#jason todd x platonic reader

[orbweaverspidergirl]

As They Watch from the Distance

This is a part two for this post.

Bruce Wayne:

When Bruce first met you, you were a toddler clinging onto his pants. He was dressed as Batman, and you, including other homeless people, were being taken into sex trafficking. He remembers how you came up, smiling and thanking the man for saving you. He caught himself picking you up, no matter how dirty you were. 

 He finds you again as Bruce Wayne and takes you in as his own. The media promoted it as ‘Bruce Wayne’s Kindness and Charity.’ He would like to believe that, but Bruce knows he’s selfish. He took you in because you reminded him of himself when he was young. He selfishly gave you his love, then ripped it away as you grew. 

He loved you, yet from a distance. You sometimes wished you didn’t love him as much as you do. You hated how much you loved your father’s love. It made his distance all the more unbearable and it made you hate yourself even more. You began to chase expectations he never meant to set, and eventually, you crashed. 

Dick Grayson:

Dick often contemplates what led the two of you to become strangers. He grieves over the fact that he let you both become so distant with one another. He tried to bring himself to hate you when Bruce first brought you in. He saw you as a replacement, and that hurt him the most, but then, he watched you grow. You were just a kid caught up in a situation you couldn’t control. 

You were a sweet child, always clinging onto him and following him around the manor like a mini him. You adored your big brother, and he you. Eventually, he moved to Bludhaven, leaving you behind. You were happy for him, of course, but he changed and so did you. You were sick of giving all of your love yet never receiving it back. 

He misses you, but he’s too late. 

Jason Todd:

Even after death, Jason loved and protected you. Though, it was always from a distance, just like Bruce. As children, Jason connected with you because of your similar backgrounds. You both knew struggle and that made your bond even stronger. While he was a teen and you were just a kid, you two were peas in a pod. He was your big brother, and he protected you from anything and everything.

Yet, he changed when he came back. He loved you, yes, but he hated Bruce more. Your big brother Jay became what he promised to protect you from. But he was proud of you. He just wished he said it before it was too late. 

Tim Drake:

You were the first person who loved Tim. He was the same age as you, and the two of you grew closer because of that. He had no true friends and his parents weren’t a constant in his life, but you were. You stayed with him through thick and thin, and when people would compare him to Jason as a replacement, you were vicious. 

Tim stayed close with you even when the others grew away. He was the only one you could truly go to, and yet, he still left you behind. You knew he deserved love just as much as you did, but you just wished he didn’t forget you. It didn’t sting as much, not when it had already happened three times. 

Tim didn’t forget you; he reasoned, he just became clouded in being enough. You suppose you did too. 

Damian Wayne:

Damian saw you beneath him. You were nothing but a rat desperate for crumbs, yet you never stopped trying to love him, even when the others disregarded you for him. He heard you at night sometimes, crying in your room. He wonders if your love overpowered your jealousy. It must have been because you kept trying. 

He thought you foolish, and yet, he thought of you as strong. You withheld the pain, even if the weight eventually crushed you.

[iydiamartinx]

UNEXPECTED GUESTS IV

jason x reader, platonic!damian wayne, ft. batfam

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto & @omi-resources word count: 2k synopsis: Jason’s secret relationship is discovered by Damian—who keeps showing up uninvited. Jason’s patience is tested, popcorn is made, but at least Damian brought cinnamon rolls. a/n: Here it is! The final part! Hope Y'all enjoyed! Also I hope I got everyone who asked to be on the tag list, if I missed you I am so sorry!

Bruce lifted a brow at the sound of heavy footsteps and the sight of Jason sauntering into the manor kitchen, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder like he owned the place.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, pausing mid-bite, fork suspended halfway to his mouth.

Jason didn’t break stride. “Gee, thanks for the warm welcome,” he drawled, dropping the duffle beside a chair with a solid thud.

Bruce sighed, setting down his utensils. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just you have your own place.”

Jason shrugged, nonchalant. “Maybe I just felt like spending some quality time with dear old Dad.”

Bruce’s gaze narrowed, eyes flicking over him like a scanner calibrating for irregularities. Jason was calm. Casual. Civil. Voluntarily in the manor. Something was wrong.

Jason would rather set himself on fire than willingly spend an evening under Bruce’s roof. He was being too… not-Jason. Polite, even. Pleasant. 

Clone? Possibly. Cyborg? Wouldn’t be the first time. A mind-wiped doppelgänger sent to spy on the family?

Then it hit him.

He paused in growing horror…

Did he finally kill the Joker?

Was that why he was in a good mood?

Bruce stared at him. Jason just blinked back innocently, which only made it worse.

No, something was definitely wrong.

“He’s lying,” came a voice from the doorway, smooth and amused.

Dick entered, mug of tea in hand and an unbothered grin on his face. “It’s because everyone’s crashing at his place.”

Now that he mentioned it, the manor had been suspiciously quiet lately.

Bruce glanced between them. “Why?”

Jason froze, his posture stiffening like someone expecting a sniper shot. His eyes flicked to Dick, silently warning him to shut up.

Dick, of course, did not. If anything, his grin widened.

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “Why?” he repeated.

Jason shot Dick a glare, the kind that promised swift and bloody vengeance, but the little shit was immune. He grinned wider, practically radiating delight.

“Oh, because of his girlfriend,” Dick said, drawing out the word with far too much delight.

It had been unspoken—agreed upon, even—that whatever chaos was unfolding at Jason’s apartment stayed there. The last thing he needed was his personal life dragged into the manor spotlight and have Bruce interrogating his girlfriend. He was already hanging on to his sanity by the thinnest of threads.

But Dick had two fatal weaknesses: an insatiable love for family bonding… and a disturbing amount of joy in watching Jason suffer.

“You should see him at home,” Dick went on, far too pleased with himself. “Total domestic bliss. Folding laundry. Cooking dinner. It’s like watching a lion try to do ballet.”

“Shut the fuck up, dickhead,” Jason snapped, his voice a low snarl.

Bruce paused, fork halfway to his mouth.

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a Batarang.

Very slowly—deliberately—Bruce looked up. His eyes locked on Jason.

Jason had a what?

Before anyone could speak, Alfred appeared beside Dick with the poise of a man who had seen war, death, and teenage Bruce Wayne at his most dramatic—and had emerged utterly unshaken.

“Master Jason is bringing her for dinner, of course,” Alfred said, smooth as ever, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Master Jason is not!” Jason barked, visibly horrified.

Alfred raised a brow. 

Finding out you’d been invited to dinner at Wayne Manor wasn’t exactly a shock. If anything, you’d been expecting it. Most of the family already knew you—had dropped by Jason’s place uninvited enough times that introductions were inevitable. It was only a matter of time before Bruce caught wind of your existence too.

What surprised you more was how not nervous you felt.

Jason, on the other hand, looked like he was mentally preparing for battle.

As the iron gates of Wayne Manor creaked open, you watched him through the passenger-side mirror. Your six-foot-two, weapons-grade boyfriend was pacing beside the car like a man about to face execution. His hair was a mess—freshly wrecked from his own anxious hands—and while the tousled look worked unfairly well for him, it didn’t do much to hide the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“Just… don’t let them suck you into anything,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the universe. “Don’t be too funny. Or too smart.”

You arched a brow. “So… you want me to be dislikable?”

“What? No! I mean—maybe? I don’t know!” he snapped, throwing his arms up. “If you are, maybe they’ll finally stop showing up at my place uninvited. But I don’t want them to hate you either.”

He paused, then groaned. “God. Don’t mention cinnamon rolls. Damian’s still holding a grudge because I ate the last batch.”

You laughed. “Of course he is.”

Jason stopped pacing only long enough to glare at the front door like it personally offended him. “Just… don’t be nervous. We’ll be in and out. Quick and painless.”

You blinked slowly. “Jason. I’m not nervous. You’re the one spiraling.”

By this point, you weren’t even sure he realized what he was saying anymore. He was just venting aloud—burning nervous energy like a fuse inching toward a powder keg.

With a soft breath of amusement, you stepped into his path, catching his hand in yours before he could wear a trench into the manor’s immaculate brickwork.

“Babe,” you said, gently squeezing his fingers. “I’m fine. I got this. You’re the only one falling apart here.”

So you reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw before leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. It was brief—grounding—but it worked. His shoulders dropped an inch, the rigid line of his jaw easing ever so slightly.

When you pulled back, you were already smiling. You laced your fingers through his and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Ready?” you asked.

Jason exhaled, long and slow, like he was about to walk into enemy territory. Which, for him, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

“Fuck no.”

Alfred greeted you at the door with the warmth of a man welcoming a long-lost friend.

“Miss Y/N,” he said, voice smooth with genuine affection. “We’re delighted to have you.”

You barely had time to smile before Damian appeared—materialized really—at your side.

“You’re sitting next to me.”

You blinked. “Hello to you too,” you said dryly.

He didn’t acknowledge it. His attention was already on the dining table as he pulled out a chair for you with the gravity of someone bestowing a great honour.

 “What? No! That’s my girlfriend, demon spawn.” Jason snapped. 

Damian didn’t even flinch. He turned to Jason with a droll look, sharp and effortless. “And I pity her for that fact every day.”

You muffled a snort behind your hand and slid gracefully into the offered seat.

“Thank you, Damian,” you said, smoothing your napkin onto your lap with a smirk. Then, with mock innocence, you patted the open chair on your other side. “There’s still one free spot left.”

Jason moved toward it—clearly ready to reclaim his territory—only for Dick to slide in smoothly at the last second.

“Y/N!” Dick beamed, overly bright, already leaning his elbow on the back of your chair like he belonged there.

Jason’s jaw ticked. “Oh no you don’t, Dickhead.”

With all the grace of a man well-versed in brotherly warfare, he hauled Dick up by the collar and dragged him out of the seat with zero ceremony.

“Hey!” Dick protested, arms flailing like a cat being relocated. But Jason was already dropping into the seat beside you, triumphant.

Dick slunk across the table with a wounded pout, muttering something about uncalled-for violence.

You raised a brow at your boyfriend. “You know we practically live together. You see me every day.”

Jason scowled. “So do these assholes. They break into my apartment every day.”

Damian arched a brow from your other side, utterly unbothered. “Careful, Todd. Green isn’t your color.”

Dinner was… everything Jason feared.

Tim asked how you two met—twice—just to watch Jason twitch with increasing irritation.

Stephanie demanded relationship details with the energy of a late-night talk show host, bouncing in her seat as she eagerly listened to answer her questions.

Cass watched you in silence, head tilted with a quiet, steady kind of approval. She didn’t need words. She’d already decided she liked you.

And Dick?

Dick was the worst.

He had a seemingly endless supply of Jason’s most humiliating childhood stories, and he recited them with theatrical flair, smirking each time your laughter made Jason’s eye twitch.

Meanwhile, Bruce sat at the head of the table like a statue carved from shadow and marble. He didn’t speak much—hardly at all, in fact—he mostly just watched. His gaze never drifted far from you, sharp and evaluating, like he was measuring you against an invisible checklist. Determining whether you were worthy of his son.

Eventually, between the second course and murmured side conversations, Bruce set down his glass with a soft clink against the china.

“Y/N.”

Jason stiffened like someone had pulled a gun on him. You felt it in the sharp shift of his knee against yours beneath the table. Without looking, you placed a calming hand there.

Jason’s fork paused mid-air. “Bruce…”

You didn’t flinch. You turned to meet his gaze, calmly. “Yes?”

Bruce didn’t blink. “You’ve been with Jason for how long?”

“Almost a year,” you answered easily. “Give or take a few near-death experiences.”

Dick leaned back in his chair with a grin. “That’s basically a vow renewal in this family.”

Bruce continued, tone even. “And you know.”

It wasn’t phrased like a question. You nodded anyway. “Didn’t take long.”

“You stayed.”

“I did.”

Jason muttered, “Why does this feel like a background check with extra judgment?”

Bruce studied you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. “You’re aware of the risks.”

“I’ve had them explained,” you said dryly. “Repeatedly. With charts.”

Tim snorted into his drink. “Please tell me one of them was color-coded.”

“That was mine,” Damian muttered, arms crossed.

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of Bruce’s mouth. It wasn’t often anyone got Damian’s seal of approval. 

Bruce went quiet for a moment, and the weight of his silence settled over the table. He studied you like a strategist surveying a battlefield.

Finally, he spoke. “You’re either incredibly brave… or incredibly foolish.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “Probably both. It’s part of the application process, right?”

Cass smiled behind her teacup. Steph stared at you with wide, glittering eyes and whispered to Jason, “Marry her.”

At that, something flickered in Bruce’s expression—approval, maybe. Something harder to name. Something deeper.

He nodded once, almost to himself. “You’ll be here for Sunday dinners moving forward.”

Jason nearly choked on his drink. “Are you serious?”

You ignored him, smiling sweetly. “Of course.”

“Babe!”

You patted his thigh. “Ignore him. We’ll be there.”

Dick leaned over, grinning at Jason’s dramatics. “Wow. He likes her more than he likes you.”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Which, of course, meant: yes.

After dinner, Alfred insisted on tea.

Damian insisted on sitting next to you again—claimed it was “for tactical proximity,” though he was clearly just making sure no one else got the seat first.

Stephanie suggested you move into the manor under the guise of “Jason’s health,” citing stress levels and his lack of basic nutrition, and how beneficial it would be for the two of you two live here. Cass offered you her bedroom if the “shoebox you’re living in” ever became unbearable. Tim asked if you could cook, already planning meal rotations. And Dick—of course—invited you to game night next week with a wink and a warning: “Lose to Damian at your own risk.”

Jason looked like he was developing a migraine.

He sat beside you on the long couch in the grand living room, shoulders hunched like a man awaiting trial. Laughter echoed around the walls—walls he used to call cold and empty. 

Now they rang with bickering, teasing, warmth.

You nudged him gently with your elbow, barely hiding your smile. “Still want to fake my death and move to the Alps?”

Jason glanced at you.

Then at Damian, practically glued to your side like an emotionally constipated barnacle.

Then at Tim, who was deep in concentration trying to download your favorite show onto the Batcomputer, muttering about file formats and codec errors.

Then at Bruce—stoic, silent Bruce—watching his family with a small, unmistakable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jason sighed. A long, suffering sound, that was too dramatic to be sincere.

“…Yes.”

← Previous Chapter

Tag list: @stormz369, @gothamhappiness, @remmyswritings, @dominazina, @nicverse, @roastyyytoastyyy, @sunnyfield, @snowy-violets, @sh0jun, @chicarandom11, @oooof-ifellforyou, @esposadomd, @bmyva1entine, @salvatt1, @ghost-candyyy, @sofiafantasies, @leogf

[book-place-incorrect-quotes]

Bruce: Nothing in life is free.

Dick: Love is free!

Stephanie: Adventure is free.

Damian: Knowledge is free.

Y/N: Everything is free if you take it without paying!

All: *slowly turn to Jason*

Jason: *smiling proudly at Y/N* I knew I taught you something!

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

PULL ME IN

summary: due to Bruce distancing himself from reading and seeing other women - batfam has to watch their mom willow away.

pt 2

For the twenty-five years, Bruce and Name have been married together - Alfred has never seen Name so withdrawn - so detached . He watches every morning how Name's frail body maneuvers around the kitchen making her own breakfast -

God knows how many times he's asked that stubborn woman to allow him to cook for him but she has always refused him with a quiet smile and a wave of hand. He watches her glide around the kitchen- a woman of once poise and grace reduced to her fumbling with simply holding a cereal box.

Alfred could never pin point where it had all went wrong in their marriage - they were both high-school sweethearts- their marriage was beautiful- he'd know because he had honored it himself. To see them so distant aches his heart.

Alfred knows Bruce has a mission - to save Gotham- a mission that seems ever lasting - a mission that had consumed him entirely to the point it took him over . It took away his relationship with his kids and his own wife .

Alfred would always shoot him disapproving looks when he sees Bruce being too flirty with Talia and Selina - he blesses Name's heart for loving Damian all the same like she has with all her other kids but Alfred notices since then she is virtual never in the same place with Bruce.

She no longer goes to galas anymore , no longer makes public appearances - maybe its because Bruce always had a different arm candy every other night. It's gotten so bad that even the kids started realizing this - Damian , upon realizing his birth had broken down in Name's arms one night - pleading with her to love him - that he's sorry for being born.

Alfred remembers Name cradling the young boy in her arms all night and assuring him he's the best thing Bruce ever made and that she would never blame him for Bruce's actions. Since then - the young boy has always stuck to Name - every morning, he'd affectionately hand her daily medicine and would always help her wrap a shawl over her shoulders.

Tim and Bruce began arguing - particularly because Bruce starting leaving the massive work of W.E for Tim to handle- it came to a head one night when Name and Bruce argued for two hours straight. He remembered how raw her voice was when she yelled at Bruce for overworked her poor son - that he's young and deserves to live and experience his teenage years.

Bruce had argued that Tim had wanted this - that this was what being Robin was about. Jason- god knows Jason and Bruce doesn't get along - ever since what happened to Joker but they argue even worse when it boils down to Name .

Jason was a child primarily raised by Name - she taught him to trust and showed him everything he knew - down to ironing his shirt to tying his shoelace - Name was the mother Jason never had and God could damn for all he cares but couldn't stand to watch Bruce treat her like she was an option because she wasn't - not to him or his brothers.

Jason always made it a point to call Bruce out for his own hypocrisy, himself and Damian always teamed up against him, especially when he was being too flirty with Selina or some random eye candy.

" I suggest you back off harlot , my mother might not kill you, but I will " - Damian when Bruce and Selina were flirting together on patrol.

" I don't give a fuck if ma begs me not to put a bullet in your head , the next damn time I see you talking about her like that I won't hesitate to skin you alive " - Jason when he caught some arm candy bragging to her friends how the 'Bruce Wayne' took her out on a date in front of Name.

God if anyone argues more with Bruce in this household was Dick - Dick was their first child and a child whom lost everything and yes Bruce may of made him robin but name made him dick grayson - bless that woman's heart for having to deal with his tantrums and outbursts when he was younger -

But that woman despite not birthing him was his mother - the woman who literally hugged him everynight to go to bed , the same woman who made his suit for prom by hand and also the same woman he goes to for advice and comfort - safe to say when he heard what Bruce was doing - they argued non stop-

" For god sake, Bruce, you're destroying us - you're destroying our family, and you don't even care." - Dick when Bruce had called you useless because you couldn't walk up a stairs anymore.

Someone from the outside might think they're dramatic, but ever since Bruce started distancing himself from Name and going out with God knows who , Name has fallen into a deep depression - a type of depression that ensnared them in their deep claws and deprive them of what little happiness and energy they have left.

Most days , Name sits on a swing outside and just exists- barely eats , barely talks anymore - how can they ? How can one fathom to be happy when their own spouse is out cheating on you with different people and to make matter worse the public condones it - even more so enables him.

Always publishing some new article of which new model or actress can become worthy of being Bruce's wife as if she doesn't exist. Alfred swallows as he watches her tonight - they're sat stiffly in a velvet love seat , a faint smile on her face, Damian is resting his head on their shoulder, showing them his latest art piece while quietly talking about his day.

Behind her, jason embraces her in a backhug , head resting on her head - his hands sometimes play with the loose strands. Tim quietly sits beside her , his hand holding her free hand - now and again he'd squeeze it . Dick is sat next to Damian on the love seats' arm rest as he prepares her nightly medicine.

Even if the public and her own husband loathes her, name still has the love of her kids and Alfred as always. Suddenly, the large oak doors of the living room are pushed open - the vibrant warmth interrupted as Bruce steps inside .

Damian quiets - everyone looking at Bruce except for Name - she has taken it to state at her hands. " It's time for patrol" Bruce says grufly . No one responds but reluctantly leaves Name side , Jason side hugs her one last time before leaving .

" Yeah, whatever you say, geaser," He says as he shoves Bruce out of his way to go to the cave . Damian glares at his father , " Hopefully, things are taken seriously on this patrol " he insinuated- knowing eyes glaring right at his father disapproving.

Bruce ignores them and stares at name, " Make dinner before we leave " he orders before promptly walking away. Name says nothing - too numbed out a long while to even react. Dick and Alfred himself curses him while Tim is glaring at the closing door harshly .

" Ma I'll order us something don't stress yourself " Tim assures her while ordering Uber eats for them on his phone . Name doesn't say anything but sends him a small smile. " I can't believe I raised that boy," Alfred murmurs as he shakes his head in disappointment .

Bruce may not realize it now but it's too late to fix anything - too late to pull his wife back in and live the happy life they once had - its too late to repair their broken family since the glue that's stuck them all together is fading away .

ty for reading, please like + comment + share !!!

pls do not hate a on queens talia & selina they won't do this , theyre too girlboss for bruce anyways

[acid-ixx]

ch.5 pt 2: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1, chapter five pt 2,

read under the end for an author's note.

tw: talks about death, prostitution, self-harm, trauma & ptsd, suicidal thoughts, and neglect.

the world was still spinning when you had awoken.

you didn't know if that was good or bad news alone. didn't even know what your current state could do now that you're in some room, subconsciously recalling between the gaps of memories that had caused you to be here.

lying down, with the painful throb of the holes within your body pinning you in place.

what happened?

breakdowns, booze, flirting, tears, comfort, gunshots, acceptance and death—

— lots of it.

all in the span of one night. one singular night which reigned in spilled blood and reopened wounds.

maybe you should've never made a stupid decision in the first place, the calculating, smarter, yet easily shut-down part of you scolds yourself. the events of the night were still fresh, enough to make both your heart and your head throb: were you finally sobering up, or does this ache come from a different type of pain, more painful, more heavily emotional than being met with death?

how long has it been since you were out? how long has it been since he saved you? since he...

the name tastes bitter in your tongue, it's been months, maybe even almost a year since you've last encountered him, let alone talked to him without being met with strained eye contact and cruel scoffs; a painful reminder of how your actions were what stuck the final nail in the coffin for your own neglect against the man, the brother you consider closest to you; despite it never being enough.

jason.

your last interaction was particularly unpleasant, an act of teenage hormones swelling in your very veins caused you to be spiteful towards him, ignoring his casual small talks in favor of refusing to offer your homemade treats and grabbing the jar of your favorite sweets - that you always meticulously and willingly give him whenever he'd make his rare visits - away from his prying hands.

you remember his offended tone, the sudden venom in his words as he asked, too mockingly for your own taste,  "what's wrong with you, angel? what's gotten you snappy these days?"

these days?

most days, it was you succumbing to his wants and needs. considering the treats he liked, the books he read, the movies he watched. all an effort painfully done if it meant having his eyes on you for just more than a second.

these days? just what had you done these days that warranted his offense? all you have done, all you ever did, was tag along everyone's tail, watching from the shadows, biting back the poisonous words, the tears that clung at the edge of your throat; ready to uncoil, to pounce the moment your envy unfurls even further.

these days? yeah right, these days, you just wanted to fucking die—

'cause highschool is shit, your life is shit, and you can't- just can't afford to play nice these days. not when they've all been so cruel, not when the people you look up to treat you lesser than the worms they step on when they spend time around the garden- your garden that you've carefully cultivated, all for your efforts to go to waste.

— but Jason won't understand, nobody could. not even alfred could comprehend just how worse your mood has soured. nobody's aware of just how close you are to your breaking point.

you glare at him for a second, wanting to retort, to swear at the sight of his knotted brows and frustrated pose, but the flicker of fight within you has just as quickly extinguished. your shoulders slumped, yet jason remains as rigid as ever in his seat, no amount of softness could be found in his expression, not even the softness he directs at you.

'he doesn't feel the same right now but—'

'there's no point in even trying anymore.'

ignoring the pang of regret in your chest, the urge to apologize with widened eyes, to pretend this was all a dream; you simply turned away in spite of the brimming tears, biting at your raw lips, to escape to another room.

afraid to show anymore weakness, afraid of the consequences, your hurried footsteps had echoed across the hallways.

you left the tooth-achingly sweet treats he originally intended to take by the table.

'he can have it for all i care.'

but are you sure you don't care? are you truly sure, when your chest spiked with frazzled haste just from hearing a familiar scoff - the one he directs to the people he despises - behind you? is it indifference when your hearing began to wring just to block out whatever vile words he spewed that day?

you want to apologize, you truly do, even if you're aware you're not much at fault, but rather him for being inconsiderate to your feelings, your foreign actions, he calls you his angel, but when his angel shows obvious hurt, he doesn't care?—

hah. but you just can't deal with it, with him any longer.

so you let it be, let him think you're just having your rebellious teenager phase, that you being a piece of shit in his eyes would pass eventually.

he wouldn't know, didn't even notice the bandages plastered across the expanse of your aching arms, the bags dipping below your eyes, or your frizzy, thinning hair.

with your last encounter, there was no more after that.

and if there were, you couldn't even call it that, for he was raging fire, and you a blistering snowstorm.

those were never meant to clash, let alone part.

thinking about it now, recalling what's gotten his mind on a twist, in your little, foreign mattress, with your eyes still shut close, lower abdomen still aching; it makes you want to die a little more at how much you never considered your feelings in the past.

you still don't right now - couldn't even make past your crippling self-esteem - but compared to last time, you at least maintained a flicker of dignity.

jason, meanwhile.

he- maybe he had a terrible day that day, you recalled his argument with bruce fresh on your mind that fateful afternoon. how tense and resounding the tension was in the room they'd fought. something over morals, over his still-burning need for justice by unfairly taking the lives of most criminals, bruce stated.

how it never quite changed, even until now.

it's the norm for all their little spats, the usual dynamic with their bated breaths and venomous words, their pitiful angst. how could you not remember, when it's dick who had to physically rip jason off from plunging a weapon on bruce's chin, whilst alfred's disappointed scolding hung in the air — whilst it's you watching in the corner, witnessing the entire scene unfold, useless when it comes to intervening because your words hold no impact for their dynamic?

maybe, just maybe, you could've been more considerate of his feelings when he'd blown bruce off, throwing him the finger before bursting off to the kitchen's pantry - to stressfully feast on the treats you carefully stored in, for moments like these, because he loves to thrash around the kitchen eating your baked sweets - to ruminate on his raging thoughts.

but if you could recall all the moments of his rage, how could he not recall his promise to bring you home some of your favorite dishes the night before that, then?

how could he not consider his so-called angel's feelings, when you had to adjust to his whims?

yeah, maybe you were boiling with rage that time too, not only due to the pressure of highschool, but at yet another broken promise. maybe you just wanted to hide away the tears, the looming expectations to act normal ultimately failing, which translated to your snappy behavior— but you thought:

'maybe, just maybe, my favorite brother, my closest confidant, could understand.'

you were wrong, you always were.

and for that, when you'd run crying to your room, another fresh scar was soldered in both your skin and your memories.

— a painful reminder of losing the closest thing you had in the world, just because you finally felt brave enough to show an inch of your closeted yet forbidden emotions.

your rebellion caused a permanent rift between your already drifting relationship, you despised yourself for that seemingly small, yet highly impactful mistake.

thinking about it now, in your crippled, nearly paralyzed state, makes you just want to forget.

— and remember the even more painful present.

finally, you compiled the strength to blink away the weight in your eyes. remnants of dry, salty tears were still fresh in the corners of your lids, throat parched, mind thrumming with dull pain and aching limbs— it reminded you of your unbidden nightmare just moment's ago; a stark contrast from its pleasantness compared to the damming reality you're actually in.

it felt like a fading memory, that dream, a looming freckled dust of air you couldn't quite catch in your stretched out fingers. how her gentle touch was like a cure to all your ailments, yet her hurried good-byes an eternal scar to the broken pieces of your heart.

oh, my momma.

how you miss her and her angelic presence already.

it never truly occurred to you how much the heavy weight of missing her stumped you from actually maturing. it was always her you mourn in moments of painful respite. her fading advices, her airy voice, her silent hums and warm presence. it was a whiplash to have her in such a wicked environment, in gotham of a places.

seeing her, in that cottage, in all her glory, wrinkles and aged, sagging skin surrounding the expanse of her angelic appearance. she was so young when she had you, and it was all you ever dreamed of— watching her gracefully age before you like fine wine, rather than those... those flashbacks of those bloodied tiles and the ichor dripping down her lifeless, icy lips.

damn be her reputation, she was your momma first, and prostitute, money laundering scam, second. thinking about her just makes you want to shut your eyes once more, return to that restless dream, and stay there forever.

rather than...

— your eyes switch to shuttering quickly, faded imagery still present in the fog of your vision. everything felt suspended in air except for the mechanical churn of the hanging fan on the ceiling, yet the furniture still present itself in shaped globs rather than actual three-dimensional objects. it took you nearly a minute to regain your sight, to finally hone in on your surroundings. albeit the haze and the adrenaline slowly pumping in your veins, your mind telling you to run despite the lack of sensation in your lower half, you slowly take in this...

this unfamiliar room...

a place displaying artillery, heavy weapons on the four corners of the walls, surrounding the dainty, one person cushion you lay on. there's an array of both fresh and bloodied gauze on the tabletop on your right, it seems to be used just recently, on you, probably. they're tightly wrapped on your lower half, you can see through the dark of your blankets and the feel of its restrictions on your guts.

strange how you're here, recalling the events of the night, yet it's still night now.

have you been out for an entire day?

and your phone and other essentials is on the same tabletop, you can even make out the table napkin containing conner's number still carefully tuckered behind your phone case. the faint waft of your favorite takeout caressed your nostrils, if not for the pain of having to carefully churn around the weighted blanket splayed on top of you; you might've sat up to dig in the savory meal.

but you can't focus on your hunger, not just yet. not when the dread overpowers your bodily urges, not when this entire thing feels like it's imitating a sense of normalcy; a room, reflecting the danger of the inhabitant living within, despite your foggy vision still, trying it's best to placate you into feeling safe.

but worse yet, the most dreaded of them all—

a room with your brother in it.

a room with the person you'd least want to deal with, not with just how much you haven't calmed down, how your final resolve was to avoid the very same people who'd always avoided you.

you couldn't possibly face them now, not ever.

not even the man you once came to call your favorite.

the holes in your body, now wrapped tight with gauze, throbs noisily, as if it senses the resounding doom wrapping around your heart, until it spreads across your entire body, now cold with caution. through your careful inspection of your belongings, through the noise of your frazzled thoughts, you haven't felt the dip on the bed you lay on. dim lights surrounded your vision afterall, the same ones still clearing up after hours of restless slumber.

and everything around you was unlike the specks of sun you were greeted with when you'd awoken from that dream.

dark and heavy.

your fingertips, your head, your injuries, the dip of the bed just now, his breathless haste; as if he waited for this moment, for you to slowly awaken, to return to consciousness.

an overbearing sense of desperation: his manic trance, the tusled locks of black and white hair, the faint shiver in his breathing.

and it's not as if you needed to second-guess the man now seated on the bed, he's so easily recognizable with his toughened form and muscles churning beneath his ashy jacket.

no, no, you want to close your eyes, pretend you're still asleep.

— but you can't, it's too late now that he noticed.

"... mornin', angel. you alright?"

he asks, silent and unsure, the question drifting off his tongue so gently, so hesitatingly as if he couldn't believe witnessing you breathing in front of him. warm yet burning with need for answers. and for a second, for a measly, quintessential span of time, you might've thought his raspy words were an aftermath of some tears.

he sounded so...

broken.

like a man torn from the inside out. the last you've seen of him, he'd already sported eyebags— but not too sunken, too tired like the current one you're staring at. like a washed out ember amidst winter, everything about him felt vulnerable...

it just makes you want to die on the inside— that- that you feel a semblance of care for someone who's hurt you far more than loved you.

the gentleness in his question, the hesitant stumble of his hands that came to bury itself into your tangled hair. the warmth that emits from his raggedy fingers hovering over the scalp of your head; it just made you feel fuzzy yet awful. the image of a brother and a stranger in front of you just blurs into a singular mess.

your vision spins, his hands are still awkwardly patting your head, as if urging you to speak, yet no reply escaped from your parched throat, from your dry, cracked lips. you fear whatever words might come next will just be a product of your impulsiveness— like the last time you met, like- like how you always fucked everything up, and you just did so the other night, and you're afraid of everything that might come after—

"i tried fixin' my apartment up just before you woke up... got us some takeout for dinner, too. it's your favorite..."

a hesitant smile, teethering on near gentleness that seemed impossible for a cruel man like him. jason looked almost like the brother you once knew as he coughs to himself, a poor attempt to wash away the awkward tension between you two. you're still silent between it all, not a single word mustered from your gaping mouth.

no.

your breath hitches—

your cold hands drive away his fingers entangled with your hair, shaky breaths make up the silent space between you two. he's not- not going to go about this way, would he? how could he?

no, this was not a moment to pretend. he saw you cry out there, under the moonlit night when the world was out for your life— you begged him, implied you'd rather die than let your savior be him.

you're hurt, everything still isn't fine between you two. not a single thread of softness will make up for the broken remnants of love he left you with. he can't act like the last time you met was a warm memory; not when it was filled with icy words and barely disguised contempt.

for a moment, you swore you could see a flash of heartbreak filling his stare. for a moment, you want to take your actions back like last time and become the younger you, but it's just for a moment.

these feelings don't last for a lifeline, not anymore.

"look, angel. i'm- you're not fine, still. it's the doctor's orders that you you need to eat, especially since you just got discharged and got all drunk on an empty stomach."

since when did he care?

ignoring him, your eyes dart elsewhere, ears purposely blocking out the meaning of his words, senses entangled with anything but his vulnerable stare. you look at the rickety fan barely blowing air on your messy hair, buzzing on top of dusty ceilings and shadowing dimly lit walls, at the spare armory scattered actoss the room - he could kill you with them, could end you with just a snap of his fingers - at the spider webs housing the corners of the apartment boxing you in with a man you dread meeting, let alone facing in a space you're far too unfamiliar with.

trapped and vulnerable; like a doe locked in place in a vast forest, surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves, ready to devour the closest thing in sight.

there may only be one you're dealing with now, but they're out there. dick and the others are out there with intentions to face you too.

and you don't know which part of you triggered this sudden desperation, this sudden link between you and your estranged siblings, but you hate it.

you hate this unfamiliar care. you hate the concern laced in every sentiment of jason's. it's unlike them, it's not them in your eyes.

and you hate how this resentment is overpowered by the shadowed by something more sinister, the one thing that dictated the course of your life—

one word: fear.

it wraps around your throat tighter than the bandages adorning your body. traps you in its clawing grip and molds itself in the form of your family.

fear of how to deal with their foreign worry, their questions lingering in the air with patience in its virtue rather than disdain. jason's unmasked face, thumbs softly massaging your unfeeling, cold fingers.

where you show a hitch of a breath, the widening of eyes, and the slightest of shivers. a hint of vulnerability, the softest of hiccups, the deep intakes of air—

instead of being met with a scoff, an offensive remark about your weakness, or a flick of worry immediately wearing away as dismissiveness takes place.

you're met with unfamiliar worry, the heavier dip of the bed, the splaying of bedsheets as jason's body moves closer to yours, the quick succession of movement as he takes off his jacket to loom over your- your shivering form.

just a little more, then your teary eyes meet its gaze on his crumpled jacket with its stench of cigarettes clinging in the air. your tired eyes shakily gaze at the layers of gauze wrapping your ever-bleeding body, and feel the ache nesting in its abode.

panic, unyielding; so much fear which rattles your bones and turns your muscles into useless jelly; which worries the perpetrator of these complicated emotions—

jason.

how do you pretend you're fine? how can you act so carelessly vulnerable in the domain of unknown territory; in a room, alone, but not quite?

it takes you back to when you were at your apartment, takes you back to when you try your damned best to ignore the sensation of panic and bile rising up your throat when you saw dick's messages. all in the span of less than a week.

your life is so fucked.

yet you choose to be inactive in facing these struggles, you choose not to run, or fight, but to ignore.

it's the only common symptom you share with your... your family.

just like now: anywhere but him.

you can't expend anymore hope—

"why, angel?"

confused, pleading, perhaps struck with grief. so unlike the man who scoffed at your lack of reply months ago. maybe he'd truly change, or maybe he felt pity at watching you nearly die before he could redeem himself.

it was his voice that cuts through the tension in the air. this time, he sounds like he's begging. for a second, your tired eyes run to him: him and his stupid worry. the nonchalant buzz in his words were no more, replaced by... betrayal.

for a second, you're reminded of your last meeting. the contrast of the cold past and now this burning sensation within your chest. then suddenly, everything hurts just a little more.

suddenly, you're back at the start. just the little kid looking for answers in a world too big for them. just the little kid who wanted to be good enough for their newfound family.

"for-for wh— what?"

god, even now the past still haunts you, the present crueler too. you and your stupid stuttering, your exposed and vulnerable aching heart that yearns for answers. why is jason hurt over seeing you hurt? why does he... care?

it's just so incomprehensible for you.

his worry is just too foreign.

under the pressure of his boiling gaze, which renders you useless and pinned in damp bedsheets, you simply feel bile rise up your throat. feel anything but comfort when both your eyes met. your teeth nibbles on your sore lips, and you find jason's wince, his almost tense fingers about to stop you from drawing out blood.

"you know what i mean." you don't. or rather, you don't want to know what he means. "why were you..."

'why am i out of the manor, right? in an unknown place in the middle of the night, drunk and alone? almost killed by my own stupidity? why? you know why, jason?'

you bite your lips, its raw, peeling skin opens up old scars anyways, and it bleeds like your raging heart.

'—it's because of you and all the others.'

you don't want to explain how they're the reason for all your burdens. how his sudden presence in that fucking alleyway caused more distress than nearly dying. why you're out in public wasting away at your life, avoiding anything that you can associate with them because, just because you're always hurting.

you don't want to be reminded of the past anymore. you never expected to be in one of your sibling's damn apartment, being interrogated, almost scolded for your impulsive decisions and forced to listen to his sickly bitter worries over your health as if he actually cared for you.

sweat ran down your bobbed throat. your tongue, your lips and your skin felt damp yet dry. cold and crisp air was a commodity, everything felt blazing hot under jason's expectant stare.

an uncomfortable heat, almost burning you, turning your bones to ashes and organs to dust.

"just—" his presence almost felt ghastly, fingers hovering over your downturned chin to softly tilt it up. your eyes felt blurry, and the world felt so... just so cruel when his other hands made its way to wipe away your damp cheeks.

were you... crying?

"just answer me, please."

jason todd, no, the red hood doesn't beg. he doesn't plead. the infamous crime lord doesn't gently swipe your sweaty hair to the side so it doesn't disrupt your already blurry vision. he hurts others, cuts their skin and veins, shoots their bones, rips their limbs one by one, tortures them until all they could beg for is the sweet release of death—

but he doesn't just care for somebody easily, right? he shouldn't burden himself with your own personal issues. he never has done so, only coming to you for casual talk.

what changed?

"i—" you gulp, but the lump in your throat remains everlasting. do you tell him of your worries? do you even trust him? can you even trust him?

"i don't know..."

'i don't know, jason... i'd rather not let you know anymore than you should have.'

"i-it's fine... don't worry about it." you added to your pile of excusing, shrinking in on yourself when his eyes squint at your words.

small. you feel like an ant taking in everything that felt particularly enormous against you. jason's body blocking out the city's skyline and the moon's watchful glow made everything dimmer, made it feel like your only choice was to go through him.

it doesn't help that it feels like every word you mutter, every breath you take, feels like a daunting action devoured by the inner workings of his mind.

why should you worry? jason never— he never truly cared this much.

whether you lie or not wouldn't change the outcome. just a little slip up and he'll leave you alone once more. just a few more minutes and he'll eventually give up, right?

so why are you nervous? why are your fingers picking at the skin of your palms? why do the tears just keep leaking like a faulty pipe? why is he— why can't he just stop staring at you—?

"you're lying."

"h—huh?"

"you're lying and it's obvious, angel."

he reiterates, this time, the tremor in his voice reaches the depths of the ocean. and just like an ocean, you feel yourself drowning in the pressure of his answers. you feel the heaviness of his words, feel it pinning you in place and locking your joints, until all you could hear are his paced breathing and the subtle agitation in his voice.

"wh—"

"why? why were you out alone, huh? what were you doing all alone at night? alfred wasn't even with you— you're drunk out of your mind, you're not even old enough to drink, angel. you weren't with- with anybody by the time i reached you— so why... just why?" this time, he demands. even if his questions were mere whispers against the blaring sounds of traffic from below; it still reaches out and buries itself into your skin, tickles the inside of your ears and nips at delicate skin.

until all you could focus on were his questions.

why?

'isn't it obvious, brother? or do you still see me as a little child?'

"when's my birthday, jason?"

it doesn't take much to know when you've turned the course of the tides to side with you. it doesn't take much to watch jason stumble between befuddled thoughts until he crosses a hurdle he couldn't jump through.

'it shouldn't be a surprise to you, jay. i thought you truly changed.'

nobody... nobody except alfred knew when you were born. not even your closest brother, no. you almost genuinely convinced yourself he cared, but the delusion quickly breaks when you find him wide-eyed as the thoughts churn in his head.

"what...?"

if he truly cared, then he should've known, right?

"—you... i'll answer you if you answer me back. when's my birthday?"

you call him out in that sickly, sweet nickname. it was what that past you called him. it's the same verse you chirp over and over again just to gain a traction of his attention when you feel his eyes drift over the book he's read rather than on you. the name you oh-so carefully drawl out so that he doesn't drift to sleep just so you'll be given temporary respite from the loneliness, so he could rest his fingers on your scalp and promptly hug you from the side.

it feels so foreign on your tongue now, after all, you haven't spoken to him in months.

the last note you left each other with was pure bitterness.

it feels even more strange that you realized how you know all their birthdays, but they never knew yours.

never knew it passed by so quickly under their radar. how you're free from the shackles of their ownership over your name. he doesn't... doesn't even know you're not a wayne now, no?

"do you even know how old i am now?"

"it's... you know, shit—!" he mutters under his breath. it's like he just realized how much he doesn't... couldn't even remember a crucial detail of you when it's you who knows all his favorite books, his favorite author, how his comfort snacks are different for every feeling he feels; hell, even his preferred places to smoke.

yet he doesn't even remember your birthday? couldn't even recall a single moment where you blew out a candle? in all the moments he visited, spending nights with you under the moonlight or through the shine of the library's chandelier; he never even thought of giving you a present, let alone wonder why how within those years of knowing you— jason couldn't even remember the most important occasion of your life?

he bites his lips, and this time, it's him who buries the tips of his fingers on the hastily crumpled bedsheets.

if he calls himself your brother, who thinks he has the right to worry over you, then is a brother someone who couldn't remember your birthday?

now that his eyes aren't on you, you're spared a moment to take him in through the hastening of your heart and the neverending rivulets of tears escaping your blurry gaze.

'ignore the pain, (name). you shouldn't be hurt anymore. you shouldn't feel surprised that he doesn't even know when you were fucking born."

but you can't bear the thought of him stumbling through his words, formulating excuses he knows you know you could easily reject. it just makes everything hurt even more, makes the endless ache in your heart thrum at the implications that this person— his worries were nothing when he has nothing, no care in the past to bare to you now.

"i'm eighteen now, jay..." his eyes quickly flit up to stare at you, mouth agape at the newfound information. what's the use in being shocked now? when all your other birthdays were dismissed and breezed by like a normal day for them— for your family?

and yet you know the answers to your very own questions.

eighteen is a quintessential part of someone's life.

it marks the path of adolescence, the descent to maturity as you learn to grow, to make your own decisions. some children move out of their parent's home to build a nest of their own, they find jobs, maybe even a partner to make or break a life with. people in america who turn 18 are still restricted from drinking, but most still choose to break some laws, fuck up with their decision, get shit-faced and party off with some fraternities and friends who'll turn their backs on you; and then regret it all later.

they build their lives, they go through ups and downs, and slowly bring themself back up again. there's no more gentle approaches, no more excuses for a developing mind. they go through so much in just a year.

and the most important of it all, is that most graduate.

and they weren't there for you, nobody was, save for alfred.

bruce wasn't there when you graduated, so it's no surprise that jason, or even the others, wouldn't come.

jason's still a dead man in the public's eyes, after all.

and even if he wasn't, what would've guaranteed that he'll still come to watch you walk up that stage? what would've changed, when the weight of your graduation and the future to come was thwarted by their worries over damian's? it was always him they— bruce prioritized, when he'd first enter the manor, all eyes were on the brazen boy.

when you first entered the manor, it was a rainy, desolate day. bruce was busy, of course he was, why wouldn't he be when he drowns himself in paperwork to distract the horrid reminders that his second son had passed?

and you don't know what hurts even more, the heartbreak in his stare, or the thumps in your heart that felt like footsteps stepping on the beating organ until all its blood is drained?

"shit, angel. i never knew... i'm— you're eighteen now and i didn't even know? fuck, how could i have forgotten it—"

"just, please save your excuses, jason..."

it's like he couldn't even believe you were old enough now, mature enough to comprehend how his excuses don't mean shit if his lack of knowledge towards your birthday ran on for years.

your sniffles weren't as silent as your words, it hurts, everything felt like fire. the world wants you to burn as your body felt like betrayal, your vulnerabilities stripped bare in front of him.

"i... appreciate your concern, but," it hurts to lie under your breath, hurts to hesitate, let alone voice out what you truly feel. it hurts to wonder why you're unsure if what he felt for you was worry, or just mere guilt over the situation you're both in.

the lines between all your emotions were blurred, you don't even wait to see his expressions anymore. you fear you'll revert back to the younger you, who considers the others before yourself, even when you've disillusioned yourself countless of times that you've changed.

you did, didn't you?

"you don't— you have no excuse to patronize my health when... when i know my limits and..."

"—i have to go, jason..."

barely a whisper. your words were barely a whisper, like the haste of thunder striking through metal rods though without sound, without thought, without hesitation; before your hands suddenly push all your weight to straighten your slumped form. your legs, which felt like blazing jelly, made an attempt to stand despite the burning sensation. you don't offer jason a second to register what you were doing, don't even let him see how your stomach bent enough to nearly reopen wounds—

god, fuck—!

it hurts, it fucking hurts so much.

your heart, your head, your entire body.

one second, you stumble, the gravity of your body fighting against the blistering, aching pain which shoots through your veins. all in one second, seering in your abdomen, like fingers digging deep into your injuries, twisting and churning until all you could feel is pain so absolutely revolting, so mercilessly cripping in your lower abdomen, that it seizes you useless, so utterly unable to capture your balance in the midst of standing, that your legs quickly give out on you.

then another second passes like a beat, all too quickly, yet all too slow for you as the world spins in your darkening vision, all the blood from your head rushing to where the holes lay in haste. your heart thumps like a drum in a warfield, like boots splattering on wed mud, sporadic, in near panic.

another second, the third, and just as you're about to stumble down, the pain so much that your eyes shoot out salty, ignorant tears. just as your body is close to thumping, writhing on the floor, jason catches you in his arms, grip so tight it almost felt like he'd refuse to let go. like how it was back in that shitty alleyway, like how it was, you felt trapped, trapped and forced to feel his sweating muscles churning mechanically, taut and tense through his thin sweatshirt.

close enough to feel that same, raggedy panic — the hitch of a breath, the loud thrumming in your chest, adrenaline shooting into your senses, your mind registers jason as a token of danger— emerging as your elbows make way to hit him square in ribs, only for his quicker, stronger palms instinctively stop you, his larger body locking you up in place, stabilizing you as you feel like you're hovering, suspended in thin, nearly charged air.

he's— he's carrying you, left hand respectfully gripping below your thighs, the other palm resting on your backside. it still hurts, everything does, nothing about you screams okay, only the slight subsidizing of pain as your brother, no, jason carefully puts you back down to sit on the bed, like you're weightless and made of feathers and— and vulnerable with how much gentleness he placates on instinctively hushing you, like a brother would to their injured sibling after a rough hour of playing in a sandbox of a playground.

the tears still won't stop.

through your quivering hiccups, high-pitched whines escaping the back of your throat at every subtle movement, at the thoughts that drown you the more time passes by— it hurts, it hurts so much you'd rather die, you'd rather be anywhere than here. does he know that, does he know the pain of looking at him, feeling him so close like never before is why you're so desparate to leave? does he know your heart beats erratically because you can never forget the moment you last met—?

— you don't even see, let alone feel the anger brewing off his chest, at the sudden, venomous words which escape his mouth next, like chains rattling, acidic bile brewing in a hot cauldron, nearly combusting at the seams.

you don't know that you pain him, don't know that you're his weakness.

and it especially hurts him when you refuse to look him eye-to-eye, refuse to see the tears rooting at the edge of his eyelids, at his teeth grazing his teeth until blood draws out in a steady flow, the opposite of the panic resurfacing into his body as he watches your dazed, breathless form trying to recover from what happened.

wordless. he despises that. how it's like your body repels him, head dodging his lips that hint at kissing your forehead. how you hesitatingly allow him to massage and help straighten the taut muscles of your bent legs— how you remain silent all throughout like you didn't just- just fucking attempt to stand, almost killing yourself despite his warnings.

he despises your not-so subtle avoidance that he just couldn't control it, couldn't control the burning rage brewing inside his heart that he just— just screams at you before he could compose himself.

"— fuck angel, FUCK! just what the fuck were you thinking?!"

jason wasn't always known for anger, he wasn't always the spiteful man everyone makes him out to be. he was sweet towards you because he knew you were innocent in the midst of batman's schemes, so it's no joke, no fucking joke how much he scares you off right now.

it scares you watching him fight others off, scared you when he shot those bullets at the man pinning you down, but you had a semblance of reassurance that it was never directed at you.

until now.

and now that you remain the spectacle of his anger, the sight of his widened, blown out eyes, his furrowed brows and clenched fists — you're so afraid, so fucking afraid he'll end up hurting you like damian, yet conscious of his actions. he looks like a painted demon before you, with clenched teeth and frazzled hair, and you feel like a dear caught in headlights — you feel another surge of tears, another wave of nausea drowning out his voice as your throat closes in on itself.

'stop, jason, please stop. you're scaring me.'

but you couldn't say the words out loud, couldn't even compose your body from quivering, fingers clenching the bedsheets in sudden instinct so hard it crumples on itself; as if it could help ground you, as if it could control the next, hurtful and loud words surging from his mouth.

as if it could cease time just so you wouldn't bear witness to his scary, monstrous rage.

"can't you see what you just did?! don't you know how— how fucking stupid and dangerous that was of you to just stand when you're still obviously HURT!? if you wanted to, you should've told me first instead of just suddenly pushing me away. what's wrong with you, huh?! what possessed you to just— JUST STAND UP AND LEAVE?!"

it's like he couldn't believe you. couldn't even make reasons why you did what you've just done. not even a tinge of comedic effect, not even any comfort laced in any word. not the jason you knew and loved, but a stranger whom you learned to call a friend, a brother that never was.

that's all he ever is, a stranger. all of them, living under the same roof as you.

and he was the same stranger who nearly fought you if not for you leaving that kitchen.

— it was the same old scoff he gave you all those months ago after talking, the same old squinted eyes and generous rage. yet this time it's enhanced with something else, something more personal, something way scarier than just being a spectator.

you always wanted to revolve around his life, but never this way.

it hurts, doesn't he know that?

doesn't he know how much his words just hurt you more than the dull ache in your abdomen? can't he see it too? how you're backing away to the corner of the bed until your back hits the headboard, despite all the pain spreading throughout your body?

if- if he cares so much about you, shouldn't he have known that— that you're sensitive to everything he just said?

bile rises up from your empty stomach, and the tears that keep surging out your eyes refuse to stop; yet it's your words run faster than your thoughts. then suddenly, all too suddenly, everything just snaps.

suddenly, your consideration for him doesn't matter anymore.

not when you never mattered to him, right?

and it feels like a part of you broke tonight.

"... what's up with you, angel?! answer me! first you're drunk off your mind when i find you out in the alleyway, bleedin' to near death, and when i try to help you before it's too late, you come begging me to not take you to the manor. did somethin' happen, huh?! why in the name of lord are you rebelling all of a sudden?! why are you fucking—"

"BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT MY DAMN SIBLING ANYMORE, JASON!"

it just won't stop. the pain and the tears and all the words spilling from you won't stop and everything- shit, everything is spinning but you can't stop now.

it hurts. saying those eight words hurt, but it's the truth.

and the truth fucking hurts. what right should he have worrying over you? what right does he have to criticize your life now when he's only been there for you when he needs it?

"IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS ANYMORE JASON! STOP— STOP PRETENDING LIKE YOU CARE—!"

fists clench at the bedsheets bring itself up to tangle upon your matted hair, and you pull and tug and rip off the strands, biting your lips to quell the anger, the pain shooting across your scalp, your fingers stinging with every snap of the strands. shivering and trapped, and useless in fighting back; why are you like this? why does he keep watching?

you close your eyes. for what? so that all you could hear are your ragged breaths, the only thing you can hear every time you'd have reoccurring nightmares? so that you could return to that lonely child, to the lonely teenager you once were?

the lonely, scared child you still are?

'since when have you ever cared, jason? since when? since when has anybody ever cared?'

your voice trembles at the ends, you can't afford to look at him, burying yourself deeper into the mattress as if that alone can melt you until you were nothing, just so you wouldn't have to deal with this neverending heartbreak.

"stop... just please—" you bite your lips, but it does nothing to quell the overwhelming panic, the spiralling thoughts, the blazing emotions. your knees are pressed against your chest, fingers now scratching at your heated face.

until it bleeds, until it all bleeds.

you open your eyes, an array of tears come bursting off your sore eyelids, your cheeks feel considerably swollen, yet you just can't stop fucking crying. it worsens even more when your wobbly vision turn to look up at him, at his unbelievable stare, at his widened, ocean blue orbs, dull and almost unforgiving.

'this isn't the jason i knew.'

"just why, (name)? why?"  hearing your name roll off his tongue, instead of your usual nickname hurts, hearing it with such rage, contempt, like he's directing his hatred at you for something you couldn't control— god, it hurts.

"what do you mean by all this? i'm- i'm still your damn brother—" he says, as if it's a matter of fact, as if nothing between you changed the last day you saw him, as if he didn't know the reason. if he was your brother, then why does he sound so diffident, then?

why does his voice tremble? why does his care taste foreign against your tongue? why does he stand there, as if hesitant to even approach you?

"and because i am your brother... i have every right to care for you now—"

"i was never important then... so why do i matter now?"

"— what?"

"why do i matter so much now than before? how come i never deserved your care before?"

"angel, please. what the hell are you talking about—"

"JUST FUCKING ANSWER MY QUESTION, GODDAMNIT!"

all that you were, all that you ever are, was just a distraction for jason to bide his time with, weren't you? all he knew about you was that you acted as his entertainment, a quiet little kid who listens more than they ever learned to speak, who purposely read all the archived books in the manor's library, waiting every month for their favorite brother to visit. even if it was just for minutes, even if he'd leave you right after, escaping your boring rambles, because of course he'd prefer the fucking batcave over your silent, expectant, always yearning eyes.

all you ever wanted, all you ever did, was just be.

do what you thought they wanted you to be, not what you wanted yourself to be. baking because you knew they loved to raid the fridge for snacks after missions, drawing because your mother always praised your messy sketches, even if it was nothing compared to damian's now, dancing, ballet, gymnastics— going as far as trying to learn how to fight, giving up halfway through because you'll never progress with just how much you're juggling other extracurricular activities.

all that, just to be what you wanted to be for them.

even if it was never enough, even if your rare a plus', the occasional gold medals, the praise and acknowledgement from your teachers, even alfred's suggestion for bruce to just, please, take his time of the day to talk to you— all those achievements shine dully compared to your other siblings.

and you've long since accepted that it was all that you ever were. just a mere tool, ever-so-useful, yet ever-so-forgotten by all the other convenient ones.

all that you are, all that you ever were. but all that you ever wished for, was to be his child, their sibling.

but that was never possible, you've accepted that. you branched off, left and never came to look back because you knew you'll just be trudging another path of pain.

...

so why, why does he care so much now?

why, for the first time in your entire life, does it pain you more than it comforts you that he finally called himself your brother?

why, just now, does he say it to your face, when he never once did so all those years ago?

why does he pretend to be so shocked in front of you, wide-eyed and frozen, relinquished in guilt? why does he stand there, breathing, trying to compose himself as if your words ever held any weight on his chest? why can't he just understand, why can't he just let you go as easily now?

why do you still cry after all these years?

why do you still pretend that none of these... these issues mattered anymore in your heart?

why do your fingers still forcefully pierce into the mattress, grounding yourself to reality? why can't you rip your eyes away from jason?

why does his care break your heart more than it does fixing it?

you've always wanted this, didn't you? you've always wanted to be finally acknowledged, yet it still hurts. your throat still closes in on itself, like fingers clawing and constricting your airways, your breathing like jet missiles vaporizing mid air.

and yet all the pain, all the yearning and destesting for a love so passionate were still overpowered by the senseless need for answers.

'jason, why do you still try?'

"angel, calm down you're—"

on the verge of a panic attack? hands suddenly beating at your chest, tears neverending still streaking your sore cheeks and bitten, bloodied lips?

his hands reach out to grab yours, yet you slap his palms away, ignore the stinging sensation that came after; and back away to a corner. like a reckless animal, like the same young child hiding behind closet doors, biting back tears yet desperately failing.

you're both at your breaking points, you both refuse to back down this stupid game of cat and mouse.

"just calm down, please—!"

"NO, I WON'T— you don't fucking understand it, jason!

— i don't need your help, or anyone else's anymore! you have never been there for me! never been there for all the times i suffered because of your death! so don't even try to make a difference now!"

before he could even refute, before he could shout and cause another wave of panic, before he could break you even further—

"... so why do you care now?"

you couldn't even face him, too afraid to see his reactions churning. he shakily breaths, fog encapsulates the air around his parched lips. and you're reminded that it's almost winter, that your heater in your apartment is broken, that you'll be freezing underneath your thin blankets, eating off cold meals— that it's another one of those months where you're reminded of the privilege you've both lost and gained after leaving the manor.

you've lost your last connection to jason, so you thought, yet he's here in front of you now. he's here, and rather than wanting him to be here, you'd wish it was a dream instead.

you wished he never cared, for his next words stabbed you more than it did made you feel cared.

"i care, (name). because you were drunk when i got you, you were impulsively provoking the same guys who nearly killed you. because what? it's easier to escape that way?. i care because you've done something stupid, you nearly died because of your recklessness! my younger sibling did something stupid and it's my responsibility to worry over you, worry over your overdramatics! you're still fucking eighteen and you're already wasting away your life—!"

"that's why i fucking care for you, because you're my burden alone and nothing changes that!"

what...?

overdramatic? impulsive and reckless? is he serious? is that all you ever were to him? he cares because he thinks you're still that stupid, innocent child chasing after him? is that what you are? is that all you ever amounted to him after all the times you spent sleepless nights reading the books he recommended you? all the hours burning your fingers just to perfect his favorite lunch?

just that?

just a burden?

and he just stands there, so cruelly imposing, hands crossed like he's right and you're not. tears equally streak his ragged face, dripping all the way down his sharp jaws and wobbly chin. but his brows are furrowed, eyes still squinted at your body, weaker than his.

like all he feels is rage towards you, like everything's your fault.

while you're just sitting in his bed, limp and utterly unable to stand without his guidance.

and you hate this, hate being reminded that just like last time, you used to depend on him alone.

"how dare you, jason? we... i've always been so good to you... i've always done what you always wanted, i—"

this time your heart aches differently. it's not the subtle panic stinging your beating organ, not even regret shrouding your thoughts. but a painful, stabbing pain; slow and cold. your nose is clogged, your teeth rigidly grinding, the ball of your joints feel like they're pressing deeply on each other— everything just hurts.

his words feel like a knife slowly twisting inside your guts. not even the salty, warm tears feel worth crying out anymore.

it's just silent understanding, a painful acceptance.

of your pain and all those wasted summers and lonely winters.

your hands grip the headboard as you shift your weight to the uninjured side of your abdomen. you glare at him when he almost hurriedly attempts to help you, but through silent puffs of effort under your breath, you're already standing, right hand gripping nothing on the wall as you lean on it.

it still hurts, god, the burning sensation won't boil down at all.

— but you want to face him, head-to-head. you want him to face his burden. if he wants to understand you, if you want to understand him— there's no use hiding behind a semblance of comfort.

because more than anything, you just wanted a family. you just wanted to be part of their family.

yet now you've come to realize that maybe you were just a burden all along.

"it's- it's so unfair..."

your voice cracks at the seams, but there's no use composing yourself anymore. no use in trying to look decent in his eyes when all you ever were was a problem to him, to everyone else, right?

"out of all the times i nearly got killed, jason... you decided to save me by the time i accepted my death...?"

maybe your mother would've sided with jason, only for the part that she wanted you safe and sound rather than dead. but she's dead now, you wanted to be dead because it meant you'll finally have her at your side.

and it feels so cruel to be stripped away from that honor, that merciful gift of life, from the very same brother whose death caused you more turmoil than anything.

"—this isn't the first fucking time this happened to me, jason, and it wouldn't be the last."

your voice was barely a whisper, barely a recognizable tremor, but it speaks volumes of your desperation, of what could've been if he didn't intervene. of what wouldn't change despite it all.

you'll still be dead afterall. this is gotham where you're living. and you're not a priority to the vigilantes, not anybody important to the family.

even if his expression shifted to shock, even if you find an ounce of softness throughout the exterior of his fragile agitation; is it not true?

he takes a step forward, but your hands shoot out to put distance between you two. even if it pains you to see the confused heartbreak in his eyes at your refusal, you don't want him any closer, you fear you'll submit to his whims if you do.

you can taste blood in your tongue, but you swallow it all like you're swallowing all the bitterness you feel, you drown this ache in your heart, replace it with temporary assurances that this will all end, that jason's stubborn attempts of placating you is just another attempt to draw you closer, only to push you away in the end.

... and yet he's still trying even after what felt like minutes, maybe hours, stretching between you two.

jason still keeps trying, while you're close to giving up.

"why are you like this, angel? what happened between you and bruce? did he hurt you—"

"nothing happened—" you're lying, but not quite so. you're lying but it's not a lie when you mean nothing, literally nothing, happened between you and your father. that's the worse of it all, you and bruce never had a moment together, never had any memories to cherish nor times where he comforted you through the trauma of it all.

that painful reminder just makes past emotions stir within you.

of those cold nights, the barren hallways and alfred's countless excuses for bruce's absences.

"i have my personal reasons, jason." you seethe through your teeth. it hurts to admit your feelings to him, hurts that your drying tears are still overlayed by a resurgence of new ones. "it involves you guys... you and the others; but it's nothing now. it doesn't matter now and you know it..."

"... no i don't, angel. and no, it's not nothing. because if it was, then what's all of this for? what do you want from him, from me? that caused you to act this way...? to act so selfishly, trying to rebel like us when you've always been a good kid, huh? god, (name), if you just wanted his attention, to be his favorite—"

"— then there's so much better ways, angel. than being like this... being someone that isn't you."

he truly never knew you well at all, huh?

considering everything that happened tonight, you thought he did, but fuck...

hearing all those assumptions come straight from him just destroys you inside out.

"jason... please listen to me."

cutting him off, it's both an act done to just stop him from rambling any further, stops you from just— just irrationally ripping your ears apart so you wouldn't have to hear it anymore; hear all those disillusioned excuses, those painful words ripping you apart at the seams.

he looks at you, at your weak hold against the edge of the bedframe, at the hushed, shivering breathing, at your downcast, almost resigned eyes. you don't reciprocate his worried gaze, you just... don't.

"i don't want to be his favorite... i never wanted to be— fuck!"

"why do you assume all this, jason?" you faintly glared at him, but that flicker of the fight blew off, and you returned, looking at your feet, speaking through your beating heart, your irrational thoughts of shutting down, if not for the faint stench of smoke grounding you, if just by a fraction.

"i never wanted to be an athlete like dick, or as academically talented like you, or some crazed detective like tim, or as skilled as an assassin like damian! i don't even have the determination steph has or barbara's perseverance to continue fighting alongside all of you! i can't even reach cassandra's level of fighting, and i certainly don't have powers like duke!"

there it is again: the envy, the spite, and the undertone of yearning in your words. maybe jason was right, maybe you're still the young, good kid afterall. but good kids still do bad things, good kids can still feel and fuck, you feel a plethora of negativity mentioning all their positive traits, while you have none.

you have nothing, not even a small merit to offer.

"— all of you guys are so fucking talented, and here i am, so pathetic for thinking i can reach the same level as you all when i can't!"

the medals are useless compared to damian's success in topping the entire gotham university. the certificates for placing indancing competition were none the more important than cassandra's ballet recitals. your research projects that you've spent nights crying on, was it all that relevant when tim always one-ups you within just a day of data-gathering?

so what makes you special, what makes jason think you'd even try to be bruce's favorite in the first place, when you're absolutely useless?

"—so i just can't, jason! how could i have the damn audacity to desire being bruce's priority when each and every one of you are beyond my level?!"

untouched breakfast, thrown away lunch, cold dinners. thrashed out backpack, unsharpened pencils, inkless pens, wornout diaries, bandaged arms and sleepless nights. your life was a cycle of constant wanting, of constant attempts to earn your place. even if there were moments some of them looked at you in pity, it was never enough to warrant their comforting words or even just a pat in the back.

the last time dick has ever looked at you was the first time you met.

and in those moments where you wish you were as forgettable to damian as you were to others, he'll remember to always remind you of your place.

maybe you were like them, in ways where you're always trying but never enough. in ways where their attention on you was never enough too. you need something from them, they needed something else from you too.

"angel..." you don't have to look up to know the air has changed. that wretched nicnkame plastered itself back into his mouth. this time, he said it softer, like he's come to a realization, like it was enough to draw you out of the caverns of isolation you've kept yourself in.

but before he could speak again, before you'd get lost in those memories of the past—

"i never wanted to be bruce's favorite, jason..."

"i just..."

your eyes soften, as tears begin to spring from your eyes, red and swollen, and you let them. you look down at your unclenched hands through blurry vision, and find indents of crescents present on raw, battered skin— and it's enough to make you remember your childhood, enough to deepen the heavy weight of conflict drowning your heart.

when you look up to jason again, you bite your quivering lips, just to silence the ugly wail brewing from your chest. he looks at you, as equally befuddled, as heartbroken.

"... i just wanted to be his child." the sentence comes out your lips, so silent, so broken and lightly pitched. it speaks volumes of wanting, of yearning, of years begging for even a sliver of love offered on your way. it felt like it was the younger you speaking to him, begging him to fucking understand how it was never about just wanting attention—

it was about wanting to just have a family. people who should've loved you, saw you through the veil of your reputation, yet chose to love you still.

because they're family, they're your family. and all that mattered to you was family.

how hard was it to understand that sentiment?

"i just want to be loved because i'm his child, not a charity case, or because he's doing this for my mother..."

you remembered those nosy paparazzi's stalking you even in elementary. they ask you how it's like being adopted by the bruce wayne, how it's like living a life most orphaned children dreamt of living; how lucky you must be, having a mother who's come to share a bed with him, that your life must be so full of luxury because bruce took pity on you and your poor, whore of a mother, right?

they didn't know it was alfred, the estate's butler, who'd suggested adopting you. and with a flick of bruce's wrist, a slight furrow of his brows and a dismissed thought of you, you were brought in the manor.

it was never bruce who considered you, maybe the paparazzi and journalists slowly came to realize that after discovering your father is nowhere to be seen beside your side. maybe that's why they slowly dissipated away from you year by year, leaving you as lonely as ever.

'and now,' you thought, 'bruce still doesn't care for me at all.'

that hurts.

"i just want to be selfish for once... i want to see him the same way he looks at you back then, every damn time he stares at your grave, while i watch by the fucking windows, wishing it was me he looked at."

despite never meeting jason from back when he was robin, you mourned for him too, you prayed for his soul the same way you prayed for your mother's. it helped you disillusion yourself to believe you mattered, sitting beside his grave by the gardens despite the rain pouring downcast and staining your clothes. it helped you think you were becoming closer to bruce.

"i wanted him to look at me jason! think of me as someone as important as you, even just a semblance of it...!"

you tried so hard to imitate them all. dick's athleticism, cass' elegance, tim and barbara's elite-level knowledge on the digital world, duke's cunningness when it comes to puzzles, damian's strategies and steph's awe-inspiring rebellion paired with sarcasm. you try to emulate it all, waking up early every day, schedule packed with activities in each corner of the manor just so you'd have a chance of finding bruce in the same room as you; but it just never was enough.

"god, i don't even want him to see me as a priority, i don't want him to see me and think that i'm the best damn thing in the world. i know i'm not, jay. i'm not perfect, not even half as good. but i just want him to stare and think, 'this is my child,' without any second thoughts, without any regards for my dirty fucking past."

there was one moment in your life where you almost despised your mother. almost. you blamed her for birthing you, for having you as her child, for bestowing you this curse of being unloved, as only being acknowledged as the woman who stole from others: a bitch, a prostitute who got pregnant too early, a lady with a sullen reputation bleeding into the present of her child.

you nearly hated her, you wish you never did. she was your only light, the memories of her was what kept you alive, and you dim that light off, purposely try to blow off the shining embers that gleam for you just because you wanted the love and attention from a family that was never yours.

and you nearly worked yourself to death because of it.

"jason, i just wanted to... to go through the normal things a father does with his child. i wanted him to love me, even just for the tiniest bit. is that hard enough to fulfill? am i just too high maintenance for him that he can't— can't even deal with me after you died? tell me, jason—

"—am i just the burden of an aftermath?!"

a small of you nearly excused bruce's neglect for his mourning of jason. but that mourning extended even after his resurrection. and slowly, the more the members of the family piled up, you figured it all out.

it was you that's unlovable.

and no matter what, you could never truly accept that fact.

not even as you cry out your woes to jason, not even as your voice cracks and breaks at every syllable, at every spilled word tinged with bitterness, with pain so deep it cuts through your already bleeding heart.

"i just- just wanted to be part of the family. i just wanted to eat takeout with you that day- wanted to forget you fought bruce— forget everythin' just to bond with you 'cause you never gave me enough time in your already busy day. so why can't i? why can't i have the things everyone else had? is it too entitled of me to say that i just wanted your love? am i too demanding if i just wanted a family?!"

"is it so hard to love me?"

"tell me, jason! just, fucking tell me, please..."

your fingers' grip on the edge of the headboard nearly slipped, your sniffles were unbearably loud, a reflection of the thrumming beats of your heart nearly escaping out your chest in the form of shrieking sobs.

he finally speaks, unsure. he still stands in his place, but you're crying too much to even care.

"no, no of course not. it's not... you're not..."

"i'm not what, jason? not your sibling, not bruce's child? 'cause that's what i've felt like this entire fucking decade! and now that i've left everything behind, you all suddenly want to pretend like i was never unnoticed back then? that all my damn efforts to be good enough was finally acknowledged just now—?"

"why can't you just answer me, jay? why does nobody want to give me answers?"

"... why can't anybody just love me?"

it felt like heartbreak on both your sides. like a thread snapping, jason was as quick to retort—

"we do love you, angel. i do...! i love you so fucking much that i can't handle seeing you in pain. so please let me take care of you, just... just let me handle all of this, please."

— but you can't believe him, not anymore. it hurts falling for his lies, for his words and false reassurances. he can't even promise you takeout back then, what more does his 'i love you's' do you now?

"no, no you can't care for me, jason. not anymore... you're not my brother anymore, you guys aren't family to me anymore..."

is it betrayal in his eyes, or something far deeper? is it unadulterated anger at what you'd said? why can't he just accept your words? why can't he just accept there's nothing in between you anymore other than those past memories long gone?

"... yes, yes we're family. i care for you. just let me show you i do, angel—"

"... we're not even siblings, we're not. we're just strangers to each other.—"

you whisper softly through your damp lashes, throat sore after all the screaming. it doesn't calm down the momentary adrenaline rushing through your body, though. it doesn't, all these reassurances are just a temporary distraction.

"that's not true, angel. don't even... don't even think of saying that—"

"take me back, please. just please take me back to where you last found me. i'll find a way—"

you want to go home, you want to sleep your way through this pain. but jason proves himself to be stubborn, just like his father. and you are, too; anymore of those similarities, anymore and you'll bash your head to the walls just so you could forget.

"no, angel..." he retorts just as quickly, suddenly imposing, suddenly back to square one where it's all him, all his words that matter with no regard for yours. "who the hell says i'm letting you go back there?! that's suicide!"

but you don't matter, don't you? so that automatically means he shouldn't pretend like your life matters, too.

"... i don't care, just please! jason, i'm begging you...! just do this one single favor for me. i can't..."

'i can't go back to the manor...'

just saying it in your thoughts alone makes you sick with nausea. because that means returning to yearning, returning to those sick nights filled with broken diary entries and dick's huff of dismissal, damian's weapons pointed at you, tim's click of the tongue and just... that inflicted, neverending pain.

"you're hurt, angel, you won't survive out in the dark like that. i'm sure as hell not taking you back there. we're going back to the manor—"

"NO! i don't want to be there! that's not where i live, not anymore, no take me back home...!

anywhere... anywhere but there. anywhere but that wretched cage.

"please, jay!"

you call him by his nickname, nearly yanking yourself to his side if it weren't for your legs keeping

"if you don't want me to... then let me go and i'll call a taxi or something—! whatever...! just not—"

"—not there..."

"and if i bring you back to that apartment, what now? you're gonna commit the same old mistakes, you're going to hurt yourself!? you're gonna get yourself killed, break another limb, use more than just crutches to support yourself and get yourself hurt all over again?!"

"NO! i won't, jay... i won't bother you anymore. just not there and... not with them—"

"... not with you, please."

it was a mistake on your part, to audibly whisper out those last words. and yet it was unfixable, you can't take back words once they're said, jason can't take back all the cruel statements he made your way that day, and yet it's him who's offended, who tears up, who heaves and nearly shrieks at you, uncaring for the neighbors living below.

"why are you trying so hard to push us away?! push me away right after you.. you opened up?!"

"because we're not family anymore, goddamnit—!"

"why are you so goddamn stubborn?! care for me, care for me like you care for all those strangers getting mugged in the street! not as my brother—!"

"i am your brother!"

it hurts, your chest hurts, your throat, your wobbly arms and your unfeeling legs. yet what hurts the most is that you just can't accept it, accept all the words he throws your ways. can't accept how you've both changed and it...

it just hurts...

"and i care for you, more than you can ever fucking imagine, so don't... don't fucking push me away! not especially right after i almost lost you!"

"god..." suddenly, he resigns through a sigh.

why, just why, is he calming down now?

"i'm such a fucking dick to you, aren't i? i know i don't deserve you. nobody deserves you and your forgiveness, angel. you've always been so good to me- to us...

"i'm so fucking sorry. for everything. for leaving you behind after that day, even being an asshole to you after. for ignoring you all those years, for breaking every damn promise i made like you were nothing, for realizing all of this just right after you nearly died, in my arms."

his voice breaks at the last words, as if the reminder of what transpired last night permanently left a broken fixture in his memories. as if thinking about it is enough to destroy any bite in his argument.

"you don't— you don't deserve any that—"

"i'm— i'm so sorry, angel."

that was all you wanted to hear, all you wanted to be said throughout the layers of defensive, reckless statements he threw your way.

heavy were the unspoken words that hung in the air. heavy were the unbidden promises he forged himself to ensure but ultimately failed to do so, that were all meant to repair his relationship with you. heavy were the tears that streaked both your cheeks, the unsung arguments, the fists that curl, fingers that bite at indented skin until it bleeds.

"— I should've noticed sooner, i should've known you felt that way."

"i know, jay. i know," your mind, your mouth, they both betray the words your heart wished to speak, but you lock that beating organ out before it forces you to mutter something else. you feel too faint, from the tiredness coursing through your body as an aftershock of your injury, the throbbing of the holes in your body, and the intensity of your emotions.

'i know you know that, and i wished you did something about it when you knew you had the power to change all this—'

'all that were are, all that we were.'

you wanted to tell him, but the sentiment tastes bitter on the expanse of your tongue, as if confessing it would scorch you and your aching brain even further. you just couldn't anymore, you couldn't break both your hearts.

heavy were the emotions uncurling beneath both you and jason's chest, boiling and spilling, until the only words you both could mutter were the ones that scald your aching hearts.

"jason, i'm- i'm still hurt."

"i know, angel. let me take care of it, of you. just let me do this, just once."

he takes a careful stride towards you, a knot forms in your brows and in your stomach. it curls inside your body when his both his hands grip your forearms, gently, like you're made of glass, to push you to softly sit on his mattress.

made carefully, cleaned neatly for you.

you never thought you were worthy enough to have a bed made for you.

— you don't even allow alfred to clean your own room because you don't think you deserve it.

silence ensues, only the squeak of his shoes sliding against the floor, his panting breaths, your unstable intakes of air, and the hinge of his bed were heard, drowning out the swears of the citizens from below his apartment complex and the thumping of car horns.

it's just the two of you, in this room. you and jason, just like the moments spent under the roof of the manor.

you don't fight against him, don't push him away like you did so earlier, in favor of relinquishing your control, your pain, to his squinting, wandering blue eyes that trap your body, at his calloused fingers running across the expanse of the lumps in your arms.

and in that moment, under the sheer glow of his apartment's flickering lights, under the watchful gaze of the restless city nights, of the lamp posts gleaming in the streets; you both looked a little more like each other for every passing second, every passing moment after you'd scream your woes, after he'd retort and retaliate with his excuses, his reasonings.

you had his vengeful glare, staring daggers at him as he took in your wrapped wounds. he had your silence, desperate and aching pleas. you stuttered like him when he chases after words tangling in his parched mouth. he bites his lips like you when he couldn't find the right words, bounding his hands to his delicate strands of hair to pull in agitation, just like you always do.

and both of you were- were good...

a good soldier and a good child, lost in the weave of dreams, expectations and broken, unfulfilled promises.

it reminds you of how he was the only brother you truly had a bond with, of how truly close you were to him, shared moments of brief laughter with, a respite, a paradise without the need to chase after his presence, all done in such short moments, moments that could never be enough to quench your aching thirst for love and familial attention.

he finally speaks after taking his seat beside you, muscled arms wrapping around your shoulders. he broke the intangible silence, with knotted brows and sorry, pleading eyes that look at yours. it made you feel trapped, in his arms and in his mindful apologies, it reminded you of the manor.

"i could've been better for you, angel. i should've known, i'm so fuckin' sorry, i—"

"i know, jay. i know, please..."

please stop. no more, you don't want to hear anymore,. you don't want to dream, to fantasize what could've been.

— because that meant drowning yourself in the past, that meant running back to chasing after empty promises.

and yet...

the more you think, the more the possibilities unfold in your thoughts.

a bitter part of you wished it was him who had welcomed you into your home, into the manor. you wished it was him, not alfred, dick or bruce you'd chase after, wished he was alive when your fleeting dreams were too. the child in you wished his assurances were what graced you in such an early time. just so that, maybe, just maybe, your throat wouldn't close in on itself every time you're reminded of your solitary past, a past lost and without a cause because of his passing.

running after dick, acting as his invisible silhouette, hearing the empty yes's on your invitation for him to come visit your room. tugging on bruce's sleeves whilst his eyes flit elsewhere. knuckles rupturing on the door of tim's room, only to be greeted with a silent hm, and a plea for you to come the next time. hands shakily holding a heavy tray of arabic food you learnt to cook for your younger brother, just for the same bowl to scald and prick stickily against your reddening skin

— you wouldn't have to do all that, if you had at least one ally, an ally who had to be dead when you were alone. someone as perfectly imperfect as you.

he's not like dick, the sun doesn't shine for him, the world doesn't give him grace— if it did, he wouldn't have died. he felt more charcoal than diamond, jagged and rough on the edges. yet charcoal was easier to obtain than diamonds, like the bright blue's of dick staring at you - such a precious, yet rare instance - or brazen emeralds like damian that could only look at you like you're mere pyrite; his attention was easier to obtain, because he knew you outside of your ghostly reputation. saw you as something else. jason was the only presence you were able to share your laughter with in the face of his brief visits.

as you look at him now, as he looks at you too, through his panting and the neverending tears streaking his cheeks. you look at each other in painful, understanding silence. his face, shoulders, chest, legs are painted with scars, incisions on skin, the first trait your eyes lay could on, as your gaze flitters to your equally scarred figure, too.

on the cuts that run deep into your wrists and palms, on the lighter scars, the deeper pigmentation that lay awake, like a chaotic portrait, that throbs with painful reminders that unlike jason, you chose to hurt yourself to replace that pain in your cold, beating chest. but like jason, you both wear these memories painfully on your sleeves.

imperfect, sullen and easily broken, like you.

you don't know whether to cry, or to laugh. that finally, fucking finally, you could share your similarities, your flaws with someone else too.

and at this very time, you knew neither of you could win your losing battles. if you argue even further, if your heart spills anymore words you know would only cut through the tension and break into even more back and forths— jason would only retort, would call you angel as be attempts to calm you down, as if you were an still an innocent bystander to his pain, as if you never told him you wish he'd stay dead.

if you wanted to survive this wretched night without anymore heartbreaks, you'd have to be the first to back down, to step away, be the bigger person.

like how you had to choose to give up on your family, to finally let go of your expectations on them. it was the only way, it was your way of adjusting to them, as you always do.

maybe it was fortunate for jason, that you'd already easily given up.

you'd give up when he wraps you in his arms, and unceremoniously perched you up his lap like how an owner cradles his injured cat, ensuring your injuries aren't pressed against the weapons stuck in his utility belt.

for a moment, you let time with him be. you allow the course of calmness to wash over, for your tears to dry until it feels like sickeningly dry salt rubbing against skin, for the lump resting in your throat to retreat to your throbbing heart, for the blood escaping your body from your injury to slowly seep into the gauze that wraps around it.

without the adrenaline coursing through your veins, without the haste of trying to escape from his hold, you've now access to the feel of his entire body. when the panic escapes from your heart, and all you're left with is resignation, his muscled arms wrapped around your torso; you're left reeling at the scent of motor oil and gunpowder, head buried at the crook of his neck whilst your tears are drying ever so slowly, effuse into his favorite jacket.

everything about jason felt foreign, uncharacteristically huge. his body felt too strong, too heavy, like a burden deeper than just vigilante duties of ridding the crime of gotham.

you never knew just how touch-starved you were, ignoring the specks of blood littering his clothes and the familiar scent of cigarettes reminding you of the bustling streets of gotham, even though the stench of ichor overpowers it— you feel like you're home. not at the manor which smells of fresh, flowery sheets, not at your empty apartment polluted with car smoke just wafting outside your windows; but a home you've once lived in, with just your mother and you.

it was just so fucked up, how he could easily subdue the anxiety eating you away. it was so ironic, how in an apartment filled with deadly weapons: guns, knives, bombs, and journals containing contingency plans against all his enemies; it is where you felt currently the safest, as you're reminded of your past; your humdrum life with your mother.

back when everything was normal, back when all your worries were about the chances of having dinner that night, or hoping that your new clothes wouldn't tear as much so your beloved mom wouldn't have to spend wretched hours stealing just to provide you with all your wants and needs.

it never occurred within your mind, just how similarly you lived like jason. and in jason's thoughts, he realized how much you could've ended like him if he hadn't protected you this very night. if he hadn't heard the family pitch of your scream, a scream engraved deep into his memories, a haunting record that plays nightly as he's reminded that he was the reason why you had terror shocks from the shadows in the corner of your eyes.

he hated that he made you scream as a child, that he was the stuff of your nightmares, but he despised it even more when it had to be the others tormenting his little sibling.

it was enough to make his blood curdle, the sight of those filthy men touching, pinning and kicking, shoving a gun against the head of the person most important to him, puncturing holes into their body. he takes in a shaky gulp, yet he hums - pretending like he isn't truly bothered. he can't let you worry anymore - when your fingers listlessly play with the hems of his jacket.

'they're dead, jason. don't even think of doing what you have to do.'

the palm that rests on the back of your torso digs deeper at the thought of you wriggling in pain, not enough to hurt, but enough to tell you that whatever jason is thinking right now isn't good, your ears taking notice hearing the hastening thrum of his heart, even when his body is slumped against yours, you could still feel the slight shivers trailing across his body.

yet you only bury yourself deeper into him, closed eyes dry with tears and nuzzling at warmth you knew you'll soon never be able to feel again, from a brother who was too late to take you back. his right palm, big against your head, nearly covering the expanse of your scalp, scratches and guides you to properly lean on the blades of his shoulder. you don't see his expressions, you don't know if all the comforting he's doing, all the love he's offering you right now is authentic, or just out of mere obligation as your older brother, but you're grateful either way...

entirely grateful that you'd at least be feeling what it's like to be cuddled by one of your ex-family members, before you ultimately make a quick escape from gotham. you're so grateful that despite everything, at least now, the tiny little part of you, the innocence long gone, would rejoice at their life-long dream at finally being able to coddle with just one family member.

past you would've ranted about this in your journal, would've jumped in joy, run across the manor, and thank the world for blessing you with such a miracle. you wouldn't even care if damian shoved a nasty glare in your way.

even if temporary, even if a small, unyielding part of you wishes that you could stay like this forever; the stronger version of you, the one that learned to mature, to forgive yet never forget— it is the voice of reason amongst a sea of conflicting emotions. it tells you that you've moved on a long time ago, that whatever this is right now, will have you force to let go.

and even if younger you begged that it is unfair, that this is what they've always wanted in their life, for someone to acknowledge them as much as they've loved the family even without reciprocation; you've long since given up at hoping. your heart is weary, and tired of constantly being led to believe, only to come back broken in pieces all the damn time. you're older now, old enough to learn that, well...

everything is temporary in life. the comfort your family offered you was always temporary. jason, who succumbs to burying his head in your scalp to hum foreign tunes— he'll soon be just a burning memory, yet at least you'll be left with something positive to say about him.

after all, their love for you happens in quick successions, it wasn't all the time you were ignored, but chasing after it when it had already become mere dust before you could catch it with your clawing hands.

dick had shown you a crumb of his love, back when he first introduced you to his room. hell, even bruce was decent enough to transfer you out of school, even if it was out of mere dismissiveness and to keep a reputation, he showed he cared for a child, even if it was never enough.

and now?

'now, jason will forget about me soon enough,' you tell yourself.

just like the times you stumbled upon steph and pushed yourself to be invited to watch a movie with her, only to be rejected and given her side of popcorn as compensation and an awkward grin promising that she'll find a time in her schedule to spend with you. waiting for months for an update proved fruitless, writing praises in your journal, all about her silky blonde hair, and her lighthearted smiles don't do anything to manifest time well-spent with someone you thought would at least put in effort to be with you. she was similar to you in so many ways, how she felt dismissed by the family, and never enough for them— but the sheer difference that places you both in different lanes is the fact that she was at least loved, that she still had people care for her outside her status of spoiler. people loved stephanie brown, because she was at least unique, she was noticeable with her ironic jokes and love for purple.

you still had nothing to offer.

it's like the silent moments you were able to cherish when you could last for more than five minutes in the room with damian, his emerald eyes petting titus and alfred the cat, as you sit in the far corner watching how softly, how precious like treasured gems, he treats them. he doesn't fight you, doesn't bat at eye, but witnessing the young assassin, your little brother, become a kid, watching him paint in your memories without his scowled growl directed at you, or a knife pointed on your body; it made you feel like they do have a semblance of love, of care, only for those who deserved.

you only deserve care when you prove yourself to be capable enough.

hell, despite you knowing the least about duke, watching him play with his powers against bruce's orders was what made your bleak life a bit more interesting. having to save him from nearly dying, from fainting due to the overuse of his metahuman abilities when he was still new to being signal. being the faint silhouette he sees throughout the white light in his vision, the quivering, desperate voice who assures him he'll be alive, he'll be fine; you don't know if he remembers it, if the young boy could even recall how your eyes lit up, how your chest felt lighter when his scarred palms came to cup your shivering ones to keep you from ripping at your hair—

your point proves, chasing after them amounts to nothing. you could only be a witness, a bystander if you want to relish in their shared memories, but never part of their small community. you'll never be able to know what's it like having inside jokes with them, to share your homemade meals with them, to show old albums of your life as a child before being adopted. you just can't.

even the prospect of being married, of having them help you arrange your marriage becomes mere fantasy.

everything you ever hoped to spend with them is fantasy, an unattainable desire. you should've known from the start.

to them, to you, to everybody you lived with under the same, gothic roof of a manor rich with history still unknown to an outsider like you— you are but a mere stranger. there at the wrong place, in all the wrong times.

maybe that is what jason felt after his untimely death, that he does not belong anymore. maybe he felt like an intruder instead, just like you, with how he felt replaced by tim, how the legacy of robin lives on even after his passing. how he felt like a cheap rebound of dick after years of searching for answers, or how he never truly mattered to bruce—

— but at least he still has a place in their heart. despite only knowing him after his resurrection, you've come to love him too, and learned to let go at the same time.

you hope jason understands why you're so unwilling for him to help return you to the manor. you hope he doesn't question why you chose to live in your apartment, you hope that if he does find out the reason, he'll shut up about it.

you wish that jason understands, even as you felt well-rested enough on his muscled shoulders, head slowly, eyes blinking away the drowsiness washing over you, rising even if the arms that hover over your scalp invites you to sleep instead.

you're stronger now, not physically, but you willed yourself to force your eyes to stare back at him. his lidded, dull blue oned unlike dick's, and it doesn't look like the ocean eyes you find yourself drowning in staring at bruce's whenever you watch him across the television during his interviews. it was a blue similar to the sea at night, tranquil shores that caresses the soles of your feet standing on sand. there was no shine in them, it was a symbolic retelling of his death, gazing into them, at the depths of emotions swimming in those orbs alone, you feel a sense of ease when they soften, when they give way for you to stare for as long as you want.

although you were sitting atop his lap, looking down at him, his gaze made you feel little. like you were a child all over again. both of his hands are now resting on your waist to stabilize you. you couldn't reason the sudden protectiveness, the unwillingness to let you go, but your mouth opens before you could think, yet jason beats you to it, spilling words you thought he was incapable of admitting — breaking the peaceful silence once more with the significant tremor, the apologies laced in his words— with all the years he spent looking at you in contempt before he resigned to casual, yet fleeting conversations with you back at the manor.

"you know, angel...? i'm so sorry for everything. i really mean it... for all the times i was blind to you wishing you could've spent time with me. and i was so stupid, rejecting you, hurtin' you all those years thinking bruce was out there favoring you when it's the opposite... I didn't know he didn't even care for you. i know you won't be able to forgive me, or them, i know it took me long enough to forgive bruce too. but it's different now, 'kay? i'll be different, angel. i'll protect you from now on, in your, what? your little apartment, right? i don't mind scouting the entire area for you even if it means you're on the other side of the city. all for you, i promise."

"all for you."

he speaks in a careful manner, choosing his words and flinching - the scar on his lip stretches, it reminds you of the one on your neck - when he feels it doesn't rightfully get the message across. you can feel it, feel how every sentence is wired with regret, heavy promises, and an unspoken desperation to keep you close to him, as if- as if he actually cares for you—

you blink, vision blurry as you catch sight of a stray tear running down your damp chest. your nose clogs once more, tongue licking at your chapped lips. jason, he- he takes your fingers before it ventures to tangle upon your hair, he hushes the tight wail escaping your throat as he cradles your body, other palm nuzzling into your sensitive scalp.

are you crying again? at what he'd said?

why are you so broken, that the prospect of somebody once full of disinterest towards you, now cares for you?

and for what is he doing this for, though? all for you? he apologized, exactly like dick, with the same foreboding assurance. is it to repair, to mend a broken relationship that was never there?

"y-you don't have to anymore, jay— i just- just wanted to—"

'i just want to make peace with you before i'll be gone from your life, before you could even fulfill your promises. you don't have to be chained with someone like me for the rest of your life anymore.'

thankfully, he hums at you, interrupting your growing stutters, at the thought that noisily seeps into your head. you hiccuped in reply, drowning out the shivers jolting across your body. if not for his hands still digging at your waist, you swore the dizziness of it all could've made you stumble across the floor.

but, you can't just stay silent about this. about all the shit that happened in your life. not when he's promising you something so burdening, not when he thinks he has a chance of making it up to you.

no, you can't just let them push at you anymore.

you whisper through your inconsolable stutters, eyes drifting down to your lap, at your hands that scratch at raw scars, "i don't blame you, jason. it never really came across to me to hate you for, you know- it's not- you're not the only reason that he neglected me—"

"shh, i know, angel. i know. but that doesn't change shit 'bout how he— we treated you, does it not?"

you shake your head, downcast gaze refusing to look at his troubled one. if you do, you might just surrender to the softness, to the child-like whispers at the back of your mind saying you wanted this.

"w-well you can't change anything about it now... and i hated you still back then, for different reasons. i hope, i hope that you know that, too..." your voice cracks at the seams, "i- i'm still hurt from everything, jason—"  he shushes you again, fingers brushing away at your stray hairs sticking to your damp cheeks. his palms were huge as it cups your face, emitting a comforting warmth against the jagged surface, a heat that makes you slowly, but unsurely melt.

— you never had this brotherly love in your whole life before, never felt comforted in the hands of who was once your tormentor.

"i know you're hurt. i know you're in so much pain because of us— of me, so let me take care of it from now on, 'kay...?"

he whispers, hushed voice a gentle tremor lulling you to near sleep. but you can't just return to this uncharacteristic softness, not now. your eyes, almost squinting shut, snap open to look back at him hesitatingly.

"no, you don't have to do this, jason... i told you," you hesitate, gulping. "we're not– we're not siblings anymore. you don't have to do all this for me... you're not obligated to, unlike last time."

you can feel it, his shoulders squaring in on itself, the subtle tension returning in his muscles, as if his arms were ready to trap you in his gentle hold, restricting you for further escaping.

"... nonsense, angel. take that back— i am doing this all for you."

his voice was always tinged with gruffness, rarely any softness in the way his words were said with finality. sometimes mocking, sometimes spiteful. for a crime lord, it was imperative to always be the supreme voice, a voice of reason.

... but this time, it seems, there's a childish softness, a despondency, laced in his reply. like him, though, your resolve to leave his apartment was as solid as his promise to keep you to stay.

"no, jason, you're doing this all for your guilt... not- not out of pure hearted intentions, aren't you...? just to prove that you're right and- and you're better than the entire family. and then you'll forget about me afterwards—"

you crack at the seams.

"this will be just like all the other times..."

you ignore how his fingers dig deeper into the plush softness of your waist, how it feels like he's staring right past you, mind drifting to another plane of existence at what you'd said.

yet you continue.

"— so please, leave me alone after this...?

after all, what's the point in considering their emotions anymore, when they've never done so for yours?

a silence you couldn't swallow, strangling at the chords in your throat. it feels like a bucket of cold water had washed over the once comfortable silence he'd bask in.

"... please, jay?" your heartbeat spikes at calling him by his once beloved nickname. the one you used to lovingly mutter under your breath, shyly taking his attention from back when you were a child, a subconscious manipulative tactic.

you always called him out with that title, a wide-eyed plea, with what felt like butterflies spinning in your tongue inviting him to linger for just a few minutes with you, just so he could spare some time reading a paragraph of your favorite classic book—

— it was a nickname that fell astray, turned into a flickering memory, after your relationship with him slowly strained. after every month, little by little, you saw him less. until you were a teenager, until he felt his business were with your other siblings instead, his priority on his and their vigilante lives— like the unbidden promises he kept from you, the nickname fell short, turned stranger in your eyes like the man you're seated atop on.

your lips feel dry, your sweat clings to your dampened shirt, and jason.

god, jason's hands enclose itself on your waist, heavy head dropping to your shoulders. you can smell it, his conditioner and a heady scent of cigarettes. his hair tickles the underside of your chin, you don't know whether to laugh or to cry when he takes his space in the corner of your neck, inhaling and exhaling deeply— the heat of his breath hits your skin, it feels too warm, a stark contrast to the shivers overtaking your body.

he heaves in a breath, you can't see his face from below, can't make it out if he's laughing or groaning or what. you can't wrought his head out, he's stronger than you.

momentary panic ensues, you fear he might've disagreed, that he might end up locking you up but—

"huh..." his gruff voice returns, a deeper tremor laced with confusing you'd expect a frigid reply, a desperate plea, maybe even a familiar anger bursting right out of him

"with you calling me that," he whispers on the crook of your neck, head burying far deeper as if- as if he wants his skin to fuse with yours. the depth in his words felt utterly abysmal when he referred to his nickname.

a little more, and you swear you might feel his teeth grazing your flesh. at that, goosebumps start to trail your entire body, your teeth aches with unbidden agitation.

you can't, you can't fall into hopeless respite.

he continues with his little monologue. you're too breathless, shallow air fills your lungs at every word he punches your way, clinging, burrowing deep into your mind, with every touch pinning you in place—

"how could i argue against you now, angel...? not when you sound like the little kid i met back then."

a scoff, laced with amusement, erupted from him. you can feel the vibrations on his adam's apple, you witness the thoughts churning in his mind, the subtle reminiscing in the silence that clings onto both your memories.

a sense of nostalgia washes over you —at the night you both meet, of the gentle giant sneaking past gothic windows and his reaction to being caught, at your excitement to make a new companion— but bitter resentment claws its way faster into your thoughts.

how could he pretend like everything's fine? how could he act like he didn't break your heart when you first saw him?

"but still, i'm serious about the change, for you, just you. anythin' you want, angel, anything—"

a small part of you hates him still, despises the entire family for what they did; what they caused.

how could he have the audacity to think he has a chance at your life? to assume he deserves one? right after- after destroying all your hopes?

he's right, though,. he remembers those memories from when you were a kid. a kid, but not anymore. you're not the little child who looks up to him, to dick, to bruce— who kisses at the soles of their feet, who acts as their shadow chasing after them.

'how dare you, jason...'

you don't know what overcame you, what monstrous being possessed your soul to spitefully reply all of a sudden. maybe it was bitter anger, the past resentment, an urge— a subtle defiance that wishes to torment them like how they did you.

maybe it was the broken remnants of your child that just wants assurance, or the mature teenager in you that wants to move on, to have a new lease on life.

but, either way. it's the words that need to be said that matters, and not the reaction, the unneeded outcomes from the same people who hurt you.

you had to grow past everything, had to take the first steps if you truly wish to let go, rather than run away from the past with no final message.

they say indifference is the opposite of love, not hate. and if you want your tormentors to feel what they've done to you, to know what it's like to be met with spiritless replies, empty promises and hallways, broken hearts and cold dinners— you had to beat them with oppressive silence; a loveless nothingness.

"jay," you call out to him, interrupting his shameless rambles.

"please promise me..." at the sudden shift in your voice, your soft tone, he wretches himself away from you, albeit slowly; looking you straight in the eyes.

there was naught a sudden flicker of absolute firmness in your eyes, but a quiet resolve that demanded finality, a silent plea opposite to the screaming that ensued just an hour ago.

'be the bigger person, (name).'

'because you are not a wayne anymore—

you are your mother's child.'

and she's kind, but assertive. gracious, but cunning. you see an imagery of bruce in your reflection, your passions in dick, your trauma in jason— so many similarities, so many stark contrasts.

but ultimately, you came from her.

you can sense it, the intangible shift in the air, the curious, yet hesitant flicker in his eyes.

you lick your lips, the tinge of blood grounds you in spite of the hastening of your heartbeats.

"look, okay... promise me this—"

a deep inhale, a quivering exhale. and for once, you control the tears brimming in your eyelids.

he nods, urging you to continue.

the knot on your chest only tightens, strangling you until it feels no words could escape your mouth. yet they're mere paranoia, you can't afford fear no more.

"i... i want you to forget about me after this. promise me, jason, to treat this night like all the other nights you pretended i didn't exist. that you love your family but not me, because i am not family. treat me like you despised me because i was your terrible replacement, i could never amount to you and that's all fine with me... let's leave all this behind and- and return back to our normal lives, alright...? where i'm nobody to you, and you're just a stranger to me... "

even your resolve tasted foreign on your tongue, as your eyes suddenly dart everywhere but at his breathless reactions.

"you don't— don't have to dwell on the past anymore."

'come on, (name). don't hesitate anymore. this is your future speaking for you.'

your guts twists in on itself, everything's spinning, your heart feels like it's running a mile. but you force yourself to smile at him despite the energy draining from your body, despite how you had to watch the color wash away from his face, feel how his hands dig into your skin, watch the frustated furrow of his brow—

you smile a shaky smile, grin a final grin, clasp his vulnerable, and equally conflicted face in your scarred hands, and finally let another wave of tears erupt from your eyes.

"can you do that for me, jason?"

"..."

"— alright..."

let the cinema's curtains finally close, let there be no more acts, no more formalities to happen between you two.

let this all be a fleeting memory. just like those past thirteen years and a half: let it be buried in a treasure chest you'll never visit.

his silence acts as resignation, your hands letting go of his cupped face, to carefully bring you down from his loosening hold, as you wince at the pain still throbbing in your wrapped scar; it shall symbolize a final message of goodbye.

the unspoken agreement to move, the cushion of his red helmet brushing on his hair as he puts it on, the jingles of his motor keys in the pockets of his heavy pants, the creak of the door as he opens it, slow and unsure, the stench of your blood still lingering in the air, the uncomfortable solace as he props your hands up his shoulders to lean your body weight against him before he brings a crutch to your armpit. the gruff that came after as his hands stabilized you, for you to properly walk with the newly armed crutches beside his company—

it provides at least a grounding notion for the thoughts spiraling in your mind. the drowned thumps of the wood stumbling on the carpet, the moonlight spilling out the cracks of the hallway's windows, the faint rumbling of the city streets as passing cars honk at the traffic,  the ding of the elevator, the anything of everything.

but him.

focusing on anything else, it at least helps distract you from his heavy gaze, from jason's prying arms ready to capture you, trap you in his apartment, the moment you show slight faintness, any hesitant stumble in your steps, any wincing sound at the pressure in your joints; his overprotectiveness still at an all-time high despite the promise you proposed that he had to pretended to upkeep for you.

when you were finally propped on to his huge motorcycle, a few mishaps being met in your way when he handled you too tight, so daintily as if you're made of fine porcelain, as if he were afraid to let go — crutches graciously placed in the space between his seat and yours — and when you hear the engine's gas revving up, but no jason making a brief quip, a comedic joke only he could understand which you laugh at still...

... only one thing was for certain despite the millions of ideas racing in your mind from his quiet reaction.

'let him bring me home, give him space, and let him forget about all this in the end.'

let the past be a dream.

and you shall only hope that everything that comes after this, will also be just another dream.

after all, he had only agreed to let you go home - for now, just now... - but hadn't truly promised to leave you alone, not at all, never.

and maybe, just maybe, you should've never trusted his words at all.

it was all that it is, all that it was.

a mere device for tactical missions.

the intercom linked directly to the batcave was just a device used to communicate with the family in the rare instances he chose to pair up with them in case jason learned his current tactics required more than a helping hand, but rather companionship in the midst of completing tasks.

its usefulness was only for practicality.

and it was just that, a tool for the greater good, yet easily discarded after he gained what he wanted.

when you left him, crutches in hand, back turned as your body fades in on the distance, he realizes that even thought it was his pride that he knew you the longest - now even bearing your deepest, most personal issues that just makes letting you (temporarily) go hurt his heart - he had only ever used you for his entertainment, not even an apology nor a confrontation was made to confess to you of his past sins towards you.

he's such a shitty brother, isn't he?

all that it is, all it ever was.

and yet as the polluted breeze of gotham flutters through his hair, the night sky still gleaming over the horizon of long standing, abandoned buildings camouflaged amongst shitty, barely functioning apartment complexes - where he knows are one of the current places you live in - he willed himself to comb them back, especially the stubborn strands sticking near his ears. in his hands, he holds an intangible device.

the same old, rickety intercoms.

just like old times.

so he presses the tiny button used to trigger direct calls, and shoves it deep into his ears, a perfect fit as every device was crafted to each individual working for the batman. you're the only member of the family to never adopt the vigilante life, he's glad you never did, but at the same time... it was what what you apart from everybody else.

everything just reminds him of how much you're worlds apart from the family. everything just pushes him to change that current position of yours; to make you know you matter more than you ever know.

"... ah, young master jason, you're back," alfred's contemplating voice buzzes through the call. no hint of surprise was evident in his tone, but rather a welcoming quip at his current rebellion towards jason. "i suppose you might require some assistance if you're calling then, right?"

'yes,' he might've said, stalling, but it's not as simple just as money heist problems or an issue regarding the resurgence of new kryptonite deposits— no.

jason doesn't want that. he doesn't want to waste anymore time, not with making jokes or pretending like the topic at hand was just a joke.  not when the matter precedes mere missions or a tendency to prank bruce, not when it's his angel who he refuses to truly let go of.

not when your life is at stake living in a completely foreign part of gotham. not when you nearly died, and if he wasn't a lick away from saving you, you'd end up like him.

but with nobody to mourn you.

"we need to talk about (name)."

and then like a thread snapping, he hears gasps from a distance, beyond the device's speaker registering. he hears hushed whispers, stephanie's feminine voice cutting through the tension, but no sarcasticness, no quips from duke, not even cass' occasional question. despite only hearing a fraction of the batcave's echoes, he feels like a witness to the tension rising, even he feels his shoulders squaring up. like a spectacle to behold, like time frozen in the hands of fate itself.

gotham wasn't always this silent, but the space between jason and your world felt like mountains apart that it just destroys any caution jason feels at the current moment; all in the name of this... this urge to feel your head resting in his shoulders once more, your arms wrapped tightly around his, safe and sound.

"tell me what happened."

it wasn't alfred's voice this time that cuts off the ever-so confusing thread, the dangerous thoughts swimming in jason's head. a deep tremor, laced with an undertone of desperation, is heard through the silent murmers of the intercoms. he couldn't see it, but he could picture the haste, the emergence of the bat to be the very

and yet all was said in a tone so different, so completely foreign to jason.

it wasn't as commanding, as opposing as what he's used to. it wasn't his voice that he uses towards criminals, it wasn't the vibrato used to interrogate criminals, let alone scold his vigilante partners.

... something completely different, yet easy to catch on.

it was batman through the call, yes, yet not quite so.

no.

it was bruce wayne asking, it was a father who hides his worry through a veil of composure. yet jason knows him, knows him enough to know that he, bruce, knows of your disappearance all too suddenly. knows that that the entire family might've finally come through their senses like he did.

"jason... did you... did something happen?" dick's voice, laced with audible shivers. jason had to do a double take at the noticeable shift in his behavior, at how... wrecked his eldest brother asked. but despite it all, it seems like he catched on as easily, at the sudden convenience, of what might implied jason's impulsive decision to call them at such a dire moment.

— that's why his next question doesn't come off as shock.

"you didn't possibly... meet them, didn't you?" it's like the athlete couldn't believe the words escaping his mouth, yet jason could feel it, the charged air, the shift of movement, as dick's mouth presses uncomfortably close to the speakers.

"tell me, did you... find them?"

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 20,490+ words. no beta, we die like the reader's love for the family. anyways, wow, this was the hardest scene of all to write. so many dialogues compacted into one scene alone. because of all my hard work, revisions and even rewrites 😭 i demand you all to comment and interact with me because i am NOT wasting all this effort for only like a few comments. that's all i ever ask for actually <333 anyways, the jason and mc parallels are still prevalent, but i'd also like for all you guys to take note of the miscommunication trope that i did. like the reader who's so broken to the point they can't comprehent that people are capable of loving them, and jason who can't property communicate how much he cares for you, stumbling over all his words and saying all the wrong things wow. very much me and my siblings' dynamics to one another. we love doomed siblings trope!!!

yes, again, i am begging for you guys to interact with this post, and avoid on hate comments, please. i've already dealt w/ enough anons but oh well, that's unavoidable huh. happy late valentines day, btw! and please do remember to not directly steal parts of my work. now to check if you guys actually read the author's notes: what is your favorite line/quote/literally anything in this chapter? again, despite its shitty quality, i put a lot of time and effort into the creation of this. this is not just a fanfic for me, but something very personal. again, don't forget to interact and give inputs, thank you all for being so patient and waiting for this!

taglist: @neerathebrightstar , @ghostdoodlen , @prince-nikko , @daisy-spot , @strawberryglass , @h0neybun-was-here , @confused-they , @weirdcore-fantasy , @mystyque234 , @marssthings , @notwhoy0uthink , @aliengutzstuff , @lilyalone , @luffyadolover , @bunbunsonny, @lazyemmy , @questionthegrapevine , @oh-nowo-i-got-uwu , @winter-world , @budijojo , @budijojo , @altruisticbeauty , @dopepursebasketballplaid , @the-holy-pigeon , @red-phantom-0 , @em-draws14 , @thypplover , @cens0r3d-blog , @yl90 , @sadeem575, @couldeatthatgirlforlunch , @maicenitas, @kiiyoooo , @flyingpansaurus , @farmerboywakatoshikun-blog , @rogueofbullshit , @earlqurl , @dotomuses , @sheep-from-rad , @tsuniio , @thesm1l3yface, @nosochek-3o , @radiantharry , @iwasveronica , @kdjhubby , @ashstwin , @thetreefairypersonalblog, @se-rae2 , @0ut0fsweets, @notwhoy0uthink

[rizzanon]

Undoing Fate

neglected to regressor batsis! reader x platonic batfam

what if after 20 years of neglect from your family full of vigilantes, you face an unfortunate death, only to find yourself regressed back to when you were 16?

⤷ lots of emotional neglect, reader was batgirl, reader was a tryhard and an overachiever, reader had no social life in her first life, mentions of drugs, mentions of human trafficking, mentions of death, regression themes, toxic and unhealthy relationships, dysfunctional family, toxic mentalities, reader and everyone else needs therapy…, canon divergence, major character death(s) | tba | based on this

⤷ info! (background) 1 | 2 | read this first to understand the plot and each batfam better :)

⤷ art!!! 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

⤷ if you’re bored m.list—under reconstruction

00 | And she cried over nothing

01 | Sixteen again

02 | A quitter? | ?

03 | Everything is awesome…

04 | Until it’s not | .

05 | Untouched memories

06 | Another suffocating day | .

07 | 1–Paranoia at its finest

| 2–To care or not to care

| 3–Sneaky link?

08 | 1–We’ve been here before (13/4)

| 2–Tricks and Riddles (16/4)

| 3– (TBC) (19/4)

09 | —

taglist is closed‼️

(1/3): @.fangxout @.dusk-muse @.quethekillerqueen @.isupportorbitalbombardment @.nxdxsworld @.vanessa-boo @coffeeaddictxd @moonsbluekingdom @yuya-bubbly @percythebitchwitch @anonymousdisco @.jason-todd-fangirl-14 @.redsakura101 @.what-0-life @.idkwhattoputhete @.secretyouthcomputer @.witch-waycult @.allycat4458 @.dazed-lavender @.eclecticfurylady @.wizzerreblogs @.marsmabe @.daddysfangirls-dc @.hoeinthehouse @.beeweensblog @.ilxandra @.agent-nobody-knows @.thethingwiththefeathers @.mochiivqi @.pix-stuff @.narration-ator @nebulousmoon3990 @delias-stuff @froggy-voidd @jjsmeowthie @kore-of-the-underworld @nen-nyy @juthesillylesbain @vikkus-main @emilylouise123 @blueiones @horror-lover-69 @chaotic-fangirl-blog @wassupbroski55555 @reallyromealone @plsfckmedxddy @sea-glasses @203moonysello @luvly-writer @dovey-quacks2332 @love-theangel @hotdinoankles @vebbiewuzhere

(2/3) @animegirlfromvietnam @estreiiuh @simply-lovely78 @twismare @ssak-i @g4bbi3xx @buddee @alor-thes @kiyoramen @weirdothatreads @bat1212 @actuallysleepingrn @k1arar3 @zelabee @just-pure-trash @mindless-rock @heartjwonie @nickey-diano @goldfishsmemory @infirebaby @thephantomdanny @madkill44 @w31rd3rg1rl @fishstcks @yvesnoteve @otterluver05 @lilithskywalker @vanilliona @definitely-not-sammie @strwberryglass @f0rtunej @cottage-worm @darkfaethedestroyer @cloudserenity @bigchungusdrinksspritecranberry @cooldeermagazine @fightmebissh @fantasyhopperhea @sirenetheblogger @dind1n @stupidvodkka @lilithquillete @unamused-boss @insomniaccorner @paastaboi @octavius-world @yukixies @imguce @jellyedkazoo @jsprien213 @bad4amficideas @farmerboywakatoshikun-blog @rissareader @itsberrydreemurstuff @i-am-here3 @eyeless-kun @jayjayjayson @rosy-myhouse34 @verypersonadazzel @ehh-im-just-here-to-read @thesehandsarerated-e

(3/3) @glitchmshade @prongs-moon @jjllmx @thegothamsiren @v3vina @levi-09 @leovergurl @dazailover4ever @sofiaswrittendelusions @yukinaabutlazy @sbrewer21 @ryuushou @batboygirlie @simp-hub

(idk why i can’t tag some of y’all, must be your settings i think 😓) (or let me know if i accidentally spelt ur user wrongly 😭💀)

[blondwhxrewrites]

Platonic Yandere!Batfam x Neglected!Reader

Summary: Life as the neglected child of the batfamily.

Tw: Dark undertones, Obsessive behavior, child neglect, shitty family behavior.

Neglectful!Batfam but with a reader who just doesn't give a shit. You've been taking care of yourself long before becoming a 'Wayne,' so when you arrive at the manor only to be met with no one, you just shrug it off and go on with your life. Of course Alfred tries his best, but he's also busy with the rest of the family's shenanigans. And it's not like you have a bad life. You have more than enough money, an entire manor to live in, and a great future ahead of you with so many opportunities.

Being looked over has its perks too; you can go wherever you want whenever you want and spend days with your friends without anybody noticing. Of course it does kind of hurt to see your supposed family spend so much time together without even thinking about you, but honestly they aren't worth it. If they can't see your value, then they can all go fuck themselves.

You don't need their attention to thrive, and when you move out after you graduate highschool, it's the best feeling in the world. Until suddenly you have your whole entire family in your living room a few months later, all panicking, thinking you were dead.

Your adoptive 'superhero' family are all a bunch of idiots.

[bluemoonbun]

Reader is implied to like feminine things, though gender identity is kept ambiguous.

Damian was a good brother. That’s what he always told himself. He was a good brother, a good son. He was cold, rude, and erudite, but he was able and willing to help anyone who needed it.

When he arrived at Wayne manor, Bruce told him the general run down of why you were to be avoided when it came to anything vigilante related. You were still pure, a year younger than Damian but without any of the pain. The only one in the Wayne manor that could have a shot at becoming a normal person. Damian envied that, but kept it to himself. His anger often boiled to the top, drops of green venom dripping from his mouth when you tried to annoy him into spending time with you.

Your complaints of him ignoring you was scalding water on his already raw nerves. Why would you complain about not being the center of attention for five damn seconds? He would trade anything for the life you had. A life where you could lay around after school and never worry about a rogue bullet lodging itself in your arm, or a poisonous plant releasing psychedelic spores into an open wound.

You could and would never join the Robins. You were weak; it was in your blood. Always sickly, always the pacifist. You wouldn't survive a day in his life. And you weren't living his life; you were living his dream.

But apparently the effort the family was putting in wasn’t enough.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed that the manor felt… off about two weeks before the fight with Joker. He couldn’t trace it for the life of him at first. When he realized by the second week that he hadn’t spoken to you in days, or really seen you around the manor at all, he wrote off the worms writhing in his stomach. You must’ve been busy with a class assignment and had little time to annoy him with your demands of time together.

After the fight, however, he was a war of a thousand emotions. How dare you leave them? Why would you turn away an easy life fat on nepotism for a group of murderers, con men, the dredges of Gotham’s society?

Were you truly that desperate to be acknowledged that you’d turn your back on the family who did everything for you? He hopes you’re happy there, since you were clearly so upset at not being given attention.

Over time, however, things start to change. A few days after Jason made a full recovery, Damian looked at one of the drones Tim managed to get a chunk of code from. It took a lot of trial and error, and the development of an entirely new program to grab some of the code before it bricked itself, and enough all nighters and energy drinks that any doctor would faint, but it was managed. The code was dense, optimized to work with the least bloat possible, well tagged variables, and even a handful of comments in the code.

//Buy Bane those Boston Donuts from the donut shop on 5th //Why does this code need to be here so it doesn’t auto brick itself. What is in the code protecting it from the wrath of God //Louie likes Texas barbecue ribs. Possible treat? //DO NOT FEED THEM WHOLE RIBS. COOKED BONES BAD. //SINCE WHEN WAS THIS VARIABLE A STRING??? IT WAS AN INT 5 LINES AGO //Help the hopeless lesbians get together. //Would Harley and Ivy dating make Harley my mom or Ivy my big sister? Both???

His eyes skimmed the retrieved comments, laughing at a few. It seems that Bane, Poison Ivy, and Harley Quinn were the most common subjects of the notes, though a few mentioning the Iceberg lounge asking what non-alchoholic drink you’d like added, or Riddler offering you another puzzle to keep your mind active. Even Joker was mentioned, though it seemed mostly transactional.

It was strange seeing you in this light. You seemed to have a lot of spice in you, but a heart made of gold. You were definitely surprised whenever one othe villains offered to take you on some trip to amusement parks, regular parks, even just willingly watching anime with you. It was odd to see. Surely someone at the house did those things with you? He didn’t but he was extremely busy with school and vigilantism. Jason was legally dead, so surely he had all the time in the world.

“How was I supposed to relate to them? They’re what, 12 and into shit like that one with the cat looking dog thing and the robot girl. I have shit to do. Y’know, managing Crime Alley?”

Well, Dick had come over to hang out plenty of times. Surely he’d spent at least a few hours with you every now and then? “I have an entire team and criminals to manage of in another city, Damian. I don’t have as much time as you think to do whatever it was with them they’d wanted to do”

Maybe Tim? “I have college and stuff, Damian. And I don’t have the energy to put into hanging around them. I’d probably just be sleeping most of the time.

Bruce? “I have to manage you, Gotham, and the Justice League, Damian. I barely have time for myself.”

… Alfred? “I tried, Master Damian. However I’m constantly pulled thin between so many tasks. Besides, all you have is school most days, and you’ve had summer vacations and weekends. Shouldn’t you’ve had plenty of time to spend with your younger sibling?”

… He did have the most time outside of vigilantism. And it took him a week to realize you were missing.

You had to realize that they were under extreme stress though, right?He couldn’t spend all his free time with you. He had his own friends to hang out with. How were you two even supposed to relate?

One day at dinner, the thoughts were thrashing in his head, slamming against soft tissue and tearing through brain matter. He aimlessly poked at the food on his plate.

“You alright, replacement?” Jason asked, pausing in his extremely rare dinners with everyone else. Alfred had promised him a tray of fudge to take home this time around, and nobody made fudge quite as good as he did.

“… They were gone for two weeks.”

Everyone stopped eating as he continued.

“Two weeks. Two full weeks before they showed up at that fight. Did anyone here even know? I only noticed after a week and assumed they were just holed up in their room with a class assignment or something.” He was rambling. Everyone was quiet and looking at each other. How did it manage to slip past everyone? They were detectives, for Christ’s sake.

They were your family.

—

Dinner ended with guilt wrapping around their throats and pulling.

Eventually, all of them found themselves in your room. It had been emptied, but showed no signs of struggle. All the small items, the comforter, and your clothes were gone. But what was taken left something behind. Copies of photos of you winning state level competitions, letters requesting your attendance at seminars, photos of gold medals and blue ribbons spread across the floor. Most damning of all was the most recent photo. A certificate by some big time tech company being handed to you. Edward Nashton stood behind you, a firm, reassuring hand on your shoulder.

When had this happened? They never remembered hearing of something like this. A news clipping on the back told them it was maybe a week before you left.

“The Wayne prodigy stated that their family had more important things to see to than such an occasion. I can’t imagine something more important that either of my kids being recognized by a multi-million dollar tech company! I remember postponing an anniversary with my husband to celebrate our child placing second in the science fair. But I guess that’s just the Waynes for you!”

That’s just the Waynes to you.

But it’s ok. He can make it better. He can be a good big brother. He can spend time watching anime with you and decorating your room with lace and fairy lights and go makeup shopping with you. You just need to come home. Now.

---------------- Taglist! Ask to be added! Edit: It is now closed!

@jjsmeowthie , @jsprien213 , @ladyrosemone

[invincibledc]

BATUNCLE!reader who just always gets called instead of his brother. It’s sickening how greedy his nephews and nieces are.

note: all batfam are kids in this expect for Bruce ofc lol!

“Uncle y/n!!!!!” Dick when he was just a Robin, screams as he rushes into the study room to see his uncle wearing his signature glasses. Y/n holds back a deep sigh, looking at the acrobat who just smiles at him.

“Yes, sweetheart?” “Watch, what I can do.” Dick says before doing a new trick he just learnt.

Y/n couldn’t help but chuckle, clapping to encourage the little bird. “Amazing! Show uncle what else you can do.” Dick’s eyes light up as he started to do some more tricks.

“UNC! UNC!!!!!!” Jason dragged as he was in the kitchen working on homework.

Y/n looked at his twin brother who looks back at him. “That’s your son.” Y/n says, getting ready to head out, but instead Bruce chuckles.

“But that’s your nephew, and he’s calling for you.”

Y/n was suddenly in the kitchen, seeing jason’s lit up face. “Yo, unc! Help me with this math question?” He asked, showing him the equation.

“What the..” y/n grabbed the paper and gave it back. “Uhm. How about we head out for ice cream?” Y/n says, clearly not understanding this generation’s math solving problems.

Jason hopped off the chair and rushed to hold his uncles’s hand.

“Ice cream. Ice cream! Ice cream!”

“Uncle?” Tim says softly, walking into his uncle’s room.

“Yes Timmy boy?”

“Is Santa real?” He asked towards his lovely uncle.

“Of course he’s real, you just gotta be asleep to earn any gifts.” Y/n says, taking his glasses off and lay down.

It’s quiet before Tim gets on the bed with his uncle. “Is that why you have a Santa costume in your closet?”

Y/n’s eyes flew right open as Tim just stare at him. “Okay bed time champ!”

“Ammu.” (uncle)Damian says, alerting of his presence. Y/n turned around, having to get ready to go get groceries. “Yes dames?” Y/n says, putting his jacket on as the small brown skinned boy walks towards him.

“I wanna come too.” He says, he already looked ready—maybe a little too ready as he had his Velcro shoes on and a jacket that seems a little too big.

Y/n chuckled, “you sure? It’s gonna be a long trip with me to the grocery store.”

“I’m sure!” He says a little too excitedly, he grabs onto his uncle’s hand. Y/n couldn’t help but chuckle before heading out with the small boy.

“Of course..”

“UNCLEEEE!!!!” Steph yells, running towards the man that ran away as the blonde girl tackled him.

“Where have you been dude?! I’ve been waiting for you to watch this movie I just saw!”

“Been busy with work, kiddo… get off me please..” Stephane gets off the poor man, chuckling before dragging him to the living room.

Cass stood beside her uncle, watching him do a puzzle by himself, “uncle.” She signs after tugging on the male’s sleeve. “Yes honey?” He replies, pausing himself from completing his puzzle.

“I wanna color with you. Please.” She tugs harder, getting him at least out his chair. Y/n sighs, but walks with her to her room. “Why not your father? I’m sure he can make time to—” he was interrupted with a pout from the girl.

“Okay never mind, drawing it is!”

BATUNCLE!reader who can’t deny his nephews and nieces at all…

[nikovraskol]

crack baby ; three

wc ; 3745 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ?

tw ; brief mention of death, cursing, neglect

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

Sometimes it feels like there is someone puppeteering you into the worst scenarios possible.

It started when finally, after days of contacting every single landlord in Gotham and Bludhaven, one kind old man reached back. The house he was willing to rent you wasn’t half bad either, certainly no Wayne Manor but a small apartment about a convenience store would suffice.

After regressing, you were stuck in a loop of tears and anger and whatever strange, uncomfortable feeling you got whenever you were reminded of your weird interaction with Dick.

But finally, light at the end of the rainbow! You could cry (of joy this time), but you’ve no time for tears. Not when you’re faced with a big, overpowering problem. Leaving the Manor.

Now, in the past, you could just get up and leave, however after your run-in with Damian and Dick, you’re apprehensive to leave your room. What if you’re ambushed again? By Tim? Or Jason? Or heaven forbid, Dick again? Terrifying! You don’t have time to dilly dally, not when Mr. Kim is waiting in your future home.

So, you’re very on edge, looking around every corner with apprehension, bracing yourself for anything and everything. When you finally reach the door, unharmed, you let out a deep sigh, only to hear a voice behind you.

“Master (Name).”

What now? You whip your head around, a sense of deja vu hitting you, oh, it’s just Alfred. You let out a sigh, glad it’s not Dick with his strange shenanigans. “Alfred, is everything alright?” You smile, out of everyone, Alfred is the one you love most, the one who cradled you close in those agonizingly lonely nights, when you’d call out for your mother, for your father, for anyone.

He was there.

“You’re heading out?” He asks, assessing you with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. A few days ago, Dick had informed him that you were acting strange, you had run away from your older brother. His mind raced, the implications of what that might mean has been weighing on the butler’s mind for days. It was uncharacteristic of you, up until about a week ago you would jump for joy if any of your family would glance at you.

But after that day, that day where you had skipped breakfast .. What changed? Why are you suddenly so uninterested in your family? It’s unnatural. Your whole life had always been dedicated to them, you’d do anything to be apart of them, to be seen. So why? When you finally had the chance to be centre stage, were you walking away? Something about your demeanour was off and he didn’t like it.

“Yes, I’ve–” You pause, should you tell Alfred? I’m going to move out and never speak to anyone from this house again! No, you’ll wait until you’ve secured a place before letting him know. You’re not prepared for that conversation. “I’m going to– for a walk.” The lie is stale on your tongue, you’ve never lied to Alfred, not besides petty ones to get out of trouble. But this feels different, a heavy knot tying in your shoulders as you watch the butler’s confused expression.

“Is that so? Because a few days ago, Master Dick–” You were out the door before he could finish his damn sentence. You are not in the mood to discuss Dick right now! It’s going to ruin your chipper mood.

The click of the door had Alfred’s eyes narrowing, his eyes trained on where you once stood. He believed that the small push he gave Bruce would be enough, but it’s just driving you further away. How troublesome, he doesn’t want for you to end up hurt.

“Wow! This is a really great place? And I get the first month free?” You are convinced whatever deity sent you back in time is responsible for the saint before you. The small, chubby old man who speaks to you in such a paternal voice it makes you want to cry.

“Of course, it’s no problem, I just need to speak to your guardian to agree on your emancipation, plus they’ll need to sign some consent forms.”

“What?” You blink dumbly, your heart momentarily stopping before the damn organ speeds up so quickly it could power a small village, you try to convey your thoughts but all you can manage is a few dumb noises. “Are– Are you sure?”

“Apologies, since you’re only sixteen – you must have a guardian’s consent, this is a legal rental after all,” he smiles apologetically, before adding, “if you want to live somewhere without your parent’s consent, it’ll have to be illegally – which can be dangerous, ‘specially for a youngling such as yourself.”

Oh, right. You’re sixteen. The fact slipped your mind once more, you’re so foolish. So damn foolish, nothing will ever be so easy, nothing in your life will ever be handed to you like this. “Right, I’ll– let you know.” You smile, your eyes scanning over the small apartment once more. It reminds you of the place you stayed with your mother, the small space encapsulating those memories you hold dear so perfectly that if you light a few ciggerattes and close your eyes, you'll go back in time.

“I’ll keep this off-sale for you, please let me know as soon as possible.” Mr. Kim, so nicely adds, his small face – wrinkled with age, softening at your disheartened expression. You so desperately want to beg for him to rethink, to make an exception, but you don't want to get him in trouble, not since he’s been so kind.

And so, with a heavy heart, you walk out, walking with effort since your feet don’t want to leave. Don’t want to leave a future that could be, that should’ve been. Ugh, how disgustingly sentimental.

You don’t feel like returning to the Manor, not yet. The air outside is nice, it’s nice to breathe in a taste of something other than the suffocating walls around you, even if it’s just some dingy back alley. It’s nice to see what could’ve been, that is until a large hand clamps down on your shoulder.

Oh, great. So the one time you leave the Manor you die again. Maybe you’ll regress to when you’re eleven next, you muse.

“What the hell are you doing around here?” You recognise that voice and immediately you don’t want to turn around. What is he doing out? During the day? You thought vigilantes only patrol during the lunar hours, so why? Your heart squeezes in your throat, desperate to claw its way out, to escape your pitiful body.

After a tense moment of silence, you turn around, there he stands. Red Hood, your older brother. Well, older brother is a stretch, you’ve never really interacted with him – much like the rest of your family. You were brought in when he was still Robin, but he died shortly after. A small, vengeful part of you blamed him for your neglect. That was until Bruce brought in Tim, and you watched bitterly how Tim was embraced immediately, he didn’t have to fight for any attention, he was accepted by everyone and you were forced to swallow the thought that it wasn't Jason's fault -- but your own.

When Jason was somehow brought back, you selfishly hoped you would be able to bond with him, that he’d be the one to look back at you, to get to your level and hold you close.

No such thing happened, the only time you saw him was when he was walking through the Manor to the Batcave, and even then, he gave you a bone-chilling glare. You didn’t think of him so optimistically after that. Now, with his hand clutching your shoulder, his expression covered by his menacing red helmet..

You’re ready to be shot 5 times again.

“I asked you a question.” He says, his hand tightening on your shoulder, you snap out of your stupor immediately, your fear morphing into frustration. You shove his hand off of you with more effort than you’re comfortable with, and even then you’re sure he’s the one who dropped his hand to not embarrass you any further.

“I’m allowed to go outside.” You huff, your nerves practically fighting against the restraints of your skin, a cold, overbearing feeling rushing over you. This was..– Everything was wrong, this is not how this is supposed to go, not at all.

“You were talking to Mr. Kim, why?” He asks bluntly, your heart stops beating for a moment, the only thing you can hear is the ringing in your ears, your brain trying to block this all out, trying to block out everything. “Actually, nevermind, I think I know why.”

You want to cry, why was this happening? You were so happy, so content. Why do you bump into them every time you leave your room, can’t you have one good day? Will you need to become a hermit? Will that get them off your back?

“I can drive you back to the Manor–”

“No, I’m fine.” You cut him off, your voice not masking any of your fear, it has Jason blinking under his mask. Why were you so on edge? What’s going on with you?

“I insist– Gotham isn’t safe for you to just be–..” He watches the downright terrified expression on your face before sighing and signalling for you to go, his stomach churns in an unfamiliar way as you scurry away.

Why were you so nervous? Could it be that you're scared of him?

That’s understandable, you’re not a vigilante, you’re just some average kid. But when he saw you walking alone, he detests himself for the way his heart swelled with happiness. In his Robin days, he loved watching the normalcy of your life, the way you would live free of any strings to the ghastly occupation he had.

He was scared to get closer, scared to shatter that illusion you had.

The fear amplified when he came back to life, he was relieved to see that you were still unaffiliated with Batman, but fuck, he was too cowardly to reach out, that day when you looked at him with gladness, he was hit with a paralysing fear of you getting too close, of you getting hurt. He replays the crushed expression that dawned your face like a damn broken stereo.

So when he saw you sulking about a few moments ago, he saw his chance to reach out, to get a taste of your normalcy, he took it, however selfish it may be.

“Whatever.” He grits, climbing up the roof to tail you, he’s content with watching from afar, for now.

The whole way back to the Manor felt like a fever dream, you can’t brush these oddities off as coincidences, why the hell did Red Hood approach you. Was he trying to pull a Damian? Was that a simple reminder of how pathetic you are? Why did he do that?!

Why was everyone acting so strangely?

The Manor offered you no comfort, it’s looming walls did nothing but remind you of your own shortcomings, you were afraid, you were perplexed but above all you were furious. Why now? When you’ve finally accepted your position in this family, why are they all turning their heads. Well damn them! You’re sick of this whole stupid charade, you won’t be that small child anymore, a child who knew only loneliness. You’re going to become your own person outside of the surname which has held you back for so long.

“We need to talk.” A voice calls out as you reach your room, what now? You’re sick of these damn conversations. You just want to move out, why is it so damn hard?

Oh, it’s Bruce again. Your lips press into a thin line as he stands before you, you can hear the soft humming running through the Manor walls. When you were younger, that sound brought you so much comfort, yet now it’s different. Like a warning.

“Talk? About what?” You try to smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. You’re distinctly aware of the way his brows furrow at your pitiful expression. Oh hell, you hope this won’t be another walk down the Manor where you awkwardly fumble in silence.

You don’t say anything as he leads you away from your room, a sullen quilt draped over the Manor, a strange foreboding sense that something’s going to happen. Something bad. You’re utterly perplexed as your father guides you to a part of the Manor you’re somewhat familiar with.

As a child, you used to lurk around the corners of these very walls, watching your family, itching to reach out and join in but fearing ruining the delicate painting they created. Fearing rejection, the cold glares and sneers as they pushed you away. So you trailed silently, waiting, hoping that someone would look back, smile at you and maybe hold out their hand. But it only ever happened in your dreams, a pale illusion of a reality that should've been true.

“Where did you go?” He asks, his eyes boring onto you with such intensity you can distinctly feel the way your blood begins furiously to pump through your veins, why did he care? “Alfred said you went out.”

“I just wanted some fresh air.” You’re not sure why you’re lying, it’d be easier to tell Bruce that you went to go see a house, the consent forms are folded in your pocket, waiting for his signature. It’d be so simple, so easy. Just a dip of pen on paper and you’ll be out.

So why do you feel such dread? A dread unlike anything you’ve ever felt. When you were in that alley, bleeding out helplessly, even then this oppressive feeling, which tightens your ribcage, forcing your organs into a tight space until you couldn’t breathe, until you couldn’t comprehend if it was your heart pounding so heavily or your lungs, wasn't as scary.

“You’re only sixteen, you need to let someone know where you’re going.” His voice is so unbelievably despotic that it made your very core tremble with anxiety, with a looming sense of doom.

“It’s never been a problem before.” You mumble, your voice a lot quieter than you would’ve liked, your vocal chords burning with each word passing through it, your nerves invading each of your senses, as if warning you to stay quiet.

Bruce says nothing, and the moment the air grows stale you wish you could take your words back. You can see the way his brows crease, the way he looks at you as though you’re some sort of criminal and not his own flesh and blood, the soft humming in the walls has disappeared, left behind in your area of the Manor. Though it’s odd, when you would lurk around the Manor as a youthling, there was always some sort of background noise in this area, where everyone hung out. The silence unnerved you, another thing that’s changed, another thing you couldn’t have predicted.

“If you’re going out, make sure to let me know.” He sighs, his expression softening as he looks down at you with what you interpret as belittlement, a burning hot rage boils in your stomach, and once more, you’re hit with the knowledge this isn’t how things are supposed to go, Bruce isn’t supposed to care that you go out without telling anyone, he’s not supposed to care about you.

‘You don’t get to tell me what to do!’ you want to say, you want to scream, to ask what rights he has to treat you like a child? How dare he? It makes your very being tremble with frustration, your hands clenching with barely contained anger.

But you don’t. Why? Is it the natural response from your mind? The fear of disappointing him? The fear that if you speak up, you’ll be kicked out and left to rot? Or perhaps it’s the fear of confrontation you gained through his negligence, the weakness he moulded. But still, you’re not sixteen anymore, not really. Mentally, you’re twenty-one, you’ve been through each stage of your life, and maybe, sure, the day you died, you were content for them to walk all over you in exchange for a single glance at your direction.

But you’ve died and come back (in time)! You shouldn’t let them walk all over you anymore, shouldn’t be content as an afterthought. So– you open your mouth and–

“What’s going on?” Another voice speaks out, great, because this is exactly what you needed, another clown to join the circus. Oh.

Is this a joke? Is the person responsible for your misfortune giggling at your despair, is it amusing to see you suffer?

Damian, Dick, Jason and now Tim.

Why is Tim walking up to you? Why is he looking at you? A rush of dread, a sensation you’ve grown familiar with in the past few days, washes over you. You’ve never had his eyes on you, never for so long. It’s unnerving. You thought the calculating look in Bruce and Damian’s eyes was scary, but the way Tim looks at you now? His eyes zeroed in on you? It has your insides melting into liquid, the urge to cover your face, to hide in the corner and bury your face in your knees is overwhelming.

You don’t want his eyes on you, you decide. Years of clawing at your own shortcomings, of desperately trying to appeal to him, to have him look back – you would do anything at that time for him to look at you the way he is now.

But now? You don’t like it, he wears a neutral expression, but the look in his eyes makes you feel vulnerable, like he’s picking you apart one by one, each twitch, each mannerism.

“It’s about what we talked about.” Bruce says, his tone completely natural, like he’s discussing the weather, you don’t know the specifics but you have a nagging feeling that you know what he’s speaking of.

“Ah. Really? You’re still on that?” Tim tuts, his head tilting ever so slightly as he studies you. Just as you’re about to ask what the fuck does he mean by that, he turns his attention to Bruce. “I told you, they can’t do anything without your consent, they’re 16.”

How dare they? How dare they talk as though you’re not here? This is disgusting, what loathsome, egotistical dickheads! Your hands itch, the anxiety in you speeding all over your body like a livewire, mixing with your anger to create an overwhelming feeling of terror.

What was the point of Bruce bringing you here? To mock you? Show you how great they have it? What you’ve been missing out on? Well, screw him. You need to get away before you lash out, you’re better than that. Better than this.

The pair watches as you walk away, your whole body tense. For a moment, there’s a prolonged silence which is broken by Tim. “Did we do something wrong?” He asks, genuinely confused by your little display.

When he came back from a particularly tough mission, the last thing he was expecting was everybody collectively freaking out. Bruce, Damian, even Dick were all tense, looking around each corner – searching for something, someone. 

It was weird for a multitude of reasons, firstly – Dick was supposed to be gone by now, his stay at the Manor was for a few days only. Why is he here? And secondly, nothing particularly stressful was happening in Gotham, so what was with the gloom and doom?

When Bruce sighed, telling him about your plans to move out, well, to say Tim was confused was an understatement. That did not deserve such a reaction, but then he really thought about it, and, if this is how they react to you threatening to leave..

If you were to actually step out that door, to alienate away from them, to discard your last name. His head begins to throb at the implications, he’s acutely aware of how selfish it is for him to wish to keep you around, to keep you in this Manor all to keep himself happy.

But then the thought that, really, he’s doing this for you! If you thought it was so easy to just get up and leave, that at sixteen you’d just be able to pack up and go. Well, with that stupidity, you wouldn’t survive outside, in Gotham no less. He was able to placate Bruce’s stressing, thankfully, because the man looked three minutes away from a heart attack.

You wouldn’t be able to go without Bruce’s permission, so long as they had that – you’d stay with them. But that’s what led him to seeking you out now, if you had ideas about leaving that meant you were unhappy.

He was hoping to talk to you, to ask if you wanted to hang out – that’s what you want, right? When he thinks of you, his mind conjures up the slightly annoying, slightly endearing child that you were. He’ll hang out with you, destroy those silly notions and everything will go back to how it was.

So why did you stomp off? That’s not how you’re supposed to act. That’s not how you are.

“I don’t think so.” Bruce replies to his earlier question, his eyes still trained on the spot in which you were. How could you walk off?

Why were you so off during that conversation? He couldn’t…– This belies everything Alfred had told him about you, it's left Bruce conflicted. He had hoped that by bringing you here, he could ask which room you liked best. But you walked off, why? Why do you deny his affection? He was worried when he heard you left, a small, vulnerable part of him was afraid that you wouldn’t come back, that you had left for good, slipped through his fingers before he could hold you close.

So, when he saw you walk in – oh, he was elated. He just wanted to convey his worries, but you seemed to have gotten the wrong idea. He really doesn’t want that, you don't need anymore reasons to leave.

He doesn’t want the terrified expression on your face, he wants that dazzled look you used to carry around, he wants you – not this restless part of you, but the real you.

He'll get it back, he's sure he will.

ugh i hate the misunderstanding trope i say as i write the misunderstanding trope

tag list ;

@estreiiuh @beyondblissxoxo @jjsmeowthie @vanessa-boo @delias-stuff @d3nnji @wizzerreblogs s @lilyalone @strawbrysapphic @regulus-things s @iimichie @buckturd @eloriis @wassupbroski55555 @eyeless-kun @anakilusmos @peehall @bigeyedbaby @chaeugwi @snailpebbles @fandomly-obsessed @kitkatkitmeow @the-holy-pigeon @sheep-from-rad @mei-simp

[sangunary]

- Hush now Crybaby.

YANDERE BATFAMILY X NEGLECTED READER.

\\ Part 1 // \\ Part 2 // \\ Part 3 //.

You would stay by your rotting corpse, gently brushing your hair out of your face or just starting at it in general. Your corpse was becoming stiff and extremely cold, at times you tried to warm it by holding it.

A soft sigh left your mouth as you give up on trying to warmth the body display infront of you.

"How much longer do I have to wait...?"

You've been thinking alot, wondering why your body is still chained to Earth and you realised your physical body never got the rest it deserves.

The body laying on your coffin underground was a decoy made by your father, as twisted as it sound he only did it in hope of putting your soul back into the body.

Alfred and Bruce knew that, they knew that your current physical body was hidden inside the batcave. Alfred was hesitant at first but Bruce assure him that what he was doing might be morally wrong but it was the best option they have, if they want a new start.

Even after death nothing was better, your life only change slightly and it was for the worst. No one could see or interact with you, but you can uncover all the secrets which was alot more depressing than you expected.

You've found out how your mother died recently after a drug overdose... She was found stiff and unresponsive in her motel and a foam seeping out her mouth, surprisingly everything was clean, no missing things or any sing of struggle.

It was ruled as a sucide, the media claimed it as 'Woman killed herself after her daughter died of her neglection' it was Ironic... You couldn't help but stump your feet a little at that information, first your mother would never neglect you... and Second she was the best mother you could wish for.

You couldn't bear the silence inside the room so you decided to go outside to check on a particular individual.

Dick Grayson.

He was sitting infront of your grave cleaning it with his bare hand, replacing the previous flowers with Rose's. Since your relationship with him was on the edge when you died he doesn't even know your particular taste in flowers , as a result he would pick out new flowers everyday and replace them each day.

Your ghostly figure sit next to his watching him clean your grave once again, atleast he was being productive. Some especially Tim was coping in an unhealthy way.

Locked himself and barely ate anything, everything reminded him of you... His favourite coffee was now leaving an extremely bitter taste on his tongue, it was only because he realised how involved you were in his life and how without you his daily routine weren't the same.

Tim have also started to spiral into madness, doing research on you instead of his usual detective work. Who have hurt you and who have been nasty to you, he was willing to do anything but blame himself for your death or the family.

He's been looking back at every video footage of you and him and storing it into new files each file were specifically made for each video.

"Im sorry little wing... I couldn't find anything new today, so you'll have to take this for today"

Grayson gently murmured as he pluck out the old Lily's- old by one day - Wiping the vase carefully, holding as if it were the most fragile vase in the word.

"Life been abit hard... I know I shouldn't burden you with my problem especially when... You never had them. But, Kory and I took a break..."

His voice was more high-pitched than normal... Yet he continues to look after your grave, dealing it with great tenderness.

His mind flashing back to everything he had done wrong, prioritising joker over you... He remembered how he left you inside a burning building and instead saved the joker, as a result you got a nasty burn mark on your left hand.

Although he doesn't know who to blame you or the joker. Cause you're a hero, he thought you could save yourself... It doesn't matter that you were like what 7? Thought he did half heartily apologise after being lectured by Bruce.

"If you were back... Everything would be fine, im not blaming you of course... Just, I don't know anything good from bad especially after you left us"

"I do not know what possess you to be so reckless... I can't imagine what you must have felt but it's selfish"

"If you were here, Kory and I would take you before any of those... people could. It'll be just the three of us, I'll be the one you will depend on... You won't need to worry anymore, We'll never let you get hurt. Never again"

Dick continues to pour his heart out and slowly he began to smile, his mood began to shift from gloomy to thrilled, suggesting places and activities as if you were still alive.

If anybody was to come across this interaction it's either they'll lable him as mentally challenged or is high on sadness that they ended up talking to a grave.

You stood up getting ready to walk away, it's abit hard to pity them. They never acknowledged you when you were breathing and it's messed up that they only care after realising their mistakes.

"...Huh?"

A mysterious man was standing infront of you, you wouldn't be startled if he wasn't staring right into your eyes. A white lantern...?

You know him only because of the file you would read when you were bored out of your mind. Bruce must have called him, afterall he was a very new and surprising face to see in Gotham.

"...Nice to meet you?"

After your short introduction and your very long introduction on why he must not interfere at all, because as much as it suck being a ghost being alive with your current family would be hell.

Thought he does not seem to value your opinion at all, directly telling Bruce about your presence.

"You can speak... she can hear you"

Deadman informed Bruce.

"I apologise for my negligence and your mother unexpected death. She was a great woman just like you... I don't expect you to forgive so easily but, I want to see you smile again"

You didn't utter a word. You wanted to comfort him yet it was hard pitting the same man who avoid your presence when you were alive.

"Can't you bring her back...?"

"No, she's too far gone"

Your corpse look fine from outside but your inside were rotting and molding. Bruce tried his best yo preserve your body but what's gone is gone. All you want is for your body to rest.

"I refuse to believe. There must be a way for her to be back."

"I have no saying in logic. But there are artifact's that allows one to see ghost"

"I will do anything to see that smile again... I want to apologise to her face to face as well"

Your Father was one of the rare people in the family taking the responsibility in your death, this wasn't the first time he utter an apology. He would slept in your bed missing you, crying or talking in his sleep apologising it seem as the guilt never stopped chasing him.

Though he was the same man who left you unattended during gala surrounded by random man while you were a child. The same one who lecture your brother for leaving you in a fire only because he would have to explain why the burnt mark was there and not because it was wrong.

It was only natural for guilt to cling onto him the longest, he already lost Jason. But you were different, Jason died while having a somewhat happy memories. You died with nothing but bitterness and salty tears.

As much as you would love to fulfill your father's dream you couldn't help but be uncomfortable.

You've overhead Bruce and Jason conversation once and you regretted it. Jason being the most experienced in dying suggested the worst thing possible.

A new bedroom, made just for your liking.

A dingy room with chains to restrain you. All the window must have bars, even if you somehow managed to broke the iron chain you wouldn't be able to jump out and possibly risk breaking a bone.

"It's a necessity, I went mad when I came back, what gives you the idea that she won't be the same and in our case you'll be her first victim"

Jason harshly spit out. You couldn't help but disagree you wouldn't dare to hurt your family, even if they have hurt you in unexplainable ways. Your heart still ache for them in vain.

"Even if she dare to break out I have another method, far more wise and useful but I rather we use it as a last resort"

The last resort was, smashing your ankle. It was simple and Jason already have experience to make sure you won't be in more pain than necessary.

To put anything between your foot and for that object to be used as a support, tying the foot and arm's to restrain you. With a hammer all they have to do was to smash the bone into pieces, you wouldn't be able to walk at all but it was also necessary to treat the bone to avoid disability.

If the bone was to be left to heal by itself it would reconstruct themselves wrong leaving you to excruciating pain, not being able to depend on your foot and you might need to cut your foot off.

Another reason why you dread to be brought back, no amount of convincing or pleading would make them understand... They'll break you and rebuild you as if that was nothing.

They can't treat you like a daughter or a sister even tho they seem so willing... To you they only love you because of the guilt and not because they understand.

Damian was a reason itself, didn't even let a single tear drop during your funeral and the visit at the hospital. He did cry in secret which was pleasant to watch.

He's either beating people into pulp for the smallest crime or is actively trying to bring you back in another form. He have asked Raven to assist him but even the girl found it inhuman, suggesting for him to just mourn you and let your soul be in peace.

It was now noon the whole family jam inside the living room discussing.

"She can't be brought back? Jason died, the Lazarus pit can and must brought her back"

Damian argued, as much as he doesn't wanted to be emotional your absence was taking a toll on him.

You were the first to treat him like a human and he took that for granted. When he realised others weren't as understanding as you were he would get bothered... As much as he hate you that was just the crust of his heart, to him the core matter more... It was totally not an excuse for his horrible behaviour.

"You haven't tried that, father we must try before coming into conclusion!"

"I have tried Damian, nothing worked. Her body was rotting from the inside I was not aware"

Finally Barbara spoke up.

"You have tried? I have been visiting her grave everyday when did you di-"

"It was a decoy"

Jason decided to told the truth. The room felt into a long silence and suddenly shouting and names. They weren't happy that Bruce didn't tell them about the decoy, to them that was a breach of trust Bruce desperately tried to build after your death.

"Silence! There is another way we can see her, Deadman suggested using special artifact's that allows people to see ghost... We will us that as a temporary comfort and we'll find a way to bring her back... with us "

Everybody agreed, unknowns to them you were contemplating life whether you should leave your family and risk the chance of being brought back to life against your will or... Leave.

TAGS: @lovebug-apple, @leeiasure, @invinciblewaffles, @dangeroustravelermultiverse, @shycreatorreview, @bellethesleepypotato , @cluelessteam , @fortunatelydifferentqueen, @doggyteam2028 @icryat2

SPECIAL TAG: @megasweetbones.( TYSM for the great idea 🫶)

[orbweaverspidergirl]

Hopeless Romantic/Neglected Reader

From a young age you’ve always been a hopeless romantic. You truly believed in love at first sight or star-crossed lovers.

And because of this you were naive, but kind. You were willing to give everyone a chance because you believed in love. Your heart was warm and big, and you accepted and gave out love to the point where you almost came off as desperate for it. 

In a sense, you were. 

You wished for love outside of those in your family because their love was empty. They were kind and they cared, but they were absent. They didn’t stay for long because there was always something more important that was happening or going to happen.

You were normal. You didn’t go and fight terrible evils in the night, you stayed at home. You read over the love you wished you could have. The love you wished to consume deep inside of you. 

You wanted that, but you knew you would never have it. You began to believe you weren’t worth it. So, while you would wish and wait, the family surrounding you hurt. 

They hurt knowing that their sister (or daughter in Bruce’s case) could not feel the love they had for you.

They cherished you deeply, so when would you see it?

After some time, you began to question what was your worth? If you could not be loved nor truly love, then what were you for?

[iydiamartinx]

UNEXPECTED GUESTS I

jason x reader, platonic!damian wayne

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto & @omi-resources word count: 835 synopsis: Jason’s secret relationship is discovered by Damian—who keeps showing up uninvited. Jason’s patience is tested, popcorn is made, but at least Damian brought cinnamon rolls. a/n: this one went off the rails slightly and the rest of the upcoming parts are equally as unhinged (at least compared to what I usually write).

Compared to your apartment, Jason’s place was practically Fort Knox. You and he had been dating long enough that you’d practically moved in—and you knew his secret identity. Still, you’d never met his family, something Jason was adamant about keeping that way. You knew of them, of course, but hadn’t expected to meet them anytime soon.

Which was why you definitely weren’t expecting a ten-year-old ninja to break in.

You had just stepped out of the shower when you heard it—the quiet thud. At first, you thought it might’ve been Jason returning from patrol early. But then came the faint creak of the window opening.

Jason never used the window.

Cautiously, you stepped into the living room, still in a robe, hair dripping. And froze.

There, near the kitchen counter, stood a boy. Arms crossed. Hood down. Eyes sharp as blades.

“You’re not his roommate,” he said flatly.

You blinked. Your shoulders slowly relaxed. While you’d never met Damian Wayne personally, you’d seen enough pictures—and heard Jason complain just enough about the “demon child”—to recognize him instantly.

“…And you’re not the pizza guy,” you replied, equally dry, one brow raised. “So I guess we’re both surprised.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink. Just stared, like he was trying to unearth your darkest secrets with sheer willpower.

“Who are you?” he demanded, stepping forward.

“His girlfriend,” you said, calmly. And waited for the explosion.

There was no point in hiding it. You figured that now that you’d met Damian, it was only a matter of time before the rest of the Bat-family found out. Honestly, you were surprised they hadn’t already—weren’t they supposed to be the world’s greatest detectives?

It didn’t take long.

“I knew it,” the boy hissed. “He’s been acting suspicious for weeks. Staying out longer. Not snapping at everyone. There was even a smile—a smile—on his face during training.”

He circled you slowly, hands behind his back like a miniature detective—or a very judgmental cat. “I assumed he was hiding something. Drugs. Maybe a dog. But you… you’re worse.”

Your lips twitched. “A dog would’ve been worse, to be honest. He’s not exactly home on time for walkies.”

He ignored your joke. “How do I know you’re not a threat? An assassin. A spy. Someone sent to manipulate him.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “You think I’m seducing Jason Todd for intel?” You snorted. “Believe me, no one’s paying me for this kind of emotional labor.”

His lips twitched—just barely. Not a smile. Not quite. But something close.

Still, he didn’t back down. “What do you know about him?”

“Enough to stay,” you answered simply, dropping onto the couch and toweling off your hair. “Enough to know he sleeps better when I’m here. Eats better. Talks more. Still leaves his laundry everywhere, but that’s apparently not fixable.”

Damian stood frozen, like he was running your answer through a thousand internal filters.

Eventually, he moved to sit—perching like a hawk on the armrest across from you, expression still wary but less… militant.

“So you know what he does,” Damian said stiffly.

“It’s how we met,” you replied, reaching for the remote. “He was horrible at keeping the whole alter ego a secret.”

“Are you trained?” he asked next.

“To deal with him? Yes.” You shot him a grin. “To fight? Not really. But I have excellent aim with a frying pan.”

For the first time, a snort escaped him—quick and unintentional. And then: “I suppose you’re tolerable.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone under five feet has said to me.”

Damian frowned. “I’m ten.”

“Still under five feet.”

He huffed but stayed where he was, and after a moment, reached for the coffee table and grabbed the half-finished puzzle you’d been working on. Without asking, he began fitting pieces into place with alarming precision.

An hour later, Jason came home through the fire escape, expecting silence—or maybe the sound of you watching reruns, bundled up in one of his old shirts.

What he didn’t expect was the sight of you and his youngest brother sitting side by side on the floor, surrounded by puzzle pieces and popcorn, mid-argument about whether Red Hood could beat a grizzly bear in a fight on pure strength alone.

He stopped in the doorway and stared.

Damian glanced up. “You’re late.”

Jason blinked. “You broke in.”

“He made popcorn,” you said helpfully, tossing a piece into your mouth.

Jason pointed between the two of you. “What the hell is happening?”

“She’s tolerable,” Damian said, as if that answered everything.

Jason groaned. “I leave for two hours…”

“And you almost lost your popcorn privileges for keeping me hidden,” you added, smirking at him. “Apparently, I’m a national security threat.”

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about Wayne surveillance equipment and upgrading the locks to keep out demons.

But secretly?

He didn’t mind the sight of the two people he cared about most, sitting there together and getting along.

He’d just never admit it out loud.

Next Part →

[la-patrona-magdalena]

Synopsis:

You always wanted your family to look at you, even just once. At least with a bit of the affection they gave to the portraits of your mother. Too bad that when they finally did, you were looking at the pages of a comic that showed the cruel future.

Inspired by the manhwa: no place for the Fake Princess

Warnings: English is not my first language, so I used a translator. Yandere content, neglect, abandonment, angst (?), allusions to death, original character (not the reader), allusions to torture. I try to keep the gender neutral,but in part there are mostly feminine pronouns. If any warnings are missing here, please let me know.

Disclaimer: This fanfic is for personal reading only. The use of this text for AI model training, data mining, commercial purposes, or any automated reproduction is strictly prohibited without the explicit consent of the author. Translation or reposting to other platforms is also strictly prohibited without the author's permission. Thank you.

You can read the fanfic in its original language (Spanish) on my AO3

prologue - Next chapter

Masterlist

Chapter one - A glimpse into the family secret

The knight of the night, the man with a thousand plans, Gotham's greatest detective, was holding his daughter, Serelith, with such tenderness and delicacy. She was crying in her arms, scared. And rightly so: Serelith had never lived through anything like this before. Her other siblings had some pity for her now, even Damian showed a hint of sympathy, probably because of the fear they all felt over what could’ve happened to her at the Joker’s hands.

Then there was the other daughter. Batman's illegitimate child, the youngest of the Waynes, no, the youngest of the Valfinsas, watching with tearful eyes from behind the bars as the family she grew up with held their blood daughter close. Leaving her alone.

The Joker just laughed, shoving the girl hard against the bars. -Hahaha! Looks like Batsy's got his favorites- he laughed louder. All the girl could do was stare through tearful eyes, praying, just once. for someone to turn around. To look at you.

-The Joker can wait. Priority is getting Serelith out of here- That’s what Dick said. The perfect big brother. Someone who, like her, had also been adopted. He handed Serelith a pill and a bottle of water. Carefully, they took Serelith away, leaving the building where the two of them had been held captive.Leaving you there. Not looking back. Not noticing you were missing.

The Joker let out a cold laugh, already getting ready to have fun with the new toy Bruce had left behind. -Don’t worry. I won’t take my eyes off you- he scoffed, looking right at you as you cried. How you wished you had gotten out of here, out of a place where no one ever looked at you.

You threw the comic across the bed, looking at it like it was the devil himself.

A few weeks ago, you'd decided to try reading comics to bond with your family. You'd once overheard Stephanie teasing Damian about reading and drawing manga, and maybe Tim might be into it too, right? After all, there are games based on comics. So, you spent your allowance on one, hoping it'd at least end with you arguing with Damian about the difference between manga and comics, or maybe Tim would recommend one based on one of his games.

You'd gone to a store after finishing your homeschooling session with Alfred, browsed a few comics, and then, suddenly, felt a strong bump against your side, right where your bag was hanging. When you looked down, you noticed three comics had fallen to the floor. You tried putting them back, but couldn’t figure out where they were supposed to go. With no other option, you looked for help from the clerk—who didn’t even bother to pay attention to you.

-Another kid trying to sneak in their hero stories? Listen, girl, you're not going to get famous just because someone randomly reads a comic drawn by a 12 years old-.

No matter how much you insisted they weren't yours, he didn't believe you. You got kicked out of the store. Great. But hey, at least you had three new comics to read for free! And not just any comics, they were about Gotham's great vigilante himself! Not exactly what you were going for, but maybe you'd get to connect with someone in your family by talking about the city's crime and its paper version.

You got back to Wayne Manor all excited, and started reading the three comics that had literally fallen from the sky.

And that's how you ended up here.

Batman: Bloodline. That was the name of the comic saga you just finished reading, the one that left a bitter taste in your mouth. At first, after reading the opening pages, you thought it was fake, a bad joke, some prankster who thought it would be hilarious to realistically draw the millionaire playboy dressed as a bat, acting as Gotham’s nocturnal hero. No wonder the shop clerk didn’t believe you. This probably wouldn’t help you get any closer to your brothers, but maybe if you showed it to Dick or Jason, they’d make fun of Bruce with you. So you kept reading.

But then all your siblings showed up, as the Robins and the Batgirls. And then you appeared. Not playing any role, not as a hero, just you. The daughter born from one of Bruce’s deepest loves, a model beautiful both inside and out, who had died just days after giving birth to you. A child who looked nothing like her mother, and even less like her father.

Everything was… eerily accurate. The mannerisms, the backstories, everyone’s personalities, they were spot on. Even the inside of the manor was a perfect match! You kept reading, uneasily, and that’s when she showed up: a girl with Bruce’s same stoic seriousness, and your mother’s same warmth. The drawing copied her features almost perfectly.

The comic was about her; Serelith. How she was found, as the original daughter. How she adapted to the family. And finally, how you and she were kidnapped by the Joker. How the family saved her. And left you behind.

You don’t want to believe it. Even if that girl crying behind the bars looked so much like you. Even if every detail lined up so perfectly. You didn’t want to believe that this family, the same one you beg and plead for even a crumb of love, forgot about you in such a horrible moment.

You hide the three comics under your pillow. You refuse to eat when Alfred calls for dinner, and you fake being asleep until the night falls.

You check the time on your phone, waiting for the right moment to come. You get up from bed and carefully make your way through the giant manor, until you’re standing in the same room where the old clock is. If it’s true, if they’re really Gotham’s vigilantes , they would notice immediately, and all of this will have been for nothing… or maybe they won’t even glance in your direction.

You didn’t see anyone for a few minutes from your hiding spot. You thought maybe they’d glanced in your direction, and were just waiting for you to leave.

Until you saw Tim, Zesti drink in hand, clear signs of sleeplessness under his eyes, dark circles, and wearing his Red Robin suit, walk up to the clock and set the time to 10:47. The same time as in the comic.

You felt your heart beating faster and faster. You wanted to cry just from seeing that time there, right in front of you. Mocking you.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You ran off, tripping over a few things along the way.

You got to your room and threw yourself into bed. You could feel the comics crinkle beneath your pillow as you laid your head down, just like your heart crumbled when you realized… that part of the comic was real. Which meant not only that you weren’t the daughter of that woman, but that all these years, and all the ones still to come, meant nothing to your family.

You feel the tears slowly forming in your eyes. You want to do something, think of a plan to avoid the day you end up in the Joker’s hands, but your mind is clouded. You try to sit up, feeling the anxiety course through your body. You need to start planning how to escape the Joker, how to live away from the Waynes. You don’t have time for whatever’s happening to you. Your trembling hand goes to search for the comics under your pillow, but it freezes when you hear someone knock on the door and then open it without waiting for an answer.

You turn to look at the entrance, finding Tim there, clearly exhausted. Your hands shift to clutch the sheets, gripping them tightly as you see Tim in his Red Robin suit standing in front of you.

Tim’s had a rough few days. He hasn’t slept well due to a case, and there’s a small crisis at Wayne Enterprises. He almost went without a shower for more than a week, he was close to breaking his own record. The lack of sleep made his instincts and everything he’s learned as a Robin falter. Even so, he insisted on going out tonight to look for clues. He got dressed and ready to leave with the others, and with a brain half-asleep, he didn’t realize something, or someone, was watching him as he was about to leave. Until he heard a noise that alerted him. By reflex, he turned to look and saw your smaller figure collide with a couch, then get up and keep running.

The sleep vanished in an instant, and on instinct, he ran after you, thinking about how he would convince you not to tell Bruce you’d seen him.

He opened the door without asking, just knocking out of courtesy, expecting to find you excited, shouting with joy at the discovery that your older brother was one of Gotham’s heroes. But instead, he saw you, breathing heavily, clutching the sheets tightly, crying.

You’ve always been sensitive, crying over the loss of your mother or because Bruce didn’t give you attention. He’d always agreed with Steph and Jason that you might be overreacting. Everyone in the family had lost someone, and it’s hard for Bruce to give more attention with so many kids and the mantle of Batman weighing on him. Even if you didn’t know the latest, you should be more patient. Besides, didn’t you have Damian keeping you company? And he was sure that at least once, you’d gone to the library with Babs…

Even though part of him thought you were exaggerating, the way you cried now, the way you trembled and avoided looking at him like he was a traitor, told him this time was different. And it made him feel something pressing inside of him.

He slowly approached the bed and sat next to you, studying you more carefully. You seemed to be on the verge of a panic attack. He tried calling your name to get your attention, but you didn’t respond.

Tim quickly thought about how to calm you down. You weren’t quite in the middle of an anxiety attack yet, so he might be able to stop it from escalating. He scanned your room, searching for something that might help him hold you steady.

…

Has your room always been this… empty? For being the daughter of a model and a millionaire, one would expect your room to be full of toys and luxuries. But it’s almost bare. There are a few things visible: misshapen cushions with exposed threads, a blanket of mismatched colors, and some decorations hanging from the shelves and walls, arranged from the ugliest to the most beautiful.

For your luck, he manages to spot a small blue plush dog on a shelf. He quickly grabs it and forces it into your smaller, more fragile hands.

– Squeeze – He orders. You obey. Your mind, at some point, kept replaying the comic's drawings, where they abandoned you, where the same person in front of you did nothing.

– Breathe with me, at least once, breathe – Tim's voice reaches your ears. By instinct, you follow, tightening the plush toy even more in your hands. The images slowly fade from your mind, what you felt could’ve been worse begins to vanish, and your tearful gaze meets a pair of blue eyes looking back at you with concern.

Tim feels a small relief inside him that you didn’t end up in a full-blown panic attack, but he's still worried about you. Why did finding out it was Red Robin cause that reaction? Why, all of a sudden, aren’t you looking at him with pleading eyes wanting attention, but instead, avoiding his gaze? The silence between you two forms slowly, becoming more noticeable, until you wipe away your tears. You summon strength to look at him and break the silence with a voice firm but trembling slightly.

–I won’t tell anyone you’re Red Robin… I promise… you can leave now – You didn’t feel like explaining to Tim that you found a comic from the future, you weren’t even sure he would believe you, or if he would listen.

He, on the other hand, was shocked. Were you kicking him out of your room? Was this your reaction to finding out he's Red Robin? Did you not care? What's wrong with you? He looked at you, still incredulous. Why were you acting like this all of a sudden? Or had you always been, and I just hadn’t paid enough attention to you? He replayed the events of the week in his mind, remembering that you once talked about going to buy comics, maybe like you tried to talk at dinner… dinner from… how long ago was that? He kept going over what he remembered, what could’ve triggered your near panic attack? Why weren’t you looking at him like before? And why, now that you did, was it with coldness and pain? Then it clicked. Maybe you heard his recent conversation with Jason? Both had mentioned what he talked about with Steph, how sometimes you cried too much and seemed exaggerated. Was that it? That was probably it, right? Maybe not the reason for your near anxiety crisis, but it was definitely why you wanted him out of your room. You didn’t want him to keep seeing you like this, did you? Well, he wasn’t the best at handling emotions, that was more Dick’s thing, but still, he couldn’t leave you emotionally constipated. They already had enough of that from Bruce, Jason, and Damian. So, he left your room, informed Bruce that he wouldn’t go out with them tonight, changed out of his suit into pajamas, and came back to your room. You looked at him confused. He didn’t blame you, he had never been close to you like this before, but now, he wanted to be. He wanted you to stop looking at him like that.

Thank God you took the opportunity when Tim left to move the comics. You couldn’t do much, just toss them under your bed. You were hoping he wouldn’t look there now that it seemed he wanted to sleep in your room. He lay next to you, and you gave him his space. You both stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, until he finally decided to break it.

–Are you okay?–

It was a simple question, short and direct, yet you just stared at the ceiling. Thinking about his question and everything else.

Some comics, from who knows where, revealed to you that this isn’t your biological family, that they’re also Gotham’s vigilantes, and that for a girl they’d known for only a few months, they abandoned you; To the daughter who, even if not by blood, had been part of the family all its life

Should you have seen it coming? Yes. Ever since you can remember, no one in this family has really worried about you, paid attention to you, or even looked at you. No parent events, no movie nights, nothing. You don’t have memories of anyone except Alfred giving you ice cream for every good grade on your tests.

Why were they different with you? More than half of the family doesn’t share blood, yet they still love and care for each other. Couldn’t you get just a little bit of that affection? What was different?

Was it because you took the place of your mother’s true daughter? Maybe they always felt like you didn’t belong, like you weren’t what they expected.

Serelith was the original, the real one. That’s why she earned their affection. That’s why everyone else cares about her. Not even your brothers… No, not even Bruce’s adopted sons or his two biological children lied. Only you. You were the only one who entered the family through a lie you never even told.

They’re detectives. Even if they don’t say anything or investigate, their instincts probably tell them you’re not who you’re supposed to be…

And now that you’ve confirmed the comics are real, it means you’re destined to suffer at the hands of the Joker.

In the comics, he finds out about Bruce’s “beloved” daughters, the only ones in the family who aren’t vigilantes, and kidnaps both of you. The family quickly comes up with a plan to search for you… to search for her. Bruce and the others completely forget you exist, leaving you at the mercy of one of Gotham’s worst criminals.

Were you okay? …No, you weren’t. Not while you remained in this family that doesn’t really feel like yours. What you want most now is to get out of here, for the Joker to never see you as Batman’s daughter, for no one to see you at all, until you’re far from where you never belonged. Only then would you be okay. But for now…

– Yeah, I’m fine – you answered, sounding a little too calm for Tim’s liking. He just sighed beside you and turned to face the other way. He couldn’t bear to look at you. Tomorrow, he’d make sure to finish the case and the situation at Wayne Enterprises as fast as possible, so he could focus entirely on figuring out what was going on with you. – Good night – Tim said as he tried to fall asleep. – Good night – you answered, turning your back to him as well, already thinking about how you’d make a plan tomorrow to leave this place as soon as possible.

This was supposed to be posted yesterday, but I had trouble concentrating and translating it into English. I’ll try to update this fic every Friday, or at least every two weeks if time allows. If for some reason I can’t stick to the two-week schedule (which probably means I have writer’s block and won’t be writing for a while), I’ll let you know. I’ll probably update on Ao3 first because the fanfic was originally written in my native language, and I’m posting everything there in its original form, in case anyone wants to check it out. On another note, I wonder if anyone will notice that the section dividers are different, one has Batfam and Philomel images in the background, and the other is empty…

Taglist

@lettucel0ver @sirenetheblogger

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

Lone Warrior

summary : reader is put into emergency foster care after a tragedy , despite living with the Wayne family for a bit , reader takes it upon herself to move away and start anew since she clearly wasn't welcomed , after many years have passed Damian finally joins the family and after a particular spat w his father he finds himself in reader's room and an interest in them has sparked.

a/n : this story is a wip ( work in process )

part 2 , part 3

Reader's POV

Beginning

Everyone knows biologically , a child needs a father and mother to come into existence . Growing up I had exactly that , a mother and a father . I had what many would consider a good childhood , a mom who brushed my hair everyday before I went to school , a mother who would have prepared meals and would have read me several stories . I had a father who would pick me up everyday and let me get a treat from the nearby parlor everyday after school. We certainly weren’t rich but we had enough to make do and I was content with it - I was content with my life until life struck.

My mother got laid off from her job - it was some run down mill cashier job at an old mechanics pit stop but it brought in money no matter how grimy the place was . I remember my younger self sat in front of the television when it was broadcasted - Joker , Prince of Gotham held three hostages at gunpoint in the shops and sadly despite Batman’s efforts , one hostage suffered a car falling onto their legs - crushing them instantly - the news anchor panned their camera onto the car and how it’s green front bumper was smeared in crimson blood.

Since then mom had been home while father went to work . It was fun at first , we had dinner earlier than usual , mom started back sewing and she even took up gardening since she loved planting tomatoes in our backyard garden . Everything was good but gradually - mom began feeling trapped like a bird in a cage . It started off slow - mum and dad arguing every night after dinner , sneering at each other as they walked past one another . It evolved into dad sleeping on the couch and mom sleeping in their bed . I was young and too naive - I assumed like the silly little girl I was , that mum and dad were just arguing about the dishes in the sink.

One day, it got extremely bad. It was a Tuesday morning and I had ran into mum’s arm’s , comb in hand, waiting for her to brush my hair like every other morning but instead she screamed at me to get out of her face . I ran away, of course, crying and brushing my own hair since then. Every day since that point had been utter agony - mother grew even more distant - began shouting , screaming at everything and everybody .Every day was a new struggle , she had no luck finding a new job, and there was no luck of her getting any better .

One day , dad just hugged me before he left out the front door . He kept muttering ‘sorrys’ and ‘i love yous’ and he kept weeping . I recall hugging him back , telling him it was okay, and he just smiled at me and left . He hadn't come back since. Mother grew furious that night, and for the first time - she screamed at me , blamed me , cursed me , cried about how I ruined everything, and then she choked me . I remember my young , frail body clawing at her tight grip desperately - pleading with her to let me go, but she didn’t let up . She kept squeezing me, and I remember going in between conscious and unconsciousness - I remember hearing police sirens blazing in front of our house.

I don't remember anything after that point . Memories were all a blur, but I recall a police officer handing me off to Mr. Wayne at his porch step. I remember the look of uncertainty, the look of pain and burden flashing in his eyes when he looked down on me . I remember him holding me by my elbow and guiding me through his foyer until he reached his butler.

I watched them both converse , the butler glanced at me every other moment. Eventually , Mr. Wayne leaves me alone with the butler and returns deeper into the mansion. The butler smiles down at me, though, and I just looked at him as he guides me down some halls and into a room.

It's been a full week , I've only ever known my room , the garden, and school. I haven't met anyone besides Alfred - the butler and my teachers. Alfred kept assuring me that I had brothers who would love to meet me and that my 'dad' , Mr.Wayne was busy, so I should bear him patience.

I hadn't really cared about Mr. Wayne's absence , as far as I considered my father, was out there somewhere and had left me, and I had no interest in having siblings. I hadn't told Alfred any of that, though - I had been silent since I had arrived here . Two weeks passed, and Alfred introduced me to someone named 'Ricard' , Mr. Wayne's eldest .

This Richard had given me a tight-lipped smile and a half hug that I didn't reciprocate . I could tell he felt uncomfortable and forced, and I respected his boundaries because I would of reacted the same way if I got introduced to my new supposed 'sibling' .

Alfred had told me that Richard lives away and visits when he can since he too has work . Since then, I haven't met anyone . Maybe if you count seeing Mr. Wayne walking in and out the foyer then maybe .

Months passed, and it's been the same process - I wake up , scarf down whatever Alfred makes , go to school , come home , sleep, and repeat. Now and again, Richard may perhaps drop by, but our meeting were just exchanging pleasantries before we go our own ways.

I was still mourning my parents. It's weird to mourn when they aren't dead. Today I had I.T class , meaning I had access to a laptop . Using what minimum sites I could , I dug up that my mother was admitted to Arkham asylum and was deemed ' mentally unstable ' . It's weird seeing her in that old , grimy straight jacket and her worn hands in silver cuffs . It's weird that she is the same person who used to bake me fresh cookies when I was sad and used to so attentively braid my hair everyday - It's weird to know that somehow my pure , kind mother somehow turned into what she is.

I hadn't found out nothing about my father - reports just suggested he moved to another city or somewhat - some speculated he manipulated her into the abuse - but I knew my father went far away to start a new life - a new life that hadn't involve me .

It stings every time I think about that, though , that my dad thought I was so much of a burden he had to leave me to start anew . A part of me loathes him - wants to tear him out , another part of me wants to cry and scream ' how could he ', but the biggest part of me has already grown numb to everything around me and has accepted the fact that it's better off being on your own.

Months continue to pass on - nothing really changed , I haven't 'bonded' with anyone at the mansion , Alfred keeps making excuses for their wariness and coldness. I discovered through him that recently, one of Mr.Wayne's children , Jason, had recently passed due to a mishap with the Joker . He hadn't gone into full detail, but I understood the pain and grief - the pain of losing your loved ones and having to bury them.

Days blurred into one another, but as recently, I have been seeing advertisements for a youth camp. It's new to be supposedly based in Russia and aims to teach children survival skills, and for some odd reason, it called out to me . I became further intrigued when on one particular evening , my English teacher pulled me across after class and handed me a pamphlet for it , I remembered her saying " I thought ...maybe you can use this Y/N maybe they can help you " . I remember taking it home and staring at it for a good while.

That same day - apparently we got a new member to the family named Tim , I saw him walk in the foyer , Mr. Wayne's hands practically draped over his shoulder with a proud 'dad' smile on his face . I exchanged pleasantries with both, but the Tim guy was giving me a dirty look .

After that night , after careful consideration, I decided to join this youth camp but in order to do so I would of course need money so that very nigh I applied to some jobs . A week passed since Tim and I didn't really get along . He kept glaring at me, and I just kept ignoring him .

Apparently he didn't like that and one morning when I was leaving for school he pulled me across and with a nasty snare said , " can't believe Bruce and I bust our asses every night protecting the city and people like you get to squander away - you know for someone who uses so much of Bruce's resources I don't understand why he hasn't gotten rid of you ".

I slapped him in response and walked out - I won't and don't tolerate shit - especially from someone so far up their ass . Alfred walked in on us in the foyer and began lecturing me on the spot, but I had a cold, hard look - challenging him . Alfred just tutted and carried us both to school.

Yes - apparently, this Tim person goes to the same school as me, and I had to listen to him nag Alfred about it on the way there . I rolled my eyes - seriously, he sounds like an entitled brat . Alfred dropped us off . The moment Tim stepped foot in school lots of kids approached him - probably because it was publicly known he was a Wayne , I on the other hand wasn't- hell I didn't even take his name I still kept my father's surname .

I left him and continued my day like normal, and after school, I went to my waitress job on the block. It's a quaint little cafe waitress job . It was nice and had good pay, so I wasn't too bothered. Of course, a week into my job and Tim had to already cause a scene .

The brat had to walk in with his group of little friends and had the audacity to demand I get them a table . I sat them down, took everyone's orders, and this man had to order some complicated shit with absurd add ins. Why order expresso and complain it's too bitter ?? Why order no flat decaf when decaf is already flat ? Why , when I explain to you , you snare at me .

The brat even had the audacity to say ' I was embarrassing the family by working here ' . I stepped on his foot, causing him to flinch and whispered to him , " Frankly I don't give a fuck what you or anyone thinks or has to say - you can frankly kiss my ass and see if I could care " and walked off .

He didn't leave a tip sadly and walked out of there with a nasty glare . I came home that evening and met Alfred, leaving out my dinner in my room , " Master Wayne restricts you joining dinner tonight since you are behaving too violent." I just gave him a look . For one pathetic of Tim to tattle to Daddy darest - another many reasons why I don't want siblings and secondly I've never joined anyone at dinner , I live and breathe in this room and unless the mansion is burning down I won't leave it to go anywhere unnecessary.

Months like this pass , Tim and I glaring at each other. Occasionally, Richard stops by to check on Mr. Wayne, or simply hang out with Tim and I was steadily saving money to go to this youth camp.

On my final day , I paid off for the youth camp registry and began packing my things - I simply began packing my clothes , I left behind any things deemed unnecessary like my record players , little nicks and knacks friends gifted me , the very painful photos of my parents and I and the home sewn clothes I once made in tech Ed.

Everything held very little value to me here , especially since I wanted a fresh start there . I packed my bags that night and left without a trace. Downtown Gotham was dangerous but had useful people for the wrong things. I carefully knocked on a banged up door and waited .

I heard a latch move itself and a wrinkly , obese man peers through at me . " What you want, kid?" he grunted . " A passport and a straightway ticket to Russia tonight," I say monotonous. He stared at me for a moment and left . Moments pass and he returns and slips me a passport and a ticket . I let our a small grun before slipping a $100 dollar bill in the latch before taking off in the night.

Training

Russia was cold - but for some odd , maybe sick and twisted way, I loved it . I loved the feeling of the cold nipping at my fingertips , I love the ghostly feeling when the cold air blows in you and I love the way it makes me feel alive .

The youth camp was a successful idea - marvelous even . Though many in my unit complained about how strenuous the training was , I enjoyed it . Every morning , from 4 am to 6 am , our mentors took us on a two hour long jog in the snowy forest of Cheremkhovsky .

It was hard at first , I had literally fainted on my first go, but as I eased into this , it became easier . After that jog , we had breakfast, and then we trained in our combat , hand to hand , handling weaponry such as guns and knives, etc.

My mentor , Kerry Lenz, took me under her wing when I joined . She saw my raw potential, my greedy need to feel alive and belonging . She had practically made me into what I am , a trained assassin .

While most of my peers were asleep in the dead of night , she took me out into the forest , regardless of whether it was snowing , raining, or a massive heatwave . There, under the start nights, she taught me the art of murder , she taught me how to effectively hide a body in plain sight and taught me how to read a person thoroughly , taught me how to stalk a prey and how to notice the tiniest details no matter how absurd .

She taught me like a mother hen would to her chick, and it made us closer. I came here to Russia at fourteen, and now here I am, graduating at eighteen into Russia's CIA program.

She kissed both of my cheeks that day and hugged me, and for once , I reciprocated it . " My beautiful rose , be the strong daring girl I taught you to be," She sobbed into my shirt . I smiled and hugged her , my eyes brimming with tears as I nuzzle into her shirt - her smell of rose scented perfume and Columbian cigar wafted into my nose .

" I promise to be that strong girl , mom," I promised her that day . She smiled at me and patted my shoulder . " hun , this life is a life you can't back away from , it digs its claws into you and keeps you hostage, promise me , you would not deter."

I nodded into her and tightened my hold on her . Since my graduation , I , out of the twenty five candidates at the youth camp , graduated into Russia's CIA task force . Our missions were never easy , every one we face the brutality of human nature - from sex traffic rings , child predators , serial killers to huge organizations abusing civilians , we were tasked to handle them all.

Every mission had its difficulty, a loss albeit one of our own or a victim, or maybe it's the mind-numbing pain of killing . Every mission had its fair share of shit but that didn't deter me one bit - I loved my job - I lived knowing that when I killed another child predator that I saved another child.

What's the use of arresting them in a system we're they are bound to be free and face no repercussions? Doing this job made me look at persons like Batman and his folk and a bit differently - he knowingly puts people like the Joker back into the Arkham asylum, knowing they'd break out and wreck havoc again.

Damian's p.o.v

If anyone told me that I of all people would feel out of place I would laugh at you . For my whole entire life - I've been a man sure of everything - down to the nitty things - I've been sure of everything.

I knew what I liked to eat , what shirt I wore with its specific pants , what show I like to watch , knew for certainty I wanted to be Robin but here - in this family I'm at a loss.

I'm always cleft confused and rather frustrated . My father's eldest , Dick , keeps lecturing me about how 'violent' my ways are , how I'm not suited to be Robin , that Robin is not 'violent'.

How is a boy supposed to believe the methods he's had instilled in him from birth are considered wrong - considered too orthodox. We both always argue - he always pushes me to my wits end . Today, though - today, he took it a notch further .

Today he involved father in our spat . It was a simple situation - a simple stake-out , a robbery being done in some small local supermarket , the robber noticed us before we noticed them and took off running and I had simply launched a batrang into his leg to stop him.

It led to the robber bleeding out in the road and almost dying, but wasn't the objective met ? Father and Dick seemed to think otherwise considering I was berated for it for fifteen minutes straight.

But what got me was when dick said , " You're a monster like your mother." I literally launched myself at him - almost prying out his eyes but father managed to pull me off and send me off to my room with a glare.

I didn't go to my room - I was far too angry, so I just roamed around the mansion . I have never been to this side of the mansion - to be fair, I don't even think Alfred ventures down here, but somehow - the quiet halls bring a bit of peace to me .

I walked down a hall and stopped at a door left abit ajar - weird I thought all doors in this house automatically closed . Approaching it , I carefully opened the door and peer in , inside - inside looked like a bedroom.

The bed looked like it was purposely shoved up against the window , it only had two pillows but frankly sat plush in-between them was a small plushie of a penguin. The room held minimum decor - whoever lived here may have been a minimalist or has long since moved on .

It had a quaint dark oak desk covered in dust and had several stacks of books that looked well used . Next to it was a wardrobe in matching oak that had a red,very worn , backpack hung on it's round handle . The room had a vanity , a cute miniature white one that every little girl must dream off , it held a simple comb and hair ties in a singular cup but the mirror was covered in old polaraid pictures.

So someone definitely lived here - but who ? I've seen Dick's room , even though he isn't here often Alfred cleans it and he has those stupid posters all over , it can't be Tim's either because his room is all dark and has a bunch of clothes strewn around , it's clearly a girl's so Cassandra? No she's too neat for this - steph ? No , I remember her decorating her room with pink frilly ribbons last Christmas- Jason? - no so then who -

" I see you've come across y/n's room " comes a sudden voice behind me . Turning around , I am met with Alfred, who looks around the room so - so sullen ? " Pennyworth, why such a cres- fallen face ?" I enquire . Alfred looks everywhere but me .

" This is y/n's bedroom " he says as he steps in. " y/n ?" I ask perplexed - father - hell no one has mentioned y/n to me ever .

ty for reading !!!

incorrect quotes

[acid-ixx]

ch.5 pt 1: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1, chapter five pt 2,

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, typical implications of trauma and emotional neglect, allusions to self-harm.

you had always been a good kid.

you didn't have a consistent a plus, and you most certainly don't always win awards, let alone shower in a streak of gold medals and thick paper announcing your spot as first place. you're not the picture-perfect kid aunties will brag about and compare their other children to. you're not always refined, as a child born into the streets of gotham, bound to be rough around the edges—

but you were good.

and your momma always told you every night, in her hushed whispers and cuddling arms, after her sweet lullabies harmonizing with the hums of your broken fan, that it's alright if you're not the greatest; as long as you're good.

she taught you manners, to always respect everyone around you, your elders, strangers, even children your age, because blessings always come in the form of good faith if you're kind.

you believe her, of course you do, she's the only person you had in your life, the only person you needed. you should've never desired for anything else; what else could you wish for if not her love and presence only?

she's enough for you, and you're enough because she tells you too, with her siren-like eyes softening when she gazes at you with only love encrypted in her eyes, her once seductive smile plastered all over wanted posters now beaming with joy at having you in her arms rather than inauthentic pursuits of attracting men around her.

you always followed through with her words, because you love her and it's no doubt that she loved you more than enough too, too much that she had to continue on with her prostitute lifestyle to provide for your little family, too much that it was the reason why she had to be killed off in the first place.

because of her, you chose to be kind, you chose to lower yourself, to never raise your voice higher than those around you, to be humble, and to never show when you're at your limit, even to others closest to you other than your mother.

you remember so little of her the more you age, you grasp on straws just reminiscing on every moment spent with her.

"a good kid," she says, her voice almost a tantalizing memory threatening to drift away, "won't finish first, but fate will always make sure that they never finish last. so choose to be good, alright, baby?"

"yes, momma," your reply came in curtly, tiny fingers playing with the ends of her hair, without moment's hesitation, or doubt in the meaning of her words.

because her words are god for someone like you, because she is your mother who always knew what's best—

because she is your mother, and you may not like her for who she is as a person, for all the wrongs she did in the past before throwing it all away to raise you; but you love her either way, and follow whichever path she leads you to like a little duckling...

a good kid doesn't finish first, but they'll eventually get what they always wanted, right?

even if they wait for weeks, months, years; fate will find a way...

so why can't you have you have what he have right now?

why, just why, are you always finishing last?

why can't you receive the same attention tim did when he was first introduced?

elegant, poised, a rich boy with millionaire parents who had so much to spend, standing proudly and confidently at the doorstep of the manor, as if he had already belonged the moment he stepped foot into the staircase. thirteen year old, older and taller than you, better than you.

the memory is still clear as day, because it was the same day you had bothered alfred to update you on your offer to hang outside in the gardens with your father, only for the butler to look down at you with the same sympathetic eyes and tired smile, retelling you in his familiar excuse that bruce is busy.

'papa is busy,' the words echo in your brain in a mocking tandem, you wish to bang your head on the kitchen's mahogany doors at another attempt rejected. you wish to rip at your hair like you always do. but you can't, you just can't because alfred is in the same room as you, aged hands patting the delicate strands atop your head. you feel disappointment, you always do, then it's shame; shame because it's always alfred who has to witness your bated breaths and spilling tears at another day wasted alone—!

shame because this always happens, it's like bruce never wanted you in the first place; he probably doesn't even think you exist.

but of course, your young brain reasons, your father's always busy when it comes to you, only you.

his timetable consists of mourning his dead son, handling wayne enterprises and juggling his philanthropist career. when will you ever be worth enough that he places you in the same pedestal as all his other obligations?

and back then, you thought every night he spends missing are nights spent with multiple women— back when you've not known of his identity.

yet the point stands still, his missions do not relate to whatever situation stands before you now.

why?

why is it him to who answers the door to tim, the young boy's piercing blue eyes looking up at your father in a challenging gaze? whilst you stand, restlessly in a corner at the scene that unfolds before you. why is it him, who at first makes bruce hesitate, yet still take in the boy holding the camera, hand on his back to guide him inside, as the boy speaks cryptic words you couldn't fathom as you watch behind arch of the living room?

your blood curdles, heart starts to pound out if its gilded cage, and you feel your body buzzing in pure, unadulterated envy, the sole emotion you feel clawing its way into your vision; you see green, you can't see anything else but the scene before you. shaky breaths, blurry vision, balance barely stable as alfred could only offer a pat on your back and his pitying gaze on you.

no words, not even comfort, the manor seems dark again, everything feels as if it's closing into your body and devouring you whole.

why, why, why?

the questions circulate, the memories resurface all the time at just how easy it was for tim, just how he didn't even need to beg to have your father, yes, your father to keep his eyes on a boy whom he have only spoken once in his lifetime.

tim doesn't need alfred to relay a message, he doesn't even need to hesitate being in the same room as the man who seems always a mile away from you, who could never look down even when your fingers come up to fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves, just like how you did with your mother's hair, all in the name of getting him to see you.

but you're not tim, you're perfect, you never will be.

it hurts, everything hurts when a stranger, someone like tim had the opportunity to talk to bruce, you never had any—!

even if you're always good, even if you always tried to succeed in your academics, your extracurriculars, your everything, even if you always try...

... the moment timothy jackson drake stepped into the manor, the moment his shining blue eyes, almost twinkling like yours when you've been first introduced, stared analytically at the man you called father, was the moment it piqued his interest; was the moment you knew that being good doesn't equate getting what you always wanted:

the attention of a father who chose to cope with grief in another new robin partner instead.

to be bruce's child first, rather than an afterthought later.

ever since then, ever since tim came into the picture, it was harder to gain bruce's attention. even alfred was divided between you and your seemingly divine... brother who just decided to take your place, who will soon be bruce's third child, erasing your name off of his memory.

being good was not enough, being great didn't even compare— your mother's words seemed easily overshadowed by the gnawing jealousy at just how wonderful your new brother is, at just how similar he is in regards to bruce, but different and also infinitely better than you.

it was the first crack in your fragile, glass heart after it had been wrapped in thousands of bandages from the heartbreak of your mother, it was the first rip at the seams at the already lacerated wounds that emotional neglect has left you.

from the days, weeks, months, you couldn't recall, trying to form some sort of interaction with bruce, dick and now even tim, instead of having alfred be your medium of communication.

from the cold, rainy nights spent with just your thin blankets and fading memories of your mother to soothe you from the nightmares that relishes in your fear.

imagining what it's like having your father speak words of assurances in a dull, almost alien-like tremor (you've never even heard his voice up close before...) comforted you at first, but now it became thousands of hushed whispers wishing you were never born in the first place if it meant your trepidation would end.

and it would've been better, the dread that buzzes restlessly under your skin could've been satiated if tim had even the decency to acknowledge your presence. but just like bruce, god, just like dick who had easily accepted the smart, academically talented boy as his own sibling— you're still amounted to nothing to be even considered worthy.

good, but not enough, not worth the effort of being greeted every morning, not worth the time spending small talks with. even dick, the athlete who once promised to ditch some patrols in bludhaven in passing moment's as an excuse to swat you away, have now opted to bother the newest addition to the family, forgetting that it was you who idolized him the most—

even if it was tim who met him at the carnival first, before dick's parents had died, going as far to dedicate the entire act for the boy— it was you watching him through the broken down television too, legs swinging back and forth on your springy, dusty couch as you doodle him doing stunts, talking to you because he meant the world to you too after you realized he was considered a brother to you.

tim met him first, yet you did so too, but as his younger sibling instead...! so it's unfair, it's unfair, everything is so unfair. tim and his stupid fucking goals of helping your father cope, your father, not his, his parents are alive, your mother is gone, goddamnit—!

it's all unfair. your mother says the world treats good kids like you right, so why...?

... what else could he want? what else does he want to take away from you?

and how could you blame him...?

he was perfect in the sense that you aren't. he was what bruce needed: a reliable pillar of support, stubborn enough to deal with the stress piling up with the loss of his second child, qualities that couldn't be seeked in you even if anyone tries their hardest to squint past that once wide-eyed, vulnerable exterior of yours.

all they could see is a broken child, but not of their own. they could offer you sympathy, pity at just how terrible your past came to be, but that's what every child of gotham goes through. not even witnessing your mother's last gulps of breath would be unique enough to pique their attention. they couldn't possibly see you being part of their family, never.

you learn quickly, that the world has always been unfair, that sometimes, your mother's words aren't always right, not always the best. you need to be better than best, but you couldn't.

so you still chose to be good still, because what else could you do? who else could your identity be outside of the morals she had taught you?

that's who you always are—

that's who you always will be.

always the lesser one. always the forgotten muse and the unspoken poetry.

because that's what good people are, always belittling themselves for others, always allowing the bigger people to step on them like ants. to crush on their hopes and dreams like the crumbs of bread that spill onto the sides of a pavement.

tim is a good person, it was why he wanted to help bruce in the first place, but you couldn't also forget the fact that he's the perfect son for bruce too— that's the main difference between you both. you're worlds apart. he's naturally smart, almost flawless both physically and mentally, and helps slowly but surely fill the hole in bruce's heart unlike you who realizes that you'll only deepen it instead.

and you're a good kid, you're his good child, you wish you were his kid.

you're kind but never the greatest, talented but not good enough.

and that's who you'll always will be.

just a person defined by their worth, by the words of their mother. just a kid with nothing more than a smile to offer, no matter how strained the side of your lips are, no matter if the tears threaten to crawl out your eyes like spiders the longer your presence get ignored—

you're good, but you'll never be good enough.

... so what made you better now? what made you worthy now that all their eyes are now on you?

you wish it was easy to answer, but life's always unfair to a good kid like you.

has anyone ever noticed why the wayne manor has been so dull lately?

why don't the blooms stand so prideful in the gardens nowadays? surely, alfred's green thumb could fix the problem, but it's been months and the most eminent scent that fixes upon their nostrils could only be obtained if they sniff hard enough to smell fresh flowers amongst the scent of mud after rain or wet concrete.

why does titus seem so down these days? damian tried to play tricks with him; his beloved pet only replied with a loud, high-pitched whine in reply and lay languidly at velvet carpets with a bone on his slack jaw. his owner noticed how his tail seemed to wag less the more the days passed by. and damian isn't stupid, but he notices how titus, with the addition of alfred the cat, would often frequent sniffing and lay on a spot damian's familiar with; one he's sure a certain rival of his would only sit upon whenever they'd hide from him.

why have there been fewer homemade baked treats in the pantry? hell, they seem to lessen every single day someone opens the pantry. wasn't it alfred who baked them? was there a thief who had been stealing, or was the steady decline not mere coincidence? nobody else took a hobby to baking, since they've all been frequently absent, prioritizing their patrols and mostly taking the cookies and crinkles at the end of their shift, munching on the treats all for themself. alfred hasn't definitely been taking a break and refuses any offers to, yet the lack of goods was noticable, and whenever alfred bakes, it doesn't quite share the same sugary, or savory goodness the past deserts have been sporting.

why has there been silence, one that so ominous, for months? dick swore he'd often hear someone conversing through doors with alfred. at first he assumed it would be tim, or cass, but with how feeble and meek the voice was, yet talkative and light with an accent he's sure he heard from bruce. yet he dismissed the implication of another presence in the room. but as of current, he misses that strange voice that speaks of stories about highschool drama and friends for terrible influences.

has the rooms been lacking of music lately? tim frequents the soft, buzzing hums his hyperactive form hears from across the living room or near the fireplace's burning embers. sometimes he'd be lulled to sleeping whenever he hears specific melodies. he'd listen so often that he even managed to recognize his favorite tunes with just a single note, eyes slowly closing every time he's in close proximity with that unknown voice, conditioned to finally sleep like a pavlovian dog. tim has been losing sleep these days, eyebags frequent in his eyes. he misses the music, he misses his only saving grace during restless nights with even energy drinks and bitter coffee being ineffective.

why has the dust been collecting off the bookshelves of their library? whenever jason visits the library, there would always be fingerprints he'd find on certain books, one he'd pick up and come to enjoy reading. some were collections of series, others being short novels. the ghost that graces him these recommendations, who sometimes even brings new books, hasn't been in the library for months now, and he's skittish the more he visits the manor each time. the library was his sanctuary for all the moments he'd have fights with bruce, or felt too deep into his traumatic anguishes. the tastes he shares with this lone stranger who visits the library at different lapses than him was now gone, and he's noticed the anger that pangs deep in his chest every damn time dust has been collected off of books, with no fingerprint in sight.

just, why has it been so silent lately? both physically and figuratively. no music dawns their ears, no hinge of the fridge being heard throughout the night, or at least the faint mutters of an unknown whispering.

these were all unsaid questions buried deep in the minds of the people under the roof of the manor. now the only things they could feel were the heavy knocks of the rain on the window and the cold sensation of tiled floors on their already covered soles.

it wasn't noticable by chance, but it could be felt by everyone, both inhabitants and visitors.

and the answers lie simple: it's a secret.

they're the deals you make when you want someone to keep their mouth shut close, they're the things you swear your life to to never confess upon. they're the unsaid statements which helped torment a certain child under the roof of an already lonely and ghostly manor.

sometimes, secrets don't take in the form of someone making one up, but rather, it takes in the form of an unspoken agreement, a pact with your surroundings, an untold promise with nature or the things around you.

you were never particularly secretive with your talents, for arts, baking, or anything that takes in the field of creativity. you kept to yourself, and don't bother anymore to annoy your family to look upon a sketch only to be dismissed, or to taste the treats you hide by a pantry for later consumption; but you loved it still whenever alfred gave you the creative liberty to stroll around the manor to decorate the bleak place into a less melancholic version of a gothic abandoned house by the forest, left with only the legacy of a long-standing family.

it was just, you never find it necessary to tell anyone why there's a charcoal portrait of alfred hanged in one of the uncrowded hallways, or why the colors of the walls change momentarily, or why certain colors of flowers were more present by the garden than other colors— so maybe you could consider that a secret.

and it made you feel less lonely, if even by a fraction. yet you don't know it, but your acts of service to the manor was what made the family enjoy their stay a bit longer, was what made them appreciate the backdrop of a new wallpaper they had thought alfred had chosen, or find the designs of resin furniture adorable.

you don't know it, but you were what made mundane living enjoyable for those who seek to relish in the sheer feeling of adrenaline instead.

when you were first taken into the manor, you were the reason why all their senses were stimulated. tiny, malnourished you couldn't keep your toes in place once you've been exposed to a new, more bigger environment.

back then, the manor carried this atmosphere of darkness, a reflection of bruce wayne's grief after his beloved parents' passing away from his arms. yet you took that pain, and turned it from its bleak, grayish colors, to an intimate, fluorescent glow. a soft, bright light emits from one of the random rooms, with custom-made beads dangling about and glow in the dark stickers that litter the room. it was one not too blinding to the eyes, and felt warm like the touch of a mother to their crying child.

your cooking of sweet treats were the ones they often like to fight over. it was through alfred's secret recipes he bestowed upon you, and your own alterations for your baking, that the kitches would always smell of cinnamon, brown butter, and caramelized sugar. it was because of you that you made the manor smell sweeter, more homey, like what would've smelled of an apartment during christmas eve. you've made them associate the kitchen with both famous, foreign, and local recipes that they came to love. steph loved it whenever she'd stumble upon a cookie decorated with purple, cass finds the ribbons on some cupcakes cute, associating it with ballet.

every time bruce, tim, or dick needs a place to destress, they often visit rooms with sweet humming or the occasional singing. it was sometimes gibberish, others with lyrics, yet pleasing to their ears all the same. it reminds them of their mothers' singing, whenever they'd knit or praise their precious jewelry. it makes bruce's stiff posture slacken, finding that odd voice sometimes sharing his talking habits through the lyrics they sang. dick would always sing along, feeling as if he was back in time with his mother playing with his hair as she sings circus music, and tim would close his tired eyes, laying his head on his hand as he dreams pleasant scenarios for once in his life.

although you never once felt any of their embrace, they've certainly felt yours in their hearts, minds, and sometimes even their body; a spiritual connection they've felt with you without even knowing it. the last time damian touched you was when he pinned your wrists to your side. and even if he tried his hardest to ignore the raging beat of his heart, screaming at him to release you from the tight cage of his grip, he refuses to. out of sheer anger and petty spite, or the desire to feel the skin of his sibling who struggles to let go from his hold, he doesn't know. but he certainly does remember how your palms lack callouses unlike his does, and how warm your touch felt, even if blazing with cold sweat from his threats.

he had remembered the smell of your sweat and even the taste of your tears by accident and committed it to memory.

it was through your indirect care that everyone felt loved and cared for, and find themselves enjoying the sweet, small moments of living within what was once a stuffy manor holding painful memories.

and nobody knows why — with the exception of dick, bruce, and damian now — that despite the batcave being filled with the entire family, it felt empty all the same.

well, not entirely empty, but bleak with color. every hue remained gray in their eyes, the pipe leaks were eminent, heavy breathing was evident all throughout. no music catched on to their ears, and they all remain skittish and rigid.

it seems as if everyone has catched on, that they're all holding their breath together as the leader of the group, batman, looks around to do a silent head count.

after all, he told both dick and damian to update the family that this meeting is urgent, and no one shall even bother ditching, or else they wouldn't get to the bottom of your disappearance without all the help they could receive.

in a race to get you, they need to burn off all resources or god help bruce because he'd run himself crazy searching for you.

alfred doesn't want that happening, but he understands.

you're important, and no one could dispute that fact. after bruce had gone through your all your diaries, your sketchbooks that he had to pry away from damian's possessive hold, and the box of belongings that you left that he stashed away in his office— he knew he couldn't just leave his child out in the streets of gotham.

you're his child, and a damn child of his means his responsibility. either he likes the obligation or not, it's his duty to protect you from the harm of living in such a dangerous city. and you're certainly not a vigilante, he'd already ran through multiple recent investigations before everyone came rushing down to the batcave to confirm you're not connected with any bad guys; which was good, and bad news.

that means you chose not to undergo the same, dangerous path jason chose, or rebel like damian, yet at the same time you must've been incapable of self defense.

and he knows that even if you fight with normal moves; without his guidance against a gallery of brutal villains out to destroy batman or anyone related to bruce, you're dead meat. bruce doesn't want you dead. the only times he wants to hold you in his arms were the ones unconnected to you laying limp with your last breath, no. he wants you alive, and well, and safe from harm.

his precious baby, his treasure. he wants to see your face in one piece, and he wishes cradle you in his arms. just because you're over eighteen doesn't mean he's fully lost you. he's your father, first and foremost, and your hero second.

that's why it's imperative that everybody follows his orders now, with the primary order being that everyone, under the guise of currently not holding a mission, is required to be in the batcave within the first thirty or forty-five minutes of the announcement. no, there's no excuses that should be said, or buts. this meeting is a priority meeting, and as vigilantes who fight for the safety of their city's citizens, they know not to disobey.

and as family members related to bruce's precious second youngest, it's an obligation for them to care as much as bruce, dick, and even damian does for the search of your disappearance.

though apparently, jason couldn't get that message, and didn't bother to update through comms over where he's at the opposite side of gotham, his devices turned off after he had recently gone off in a rebellious tangent yet again about bruce's refusal to mercilessly slaughter the deserving ones.

he'll lecture his second child soon after he reports to bruce, mentioning your safety on the line while at it, but right now?

right now he needs to address the elephant in the room: the overbearing anxiousness and antsiness everyone collectively feels, bruce's stern eyes replicating the anger, the surge of energy he feels to exact vengeance on every crime that litters the street, the same urgency he felt compelled to drown upon right after his parents have died right in front of him.

whilst alfred's knowing ones stare at each and every one of the culprits of your disappearance, all a direct reason why you had left in the first place.

someone sighs, and it's not bruce who speaks up first amongst the crowd of vigilantes.

"so what now, father? are we all just going to stand here, or are we going to address the main issue? or do you want me to be the one who brings them back home? i wouldn't mind finding them before all of you do."

"this is not the time to be... you, damian, we're all....we all need time to think." it was dick who spoke next, with a sense of urgency, as his eyes that tried his damn best to stare at damian softly, with a smile to accompany it, immediately plasters itself back on his phone, spamming your phone with messages damian was sure were all about him begging for you to take them all back. without any fights, without any hesitation.

ever the pacifist, one would think. but everyone could see wide blue eyes, glinting at the screen. begging for mercy for such a lost case, tears nearly rimming his eyelids, lips bitten raw as blood drips down his quivering chin.

cass could read his movements, she knows he's mad. but not even a master of body language is in need to know just how much dick's rage emanates off his body.

fingers clenched on his phone, teeth gritted as he spoke, eyes frantically searching through messages, scrolling up, then down, as if he's waiting for something. for someone no doubt.

tim deduces that the person they're focused on for this urgent meeting was the same person dick was trying to text. 'must've been related or close to us if it means it's this important for everyone to be involved.'

he'll look through dick's phone later to solve the itching case, his fingers twitching to whip out his side in the batcave's screen and make a new case file.

but he chose to ignore it for now, they all do, each one focusing on their primary worries.

"who's them? wait— what even are we gonna talk about?" duke's voice rang loudly through the cave. it at least broke through the tension, bruce's tense shoulders sagging in relief then suddenly reverting back to its old, rigid pose.

everyone noticed the action. they're trained individuals after all.

barbara flinched through her seat at the sight of the man, with her hands readily available to type at the keyboard. though her eyes stay glued at batman, looking deeper and noticing his fervoured state.

it's as if he is lost in thought.

and with just how much thoughts were racing in his mind, it's easy to drown. to get lost in that mirage of memories trying to link an image of you to anything he tries to remember. even now, bruce wants to see your face first and foremost. he wants to see an image of you sleeping in your tiny, creaking bed, and to erase any of those memories to replace it with new luxuries he could provide you in life; a comfort you should've been blessed with the moment you entered the double doors of his manor.

his string of pearls, his little treasure.

"(name). they left, and i need all of you to listen to me, now. rebuttals later."

when bruce spoke up, gruff and domineering, with no room for anyone to speak back, all eyes were now on him.

dick throws his phone across the room, ignoring the shatter of the pure, aluminum branded back of it. his foot was jittering, and his voice was as ready to command orders with bruce.

blue eyes stare, vicious and hungry, impatient at its prime. with the addition of damian's green, squinted ones, and bruce's stern glare, thundering and clouded.

it was a spectacle to witness the same emotions coursing through their veins. as if they're one and the same; vultures feeding off the feeling of need and urgency to actuate what seems to be an already brewing plan on the trio's part.

the rest, unknowing of what had just occurred half an hour ago within your bedroom, listens.

they ignore the gnawing feeling of intuition, of something, right at this moment, going wrong, just to hear bruce's explanation, with dick and damian butting in.

they listen, fascinated about you being bought up, a name so foreign yet familiar, a mystery in their eyes despite having met or seen you occasionally; a glimpse of you running through hallways or painting in the garden.

they listen, and all the individuals let deep, feral emotions fester within them the longer they allow their ears and their mind to devour the words dick says, all syllables a symphony of praises towards you, each vowel accentuating his favor.

they listen, and learned.

whatever happened within the batcave, is also a secret.

you have your own secrets. they have theirs.

except, yours were discovered, and they choose to let emotions brewing deep in their hearts as obscured within public view.

tim wants to search for you, steph joins in on his sentiment too. barbara's already at it whilst she types and listens in on bruce's words, cass ponders about your invisible presence and just like bruce, tries to think of memories of you stumbling by her, and duke just as much attempts to picture your face and remembers something sentimental; one he'd ponder on later once he's alone.

now they all know your secrets, not everything, but a semblance of it. they discover their neglects, and acknowledge the consequences. why throughout their stirring arguments, they all couldn't find your handmade night-lights that they like to look at during the dark, or smell the baked crusts on your home-made pumpkin pie recipe, or the humming of random music through the halls.

because you've never once visited the batcave—

and it was the only room not graced with your courtesy, care, passions, and love.

they listen to bruce's plan, yet they ignore the growing dread.

they ignore why jason is radio-silent all throughout too.

instead, they focus on you, trying to reminisce on old, buried memories they at least spent with you. good ones, not the ones containing your meek begs, and heartbroken gazes. or the ones where you stood in the corner of a room watching them talk. or the times where you all had dinner together and you're left in the wake of silence despite the chatter filling the dining room.

... and once they couldn't muster anything up, they figured on creating new ones instead.

warm.

this place feels so unnaturally warm, that it seeks shelter under your skin. warm, yet welcoming at the same time.

...where are you?

your bleary eyes slowly open, blinking gradually, squinting out the streaks of white in your vision. it's always a hassle to wake yourself up. sleep has never been peaceful for you: always awoken by nightmares, or tormenting paralysis, sometimes mere insomnia causes you to lay awake and sweating in your tiny room. and your dreams always has to involve your family, one way or another; of course it's always about them, they've been your only source of life despite never being there for yours. but now? now you feel like you've had a complete 9 hour cycle of sleep, with no hint of fatigue in your body.

you've never had any proper sleep. ever since you saw... you saw her dying that it never registers within your mind just how deprived you are of rest, constantly haunted by memories you wish you just could... forget. but you couldn't, not when your beloved mother is the only precious reminder you have in life to stay alive.

your arms, arms that were always sore, in twisted positions, bruised and with faded scars from all the times you felt too impulsed to hurt, the only way to forget the mental torment you've gone through; now lay atop cozy sheets with no pain bared, no extra sheen of sheen on sweat. your fingers stretch, you caress the pillows your head lays on, cold to the touch against your warm, uncrying face.

it feels nice, feels crisp against your skin. your ears don't burn and you don't feel the need to flip your pillow to the colder side.

a yawn slowly escaped your lips. you lick them, they're not chapped, nor dry. they don't feel bitten, nor streaked with blood. you lick again, there's no familiar sting, nor the taste of blood that seeps against cracked skin.

'this is strange.'

you feel unusually relaxed, your breathing's oddly steady. there's no scent of smoke and pollution invading your nostrils, no shadow of doubt cloaking your mind.

you don't feel like dying today.

it feels so nice, the weather's so weird... pleasant. but this? it's not normal, gotham has never felt so quiet today. there has never been a time where you wake up feeling so... human. this is not routine. you're not used to this. god, everything's so strange and yet...

it's been so long since you last felt like you were... home. wispy streaks of particles dance under the soft light that beams outside of crooked, wooden windows. it casts an angelic glow on your surroundings, unlike the shrouded darkness you're accustomed to.

your eyes do a double take, churning mechanically at an angle where you can clearly see the glass panes.

"hm?" windows that always fog up with polluted specks of dust, now clear, and bright as day. it feels like the sun is kissing your skin through the light that enters the glass, you feel the at ease as your bones crack comfortably, and your muscles stretch without ache.

and you...

you're laying in a thick mattress that buries you in deep burgundy sheets. blankets wrapped around your body like a welcoming hug, you're reminded of your mother yet again.

your heart thumps rhythmically, not erratically this time, no— you've never felt so invigorated. it's been a while since you slept in a comfortable bed, in a comfortable setting, with a comfortable atmosphere. not the sound of blades hit your ears, nor the honking of cars, or ringing of phones. wherever you're laying didn't feel stiff like cardboard back in your apartment, the pillowcases are cool to the touch. your clothes don't encase you uncomfortably tight, there's no random thread that persists on irritating your skin.

it feel so oddly peculiar, so comforting, and you want to cry.

you feel light, airy even. there's nothing but the buzz of empty warmth that encapsulates your entire body. you're not used to this, this disgusting feeling of comfort, you don't think it's real.

only one response enters your mind, the only thing you're accustomed to.

'i don't deserve this.' your thoughts drown you into a deep sea of anguish, but the dichotomy of comfort and pain stirs you into satiating confusion. this is the first time you felt blessed, the first time you wish you were good enough to feel like you're worthy of deserving such goodness in your life.

suddenly, you feel like crying, but no tears escape your eyes, and your heart refuses to beat out of its cage. you're in a trance that refuses to release you from its comforting hold.

the hazy tune of birds chirping snaps you out of your deprecating reflection of your life.

when you squint and look out the windows once more, you make out a faint reflection of green, dominating the entire view second floor view of what is supposed your home.

for the first time, you don't feel fear reminiscing on that earthly shade of color.

you're in a... forest.

your nose picks up on the scent of the damp, green, grasslands. your eyes makes out the scenery outside, droplets of water slowly dripping on tall leaves, the rivulets travelling from blades of leaves to nourished, wet soil. it produces this stimulating smell, one you haven't been able to experience for months living in the polluted air outside the windows of your apartment.

petrichor.

you don't know what, or how, or why this is happening.

all you know is common knowledge, something perceived through senses and observations. you're in a cottage, yes, the interior layout is filled with personal trinkets you know you would've bought with money if you even had it, and furniture suited to both you tastes and your mother's... but otherwise, nothing else.

other than memories of a fantasy you shared with your mother, back when you were innocent to the cruelty of the world, of gotham and its merciless passions.

"XX/XX/XXXX, entry no. 23.

i remember one conversation i had with my mother.

it was about something related to where would we choose to live if we had the choice. she asked me that, out in the random, and that took me by surprise to say the least.

huh, during that time, i never knew her intentions for my answers.

i answered her sincerely, told her that, well, i wanted to live in a comfortable cottage, with two floors and a spacious bedroom for me, with hers right beside mine; so she can keep all the monsters away when i got too scared living by my own.

i wanted fairy lights strewn on the roof of my room, and matching glow in the dark stickers of stars and constellations with hers, just like the ones we have in our quaint apartment. i told her it wouldn't be complete without the mini figurines on top of raspberry colored cabinets, the ones that i loved to collect whenever we thrifted at stores, and most importantly the picture frames of us together.

she giggled at my reply, and told me it was such a 'me' thing to choose what i had said. but i retorted and told her she'd choose the same thing. and she said i said what exactly was on her mind.

thinking about that memory now, i feel warm despite the fact that bruce forgot to attend another parent-teacher conference again this week. every memory of my mother... tugs at my heart, both painful and nostalgic. i miss her.

if my momma was here, she wouldn't even hesitate to pull out of whatever side hussle she had for a job at the first second i'd mention something about my school. she always prioritizes me as her only child. it makes me feel special, and loved, and cared for— i haven't felt that in a long time. i won't lie that alfred's presence helps but a mother's love precedes all essence.

i love her so much. i wish i never took her for granted.

now that i think about it too...

if my momma was here, we could've been in that cottage right now, living our lives, carefree, without nothing to worry us. whether it'd be food in our plates or money to pay the bills. we'll always be happy with mushroom foraging and sitting by the warm fireplace i pictured, with her homemade hot chocolate by the table. she'd be nestled beside me, keeping me warm. that's enough to make me happy, enough to dismiss the heaviness in my heart as i write this.

i wish we were at that cottage right now, forever actually. i don't need a big family, all i need is my mom. and sure we'll have some arguments along the way but it wouldn't be as bad as, well, damian threatening to draw his sword on me and stab me at the heart every second i made him mad, which is always...

funny thing is... fuck, i never noticed how she was saving up money and starving herself whilst simultaneously keeping me well-fed so she could pursue my dreams of actually getting a cottage. i was so oblivious to everything that i just, i never noticed that she was earning all this, to build my dreams, so we can escape from gotham and live new lives with each other by our side.

she was doing all this, for the sake of my comfort, my happiness, my everything. she lives her life with no breaks, and retired from her previous job as a... sex worker just so i can live normally, so i wouldn't be ashamed of being her child, of seeing her as my mother. she was everything i needed in my life. she sacrificed, and i took it for granted.

and i wanted to scold her so badly; doing this for such a lost cause as me. it hurts to think about it now.

so what if i wanted a cottage? what about it if i'm now living with my father, huh? i don't care about living comfortably at all, if that meant i didn't have mother by my side, to support me, to actually love me, then what is a house all worth for??? all i wanted and needed was her, just her. and they took me away from my mother.

my mother.

your heart breaks at the seems whilst you write that faithful night, the grip on your pen near to leaving dents on your finger. if it draws out blood, then so be it. your handwriting turns unintelligible, strokes not knowing where to end. what once was clean, white sheets of paper now crumpled by your despair, by the tears that escaped your eyes, by your fists balling at the paper, all your emotions boiling down to mere grief.

if bruce mourns for jason, you do so too for your mother.

yet you continue to write, and write, and write. it's the only medium of comfort you have, the only means to treasure memories long gone, heartaches and comfort all a coagulation of your retreat to the real world.

if dreams can come true, then you wish the fantasies of your mother being with you comes alive, that she'd be by your side, taking your pen away from your hands, kissing your sweaty forehead and matted tresses, assuring you she's fine. she'll smile with crinkling eyes, and set your quivering hands to a stop, then wrap you in her arms, shielding you away from the burden of living without her.

if you were her flower, then she is your hearth. the only warmth you'd feel in such a cold manor, the only one capable of dipping her hands into your chest, taking your beating heart, and melting off the frigid locks that kept your love in place ever since her death.

only then can you say that dreams do come true, only then can you rest; close your eyes without praying for a dreamless slumber, without nightmares, without swords piercing your body, or the dismissive turn of your family's back on you.

but if dreams do come true, what does that say about nightmares?

only reality can tell.

or you can tell.

at you current state, seated restless on your tiny room with barely any illuminated moonlight guiding your tired body, tormented by both past and future, writing endlessly on journals soon to be forgotten— wouldn't that be considered a nightmare? to be subjected upon unwanted isolation, from the very same people who promised their lives to protect lives such as yours.

your family, your father, brothers and sisters. through empty promises alone; all enough to destroy you inside out.

talentless, worthless, out of place.

yet even if your diaries were all torn apart, pages seeping with both blood and tears, you still write.

you write, and you continue through your endeavors. what once were fond memories were the same monsters chasing you through barren halls and empty rooms.

after all, it's the only way to honor her passing, even if it kills you all the same.

you continue, wiping at your sullen cheeks, and brushing away ripped strands of hair; pen inseparable from stubborn, swollen fingers.

now i'm living here, in this big manor, with nothing going on for me. i have alfred, and he's like a father figure right after mom, but it doesn't change anything... it doesn't change the grief i feel, the sorrow, the unwaning depression. nothing. i couldn't even get myself to stand up from bed because i'm so fed up with everything.

if i didn't try so hard in the first place, i would've never been left this destroyed.

i want to give up, i want to die and just disappear off the face of earth. no one would notice, and at least after i die, i would be reunited with her— but I can't. why?

i have to remind myself everyday. i just can't give up and let all her efforts go to waste. she doesn't want me dying, earlier than her age, too. she told me i couldn't just let go so easily, that life is beautiful if you try to find its hidden beauty. i'm still trying to find meaning in all her wise words, i can't just take her honor for granted, especially since i know that despite everything, she has her own anguish and regrets.

does she regret having me?

right now, i feel a spark of motivation. she's been saving up, just for me, and i want to honor her memories at least. if i can't feel like home in this manor, then i'll make myself a home. to honor her, and to build upon both our dreams.

i don't know when, or how i could even engage in this impossible goal. but for momma? i'll do anything for her, even if it means working myself to death. because at least that means proof that i tried, and she'll be proud of me in the afterlife. god, i hope she would be.

we'll get that cottage soon, momma. i promise."

thinking about it now, that was ten entries right after your breakdown during your birthday. it was at a period of time where you fully accepted that you'd never be loved by your family, that you never belonged, and matured just as quickly after taking a break from writing self destructive diaries.

you sigh, looking down at your clenched palms and indenting fingers on skin. you really wish she was here. it could've made everything better, you would've been better if she was by your side.

a knock ensures before your door, and that alone snaps you out of your thoughts. you jump in shock yet feel no pang of panic in your heart, but before you could reach out to defend yourself, the door opens after the prior knock, and your...

your mother enters.

angelic, glowing, beautiful.

she's decorated in a white dress, with a pearl necklace decorating her neck, glinting like diamonds, soft in its assertion. like an angel, rather than the devil she's portrayed to be in the newspapers she hid from you.

she looks beautiful, as always, breath-taking to the point it makes you wonder how you share the same genes as her.

but her beauty now precedes her beauty from when you last saw her bleeding in the cold tiles of your apartment. now, she looks old, yet ethereal. wrinkles flecked her skin, her eyes drooped at the lids, her hairs displayed streaks of white in some areas.

you've never seen her like this.

she had you very young, and you've lost her young. yet she looks as she's rebirthed now, living yet aging like fine wine.

she is happy, and content with her smile, and looks at you with a radiant grin, smile marks on her sunken cheeks, like you mean the world, walking towards your seated form as she hugs you weakly, yet lovingly.

warm, like the spring's gentle blooms, like the feel of petals rubbed against your fingertips.

you're caught breathless.

"momma...?"

beauty that is true, that is honest, and speaks of history. beyond the barriers of photos you see in her at her prime, when she was known as a 'man-eater', a lustful creature that steals from rich to survive.

you've never lied when you said your mother is always going to be the most beautiful woman in the world.

at least, in your eyes. because if she objectively was, then your father could've, should've stayed with her, for the sake of his pride and reputation at the very least. he could've had her by his side, even through a loveless marriage, if it meant it ensured her safety.

you dismiss the bitterness the brews inside you, and opted to focus at the strange, yet welcome circumstances beforehand.

your hands find a way to wrap around her crouched figure, fingers lingering on the once sinewy bones of her spine, now healthy even through the sagging skin.

"my baby..." you look up at her, her hands holding your head so tenderly, cradling you side to side.

"momma..." she kisses your forehead, then both your cheeks, and takes a seat beside you. when she did, you felt a surge of energy and warmth burst throughout both your body and heart. for once, you felt giddy, solitary confinement all but a dream in this fantasy land.

you don't let her hands go for even a second, fearing this moment will be taken away from you. there's warmth emanating off the fingers intertwined with yours, you wish this moment never ends.

the questions that almost left your silken throat took hesitation. you just can't ask why she's alive, where you are and why you're here in the first place; for fear she'll be taken away from you, that you couldn't see her beyond the conjured and brief memories you had of her.

you wish to cry once again, this time, you let out a small hiccup and feel saliva bundling on the back of your mouth. she hums in resounding worry, her other hand swiping away at the hair covering your wide eyes. the softness in her eyes doesn't falter, and she hums a familiar lullaby: one that triggers nostalgia, that reminds you of the days spent without electricity in your tiny apartment with her lighting a candle just so she could read you another one of your favorite stories, huddled beside her.

the last you've heard of her voice, it was parched and inaudible. she always sacrificed for you, and drinkable water was a privilege in the shady parts of gotham.

"you're probably wondering where you are and why we're here, aren't you, sunshine?" she cuts her singing off abruptly, your eyes snap open to look up at her through your eyelashes.

"... y-yeah," your reply comes in, voice barely whisper. unsure and insecure of where this conversation will go, you chose to bury your head in her shoulder. she smells of ripe strawberry and cherries, unlike the mixture bold perfumes mixed with the stench of booze she comes home with after another night of restless endeavor. yet you don't acknowledge the memories of the past, you're here with her now and it's all that matters.

"where are we, mom? am i... dreaming? please, i- i miss you." this time, your tears come out in a steady stream, but your throat doesn't constrict in itself, and you don't feel the urge to rip at your hair at anymore.

now you're just terribly sentimental rather than bitter. no more was the jealousy that aches, or the panic rushing through your veins. it's just you and your mother, and the memories of her passing that buries you at the hilt of your sadness.

"well... you're in the realm between life and death, my little angel," she states with lidded eyes, as if it is a matter of fact. her hands move to scratch your scalp, she hums and swings your crying body side to side, akin to a mother cradling her newborn baby.

you felt particularly reborn, the sudden change affecting you more than you'd like to admit. the light outside your window casts her in a sheen of white, glimmering like rays of the sun, or like the twinkle of the moon.

even if she was old, and grey and wrinkly, she's always been ethereal.

and you're convinced that she's the angel instead.

"you've been through a lot, haven't you?" her questions brought you out of your tearful stupor, she brings her lips to kiss at your forehead and wraps her palms on the sides of your face, wiping away at the waterworks refusing to cease.

all you could do was nod, and feel the warmth reflecting off her body, transferring all to you. even in the plane of death has she always been generous.

"i-i... i don't want this to end, momma..." you utter, gazing at her ever-smiling face. there was a faint translucency in her body, as if her form is slowly disappear. and for a second, you feel fear that she'll disappear. fear that dissipates just as quickly when you hear her heavenly chuckles.

"...baby, i'm here with you right now in because i want to remind you to choose the path to live. it's too early to die right now, it's too early for my baby to join me in the afterlife." her words are too complicated to comprehend with how muddled your thoughts were, her saccharine actions feel like a forbidden touch, and you just couldn't comprehend why, just why does she want you to live...

when there's nothing else left for you in the realm where she's not around.

"but i... i don't understand...? why can't, why can't i be with you, mom—?"

"because unlike me, baby, you have so much to do. i've nothing left of me to offer when i died, baby... at least now, at least you'll find that you're still always loved, even when i'm not with you."

she cuts you off with a hush, pinching your cheeks before another wave of tears and quivering hiccups escape your befuddled body.

but you can't afford to let her go a second time, you can't go back—!

you don't want to be back in that damning structure you call a manor, you don't want to watch your father from a mere corner shrouding himself in the pits of darkness you know you couldn't carry, you don't want to return to begging for dick's attention as he turns a blind eye, you don't want the pitiful stares from tim when he's in the same room as you, or duke, cass, and steph's hushed whisper whenever you pass by, plans being made without your knowledge, without acknowledgement of your presence. you don't want to be blamed by damian for even being born in the first place. you don't want anymore uncelebrated and silent birthdays anymore, or milestones celebrated with just a fucking cupcake and a pat on your head...!

you want your mom, you don't want your other family, not anymore...

even if... even if your disappearance paved the way for a new shift in interests in your family's mind, even if you're now unknowingly the center of attention after months of the manor's solitude without you; just like you had always wanted— you're tired, and you've long since given up and grown from selfish and unrealistic desires of a completely healthy family.

if you could even call them that wretched title.

if you could even consider them as one like how they never did you.

the tears return just like the pain you were temporarily barred from, now it's a waterfall that threatens to throw you off of your escape from the reality of life, stinging your eyes and falling on crumpled sheets as your fingers grip uncontrollably for a sanction of control. from what? from the fear that now is the moment that you'll truly never see her again, not even in your memories.

"... momma, please, stay—!"

but right before you could reason out, desparate words crawling and jumping out your heaving chest and into the spiraling room, right before you could beg her to stay closer with you with her flickering warmth for just a second further as her body slowly dissipates from her hold on you, as your vision darkens and you hear that faint, familiar murmur of gotham's bustling motorcycles and alleyway screaming—

her last words, full of assurances, just like the day she tucked you in that little closet and made you promise that you'd stay silent for her, sacrificing her life just so she could protect you; it grounds you into your spot, restless, broken, and chasing unsaid words to tell her before you lose her once more, and destroys any and all hope for complete, and utter happiness you forced yourself to truly believe.

"... i love you, my sweet angel. be good for me, alright...?"

and just like that, your eyes blearily open to find itself into a completely foreign surrounding yet again.

and this time, it is real and unwanted.

'jason todd, a good soldier,' were the words marked and engraved on his tombstone. buried under the healthy soils of the manor, he felt as if his presence was forgotten all the same.

it was true, he was a good soldier. always obedient, always listening and mirroring bruce's orders, even though he grew up in the ratty streets with a drug-addicted mother and an abusive father, when he was picked up by bruce and lead into the vigilante life with the beaming potential to combat even dick; jason was always the good kid, who, even if he became a tad bit rebellious on the years garnering on teenage life, died honorably for the safety of his biological mother who betrayed him.

jason todd, always the boy portrayed as a warning sign for all the future robins, always the child remembered as just that: a soldier of batman, the kid of bruce who died unfairly; the truth of his death, the truth of joker's fucked up foil to destroy the bat's mentality even further all for a good laugh, hidden beneath restricted case files and bruce's suppressed emotions— all left unattended, just for him to be replaced by another new robin; a telltale signal that felt like bruce was trying so hard to repair the broken fixtures jason left behind.

the implication itself felt as if the world is laughing at his heroic acts, never acknowledged beyond the faults that lie on his stubbornness; a learnt trait all robins grew into once they've been taken in bruce's care.

he must've never been a good kid if life decided to take him away, when his youth was at an all time high, when all he wanted to do was meet his real mother, and to save her even when she had left him to die with explosives laid beside his beaten body.

was it his fault that all he ever wanted to do was to make his father proud? what was wrong with being a hero, being robin with his magical passions?

jason was never the spiteful man everyone assumed him to be. he was never rebellious, or thirsting for vengeance, or came to hate bruce as much as what everyone else thought of when they'd first hear his name.

even when he was revived in that sunken pit of hell, nineteen with a seventeen year old soul, feeling his once lanky body too tall, too big for him to flex his fingers, to kick with his now muscly legs, crying and screaming under all the madness of forcefully having his soul be reunited with his body after two years of peaceful rest.

and when he had returned to his senses, when he discovered that there were two new children running around the manor, one a product of a one-night stand, the other donning the identity of a new robin, did jason become the spiteful image everyone imagine the young boy came to be from when he was just an impulsive teenager.

becoming alive once more, reliving betrayal after betrayal, watching in the background: never the full story, but enough to feel like he's been replaced— it became his sole duty to torment, to do to criminals what has been done to him, just to teach the bat that his moral code was flawed, was what caused a thousand other souls to be lost under the hands of the puny joker.

all this, just to feel a sense of right in a life constantly wronging him.

yet under all the blood-soaked jackets, the aluminum amoury, under clenched teeth and resentful, dead blue eyes stood a boy who loved. who stole tires to provide for his small family who never truly loved him: a father who beats at his body nightly, a mother who dismisses him in favor of her favorite substances. who read books of all genre— classic his all time favorite, jane austen his beloved author, he loved school, loved learning, jason always came home with an A+ in all his subjects, eternally grateful despite the years of betrayal, of heartache, of shredded photos and shattered picture frames.

who advocated his young life fighting crime, kicking ass beside his vigilante partner and a man he came to call his dad, even though he had all the opportunities in the world to turn rotten like the crime infested streets of gotham. because he was a good kid, too, and a soldier the next.

he was never the violent kind. he was the kid who loved above all else. idolizing dick, bruce, all the good people in the world with shining ambitions that should've never been stained so early. he even told bruce he always wanted a little sibling to care for. he wanted to teach another young, unfortunate child what it's like to share kindess in this shithole of a city.

jason todd was a ball of pure joy, loved by bruce to the point his father could've never moved on from his death, never acknowledging the next traumatized child that came after him, and also tim, too, who he always mistakenly call by jason's name.

jason couldn't see beyond the surface of what he knew, masked by hatred for what had become after two years, questions spiraling hid head that accompanies a darkness he never knew could shroud him like a cloak. bruce used to hide him under his curtain of a cape back when he was a small, manourished kid, his vision overtaken by pure black; but now the older version of him knew what true darkness is like without needing his vision disrupted.

death feels like eternal darkness, a void that devours your vision of all colors, no physical form, no thoughts, but unmoving with the feelings grounding you in place, like hell. and with the shadow of doubt that he was never truly cherished by a man he loved to call his father, that no vengeance took place after his death, jason couldn't fathom the pain greater than what he experienced in that cold, dark warehouse; spending hours hoping that he'd be saved.

how long did it take for bruce to replace him? days, months, weeks?

how long did it take for bruce to move on? was he just an afterthought to the man? was he just a good soldier in bruce's eyes?

and why, just why, does he also blame himself for his own doom? for being stubborn enough to pursue chasing after a clown smarter than him, why does he

... if he had never died, things would've never escalated that far, it wouldn't have created a domino effect that ruined not only his life, but his angel's too.

if he had never died, you wouldn't be bleeding in his arms like he did too in bruce's.

... except unlike him back then, you want to simply die now.

jason's passing was not only his guilt or bruce's, it also marked the start of your treacherous journey of thirteen and a half years living in silence, in fear and in constant yearning after your mother's death, for a love so passionate from bruce like the one he gives to all his other children but you.

for a love he had given all up for jason that he never had any to spare to you.

bruce never gave you what you wanted, what you practically needed. all in favor of mourning the passing of his second child, his son who achieved more than the levels you knew you'd never reach. you were never the desirable child, because as good as you were like jason, as nice as you could be, or talented— nobody could replace the hole that jason left within bruce from when he left the world.

you both were good kids, but jason was infinitely better.

when you were first introduced to the manor, jason assumed you and tim replaced him, he watched secretly after his resurrection, with grim prayers for your downfall 'cause he couldn't attack you like he did tim in the tower because of your civilian status, your involvement towards batman was close to zero.

you were a young child, you knew nothing, and he hates you.

he regrets hating you.

all because he hates seeing himself in those young, glinting eyes. he never realized what he felt was fear, fear that someone like you could end up like him, when he had first obsessively did research on your buried past. your world could've been so easily destroyed by the tips of his finger and he had done so mercilessly until it was too late.

he really hated you at first, but he couldn't do anything to hurt you without trespassing the manor and triggering all the signals and alarms he's sure have been updated by the new, puny little robin. he hated you so much for reasons he couldn't pinpoint, blinded by sorrow, and grief, and every piling resentment built on years of animosity he should've only directed only towards bruce, and never someone as innocent, as uninvolved as you.

you, who he calls his angel after the years of torment you've unknowingly and obliviously suffered under him.

but he was so angered, the darkness in his mind clawed him deeper in a frenzy for revenge, that it overpowered the empathy he felt for when he first saw you, standing alone in the kitchen room with an apple in your hand and a blunt knife in the other. not ready to defend yourself at the sight of him, not even pointing it at him, but inviting the man to eat with you your favorite abomination of apple slices and peanut butter— as if you didn't care about the gun in his hands and the window cutter in the other.

you didn't understand why it was so easy to ignore you. it had been years since you have talked, let alone find yourself staring at a person, that you never cared for your safety as long as it meant that... well, you could have someone to finally talk to, with your parched throat from all the moments of unuse, excitedly addressing him as mr. ghost.

he couldn't do anything, couldn't even stare at you for longer, so he ran away at first glance, and failed to see the heartbroken sigh from you agter and the tears that welled up having your hopes raised up only to be shattered once more.

that sight of you standing under the moonlit night triggered conflicting feelings within him– but it was always the strive for vengeance that took over his life, didn't it? even though meeting you bore solid evidence that you were none the wiser, that you didn't deserve anything coming from you; it was through his sheer dedication to destroy all things cherished by bruce that he never once realized that you were merely nothing to bruce— that he ruined an innocent person's life over nothing.

he resorted to praying for your demise if it meant he couldn't physically hurt you. he focused on tormenting you indirectly before the fire in his raging heart was eventually extinguished.

he was the man you see by the hallways, the monster you thought raptured knocks on your window in the middle of the night, the reason for why some of your old childhood toys would be missing eyes, had loosened stitches, or had their stuffings removed and displaced somewhere hidden you couldn't reach.

a cryptic message that made you run and bury your head in alfred's suit, asking the old man to spend the night with you after another one of your toys was ripped apart. a reaction that made jason scoff at your immaturity; as if the inner child in him wouldn't react the same way.

you were only a few years younger than tim, despite arriving in the manor before him, and jason was stupid enough to assume you had been raised well by bruce that you'd be mature at your age, he was such an idiot to think that you wouldn't be as emotionally affected but rather paranoid of the sudden paranormal activity surrounding you. that the cookies you baked were all left to be crumbs, after just leaving them to cool off for a few minute, the pens you used for journalling wouldn't have gone missing— he thought surely, you'd be broken mentally...

but never this... emotionally.

what he didn't expect were breakdowns right after, hair pulling, the biting of skin and panic attacks after panic attacks.

wide eyes staring at the ceiling, perspiration on your skin clinging on to blazing bedsheets at the lack of ventilation, sporadic breathing, bleeding scratches on your skin like a wild animal.

you cry like one, unashamed of how loud your sobs were for such a parched throat, at how long you've been wailing alone whilst hugging your too-little body, eyes closed and misty, as if it would rid you the images of your wrecked bedroom and missing journals.

yet jason never stops to wonder why no one had came running in your room to save you from destroying yourself even further.

he never wondered nobody bothered to acknowledge your crying every night, continuing on his tangent to destroy everything you loved just to prove a point, that you couldn't be worth the effort for bruce to care enough about, despite the internal conflict he felt ruining an innocent kid's life.

and he didn't even need to prove anything, because you were never worth anything. the longer jason went on without bruce's acknowledgement, the more everything felt wrong, the more he felt like whatever he's doing is torture, not retribution.

he's terrible for what he'd done, and slowly resigned to watching over you instead to ensure you'll slowly calm down after months of his monstrous presence looming over you.

but the damage was already done, and you're left to even smaller, shattered pieces.

and here he is now, watching as you bleed out in his arms, crying and babbling at the pain, yet begging under your breath to "please, please don't call batman, don't call bruce... please leave, please, please, please don't do anything stupid, jay..."

whilst pushing him away, as if scared of him, as if you'd rather death than... than to see bruce dismiss another relayed message regarding you.

even if you're dying, you refuse to undergo the same pain of neglect. even if you're dying, you don't wish to ruin their movie night plans just because you were stupid enough to drink yourself to near death to distract yourself from dick's messages.

all because you've taught yourself that you're never worth the wait, and jason takes blame in partaking the destruction of your optimism.

under the flickering light of the lamppost, your swollen eyes and snot-ridden nose don't pose the same satisfaction he felt when he first ripped your plushie apart, not anymore. all he felt was dread now, that you're bleeding, his angel is bleeding and everything happening is very much real.

he feels a hidden awe, too, at just how ethereal and warm your body feels, despite the light leaving your eyes, the fight slowly being replace by another one of your panic attacks. he holds you still, and stabilizes your body with his strong arms to prevent anymore bleeding, despite the wobbly legs and your losing consciousness.

jason couldn't afford to let you die in his arms, he couldn't fathom just how much he misses your presence.

and now he realizes just how much he hates it when you fear him throughout the entire procedure of calming you down. how you shiver in his gaze, how he feels the pricks of your goosebumps against the thick fabric of his gloves.

you never once feared him when you first met him, it was through your lack of it that he bonded with you, keeping the torment he put you through a secret. even though he makes short and sometimes brash comments with his unfiltered mouth, you'll always find joy in his words because he was the only decent guy around the manor, despite his presence being scarce and sometimes nonexistent.

you cherished him, and god, he never knew how much he cherished you too.

but now you're sobbing and mumbling incoherently about how you wish it was never him who saved you, that it could've been someone else, or you prefer to be left rotting in the damn corner, dead and discarded, if it means it wouldn't be him saving you, for damn reasons he doesn't even know.

why do you hate him so much now...? why does his precious angel look at him in a tearful daze, all desparate to push him away despite the soreness of your body, despite the blood dripping from your lower stomach all the way down to the floor in a swirl of nauseating crimson mess?

why does he see himself in you?

why does he see the same broken child who chooses to care for others than themself?

as much as jason hated to admit it, as much as he said he never wanted to die for the sole reason that he cherished the moments with his father at most—

jason wished he could've turned time back right now, at this instant. he wished he could've been stronger, could've been far more resistant of that damn explosion, that he never was stupid enough to fall for one of joker's traps—

if it meant he wouldn't be suffering from the gripping ache on his chest, from the dreaded claws you call paranoia at the sight of your ice-blue lips and dimming eyes from all the blood loss, your arms still trying to push him to a considerable distance despite him wishing to hold you oh-so tightly, as his fingers, shivering from a familiar panic he felt, try to wipe away at the river of tears collecting at the edges of your dirt-stained chin and wobbly lips, his helmet pressed atop your forehead as if to reassure you, mostly himself that you'll all be alright—

that you wouldn't go through the same route as him, scarred and traumatized after this moment under the moonlit night that watches jason wrap his gloved palms on the back of your neck despite the remaining fight and adrenaline in your body, the other bulky mass of muscles under your feet.

the polluted air bares witness to his hasty breaths, the protective hold that refuses to let go, body automated to run to his motorcycle, stepping carelessly on the bloody carnage of the alleyway's floor (they deserve torture after what they put you through, hell, he'll make sure their burial will be damning to both the police that failed to search you even though they were in close proximity to where you screamed, and the other related lackeys involved in this wretched smuggling crime), to bring you to doctor leslie for an immediate surgery.

jason hopes that instead of hate, you'll still feel a semblance of any remaining love for him instead of aching nostalgia after all this time.

he hopes you could forgive him as it is only now that he realizes how vulnerable you truly are, that despite jokingly calling you his guardian angel, he should've been the guardian, the knight, the man who protects you from all evil as what he calls his morals to be.

why were you even out in the first place? just why were you absolutely wasted? why, why, why does the image of your resigned, and tired eyes the only thing flashing and looping in his mind, filtering out the speeding motorcycle cutting through wind and traffic lanes, ignoring red lights and the loud beeps of the other vehicles before him, the pump of engines similar to the wild beating of his heart, as he speeds through shortcuts after shortcuts to take you to immediate treatment before it was too late.

he takes short breaths, too aware of his surrounding, too deep in thought, he couldn't waste any moments thinking about anything but his angel.

he wishes he could've changed so many things. but you couldn't change the past anymore, you couldn't change the grueling form of torture you call silence for a child who wanted the same type of love bruce had for when jason was alive, who had to deal with the aftermath of jason's death.

and now, as the ripe age of eighteen, still too young, and still bleeding, at the mercy of death.

it never occured to him just how interconnected your lives were together. just how much it was through his passing that affected your life.

he was the first brother who saw you without the need for your cries of attention every lonesome passing of time in the ghostly manor.

and you were the first who stared at him through tear-stained cheeks and diluted irises. not out of fear, not out of haste to warn other members of his growing family of jason's (a stranger in your eyes, no less, with armoured chest plates and a crimson helmet glinting mercilessly in the dark, lightless room only illuminated by the wretched moon, with guns loaded with bullets in his holster) sudden trespass within the kitchen windows, not out of every negative emotions he expects of you; but out of sheer shell shock that someone had finally caught you through your nightly sneaking.

out of genuine whiplash of someone finally looking at you eye-to-eye, head faced to one another, your cold fingertips pressing against the swell of your eyebags from restless nightmares and anxious paranoia triggered from academics, as if to tell yourself that this was all mere hallucination.

you matter so much to him, even if he tries to overcorrect his sins, trying his damn best to notice your presence whenever he visits the manor, even if his brash words sting your heart sometimes, even if he couldn't properly show you affection he should've given you—

it's not enough.

it was never enough, that even his gentle words spoken to you whilst he speeds through his motorcycle felt entire foreign. that despite unconscious and limp on his body, you're still flinching and the tears couldn't have enough time to dry. jason could've done so much more for his precious little sibling, he could've been the best older brother in the world like he promised himself to be back when he was an oblivious little child, just like how he sees you right now.

everything he did was not enough, but the doubts that circulate his mind didn't fester in his mind much anymore; because he turned it into motivation, he looks at you through the mirror of his motorcycle, vulnerable, aching with the need for affection (that he could provide, he could give to you infinitely...!) and transforms the regret into motivation.

to be better, to be the one you look up to, not with thoughts of how or when you'll be able to spend time with him, but with confidence and preference for his time. that he'll be the first you choose to look for.

jason promises you his undying loyalty, to protect you from the danger of this world, to savor the light and the warmth that emanates off of your presence. despite the heartache you felt because of him, because of all your tormentors— you were still kind, like an angel who had fallen from grace, but chose to grace the world instead with their remaining salvation.

if you manage to survive throughout it all, through the surgery and the anaesthesia-filled stitchings, with jason's scarred hands wrapped around your fists, daintier compared to the muscles in his. if by the end of this night, jason would have you alive (he will, he'll refuse anything else, even if it takes you being resurrected in the lazarus pit, then so be it) in his arms and resting peacefully in his apartment and not under bruce's roof, out of respect from your sheer insistence that you'd rather anywhere but the manor.

jason swears on his life that he'll make it up to you.

he'll be better for you, for his angel, to atone himself for all the sins he committed upon you.

and even if it means ripping the world upside down at its seems, even if it takes decades for you to feel comfortable within the confines of his arms, unlike the dread that claws at your body earlier, pushing him away, pushing your older brother away— he's willing to undergo even the same torture from joker if it means making up to you.

as long as he has you in his sights.

all this, just to see the fear in your eyes replaced by genuine happiness at the sight of your big brother, ready to do anything for you the moment requests spill out from your benevolent lips and gleaming eyes.

you truly are his saving grace, his angel in disguise.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 14,200+ words. no beta, we just cry. "i am good, but not an angel. i do sin, but i am not the devil. i am just a small child in a big world trying to find someone to love." it's a quote that inspired this half of the chapter partly. apologies to anyone if jason seems a bit religious here??? he's not, but i'm trying to establish connections on why he even calls you that nickname in the first place (and totally not me relating it to the flashpoint comic where he becomes a priest 😭). again, bit of a boring chapter, but no hate please haha, instead leave comments if you enjoyed reading it!!! more interactions = more content.

there are many lyrics and song references scattered about the paragraphs, can you guys spot it all for me 🫦? i'm a musically inclined guy, and there's also lots of not implicitly stated songs too, i lost count honestly. tysm for all your patience, because writing through my hectic schedule is honestly a struggle.

as stated, there are a lot of jason todd and mc parallels, i love hearing you guys' thoughts about me expanding upon this. they're very different but also share so many similarities, and i like to explore deeper on every character just to make the yandere element more obvious and distinct.

and like my previous announcement too, please please please do not copy off the scenes i wrote. although my writing is mid, it doesn't mean it should be stolen word by word or the entire scenarios or scenes i've written should be taken in and written into your own fanfics too. my potrayals of each and every characters are a bit more unique takes too (i like to make myself believe), so as much as possible, please credit me. i appreciate you all 🩷

yet again, leave comments, interactions, what you think of this chapter (but not too critical comments, or pure hate please). idk what to feel about my writing, i hate it a lot sometimes but oh well! merry christmas, this is my early gift for all of you guys and for the second part, i'll try to post as soon as possible (i need to generate more spotlight to ensure they get equal attention ofc).

taglist: @neerathebrightstar, @ghostdoodlen, @prince-nikko, @daisy-spot, @strawberryglass, @h0neybun-was-here, @confused-they, @weirdcore-fantasy, @mystyque234, @marssthings, @notwhoy0uthink, @aliengutzstuff, @lilyalone, @luffyadolover, @punpunsonny, @lazyemmy, @questionthegrapevine, @oh-nowo-i-got-uwu, @winter-world, @zavavas-dungeon, @budijojo, @altruisticbeauty, @dopepursebasketballplaid, @the-holy-pigeon, @red-phantom-0, @em-draws14, @thypplover, @cens0r3d-blog, @yl90, @sadeem575, @couldeatthatgirlforlunch, @maicenitas, @kiiyoooo, @flyingpansaurus, @farmerboywakatoshikun-blog, @rogueofbullshit, @earlqurl, @dotomuses, @sheep-from-rad, @tsuniio, @thesm1l3yface, @nosochek-3o, @radiantharu, @iwasveronica, @kdjhubby, @ashstwin, @thetreefairypersonalblog, @se-rae2, @0ut0fsweets, @notwhoy0uthink