can see the tremble in his hands as he slowly and methodically checks every single shadow he can find or create for signs of you.

"Bruce," Hal mutters, watching him check his cape for the fifteenth time in just as many minutes. "Bruce, sit down and breathe for a bit."

"Don't mention breathing," Bruce snaps. "This is unprecedented. I'm working with zero useful information and three of my teammates contributed to this situation in the first place. Can they just exist in darkness forever, or is there a limit before they get spit back out? Can they even get back out? Is there oxygen wherever they are? Are they safe or in any kind of distress? If you don't have answers to these questions or haven't found them yet, I don't want you talking to me."

He turns to check his cape again and almost runs right into J'onn.

"There was a shadow moving in the training room," he noted. "When I approached to investigate, it melted away. I found it important to tell you that Flittermouse seems to be active and uninjured judging by the ease in which that shadow moved."

The Manhunter leaves them again, phasing through the walls to continue searching for you. Bruce pulls his gloves off and rubs his face, sighing.

"Hal."

"I forgive you," comes the immediate reply. Hal places a hand on Bruce's back and offers him a thin smile. "You're a dad who's scared for your four-year-old kid. I think you're entitled to a little bit of bitchiness."

Bruce hums.

"Just a little bit, though. Like fifteen percent more bitch than your baseline. Which is to say, if you talk to me like that again I'm going to make a giant cartoon hammer and beat you to death with it."

Both men hear you giggle. Their heads whip around in the direction of the sound, and find a small, child-shaped shadow moulded into the corner. It's a strange thing, to look at a shadow with no source. It would be frightening if it wasn't you.

"Mouse?" Bruce immediately calls, stepping towards you. The giggling stops and the shadow shrinks. He crouches down, palms extended. "No no no! Don't go, don't go anywhere, please. Can I talk to you?"

You don't respond. Bruce isn't entirely sure if you can, in your current form. You haven't run away yet, however, so he inches just a bit closer.

"I'm...there's...." He stops and starts, searching for the best words to use. "Mouse, there was a misunderstanding. No one is making you leave. I'm not going to give you up or send you away, I promise."

"...m e t a h u m a n..." you mutter. Both Bruce and Hal shiver. It sounds like darkness itself whispering directly into their ears, faint and echoing and all-encompassing.

"Yes, that's what people with skills like yours are called," he confirms.

Your shadow doesn't move for a while. Bruce shuffles closer, palms extended, and is about to ask you to come out, but then your entire form wobbles and starts shrinking even more.

"...n o m e t a s i n G o t h a m..." you say, and the sadness in your voice is so potent Hal has to brace himself against the wall.

"No!" Bruce says, pressing his palm against the wall just a second too late. You dissolve and disappear. "That's not — ffffffuck."

He presses his forehead to the wall and closes his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths to avoid screaming. It takes a while.

"They're not going to talk to me," he eventually says. "They're scared of me, of that damned rule I —"

He cuts himself off and rubs a hand down his face.

"You have to do it."

"Me? Specifically?" Hal asks.

"You're their favorite uncle." Bruce pushes himself off the floor and rests his hand on Hal's forearm. "They adore you. They ask when you're going to visit Gotham again all the time. If anybody's gonna get them to understand that they're not in any trouble or danger of losing their family because of something I did, it's gonna be you."

"Whoa. No pressure," Hal says. He knows it's true though — you absolutely adore Hal, and the feeling is mutual. You feel almost like his own kid. He's just as scared as Bruce is about your current situation. "Okay...alright, I got this. Listen, tell the others that Mouse probably isn't gonna come out for 'em. Go hang out in the meeting room and gimme an hour alone. I'll bring them back."

Bruce nods, but he seems hesitant to leave the part of the hall where they spotted your shadow. Hal gives him a small nudge and he eventually turns away, his boots clocking softly against the floor.

Hal inhales slowly, holds it, then exhales for a count of ten.

He's got this.

--

He does not have this. Hal walked into an empty corridor and flicked all the lights off, choosing to sit in the darkness and try calling out to you for almost thirty minutes. There's been no luck.

He sighs and uses his ring to construct a small bear, illuminating the immediate space around him in green, and makes it walk around.

"Y'know you used to love playing with my constructs," he murmurs. "We had this game I made up, where you would chase after whatever toy I made as fast as you could and try to catch it. I let you win a lot."

He makes a construct of you as a much smaller infant, not yet able to walk, crawling eagerly after the bear.

"You'd grab the little toy and hug it tight, and then come show me you got it. And I'd scoop you up and give you a cookie before we did it all again. We had to really tone down the cookie part because you got sick one time. Bruce made me sleep on the floor for a week. Not even one of the million couches in the manor. The floor. It was the worst."

He hears the surrounding darkness around him giggle. Hal leans against the wall and heaves a large, relieved sigh.

"Hey, kid," he says softly. "S'good to hear you."

You don't respond. He tries not to feel discouraged, instead seizing the opportunity presented.

"I'm not gonna ask you to come out, but if you don't mind...I'm kinda lonely. D'you think we could play that game again?"

Hal vanishes the constructs and makes a new one — a small, stuffed bat toy. He makes it flap its little wings and flop in circles.

"Think you can catch it? This one's a bit feisty."

Nothing happens for a few seconds. Hal feels himself growing nervous, and he's about to abandon the idea and suggest something else, but then the bat just vanishes. The construct is sucked up into the shadows, like darkness itself came up and hugged it into the void. A knot in his chest comes undone.

"That," he says, "was awesome. Okay, here's another one. Even feistier than the last."

This goes on for a while. Hal makes something for you to chase, you emerge from the dark just long enough to pull it in with you, and the process is rinse and repeat. Eventually, though, you come out of the shadows more and more, staying out of it longer and longer to chase around the conjured toys, until you're just tossing them into the shadows with gleeful little cheers.

"Got it!" You cry, jumping up to reach another one, this time shaped like an owl. You're panting from exertion and grinning widely at Hal, just standing and hugging it to your chest. "I win?"

"You win again," Hal agrees, expression painfully fond. He adores you wholeheartedly. "C'mere and get a victory hug, kid. Don't have any cookies on me, but we'll do a raincheck on that."

You go to him easily, practically collapsing in his lap, and rest your head against his chest while you idly pet the glowing owl toy. The area is bathed in dim green, enough to see each other without strain but still casting more than enough shadows for you to hide in again if you wanted.

"Fantastic job," Hal murmurs, kissing the top of your head. You nuzzle into his chest even more, hiding your face. "We definitely have to do that again some time. Don't you think?"

You start to nod, but the motion is jerky. You hesitate, then shrug, hugging the toy tighter.

"Oh, Mousey," he says, running his fingers through your hair. "You didn't think your powers would make Uncle Hal stop wanting to play with you, did ya?"

You slowly nod again, curling in on yourself.

"Well, that's just plain wrong. I love you, honey. Everybody loves you, y'know? You're smart, and adorable, and soooo much fun to be around," Hal insists, giving you a quick squeeze. Your mouth twitches like you're trying not to smile. "And it's gonna be way more fun now that you have cool shadow powers! Hide and seek might get a little challenging, but we'll make it work."

"...and Daddy?" You mutter. "Will he...want to play, too?"

"I know Daddy would love to play any game you wanted," Hal swore. "Daddy loves you more than anything in the whole wide world. And you know what else?"

"What?" You ask, lifting your head. You look at him with wide eyes and furrowed brows, hanging onto his every word.

"Sometimes Daddy makes mistakes. Like creating dumb rules he shoulda broke years ago."

You look away, snuggling further into Hal.

"What if...Daddy don't wanna break the rule?" You whisper.

Hal curls around you almost protectively, kissing your head again.

"Then he's a big, smelly dummy, and I'll take care of you instead," he promises. "You can live at my house, and I'll still bring you to the Watchtower to hang out with everyone and play games, and maybe, if you're extra good, I'll take you on vacation in outer space. I'll show you things you've never seen, like planets with four moons, and people as tall as skyscrapers, and space food that turns your hair all different colors. It'll explode your tiny head!"

"Nooo!" You giggle, grinning. "I don't want a exploded head!"

"Hmm...you drive a hard bargain kid," Hal says. "Okay, I won't give you explodey-head food. But only because you said so."

He lets you get your laughter out, then gently pats your back to regain your attention.

"I know you're very scared," he says, "but I promise this doesn't change the fact that you are so, so incredibly loved. I bet if you gave the others a chance, they'd be more than willing to prove it. Especially your dad."

You tighten your grip on the owl in your arms, bottom lip wobbling for a moment.

"Could you give him a chance, Mouse?" Hal asks. "If you don't want to, that's fine. We can work an arrangement out and always try again a different day. But I know he would be really, really excited to see you again."

You stare at Hal, face tight in contemplation. He waits patiently, continuing to rub small circles in your back.

His patience is rewarded when you bury your face in his chest again, nodding.

"Want daddy," you whisper. Hal settles you more securely in his arms and immediately rises to his feet, relishing the burst of satisfaction and relief in his chest.

He takes you back into the meeting room. Bruce immediately stands up from the table when he spots you curled up in Hal's embrace, hands twitching like he wants to hold you himself.

He moves with all the carefulness of someone approaching a wild animal. His face is uncharacteristically open, broadcasting his worry for you and relief that you're unharmed.

"Hi, sweet pea," Bruce mutters, silk-soft, and that's all it takes to make you start sobbing and reach for him. Your father doesn't hesitate, sweeping you up and giving assurance after assurance that you are just as treasured and loved as you've always been, that he is so happy to be your dad, that you belong in Gotham and that will never change no matter what.

The lockdown gets lifted from the Watchtower. Several heroes, after conveying their relief and gratitude over your safety, take their leave. Diana and Clark stay behind to apologize profusely, both to you and Bruce, for implying that you would ever be unwelcome in your own home just for being different. It's easy for you to forgive them, but Bruce is grinding his jaw a bit, so they excuse themselves for the night and take their leave.

"Well." Hal claps his hands together and yawns. "I'm ready for a drink and a bed. What do we say we hit the road, huh? C'mon, B, let's get Flittermouse back home. I've hit my daily quota for adventure."

Bruce nods, walking with you back to the Zeta tubes. You've already nodded off in his arms, drained from your stressful day.

"Thank you, Hal," he says, preparing to warp home. "Come by after the kids are in bed. Let me repay you properly."

"Y'know, normally I'd be all over that," Hal smirks, "but I'm seriously beat. Can I cash my reward in tomorrow?"

Bruce gives him a small smile. "Whenever you want. Come by anyway, if you like. We don't have to do anything."

"Yeah, okay. I'll see you later, then." Hal crosses his arms and relaxes against the corridor wall, smiling down at your dozing form. "You take care. Both of you."

Bruce thanks him again, disappearing in a flash of light. When Hal drops by later that evening, he finds his boyfriend asleep with you in his arms, clinging to his shirt and drooling on his chest as you coast peacefully in Dreamland.

Before joining the cuddle pile, he finds that sitting on the nightstand, written in a combination of pen and crayon, is a contract holding both yours and Bruce's signatures:

The rule against Metahumans in Gotham is hereby null and void forever and ever.

Signed by: Daddy & Mousey

[zweetpea]

Yandere batfam one shot/imagine thing

I'll probably make a part 2

You met Bruce while you were working as a waitress for a gala. It was a second job to pay rent. Maybe he brought Selina or some other girl or maybe he came alone.

Either way you two end up in a room together and end up sleeping together. Just as you’re pulling on your clothes he asks to see you again. He even offers you a check (let’s say it’s for 500k). You take the money promising to see him again but you don’t for about a year.

After a year of him searching every corner of Gotham he finally finds you. And surprise surprise you have a three month old baby girl.

He goes up to you and begs you to let him be in the baby’s life. After a few weeks of bribes (and him secretly stalking you) you finally make a deal with him. If he works from home he can take care of the baby during the day.

So you brought your baby to the Wayne Manor. You expected maybe a servant or maybe Bruce to answer the door. You were not expecting a young man to open the door. He had short shaggy black hair with an undercut and a K-pop hair style. He stared at you with his piercing blue eyes-

“Tim drake! That’s who you are! I used to love watching your let’s plays! I love your sense of humor!” Tim was surprised. Being the middle child (especially the middle boy) he often feels left behind by his siblings, so having someone notice his accomplishments for once felt nice.

“Drake. What are you looking-” a short boy came up behind the gamer. He had a darker complexion and slicked back black hair with piercing green eyes. You smiled at him and he straight up slammed the door in your and your baby’s face. Your eyes grew wide and your face fell into a scowl.

You heard shuffling from behind the door and when if opened you saw Tim holding the kid by the scruff of his collar as one would do with a misbehaving animal. “Sorry about that Miss.” Tim smiled at you. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I’m going to be late for work. Here give her to Bruce. Her name is Echo.” You give the baby to Tim. “Oh there you go. Support her head now.” You threw the bag in the small rude kids face. “Everything she needs is in there. I’ve left instructions inside for how to take care of her. If she doesn’t eat that much try tickling her tummy. I’ve labeled the extra bottles of her food so if she’s really hungry give her some and if it’s not enough call me I’ll get here as soon as I can. I don’t want her drinking any of that store bought crap. Understand?”

“Yes ma’am.” Tim smiled.

“Good.” You ruffled his hair. Then you turned to the younger boy. “Be good to my baby ya hear? Or else I’ll milk papa Bruce for every penny I can.” You ruffled his hair too. You then kissed your baby and went back to your car.

Tim shut the door and immediately Echo started crying. Bruce and Alfred came running at the noise.

“No… I missed her.” Bruce said. He looked at his three youngest kids. “Hey sweetheart.” Bruce tried to grab Echo. But Tim held her close. Everyone looked at him surprised.

“Father why did that rude lady drop off a baby.” Damian scowled.

“She’s not rude. She’s your future Step Mother.” Bruce smiled at the thought of your and his wedding. “Now Tim, give my baby here. She’s crying.”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean no?” Bruce seemed flabbergasted.

“She trusted me to hold her child. This is my baby sister.”

“Drake! Give father the baby. She’s being loud.” Damian covered his ears. Echo looked over at him and made a grabby hand gesture at him.

“It looks like she wants Master Damian’s attention.” Alfred pointed out.

“but-” Tim was cut off as Damian took the baby.

Echo’s cries grew quiet as her youngest older sibling held her. While Tim’s obsession with You and Echo became apparent almost immediately, giving him the praise his own family and the Media refused to, Damian’s was slow. It started with someone (echo) actually liking him. After all he went from being showered in attention under Talia’s thumb to being practically ignored at Wayne Manor.

Dick was by far the kindest to Damian, being a mentor to the young boy. But he could still bite back at Damian’s snark. Barbara and Stephanie took none of his crap, to the point where they barely spoke to him. Cass and Duke held no qualms about fighting with a kid. Jason was like a cool big brother and while he wasn’t at the manor often he always made most of his time there focused on the kid. Tim and Damian had a very strained relationship. And while Bruce loves Damian there’s always a bit of strain, and guilt on Bruce’s part. If he’d stayed with Talia maybe Damian wouldn’t have to grow up in a cesspool of Violence and mental agony.

“Back to your old ways of not wearing protection father?” Damian smirked.

“Damian… give me my Daughter.” Bruce said gently but firmly.

“Its nice to know you fought for her more than you fought for me. Though to be fair to you Ummi did shove us together.” He snarked as he held the baby who’d fallen asleep. Bruce went to grab her but Damian stepped back. “Ah ta ta. You wouldn’t want to disturb her right?” Damian smirked.

Over the next few hours Damian was mainly the one taking care of Echo if only to stop her from crying.

And at the end of the day when you finally got off work to pick up your sweet baby you were surprised to see Bruce, Damian, and Tim all playing with her in the living room. (What was more surprising was that her attention was mainly focused on the brat from this morning Damian.) She cooed as she saw you and you rushed to pick her up and gather her things into her bag.

Damian glared at you as you took Echo from his borderline iron clad grip. Who were you to take his sister, his blood sister mind you, away form him? (Her mother but we're not going to get into that right now.)

"Sweetness how about you just slow down. I'll have Alfred prepare you a drink. Which kind of tea do you like more Earl Gray or Jasmine." Bruce smiled and twiddled a piece of your hair in his hand.

You smacked his hand away. "No thank you. My baby and I need to get home." You said and quickly hurried out of there.

"Father you can't let her leave!" Damian said.

"Yeah! Don't you want that nice lady to be your wife?" Tim agreed.

"I was talking about Echo." Damian deadpanned.

Bruce ruffled both their heads. "Patience boys. Have a little faith in your old man." He smiled as you walked away. Before the month was out he'd have you and echo safely tucked away in his arms in the deepest recesses of Wayne Manor.

[4mrplumi]

( crow choir. entry one ) ── dust of snow ( m.s | prev/next )

author's note at the end

you have three brothers- no, two brothers. you’ve only heard of the third. you can hardly think of them as such, feeling traitorous to your old family… families. but you are also a lonely child, so you give them permission to be props of your plain life.

the eldest, with stark blue eyes and dimples at his near-permanent smiles is named richard grayson. he’d given you a warm grin the day you arrived, that somewhat wavered at the blank look you hoped you gave him. you don’t talk to him, but sometimes you wish you did.

you know nothing of the second, apart from his first name; jason. the usual answers to unasked questions, that piece together via general conversations, don’t form here, and you can’t be bothered to ask. you wonder where he is, does he not come to visit?

the youngest of the three is younger than you too, tim drake the butler says, by maybe one or two years, you never tried to figure it out. he came to the house about a few months after you arrived, but seems far more involved with bruce’s business than you ever will be (ever hope to be). there’s a familiar twitch to his brows, and you relate it to old inquisitive roommates, the ones that tried to figure you out without asking questions and always gave up eventually. 

it's a relief he doesn't even try at all.

it does feel a little odd, to not have to talk to anyone just to shoo them away. you strangely miss it, the feeling of being irritated at bothersome small talk. in the silence of the manor, which had not much for a child to do, you start to feel lonely

you've never felt lonely before. alone, yes, isolated, absolutely, but lonely? you've never wanted company. not from anyone who wasn't... forget it.

and thus, you're in an odd situation. you want to be a part of the family, but you have no interest in talking to them. why, the mere idea makes you sweat all over, and you prefer your few meals in your room.

you don't like it. wanting so badly to converse with your brothers, get to know them the way you knew your old previous foster-care siblings, but not being able to.

in your old houses, the children would be somewhat put into forced proximity, there was no choice other than to call out for company. you'd gotten absurdly used to being reached out to without having to do it yourself. your brothers must be busy, or you must be too quiet for them to notice you around.

so with all the courage you could muster, you crept up to an idle older brother, visiting after so long from bludhaven. you might implode from the short moment where he looked at you with confusion, not knowing who you are, before giving you a awkward smile of acknowledgement. no matter, it's not his fault.

he nods off your subtle attempt at asking for his time, maybe you're not being clear enough? it's enough to put you off, so you leave quickly after he gives you a small promise to talk later, maybe get out of the house for a while.

it's such a small thing, but it makes you embarrassed. you try to build up a little stubbornness, and look to find tim. but when you find him immersed deeply in a book, a journal of some sort, you decide otherwise and leave.

it's okay. you'll try again! when you're feeling better. better and livelier.

livelier.

your patterned quilt does little to keep away the monstrous cold of gotham's winter nights, and does it wreck though your nerves and leave you shivering.

the butler; alfred, had given you a good understanding of the room's systems, yet another thing that'd take time to get used to, and you knew the switches that would connect your vents to the central heating system.

but it feels so surreal, and the familiarity of huddling into your own ice cold limbs for warmth is a comfort you can't let go off just yet. you mustn't allow these new privileges to make you forget who you are. what you are, and what you deserve.

you recall a young boy in one of your old homes, discussing earnestly with your 'sisters' about what he'd do if he had all of gotham's money. the prospect of being filthy rich had always irked you to a small degree, to be well-off when others struggle. was it guilt? 

he'd gone on and on about the different things he'd get. a curly-haired poodle, a shining red bicycle, clothes that made him look like a proper gentleman, from a gentler city. you wonder solemnly where he is now, wishing you could share the fortunes you've been shoved into with him. someone who wanted it, deserved it.

deserving... deserving something is odd. whatever makes an individual deserving of something? the hardships they recieve, and the hardships they pass out?

you don’t remember your mother, having gained metaphorical consciousness at the age of six, when your sister started taking care of you instead. you made out from her teary, drunk mumblings that she was an awfully sophisticated woman. she’d colour herself with red blushes and redder lip stains, wear family jewels she refused to sell to her ‘business’ meetings. thin-framed glasses with the eyes of a vixen’s. 

what your sister muttered most about was her many nights away from home. one-sided conversations that plunged a small anchor to your heart, because you knew you were a product of one of them. 

when she was in a bitter mood, your sister never shied away from berating you for your existence. she, unlike you, was born in wedlock. yes, to an unhappy couple, who threw picture frames and cheap souvenirs at each other before splitting up, but she knew her father.

a ridiculously strange thing to hold above one’s head. “i knew my absent father. no one knows yours.” but your depraved heart and dull mind took it so deeply. so, so deeply. 

were those hardships? did you deserve them? others have it worse, right? so do you deserve this? this wealth?

now that you do know your father, you can’t help but resent the idea of knowing. did he know? that he left his child to an unbecoming family and an irresponsible sister? did he know that the guilt of starving your sister to eat yourself made you so incredibly weak-minded at the idea of being full? did he know that you refuse to switch the heater on in the cold, because you don’t know if your old foster siblings got the same luxury? all while the elites of gotham stay in their glasshouses with their rose gardens and wine cupboards.

you can’t put your finger to it. it’s not jealousy, it’s not resentment, it’s not hatred for his absence so far… is it guilt?

you don't know what to do with this abundance of luxury. you’ve lived a lifetime of pet mice from old caretakers, mice that died from the dust that creeped out of cracked floor boards and owls that haunted your window sills. a lifetime of reminiscing about a sobbing woman in your apartment, thinking about all your promises of providing a better life for her, only for her to die in front your eyes. a lifetime of wondering why mommy didn’t come back. why daddy's never there. who daddy even is.

someone else should have it. someone else should have the option to ask the butler for a piece of chocolate pastry at an odd time. to know about their father after countless days of not knowing him. to feel pretty in new dress suits after years of wearing the same two sets of clothes every week.

someone who deserves it more.

your sister.

you miss her.

small events make you change too fast for even your own liking. small things made you so desperately attached to your big sister, small things made you so frightened, so ill, to try to talk to brothers who barely knew you only by your shadow. small things made you tolerate your father more, and mourn the fact you couldn't ever connect to him the way the others did.

small, small things. that troubeled you too much, made you decide it was time to leave. running away from reality in the comfort of your mind when you zone out, is not much different from physically running away, right? troublesome things are not worth the trouble. so you'll run away, and you'll be free. of duties you were never given.

yet another one of gotham’s teenage misfortunes. who leaves a home of riches with a light mind, with the desires of soaring through lost years in gotham like the daftest of pigeons, with no worries or vows. they leave a home of blood and bonds with a heavy heart, lamenting that this time, the choice to leave a permanent, forever family lay on them. they left unspoken conversations unsaid, and imaginary memories within their imagination.

...but, these conversations, these fake memories, become the objects of obsession, for those left behind.

where's the little crow who stalked the corridors, whose naive, cloudy eyes watched from behind walls?

alfred, where's (name)?

INTERACTIONS AND REBLOGS VV APPRECIATED !! incase it was unclear, the sections jump around in the timeline. i did want to leave it to reader interpretation, but since this is the footer, there's no harm in explaining. "you have three brothers..." and "your patterned quilt does little..." are interchangeable within the plot. both are placed after tim's given the mantle of robin, but before jason's re-entry as the red hood. the last part however, is well after both, and damian's entry. anyway you can consider this entry as like, a vague plot summary? there's a lot that happens in between and after, most of the story is about after, but i like setting the ground for this stuff.

once again, if you are interested in the series, do interact! comments, reblogs, etc are so appriciated, to anyone who posts on tumblr! i'll try to get the next entry in soon, but i can't confirm anything!

thank you for reading!!

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfam x Neglected! Poison Ivy’s Daughter Reader)

Chapter Two

a/n: ahhh chapter 2 so soon already lol. you guys don’t want to see my drafts here. Is anyone interested? In being included in a taglist? For new chapters or any drabbles, I have of this AU.🥹 also yeah keep on requesting and asking!!

It had been three weeks since she woke up in the past. Three weeks since she found herself fourteen again, curled under green ivy wallpaper and the soft scent of lemon polish.

Three weeks since her second chance began—

And she had already started planning her escape.

They didn’t see it.

They never did.

At school, things were painfully normal. That made it somehow worse. A painful reminder of how much more awful her future will turn out to be.

Everyone still smiled at her.

Still waved.

Still called her “Sweetheart Wayne.”

She still helped someone pick up their dropped books. Still listened when her friend Layla cried about her math grade. Still gave her lunch to a boy who forgot his.

Her friends still adored her. Teachers still smiled. Boys still watched her from across the halls like she was a dream in a prestigious uniform—too pretty, too soft, too far away.

But none of them knew she’d already died once.

None of them knew what happened when her blood hit concrete.

She missed them. So much. The friends she used to trust. The way they looked at her before the world found out who she really was.

Back then, they didn’t know she was Ivy’s daughter. Didn’t know her veins carried chlorophyll. Didn’t know she could make vines grow from the cracks in the sidewalk if she got too scared.

They didn’t know.

And eventually… they would.

She remembered it too clearly. The way the news broke. The fear. The disgust. The headlines:

“Poison Ivy’s Hidden Heiress?”

“Gotham’s Sweetheart or Botanical Threat?”

“Is the Youngest Wayne Dangerous?”

Her friends had stopped calling. Her teachers had started flinching when she walked past. And Damian?

Damian didn’t say a word in her defense.

None of them did.

But at home, everything felt too sharp.

Too empty.

Too fake.

⸻

She didn’t speak much at breakfast anymore.

She used to chatter—about books, or school, or what flower bloomed near the garden gate. Hoping that her efforts would work and she would catch the family’s attention. At least a grasp of it. Now she sat silently at the far end of the table, sipping tea Alfred made, cutting fruit into perfect pieces she didn’t eat.

The boys noticed—barely.

Tim still read through breakfast. Jason still made jokes. Dick smiled, but he smiled at everyone. Bruce nodded to her once a day without so much as even looking at her. Damian ignored her unless prompted.

And none of them asked her what was wrong.

Which was fine.

They didn’t really want the answer anyway. And she grew to accept that.

⸻

They kept her away from the cave. That part hadn’t changed even in the past.

She wasn’t allowed in the Batcave. No training. No patrols. Bruce insisted on keeping her out of it all.

“She’s too gentle,” he had said once when the 8-year-old girl tried to join her brother’s training to spend time with them.

“She doesn’t belong in the field.”

She used to cry over that.

Now she was grateful.

Because they thought she didn’t know.

But she did.

She always had.

Batman. Nightwing. Red Hood. Red Robin. Robin.

It wasn’t hard to connect the dots when she grew up watching them disappear into the night and return with bruises, bandaged ribs, blood on their boots. They thought she was soft. Maybe she was, but she wasn't stupid.

But they never asked what she wanted. Never asked if she could handle the truth.

They made that choice for her, like everything else. They decided to keep her separated from the rest of the family. Away from them. On purpose.

⸻

Friday. After school.

She returned early, bag slung over her shoulder, scarf wrapped tight. The burner phone was still safely tucked inside, loaded with apartment listings and false names.

She found Alfred in the study, polishing old books.

“Alfie,” she said softly, brushing hair from her eyes. “Can I ask something?”

He turned toward her, instantly warm. “Of course, my dear.”

She hesitated. “I was wondering if I could… access my trust. Some of it, I mean.”

Alfred’s hand froze on the book spine.

His expression didn’t shift. Not yet. But his eyes went very still.

“That’s an unusual request,” he said carefully. “Might I ask why?”

“I… just want to put some of it away,” she said lightly. She was trying not to reveal her true intentions. “Maybe to… get a place of my own. One day. I think it would be good for me to learn independence.”

“Independence,” he echoed. “At fourteen?”

She smiled, soft and sweet—perfectly practiced. “Not right now. I mean eventually. I just want to be ready.”

Alfred was silent for a long moment.

“Would you like me to bring it up with Master Bruce?”

“No,” she said too quickly. “Please don’t. I’d rather… keep this between us for now.”

Another long pause.

His heart was racing. Not that she could see it.

“Very well, Miss Y/N. Let me see what I can arrange.”. His words were spoken strangely slow.

She nodded politely and walked away. Quiet, distant, obedient. But Alfred was already reaching for the phone in his coat as soon as the door shut behind her.

The door closed behind her with a gentle click.

Alfred Pennyworth stood in the study, a book still in his hand, but it may as well have been made of glass for how tightly his fingers curled around it.

She had asked for her trust.

Sweet little Miss YN—quiet as spring rain, gentle as morning light—had looked up at him with that soft, practiced smile and asked for her inheritance.

Not for shopping.

Not for school trips.

Not for anything a girl her age should want.

She asked because she wanted to leave.

And Alfred… felt something break.

He didn’t move for a full minute. He just stood there, staring at the shelves like they’d rearranged themselves into a puzzle he didn’t want to solve. Then slowly, mechanically, he set the book down.

He removed his gloves.

He took a breath.

And then he walked.

———

Down the hall. Down the lift. Into the cave.

The sound of keys clacking and systems humming filled the air as Bruce stood at the main console, half-focused on security feed rotations and GCPD chatter.

“Alfred?” Bruce didn’t look up.

“I need a word with you, Master Bruce.”

Bruce tapped another command into the screen. “Is it about Jason? I’ve seen the new scars. Or Damian—he got another detention, didn’t he?”

“No.”

Bruce paused, finally turning.

Alfred’s hands were behind his back, his jaw tight.

“…Tim, then?”

“No.”

Bruce frowned. “Then—?”

“It’s about your daughter.”

Bruce blinked. Once. “Cass?”

“No.”

There was a long silence.

Alfred’s eyes didn’t waver.

Bruce inhaled slowly, his mouth tightening into a thin line. “…YN.”. Annoyance in his tone.

Alfred gave a single, sharp nod. “Yes. Sweetheart.”

Another silence. This one heavier.

Bruce folded his arms. “What about her?”

Alfred took a step forward.

“She asked for access to her trust today.”

Bruce shrugged. “She’s old enough to start budgeting.”

“She asked because she wants to move out.”

That made him freeze.

“…What?”

“Not in a year. Not after high school. She’s looking now.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed, but there was no urgency in his voice. “We can talk to her. Maybe she’s just trying to feel more independent. She’s shy, not rebellious.”

In his mind was the image of the trembling doe-eyed toddler grabbing his leg with an adorable tightness.

This little girl would clearly not think about moving out and living on her own. Bruce was sure this was just another way for the child of his to grasp his attention.

Alfred’s voice dropped. Cold, unshakable. “She’s planning to leave, Master Bruce. And I believe she’s already halfway gone.”

Bruce opened his mouth—then stopped.

Something in Alfred’s tone was off.

It was stern.

Disapproving. Disgusted.

That was rare.

That was dangerous.

“She’s not asking to spread her wings. She’s not seeking adventure,” Alfred continued. “She’s slipping through our fingers. And none of you have noticed.”

“I’ve—”

“No, sir,” Alfred cut in, quiet and brutal. “You haven’t. When was the last time you spoke to her? Not ‘good morning,’ not ‘pass the salt.’ Spoke to her.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, slow and tight.

“She was two when we took her in,” he muttered. “Tiny. Always clinging to Alfred’s pant leg. And now she’s—what? Fourteen?” He shook his head, rubbing his temple. “I must have blinked.”

“You didn’t blink,” Alfred said flatly. “You turned away.”

That landed.

And Alfred wasn’t done.

“She has spent her life trying to be part of this family. Smiling when no one smiled back. Sitting at a table where no one asked about her day. Laughing at jokes not meant for her. She came home today and asked me for money to escape.”.

Alfred knew that he was spinning the truth a bit. His little girl had not used these exact words. But he would be stupid if he could not read her. Watching her emotions mirroring in her eyes every time when Dick would reject her requests of doing activities together. Or how she flinched at Damian’s harsh words towards her. When Jason had his anger outbursts how she tried to not take his words personally. Or when Bruce and Tim forgot to include her for family gatherings, like she was not a member of the family. Her small form was watching from outside the door. All the times she cried to Alfred when no one remembered or showed up for her birthday or any school events.

“…Escape?” Bruce echoed. “Why would she think—”

“Because no one has loved her properly, sir.”

That broke something.

Bruce looked away, jaw clenched. “She’s been safe. Fed. Protected. She’s not part of our missions—she doesn’t need to be exposed to our world.”

“She lives in your world whether you like it or not,” Alfred said. “And she has spent the last three weeks walking through this manor like a ghost.”

Bruce’s fingers tightened.

Alfred took another step. “When Jason dies, we move heaven to bring him back. When Damian lashes out, we build a world to soften him. When Dick falters, we cradle him until he stands again. But YN—your daughter, your blood—fades quietly, and no one even asks why.”

Bruce turned, sharply now. “Why would she want to leave? She has everything here—security, comfort—”

“She has nothing but fear,” Alfred snapped. “She eats breakfast like she’s performing. She smiles like a servant. She hasn’t smiled at Master Damian in three weeks—and he’s noticed.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you think it’s odd she doesn’t try anymore? Doesn’t linger near any of them? She was always soft. Gentle. She adored them—even when they ignored her. And now she avoids them like they’re strangers.”

Bruce’s chest ached, a dull, blooming pain behind his ribs. He didn't know why.

“You always said she was safe,” Alfred said quietly. “But tell me, Master Bruce: what kind of child asks to leave their home at fourteen?”

Silence.

Bruce sat down hard at the console, eyes unfocused.

What had happened?

He remembered the toddler. Bright eyes. Ivy in her hair. The way she clung to Alfred’s leg and called him Alfie in a whisper. He remembered thinking she was fragile. Too gentle. That it was better to keep her out of the chaos.

So he did.

He kept her out of it. Out of the danger.

And in doing so… kept her out of them and their lives.

And now she wanted to go.

He looked down at the monitors.

One showed the upper hall outside her room. She wasn’t visible, but he could sense her—quiet, hidden, watching.

“…Find out how long she’s been planning,” Bruce said at last. “And keep an eye on her transactions. Discreetly.”

“Of course,” Alfred said, his voice once again cool. But his eyes were sharper than Bruce had seen in years.

This wasn’t just concern.

This was something else.

Maybe protection…. or possessiveness?

Because no matter how many times the family had let her drift away, Alfred had always seen her.

Even if he was acting selfishly, he wasn’t going to lose her now.

[nikovraskol]

crack baby ; six

wc ; 3539 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ?

tw ; mentions of death and suicide, abuse, cursing, neglect, mentions of violence

prologue, one, two, three, four, five, six, tbc..

It was warm, unnaturally – almost grotesquely – warm for a city such as Gotham, a city whose soul had long since fossilized into soot and shadow, yet, on that particular day, the sun, like a hesitant, long-suffering god, peered between the clouds and cast its light upon the grizzled streets. The city, always brooding and penitential, seemed briefly baptized in grace; mothers pushing prams, the laughter of teenagers gossiping and gasping echoed like a hymn, and in the corners—the unavoidable corners—those same familiar shadows where figures, too skittish to be innocent, were tailed by officers who had seen too much and believed too little.

Your heart, a disobedient thing, beat not with trepidation, but something much more innocent as you stared at the woman before you, “It’s been a while, (Name).” Your mother smiled, her face had changed – that’s the first thing you noticed as you took her in. Your dear mother, you never thought you’d see her again. Her face has lost it's sickly pallor and her eyes seemed more alive – the whole air around her was more vibrant, warm, it filled you with a familiar joy, a joy you thought you’d outgrown. “You’ve grown.”

“I guess have.. I– I missed you, I missed you, mama.” You say, your voice much more childlike than usual – you’re not sure you’ve sounded this joyful since, well, since you left her to live with Bruce, “so, have you been released.. permanently?”

“I have.. I realised something important while in that hospital,” Your mother begins, her eyes drifted from your form to the park where residents of this forsaken city roamed, each person was living their own life with their own thoughts and their own experiences, “I’ve come to enjoy life as it is, I lived my life in resentment, hating those who hurt me.. By living with that anger, I forgot those who were important.”

Silence stretched between the two of you, her eyes softened as she lowered her head, “My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.” Her words struck you, an apology. But truthfully, you’d never craved an apology from her. You’d lived with a heart that beat with the desire for acknowledgement every day, with the idea that one day, one of those disgusting bastards will reach out and apologise, that they’ll admit their faults and see their errors. 

But an apology from your mother? Why? You understood that – fundamentally – she’d hurt you the most, physically – but she had spent her twenties working to provide for you, you don’t know half of what she did to keep you fed and warm, but you knew it wasn’t easy, because you were the one to care for her when she’d pass out, when her mood would switch. She hurt you, but she hurt herself more in exchange.

“Mama..” You begin, your hand reached out to comfort her – perhaps? But she beat you to it, looking up with an expression you couldn’t describe, because you’d never seen it on anyone. Not her, not Bruce, not even on yourself. It looked content, perhaps thats the only word to describe it, though even that wasn't accurate.

“(Name), I won’t see you again, I’m going to go live on your Grandpa’s farm, I’m going to be happy. I’m truly sorry, (Name).” She sighed, her hands gently snaked around you as she embraced you tightly, your head instinctively fell onto her shoulders, her touch was a benediction to your sorrowful existence, “Mama’s proud of you, (Name). I know you suffered, it was scary, huh?”

Her voice starts to feel distant, muffled, like you’re talking through a glass wall even though she was holding you, cradling you, just as you had wished all this time. Your hands immediately went to clutch onto her, clinging to the last memory of her that you’ll ever experience.

“(Name), don’t give up, don’t give in.” Her voice suddenly took on a strange edge, suddenly warping into something that sounded nothing like her – something had alienated this precious memory. This wasn’t how the memory goes – no, she’s supposed to say goodbye, leave you with a kiss on your forehead– “Don’t forget who you are, and what they did to you. (Name), be strong.”

Then – she disappeared, not metaphorically, literally turning into nothing – your body instinctively falls, you reach out with a gasp, but nothing comes out because your voice is gone, the ground turns to nothing before you can hit it, plunging you into an abyss of darkness, a darkness so looming it feels like judgement. It’s scary, you can’t feel anything but the pressure against your ear as you try to scream, the words clawing in your larynx like a stubborn cat, refusing to come out.

Then you wake up, your eyes blurring until your surroundings turn into a mix of colours and visible sounds. Blinking rapidly, you realise you’ve been crying. When did you fall asleep? You tucked yourself in?

With a glance down you realise you’d been crying straight into the teddy bear your mother gave you, clutching it so tightly that you’d accidentally reopened a hole in the tattered fabric.

“Oh,” your voice is hoarse, rough against your throat, cracking across the edges of each syllable, “I’ll have to stitch it back up...”

You strike the back of your head against the cold wall behind you —once, twice — the dull thud echoing through your skull like the toll of some distant bell, and with that sound, you break loose from your daze —memories, spectral and uninvited, poured in, each one gnawing at your ribs with merciless familiarity, reminding you of your twisted situation. What a sweet dream, oh, how you miss your mother, but you’re not granted the grace to mourn her, not when your world is collapsing around you – you’re sure that if you break down now, you won’t be able to pick yourself back up in time.

But – that dream poses the immediate question you’ve been trying to avoid, she shouldn’t have died, no, she should’ve gotten better, moved to Grandpa’s farm and lived happily, lived so peaceful it’s almost comical. So what happened? You’ve known that something fundamental changed the moment you came here because you’ve never in your life experienced such attention. Every five minutes somebody is materialising around you with that smug air of arrogance and a mocking “are you okay?” You had barely begun to live in this new reality, you’d just started dreaming dreams of a less shameful future, and already the seams are coming apart.

It’s sickening, so disgusting it makes you want to puke, you really hate them.

“Oh. The letter.” You suddenly remember, you were going to read it, what happened? Fuck, your limbs feel heavy – you feel as if they were filled with molten lead; each movement a betrayal of will. Rolling over your bed like some wounded animal, you reached for the crumpled letter. After flailing your hand around you gather all your energy to slump over the edge of the bed, reaching for the discarded letter.

A wave of shame swept through you at the sight of its abused form. Was there nothing in your life you could preserve? You’re unable to keep anything she gives you clean. Even after death, you continue to defile her memories. What a terrible child you are

You’re about to finally read it, when you notice something is off, something’s moved, and then—like the blade of a guillotine—it strikes you.

Where is the money your mother gave you?!

You tumble off the bed as you lurch forward, your head hitting the hardwood floor, though the dull ache that follows immediately seeps into background noise as you practically crawl under your bed. You rifle through the flotsam of the life you once lived: discarded sketchbooks, old boxes, empty bottles—all there. All untouched. Except the one thing that mattered.

But the money you got from your mother? The parting gift she gave you – it’s gone! You try to cry out—but your voice fails you. A stammer weakly slips off your throat. A series of sounds that were neither words nor screams, but something closer to spiritual gagging.

How could this have happened? Who the hell in the Manor would steal from you?

Dick was the last one here, but you saw him leave, or you’re sure you did. Jason hasn’t been in the Manor for months.. during the day at least, you can’t fathom the idea of Damian stooping down to stealing money from you, and you can’t begin to reason why Tim, Cass or Duke would do anything like this. And Bruce.. Well, why the hell would a billionaire steal money from his underage child. You’d hope Batman would have more pride.

You shoot up, your breath ragged, your legs trembling like some emaciated fawn just learning to stand. You reach for the door, hand trembling. Locked. Locked!? The knob jostled in vain, once, twice—then with the ferocity of despair, you threw yourself at it. The wood groaned, but did not yield, you fell backward, spine hitting the floor with a thud that feels biblical and a pathetic yelp that echoes in the room.

You feel an itch form underneath your skin.

“What the–” You feel your breath pick up at an unhealthy pace, “it’s fine, we’re fine, I’m fine… I'm sure I have a key in here, somewhere.”

Except you don’t.

You tore through the room like a madman, dismantling your life drawer by drawer, box by box. Nothing. The walls themselves seemed to leer at you with amusement as you forage for the damned key, pushing past everything that resembles the pathetic child you once were.

Something feels strange in the way your room is laid out, perhaps it’s paranoia or the lingering effects of going back in time but you’re sure something in your room’s changed. Something feels off. Though, you’re too shaken up to analyse any further.

A miserable sound of panic escapes you as you frantically try the door again, locked. Biting your lip your eyes zero in on your window – except that’s fucking locked too. Why would anybody do this? Which clown has decided to take amusement through messing with you? Why can’t you have one good thing happen to you without a catastrophe following? 

Not one good thing has come since you’ve turned back time.

Mockery. That’s what this is, you’re sure. You can picture them  – all sat together in the Batcave as they mock your helplessness. Well screw them! You’ve spent one lifetime too many chasing after idols you’d cultivated in your mind because your mind is all you had, people you’d glorified because you can’t become one of them, family who see no value in you. You won’t let yourself be mocked anymore!

Except, what the hell are you supposed to do?

With gritted teeth you change tactics, springing up and running to your desk, you push through piles of revision from the school you're supposed to be attending at sixteen to the side as you reach for an inconspicuous container full of things you don’t need but shouldn’t waste either, you pull out two bobby pins as though they are a gift from the divine, salvation via desperation. You learnt to pick locks through social media, you saw a video three years ago.. You’ll probably do fine, it’s not like the technique’s changed.

You fiddle with one of the bobby pin until one side of the pin is a straight metal piece, you take off the rubber tip, curve the other end of it into a handle, before taking the other pin and bending it in a right angle – you then place the pin acting as the key on the bottom of the lock, you turn it gently, as the other pin – the pick – slides in to press against the top of the lock to lift each little pin inside, your tongue protrudes slightly, absurdly, as if your entire soul had become focused on this single act of resistance.

Then—a click. A deafening click that makes your shoulders relax.

Triumph surged in your chest like fire, the pride that fills you is so heavy you’re sure it’s been added to your ever growing list of sins.

You brush your hands proudly, open the door and –..

Your father is on the other side, looking grim, like an executioner carrying the final verdict.

“(Name).” That voice—deep, grave, steeped in something you cannot name—slithers down your spine and sinks its teeth in, you suddenly feel like that pathetic child you just condemned moments before. He doesn’t look pleased as he peers down on you. What is this? He’s unhappy with you. Is he going to hit you? “I think we need to sit down.”

You feel numb, it’s almost a routine at this point, the world narrows like the throat of a noose as his words passing through you like wind through a corpse

It’s a routine you’re slowly getting sick of, you take a single, minuscule step toward something resembling a future where you’re free, and like clockwork, the unseen machinery of this place pulls you back — snapping its teeth around your ankle and dragging you into the same suffocating loop. Was this fate? Providence? Or merely cruelty with a well-pressed suit?

Seeing Bruce Wayne sat at your desk, his large frame hunched forward like some weary confessor  – elbows on his knees, hands clasped together – in your room, surrounded by band posters and notes of upcoming exams, it’s surreal, this whole experience is surreal. It’s an almost entertaining juxtaposition, Bruce Wayne, the monolith of Gotham, sat amongst the joy of silly teenage knick-knacks.

“So, (Name), I–” He begins, his voice solemn, almost mournful, the way one speaks of some distant misfortune one cannot be bothered to change, “I thought I told you that if you want to leave the Manor to go out, you need to inform me first, you’re still a child–.”

That’s what this is about? A sudden nausea you're becoming increasingly familiar with climbs your throat as you recount the feeling you felt in that hospital. The memory of that institution's air curls in your mouth — the sterile scent of resignation, the nurse’s pained expression, the way her words had coiled around your heart like barbed wire. 

Had she died before you’d returned in time? Or had your very presence shifted the trajectory of time? But how? What force had you disturbed? Because as it stands, you’ve done nothing out of the ordinary – they’re the ones acting weird... Have you killed her?

“..-- Are you listening to me?” His voice interrupts your thoughts before they can further unravel your mind. “Oh, right. Sorry.” You say halfheartedly, you’ve got deeper problems than whatever crisis this bastard’s going through, his concerns felt small, like gnats buzzing around a carcass.

He sighs deeply through his nose like you’re some burden he bores out of nobility, his fingers massage his temples as he steadies you with a gaze, “(Name), I understand that you’re growing up, but I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. You’re much too young to be going out without informing anyone, and you’re also much too young to be moving out – ..living alone.” The last words are pronounced with a bitterness you don't miss.

You blink, oh, right. That was the original plan, you’d forgotten about it through all the madness that had transpired, that hopeful thought seemed so far away, dimmed by – whatever this mess was.

“Are you deciding this now?” You ask bitterly, the dull ache from when you had hit your head intensifying, simply solidifying the impotence you feel, “You’re a bit too late, Bruce.” You make sure to enunciate her syllable of his name. Screw this guy, acting like a father!

He winces, if only slightly. But he recovers quickly, the way all practiced liars do, “Listen, (Name), I understand we may have had some.. misunderstandings in the past, but I do care for you, I don’t think you’re ready for the responsibility that comes with living alone, I want the best for you.”

For a moment, you’re transported through time once more, standing centre-stage at a school play, countless people in the audience, your classmates besides you, singing some absurd ballad about seasons, the weather, and vegetables. The hot, radiant lights of your school’s stage blinded your eyes as you bit back tears, nobody noticed the way your voice trembled, nor your sniffles that were drowned by the choir of innocent children  – because nobody was looking at (Name), everyone came for their own child – everybody but Bruce Wayne, who Alfred had promised would come.

Among a sea of cheap cameras, murmured coos and the song that spilled from your lips like a memory – only you were alone. That is what you remember, that is what you know.

“Is this what this is all about? I don’t have – I don’t have the time for this, Bruce.” You feel so.. numb. The words he spoke – they would have once filled you with joy, you would’ve fallen to the ground, crying and thanking him as if he’d given you some sort of grace by doing simply what was expected, but those are just the ordinary words a father should say, he shouldn't get praise for doing what he's morally obliged to do, he isn’t allowed to show up and play daddy whenever it benefits him.

“You don’t have time for this, huh?” His voice took on an edge of seriousness, his eyes bore into you in a way that made your hairs stick on end – it was a similar look to that of Dick’s, like you’d said something wrong by wanting freedom, like you’re wrong for stepping out of the mold of the child that yearned for attention. Bruce’s head tilted as though he is thinking deeply, eyes still trained on you, he speaks carefully, “Is there something bothering you? You know you can tell me anything, I am your father, after all.”

“.. Did you know that mama’s killed herself?” You truly didn’t mean to ask that, to be so blunt, you’re honestly scared of how well you’re taking this. Though you also know it’s only a matter of time before your subconscious can’t take anymore, avoidance will do you no good.

Bruce’s expression shifted, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly before he schools it into something akin to pity. Disgusting. “I’m sorry, (Name), I had no idea.. truly, that’s awful.” He reaches forward, perhaps to comfort you but you physically recoil, afraid of those rough hands that have mangled so many criminals, afraid of the memories of your mother getting angry at the mention of him, afraid of the fact that she was indeed correct in every assumption about the man before you.

His outstretched palm hovers in the air awkwardly for a moment before he drops it with a sigh, “..If there’s anything you need, I–”

“I want my money back.” You say firmly, hands clenching until your nails dig into your skin, until you feel a burn crawling up your veins, blood rushing like truth, “Mama left me money, and– I want you to let me leave. I don’t want to stay here anymore.”

The air shifts, and his worried expression hardens for a second, it’s so quick you’d have missed it, if not for the sudden heaviness in the air crushing you down like some invisible force, tightening around your neck until you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t–

“I understand your grief, (Name), I really do,” Bruce sighs, standing up with a soft grunt before looking down at you like a judge would look at a perpetrator, his judgement final – his voice the gavel that will ensnare you. “But you’re clearly talking out of mourning, let’s not do anything rash yet.” 

He truly takes you in at that moment, his poor child, how sad you must feel. His eyes study each of your features like an artist taking in his greatest piece, the way your brows furrow, the miserable pout on your lips, the sheen in your eyes. As he examines the weight of your sadness, the shape of your anger, the line of your suffering he’s taken back to that rainy day, when you were broken, bloodied – staring at the world with your sad eyes – like you’d already given up on life. 

“We can discuss the matter of your money at a later date, (Name), take some time to rest – if you need anything else.. that isn’t leaving, you need only ask.”

You feel a heavy sense of justice overtake you at his wording, causing you to straighten up with a glare that you're sure doesn't affect him.

“You took the money?”

“I have the money.”

“So who took it?”

He looked away thoughtfully before ruffling your hair, causing a genuine sickness to crawl up your stomach, you swallow down the bile.

“Don’t worry about that, just focus on getting better.”

You watch his back as he walks away, you can’t hear his footsteps, you can’t feel his presence – the moment he leaves your line of sight you feel as though he was never there. And then you get up too – because you’re sure you’re about to throw up

yeah uh, dropping chapter six the very next day, ladies, ladies one at a time

i dropped some alnst references in here teeheehee :3.

I CANT WRITE DIALOGUEEEEE. also like i dont know if i maade it obvious but (name) is a very unreliable narrator. i do NOT CONDONE abuse yall dont hit yo children

taglist; @beyondblissxoxo @jjsmeowthie @vanessa-boo @delias-stuff @d3nnji @wizzerreblogs @lilyalone @strawbrysapphic @regulus-things @iimichie @meepmoopbadabeepboop @eloriis @froggy-voidd @shycreatorreview @wassupbroski55555 @eyeless-kun @anakilusmos @devotedlyshamelessdetective @peehall @bigeyedbambi @chaeugwi ii @lover-girl009 @lostsomewhereinthegarden @bunniotomia @d3ly-p4v @moonstonedust24 @girlithinkimgay @snailpebbles @fandomly-obsessed @kitkatkitmeow @the-holy-pigeon @depressed-bitchy-demon @staarflowerr @imhere2dosomething @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue @glitchmshade @teabutnerdy @type-ink @goodsoup19 @asianfrustration13 @c4xcocoa @twismare @confusedparticle @nininehaaa @cssammyyarts @bronermalls @whaaaaaaaaat111 @icryat2 @bp-the-chilly @ratterpatter

[sparrows4bats]

Soft Pycho Jon AU

When Jon Kent came back from being trapped in a volcano. He came back changed. Not only was he older and more traumatised, but he fixated on his family and friends like they were the very reason for living.

He had been tempered from that kind little boy they knew to something a little harder, a little more ruthless.

It's not that big of an issue for a long time. While overprotective and a little possessive, Jon is still reasonable. Until the moment he's not.

Jon Kent is not easy to push to the edge.

He has support, people to turn to, and coping mechanisms.

But, he also has a temper. One that is ignited when his loved ones are in danger.

One Day, his best friend is taken, Jon can't find his heartbeat and no matter how hard his family search they can't find him.

All of the bats are frantic and worried. They tear Gotham apart in their search. All of the rogues know a robin is missing, and they know to stay low until he is found.

Jon is unhinged.

The longer Damian is gone, the longer one of Jons anchors to his humanity is missing the more intense he gets. His eyes are permanently red, and no one who looks at him sees anything but the apex predator he is.

The longer Damian is gone, the more humanity he loses.

Clark and Kon try to get him to calm down, but it doesn't work. Lois doesn't bother. She just helps her son search.

Batman watches as Jon deteriorates little by little with apprehension.

It's three weeks before Jon hears Damians heartbeat again. It's faint, but Jon can hear it. Jon is there in less than three seconds.

Damian is crawling, covered in blood, and open wounds out of a bunker in the Siberian wilderness. A knife clutched in his clearly broken hand.

Jon arrives just in time to kill the four men that chase him.

The Son of Superman has no regret or remorse as he leaves their bodies in the snow.

Damian watches him through swollen eyes, voice raspy as he asks Jon, "Are you real?"

Jon picks him up carefully and whispers reassurances as Damian collapses in his arms.

Jon brings him to the hospital in Metropolis first. The Batcave doesn't have the supplies or expertise for the amount of damage Jon is seeing littered across Damians' body.

The Batman sighs in relief when Jon calls from the waiting room to tell him Damian is very injured but alive. Bruce asks what happened, and Jon answers.

He is silent after Jon describes the bunker and how he killed Damians captors before he could get any information.

Jon hangs up before he can say more. He doesn't care.

Hours later, when Damian wakes up, he doesn't believe any of his family is real, that he is safe for a long time.

He grips Jons hand like a lifeline as he cries, begging for it to be real. Begging him to stay.

Jon never leaves Damians' side. He refuses.

Both their fathers try to separate them, but Damian starts to cry and dissociate. It terrifies everyone present because Damian doesn't do that. Ever.

Jon almost physically fights his Dad, heat vision barely restrained as Damians sobs fill his ears like bombs.

The only thing that holds him back is Damians hand in his. So he takes a breath and tells all of them.

"He asked me to stay, I don't care about anything else."

His tone of voice is so resolute, and his expression is so menacing that even Batman fights a flinch.

Needless to say, they don't try again it for a while.

Jon just lies in bed with Damian, cramped as it is, so his Robin can sleep without nightmares.

Damian never tells them exactly what happened, just that he was drugged, and when he woke up, he was on something like fear toxin for much too long. Bruce takes samples of his blood and crafts an antidote that helps calm Damian but doesn't undo all of the damage.

Eventually, Damian is moved from the hospital to the Manor. Jon doesn't protest, just follows.

Jon is almost constantly in physical contact with Damian now, keeping him grounded. They sleep in the same bed every night and are glued together for two months straight.

Clark gave up on trying to get his son to come home. He and Lois call both boys daily instead.

When Damian is ready, he braves the outside world again. He starts to resume his routine from before his time in the bunker. Jon follows.

The Super glares at anyone who gets too close. He growls at the man who walks into Damian by accident. Damian doesn't seem to mind at all.

Everyone expects them to go back to normal, and in some ways, they do. Damian goes back to work at the hospital. Jon works while he is on shift. The son of Superman returns to saving lives.

In a lot of ways, Damian going missing changes things forever. Jon holds Damian closer and guards him like the most precious thing in the world. The need to keep all his precious people safe more apparent than ever.

Especially after Jon finds out who ordered Damians capture.

The only thing left of them was the blood on Jons suit, which Alfred helped him clean in silence. Jon knows Damians' siblings' suspect, but going by the approving glint in their eyes, they won't bring it up to Bruce.

Not that the World's Greatest Dectective could prove much anyway.

It isn't surprising when Jon tells Damian he loves him, nor is it when Damian kisses him while they lay together, trying to fall asleep.

Bruce looks worried when they announce their relationship but is all too aware of the consequences should he try to interfer.

Jon has proven the lengths he will go to.

[thatonemacaronikid]

Ok I've got a cute batfam idea and I wanted to share.

Bruce gets all of his kids earlier than cannon, but he only ever finds out about them in one specific park.

When he first went to that park as Bruce Wayne he saw a poster for Haley's circus, he decides to check it out one night, comes back with a child.

Of course at the moment this is nothing else but a tragedy, and Bruce forgets about the park.

But about a year or so later he is in that park again after chasing some criminals in there as Batman, after catching them and tying them up for the police he makes his way back to the batmobile to find three out of four wheels missing and one freaked the fuck out kid.

He takes him home.

After this Bruce takes a minute to realize it's the same park where he saw the poster but adds it all up to a coincidence.

Until another year or so he takes Dick and Jason to the same park for some family quality time, as the two boys chase each other around the playground Bruce notices a small little boy staring at him from behind a bench, he approaches the kid since he seems too young to be there all alone, when he asks where his parents are the kid simply answers "Egypt", when he asks if there's someone else looking after him he just shakes his head

Bruce takes another kid home that day.

Now Bruce is starting to notice a little bit of a pattern, but again chops it up to coincidences.

Until he's once again in the same park chasing after a possible drug deal happening there when he hears rustling in some bushes, deciding to investigate he finds a savage little girl holding a knife and covered with blood.

He cautiously takes her to the cave, but soon she's welcomed to the home.

Now Bruce is starting to notice something, he decides he needs to be a bit more careful whenever he end up in that park.

But then some months later the kids insist on going there to play in the playground, Bruce caves in and takes them over, not even 20 minutes in Tim and Cass come running towards him hand in hand with a little blonde girl wearing a purple hoodie.

He does not take her home with him, but that doesn't stop her from coming over every other day, and she's always welcome.

Bruce has of course at this point accepted that this park is blessed cursed, considering he got four and a half kids from it, he decides to try to evade it just in case he somehow get four and a half more.

That is until he gets a message from Talia asking him to meet up at that exact park, he sighs, leaves, comes back with a baby.

Bruce decides to evade that park as much as he can unless it's for an absolute emergency.

Until about 3 year later he has to go to the park for a fund raiser event, in which toddler Damian sneaks away for a good 30 minutes, frantically Bruce runs through the entire park just to find Damian playing ball with another older boy in a yellow shirt.

Much like Steph he does not take him home with him, but the kid is always welcome in the manors walls along with the rest of his children.

Bruce has no idea how or why all of his children essentially spawned in the same park, and he's kind of given up on evading it, in the future his kids might joke about the coincidences and claim the park as their "spawn point" but for now, as surprising and stressful as they were, Bruce is completely grateful and happy with all of his children that that park provided.

[euphoria-looney]

Thank you... for playing with me.

Batfam x F!Reader Squid Game AU

m.list|prev|fin.

"Hyeya, how are you trying to leave me? You mercilessly say goodbye with those smiling eyes. Killing me and taking my breath away. The happiness that melody once gave us is still so bright. Please don't leave me, don't leave me" 'Y Si Fuera Ella' by Jonghyun (SHINee).

Divider Creds: @cafekitsune and @k1ssyoursister

It was too late, she was nothing but anther body covered in blood. All those false promises of getting her out of there were for nothing.

Barbara stopped typing for a moment. Was it even worth it now? The silence from the intercom was deafening.

Until a static cut it.

“How close are we from finding the destination?”

“A minute”

She said out loud, It's a little sad now. She was so close yet so far if [name] had held out for a few more minutes.

“Then we’ll have to get a move on.”

“This is the game place, it's giving me the creeps.” Stephanie shuttered, they finally managed to find the damn place and two were left uninformed that someone who resided among them once was dead.

“You can say that again, I think what sucks even more than that though is the amount of people we lost, damn Court of the Owls…” Cassandra followed, then finally finished their section of searching for people and headed back to the main room.

“Find anything?” Bruce asked. The others seemed tense, he did, too, but he always did. That's if you didn't know him very well. His kids, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow.

“No… I heard [name] was here. I hope she's recovering well. Can we visit her?”

"About that, there's no way to say this, [name]'s dead."

Sometimes it was hard for Jason to sleep with all his trauma keeping him up at night.

Sometimes he’d walk to the manor kitchen if that night he decided to stay the night, maybe grab a glass of water, and hope that would calm his nerves.

Sometimes he'd see [name] there, she always looked in a daze and wouldn’t notice him.

Sometimes he'd want to talk to her.

But he’d never go for it, as he was tired, and she was a daughter of the woman who took advantage of Bruce.

Today, he decided to go for it, just his luck, she was right there.

He approached and tapped her on her shoulder, and before she could turn around-

His alarm went off.

It’s been a month since he has seen her alive. To be fair, though, he could visit her every day if he wanted to; her gravestone won’t be moving anytime soon, and neither would she.

Jason sat up and rubbed his eyes,  he looked around and nothing had changed. If anything everyday was normal, a quiet house as you’d imagine vigilantes don’t make that much sound and it’s ingrained in them, making it the norm for their gothic mansion to be silent.

But just a few years ago would he wake up, not from his alarm but rather the sound of a girl running up and down and making something in the kitchen, and while it should have made him a little annoyed, he felt at peace at times, maybe this is what a normal life would be like, waking up to go to school rather than suiting up and making sure that Gotham was safe.

And so the first month without it, weird but whatever. A year, used to the silence now. Now, three years later. Why, he can’t help but miss it.

As he finally made up his mind to get his day started he passed the family portrait, but she wasn't there, he never minded before, so today should be no different…  at least it should be.

He couldn’t be melodramatic, though; he couldn’t just pass her room and reminisce about false memories as she was hidden away in that lousy guest room, out of sight, out of mind.

For once, he decided that he’d go to that hallway, to the room, and take a peek.

Stumbling on Dick he seemed to have just crashed at her room since no one was occupying it.

The room wasn’t dirty or dusty, it just seemed empty. Alfred always made sure that every room was clean, even if it’s empty or unused.

Dick had always prided himself on being the most reliable sibling, he always tried to make sure to be on top of things, which sometimes led to overworking himself.

Sometimes, getting coffee from the kitchen would be his routine.

Sometimes he’d spot [name] also grabbing a cup of coffee, typing away on her old, broken laptop.

Sometimes he would want to offer to go and hang out to buy a new one, but… she’d probably put up a front of being a broke, struggling girl.

Besides, he’s busy; after all, he came for only one purpose, and being sidetracked would not help.

Now, while he’s grabbing coffee, there would be no girl stressed over normal stuff, typing away on her crumbling laptop and so focused in.

Maybe, if he had just said something to her, maybe he would’ve gotten over this misdirected hatred, that was never even there.

He still felt conflicted at this new development with [name] being dead and all, and once again overworked himself, out of pure curiosity, he went to her room and could only stare at how sad it looked, no decorations or traits that even implied someone lived there.

Collapsing onto her small bed he had let his tiredness take over holding onto the one thing she did leave behind, a stuffed llama, she had to sew it back together a couple of times after Damian would ruin it and eventually just left it.

Now it’s cotton stuffed insides emptied, and its once pink clean coat is stained as if left on the ground and stepped on.

It was the first and last thing her mother and Bruce had gotten her together, it’s the only connection she had to this family.

So now, blinking open his eyes, he picked up the llama that seemed to bore it’s beady eyes at him as he stared back only to leave soon after and catch a glimpse of Damian and Titus at the family couch, Titus sitting next to Damian let out a bark acknowledging Dick making Damian turn over to look at him.

That’s right, Dick always made excuses for Damian didn’t he?

He’s nothing more than a sad excuse for a big brother, huh [name]?

Damian had this problem of collecting animals like he was a Disney princess, that, and the fact that he felt proud that he had the Wayne flowing through him, making him the actual son of Bruce Wayne, and is the current Robin.

Sometimes he’d go past the kitchen.

Sometimes he’d see [name] making herself something to eat.

And from what he heard from the story’s told by the others she was just like her mother, a gold digging girl.

That made him upset in some way that they shared the same blood, and while she got everything and still wanted more he was different in that spectrum, he had a hard childhood, and is still unable to reach that level of having a normal one.

In some moments, though, he would see this scene and wonder about what-ifs.

What if she could’ve just been content with her life and not been greedy?

What if they bonded and she showed him what a normal life would be like?

But those what-ifs never went into action.

Depending on how upset he was, he’d maybe take action on blowing off some steam, and last time he checked, he didn’t get punished, is it that bad?

Sometimes, maybe Bruce would try to say something, but he knew that someone would come to his defense.

As he sat on the couch, it seemed Titus was starting to get hungry, and he knew Titus was not one to wait, and headed to the kitchen.

There he saw Tim staring off into [name]’s empty hallway, more like a guest hallway.

Tim has always prided himself on being at least what he thinks is the smartest. He knew his way through technology and was clever.

However, he could never understand [name].

For someone who was always ungrateful, why did she look so… pitiful?

It was in those moments that he would see her.

Sometimes he’d be tired from a long day and want to just slam himself onto his bed.

Sometimes, while heading to his room, he’d see [name].

Those memories never stuck with him, though, as they were more like fleeting moments that he now could only look back on.

Walking across the hallway, he saw Duke.

Duke… Well, he didn’t know you, but to be fair, who did? He never spoke about you, nothing good, nothing bad.

The first time he did, it was to defend you on why you were here; he had talked to you once or twice before getting snatched by someone else, so, no, he didn’t know you… But if you gave him a bit more time.

Maybe he could’ve.

There are many things he could’ve done in his life. Once he did speak to [name].

“Why look back on something you can’t change? That’s something many people tell you, but it’s hard, isn’t it?” She tilted her head; she wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t trying to be rude either.

He wasn’t sure what led up to this moment on how they were able to talk but they did and that question stuck with him.

And now he can’t help but wonder, could you also be referring to how they treated you in the manor?

Blaming you for your mother's actions?

He headed off to the garden, where you once had grown these flowers, and now Alfred took care of them, but some, unluckier than others, wilted.

Flowers are not needy things, they just require little attention to live and survive.

He stumbled onto Barbara, who held a wilted purple hyacinth.

Barbara, never in her million years, would take the time to stop and smell the flowers with the amount of responsibilities she has, on top of the ones she puts on herself.

But it was [name]’s garden she was in, and maybe it wouldn’t hurt to take some time for herself.

Entering in this ethereal place that seemed out of place compared to the rest of the house it wasn’t terrible, and somehow some were still alive.

The place was out of a fantasy novel, especially with conditions Gotham is in, flowers, plants, even a huge cherry blossom tree, and a bonsai tree were there in an arranged circular way with the center bring marble with a supplies there are right next to the podium that had sunlight shining directly on it.

Purple Hyacinths

Meaning: Regret 

Below that was the description on how that flower got its meaning from a Greek story but Barbara stopped reading the rest of it but mainly focused on the meaning.

Regret, it’s a terrible emotion.

It could be missing a single item from your bag and having to go back and get it, but for Barbara, she had too many regrets to just focus on one. Until [name]’s death, she had been the one tracking the location, so she thought maybe they’d make it in time; she hadn’t known that the last time she would see [name], it would be a corpse rather than alive.

Not like that had made any difference, as when she was still alive, she still treated her like she was 6 feet under already, so why had it mattered now? Was it guilt? Was it sadness?

Was it regret?

All she could take away was that her younger sister, whom she never gave an effort to care about, was now dead; she was dead with no one by her side to mourn her death, except after her death.

It wasn’t fair, and it would never be.

She walked up to a book crate that was under the bonsai tree.

[Name]’s plant and journey entries, starring my plants!!! 

This was the most recent book.

“Today I checked up on my new plant… It’s a Hyacinth! Not just any, but a purple one. I’m hoping this one grows really huge. Another addition to the never-ending collection. Even though I’m graduating this year, it feels like just yesterday when I started this little green house of mine. I’ll be turning 18 this year, hopefully that doesn’t change anything. It’s still been years since anyone from this house has made proper conversation with me, hopefully that means they’ll also forget that I live here and let me mooch off them a wee bit more.

I know that sounds bad but with the amount of money I’ve been raking up from the part time job I’ve had since freshman year would probably last a good year at home, hopefully if I go to a college that provides dorms, or at least a cheap price for them. 

I think that’s enough ranting for now, my hand is starting to cramp with the amount of writing that I’m doing.

Love,

{name}

It seemed that [name] either didn’t feel the need to pack anything from her garden with her before getting kicked out, except a cactus.

Barbara remembered her leaving with that.

But everything else, including her journals, all her plants, was left, discarded.

She may have seen Alfred in here once or twice a month but even then he’s a busy man, the only servant of the Wayne house, surely it’s hard enough taking care of their needs on top of some plants.

Everybody has their unique handwriting, and Barbara couldn’t help but admire hers.

She set the book down where it was originally, looking around again to see a withered flower.

“Today I checked up on my new plant… It’s a Hyacinth! Not just any, but a purple one. I’m hoping this one grows really huge. “

That’s right, this was new, wasn’t it?

Now all she held up was a flower that should be thrown away, she admired it, it was more like a weed than a flower. Meaning it had withered long ago.

However, it contrasts with the blue flowers next to it.

Forget Me Nots

Meaning: Never be forgotten

Dusting off her clothes, be left [name]’s once sanctuary and headed off.

“You won’t forget me, will you? I’ve always wanted to have a playdate with you…

Barbara.”

Barbara hurriedly turned around and somehow a Forget Me Not was in front of her, the rest were all in the same place they usually were.

She picked it up and grazed a petal.

Before feeling a tear slide down her cheek, the rest did not follow.

“Of course not, how could I ever forget?”

Speaking of flowers, wasn’t Cassandra buying some flowers right about now?

Cassandra had a knack at reading how people felt, it was quite easy as their body language gave it away.

Either she never cared enough to see [name]’s or the fact that she never gave off any sort of sign.

“Ma’am?”

Cassandra looked up at the florist.

“Any specific flowers you are looking for?”

Now, back to reality, Cassandra took a deep breath and scanned over the flowers in the shop. She had no clue what to get you… Did you like daisies? Maybe sunflowers? 

“Do you have any recommendations? I lost someone close to me, and I have no idea what to get her.”

“Another one in these streets, ay?” The florist tried to make small talk, but it seemed Cassandra was still in a daze, so she left her alone and started wrapping a bouquet for her.

Cassandra was born to be made a weapon, a hard tear-jerker kind of story that she tries not to dwell on, and meeting Bruce Wayne had been one of the best things she’d have to say that had happened in her life.

He wasn’t her dad, but he was, and didn’t mind that, and through him she had more family members that she would ever want, but it seems she enjoyed it.

“32.67, ma’am.” She took out her wallet and gave the florist $50, grabbing the flowers, leaving the rest of the change.

Irises. Did you like Iris? You always were there, and then you weren’t, you weren’t watering your garden anymore, you weren’t cooking something that she’d once or twice take a few bites of without anyone knowing, and you weren’t dancing to songs anymore.

She wondered if she had a normal life, would you do ballet with her?

Sometimes, she would take sneak peaks at you when you’d do ballet.

Her favorite was when you do ‘La Esmeralda: Variation’ she loved that version the most even if it was super popular but you couldn’t blame her, it wasn’t just a form of dancing it was an art, it was graceful, and enjoyed each tap that sounded on the tambourine and the fluid motions that [name] seemed to express.

Sometimes she would worry when [name] collapsed before getting up once again. At times, she’d want to stop you, but retreat before even approaching you.

A sound of the phone ringing snapped her out of daydreaming.

“Hey, you coming soon?” Stephanie softly spoke into the phone. It seemed that she hadn’t arrived at their destination not too long ago.

“Yeah, just picked up the flowers.” Stephanie hung up after they said their byes and stared at the view in front of her. It was spring, and the new flowers that blossomed off the trees were detaching off allowing her to admire the petals that decorate [name]’s tomb.

When was the last time they spoke in a normal, positive light?

She kneeled and repositioned [name]s’ outdated photo frame, and stared at it for a good second before brushing some dirt off the stone.

“It’s been a few months hasn’t it? I would have never imagined to see you like this, you were always such a hard worker. Cass is coming soon, so you won’t be too lonely anymore.” she heard footsteps approaching and saw Jason coming which had mildly surprised her.

“Almost thought you were Cass for a second.”

“She could only wish she were as cool as I.”

“How is Bruce holding up?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You know this isn’t healthy.”

Bruce didn’t direct his attention to the voice,

The voice that haunts him.

“I’m not real, and the more that I stick around, the more it’ll negatively affect you. Just give it up. I’m dead.” The ghostly figure got up and looked around the room.

“It must’ve been nice, you know, to see me shot dead.”

“It wasn’t.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“Very convincing, your voice, that tone, it definitely made me believe you.” The entity mocked.

“So now what, you’re just going to keep hallucinating me talking to you? C’mon, you’re the Batman, losing one illegitimate kid won’t kill you, and besides, it’s not like you tried to be a good father in the first place, why try now when the corpse is already frozen.”

That’s right, isn’t it, you were dead and he was breathing, alive, warm.

“Should I call you Bruce? You never liked being my father.” She circled his chair, fading in and out of the room.

“Master Bruce, you should get some rest, it’s not good to overwork yourself, the case over… well, it’s over take a breather before another one.” Alfred approached, ushering him to his room.

As he settled into his bed, leaving him once again with himself and a voice and figure that resembled his lovely, dead daughter. 

“If you’re not real, then could you at least stay with me a little longer?”

“Sure.”

[END]

Sorry if this wasn't the final part you wanted, but I'll be honest and say I didn't know how else to add another part. Astro will definitely have more lore and parts, because... well,l our MC is alive in that universe, so stay tuned for that.

I think I'll be doing a rewrite of SMM, which no one asked for, and then I'll try to start working on my WSMCBH. I have the plot for the next chapter yet every time I seem to try and write something my mind goes blank, anyway, YIPPIE school's almost out!!

Taglist time! ❤

Also, I love the idea and from fic from both @jellyfishmoon97 and @not-weirdoshrek, and a new addition that I'm super happy I bumped into @alilobsessive.

@holysoulsweets @sh4rk-k1d @sillysealsies @loomspuddle @cantfindmelol @alwaysholymilkshake @leitor-sonolento @randomlyappearingartist @beyondblissxoxo @sirairi @yhin-gg @frankie-moon3 @welpthisisboring @yokesmam @bat1212 @enchantingarcadecreation @twismare @delias-stuff @ladylupuscrow @ferchu0406 @c4xcocoa @cruzerforce4256 @anonymoushehehehe @godoreo22 @blerp-22 @facelessisnthere @sirenetheblogger @themightybee4067 @boredselkie @tiffyisme3760 @random4137 @midnightgrimoire @mybones537 @chaoticmoontimetravel @jsprien213 @czarinera @exactlynumberonekryptonite @gwyneveire @k-anaru @a-lurking-fae @ryuushou @lizzy-innet

I think that's everyone who wanted to be tagged. I hope I didn't spell any words wrong and tag the wrong person.

Any mistakes, plot holes, corrections, and especially interactions mainly comments are appreciated!!!

Also realized @k1ssyoursister literally has DC divider so will be using those soon 👏😏👏

[airosuiren]

Batfamily x Neglected Reader x Theodore Nott

A/N: Sooo I’ve been obsessing over neglected Bat family fics lately and the idea of mixing it with Hogwarts just wouldn’t leave my head!!! I tried to make this both angsty and satisfying - hope you enjoyyy!!!

Part 2

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔

You were born as [Y/N] Wayne, the biological daughter of Bruce Wayne and twin sister to Lila Wayne. You were both a year older than Tim Drake, making you part of the prestigious Wayne family… at least on paper.

From the moment you could remember, it was always Lila who got the attention. Lila who Bruce picked up and swung around. Lila who Alfred made special cookies for. Lila who Dick would take to the park. Lila who Jason would protect fiercely.

You? You were just… there.

“Dad, look what I drew!” you said excitedly, holding up your artwork at age 8.

Bruce barely glanced your way, “That’s nice, sweetie. Lila, come show me your dance routine again!”

You lowered your drawing, watching as your twin sister twirled and received thunderous applause from the entire family. Your papers crumpled in your tiny fist as you quietly slipped away… again.

When the letter arrived on your 11th birthday, everything changed.

An OWL. An actual OWL swooped into the Wayne Manor library where you were hiding, reading alone as usual. The letter it carried was addressed specifically to you:

Miss [Y/N] Wayne The Smallest Bedroom Wayne Manor Gotham City

“What the hell…” you whispered, breaking the wax seal with trembling fingers.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

You read it once. Twice. Three times. A witch? YOU?

When you told your family at dinner (which you were only at because Alfred insisted), their reactions were… predictable.

“Magic isn’t real, [Y/N]. Stop making things up for attention,” Bruce said dismissively.

“Yeah, [Y/N], that’s stupid,” Lila giggled, and everyone laughed along with her.

Only Alfred raised an eyebrow, “Perhaps we should investigate this claim, Master Bruce.”

But it didn’t matter if they believed you. Because Professor McGonagall arrived the next day, turned their coffee table into a pig, and suddenly no one was laughing anymore.

Lila wasn’t magical. The test McGonagall performed confirmed it. The look of PURE JEALOUSY on your twin’s face was the first genuine emotion she’d ever directed at you.

“I’ll take you shopping for your school supplies tomorrow, Miss Wayne,” McGonagall said kindly.

As you packed your trunk to leave for Hogwarts, you realized no one had come to say goodbye except Alfred.

“They’re busy with Lila’s recital,” he explained apologetically.

You smiled sadly, “I know, Alfred. They always are.”

The moment the Sorting Hat touched your head at Hogwarts, it spoke gently: “Ah, a Wayne with a heart too big for the family that failed to see it. Better be… HUFFLEPUFF!”

The table of black and yellow erupted in cheers, and for the first time in your life, people were actually happy to have you join them.

The years at Hogwarts changed you. Professor Snape discovered your talent for potions and took you under his wing. “You remind me of someone I knew once,” he said quietly one day. “Someone who deserved better than she got.”

Professor McGonagall became the mother figure you never had, teaching you not just transfiguration but strength. “Stand tall, Miss Wayne. Your magic comes from within, as does your worth.”

You made friends… real friends. Blaise Zabini with his dry humor. Draco Malfoy who, despite his arrogance, always saved you a seat in the Great Hall. Pansy and Astoria who braided your hair and taught you beauty charms. Even the mysterious Riddle brothers, Mattheo and Tom, treated you like their little sister, hexing anyone who dared upset you.

Your letters home grew shorter and fewer.

Dear Family, Hogwarts is fine. Classes are good. - [Y/N]

Their replies, when they came at all, were equally brief.

Glad you’re well. Lila made the honor roll again. - Bruce

By fifth year, you had stopped caring. Your family was HERE, among the magical folk who saw your value.

And then there was Theodore Nott.

Tall, intelligent, quiet Theodore with eyes that followed you in the library. Theodore who asked you to the Yule Ball with a rare, nervous smile. Theodore who kissed you beneath the enchanted ceiling as fake snow fell around you both.

“You’re extraordinary, [Y/N],” he whispered against your lips. “They’re fools not to see it.”

You fell HARD for Theo. His family’s estate in Italy became your favorite topic of conversation.

“We could go there,” he said one evening in your sixth year, his fingers intertwined with yours. “After graduation. Start fresh where no one knows the Waynes or the Notts. Just be ourselves.”

The idea took root and grew.

By your final Christmas break at age 18, you had barely spoken to your birth family in years. You only returned to the manor to collect the last of your belongings before graduation in six months.

“You’re… leaving?” Bruce asked, looking genuinely confused when you announced your plan to move to Italy with Theodore after graduation.

“Yes,” you said simply. “I’ve been gone for seven years, Dad. You just didn’t notice.”

The entire family stood frozen in the foyer. Dick looked stricken. Jason was frowning deeply. Tim seemed bewildered. Damian scowled. Even Alfred appeared pained.

“But… but you can’t just leave,” Lila sputtered. “You’re a Wayne.”

You laughed, the sound hollow. “I stopped being a Wayne the day I became a witch. You made sure of that.”

The doorbell rang, cutting through the tension.

When Alfred opened it, there stood Theodore Nott in an impeccably tailored wizarding suit that somehow still looked Muggle enough to pass in Gotham. His dark hair was styled perfectly, his handsome face serious as he took in the assembled Wayne family.

“Ready to go, darling?” he asked, his eyes softening only when they landed on you.

Lila’s jaw DROPPED. You couldn’t blame her. Theodore was gorgeous, wealthy in both wizarding and Muggle terms, and completely devoted to you.

“That’s… that’s your boyfriend?” she stammered.

“Fiancé, actually,” Theodore corrected smoothly, showing the engagement ring on your finger that none of them had even noticed. “We’re viewing properties in Italy next week.”

You picked up your enchanted bag that held all your remaining possessions. “Goodbye,” you said simply.

As Theodore led you to the waiting magical car, you heard Lila’s shrill voice: “Dad! Why does SHE get to go to Italy with a hot rich guy? IT’S NOT FAIR!”

Some things never changed.

But as Theodore squeezed your hand and whispered, “Home is wherever we make it, [Y/N],” you realized some things DID change.

You had found where you belonged. And it wasn’t with the Bat Family after all.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔

A/N: This was sooooo satisfying to write!!! I might do a part 2 if people want one where the Bat family tries to get reader back but she’s living her BEST LIFE in Italy with Theo and her magical family comes to visit and puts the Waynes in their place!!! Let me know what you think!!! Enjoyyy!!!

[gilverrwrites]

Thinking about clit slapping again, per 2.5 asks, ya’ll make some great observations. Ft. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, & Roy.

Bruce

Thinking about Bruce who loves to tease you with a straight face. Who tells you to “be patient”, who’s helping you build on your self-restraint by touching every inch of you with those big, thick hands except the one place you keep begging him for.

Bruce who keeps you on edge until it’s unbearable, until on a whim you decide if he’s not going to do anything about it, you will.

Bruce who grumbles in your ear, low and restrained; “What did I tell you?”

Bruce who opens your slick folds, in a controlled, slow motion which only serves to make you needier until he comes down on your sensitive clit with his other hand. The obscene smack that rings through his chambers is almost drowned out by your anguish, desperate cry.

Dick

Dick with his long, dexterous fingers who loves to explore every crevice of your body. Who would do anything to keep hearing you make those pretty noises for him.

Dick who knows the key to keeping you sex dazed is working your clit until it’s dark and swollen and you’re incapable of following a thought. So he rubs and grinds against it, swirls his tongue around it, and laps until his jaw is soaked in his own saliva and your juices.

And then one day, with no forethought, Dick flicks it with the back of his middle finger and the resulting sob was so delicious he had to eat up more.

“You’re so perfect, baby.” Dick purrs between sloppy kisses and strikes of growing intensity. “Do it again, baby. Come on, just for me pretty girl.”

Jason

And Jason, who is big and tough, and rough around the edges but would do anything you want to hear you praise him.

“You like that, sweetheart?” He asks you over and over again, basking and melting just a little bit more every time you reply with “Fuck, yes Jason! Feels so good baby.”

“Who? Who makes you feel good?” He begs for more. “You Jason, you!”

So when you ask Jason to try slapping your clit, he doesn’t hesitate. He slaps it once, savouring the way your body tremors under the force of his brawny hand. Twice, and he can’t believe how lucky he is to have found someone so beautiful and shameless as you. Three times, with no end in sight.

Tim

Tim read about it in an cosmopolitan article and can’t wait for the chance to experiment with you, and he knows if he plays his cards just right you’ll always cave.

“Spread your legs.” He murmurs in a voice that’s assertive but so soft. The tips of his long hair tickle your soft skin as he kisses his way down your torso. Tim’s warm, calloused hands guiding your thighs apart as he slinks between them. “That’s it hon, just like that.”

He intends to warm you up, to rub your pretty little clit beneath his thumb until you’re pleading for more, to spell T-I-M on it with his tongue over and over but; “I’ve barely touched you and you’re this wet already?”

Before you can answer Tim used two fingers to spread your slick folds apart and delivers a sharp slap right where you’re most sensitive, blue eyes unblinking, soaking in your reaction.

Despite knowing from the way your back arches and your eyes roll back, Tim asks; “Did you like that baby, do you want more?”

Roy

Your body is like target practice to Roy, which is to say; he never misses.

Roy has every inch of you ingrained in his mind. Teasing, and touching, and getting you off is as easy to him as firing his bow, its muscle memory.

Not once does Roy need to break away from your needy, heated kisses as he undresses you. There’s not a thought in his head other than how hot you look when you’re dishevelled and riled up as he unhooks your bra or curls his fingers on your core.

Roy brags that he could find your clit, one-handed and blindfolded, and sometimes he likes to put that into practice. He tells you to “Lay back, Princess.” Then he closes his eyes, makes a show of spinning around or pretending to sniff you out and then he spanks your clit with the kind of powerful precision only he could possess.

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