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neellscapsule · 1 day ago

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My Heart — Part Three

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 5.3k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

conner makes his first appearance :pp

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942 @lilyalone @aixaingela @lettucel0ver @time-shardz @pix-stuff @galaxypurplerose @cupid73 @theproblemisthattimnotfictional @vanessa-boo @timebomb1101 @chemicalwindexbottle @chiizuluvr @ihavenomuse @mat5u0 @thismessyshe @lovebug-apple @myjumper @angwlart @esposadomd @nisarelle @mrmacwaffles @mazixxss @ememgl @naomi-xxi @bbmgirll @ash0-0ley

previous. next.

The Wayne Manor hasn’t changed.

Not really.

The city evolves. The world turns. Gotham devours itself, spits itself back out, over and over again. But this house… this house stays the same.

The marble under his shoes still holds the faint scuff of childhood racing feet. The wood panels still creak in the same spots — the third stair from the landing, the right edge of the west hallway. The heavy scent of aged paper, fireplace ash, and expensive polish lingers in the walls, impossible to scrub out no matter how often Alfred tries.

Bruce breathes it all in as he steps through the front doors, loosening his tie with one hand, briefcase heavy in the other. Even here, the work follows him. The meetings, the shareholders, the endless faces wanting his attention. None of it ever really stops. It never has.

The Enterprise board meetings bleed into the evening now. They always do. Stacked hours of power suits and shareholders, of dry numbers and brittle conversations, while Gotham simmers just outside the tower walls.

It leaves him tired in a way the cowl never could.

He heads for his study on autopilot, steps measured, jaw tight, already sorting through the files in his head.

But he pauses in the living room.

The faint, flickering glow of the television spills across the dark floor. A faint hum.

His brows furrow.

The television should be off. Alfred is meticulous about the house’s order. Damian never leaves a screen running. Tim is in the city tonight. Jason—well, Jason rarely sets foot in the Manor unless he’s forced. And Dick…

Bruce’s frown deepens when he thinks of his oldest son.

He crosses the threshold into the living room, the quiet hum of static and aged video speakers meeting his ears. The living room is dimly lit, shadows curling across the furniture. The television sits against the far wall, the soft glow of an old video playing, the grain of the footage unmistakable — aged, imperfect, preserved.

The timestamp in the corner reads Gotham Academy Auditorium – March 2019.

And you’re there.

You are not there when he finds the tape. You are far from the manor. Far from Gotham. Far from him.

But you are there on the screen.

Frozen in time.

Dancing.

White.

Ethereal.

Your teenage frame moves with the precise, aching grace of someone born for the stage, wrapped in the soft shimmer of a Swan Queen's tutu, the tulle layered and crisp against your thighs. Your hair is pulled tight into a bun, not a single strand out of place. The stage lights cast a pale glow over your skin, highlighting the sharp, elegant lines of your arms as they stretch and flutter, the ghost of a bird in flight.

Your expression is serious. Focused. But vulnerable in a way Bruce can’t tear his eyes from.

He doesn’t remember this.

The realization roots him to the spot, chest heavy, heart sinking deeper with every note of Tchaikovsky that trickles from the old speakers.

You were— what, fifteen there? Sixteen? Barely holding yourself together behind a mask of effortless poise. And he— God, what was he doing that night? A mission? The Board? Chasing criminals in an alley while his daughter performed like this… and he didn’t even remember.

He studies the video as if his eyes can retroactively imprint it into his mind, as if enough staring will make up for the absence in his memory.

Your movements are flawless. Perfect control. The edges of your face still round with youth. But Bruce knows better than anyone how much pain hides behind discipline.

It’s written all over your face — the stubborn set of your jaw, the ghost of uncertainty behind your practiced eyes, the tightness in your shoulders.

You’re magnificent.

You’re hurting.

And he wasn’t there.

The tape is old. Not from a phone. Not from some bystander’s recording. This was filmed deliberately. Carefully. Preserved as if whoever held the camera wanted to keep you forever.

Bruce takes a few steps closer, his briefcase lowering to his side, forgotten.

His eyes trace the curve of your arms, the extension of your neck, the slight quiver in your breath as you leap, as you land, as you fight to stay within the perfection of your craft.

There’s no memory in his mind that matches this. Not a single one. He’s seen you at galas, at fundraisers, at piano recitals. He’s seen you in training rooms, balancing yourself on beams, sharpening your strength.

But a tutu? Ballet shoes? A studio filled with mirrors?

Nothing.

It’s like a life you had that he never noticed. Like a whole world you lived in while he was busy watching other shadows.

His throat tightens.

You are his daughter. His first daughter. He remembers your birth, born from a weeping mother who loved him too much, who loved you so much. How the red of her face went away, pale to the bone.

He didn't cry her death, but he cried with your first word. He remembers your first steps. Your first trophy in Chemistry. How much you loved to chat his ear off, and how much power you held always above the others.

You move across the stage with flawless control — shoulders high, chin poised, arms unfolding with the softest grace he’s ever seen. Your expression doesn’t falter. Not once. Not even as the music swells and your body pirouettes, weightless, fragile, untouchable.

The video has no crowd noise. No clapping. No background voices.

Only the music.

Only you.

And your face — that perfect, painful blend of determination and sadness. The one he’s learned to recognize far too late.

How many hours did you spend practicing this? How many times did you look for him in the crowd?

He takes a slow step forward, his hand brushing against the back of the couch, eyes never leaving the screen.

You were so small then.

Not a child. Not anymore. But still so… unfinished. Still trying to carve yourself into the version of you that they would finally see.

Finally be proud of.

His throat tightens, a rough exhale breaking free as your final pose holds, the swell of music lingering, your chest rising with practiced, shallow breaths. There’s a flicker of nerves beneath the confidence in your face — like you’re searching for something in the crowd.

You looked… flawless.

Untouchable.

But utterly alone.

The sound of quiet footsteps behind him breaks the trance.

Alfred stands at the doorway, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his expression as composed as ever but his eyes soft, distant, as if he too is caught somewhere between then and now.

The butler clears his throat softly, eyes landing on the screen.

“My apologies, sir,” Alfred says gently. “I meant to switch it off before you returned. It was… keeping me company while I tidied up.”

Bruce doesn’t look away from the screen. “How old was she there?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.

“Sixteen,” Alfred answers, stepping to his side. “The Winter Gala performance. Her first lead role.”

Bruce’s brows furrow deeper.

“I don’t remember this.”

Alfred tilts his head, a hint of something unreadable flickering through his eyes. “No,” he agrees softly. “You wouldn’t.”

Guilt knots tighter in Bruce’s stomach.

“She danced,” Bruce murmurs, more to himself than to Alfred. “She danced. I didn’t know she—”

“She was quite fond of it,” Alfred interjects, gently. “Ballet, specifically. It was not a hobby, not a passing fancy. It was… vital to her. For quite some time.”

Bruce’s chest tightens. “Why didn’t I know?”

Alfred tilts his head, his eyes soft with something like sadness.

“She sent invitations,” Alfred says, his voice careful, not accusing. “Quite a few of them. They were never demands. Only… hopes.”

Bruce swallows hard.

“I’ve watched this more times than I care to admit,” Alfred confesses quietly. “She never saw me filming, of course. But I thought… perhaps one day she’d want the memory preserved.”

Bruce’s eyes darken with something complex — guilt, longing, helplessness.

“She shouldn’t have had to perform for a camera when her family was supposed to be in the audience.”

“Quite right,” Alfred agrees, but there’s no venom in his voice. Just quiet, well-worn sadness.

The video loops, restarting, and there you are again — poised, perfect, heartbreakingly young.

“She was good,” Bruce says, as if that’s the only thing keeping his throat from closing.

“She was remarkable,” Alfred corrects, soft pride threading through the words. “Is remarkable.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’ve seen her?”

Alfred hesitates for only a moment. “I’ve… kept in touch.”

That shouldn’t surprise him. Alfred always did what the rest of them couldn’t seem to manage.

Bruce runs a hand over his mouth, his eyes heavy with the exhaustion that no amount of hours at the office can replicate. He should’ve been there. At that performance. At all of them. Instead, he’s watching it now — through a screen, through years of distance and absence that not even money or apologies can erase.

“How did I miss it?” The words are barely audible.

Alfred exhales slowly, his posture softening. “You were… occupied. As you’ve always been.”

“Occupied,” Bruce echoes, bitterness curling around the syllables.

He looks at the screen again — your form mid-spin, graceful, celestial, untouchable.

“She was always right there,” Bruce says, voice hoarse, more to himself than to the butler. “Always… there.”

Alfred’s eyes soften further. “Children often are. Until they no longer are.”

The implication twists in Bruce’s stomach like a knife.

“I didn’t… I didn’t see her.”

The butler’s expression softens, but he does not let Bruce retreat into his guilt without resistance. “You loved her, sir. You still do.”

“That doesn’t mean I saw her. I don't know her favourite colour. Don't know if she likes to paint or to draw more. I don't even know her dreams. If what she's doing is actually what she wants.”

Alfred crosses the room, his footsteps light, precise, as they’ve always been. “You were not an easy man to reach, Master Wayne.”

Bruce’s throat bobs. “No.”

“She tried.”

“I know.”

Alfred’s gaze is patient but not forgiving. “Do you?”

Bruce’s breath catches.

He remembers the box Dick threw at him.

The letters.

The tickets.

The invitations.

The recitals.

The soft, desperate handwriting.

He knows now.

He should have known then.

“She wrote to me,” Bruce murmurs, his voice thin, frayed around the edges. “More than I realized.”

Alfred’s silence is answer enough.

“She wanted me there.”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred confirms. “She did.”

“She wanted all of us there.”

“She did.”

Bruce’s hands curl into fists, a familiar tension threading through his muscles.

“I failed her.”

Alfred doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t need to.

“She won’t come home.”

“Would you?” Alfred counters, one brow arching faintly.

Bruce exhales, his eyes dragging back to the video.

“You raised her,” he says after a moment, quieter now. “More than I did.”

Alfred’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “As I’ve done for all of you.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

“Perhaps not.” The older man offers a faint, sad smile. “But I’d do it again. For her. For you.”

The room falls silent again, the soft static hum of the old video filling the space.

Bruce studies your younger self — your graceful posture, the way your fingers float like feathers, the quiet tragedy tucked behind your poised, serious eyes.

You were always trying to be seen.

And he never looked.

“I didn’t even know about this performance,” Bruce admits, the guilt dripping from every word.

Alfred inclines his head, the faintest trace of sympathy in his voice. “She sent invitations. More than one.”

His stomach twists. He remembers the box now — the old letters, the unopened envelopes. The things Dick shoved into his chest like an accusation. His daughter’s quiet, desperate attempts to earn his attention.

“How many?” Bruce asks, though he already fears the answer.

Alfred’s gaze sharpens faintly. “Enough.”

Enough to break your heart.

Enough that you stopped sending them.

Enough that you left.

“She’s angry.”

Alfred sighs, correcting gently. “She’s hurt.”

“It’s the same thing,” Bruce mutters.

“Not with her.” The butler’s voice lowers, steady, knowing. “She’s hurt, sir. But she still loves you.”

“She doesn’t want to come home.”

“Would you, if you were her?” Alfred’s brow lifts again, repeating it with enough hardness that it seemed protective.

Bruce presses a hand to his mouth again, shoulders rigid, jaw tight, eyes burning in a way that surprises even him.

“You think it’s too late?”

Alfred considers that, gaze steady, voice level. “It’s never too late to see your children, sir.”

Bruce exhales slowly, turning from the television, the weight of years clawing down his spine.

But your ghost lingers.

Dancing, weightless, frozen in the grain of an old recording.

Unreachable.

But not gone.

Never gone.

“Keep it on,” Bruce says quietly, finally moving toward his study. “I… want to watch the rest.”

Alfred inclines his head, a quiet pride hidden beneath the lines of his face.

“As you wish, Master Wayne.”

Galas have always been your thing.

It’s ironic, considering how much you claim to hate them.

You’ve always liked the ridiculousness of them — the glimmer, the grand chandeliers that hang like artificial constellations, the free food (god, the free food), the freshest champagne you could possibly imagine, crisp and cold on your tongue. And most of all, you’ve always liked being seen without really being seen. People looking at you like you’re a fixture. A diamond. A Wayne. But never looking close enough to see the cracks. It was predictable.

You’ve always liked that.

You’ve never missed a Wayne Gala.

Well, except the ones over the last four years. But that doesn’t really count, does it? You always had an excuse — busy exhibitions, international commissions, gallery showings too far from Gotham to justify the trip. It’s not like anyone ever reached out to convince you otherwise. Alfred sent a few reminders. A few check-ins. A few invitations in handwriting you’d recognize even if you were blind.

But from the rest of them? Silence.

Not even a half-hearted message from Bruce. Not even a poorly typed text from Tim. Not even Jason, who used to drag you to the dessert tables when you were kids.

Four years.

Four. Years.

And now? Now Dick talks about an invitation, carefully worded, with a little kiss to the forehead, like that’s enough to close a chasm that’s been bleeding open for nearly half a decade.

It took a lot of thinking.

Too much thinking.

It took pacing around your New York studio for hours. It took pouring over the invitation like it was a goddamn riddle. It took staring at the flight options for three days straight without booking anything. It took your manager nearly bribing you with the most luxurious hotel she could find near Gotham’s Diamond District — “You deserve to spoil yourself,” she’d said, “It’s not like you’ve ever stopped enjoying the perks of being rich.”

And she was right.

Why would moving away from the Manor, from them, mean you had to stop living like a Wayne?

You pack light. Just enough. Enough to look like the Wayne daughter you’ve always been, even if you don’t live like one anymore.

You don’t tell anyone you’re coming. Not even Alfred.

Let them be surprised. Let them think you wouldn’t show. Maybe you wouldn’t have, if not for the stupid way your chest tightened when you thought of Alfred standing alone in that sea of Gotham’s glittering snakes.

You check into the hotel the day before. The best suite. Floor to ceiling windows. Egyptian cotton sheets. The kind of place that feels like you’ve stepped into someone else’s life.

And that night, when the gala arrives, you dress like you belong in the stars.

The gown clings like it was crafted on your body — a river of silver and glimmer that hugs every line, the back nonexistent, with a dangerously low neckline that might’ve made Bruce faint if he still bothered to police what you wore. You wear your wealth without apology. You wear it like armor.

And of course, the only rule for tonight — the masquerade.

You slide the pearly lace mask over your face, delicate and sharp at the edges, just enough to soften your features but not enough to truly hide you. It settles against your nose, just right. Just enough for you to choose who gets to recognize you.

It doesn’t take long to find the pulse of the party when you arrive.

The ballroom is suffocatingly familiar, but you slip through the throng like you were born to haunt these halls. They don’t know you’re here. Not yet. You watch them from the corners — all of them.

You spot Dick first, of course — tall, broad-shouldered, radiant in the way he always is, in tailored black, mask dark as his hair, laughing at something Kori says beside him.

Jason lingers near the bar on the other side, glass of scotch in hand, sharp in a dark suit with no tie, his mask sleek, simple, leather probably — watching the room like it’s a battlefield.

Cassandra drifts near the edges, quiet, observant, a shadow that blends in until you know where to look. Stephanie’s at her side, bright and careless in silver sequins and an obnoxiously large feathered mask, grinning as she talks to Barbara, who’s leaning on her chair with a beautiful green dress that compliments her.

Tim’s buried in a conversation with Lucius. Duke laughs with some younger faces you don’t recognize.

And Bruce…

Your eyes catch him like a thread pulled tight across your ribs.

There, near the grand staircase, suited in sharp, quiet black, his mask more symbolic than necessary. Gotham’s unshakable stone.

Selina prowls near him, sleek as ever, her gown a slinking cascade of onyx and emerald, her mask feline and faintly amused, scanning the room like she’s already picked her next mark.

They don’t see you.They’re all here.

They’re all here and they don’t even know you’ve arrived.

You hide at first.

Not because you’re afraid. But because it’s… amusing, in its own way. To slip around them unnoticed. To watch them, burning, oblivious to the weight still hanging between you.

You slip to the bar, sighing in relief at the familiarity of the setup. “Double martini. Two olives. Don’t go easy on me.”

His gaze lingers — not inappropriate, just… curious. Your dress, your mask, the way you carry yourself. You can practically hear the assumptions churning behind his eyes.

You don’t care.

The first sip burns beautifully down your throat, the familiar taste grounding you more than any polite conversation or shallow compliment ever could.

It’s only when someone settles on the stool beside you that you spare them a lazy side-glance, fully prepared to ignore whatever socialite or trust-fund brat is looking for conversation. But the air shifts.

A familiar hum of power. A warmth that prickles under your skin like static.

And then you see them.

Bright blue eyes. The same sharp jawline, same black curls, same Clark Kent perfection watered down with just enough edge to make your pulse stutter.

Conner Kent.

And fuck.

The years have been good to him.

You remember him being cocky when you were younger — flirting like it was his job, making the most of those ridiculous Kryptonian genetics and his boyish charm. You remember finding him obnoxious, occasionally tolerable, sometimes fun.

You also remember how much he looked like Clark back then. But now? Now it’s worse. He’s grown into that face. That jawline. Those broad shoulders. The cocky tilt of his mouth.

His mask is dark, simple, framing his eyes in a way that makes you briefly forget why you’ve spent years avoiding these kinds of nights.

“New York’s finest, huh?” His voice is smooth, playful. “Didn’t expect to see you here, princess.”

You arch a brow, twisting your glass between your fingers. “You recognized me that fast?”

Conner shrugs, his grin widening. “Please. You think a mask and a fancy dress can hide you from me?”

You hum, pretending to think. “Worked on your father just fine.”

His eyes glimmer, leaning in just slightly. “Clark doesn’t look at women the way I do.”

“Oh?” You sip again, not breaking eye contact. “And how do you look at women, Kent?”

“Like they could wreck me if they wanted to.”

You chuckle, resting your chin on your hand. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not bad at all,” he murmurs, his voice dropping just a touch. “I think I’d enjoy it.”

You tap your nails against your glass, amused. You forgot how fun this little dance was with him — the teasing, the unspoken challenges, the heat that lingers just under the surface.

“You’ve grown up,” you comment, gaze dragging slowly down his figure before sliding back up.

“So have you,” he counters, voice light but eyes serious. “Didn’t realize you’d turn into this though. Kinda dangerous for someone like me.”

You smirk. “You’re bulletproof, Conner.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not weak to something else.”

You laugh, genuinely now, and maybe it’s the first time all night that your chest feels a little lighter.

“Flirting, Kent?” You raise a brow, leaning in just enough to let your words curl between you. “Already?”

“Wouldn’t dream of missing the opportunity.”

His elbow nudges yours. “So what’s the plan? You hiding here all night or you gonna let your family know you’re back from the dead?”

You pause, rolling your martini between your palms.

“Not sure yet.”

He leans closer, voice dipping low. “Can I buy you a drink?”

You hold up your half-finished martini, unimpressed. “Already covered.”

His grin is shameless. “Dinner, then?”

“Bold of you to assume I’m available.”

“You just got back. You haven’t made plans yet.”

“Maybe I have.”

“Maybe you should cancel them.”

Your lips curl, a sharp glimmer in your eye. “You’re still cocky.”

“And you still love it.”

You don’t deny it.

“You filled out, too,” you allow, smirking faintly. “Congratulations. You finally look your age.”

“Technically, I’m still figuring out what my age even means.”

“You and me both.”

The banter is effortless, dangerous. The kind that makes old walls slip, familiarity weaving between syllables before you even think to stop it.

Conner leans in slightly, voice lowering conspiratorially. “You planning to reveal your identity to the masses tonight? Or just me?”

You swirl your glass, silver rings catching the light. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you make it worth my while.”

His laugh is low, warm, frustratingly attractive.

“You’re playing with fire.”

You lean in just enough to whisper, “I’m the one who taught you how.”

The air between you hums with something complicated. Heavy. Unspoken.

The banter continues, an easy, familiar rhythm neither of you have to work for. Conner’s good at this — at playful deflection, at toeing the line between harmless and dangerous. You’re better. You’ve been playing this game since you were old enough to balance a champagne glass without spilling.

You barely notice how long you’ve been talking — the subtle shift of your legs crossing, the tilt of his body angling closer, the way your laughter slips out easier than you intended.

It’s comfortable.

It’s dangerous.

It’s—

“Y/N.”

The voice cuts clean through the haze of conversation, small but sharp, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

You turn.

Damian.

All stiff posture and narrowed green eyes, black mask perched perfectly across his face. He’s young — far too young to pull off the possessive, territorial glare aimed squarely at Conner — but he tries.

His arms are crossed behind his back like he’s holding himself perfectly still, but you know him — you know the coiled possessiveness thrumming under his skin, the restless edge of a boy who can’t yet control how deeply he feels everything.

You blink, the amusement slipping slightly as you meet his gaze. “Little Bat.”

His eyes flick to Conner, sharp, dissecting. “You’re late.”

“To the party?” You glance around lazily. “Or to disappointing the family?”

“You shouldn’t be speaking with him.”

Conner snorts softly. “Nice to see you too, little Wayne.”

Damian’s shoulders straighten, chin lifting, the scowl deepening. “Your presence isn’t required.”

“I’m a plus one.”

“To whom?”

Conner grins. “Jon. Of course.”

You sip your martini, hiding a smirk. Damian’s glower only intensifies. Conner’s brows lift, but you wave a hand, sighing.

“Damian.” You say his name like an exhale, soft but firm. “It’s fine.”

His eyes cut to you, expression faltering — just a little — the jealousy bleeding into something more familiar. Sadness. Longing. That quiet desperation to know you. To pull you back into the orbit of a family that doesn’t know how to hold you.

You soften, just barely, your fingers tapping against your glass.

“Go terrorize someone else,” you murmur, leaning back. “I can handle myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” His words are low, too old for his age, too heavy for his shoulders.

For a second, the noise of the party dims — the hum of music, the clink of glasses, the distant murmurs of the wealthy. It all fades under the weight of his voice.

You meet his eyes again, steady.

And for once… you don’t deflect.

You see him. Your brother. Your blood. Possessive. Flawed. Hurting.

But still yours.

“Go find Dick,” you tell him gently. “Tell him I’m here.”

Damian hesitates — poised between stubbornness and reluctant obedience.

Finally, he exhales sharply, turning on his heel without another word, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow.

Conner whistles low beside you. “Protective, isn’t he?”

You sip the last of your martini, gaze lingering on the space where Damian vanished.

“Seems like it,” you answer, dry. “Planning to hover all night, Kent?”

“Only if you make it worth my time.”

You sip your drink again, letting your eyes trace over him, your smirk sharp.

“Trust me,” you purr. “I always do.”

He keeps his gaze on you, even when you step away, already knowing Dick's on your way. Conner's hand trembles when you are far enough.

You've always had that power over him.

The flow of the gala presses people into motion — like waves shifting you from one current to the next — and before you can slip away, you see him.

You should’ve stayed at the bar.

The thought strikes you the second you catch sight of him weaving through the crowd — tall, broad-shouldered, the sharp lines of his tuxedo crisp against the glow of the ballroom lights, mask perched slightly crooked as if he forgot it was there entirely.

Dick Grayson.

Golden boy. Gotham’s first darling. Your older brother.

His eyes land on you like a homing missile, the weight of recognition hitting him square in the chest. You see the way his whole expression shifts — from polite party smile to something cracked open and raw — and you have precisely three seconds to brace yourself before he’s barreling through the sea of bodies.

You barely manage to set your empty martini glass down when his arms close around you.

“Birdie!” Dick smiled, achingly fond.

Your body stiffens, shoulders locking as he pulls you in tight — crushing, familiar, suffocating.

You don’t hug back.

Not entirely out of malice. More… discomfort. Half reluctance, half uncertainty. The kind of uncertainty that comes from years of space wedged between you, built brick by brick by neglect and distance and a silence none of them ever really bothered to break.

Your hands make a vague gesture against his back — a touch, not an embrace — more of an acknowledgement than a return. You don’t melt into it, you don’t lean your head on his shoulder like you used to when you were younger and still believed he would always notice you. You don’t really want to be in his arms now.

You want to breathe.

You want to escape the knot forming in your throat.

“Hi, Dick,” you manage, voice cool but not cruel, your arms hovering at your sides.

He doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, fingers curling against your back as if sheer proximity will undo the years you’ve spent away, as if your presence alone might stitch the fractures shut.

“You came,” he says, pulling back just enough to search your face — to really look at you. His eyes glint behind the mask, blue as ever, full of that frustrating, unbearable love that knots low in your chest. “You actually— Jesus, look at you.”

You resist the urge to step away, tilting your head, expression unreadable. “Looking’s all anyone’s done tonight.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know you,” he says pointedly. “Not like we do.”

You nearly laugh.

Before you can, though, the rest of them close in. Stephanie’s practically vibrating at Cass’s shoulder, bright and eager, grin wide even beneath her delicate blue mask. You catch the subtle way her hand tugs at Duke’s wrist, grounding herself as her eyes flick across you, cataloging every detail.

It starts with Jason — tall, broad, dressed in a black suit sharp enough to cut glass, his own mask sleek and minimal, jaw tense as his eyes drag over you like a silent, protective scan.

“Took you long enough, dove,” he mutters, crossing his arms. His voice is rougher than you remember, older, carrying the weight of too many second chances and not enough time. “Thought you’d ditched this city for good.”

You shrug, noncommittal. “Almost did.”

Jason’s lips twitch, the barest ghost of a smirk cracking through his walls. “Figures.” But there’s relief there too.

Tim clears his throat, stepping forward, hands shoved in his pockets. His mask doesn’t hide the flicker of cautious joy when he steps beside Jason, shoulders loose but eyes sharp. “Hey.”

You raise a brow. “Hey.”

It’s awkward — painfully so — but you let it hang, let the silence linger just long enough to make him squirm before Stephanie bursts in, smile wide, voice bright.

“You look insane, by the way,” she gushes, eyes sparkling. “Like— like movie-star insane. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“You always did outshine us, though,” Duke adds, his grin easy, his voice warm.

You give them both a faint smile, but your heart thrums tight, your pulse skipping at the weight of so many eyes, so many family eyes, trained on you after so long.

“Four years’ll do that,” you reply smoothly, though your grip tightens slightly on your own skin.

Cass steps forward, close enough that her presence hums at your side — quiet, steady, eyes soft. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t need to. Her gaze lingers on your face, your dress, your mask — and something like relief flickers there, sharp and fleeting.

A quiet understanding passes between you, wordless, raw.

“Welcome back.” Barbara’s voice cuts gently through the haze, her smile warm but cautious. “We’ve… missed you.”

Your lips twitch faintly, too practiced to let the bitterness leak through.

Duke gives you a small nod, eyes sharp beneath his mask. “You picked a good night to crash the party.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you murmur, though the lie tastes sour.

Damian steps forward, shoulder brushing your side, posture tight. “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming.”

Your eyes slide down to him, amused. “Didn’t think I needed permission.”

He scowls. “You should’ve told me.”

You chuckle softly, unbothered. “Upset, aren’t we?”

“You’re my sister,” he snaps, quiet but fierce, green eyes dark under his mask. “I’m allowed.”

You grab a glass of champagne when one waiter passes by your side, and sip it almost immediately, the bubbles cold against your tongue, but your gaze never leaves his.

“This is so cool,” Duke says, almost a little breathless. “You’re like a legend in our circles, y’know? The Huntress, the prodigy, the one who got out. We used to trade stories like—”

“Duke.” Tim’s quiet warning is a shade too late.

But you just tilt your head, amused, not angry. You flick a glance at him, voice a little cooler now. “Got out? Is that how you talk about me now?”

Jason’s jaw flexes, guilt flickering briefly across his face, but Duke just looks caught, nervous but not apologetic.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” Duke mutters. “I just— you know, you’re like—”

“A ghost?” You offer, arching a brow. “A story the family tells?”

Duke’s grin falters. “No. More like the one that got free.”

Finally — predictably — the weight of the room shifts again.

You feel it before you see him.

Bruce.

Stoic, untouchable, tall enough to part the crowd like smoke as he steps into the loose circle your siblings have unintentionally formed around you. His mask is simple, sharp black against the silver at his temples, but his eyes — dark, unreadable, exhausted — land on you like a goddamn hammer.

The air tightens.

You square your shoulders.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Your father — the reason you learned how to hide your heartbreak behind pearls and piano keys — stands there, watching you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face.

Finally, you speak, cool and distant.

“Father.”

His jaw tightens. “You look well.”

You offer a sharp, humorless smile. “Money tends to have that effect.”

“You’re here,” Bruce says, quiet, low, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You shrug again, keeping your voice level. “It’s a party.”

Dick’s arm slides back around your shoulder, fingers curling lightly, his grin more subdued now, softer.

“Birdie,” he murmurs, almost chiding. “Let us have this one.”

You shrug beneath his hand, not quite leaning in, not quite pulling away.

The others hover, circling like hawks, their excitement simmering beneath the awkwardness, their possessiveness sharper than you remember. It coils through the group like tension on a tripwire — subtle, constant, impossible to ignore.

But your gaze flickers. Not for wishing to be in another place.

Just for wishing to be in another's arms.

#batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #batsis #batfam x neglected reader #batsis reader #platonic yandere #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfam #yandere batboys #neglected reader #yandere batfam x neglected reader #my heart #conner kent x reader

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demonic0angel · 9 months ago

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Health Insurance (click for clarity)

I have a headcanon that Maddie and Jack did not have health insurance or insurance at all tbh, so Jazz really enjoyed the benefits of marriage.

So basically, in this idea, Dick and Jazz marry (bc Dick needed custody of Damian but he’s a single 20-something year old man, while Jazz was getting hounded by the Ghost Zone/her parents idk) but never fall in love. The two of them make a deal to get married and then parent Damian together, but then Dick finds out that they’re falling in love with each other’s siblings so he’s like “let’s divorce”.

It goes well and they both split things evenly or equally and it’s a very peaceful, amicable divorce.

Until they get to the custody of Damian. And then all hell breaks loose.

One of the dirtiest, most underhanded, and vicious custody wars ensue. In the end, they get split custody of Damian between Gotham and Blüdhaven. (He’s weirdly happy with it bc they fought so hard for him and they didn’t involve him at all except for courtesy questions).

Part two

Image description below:

Panel 1 has Dick’s solemn face as he’s looking away.

Dick: Jazz… we need to talk. I know that you’re in love with Jason…

Panel 2 has Dick’s side profile while we see Jazz stare at him in shock, holding a spilling teacup as she’s dripping tea.

Dick: *still looking sad* And I’m also in love with your brother Dan, so I think we should divorce.

Panel 3 is the both of them across from each other, in a very simplistic style. Jazz still looks vaguely shocked and Dick still looks sad.

Dick: I know that we both care for each other, but we’re in love with different people.

Panel 4 has Jazz finally snapping back to reality, as Dick continues talking.

Dick: It’ll be an amicable divorce, so I think that—

Panel 5 has Jazz standing up with a BAM! and knocking her teacup when she slams her hands on the table. Dick looks startled.

Dick: !

Panel 6 has a close up of Jazz’s panicked expression as she’s shouting.

Jazz: BUT WHAT ABOUT THE HEALTH INSURANCE?!

Edit: I changed the pictures to add the right font and a ring on Jazz’s finger.

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brotherblaze · 8 months ago

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the big freeze — jason todd

summary: Jason appears at your door in the middle of the night. Who are you to turn him away?

cw: implied claustrophobia

wc: 1,5k

note: you ever get stuck in an elevator and realize 'oh this is a closed metal box hanging in the air on the 13th floor' and then it takes the combined efforts of 3 people on different floors to get you out bc the wrong elevator keeps opening?

The TV switches to a commercial break featuring an ad for a late night hotline just as your phone buzzes. You reach for the remote to mute it and bring your phone to your ear. No sane person calls you at this hour. Which only leaves…

“Yes?”

“Can you…” there’s a pause on Jason’s end, and you use the moment to glance at the time. 1:38 AM. Yeah, not a sane time, arguably not a completely sane person, if judging by what his family gets up to back in Gotham. “I’m downstairs.”

“I gave you a keycard and the code for the security system.”

He sighs and the sound rattles in your ear. “I know, I—I’ve been waiting for someone to come by for like 20 minutes.”

“Well, in their defense, it’s way past 1AM.” You slide your feet into your slippers and stand, turning the TV off as you go. “Normal people are usually asleep at these times. On Tuesdays, no less.”

“Yeah? And what’s your excuse?”

“I’m an occasional insomniac.” You press the phone between your shoulder and cheek as you grab the black sweater draped over the back of your couch.

Still, the hallway is cold, all exposed brick and bright overhead lights. The chill bites at your cheeks and invades through the soft wool of your sweater. Jason’s sweater? It’s hard to tell anymore; so many of his things are at your place and so many of your things are at his place. The elevator arrives with a quiet ding. Goosebumps rise on your skin as you step inside, avoiding the large wet patch on the red carpet.

You don’t let the call drop, but neither of you are speaking anymore, either. The numbers on the small screen on the elevator wall count down.

Jason is standing by the large automatic doors at the entrance of the building. He has his leather jacket slung over his arm. You can faintly make out droplets from the rain still clinging to the surface of the leather. There—just as he spots you—a smile blooms on his face, almost boyish, as he cuts across the empty foyer in long, near-silent footsteps. He wraps his arms around your waist, presses his face into the crook of your neck. His hair is damp and you feel the water slide under your collar. The tip of his nose is cold, resting over your pulse. His wet jacket presses against your side, soaking your sweater.

Instead of the chill from the fall rain, there’s a steady warmth simmering beneath Jason’s skin. It spurs from his chest and spreads to his extremities, arms wound tightly around your body, to his fingertips pressing under your sweater and into your skin.

You nearly yelp at how cold his fingers are.

“Hey.”

“We gotta take two steps to the left — my left,” you clarify. Jason does not unwind himself from around you, but he does take a step to the side and then another until you can reach the elevator keypad. You tap your keycard against the sensor and hit the button for your floor. The elevator doors drag closed and it begins its ascent.

Jason’s pulse jumps and his grip around you tightens. You don’t say anything, don’t pry him off or tell him to get his shit together—instead, you place a hand on the back of his head, curl the rain-damp strands of hair around your fingers. Jason’s lips part involuntarily in a silent sigh.

“Need a haircut, eh, bub?”

He chuckles, barely audible over the jingle playing from the elevator speakers. “What if I buzz it all off? Military style.”

You make a disgusted sound in the back of your throat.

The elevator slides to a stop, the lock mechanism clicks into place, and the doors open.

“We’re here,” you say, voice soft and light.

Jason takes a long breath in, inhaling your strawberry-scented body lotion. He’s the one that got it for you as one of your many gifts last Christmas (thank you, Babs, for being his sniff-tester) and it makes him giddy to know you still use it. He untangles himself from you, not fully, though, and guides you towards your apartment, an arm around your waist.

He toes off his boots and hangs his jacket in its usual place as you re-arm the security system.

“You should really start arming that thing even if you go down for pizza or something,” he says and bends over to pick up the black ball of fur rubbing against his leg. “Hi, hi, hi, yes, hi to you, too,” he tells your cat, nuzzling his face into her fur. He looks up at you, raises a brow when you open your mouth to say ‘this is Metropolis, nothing bad happens here,’ because you’ve had this exchange twice now. “Just saying, if I was 9 again and I knew someone left their apartment full of stuff you could easily pawn unlocked…”

You sigh. “Okay. I’ll remember to do that.”

Because for Jason, it isn’t about the things in your apartment, not really.

“Thank you.”

You retreat into your bedroom and Jason carries your cat around like she’s a baby as he laps around your apartment. He stops at the tall windows in the living room and starts pointing out Metropolis landmarks as if said cat hasn’t been living in Metropolis longer than he has.

When you return, a pair of gray sweatpants and one of his shirts in hand, he’s telling your cat about how ‘Aunt Lois deserved that Pulitzer prize so much more than uncle Clark’.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting something…”

“Oh, no, no, just reinstating how Clark got a Pulitzer before Lois even though she’s a much better writer than he is.”

“Right.” You hold out the change of clothes to him. “I got you a new toothbrush; the other one was getting old.”

“Thank you.” Jason accepts the change of clothes and beelines it towards the bathroom to change, your cat still in his arms.

Once he emerges (after quite loudly announcing to your cat how one should brush their teeth), his damp clothes left in the dryer to run first thing in the morning, you’re already nestled between the sheets. There’s an extra pillow and duvet spread out next to you. Jason releases your cat, who skitters to her bed on the windowsill to watch the rain droplets race down the glass, and climbs into bed, pats his pillow until it’s of satisfactory height.

You turn off the bedside lamp on your nightstand, turn on the cat-shaped nightlight and shimmy between the sheets. Then you pause, grab your phone and unlock it.

Jason’s eyes roam your face, the curve of your nose and lips, the heaviness in your tired eyes as you slowly blink at your phone screen. He’s made an effort to commit your features to his memory so he can see your face every time he closes his eyes. So he can keep you with him everywhere. Always. So, once again, he takes his time, going over every one of your features until you lock your phone and place it back on the nightstand.

“I love you,” he says, low and soft, though with all the clarity he can inject into his words.

You stare at him for a moment, then pull your duvet up to your chin, rest your head on your pillow and close your eyes. “I love you, too.”

“Forever.”

“Forever is such a vague concept,” you tell him with a scrunch in your brow. He can barely make it out in the dim red glow of the bedroom but he knows it's there. “Until the end of the universe. And even then you’ll be stuck with me. Like glitter.”

“Yeah? When’s that?”

“We’ll reincarnate an infinite amount of times between now and then,” you say with the certainty of someone who’s gazed far into the future, gazed at the very death of the universe itself. Maybe you have. Maybe you’re a meta—a true meta—unlike him, something that crawled out of his grave in Gotham.

Jason blinks, allows your statement to settle into the marrow of his bones, into his very being. His blood thrums in his veins. He balls his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. “I don’t know; sounds a lot like forever.”

You make a sound at the back of your throat again. It is not a sound of displeasure, nor a sound of agreement, either. “Again; vague. The eventual death of the universe is all but guaranteed; it’ll expand too much and become too cold to inhabit. Probably. There’s like… six different big theories on how the universe will end. Take your pick.”

“But we’ll find each other every time.” It is not a question. Still, you nod.

“Yes. Every lifetime.”

“Promise?”

You open your eyes, take him in—you can barely make out his features in the dark but you can—the mass of dark hair splayed out across his (your) pillow, the curve of his nose and that of his cupid’s bow, the almost milky whiteness of his eyes. This is where your heart has settled. This is home.

“I promise.”

part 2

dividers by @/cafekitsune

#jason todd x reader #jason todd fic #jason todd fluff #dc fanfiction #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd imagine #red hood x reader #dc x reader

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batsandbirdbrains · 13 days ago

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Hmm but what if it’s a reverse robins au, where their ages are all reversed, but Bruce still acquires them all in the same order. Like Dick is the youngest, but he’s still adopted first.

How old would Bruce have to be when he adopts Dick then? Let’s say he’s 19/20 when Damian is born, and Damian is maybe 10 years older than Dick, and Dick is 8 when Bruce takes him in. God I hate math fuck. Bruce would be 37/38? Give or take?

Idk but imagine the absolute angst of like a ten/eleven year old Dick feeling like he’s being replaced by a boy who’s older than him, feeling like he must not be good enough, and then Bruce adopts that boy within like 6 months?? While Dick is still just a ward?? I think that would break Dick. I think maybe he’d run away or smth. Even if just for a little while. Maybe he’d already founded the Titans, and so he goes on missions with them or just hangs out with them at their homes or at Titans Tower and barely goes to the manor.

And Jason dies within like a year. Tim joins quickly, and Dick finds another, new older boy who’s there replacing now both him and the big brother he never got to really know.

Idk the between is fuzzy, but I want Damian to be sent to join his father or whatever, and instead he finds the first child his father took in and he realizes Dick is is just totally lost and feels like he doesn’t belong anywhere but Damian can see how much potential he has, and he decides actually he will take this child and raise him instead. Dick is maybe like. Fourteen at the oldest. Bruce rly acquired Jason and Tim within like 2 or 3 years. It was a lot of change for Dick.

Maybe Dick and Bruce have just had another big fight. Maybe Bruce is lost in time and instead of taking care of Dick like he was supposed to, Tim is obsessed with proving that Bruce is still alive. Damian plucks Dick right up and either lives with him somewhere in Gotham and goes out with him as Batman and Robin, or Damian takes him back to the League of Assassins maybe.

Do they deal with Red Hood coming back during all of this? Or maybe Jason is still with the League so if Damian brings Dick there, Dick finally gets to know the brother he admits to being a little afraid of when Bruce first brought him home. Not because he was scary, but because he got along with Bruce so well and he was from Gotham like Bruce and then Bruce made him Robin too and he felt like he was being pushed away or replaced or like he was just disappearing.

Idk I just like the concept of reverse robins but same acquisition order

#dick grayson #damian wayne #reverse robins #jason todd #tim drake

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23xfgg · 3 months ago

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YANDERE! BATFAM x DRUG USER/SOBER! READER

(Ch. 1)

Ch. 2 <-

(Ch. 3)

(Ch. 3.o5)

An // this is part 2 of drug user / sober! Reader and I would like to thank you guys for actually liking the last one even though it wasn’t great. I do want to clarify that there won’t be any speech in this as I’m terrified of writing dialogue sorry <3

Again I’m sorry if this sounds messy and disjointed

I will also try making a tag list (max 10 or 20) that would be included at the end of the chapters.

TW// death, drugs, depression, drinking

It has been a couple of months since you stumbled across the drug party and met Adam. Your friendship with him started as aquenences who know nobody else but each other at the function to becoming quite close. You obviously had no way to contact him other than when you see each other at the “drug pit”.

Sometimes there would just be people popping pills, drinking, smoking, snorting, etc with only a few words being shared here or there. Other days it’s like a full blown party. The place is cramped, people are rubbing their bodies on others, coke lines on a random girls chest, mixing all kind of substances together and of course music blasting so loud people outside can hear it. This place feels like a second home to you. The first being your life with your mother and never including the manor.

Thinking about that place just gives you more reason to down another shot and buy a lollipop from a suspicious man in the corner.

Your addiction was a slow start, from turning up at the alley once a week to only smoke weed and gradually increasing to popping pills, drinking along with smoking. And your presence there increased from once a week to now almost every other day. Your frequency to turning to those drugs only ever increased when Damian just has to remind you that your existence will never amount to anything and you might as well save the whole family a favour and just disappear.

Honestly, even when you tried to ignore it his words did have an effect on your mental health, making you feel more depressed. And the depression will lead to grief as you just wish your life was normal before your mom died. You missed how she will hold you when you felt sad. She knew words had little effect so she just let her presence comfort you. Feeling safe in her arms surrounded by her floral perfumes gave you a sense of security. A security now lost because she is gone. She’s not there to hold you and comfort you. So now you resort to crying out on your pillows and popping a few pills whenever you smell the slightest trace of her clean floral perfume.

To keep your “family” off your back about your actions (which wasn’t that hard) you had a simple routine after school to keep any suspicion off you. After school you spent some time in your room, changing into a hoodie and ripped jeans, telling Alfred you will be with a friend and not to say any dinner for you and then you’re off.

Off to have whatever fun you want without any of the judging eyes you would get from the bat family. Whatever fun you want without having to avoid eye contact with your “father” Bruce and his disapproving glare. All the fun you want without a tiny body big attitude gremlin (who is sadly you half brother) telling you how much of a disappointment and a failure you are to the Wayne name.

It was so easy to hide you habits from them when they themselves don’t notice you. You take little care in making sure the spotlight of their attention was not on you. Not like it was hard to begin with. They were always buys with some shit regarding themselves.

You knew all the best hiding spots around Gotham. Including the manor. So you hid your stash based on importance/ how offer you would reach for it. Your pills and week you keep in a shoebox place under creaky floor boards in your room. The slightly harder stuff you have them hidden behind loose bricks, abandoned buildings and in alleyways. And some extra cash in all those spots. Heck, you even have thoes shoes that have compartments in the hell to hide your stuff in when the manor gets a little to risky to leave stuff alone.

You have taken (not) every necessary steps to ensure that the rest of them don’t find your little part time hobby, even when you know they won’t pay enough attention to notice (or will they…). But still as long as it stays with you in the shadows it will be easier as the days go by.

You have thought about quitting. But that was just a brief thought. The high and comfort was just too much for you to leave. It helped you cope. It helped keeping you out of your own dark thoughts. You never had to think of anything regarding your life when you’re high.

All you need was just pills and a joint and you are almost as happy when your mom was alive.

Almost…

An // ahh this chapter is shiiiitt. I srs don’t know what to do here 😭😭😭

I have plans for more chapters that may or may not come just be patient and ignore the mess that is my writing.

Tag list (if I have forgotten you I’m sorry pls just comment and I will add you in the next one) : @welpthisisboring @vanessa-boo @shycreatorreview @jsprien213 @1abi

Bye bye now 🤘

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dollishmehrayan · 7 months ago

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BATBOYS GENERAL HCS DURING DATING ── .✦

a/n: my posts are barely getting engagement so it would be nice to reblog + like + cmmt tysm! Also

I’m so tired because I don’t know what I want to do with myself when like writing because I don’t have much ideas yk, (I do have a lottt of ideas just don’t want to like spam and idk how to like execute it correctly so ya) but I’m so grateful I’m back!

(Tags: batboys general hcs + fem!reader)

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

Compliments: Dick will compliment you constantly, but they’re the slightly extra kind. “You look like you just walked off the cover of a magazine… Or like you’re about to rob a bank with your style, and I’m here for it.”

Date Nights: Dick is a hopeless romantic mixed a romantic flirty person. He'll plan elaborate date nights that are almost too perfect. You're having a candlelit dinner on a rooftop... until a mosquito swoops by, and you both spend 20 minutes trying to catch it.

Awkwardly Adorable: Dick tries so hard to be smooth, but when it’s just the two of you, he ends up tripping over his words, saying things like “I love you… like… in a non-creepy way… I mean, I know that sounds creepy but—“, “you know dick, you could’ve just told me you loved me no need for all that extra yapping.”

Sharing Food: He can’t resist sharing his food with you but will dramatically defend his fries. “No, you can't have any. This is the last one. You’ll be fine. It’s called 'the sacrifice of love.'”

JASON TODD ── .✦

Grumpy But Cute: Jason might be brooding and grumpy on the outside, but once he gets comfortable with you, he’s a sucker for giving you the best hugs. They’re just not as soft as you expect, because, well, he’s Red Hood and that’s not very 'soft' in his book.

Love Language: He definitely has a love language of throwing sarcastic remarks at you to show affection. “I’m just saying, you look so good, I might actually let you live longer than five minutes without me.”

Meme Sharing: Jason will share the funniest memes with you, and he will laugh harder than anyone else when you send him a reaction meme. You two could spend hours going through meme after meme while ignoring his patrol responsibilities.

Late Night Conversations: He’s always the first to text at 3 am just to say, “I’m not okay. Also, I think I might’ve made pasta in the Batcave, but it’s 80% burnt and half of the 20% is missing on the ground in other words, it’s fully burnt. You in?”

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Puns & Dad Jokes: Tim is the king of puns. You might be mid-sentence talking about something serious, and he’ll sneak in, “Well, that’s egg-sactly what I was thinking.”

Organizing Everything: Tim will have a notebook just for your relationship. He organizes things like "future plans," "annoying habits to change," and “how we can both pretend to be normal in public.”

Overthinking: Tim might send you long, thoughtful texts about nothing and everything, then panic and delete them. Later, you get a short text that says, “Hey, I like you. It’s cool. Let’s go save Gotham.”

Netflix & Research: On date nights, Tim is all about watching a documentary on some obscure topic. You wanted to watch a rom-com? Nope. Tim says, “Let’s learn about the history of ancient pizza ovens.”

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Fiercely Protective: Damian will go full boss mode in a relationship. If someone even looks at you wrong, he’s ready to challenge them to a duel. You’ve never seen someone challenge a guy at the coffee shop to a sword fight over a latte until you met him.

Literally Shakespeare: He has this bizarre habit of reciting random Shakespeare quotes when trying to express his feelings. “My love for you is like a tempest, crashing and relentless. Also, I think you forgot to add sugar in my coffee.”

Jealousy: He’ll get jealous of even the smallest things. That random guy who offered to help you with your grocery bags? Damian’s glaring at them from across the parking lot, preparing his “You’re not worthy” speech.

Tenderness: Don’t be fooled by his brooding exterior. Damian will get you flowers (in his own way) — like a very dramatic single red rose that he purchased with the least amount of emotion possible, but you know he spent an hour picking the perfect one.

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

Grumpy But Loyal: Bruce is that partner who takes a long time to warm up to things, but once he’s in, he’s in 100%. He’ll still be grumpy, though. If you show up in a bat-themed shirt, you’ll get a raised eyebrow and a grunt that could probably level an entire building.

Affectionate In His Own Way: Bruce will bring you your favorite coffee without asking because he’s been paying attention to your usual order for the past six months. But if you say anything about it, he’ll act like he’s annoyed. “I’m Batman. I don’t do things for people.”

Overprotective: He’ll put the Batcomputer between the two of you if he’s feeling protective, even if it’s completely unnecessary. Someone bumps into you? Bruce is already three steps ahead, tracking their life history and figuring out their deepest secrets, just in case.

Romantic, But Quiet About It: Bruce can’t show his love through words, but the way he gives you his jacket when it’s cold speaks volumes. Of course, he acts like it was an accident. “I didn’t want you to catch a cold, that’s all. I’m not a softy, don’t read into it.”

GENERAL TRAITS FOUND IN THEM ── .✦

Matching Outfits: They’ll all pretend like they’re too cool for matching outfits, but one day they’ll catch themselves accidentally twinning with you, and neither of you can ever act normal again.

In Public: They’ll all act like they don’t care if you hold their hand in public, but if anyone tries to grab your hand instead, they’ll give them a glare that could freeze a person in place.

Batman’s Turtleneck: Every Batboy secretly loves when Bruce wears his iconic black turtleneck and glasses. They all think Bruce looks like a mysterious intellectual, and they might just start commenting on it to mess with him. Bruce is too focused on Gotham to care.

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catgrandpa · 10 months ago

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I need a fic where Bruce realizes this kid who shoved his way into his sidekick role will not be leaving anytime soon, and instead of emotionally distancing himself he becomes a combination Helicopter Mom and Shotgun Dad.

☆彡

Tim: Bruce, I’m headed out to meet my friends at the mall.

Bruce: Is that Kent boy going to be there?

Tim, rolling his eyes: Yes, Kon is going. And so is Bart, and Cassie, and maybe Bernard if he can make it.

Bruce: Hnn. Do you have everything? Coat, scarf, keys, wallet, tracker, pepper spray, dagger, kryptonite shard, emergency beacon, first aid kit, fire starter, extra pair of-

Tim: Yes, Dad! I already went through the list with Alfred. I’ll be fine.

☆彡

Kon: Hello Sir! I’m here to pick up Tim!

Bruce: Follow me.

…

Bruce: Sit down.

Kon: In your study? Is Tim on the way, or…?

Bruce: I just thought you might need reminding of the fact that I have a vault downstairs full of items specifically designed to take down a Kryptonian.

Kon: Whuh?

Bruce: You should probably ask your father about the time I was slightly annoyed with him for encroaching on one of my cases.

Kon: Why are you telling me this?

Bruce: Now just imagine what would happen if someone were to hurt my darling little boy.

*door opens*

Tim: Hey Bruce, Alfie said Kon was here, have you seen him? Oh! Hey, why are you two in here??

Bruce: Oh, hey sweetheart, we were just chatting. Have a good time at the carnival!

☆彡

Dick, pouting: I don’t understand, you’re not this protective over who Jason or I date.

Bruce: Don’t be ridiculous, Jason and I may have our problems, but he would never betray me by gallivanting off with someone I disapprove of.

Dick, who covered for Jay sneaking out to visit Roy Harper just last night: Mhm yeah, sure. And you’re not worried about me?

Bruce: Chum, I’ve known who you were going to marry since you were 12 years old.

Dick: WHAT?

Bruce: I have the whole ceremony already planned. I’ve got Gotham’s best wedding planner on standby. You have a very nice house waiting for you both, 20 minutes from here. A modest 7 bedrooms on 5 acres of land.

Dick: I’m not even dating anyone?!

Bruce: I can’t wait to meet my 3 grandbabies:)

#Tim joined his life when he was already Robin so he can’t bubble wrap him but he would if he could #Bruce is absolutely overjoyed when Tim starts getting chummy with Bernard. just a sweet civilian boy who treats his boy with respect #he thought he had a good head on his shoulders until he found out they were in a polycule with kon #don’t question why Jason is sneaking out when he’s a grown ass man with his own apartment it was just funny to me #also you can choose who Dick is getting married to (because Bruce was correct) but it’s Wally to me for sure #the only thing B got wrong is that it’s 4 grandbabies because he didn’t account for twins #My favorite Bruce Wayne is ooc Bruce Wayne #batfam #batman #bruce wayne #robin #red robin #tim drake #nightwing #dick grayson #red hood #Jason Todd #kon el #conner kent #superboy #timkon #shut up grandpa

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mokulule · 4 months ago

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A Man has Needs part 3

First

Fandom: DP x DC Ship: Dead on Main (Jason/Danny) Summary: In which Jason keeps up ending up in Danny's bed and not even for any fun reasons.

Part 3

Daniel James Fenton, 20 years old, born and raised in Amity Park, Illinois. Graduated high school with barely passing grades. Currently enrolled in Gotham U’s aerospace engineering program, with (ironically) a Wayne Foundation scholarship of a type that was reliant on entrance exam test results rather than high school grades. Either his high school teachers hated him or he spent the gap year studying his ass off to ace the exams.

At least it explained what he was doing in Gotham of all places, Jason thought as he leaned on the kitchen island chin in his hand, laptop open in front of him. The WF scholarships for Gotham U were very good, yet still most people had the sense not to move to Gotham - and Crime Alley at that.

Him being from the Midwest might even explain some of the strange hospitality, though Jason felt he probably took it a level above most people.

Of family there was an older sister - like he’d mentioned. Jasmine Fenton was currently doing a PhD in the field of Psychology.

The parents, Jack and Madeline Fenton had doctorates of their own, though what little he could find published from them was from very disreputable paranormal sort of publications. They seemed to have very little basis for their theories - one of which was that ghosts were inherently evil - which was just absolute hogwash. They apparently lived off the payout of some early inventions they’d made and sold to the government.

Beyond that there was only an aunt.

Friends were much harder to judge. Danny’s social media presence was practically non-existent. He’d only just opened an account on Mugshot, Gotham’s favored social, this Monday, apparently due to encouragement from new Gotham U friends.

Jason absently drummed his fingers on the counter, as he stared unseeingly towards his laptop. Maybe Tim or Babs could find more, but Jason found himself reluctant to involve them, they would want to know why he was looking into the guy, they would want a reason to dig deeper than the basic background check Jason had already done.

Jason could not- would not, tell them about this… attraction? Jason rubbed his face tiredly. Attraction was a terrible word, that implied other things, but it was the best he had.

The oven timer had the kindness to beep then, signifying that batch of cookies was done, and distracting him for a few minutes as he transferred them to the cooling rack and got another plate going.

It was a limited reprieve however and all too soon he was back in front of his laptop. He had no other avenues, there really was only one thing to do.

Oo o oO

“We need to talk.” He flung the words out the moment a surprised Danny opened the door. The surprise however quickly gave way to a grimace as he registered the words.

“Do we have to?” Danny asked honest pleading in his voice.

Jason felt really tempted to say no, but forced himself to say “yes.”

“Okay,” Danny sighed, leaving the door open for Jason to step inside.

Jason closed the door after himself and felt his shoulders relax from their tense position and his breath come out in a relieved sigh. Safe.

He looked to Danny who wrung his hands.

Jason had meant to say something, ask something, he’d had a plan. He wanted answers. Answers… Jason opened his mouth, sound getting stuck in his throat. Just ask him what was going on? But what did it really matter?

“Ah! Please don’t say anything,” Danny interrupted Jason’s internal struggle. “I have been trying so hard not to make this awkward.”

Jason grimaced when he saw how uncomfortable Danny looked. Jason was making him uncomfortable.

“Okay look,” Danny took a deep breath and held up his hands, and looked at Jason with his big blue eyes, “will you please, just let me start, and if you really feel like you need to say something you can do so afterwards, yeah? Though it’s really not necessary.”

“Okay,” Jason managed mouth dry.

“I don’t know how to make this not awkward, but here goes, it’s okay.”

“Okay?” Jason reiterated brows raising in confusion.

“Yes, it’s okay, truly. Fuck, how would Jazz say it,” Danny looked thoughtful for a moment before meeting Jason’s eyes again. “You have needs, and that is okay.”

Jason frowned bewildered and alarmed. Needs?

Seeing Jason’s frown Danny unfortunately rambled, “I know it’s not exactly socially normal no matter which way you look at it, but it’s fine. I have a big bed, truly it’s fine. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, or apologize-“

Overwhelmed, Jason held up his bag of cookies and Danny thankfully stopped talking.

“Coffee?” Danny croaked after a moment’s silence.

“Please,” Jason agreed.

Five minutes later they sat at Danny’s small table a plate of cookies between them, looking down at their steaming coffee, awkwardly avoiding looking at each other.

Jason didn’t know what to think. Had he gotten any information out of this? Needs… Jason had needs, and those let him to Danny’s bed? He cringed away from the thought.

Across from him, Danny poked the handle of his cup. “Can we just pretend this conversation didn’t happen?”

Maybe Danny had the right of it. For both their sanities, maybe that was best. Aside from his confusion, Jason had felt better after both times he’d slept at Danny’s. Would it be so bad to, just for once in his life, not question things? Jason was unsure how much of this was his brain being muddled in Danny’s presence, but he agreed with a nod, and took a sip of coffee.

Oo o oO

Danny wanted to scream. He had made such a mess of things! All his good intentions and he’d gone and made things awkward anyways. It was a relief his guest was willing to just go with it after all.

And, Danny lamented, his guest had even spoken earlier today, like in a full sentence and now they were back at single words or nonverbal. Poor guy. It had to be so uncomfortable to wake up in a stranger’s bed. If only Danny had an easy way to give him straight ectoplasm, but then that might actually overwork his starved core and make everything worse. The slow absorption of Danny’s ambient energy, probably was best for him.

Half still lost in thought he took a cookie and promptly groaned in pleaures, it was perfect and there was no way he could keep his train of thought. It was crisp on outside and chewy in the middle, and the chocolate bits were so rich.

“You made these?” Danny exclaimed between heavenly bites and was rewarded with a quick shy smile and a glance of blue-green eyes. Fuck, why did Danny’s guest have to be both hot and cute? Life was so unfair.

But it seemed the ice had finally broken, and they were back to something comfortable.

Oo o oO

Later in his own apartment, Jason tried once again to make sense of things.

Facts. Jason woke up in Danny’s bed twice, it was likely to happen again.

Apparently Jason had needs. He shuddered at the thought, because what did that mean? But in a twisted way it also made sense, because he had woken up twice in that man’s bed through no conscious decision of his own. There was something about Danny that drew Jason to him and while it was kinda freaking him out, it was also kinda not. Which in itself was freaking him out if he allowed himself to think about it.

But another fact was that Jason felt better, lighter somehow, than… actually he didn’t really remember when he’d last felt so good. Maybe he really had just needed some proper sleep?

And Danny himself?

Jason had no idea what his deal was. It was very odd how accepting he was of the situation - he’d said it himself, this wasn’t socially normal no matter how you looked at it.

He was clearly not normal no matter how you looked at it. But neither was Jason really.

And this is the end of part 3.

They almost talked? They gotta get props for trying right?

You can subscribe at the masterpost

#dp x dc #dead on main #these two are so awkward #to be fair I think it is a very awkward situation I put them in #miscommunication #a man has needs

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mimiiiiiiiiisstuff · 4 months ago

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"Young and Beautiful"

Prologue

ya'll, I cannot sleep with my arm in this stupid cast, so i started rereading "the great Gatsby" (my comfort book) and i got this idea. i know, i know, i have 3 unfinished fics buttttttt i'm injured and this is my blog and i have free will so i'm writing this. This is yandere romantic batboys and bruce x reader. BUT set in the roaring 20's. Send in asks, requests, ideas, and just what you think about this! Likes, comments, reblogs and asks are encouraged and keep me going! Love yall <333. This is written in 1st person, reader is recalling events in her journal. This is a rough draft for the prologue! Sorry if it doesnt make sense, i'm high off pain meds writing this bc i'm BORED.

The first time I saw Jason Todd, he was nothing to me Just another boy in my father’s estate, covered in dirt, hands rough from labor, his bruised knuckles proof of a fight he hadn’t won. His blue eyes were sharp, full of something wild, something untamed, something that made you bristle, the kind of fire you knew to stay away from, even at 12 years old.

The first time I spoke to Jason Todd, two years after I saw him, I thought he was filth.

He was a boy covered in dirt, his hands stained with mud and the smell of horses, his knuckles raw from a fight he clearly hadn’t won. His face was sharp, bruised, skinny and too wild for someone who worked under my father’s name. He was nothing, just another street rat lucky enough to be given work in my father’s stables, another nameless stray that old Mr. Wilkes had dragged in from the gutters of Gotham. He smelled like sweat, hay, and something sharp, something angry.

I was fourteen years old and wore pearls around my throat, a silk dress with delicate lace at the sleeves. My father’s estate stretched over rolling green fields, our mansion standing tall like something out of a dream. My mother’s hands were soft, her perfume sweet, and I had never known hunger or want. My world was a world of glittering lights and expensive champagne, of high society and grand parties, of people who smiled with their teeth but whispered behind painted fans.

Jason Todd did not belong in my world.

Yet, somehow, he slipped in like a stain on silk.

We met on the back steps of the estate, where the stable boys cut through to the gardens. I was waiting for my automobile when he nearly ran into me, boots dragging dust over my polished shoes.

Jason Todd? He was filth beneath my shoes.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

Because the first time I met him, he nearly ran into me.

He didn’t bow like other servants did, he didn’t apologize profusely and beg for forgiveness.

He barely even looked at me before muttering, “Watch it,” like I was in his way.

I had never been spoken to like that in my life.

I hated him immediately.

I took a startled step back, wrinkling my nose at the smell of sweat, hay, and horse.

The nerve.

I straightened my back like Daddy told me to when I wanted to look serious and I tilted my chin up as I stared down at him. "Excuse me?"

Jason smirked, slow and lazy, eyes glinting with amusement. "Did I stutter?"

I had never wanted to slap someone so badly.

Instead, I remember turning and walked away, forgetting my plans of going into town, heels clicking sharply against the stone, vowing to never look at him again and to hate him forever, no matter how handsome he was,.

That vow didn’t last long, especially when he took off his shirt.

Jason was everywhere.

I saw him at the stables, his shirtless back slick with sweat, muscles shifting under tanned skin as he worked. I saw him sneaking apples from the kitchen, disappearing into the trees, laughter on his lips. I saw him in the streets, fists flying, always coming back with fresh bruises, always alive in a way no one else was.

And then, you heard about him.

"That stable boy got into another fight," the maids whispered. "Damn near killed the other boy, apparently the other kid got smart about his lady."

At the time, I thought the strange burning feeling in my gut was disgust at even hearing Jason's name. Now I know, what I felt was pure jealousy, not knowing the 'lady' Jason nearly killed a boy over was me.

"He’s trouble," my mother warned when I asked about him at dinner. "Keep away from him, sweetheart."

"He won’t last long here," my mother sighed. "That kind of boy never does, no matter how much of a soft spot your father has for him."

My father pitied Jason, told me I oughta be nicer to him like I am to the other workers (he would regret that statement soon.)

He had no one. No mother, no father, no family, nothing but the clothes on his back and determination. He had what my father called "the look of a man who'd rather die than fail" and my father respected that.

But Jason did last.

I hated him.

Hated the way he smirked at me from across the gardens, like he knew something I didn’t.

I hated the way he never bowed, never apologized, never treated me like the others did.

I hated that when I was alone, when my father’s friends spoke about marrying me off to the sons of their business partners, I thought of Jason Todd instead.

The first conversation I had with Jason Todd was after I had fought with my father.

It was about marriage. About duty. About a boy I didn’t love.

I ran into the garden dramatically ignoring my father's desperate calls, pearls at my throat, tears in my eyes.

And Jason was already there.

Sprawled under an oak tree, cigarette between his lips, watching me like he’d been waiting for this moment all his life.

"You rich girls cry over the dumbest shit," he muttered.

I whipped around. "What did you just say to me?" How dare he speak to me like I was any other girl, like this wasn't my home, like he didn't work for my father.

Jason pushed himself up, boots kicking up dirt as he smirked. "You ever go to bed hungry?"

My breath caught. He had a point, you were privileged.

"Ever steal to survive?" His voice was low, teasing, sharp. "Ever wake up in the morning and wonder if you’ll still have a roof over your head by sundown?"

I didn’t answer, for the first time in years I felt something close to shame.

Jason tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with resentment. "Didn’t think so, princess."

I hated him. He made me feel childish. He humbled me. He burst my perfect bubble.

And I loved him for it.

I loved him for making you feel something real.

And that was the beginning of everything.

I loved Jason Todd.

I loved him when he me you out of the house at midnight and made me ride my horse bareback through the fields.

I loved him when he knocked the rich boy who called me a tease's teeth out.

I loved him when he threw pebbles at my window on the third floor and scaled the walls to my balcony.

I loved him when he kissed me for the first time at 14 under the summer stars, hands gripping my waist, mouth desperate against mine.

"You’re my Jason, my Jaybird," I whispered against his lips. Corny, but nothing felt better to say, especially when I saw his face.

Jason smiled like I had given him the whole damn world.

And he? He was my whole world.

When Jason was seventeen and I was fifteen, he walked into my father’s grand house, dressed in his best suit, nervous but determined and proud, his hands clean for once, his boots polished.

He asked my father for my hand in marriage. He asked my father for my hand and I thought he would say yes. Daddy always thought he was a hard worker, called him a real good sport.

He stood before my father and said, “I love her, sir. I’ll make her happy. Give me a chance. I ain't got much now, but one day I will. I'll give her what she's got and more.”

My father just laughed.

“Boy,” he said, shaking his head, “she’s not meant for men like you.”

Jason left that night, whispering a promise against my skin.

"I’ll come back for you, I'll be great. Be a man like how your daddy wants, rich and proper, he'll have to say yes."

I waited, god knows I did.

I wrote letters to the last address he gave me every single day.

For five years. Till I turned twenty. I never looked at another man, I had my Jason.

I waited for him to reply, fought off suitors and pressure from my mother. I waited for a reply, that he was coming soon, that he missed me.

I waited.

And my Jaybird never came back.

My father loved me.

He regretted turning Jason away five years later, when I still refused to marry. He never forced me to marry, not even when the years passed and my suitors grew frustrated with my refusals.

He saw my misery, my longing and admitted, “I should’ve said yes. I should’ve let you have him.”

He thought my Jason was a passing infatuation, he wondered what people would say about his daughter marrying the stable boy.

He wished he saw my love for Jason sooner.

But love wasn’t enough to keep the debt collectors away.

I knew something was wrong when my father began to look stressed, when my parents began to argue, and when I heard my mother cry herself to sleep after selling her favorite pearls.

My father was going to loose everything all at once.

The steel business wasn't what it used to be.

And then suddenly, Bruce Wayne arrived like a knight in shining armor.

He was older than me, 18 years my senior. Refined, powerful, and dangerously charming.

And most importantly, rich. He was exactly what I needed to stop my family's fall from grace.

Bruce courted me like a gentleman.

He sent roses every morning, took me to the finest restaurants, whispered in my ear about a future where I would never want for anything again.

He was patient.

He never forced me to love him.

He only asked for one thing.

"Let me take care of you."

I kept Bruce waiting for three months. All I could do was think of Jason. I knew he was not returning, that he either was dead or found some other pretty girl to make promises to.

I told myself love was not enough to fill an empty stomach and keep my parents happy like they did for me.

I told myself that Jason Todd was not coming back to save me, yet each morning I woke up waiting for a letter or pebbles thrown at my window.

After four months of courting, I decided.

And at twenty, I became Mrs. Bruce Wayne.

Jason Todd never sent me a single letter, but I still dreamed of my Jaybird even as I looked at the massive ring on my finger.

OKKKKK SO WHAT YA'LL THINK??? CONTINUE OR DELETE??? FLOP OR BOP? SEND IN ASKS!!!! I MISS YALL! THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING ROMANCE W JASON AND BRUCE. I REALLY LIKE THIS AU!!!! WHAT DO YALL THINK IS GONNA HAPPEN? SORRU IF IT SUCKS OR DOESNT MAKE SENSE, I'M SO HIGH BRO.

BE NICE PLEASE, I'M IN PAIN! THIS IS NOT EDITED OR PROOF READ.

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fandom · 2 years ago

Photo

TV Shows

Another big year for that show that hasn't aired since 2020.

Good Omens +20

The Owl House

Stranger Things -2

The Last of Us

Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles +15

Our Flag Means Death -3

Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir -1

Succession +2

Adventure Time +72

Supernatural -2

Adventure Time: Fionna and Cake

Ted Lasso +48

Shadow and Bone +35

The Mandalorian +15

Doctor Who

The Eurovision Song Contest +16

Interview with the Vampire +11

Danny Phantom +12

House of the Dragon -14

Heartstopper -7

The Witcher -12

Wednesday

What We Do in the Shadows -16

Warrior Nun

9-1-1 -7

Hannibal -1

Yellowjackets

Merlin +18

The Sandman -17

Ahsoka

Young Royals +33

Avatar: The Last Airbender -1

Sonic Prime

One Piece

Loki -2

South Park +11

Teen Wolf +20

Lego Monkie Kid +31

The Dragon Prince

Percy Jackson and the Olympians -16

Steven Universe +3

Andor +28

Don't Hug Me I'm Scared

The Bad Batch

Bridgerton -18

Abbott Elementary +50

Ninjago +8

Arcane -44

Obi-Wan Kenobi -33

Breaking Bad -7

My Adventures with Superman

Riverdale +4

The Legend of Vox Machina -2

9-1-1: Lone Star +8

Star Wars: The Clone Wars -14

KinnPorsche -39

Gravity Falls -31

The Untamed -19

The Winchesters

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine +4

The Rookie

House MD

Castlevania

Golden Globes

Game of Thrones -21

Criminal Minds +5

The Academy Awards -14

The Muppets

Outer Banks

Ghosts +18

Daisy Jones & The Six

Star Wars Rebels

The Simpsons +13

Amphibia -61

The Bear

Lockwood & Co.

Willow

Star Trek: The Original Series +1

Love in the Air +11

Inside Job

Community +3

Velma

Better Call Saul -34

Only Friends

Columbo +12

The Grammy Awards

Buffy the Vampire Slayer -17

Gotham -16

The Screen Actors Guild Awards

Phineas and Ferb

My School President

Clone High

Supergirl -56

Moon Knight -84

The Walking Dead

The Sanremo Music Festival

Moonlight Chicken

Black Sails -22

Invader Zim -14

The number in italics indicates how many spots a title moved up or down from the previous year. Bolded titles weren’t on the list last year.

#year in review #tv shows #tumblr2023

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rheitais · 5 months ago

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Dp x Dc Prompt - Haunted Class of '06

Tim, Jason and Duke were sent out to investigate an old abandoned building on the edges of Gotham. Oracle kept getting reports on the cult-like activity coming from the building.

The first report was when teens were spotted near the entrance, the witness didn't think much of it until they could hear chirps and firecrackers coming from both the teens and inside the building. The second report was when cloaked figures were spotted leaving and entrancing the building really late at night, that witness could have sworn that the cloaked figures called themselves witches.

The final report was from a police officer that finally went to investigate the building, he went inside only to find two boys who looked identical standing in the middle of a circle. When they started floating the officer looked up to see a bunch of grins and eyes watching him almost as if they were waiting for a sacrifice.

Gordon did the smart thing and left the case to the Bats. So here is Tim, Duke and Jason standing in an abandoned building close to midnight. Duke would normally be asleep but they wanted to be safe and have the Meta with them. Duke pointed to a slight crack that admitted a low green light from underneath.

Finding their way through the building, leading to them making their way underground. The building felt less abandoned and more alive going further down. Tim pointed out that the layout never mentioned the underground being that deep. They made it to a door and could hear faint whispers and laughter, of children?

They opened the door to find over 20 teens in a large room. It almost looked like a giant sleepover if not for the one adult passed out in the corner, 3 teens were drawing on his face. When they heard a thud from the door hitting the wall they snapped from their places to see the 3 vigilantes staring back.

"Damn it Fenton you just had to jinx us."

[Masterpost]

#danny phantom #dpxdc #batfam #dan phantom #dp x dc prompt #bruce wayne #dc x dp prompt #tim drake #damian wayne #dark danny

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neellscapsule · 12 hours ago

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My Heart — Part Five

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. conner kent x reader.

word count |

we get to see more of the family interacting: we notice the more yandere's traits they have. timothy "stalker" drake, i'm looking at you.

previous. next.

The first thing you feel is the cold.

Not the physical kind — no — this is the cold that burrows under your skin, spreads through your chest, weaves like smoke into your bloodstream. It wraps your heart in ice and squeezes until it barely beats.

It starts the same way it always does — with their eyes.

Lifeless. Vacant. Glassy.

You were fourteen the first time you saw them like that.

Your dream drags you back to that night, just as it always does — a loop you can’t seem to break no matter how many years or how many walls you’ve built around it.

Gotham’s alleyways bleed shadows as you run. Sirens wail somewhere far, but not far enough. Your breathing is ragged, frantic. The acrid sting of chemicals still burns your throat.

Crane's toxin hits differently when you're young. The moment it fogged your mask, your lungs screamed, your vision tilted — and then they appeared.

Jason. Alfred. Dick. Tim. Cass. Even Bruce.

Limp bodies, rotting where they stood, faces sunken and gray, eyes milky and unseeing. Your family, dead, decaying, abandoned in the dark — and all of it your fault. Bruce, too. His cowl half-melted, eyes gaping holes, jaw slack with death.

It wasn’t real. You knew it wasn’t real — but logic is weak against fear when it slides like oil down your spine.

You remember screaming their names, clawing at the hallucinations, sobbing against decayed limbs that shouldn’t have been real but felt so real — and then, beyond the rot and bones, his voice:

Jonathan Crane.

Soft. Mocking. Even though you couldn't understand a word of what he was saying.

He stepped out of the shadows with that stitched mask, needles glinting at his belt, and you snapped.

You were fourteen. Fourteen and trained by the Bat. Fourteen and drowning in terror and rage.

Your fists collided with him before he could react. The world blurred. You were a hurricane — wild and furious — every punch cracking bone beneath that burlap mask. His blood splattered your gloves, your cheeks, your tongue — copper sharp and animalistic.

He stabbed the syringes into your arms, desperate to slow you, but the toxin already drowned your mind. What was a little more poison when your whole world was rotting?

You kept hitting him until his mask split, until he whimpered like a kicked dog, until his teeth glittered red in the moonlight.

You remember that.

The smell of blood and toxin. The sound of your knuckles breaking his jaw. The cold that never left.

You don’t remember stopping. You didn’t stop until Bruce and Dick pulled you off him, you know that.

The following days were a blur of fever dreams and locked doors. You hid in your room. Refused to see them. Couldn’t bear to look at their faces, afraid they’d still be decomposing, still blaming you. Hiding from your own reflection, your own family, unsure if what you saw in the mirror was skin or rot beneath.

You don’t remember much after that. But the fear never left.

You bolt upright in bed, tangled in cream-colored sheets, breath clawing at your lungs, hair plastered to your neck with cold sweat. The bedroom is quiet and far too warm.

Your chest heaves, lungs dragging in shaky gulps of air as your pulse pounds behind your eyes. The silk sheets tangle around your hips, damp with sweat, cool against feverish skin.

The apartment is still. Safe.

You’re not fourteen.

You're in Gotham.

You're not drowning in Scarecrow's nightmare.

It takes a beat to remember. To piece together reality. To let your heartbeat slow under the hum of Gotham’s traffic.

A low breath curls against your spine, warm and steady.

Conner.

You turn your head, heart slowing as you see him sprawled beside you — his arm stretched over the sheets, hand splayed lightly against your stomach.

He’s shirtless. Hair messy. Lips parted in sleep.

There’s a crease between his brows, even unconscious — that stubborn frown he always wears when he’s worried or… dreaming of worse things.

You ease onto your side, clutching the sheet to your chest as your breathing settles. His hand slides gently over your skin, thumb tracing a path along the curve of your waist.

“You alright?” His voice is rough with sleep, low and gentle. His hand twitches faintly, fingers curling like muscle memory.

You blink at him, surprised.

“You’re awake.”

He cracks one eye open, offering a crooked, sleepy smile. “Kinda hard to sleep through your breathing like that, Huntress.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “Nightmare,” you admit, voice barely a whisper.

Conner’s expression softens immediately. He props himself onto his elbow, the sheet slipping down his torso. His hand strokes your side, careful and grounding.

“Wanna talk about it?”

You hesitate. The memory is heavy, clawing up your throat like bile. But his eyes — steady, concerned — anchor you.

You swallow. “Scarecrow. First time I… got hit with his toxin.”

Conner exhales slowly, thumb stilling on your skin. “Shit.”

He knows. Of course he knows. You told him once, years ago — in pieces, over rooftop beers and sleepless stakeouts.

You exhale, a long, shaky sound. Your free hand drifts across the sheet, curling over his wrist, thumb pressing to the steady thrum of his pulse. It calms you more than you want to admit.

“They… they were all dead,” you whisper. “Rotting. Just… walking corpses. I was alone. Again.”

Conner’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl against your waist. “It wasn’t real.”

You nod. “I know.” You pause, then add softly, “Didn’t feel like that.”

There’s a beat of silence, then his hand cups your cheek, gentle but firm. His thumb strokes the edge of your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

“It’s not real,” he says, brushing his forehead against yours, nudging gentle. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re not alone. Not now.”

A pause. You swallow, throat tight.

“Not ever?”

“Never.”

The promise is whispered into your hairline, soft and raw, and you lean into it. His warmth soaks through the chill clinging to your bones, and for the first time since the nightmare woke you, you breathe — steady, deep.

Your hand slides from his wrist to cup his jaw, thumb tracing the corner of his mouth.

“You’re obnoxiously good at this,” you murmur, lips quirking faintly.

He grins, sleep-laced and boyish, dark hair mussed wildly. “What? Being charming?”

“Comforting,” you correct, biting back a smile.

“Well…” He tilts his head, grinning crooked. “Stick with me, sweetheart.”

You lean in, lips brushing his, slow and languid — grateful. The kiss is soft, unhurried. He lets you guide it, lets you set the pace. His hand curls at your waist, steady, protective.

Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer, and the kiss deepens — all warmth and messy, quiet want. You sigh against his lips, the lingering tension bleeding out, dissolving under his touch.

The fear loosens.

The memory fades.

Only him remains — solid, steady, familiar.

His hand tangles in your hair too, mouth coaxing yours open, deepening the kiss with patient, aching care.

You sigh into him, the sheet forgotten between you, the warmth of his body drawing you in like a lighthouse through fog. Your legs open, a quiet invitation that he quickly takes, positioning with a smooth movement that takes a chuckle out of your chest.

The kiss lingers — slow, soft, desperate in its tenderness — until the sharp buzz of your phone shatters the quiet.

You groan, fumbling blindly for the device on the nightstand.

“Let it ring,” Conner mumbles against your neck, nipping gently.

You manage a laugh, swiping the screen without looking.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Miss Y/N.” Alfred’s familiar voice filters through, calm and faintly amused. “I trust I’m not interrupting?”

You stiffen, mortified. Conner snickers softly against your shoulder, teeth grazing your collarbone. You flick his ear.

“No,” you say too quickly, voice cracking. “What’s up?”

“I took the liberty of preparing breakfast. Your favorites — those tartlets you’ve always adored.” There’s a pause, weighted but kind. “I thought perhaps… you’d join me and the rest?”

Your chest tightens. You glance at Conner, his smile gentler now, eyes curious. He lefts another kiss on your collarbone, warmer than before.

You blink, stunned silent for half a beat. The familiar ache coils behind your ribs — bittersweet, raw, impossible to refuse.

“Alfred…”

“No pressure,” he says, gentler now. “But it would mean… quite a lot.”

Your eyes drift to Conner. His brows raise in silent question, his hand still warm at your back.

You exhale softly. Smile, small but real.

“I’ll be there,” you whisper.

“Excellent,” Alfred replies, tenderly. “Take your time, dear.”

The line clicks off.

“Breakfast with the bats,” Conner teases, shifting under the sheets, propping himself up on one elbow, the wickedest little grin curling at the corner of his mouth. “You should probably find a bulletproof vest, but instead of bullets, it should cover your neck.”

You snort despite yourself, tossing the phone back onto the nightstand and burrowing deeper into the mattress, dragging the blanket halfway up your face in dread. “It’s not funny.”

“Oh, no, it’s hilarious,” he says, and before you can dodge or protest, his hand snakes under the blanket, fingers splaying across your waist as he lunges.

“Conner—”

Too late.

He attacks, pressing a barrage of rapid, sloppy kisses across your jaw, your cheek, your neck — anywhere his mouth can reach, relentless and laughing as he does it.

“Stop—” You squeal, laughing despite the weight of anxiety knotted in your stomach, batting at his shoulders. “Conner, I’m serious—”

“So am I,” he shoots back, lips brushing your collarbone, nose bumping against your throat, the grin in his voice unmistakable. “Serious about distracting you before you spiral.”

“I’m not spiraling,” you lie, breath hitching when his teeth nip playfully at your pulse point.

“You’re thinking too much,” he counters, peppering another trail of warm kisses up your jaw. “I can hear your brain overheating.”

You giggle, shoving weakly at his chest, but he doesn’t budge — just keeps kissing you, soft and obnoxious and entirely unbothered by your half-hearted protests. Your laughter bubbles up, real and bright, smoothing the edges of fear lingering in your ribs.

“Conner—”

“Kiss truce?” he offers, finally slowing, hovering over you with that boyish smile, eyes sparkling with something warmer, heavier. His hand curls gently against your waist, thumb brushing lazy circles over your hipbone.

You sigh, breathless, still laughing faintly as you grab the front of his shirt, tugging him down.

“Fine,” you mutter, lips brushing his, “but only because you’re insufferably charming.”

“Hey,” he grins against your mouth, voice dropping low, teasing, “you’re the one kissing me now, sweetheart.”

And you do —

Kiss him again.

Hard enough to forget, just for a moment, about breakfast. About Gotham.

About all of it.

Wayne Manor hasn’t changed.

Not really.

The stones still hum with history, the sprawling estate looming against the gray Gotham skyline like a relic frozen in time. The windows gleam like polished obsidian, sharp and silent. The front doors creak the same way they did when you were seven, sneaking back in after hours spent curled under the rose garden arbor, sketchbook clutched to your chest.

You pause at the front steps, fingers brushing the cool wrought-iron railing, a familiar tightness curling in your ribs.

Everything feels… too heavy. Too loud with memory.

You hated how much you missed this place.

The halls are the same. Portraits hanging like ghosts of the past — old Waynes, stoic and stone-eyed, watching you walk the corridor as if you don’t belong. Maybe you never did.

Laughter down these same halls you were never quite part of. Cold nights on the roof waiting for a father who never noticed you’d fallen asleep waiting. Echoes of piano keys under your hands, playing to the ghosts of people still living.

But the smell…

It wasn’t home — not anymore, not for years — but it still smelled like your childhood. The faint warmth of Alfred’s coffee brewing. The sharp, citrus-clean scent of polished wood. The faintest sweetness of something baking. It’s the same.

Your footsteps echo as you make your way to the dining room, the clock on the wall mocking you — ten minutes late. You could’ve been early. You could’ve walked in like you were supposed to. But your legs dragged, your spine resisted, your heart whispered not yet.

They’re all here. The entire family sat gathered around the sprawling breakfast table, the silverware glinting against fine china, the food — fresh tarts, waffles, berries, all the things you loved — barely touched.

The moment you slip through the threshold, you can feel it. Tension. Anticipation.

Barbara’s seated nearest the head of the table, red hair tied back, elegant as ever. Dick’s beside her, arms folded, blue eyes flicking to you instantly with a grin that’s a little too proud, a little too… relieved.

“Birdie,” Dick’s voice finally cut through the silence, his grin stretching wider as he crossed the room in three strides and crushed you into his chest without waiting for permission.

Your arms hung stiff at your sides.

You let him hug you. Let him press his chin to your hair, rocking you gently like you were something fragile he forgot how to hold. But you didn’t hug him back. Not yet.

“Ten minutes late,” Dick whispered, breath warm against your temple. “You owe me for that.”

Jason’s leaning back in his chair, legs sprawled wide, toying with the edge of a coffee cup like it’s a weapon. His eyes cut toward you as you enter, unreadable, but there’s a softness buried somewhere beneath that sharp jaw.

Cass is beside him, quiet, sharp-eyed, assessing you with that hawk-like stare that never misses anything.

Tim, next, flipping casually through something on his phone — only to stop dead when he sees you. His smile is smaller than the others, but real.

Steph waves from across the table, already chewing on what looks like a muffin, bright as ever. Duke gives you a simple nod, polite but watchful.

And Damian— seated beside the chair left empty for you — his eyes sharpen immediately, like a hawk spotting prey, and before you can even consider another seat, his hand slides to the back of the chair beside him, pulling it out in silent demand.

You hesitate. Only a moment.

But the silence says enough. You walk forward, heels clicking against marble, and lower yourself into the chair— wedged between Tim and Damian, your youngest brother already shifting, moving his own chair closer with a sharp scrape of wood, until there’s no space left. His shoulder brushes yours. You say nothing.

“Nice of you to join us,” Duke teases gently, his grin easy, like this isn’t suffocating.

“Traffic,” you lie smoothly, reaching for a coffee cup.

Alfred appears at your shoulder, refilling it before you even finish the motion. His eyes crinkle faintly. You mouth a thank you.

The talk swirls— casual, loud, overlapping. You barely listen.

Until Bruce’s voice cuts through it. “Where are you staying?”

You pause, fingers curling tighter around your cup. Your lips part to answer.

“She’s at the Royal Resort,” Tim pipes up, glancing down at his phone like the information’s public knowledge.

Your mouth snaps shut. Your head tilts toward him, brows furrowing, irritation bubbling low beneath your ribs.

“How do you—?”

“Credit card trail,” he answers simply, like that explains everything. “Nice place. But you know that.”

Your jaw ticks. Your eyes narrow faintly, and Damian’s quiet scoff beside you draws your attention before you can retort.

“No Wayne should stay in a hotel when the Manor is theirs,” Damian says bluntly, green eyes sharp, arms crossing over his chest. “It’s pathetic.”

You roll your eyes, leaning forward to grab one of the little lemon tarts perched neatly on the silver tray in the center of the table. Before your fingers even brush the plate, a hand beats you to it— Jason.

He grabs one tart, drops it silently onto your plate, eyes lingering on you for a second, unreadable, before turning his attention to the waffle platter, scooping one onto his own plate. Neither of you says anything.

Your jaw tightens. The warmth in your chest clashes with the frustration.

“Thank you,” you mutter, biting the edge off the words as you slice into the tart.

“You should come home,” Bruce says plainly, cutting through the conversation like it’s strategy.

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth.

“Here we go,” you mutter under your breath.

“Father’s right,” Damian insists, straightening beside you. “The Manor is your home.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you shoot back coolly, finally turning your gaze toward Bruce, challenging. “I’ve been just fine where I am.”

“‘Fine’ is a low standard,” Tim interjects, voice dry, sipping his coffee. “We can do better.”

You glare. He doesn’t flinch.

“It’s not a negotiation,” Bruce says, voice soft but firm — Batman creeping in around the edges. “This is your home. It always has been.”

Your stomach knots. Years of silence. Neglect. Overlooked birthdays, missed recitals, absent gazes during galas when you were practically begging to be seen— it all surges up like bile.

“I don’t—”

“You belong here,” Damian cuts in, sharp, insistent, his chair nearly flush to yours now. His green eyes burn with possessiveness only a child that never learned to share can wield. “With us.”

Your tongue darts across your bottom lip. You hesitate, but the room leaves no space to breathe, no space to speak.

“You’re not serious.”

Bruce’s jaw ticked, that faint clench you’d seen too many times before. “You’re not safe.”

“I’ve been safe for years,” you shot back, the weight of the old argument settling over your shoulders like a threadbare cloak. “Without you.”

“We didn’t know where you were,” Dick added, voice soft, as if that might somehow make it hurt less. “That’s not okay.”

“That’s exactly how I wanted it.”

Damian’s hands tightened into fists on the table, his leg pressed fully against yours now, unmoving, steady, anchoring you in place whether you wanted it or not.

“You’re a Wayne,” Bruce continued, firm, final. “You belong here.”

Your lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Since when?”

Jason’s fingers drummed against the edge of his plate. He didn’t look at you. “Since always.”

You exhaled slowly, dragging your gaze away from them, scanning the familiar walls, the weight of the manor sinking into your ribs like it never left.

The lemon tart tasted exactly like you remembered. Alfred still made them just right. And that’s what made it hurt more.

It was suffocating.

Cass’s gaze pins you, quiet support buried beneath sharp awareness. Barbara watches you softly, expression unreadable. Jason’s jaw tightens faintly, eyes flicking to you, then away. Duke, Steph, Tim— they’re all watching, waiting.

And Bruce—

Bruce’s gaze softens, only a fraction, but it’s there. That quiet, fatherly plea buried beneath years of stubborn, stoic failure.

The tart on your plate mocks you. The Manor hums around you, familiar and suffocating.

There’s no room to say no. Not really.

You sigh, setting your fork down.

“Fine,” you mutter, eyes locked on your plate.

You can feel their quiet satisfaction settle over the table, thick as the walls surrounding you. And once again, Wayne Manor swallows you whole.

The table doesn’t fall back into the same rhythm after your reluctant acceptance. No— it thickens, something denser now floating around the plates, in the glances they trade when they think you’re not watching. The way Barbara’s eyes linger on you when she thinks she’s being subtle. The way Duke’s smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes now. The way Tim taps his fork against his plate with that knowing edge, like he’s already planning the security sweeps he’ll make to ensure you’re not booking another hotel behind their backs.

It’s suffocating.

You cut another small bite of the lemon tart, chewing slowly, trying to keep your breathing level. Across from you, Jason is picking apart his waffle, dragging his fork in absentminded circles, occasionally flicking his gaze up toward you, then away like he’s pretending not to watch you this closely.

Like he wasn’t the one who deliberately placed the tart on your plate to begin with. Like he didn’t just decide to slip right back into your habits like he never left.

You hate how familiar this is. You hate how much your chest aches with the weight of it.

You hate that you missed them.

“Alfred,” you call softly, folding your napkin with delicate precision. The butler steps closer almost immediately, as if he never left the edge of the room. “Do I— does my room still…?”

His smile creases warmly. “Your room is precisely as you left it, Miss.”

Your mouth twists. Your room. Not guest room. Not temporarily made up for you. Your room.

Even though you left years ago, and you were never supposed to come back.

You catch Bruce watching you over the rim of his cup, his expression carved in that deep, impenetrable stone that always used to make you second guess what you meant to him.

The silence drags, then Dick leans forward, the weight of his folded arms settling over the table.

“We can help you move your things,” he says, soft, careful, like he’s handling you the way you handle old paintings— afraid you’ll crack with the wrong touch. “I mean, unless you plan to stay in a hotel for the rest of your life.”

You raise a brow at him, fingers smoothing over your napkin, pretending to consider. “Tempting.”

Damian shifts closer — which you didn’t think was possible — until his chair scrapes a few more millimeters forward, his shoulder fully pressing against yours now, steady, grounding.

“I will help my sister. Titus can carry her stuff while I help with the rest.” His brows go back to normal, looking at you with his slight narrowed green eyes. You have always admired just how cute your brother could be: perhaps, with a normal childhood, he could have been a stereotypical Draco Malfoy.

But he's not. He reminds you a bit more of a mix between Malfoy and Harry.

His lips carry a smirk that you have seen in your father. The perfect mix between he and Talia, of course.

You snap your head toward your other young brother, incredulous now that you remember the reply minutes ago. “You’ve been tracking me?”

“Not ‘tracking.’” Tim shrugs, not bothering to look up from his phone. “Monitoring.”

Your jaw ticks. “That’s not any better.”

“It’s more responsible.”

Your breath puffs out in disbelief, fingers tightening around your cup.

“Tim, I could be halfway across the world and you’d still have eyes on me, wouldn’t you?”

He finally glances up, soft, smug smile twisting his mouth. “Could be, but you’re not across the world. You’re here.”

Your stomach knots. You should be angry. You should be furious, even. But you know Tim. He’s always done this. He’s always catalogued everything, everyone. He doesn’t let go. Especially not when it comes to family.

Especially not you.

“I should’ve expected that,” you mutter under your breath, taking another slow sip of coffee.

“You should’ve,” he agrees, not missing a beat.

The tart on your plate is half-finished when Jason's voice cuts through the low hum of conversation, sharp and unexpected.

“What the hell are those?”

The fork stalls halfway to your mouth, lemon curd trembling slightly at the edge of the silver. Your spine stiffens. Your eyes lift, meeting his across the table.

Jason’s gaze isn’t playful now. It’s sharp, narrowed in on you with a familiarity that only older brothers possess, and his hand gestures vaguely to your collarbone — or more specifically, the faint bruising peeking just beneath the open neckline of your sweater. The marks you hadn’t bothered to conceal this morning, half out of carelessness, half because you didn’t think they’d look that close.

A hush falls over the table, the scrape of a chair leg echoing somewhere as everyone turns to look.

You lower your fork. Slowly.

“Sorry, what?” you ask, tone deceptively light.

Jason leans forward, elbow braced on the table, expression unreadable but sharp with suspicion. “Those marks. On your neck. And your wrist—” his eyes flick down, zeroing in on the faint reddish imprint around your wrist bone, peeking from beneath your sleeve, “—what the hell, sis?”

Beside you, Damian’s eyes narrow, gaze flicking from your neck to your wrist, his posture straightening, the edge of his chair scraping closer again, practically caging you in now.

“They’re nothing,” you say flatly, adjusting your sleeve as casually as you can manage.

“Yeah, sure,” Steph chimes in, voice half-muffled by a bite of muffin. “You just tripped over your own charm and face-planted into a set of hickeys?”

Heat burns along your neck, but you force your expression blank, slicing another neat bite of tart onto your fork. “You all need to mind your own business.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Tim mutters under his breath, flipping his coffee stirrer between his fingers. “The girl who used to hack into the GCPD for fun is telling us about boundaries.”

“Tim,” Cass warns softly, her voice calm but carrying weight as always.

But it’s too late— the floodgates are open now.

Dick raises a brow, that annoyingly big-brother grin slipping onto his face as he leans onto his forearms. “So… who’s the lucky idiot?”

“There is no idiot,” you bite back, glaring down at your plate.

“Those marks say otherwise,” Jason deadpans, reaching casually for the coffee pot like he’s not interrogating you in front of the entire damn family. “You look like you got attacked by a particularly enthusiastic vampire.”

Your blush deepens, teeth sinking into your cheek as you shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. Damian, beside you, shifts slightly, still watching you with hawk-like intensity, green eyes narrowed and calculating.

“You should tell us who it is,” he says, voice deceptively neutral for a thirteen-year-old. “It would be… concerning if someone thought they could handle you like that.”

“‘Handle’?” you repeat, scoffing under your breath, “God, you sound like Father.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpens slightly at the end of the table, coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth. “If someone’s putting hands on you—”

“They’re not,” you cut in quickly, jabbing your fork at your plate with a little more force than necessary. “I’m perfectly capable of making my own terrible decisions, thanks.”

Steph snickers beside Barbara, who just hides a smile behind her glass.

Jason shakes his head, tapping his fingers against the tabletop in thought. “Nah. I don’t like it.”

“Of course you don’t,” you snap, finally tossing your fork onto the plate with a sharp clatter. “Because God forbid I have a life outside of this family circus.”

“You’re family,” Dick reminds you, annoyingly calm. “It’s our job to meddle.”

You groan, fingers pressing to your temples. “You’re all impossible.”

Duke, quiet until now, finally pipes up, smirking faintly over his cup. “You missed us.”

“I missed Alfred,” you correct without missing a beat.

The butler, returning with a fresh pot of coffee, arches a brow, entirely unbothered. “Flattery will not spare you from their interrogation, Miss.”

Jason points at him. “Thank you, Alfred.”

“Traitor,” you grumble.

“Don’t deflect,” Damian mutters beside you, voice low. His chair edges closer still— impossibly close now, thigh brushing yours, as his sharp gaze narrows. “I know who it is. You are copulating-”

“Copulating?” You repeat, disgusted. Your siblings share the same expression, looking more alike than ever. “Who taught you that word?”

“Yeah, say 'fuck' like any normal person, Jesus,” Jason grimaced, and then points to you. “You are so not getting out of this.”

“Language, Jason.”

“Well, teach your son some sex ed. I will vomit if he says copulating again.”

“Drop it,” you warn, stabbing a piece of waffle with unnecessary force.

But you can practically hear the gears turning in their collective heads. Barbara’s gaze sharpens from across the table. Cass tilts her head, reading you like an open book, eyes narrowing faintly in quiet realization.

Steph smirks, leaning toward Duke to whisper something conspiratorial under her breath, while Duke just winces, clearly aware that this is about to escalate.

“I swear to god,” Jason mutters, pushing his chair back slightly, eyes still locked on you. “If it’s some trust fund idiot from the gala—”

“It wasn’t,” you cut in coolly, but the room’s already spiraling beyond your control.

“Wait,” Tim says suddenly, frowning, and your stomach drops before the words even leave his mouth. “You disappeared at the gala early.”

You sip your coffee, eyes narrowing. “I’m allowed to leave parties, Timothy.”

Damian shifts beside you, straightening abruptly like the pieces have clicked into place. His eyes burn with that possessive, entirely unearned little-brother rage that could level cities.

“You were with him,” he says simply, like a verdict.

The table pauses.

Jason’s jaw clenches. “With who?”

Tim stills, processing. “Who’s him?”

Cass’s eyes widen a fraction, realization dawning.

Barbara sighs under her breath. “Oh, hell.”

“You were drinking with him at the bar,” Damian continues, voice low, lethal in that thirteen-year-old, miniature-Bruce-Wayne way that makes your skin crawl. “Superboy.”

The room explodes.

“CONNER?!” Jason practically shouts, chair scraping back, hands slapping the table as every sibling conversation devolves into chaos.

“Wait—Conner as in—Superboy?!” Steph’s eyes widen, practically giddy, because of course she’s here for the drama.

Tim’s entire expression freezes, mouth parting in disbelief. “You hooked up with my best friend?!”

“You’ve got the worst taste in men,” Duke says, mostly to himself, grabbing his coffee like it’s the only thing grounding him in this disaster.

Cass doesn’t speak, but her eyes glint with knowing, watching the unravel like a cat observing trapped prey.

“Calm down,” you snap, glaring at Jason and Tim, who both look two seconds away from either passing out or throwing a chair.

“I am calm,” Jason lies, pointing an accusing finger at you. “You, on the other hand, have hickeys from a Kryptonian.”

“Allegedly,” you say dryly, biting into your tart like this isn’t your worst nightmare.

Tim looks visibly ill. “Why would you—he’s—he’s Conner!”

“Your best friend is hot,” you shoot back without mercy, because if you’re going down, you’re going down swinging.

Damian scowls, arms crossing so tight you can practically hear his ribs protest. “He’s also an idiot.”

“Better than the parade of emotionally repressed vigilantes in this family,” you mutter, and Steph laughs, covering her mouth with her hand.

Bruce, finally, speaks—voice low, quiet, but commanding enough that the table halts.

“We’re not discussing this at breakfast.”

You glance at him, arching a brow. “Why? We discuss everything else. Including where I sleep, apparently.”

A flash of guilt crosses his expression. He doesn’t argue.

“Are you seeing him?” Tim pushes, wounded pride flaring in his tone.

You shrug, licking lemon curd off your fork with infuriating calm. “That’s between me and Conner.”

Jason groans into his hands. “I need aspirin.”

Damian still simmers beside you, eyes dark, but says nothing, clearly cataloguing ways to poison a Kryptonian.

The chaos simmers, the table still thick with tension, but you ignore it, sipping your coffee with slow, deliberate ease.

“Relax,” you mutter, half to yourself, half to them all. “You’ve got bigger problems than my love life.”

“Not if you bring him around here,” Jason threatens weakly, stabbing his waffle like it insulted him.

You smirk faintly, eyes glinting.

“Guess you’ll have to be on your best behavior then.”

And just like that, the first real sibling fight in years ignites fully—loud, overlapping, messy—like you never left.

And for a second, you almost let yourself enjoy it.

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